CHAPTER XI
THE DAWN OF ANZAC—THE LANDING
Anzac! In April—a name unformed, undetermined; June—and the worth of a Nation and Dominion proved by the five letters—bound together, by the young army's leader, Lieut.-General Sir W. Birdwood, in the inspired "Anzac"—Australian, New Zealand Army Corps.
In reality, the first battle of Anzac began when the transports commenced to steam out of the great harbour of Mudros on Saturday afternoon, 24th April. All that was needed for the swift commencement of the deep-laid plan was a perfectly calm sea. This condition General Sir Ian Hamilton had, as he sent forth, under the care of the Navy and Rear-Admiral Thursby, his fine army of Australians and New Zealanders. Already on the evening of the 23rd, the covering force for the British landing at Cape Helles, which had been entrusted to the 29th Division, had steamed to Tenedos, where the fleet lay enchained as in the story of ancient Troy, waiting for the remainder of the ships, which on the morning of the 24th began to stand off Tenedos. It was as if the shipping of the Levant had been suddenly diverted to lock the gates of the waterway leading to the heart of the Turkish Empire, for the sea was covered with ships—ships one-funnelled, two or four-funnelled; ships that went creeping along, skulking inshore; ships that were guarded by giant battleships and destroyers and escorted up to the land; and tiny little ships—scouts, picket boats, pinnaces, and trawlers.
The majestic battleships led the lines from the great harbour amidst the beating of drums and ringing cheers from the crowded French and British transports that formed a channel down which each Division steamed from the port. With their minds set to the last task, the very test of themselves as soldiers, the Australians lay most of the night on the decks of the transports. On the battleship Queen, 1,500 of the finest men of the 3rd Brigade attended a short service held by the Padre, and heard the stirring message from the Admiral and the Army. Then for six hours of ease and smoke and chat with the Navy. Here was the beginning of the mutual admiration that grew in the hearts of the two services—in the one for England's mariners of old, in the other for the spirit of the young, vigorous, and physically great Nation.
By dusk on that April evening, as calm as any spring night, and as cool as the troops would know it in Melbourne, a long string of transports, battleships, torpedo boats, pinnaces, and row boats, were slipping through the waters round the western headland of Imbros Island, where a lighthouse blinked its warning, towards the mountainous shores of Gallipoli.
In a bight in the land the ships lay awhile, their numbers increasing as the hours drifted on. Down on the troopships' decks the men were quietly singing the sentimental ditties of "Home and Mother," or chatting in a final talk, yarning of the past—the future, so imminent now, left to take care of itself—until they were borne within a distance when silence was essential to success. Then they clenched their teeth. Leaders, instructed in the plan, knew exactly what their objectives were to be, though nothing but dark, hazy hills could they see in the dropping rays of the moon. Again and again they had rehearsed it, had placed their fingers on the knolls that the enemy held—just then in what numbers they did not know, but could only guess—went carefully through each operation of getting the troops from the ships to the shore and on those hills. Once finally now they went over it all, calmly, ever so calmly, calculating every step that they were to advance.
PORTION OF THE FLEET AND TRANSPORTS IN MUDROS HARBOUR JUST BEFORE THE LANDING.