"Plug his bread-basket!"
These were some of the things that were shouted, for all soldiers, in a charge, curse like Marlborough's troops did in Flanders.
A charge seems a terrible thing when reading of it at one's fireside. Folks shiver and ask, "How can they do it? Don't they feel afraid?" They may at the outset; but the noise, the swing, the officers' inspiration, the sight of blood and a fleeing foe damp down the sensitiveness of culture and recreate the primitive lust to kill.
For the moment the man is a savage; Nature blinds him to the perils of wounds and death. Duty steels him harder still, and pride of race tells him that he must do as his fathers did—die like a gentleman and a soldier.
The success of the first troops inspired the following reserves. They all wanted to emulate the Kangaroo Marines and other dashing corps. Without waiting for their complete units, these little groups crawled, floundered, and wriggled their way up the gully on to the hill. It was now daylight. As they gained the summit the Turks greeted them with terrific bursts of shrapnel and common shell. The crack, the white puff of smoke, then the scattering balls of lead did not dismay these warriors.
It roused their curiosity, and, like schoolboys, some stopped to see the fun of the show. Cover they disdained. They were too proud to duck and hide in a hole or trench. This was the recklessness for which they had to pay. Yet it was useful. It taught them that to take advantage of all cover was the modern soldier's game.
"Extend, boys, extend!" roared an officer as the reserves came up. They ran out and tried to make a long, rough line. They could see the fleeing Turks, and behind them the Kangaroo Marines and other members of the first landing force. Ahead was a little valley and then a slope. This was commanded by the Turks.
"Come on, boys," shouted an officer.
Little groups, under subalterns, N.C.O.'s, or privates with the leader's instinct, dashed towards this hill. More were killed, more wounded on the way; but, undaunted, they pushed on. Up the slopes crawled, clambered, and cursed the dashing infantry. They reached their objective, and, again, the Turks had gone.
"My God—what a sight!" said Claud, looking behind. The ground was dotted with dead and dying. Wounded men crawled and limped to the rear, their clothes soaked in blood. Men with limbs shattered to pulp lay moaning and pleading for death. Others, slightly wounded, poured water down the parched throats of the suffering. It was a shambles. It was war.