Section 3 of the Anzac Book, CEW Bean

ANZAC DIALOGUES

T'was a fine day, and they were standing by waiting for instructions from the warrant officer to commence unloading and loading; and in the general murmur of voices one noted the broad tones of the British Tommy and the harsher ones of Tommy Kangaroo, the latter less careful of his grammar than the other; also the loud-voiced directions of the Indian Tommy, or rather Johnny, who condescended now and then to break into pidgin-English (with a smile). Presently from amongst a group sitting in the shelter of a stack of bully beef came the request: "Give us a light, mate," in the blunt style which belongs to Tommy Kangaroo.

" Aw, yes," replies Tommy Atkins, or " Kitch," as he is beginning to be called. " Aw, yes." And while the othcr is pulling at his fag: " Have you got any baadges, choom?" " No, I gave mine to a little nipper who used to sing on the stage at the El Dorado in Cairo."

" Did you now! She must have a fine stack of baadges now, that 'un. You're about the fifteenth lad that I know has given his baadges to 'er. Aw, thanks "-taking back his cigarette. " I see you're from Austra-alia. What State did you live in?" " Vic," is the reply.

" 1 wonder if you knew my brother? He went to Victoria a couple of years ago. Got a job on the ra-ailways, he did, and wanted me to come out too. I'll go when this is over; but 'ee's married now, 'e is, and got a couple of pet lambs that 'e said was given to 'im by a chap named Drover; 'is name is Dobbs. "

"Never met him, matey, but he is all right, you bet. A Pommy * can't go wrong out there if be isn't too lazy to work."

" Ah, yes, he tells me they called 'im Pommy, but that they was good lads. I could not understand them slinging off at 'im and 'im thinking tbey were treatin' 'im like as 'e was one of themselves. "

" Oh, well, yer see, mate, we don't call the like of 'im 'Pommies' because we dislike 'em, but just as a matter of description. Of course, sometimes one of 'em gets 'is back up and calls us sons of convicts in return for us chuckin' off at 'im, and then he's told lots of things -sometimes true and very often untrue; but Australia's all right, mate. You need not be ashamed to be called a 'Pommy' out there."

" Blime, there's old "Beachy" at it again," breaks in another. " 'Ee's a fair cow, 'e is. Made me spill two buckets er water this mornin', and our flamin' cook told me I was too lazy to go down for it. I'll give 'im 'Beachy' after this job is over if 'e don't look out. Hallo, Johnny, Beachy catch-em mule, eh?" " Beachy no good-mule good," replies the tall spare Indian, with a smile, as he tries to bring his pair of mules under the shelter of the stack. " Mule very good," he says, as he squats in front of his pair.

" 'Ow long yer been 'ere, chooin?" asks Kitch of Kangaroo." Nearly six munce now. Blime, I could do with a spell now, too. I'm beginnin' to get a 'ump like a camel from carryin' these flamin' boxes."

" Aw, yes, but it's better than bein' in the trenches, ain't it?" asks Kitch. " Blime, no," is the reply. " A man's got a chance to hit back there, but down 'ere it's up to putty. It's bad enough to be eatin' bully beef, but carryin' it as well is rotten. I couldn't look a decent bullock in the face now for what I've said about 'im when 'e's tinned. "

" Did yer 'ear wot was doin' up at Narks Post larst night, Bill?"

* W. 0.--Warrant Officer.
* Pommy- short for pomegranate, and used as a nickname for English immigrants from their pink and cream complexion. (See drawing of "Kitch" above).
"Beachy " --- a battery of Turkish guns, well known on Anzac Beach.

N. Ash

BEACHY BILL

0UTSIDE was a cold, dark, windy and cheerless night, and the world seemed cowering under the black, threatening rain-pall above, which could be felt rather than seen. Inside my host's diggings we were lounging back in the warmth and light, smoking and yarning of other times and places, while the partner of his home brewed the warm, fragrant, comforting concoction which seemed to contribute so much to the mood and proper appreciation of such friendly comfort in the midst of unfriendly outer circumstances.

Once again from outside there came a whir and rattle past the door, and I smiled significantly and glanced in that direction. "Oh, don't go until after the next one," urged my host's companion, seeing my attention diverted to things outside of our present cheery circle.

With this my friend seemed to concur, and drew himself closer to the fire. "Yes, there's plenty of time yet," he said. "There'll be a lot more of 'em, you might as well sit tight in, safely and comfy, and try another cup." I didn't need much coaxing, and thrusting the thought of the long, unpleasant journey home out of my mind, I settled down to further cheery chat and the enjoyment of stimulating internal comforts.

The conversation seemed to have progressed but a little further when above the wind outside could be heard again the warning roar and rumble, fading away and terminating in a muffled clang and clatter in the distance. " That settles it, Billo, old chap," I said, half rising. " Pass over my coat. If I hurry off now I'll be just in time."

But my friend didn't move to oblige. "Now, what's the use of hurrying?" he urged once more. " They'll be passing every minute now for a long time yet. So why not settle down and enjoy yourself a bit longer? 'Taint very often you come this way."

By the time I had finished my reply to his persuasions I found, again, that my chance had gone-and I would have to wait now, anyhow. And so the time passed. We talked and talked, while a useful youth who lived near by, and had attached himself to my friend Billo, made three reappearances with hot water for the cups that cheered as the night went on.

I wonder where ' Razzy ' is?" presently remarked my host; " the jug wants refilling."

Just then the disturbing rumble passed the door again, and I rose to my feet. " Don't bother to disturb him," I said. " I suppose he's retired to his digs. Besides, now's my chance to scoot too, I've a long way to walk. Throw me that coat."

Finding that all protestations were useless, my friends reluctantly allowed me to go, but not without wilily expressed forebodings as to what unpleasantness might await me outside now that I had refused to enjoy their society and comforts any longer.

They accompanied me to the door, and a cold blast of wind met us. There were ominous thunder rumbles in the murky distance. " A boshter * night for a walk," I remarked, buttoning my coat about me

"Yes," grinned my friend, peering out into the darkness. " And they're running to a peculiar sort of time-table to-night-passing about every seven minutes. You'd better get a wriggle on. There's a short cut that way," he added, pointing to the right, " just past the corner of the cemetery. That's where they stop. So for God's sake shake it up ; if you don't, they won't see you home at all. It's an unhealthy night to be out."

I asked them to say good night to the youth " Razzy " for me, and to thank him for his comforting ministration, then bade them farewell and moved off.

I blundered along the sloppy, unpaved footway, peering tensely into the uncanny blackness about me, and hurried uneasily in the direction of a patch of faint pale blotches that I hoped and took to be the monuments in the little burying-ground down beyond. I found that my direction was right, and presently I was hurrying past it as fast as I could manage in the wind and darkness. From somewhere behind me-it sounded miles and miles away through the noise of the wind-a faint low moaning sound reached my car.

I stepped forward uneasily, but before I had advanced a yard it had become more prolonged, and growing ever louder and closer until I seemed to feel it coming coming with tremendous and ever increasing speed : a horrible, nerve shattering, deafening, wailing shriek. I stood dazed and paralysed - rooted to the spot. With a scream of hellish intensity-it was all within a second, really-it was on me. There was a flash of blinding light, then everything ended so far as I was concerned.

My next interest in life was a feeling that I had just been hurled up at the moon, over it, and had descended slowly, ever so slowly, like a feather, to earth again. In fact, I wasn't quite sure that I was not a feather; and I opened my eyes carefully and tried to feel myself. " 'Ssh-sh-sh! Don't disturb yourself-remain quiet and comfy," said a persuasive voice beside me. I looked around as far as I could move, and knew that I was in a hospital, but where or of what kind I could not think for the moment. I lay awhile gazing blankly and unthinkingly at a low white ceiling above me. Presently I fell to wondering.

In what suburb, in what town (it seemed to have been hundreds of years ago that it bad happened), and what part of Australasia could it be that a peaceful citizen, walking a darkened street, homeward bound, could be violently assailed, near the resting-place of its harmless sleeping dead, by an uncanny horror descending from the black unknown? Was I cursed, tainted, bewitched-or what? Then there came to me the vague memory of a friend, one whom I familiarly knew as Billo," and in some way associated with my terrible, mysterious experience.

But somehow it didn't seem to fit in with the slowly gathering evidence of my returning senses, for it seemed Lo me that " Billo " had long before quitted suburban civilisation for some great adventure-perhaps-yes, it was a war somewhere-in which 1, too, had later resolved to follow his example and do my share. Then how came it that this terrible experience had befallen me in the midst of the enjoyment and comforts of civilisation?

I had a positive though hazy memory of a comfortable, warm room, pleasant drinks, cheery conversation; " Billo and his companion, the latter a rough, kindly sort of being - no, it could not have been a woman; besides, " Billo " was a bachelor. I remembered that distinctly.

Suddenly it became clear to me, and I remembered a silent, rugged man facetiously dubbed " 'Enery " by my friend-a kindly chap, of very few words, with whom I had not been long acquainted. Where had "Billo picked him up? There also came before me the memory of a small, dilapidated man or youth, dark complexioned; somehow also attached to -- Billo." His name was - yes, that was it. . . . Who the deuce was -- Razzy "?

My mind here became dazed, and speculation drifted off into a confusion of reflections : that " Razzy " was a foreigner of some sort, living with us under the same conditions, yet in some way very different and in a degree inferior; that the hour at which I left my friend " Billo's " home and Ills inexplicable associates was quite early in the night-perhaps only nine-thirty. This latter fact seemed to linger in my mind, for presently-with a hazy conviction that there were sure to be other pedestrians abroad on a suburban street at that hour - I heard my own voice asking no one in particular: "Was there anyone else there ? "

It came as no surprise to hear a man's rough voice reply : " Only a Maltese - at least, we think he was. He was blown to smithereens. But don't let 'em see you talking too much, mate."

The room seemed to rock. I opened my eyes, and with difficulty caught sight of the speaker. He was in khaki and wore an A.M.C. badge on his arm. I was on a hospital ship. "Then that must have been poor Razzy, ' " I muttered at last. Before my mind's eye there seemed to unfold a dissolving scene. The cozy rooms of my friend " Billo " became a dug-out in a hillside, lit by a slush lamp made from bacon fat.

"Billo" and his rugged, silent companion were wearing the familiar time-tattered uniform that I knew so well ages and ages ago (actually it was five days back); the door through which I had passed into the unpleasant night was an oil-sheet tied down to keep the weather out; and the frequent rumbling roar was not that of a passing suburban train which I was timing myself to catch.

On the contrary, it was the intervals between that sound which interested me. For each of those rushes past the door of my friend's dug-out was a hurtling Turkish shell, and I wanted to make my escape at a reasonably safe moment. Also, the place where " they " chiefly lobbed was the cemetery at the foot of the rugged track (I had dreamed of it as the unpaved footpath of a new suburb), where rest a score or more game Australian lads who bad taken part in the landing on Gallipoli.

The unfortunate "Razzy," by the way, was but one of a gang of Maltese labourers brought by the authorities, at a later and safer period, to help in the landing of stores from the transports in the bay at Anzac. He had become friendly with my luxury-loving friend " Billo," and, in gratitude for various kindly considerations, was willing to provide the hot water to make our hot-rum drinks on that memorable night at Billo's " station on our right wing. (I was quartered miles away on the extreme left.)

So it was near the cemetery that the unexpected shell got me; and apparently " Razzy " also, who was returning to his camp a hundred yards away. There seemed something so droll about the whole strange illusion that, although in a state of dazed depression, I might have laughed but for an indescribable pain in my left side. I saw that my left arm was supported on something and lay above the bedclothes and seemed very heavy.

"Feel comfortable?" said the A.M.C. man. "Yes, except for the pain in my left hand," I answered. He looked down, and I followed his gaze. " You haven't got no left hand," he said quietly.

I saw that he was right, and this new illusion struck me as being about the last straw.

With a dazed sort of conviction I muttered: " Well, it's a rummy world "-and promptly lay back and drifted out of it for the time being.

* Besker, boshter, bonzer - Australlan slang for splendid.

Ted COLLES, 3rd L.H. Field Ambulance.

THE ANZAC HOME - AND A CONTRAST

I am sitting, at the moment of writing, in a dug-out, one of those dismal, dark, damp holes cut into the clay of the Dardanelles, serving us as a haven of refuge by day and by night from the ubiquitous Turkish bullet.

The proportions of this extemporized dwelling resemble those of an exceedingly small family tomb - one which might to belong to a family too proud not f,) possess a family tomb at all, but too poor to possess one of adequate size and comfort (if one can speak of comfort in such a connection). It's dimensions be about ten feet by four, but I am not enthusiastic enough at the moment to ascertain them precisely. It's three walls are of crumbling clay. Where the fourth wall strictly should be is an exit which lets in the draught.

Over my head are stretched waterproof sheets which let in the water. On the floor, in fine weather, is an inch of dust, and in bad weather a proportionate amount of slimy mud. A few sandbags ranged round the parapet threaten to tumble in and annihilate my existence. I am sitting on a roll of bedding. My haversack, water-bottle, field glasses, webbing, pistol, gas helmet and india-rubber basin are arranged round my feet like so many pet dogs begging for biscuit; and in such an entourage I think of my room at home - and that is where this matter of contrast comes in.

It was the same at dinner. We, that is to say, my brother officers and I - sat in another variety of dug-out; this time an open one-open to all that blows and falls. Our repast consisted of an exceedingly stringy rabbit, extracted from a tin of an ominous purple hue - an evil-looking dish eked out with somebody or other's baked beans, which are all very well in their way, but when used as an unvarying vegetable at all meals begin to pall; bread with the crust like a cinder, to which fondly cling bits of sacking and mules' whisker; the corpse of a cheese ; and the whole washed down with tea made in the stew dixie, and tasting more of dixie and stew than of tea.

As I lean back against the clay wall of my dug-out, and innumerable particles of dust cascade down my neck, a soft reverie steals over my senses. It seems to me to be about six or seven o'clock on a murky November afternoon in London. I have splashed home from my work in the wind- and rain-swept streets - the motor-buses have covered me with black mud-my umbrella has afforded Die the most inadequate shelter.

But these things seem of little account to me here in Gallipoli. I see myself reaching my home in the best of spirits, entering the hall, and shutting off the outer darkness. My sense of contrast gives me a lively notion of dry clothes, of a comfortable room, of a genial fire, and of an absorbing book. In future I shall be grateful for the rain and the mud and the murky streets for making these good things seem by contrast so much more valuable.

Think of it! To sink into a great arm-chair in front of my library fire, after a hard and anxious day's work, and contemplate the near approach of an excellent evening meal. How comfortable and warm -and hospitable my room appears as I lean back and listen to the rather depressing, smothered
rumble of the traffic in the street below. Thick curtains bide away the melancholy November London atmosphere. Sweet-smelling logs crackle cheerily on the hearth: a reading lamp by my side sheds subdued lustre on the immediate vicinity of my chair. My servant glides into the room noiselessly over the soft carpet, and places the evening paper by my side. I choose a cigar from my case, light it, and then I am perfectly content-and my contentment is due to contrast between my content with the existing situation and my past discontent with other situations at other times and in other places.

After a refreshing siesta I go upstairs, exchange my workaday clothes for a smoking-suit. Two or three bachelor friends are due to dine with me, and by the time I have dressed and descended again to the sitting-room they are there ready for my greeting.

And what a pleasant evening it is with their company. We talk of old times, old acquaintances, and old places. We talk of our big-game shoots, of our campaigns, and of our travels, the recollection of which seem so delightful now that distance lends enchantment to the view. Dinner is over; a glass of brandy and old port, some smokes, and we are just adjourning to the next room-

"Wake up, old chap-three o'clock. Your turn for the trenches. It is snowing hard and the Turks are very active. "

Contrasts indeed!

E. CADOGAN, 1/1 Suffolk Yeomanry.

FLIES AND FLEAS

REGARDING these two particular pests, my attitude in the past has been characterized by the utmost forbearance; I tolerated them and looked upon them as harmless and possibly of some usefulness to the community. The Gallipoli specimens, however, have changed my state of " benevolent neutrality " into one of most deadly warfare. No "Hymn of Hate" has yet been composed which would give expression to the hatred which has possessed me.

Do you but go into the trenches in the endeavour to perform your duty to your country, and the flies immediately try to dissuade you by getting into your eyes, cars, nose and mouth. Nothing will drive them away; they delight in this; they are entirely without pity. Retire to your dug-out in the hope of escaping their attentions, and they are sure to follow you. Smoke till you all but asphyxiate yourself, and you find them as active as ever.

Nothing that human ingenuity can devise will cause them to retreat; they defy our puny efforts. You may imitate the Kaiser and " strafe " them for all you are worth, but it is only waste of breath; they glory in this and come back all the more.

What we frequently distrust in the way of tucker holds no terrors for the Gallipoli flies; they delight in taking risks if only to impress us with their fearlessness. Stepping boldly on the edge of a syrup-covered biscuit, they immediately get their feet entangled; but they will not retreat-that would be against all their traditions. Instead, they will struggle their way towards the centre, where they gladly give up the contest and die.

They are born conquerors. I doff my hat to them in spite of my hate.

With the setting sun the flies retire, but operations are simply handed over to their allies, the fleas ; and no worthier ally' could be found than those pilgrims of the night. You may feel beat to the world, but there is no rest for you; as soon as you lie down to enjoy a well-earned rest the attack commences. Advancing in open or close formation, according to circumstances, the enemy attacks on every flank with fixed bayonets, in the handling of which his units are experts. If driven off, they come again in still greater numbers; they appear to have unlimited reserves of reinforcements which can be mobilised on the shortest notice.

Their organisation is perfect. Counter-attacks in the dark are all in the favour of the enemy, and morning, finds that they have withdrawn their forces to advantageous cover in the blankets, from which it is impossible to dislodge them. Keating's Powder is of no avail against the Gallipoli fleas ; it requires a still higher explosive to have any effect.

The honours have so far fallen to the enemy. Personally, I would be inclined to discuss terms of peace, but I doubt not he is too depraved to accept my advances.

A. CARRUTHERS, 3rd Australian Field Ambulance.