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$Unique_ID{how04696}
$Pretitle{}
$Title{True Stories Of The Great War
At Suvla Bay - The War Against The Turks}
$Subtitle{}
$Author{Hargrave, John}
$Affiliation{}
$Subject{jhill-o
johnnie
bay
beach
indian
little
white
indee
suvla
yes}
$Date{1917}
$Log{}
Title: True Stories Of The Great War
Book: At Suvla Bay - The War Against The Turks
Author: Hargrave, John
Date: 1917
Translation: Benington, Arthur
At Suvla Bay - The War Against The Turks
I - Story Of The Indian Pack Mule Corps
Adventures on the Blue Aegean Shores
By John Hargrave, Famous Scoutmaster In Mediterranean Expeditionary Forces
[John Hargrave is known throughout England as "White Fox," the famous
scoutmaster. On September 8th, 1914, he said farewell to his little camp in
the beechwoods of Buckinghamshire and to his woodcraft scouts and went off to
enlist in the Royal Army Medical Corps. He was assigned to the 32nd Field
Ambulance, X Division, Mediterranean Expeditionary Forces, and sailed away to
Suvla Bay, where he passed through the tragic scenes of the Dardanelles
Campaign. He soon began sending stories "back home," achieving for the
Gallipoli Campaign what Ian Hay did for the Western Front. These stories have
been collected into a volume entitled: "At Suvla Bay," which is published in
America by Houghton, Mifflin and Company. There are twenty-eight narratives
told in the jargon of the common soldier. He tells about its being "A Long
Way to Tipperary"; "Mediterranean Nights"; "Marooned on Lemnos Island"; "The
Adventure of the White Pack Mule"; "The Sniper of Pear-Tree Gulley"; "The
Adventure of the Lost Squads"; "Dug-Out Yarns"; "The Sharpshooters"; and many
other incidents of Army life.]
One evening the colonel sent me from our dugout near the Salt Lake to
"A" Beach to make a report on the water supply which was pumped ashore
from the tank-boats. I trudged along the sandy shore. At one spot I
remember the carcass of a mule washed up by the tide, the flesh rotted and
sodden, and here and there a yellow rib bursting through the skin. Its
head floated in the water and nodded to and fro with a most uncanny motion
with every ripple of the bay.
The wet season was coming on, and the chill winds went through my
khaki drill uniform. The sky was overcast, and the bay, generally a
kaleidoscope of Eastern blues and greens, was dull and gray.
At "A" Beach I examined the pipes and tanks of the water-supply
system and had a chat with the Australians who were in charge. I drew a
small plan, showing how the water was pumped from the tanks afloat to the
standing tank ashore, and suggested the probable cause of the sand and
dirt of which the C.O. complained.
This done I found our own ambulance water-cart just ready to return
to our camp with its nightly supply. Evening was giving place to
darkness, and soon the misty hills and the bay were enveloped in starless
gloom.
The traffic about "A" Beach was always congested. It reminded you of
the Bank and the Mansion House crush far away in London town.
Here were clanking water-carts, dozens of them waiting in their turn,
stamping mules and snorting horses; here were motor-transport wagons with
"W.D." in white on their gray sides; ambulance wagons jolting slowly back
to their respective units, sometimes full of wounded, sometimes empty.
Here all was bustle and noise. Sergeants shouting and corporals cursing;
transport-officers giving directions; a party of New Zealand
sharp-shooters in scout hats and leggings laughing and yarning; a patrol
of the R.E.'s Telegraph Section coming in after repairing the wires along
the beach; or a new batch of men, just arrived, falling in with
new-looking kit-bags.
It was through this throng of seething khaki and transport traffic
that our water-cart jostled and pushed.
Often we had to pull up to let the Indian Pack-mule Corps pass, and
it was at one of these halts that I happened to come close to one of these
dusky soldiers waiting calmly by the side of his mules.
I wished I had some knowledge of Hindustani, and began to think over
any words he might recognize.
"You ever hear of Rabindranarth Tagore, Johnnie?" I asked him. The
name of the great writer came to mind.
He shook his head. "No, sergeant," he answered.
"Buddha, Johnnie?" His face gleamed and he showed his great white
teeth.
"No, Buddie."
"Mahomet, Johnnie?"
"Yes - me, Mahommedie," he said proudly.
"Gunga, Johnnie?" I asked, remembering the name of the sacred river
Ganges from Kipling's Kim.
"No Gunga, sa'b - Mahommedie, me."
"You go Benares, Johnnie?"
"No Benares."
"Mecca?"
"Mokka, yes; afterwards me go Mokka."
"After the war you going to Mokka, Johnnie?"
"Yes; Indee, France - here - Indee back again - then Mokka."
"You been to France, Johnnie?"
"Yes, sa'b."
"You know Kashmir, Johnnie?"
"Kashmir my house," he replied.
"You live in Kashmir?"
"Yes; - you go Indee, sergeant?"
"No, I've never been."
"No go Indee?"
"Not yet."
"Indee very good - English very good - Turk, finish!"
With a sudden jerk and a rattle of chains our water-cart mules pulled
out on the trail again and the ghostly figure with its well-folded turban
and gleaming white teeth was left behind.
II - Heroism Of The Silent Hindus
A beautifully calm race, the Hindus. They did wonderful work at
Suvla Bay. Up and down, up and down, hour after hour they worked steadily
on; taking up biscuits, bully-beef and ammunition to the firing-line, and
returning for more and still more. Day and night these splendidly built
Easterns kept up the supply.
I remember one man who had had his left leg blown off by shrapnel
sitting on a rock smoking a cigarette and great tears rolling down his
cheeks. But he said no word. Not a groan or a cry of pain.
They ate little, and said little. But they were always
extraordinarily polite and courteous to each other. They never neglected
their prayers, even under heavy shell fire.
Once, when we were moving from the Salt Lake to "C" Beach, Lala Baba,
the Indians moved all our equipment in their little two-wheeled carts.
They were much amused and interested in our sergeant clerk, who stood
6 feet 8 inches. They were joking and pointing to him in a little bunch.
Going up to them, I pointed up to the sky, and then to the Sergeant,
saying: "Himalayas, Johnnie!"
They roared with laughter, and ever afterwards called him
"Himalayas."
The Indian Transport Train
(Across the bed of the Salt Lake every night from the Supply Depot at
Kangaroo Beach to the firing-line beyond Chocolate Hill, September, 1915)
The Indian whallahs go up to the hills; -
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"^*
They pass by the spot where the gun-cotton kills;
They shiver and huddle - they feel the night chills; -
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
[Footnote *: "Jhill-o!" - Hindustani for "Gee-up"; used by the drivers of
the Indian Pack-mule Corps.]
With creaking and jingle of harness and pack; -
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
Where the moonlight is white and the shadows are black,
They are climbing the winding and rocky mule-track; -
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
By the blessing of Allah he's more than one wife; -
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
He's forbidden the wine which encourages strife,
But you don't like the look of his dangerous knife; -
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
The picturesque whallah is dusky and spare;
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
A turban he wears with magnificent air,
But he chucks down his pack when it's time for his prayer; -
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
When his moment arrives he'll be dropped in a hole; -
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
'Tis Kismet, he says, and beyond his control;
But the dear little houris will comfort his soul; -
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
The Indian whallahs go up to the hills; -
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
They pass by the spot where the gun-cotton kills;
But those who come down carry something that chills; -
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"