Redemption - Leon Uris [175]
And finally, it will free up Ukrainian wheat for shipment to France and England.
Greece will join us whenever we wish, but Greek troops cannot enter Constantinople, which must go to our Russian ally. Italy, sitting on the fence as well, will be compelled to become our ally once we open the Dardanelles.
The Turks have been beaten in the Near East, North Africa, and ejected from Europe by the Balkan coalition. They are presently using all their remaining power against Russia.
Germany can ill afford to send troops to Turkey, although they may have some German staff. By any definition, the Ottoman Empire is ripe for collapse.
Although the Gallipoli Peninsula is a wild region of cliffs and valleys and with scant military intelligence I feel that our naval power will reduce their hilltop fortress. Many of our old battleships, ready to be scrapped, can still be used against Gallipoli as floating gun platforms.
Whilst a landing from the sea would be unique in modern warfare I envision our destuctive naval power breaking the morale of the Turkish defenders.
The Aussie/N.Z. units are woefully short of officers. I am pushing Kitchener (who likes the idea of the Dardanelles campaign) to get a cadre of British officers to Egypt to take over the Aussie/N.Z. Corps. I understand the Aussies are a wild lot, as one might expect from the descendants of a penal colony.
So there it is. The Dardanelles and Gallipoli, Constantinople and the Danube Valley, and the end of the Ottoman Empire in 1915.
WSC
58
January 1915
Shunk-rooomshunk…shunk-rooomshunk…shunk-rooomshunk…SHUNK-ROOOMSHUNK…SHUNK-ROOOMSHUNK!
Daddy! Don’t cry! Daddy!
SHUNK-ROOOMSHUNK!
Daddy! Run, man!
Rory sat up quickly. His head batted the canvas of the bunk above him.
“Jesus Christ!” the soldier over him complained.
Rory fell back. “Sorry, cobber,” he apologized.
“Jesus Christ,” the man mumbled again and was snoring in a moment.
Shunk-rooomshunk, the ship’s engine repeated, never ending, and the Wagga Wagga groaned. Rory blew out deep sighs as though he could blow out the bad dream from his body. Why the hell was Squire Liam invading the nights he had reserved for weeping for his Uncle Conor or longing for Georgia Norman?
Why his daddy? Why?
He propped himself on an elbow, carefully so as not to bump the bunkmate atop him, and peered out the porthole. The convoy seemed to be moving at one-third speed on the sizzling waters near the equator. There was enough moon out there to have vanquished the stars. He squinted hard for the silhouettes of ships.
Chester would be sleeping on the bottom bunk, six tiers down. He and Chester switched off every several hours to give each other a breather at the porthole. Rory’s head throbbed from the nightmare. It must be suffocating down on the bottom row, he thought. Rory slid out carefully as he was able to into the clutter of hanging kits, rifles, clanging mess gear, and helmets in the dimly lit hold.
He buttoned up his trousers, tied on his life vest, then fished about the bottom bunk for Chester. It was empty. Rory felt his way along the narrow passage cluttered with gear, arms and legs of dangling sweaty bodies stacked seven high, and inched toward the engine room.
Shunk-rooomshunk…shunk-rooomshunk…
He fished his way through a triple set of blackout curtains until he passed into the turbine room. The playing field was a far corner under a light bulb. One of the Aussie sailors of the crew had served a hitch in the American Navy and brought with him the advanced American cultural attainments of craps and blackjack.
Chester Goodwood observed the games for the first three days afloat, figured out the dice odds, and learned to read the deck in the second sport. He looked so inconspicuous and innocent, he was always welcomed into a game. Both Rory and Johnny Tarbox had to warn him not to get greedy and even to drop a few bob now and then, for appearance’s sake. Otherwise, he always won.
Rory reached