Redemption - Leon Uris [180]
“The grand scheme is that our navy clears the Dardanelles Straits, steams up to Constantinople, and opens a naval bombardment while we drive up and lay siege.”
Suddenly Brodhead’s eyes watered and he leaned over the desk and planted his fists in a manner that Chris had come to understand as the man’s dead serious mode.
“IF the navy does not clean out the straits…IF the Turks are properly commanded by a German staff and their high ground is intact…IF we are forced to land on the Aegean side and start straight uphill…IF the Turks can force us into a stagnant situation, we may be fucked four ways from Sunday. God help you if what I said ever leaves this room.”
Chris pleaded with himself not to turn pale and faint before the General, yet he knew that his legs would not hold him at that moment. Brodhead broke into a sweat of his own and felt like a naughty boy for betraying his doubts to a junior officer.
“What do you need me to do, sir?” Christ asked stoutly. Then, as an afterthought, he said, “One would suppose there will be no cavalry involved?”
Brodhead was relieved to be able to crack a smile followed by a laugh. He drummed his fingers on the table. Well, here is what you’ve been waiting for, lad. Transport, m the event we are stalemated and hung up on the wrong side of the hills.”
“I see,” Chris said, realizing the enormity of it.
“The French have a relatively easy supply situation requiring no special transport capacity. Now, with the main British force down here at the tip of Cape Helles, there is a fluid front and difficult terrain to negotiate.”
Chris nodded.
“There are Jews in Palestine, you know…pioneers reclaiming land, that sort of thing. Life has been made difficult for them by the Ottomans. When the war started the Turks rounded up many of the men and inflicted rather nasty punishment on them, claiming they were British spies and sympathizers. A large number of them, several hundred, escaped to Egypt and petitioned to form a unit of the British Army. It was decided, for political reasons, not to have them officially in the army per se but to allow them to form a unit we will use for transport at Cape Helles. The Zion Mule Corps.”
“I say,” Chris said.
“When I went over preliminary plans back at the War Office, a mule unit was the only way to go with my Anzacs. Damnedest thing, Chris, we discovered that neither New Zealand nor Australia knows anything about mules. Never had them in either place, can you imagine?”
Chris looked as though he was going to burst into tears.
“Bang on, Chris. If the attack stalls and we have to go to the trenches, we are doomed without mule transport. There is no other way we can get food, ammunition, water, and medical supplies up the mountainside, and there is no way we can remove our wounded. What I told you back at Camp Bushy is the absolute truth. We are doomed without mules, should the battle go wrong. From this moment, the Seventh New Zealand Light Horse is the mule transportation battalion for the Anzacs. You must build it from the ground up. I will give you every priority within my power. Do this, and I repeat my promise, you’ll jump directly to colonel at the end of the campaign…you have my word…. Well?”
“Mules,” Chris said, “rather degrading, sir.”
“So is war,” Brodhead answered.
60
The mail boat made a welcome round of the convoy at Gibraltar and, as they got under way again, the officers and men were given a fill of letters to be read and read again until the words themselves grew war-weary.
Jeremy reached his quarters and saw a packet of letters on the small ship’s desk. He thumbed the envelopes, stopped on one that caught his eye, and opened it.
My Dear Jeremy,
How often in life it is a truth that we have no time for our friends but all the time in the world for our enemies. I write to you as the enemy, so kindly indulge me.
My name is Gorman Galloway. Most generally I fit the accepted descriptions of a “feckless