Redemption - Leon Uris [255]
“Yes, sir.”
“I think I lost my adjutant, my exec, and a couple battalion commanders today. Suppose Major Hubble could spare you for a few days?”
The Turks did not come at dawn.
The Turks never counterattacked again.
It would have been a lovely time for us to go after them but we had nothing to go after them with. Both sides were in shock, unable to follow up.
The bodies in no-man’s-land were three and four deep around Quinn’s Post. Two more days of rotting in the sun and ships could navigate their way into Anzac Cove by the smell. The stink kept us in a constant state of nausea. Then followed the world, international, universal, cosmic convention of flies, maggots, mosquitoes, and rats.
The flies were so thick that if you tried to take a spoon of bully beef, you’d have to place the spoon on your lips, shoo off the flies, and take a bite in a blink. It didn’t help. You always had a half dozen flies to spit out.
Dysentery ran rampant, drawing yet more flies.
By the end of May, Quinn’s Post and its environs was an unfit place for decent, civilized human beings to conduct a battle.
“Colonel, sir.”
“Aye?”
“The Turks are waving a white flag.”
I followed him down the trench where an officer pointed to the Turkish lines.
“Corporal Perkins,” he said, knowing hundreds by name, “put a white cloth on your bayonet and wave above the trench.”
We watched through periscopes as a Turkish and a German officer rose out of their trench holding their hands up. Malone called for a loud hailer. The enemies walked a couple steps and halted.
“We are not armed!” the German said in commanding English.
“What do you want?” Malone shouted through the loud hailer.
“We wish to speak with an officer!”
Lieutenant Colonel Eastman put his hand on Malone’s shoulder as Malone started to climb the ladder and, in a look that was all but an order, shook his head no. Three other officers, including myself, also gently eased the Colonel back down the ladder.
Malone had spoken to me too much in the past couple of days. He knew I had an insatiable urge to get into no-man’s-land and look for my squad.
“I’ll go,” Eastman said.
“I’m coming with you,” I said.
It was impossible to walk without pushing aside rotting and bloated bodies with your toe. All I could think of for the first minute was that I would not give the enemy the satisfaction of seeing me vomit. I thought Eastman, a very fine soldier, was going to pass out. The German and the Turk were in no better condition.
Damned if the German didn’t click his heels and snap his head in a bow. “Major Krause.”
“I am Captain Ramadam,” the Turk said, extending his hand. Eastman nodded recognition, not offering his hand in return. Nor did I offer mine.
“I am representing General Limon von Sanders. We think, for reasons obvious to both sides, we should arrange a truce so each side can collect and bury its dead.”
It took another two days to set up the rules, but this was the kind of good-fellow negotiations the British relished. Malone sent me out with the first fatigue party, hoping it would help me exorcise my demons.
Captain Ramadam had learned his English in London. What does one say? How are the wife and kids back in Constantinople? Or, try it again and we’ll kick the shit out of you, again? Or, funny job we’ve got, Captain…well, let’s get on with it?
We measured the distance from trench to trench and pegged down a string halfway down no-man’s-land. Each work party could work either side, bringing their own men to their own side of the string.
I fashioned a primitive mask but the smell got through. Flies were almost as thick as concrete. We agreed to keep rotating the working parties as they could bear the stench for only a few minutes.
Captain Ramadam offered me a cigarette. It was so strange.
Nothing worked. Those men still wearing trousers