Redemption - Leon Uris [268]
Changes were happening that did not bode well. Our conditions continued to deteriorate. Calvin Norman’s estimation that the individual soldiers were living at half-strength was a generous appraisal. So long as our spirit was there, we’d always find the strength for one more scrap.
I suppose it is standard when sending men into battle to berate the courage and capability of the enemy. Before we landed, our staff had downgraded the Turks. After all, the Turks spent years getting the bejesus kicked out of them, losing all of their empire in Europe.
Well, something woke Abdul up. Sometimes I believe that most battles are not won or lost by the tacticians or even the courage of the soldiers. I think it often comes down to a case of who has the most stamina. I’d wager my last quid that every battle in history was fought on two hours’ sleep.
The Turks had stopped us cold, and although they were unable to throw us into the sea, there was a discernible shift in their spirit. We were no closer to Chunuk Bair than the first day we landed.
Word was that the Turks had defeated the Armenians and the Russians in the Caucasus and now had new divisions to shift down to Gallipoli.
There was also talk of a nationalistic rebellion by junior Turkish officers who had infused the troops with a real sense of nation.
The thought of a Turkish victory horrified London. It meant that the British would “lose face” in a part of the world where loss of face was the most catastrophic event in a nation’s history.
So we hung on, not moving forward, not moving backward, not surrendering, and with no hope of winning.
Day after day it all came to roost in Calvin Norman’s surgery. Anzac was slowly being sucked lifeless and bled to death.
At Corps, quandary begat quandary.
A series of tactical blunders and foolish assaults began to smell of desperation on the part of our generals. All during July, Widow’s Gully was filled to capacity.
What keeps a group of men going? Each other, I suppose. We found ways of fending off despair, not letting each other sink. There was some despair but no thought of defeat, although our confidence fell concerning Generals Darlington and Brodhead. As for Godley—he may as well have been a Turk.
I had my own hope. Georgia was my hope. I could allow my mind to think of her again, every moment I was free to think. I could dream of her again, be tantalized by the thought of her.
* * *
I worried about Calvin Norman. He had cut off five hundred limbs in July. I feared for his sanity. More than once he blacked out at the operating table. His Ghurkas worshiped him. They’d lay him out in his shelter and call for me and he’d soon ask for rum. I didn’t know what the fuck to do.
I stood outside the surgery netting and watched him when he’d been on his feet for hours. He became more and more irritated, but his hands remained steady and his mind was focused until he hit the wall.
At times I felt he was going crazy before my eyes. He disdained our entreaties to take a rest, his obsession to save lives turning maniacal and his frustration over losing too many men in the surgery destroying his innards.
There had been three bad days in a row at Lone Pine. Although we hadn’t had rain for two weeks, Widow’s Gully had turned muddy from blood.
A shell knocked out the surgery generator so they had to go on with torches and candlelight. I checked Norman. He was saturated with blood and brains and intestines. Rocking, he was like a pendulum on his feet. I went to argue with him, to get him out. He whacked me with his elbow.
I couldn’t handle any more. I left and, after a quick dip, slunk into my bunker. My only connection with reality, as it had been many times lately, was Chester’s voice.
“You can’t live other people’s lives, can you now, Rory?”
“No,” I whimpered. “Sometimes I wonder if God isn’t punishing me for all those married women I fucked.”
“Jesus, have I got to hold a revival meeting for you? Sinners, assemble at Quinn’s Post at 0530.