The Cliffs of Gallipoli

Dear Mary,

Well, here I am in Turkey. Funny to write that, isn’t it? Turkey. A place I never thought I’d see in all my born days.

We landed a week ago, on the twenty-fifth. They told us it’d be a quick dash up the peninsula — a few weeks, maybe a month, then home by Christmas. The papers said it would be a grand adventure. The papers are a lot of bloody liars, if you’ll pardon my French.

The landing was chaos proper. The boats dropped us in the wrong spot — supposed to be a beach, ended up at cliffs. Steep, razor-backed cliffs with Turkish boys up the top shooting down at us like we were fish in a barrel. Men were falling before they even hit the sand. I saw a cobber next to me take a bullet right through his water bottle, didn’t even slow down, just kept running. Mad bastard. We’re all mad bastards, I reckon. That’s what it takes to go up these hills.

We’re dug in now, living in holes in the ground like rabbits. The flies — Mary, you would not believe the flies. They’re on everything. The food, the dead, the living. They crawl into your mouth while you’re trying to sleep. The heat during the day is shocking, and the nights are cold enough to freeze your bones. The latrine is a tin can you toss over the side. It’s not the adventure they painted in the recruitment posters, I’ll tell you that straight.

But here’s the thing, Mare — the sunsets. You wouldn’t credit it. The sun sets over the Aegean and the whole sky turns the colour of a blood orange. For ten minutes, you could almost forget where you are. Almost.

I think of home constantly. Of you and Mum and Dad. Of the smell of the bakery on Smith Street in the morning. Of the sound of the trams rattling past. I’d give my left arm for a proper meat pie. Or a beer. God, a cold beer.

Don’t worry about me. I’m a dinkum Aussie, tough as nails. The Turks are brave fighters — I’ll give ‘em that — but we’re holding our ground. The boys are good. Real good. We look out for each other.

I’ve got to go. The censor’s already crossed out half of what I wrote. If this letter reaches you, know that I’m thinking of you always. I’ll bring you a Turkish rug when this is all over — the ones they weave here are bonzer.

Your loving brother, Jack

P.S. — Tell Mum not to send any more socks. I’ve got six pairs and nowhere to put ‘em.