Hard Jacka

By Michael Lawriwsky

Michael Lawriwsky's insightful Hard Jacka breathes life into the real man behind the legend of Albert Jacka, VC– 'Jacka' to his superiors, 'Bert' to his mates, 'our Albert' to his proud mother.

Hard Jacka is a superb account of the man whose acts of selfless heroism at Gallipoli would win him a VC, whose insubordination antagonised his seniors and whose bravery in the battlefields of France would win him the unswerving loyalty of his mates.

Hard Jacka is a rich and fascinating story about Albert Jacka and the Great War, its heroes and anti–heroes, their sacrifice, determination and larrikin humour. It's a compelling tale about the deep bonds that life in the trenches developed between men– the quintessential Aussie mateship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Aug 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781742786988

Michael Lawriwsky

Michael Lawriwsky was born in Barmera, South Australia in 1952 of Ukrainian refugees who had fled through the Iron Curtain in 1946-48 and arrived in Australia in 1949. He grew up in Adelaide, attended Woodville High School, Rostrevor College and the University of Adelaide, where he was awarded a PhD in economics. He moved to Melbourne in 1978 and was appointed Professor of Commerce at La Trobe University in 1988. He resigned in the early 1990s to become a director-corporate finance at ANZ Securities and ANZ Investment Bank, and subsequently a director of the Allen Consulting Group. A past part-time Commissioner of the International Air Services Commission, he is an adjunct professor in the School of Business at La Trobe University. Having previously published books on economics and finance, 'Hard Jacka' is his first novel. His interest in Albert Jacka began when he read about him in Les Carlyon's 'Gallipoli' during a flight to Papua New Guinea in 2001.

Book preview

GALLIPOLI:

BIRTH OF A LEGEND

Courtney’s Post, Gallipoli, May 19th, 1915

The Turks had launched a massive offensive against the Australians at 3.30 am—determined to break them at any cost. It was around 4.00 am now, and still dark. A deafening roar of gunfire bellowed from the line of Australian trenches, and Acting Lance Corporal Albert Jacka’s shoulder ached from the pounding of a hundred kickbacks from his Lee-Enfield .303. It was a man killer the Lee-Enfield, not a rabbit gun, so when you hit someone squarely they would go down—and stay down.

On previous nights the Australians had complained about the bitter cold. It was like that on the Turkish peninsula they called Gallipoli—hot during the day and cold at night—and the boys hadn’t been issued with any blankets. Someone higher up obviously had no idea what it was like at this coalface. But tonight Jacka (who was always Bert to his mates) wasn’t complaining. He was on fire, almost literally, as the woodwork of his rifle was becoming too hot to hold.

Ahead of him the velvet-black field bubbled with human form and shadows, both dead and alive, and the live ones were coming for him at speed. Only their eyes and the razor-sharp blades of their bayonets glistened in the faint moonlight. Not much more than a hundred yards of No-Man’s Land separated them, and tens of thousands of bullets had been fired to stop them. Yet still they came, the young Turks, running and jumping over the bodies of their fallen brothers.

A strong runner could make the distance in twenty-odd seconds. But you couldn’t see him for at least half that time. That left about ten seconds. Not much time to load, aim and shoot at him, and then shoot the one just behind him; and if you missed, or just clipped his wing, his bayonet could be skewering your head like an olive five seconds later.

It focused the mind.

Bang! Click-click, click-click. Bang! Jacka squeezed off another clip, shooting at blurred images. Golly, they’re brave, he thought. How long can they keep coming like this? It’s certain death! He had just turned twenty-two, and the skin on his cheeks was still soft.

If the Turks could smash the Australian line that clung to the ridge at Courtney’s Post, everyone knew the consequences. It was only one and a half miles down to the beach. The Turks taking a section of this trench would be like driving a wedge into a block of wood. With a decent blow at that point the block would snap in two, the Turks would be on the beach, and the Aegean Sea behind them would run red with blood. Game over.

Jacka was standing behind a traverse in the trench wall and firing east over the bags on the parapet. To the south of the traverse, in a curved section of trench known as a bay, were about ten boys from D Company. Beyond them, further to the right, was another bay that contained a machinegun crew. As the boys took aim and fired, the machinegun churned out lead like a meat grinder.

All the guns of D Company were running hot that morning, and still the Turks came. Suddenly a number of grenades plopped into the bay. Too dark to look for them! Too late.

Bombs! someone screamed.

Look out! The scramble began.

The grenades exploded like a broadside from an old man-o’-war, sending a billowing cloud of dust and smoke up into the sky. Some Aussies were killed instantly; others were either shell-shocked or holding in their guts. A dozen Turks leapt over the parapet and into the trench screaming Allah! Allah! Allah! Allah Akba!—God is Great!

Outnumbered and dazed, the surviving Aussies clambered out of the forward trench and turned down the communication trench towards the reserve trench. The sand-bagged corner of the traverse had protected Jacka against the deadly shrapnel. Lieutenant Boyle put his head around the corner and was shot in the ear. He ran down the communication trench yelling They’ve got me! Turks are in the trenches!

But Jacka didn’t run. He moved in, leaned up against the wall of the traverse and began firing down the hollow of the earthen-walled corridor. He couldn’t get a clear shot because of the corner in the forward trench, but at least he had them pinned down.

Boyle was checking the boys’ ammunition supply when he saw the explosions above the trench line. He was a graduate of the Royal Military College, Duntroon, and only nineteen years old. The Turks were firing over the parados of the trench they’d captured, and hit Boyle in the ear. In shock, and bleeding profusely, he staggered to the rear.

Lieutenant Hamilton, another Duntroon man, rushed up the communication trench past Boyle to meet the Turks. He drew his revolver, and as he ran along traded shots with them over the top of the trenches. A bullet slapped into his head, knocking him to the ground.

There were no officers left.

The crackle of rifle fire continued against the background noise of the machinegun, and every few seconds Jacka would send another round down into the captured trench to remind the Turks that he was there.

Further down in Monash Valley, at the Battalion HQ dugout, Major Rankine, a stout 55-year-old, sat with twenty-one year old Lieutenant Keith Crabbe. Above the chatter of gunfire they heard a desperate call from the ridgeline above. Officer wanted on the left!

Rankine ordered Crabbe to get there on the double, and less than half a minute later as he approached along the same communication trench he encountered a number of men, including Private Bill Howard.

There’s a bunch of Turks in the trench, sir! gasped Howard. Jacka’s holding them off alone. (When he was in-the-line he was always Jacka, even to his mates.)

Crabbe could see Hamilton sitting on the ground up ahead, with his back resting against the wall of the communication trench. Revolver in hand, Crabbe crept ahead of the others. He touched Hamilton’s face. It was still warm and sweaty. He picked up Hamilton’s limp wrist and felt for a pulse. Nothing. He was sure Hamilton was dead.

Crabbe looked back at the others and shook his head, then continued down the communication trench until he could see Jacka, and vice versa.

Back out! Turks in here.

Crabbe shuffled back a couple of steps and pointed his revolver at the corner of the forward trench as he spoke.

Would you charge the Turks if you had some men to back you up?

Jacka answered Yes and then added I want ten.

Crabbe slipped back into the reserve trench to where a number of men had now gathered, and called for volunteers to back up Jacka.

I’ll do it, said Private Bill Howard.

You can count on me, nodded Private Frank Poliness.

Me too, added Private Steve DeAraugo. All three were mates from Bendigo in Victoria. Steve’s name was pronounced Daroosh—it was Portuguese.

A fourth volunteer, Joseph Bickley, nodded agreement. He was from Hastings in Victoria.

Crabbe looked down the communication trench to its intersection with the traverse where Jacka was standing. He looked back at the men. He tested their resolve.

Will you charge? he asked. It’s a tough job. Will you back Jacka up?

It’s sink or swim, Poliness reaffirmed. He knew that someone had to stop these Turks.

Crabbe popped his head around the corner and gave Jacka the thumbs up. Seeing this, Jacka jumped across the communication trench from his position behind the traverse. A shot rang out from the Turks, but it was too late. Jacka was in the reserve trench with the volunteers. It wasn’t as many as he’d wanted, but he was ready to lead them anyway.

He ordered them to fix bayonets. Then, Come on!

He charged up the communication trench to the corner. Without hesitation he jumped across the forward trench and landed on a fire-step. Bang! The Turks were too slow. Howard came flying in straight after him, but as soon as he appeared three bullets thudded into his body and he dropped like a stone. Bickley was next and copped one in the arm. DeAraugo and Poliness stopped in their tracks. Jacka’s eyes flashed down at Howard’s body. This is going nowhere! he thought. Peering around the sidewall of the fire-step he could see the Turks’ rifles aimed at the other side of the trench, waiting for the next person to come around the corner, but not a jumper from his side.

Bracing himself, Jacka sprang over the top of Howard. Bullets zapped past his back, disappearing into the earthen trench wall. Phut … phut … phut. The Turks hadn’t counted on that move. Together with DeAraugo he pulled Howard back into the communication trench by the legs. As they dragged Howard back to the reserve trench a plan came to Jacka, so he suggested it to Crabbe. The idea was for Crabbe’s men to draw the Turks’ attention away by firing down the communication trench, while Jacka made his way around to a position behind them. If Crabbe’s men lobbed two grenades in, Jacka would finish the job.

Alright, replied Crabbe, you’re on. He liked the initiative Jacka was showing.

Portion of trench system Courtney’s Post

Jacka’s VC at Gallipoli (May 19th/20th, 1915)

Source: N.Wanliss (1929), The History of the Fourteenth Battalion, A.I.F., The Arrow Printery, Melbourne, p. 77.

Jacka made his way down the reserve trench, while Crabbe ordered Private James McNally to bring up some Mills bombs from Battalion HQ. By this time Jacka was in the third communication trench along the reserve line, a long way out of sight of the Turks. The 14th’s machinegun was working at full throttle, sweeping the line to keep any Turkish reinforcements from reaching the occupied trench.

Confident the enemy couldn’t see him, Jacka crossed the main trench, placed his rifle up over the bags into No-Man’s Land, then hoisted himself over. He crawled along the parapet, closing in on the Turks. There he lay still, waiting for the diversion. He counted at least six or seven moving hats below him, and they were squeezed into an irregular section of trench not more than twenty feet long.

McNally returned from HQ with a couple of genuine article Mills bombs. Shaped like a small pineapple, their steel casing was divided into thirty-eight squares that would rip apart with the force of the explosion. McNally positioned himself behind the traverse where Jacka had earlier taken a stand. That way he could lob his grenades down the line of the forward trench. Poliness and DeAraugo kept a furious rate of fire up the communication trench into the wall of the forward trench, while McNally pulled the pin from the first grenade and threw it, but it was a dud.

Shit!

He fumbled for the second grenade, pulled the pin and counted a couple of seconds in his head before releasing it in a gentle arc. It overshot the trench and exploded on the parapet behind the Turks—not too far away from Jacka. Apart from the stunning noise, it vomited a large cloud of dust and smoke into the air, obscuring vision in the trench below. This wasn’t ideal, but it was now or never.

Taking a deep breath, Jacka jumped into the murky trench. The Turks were facing fire from DeAraugo and Poliness, and their ears were ringing. The first Turk sensed something behind him and spun around, but Jacka thrust his bayonet up at him, cracking through his chest and withdrawing the blade in a piston-like action. As he fell back, a second Turk, their officer, lunged at Jacka with his bayonet. Jacka deflected the blade, kicked him down to the ground and dug the blade into his chest, slicing straight through. He twisted and yanked it clear in regulation style. Into the Turk … and twist! was his drill sergeant’s cry. The blade slipped out easily, glistening with fresh blood.

The remaining Turks still hadn’t realised that Jacka was behind them. So he began to pick them off one by one. He could hardly see them through the shower of settling dust, but they were packed like sardines, so he could hardly miss. They fell like sacks of wheat off the back of a truck. One … two … three … four. He emptied most of his magazine into them—and with the clatter of the machinegun in the background, several had no idea where it was coming from. He worked the bolt like a pump. Running in low, he took his bearings from the positions of the Turks’ feet. Squeezing off another round, he dropped a fifth Turk.

Two Turks saw him coming now. Had each of them taken a shot, he could not have survived. But they took him for part of a larger force. They cut and ran. One managed to clamber up onto the parapet, but was plugged by Poliness and rolled away into No-Man’s Land. Narrowly escaping Jacka’s blade, the other got up just in time for Poliness to slide another bullet into his chamber, take aim and fire. He too fell away, mortally wounded. The last three Turks dropped their weapons and put their hands in the air.

For the next fifteen minutes Jacka held that section of trench on his own, keeping one eye on the prisoners at all times. Then, as the sun rose over the mountain in front of them, the great push subsided. Another beautiful day was beginning to dawn over Gallipoli, and they had held on against overwhelming odds.

With the sunrise Lieutenant Crabbe and his platoon made their way cautiously along the communication trench. Turning into the forward trench they were confronted with a grizzly scene, littered with dead and wounded. Among the carnage, his head propped up against the trench wall, sat Jacka. Exhausted, his face was still flushed red with the excitement of it all.

Jacka! shouted Crabbe.

Well … I managed to get the beggars … sir, Jacka replied laconically.

Crabbe promised Jacka he would be recommended for his actions at Courtney’s Post, and promised him a spell. But there was no such thing as a rest at Gallipoli. At Gallipoli no one was safe anywhere, at any time, day or night. At least the Turks couldn’t see you at night. If you remained in a dugout they couldn’t snipe you, but they kept the shrapnel shells coming, so they could still get you. You just had more chance of getting through a night than getting through a day.

Jacka was glad to get some rest in Monash Valley later that day, and sat up in his dugout after dark. It was quiet. Well, relatively quiet compared with the day, and the men would snatch delicious moments of sleep between the explosions until they were so tired that even the explosions wouldn’t wake them. Huddled around a small paraffin candle whose wick emitted a lustre barely capable of guiding his eyes and hands, Jacka pulled out the flimsy diary he’d kept irregularly since he left Melbourne. It had been an eventful morning, and he thought it warranted devoting some time to recording the gist of those events. Just some rough notes so he wouldn’t forget what had happened. He pressed his pencil against the page.

19 May

Great battle at 3 am. Turks captured large portion of our trench. D. Coy called into front line. Lieut. Hamilton shot dead. I led a section of men and recaptured the trench. I bayoneted two Turks, shot five, took three prisoners and cleared the whole trench. I held the trench alone for 15 minutes against a heavy attack. Lieut. Crabbe informed me that I would be recommended.

Courtney’s Post, Gallipoli, May 28th, 1915

More than a week had passed, and they were back in the trenches again. Just before dusk Bert took out his diary again, and tucked himself into a small open dugout that was cut into the dry earth of the trench wall. It was like the space that a coffin might occupy underground. All you needed was for the trench wall opposite to cave in from an exploding shell and it would be a coffin. He pulled out a pencil from his top pocket. What a glorious day it had been—weatherwise that is. Each day just gets better than the last, he thought. But water’s a problem, and so are the bloody flies.

It was a constant battle to keep up with the drinking and sanitary needs of the battalion perched up on the ridgeline. Flies were a huge menace, attracted by piles of bloated bodies rotting in the sun out in No-Man’s Land. This was the day after the Turks had been granted a truce to bury their dead from the failed great push. Only yesterday Australians and Turks had mingled freely and exchanged cigarettes and pleasantries in No-Man’s Land. A day later it was all on again.

Earlier in the day, two members of the battalion had been shot by Turkish snipers. Private Sam Wilson was an ethnic German who’d changed his name from Holtum. Bert knew Private W.R. Earle much better. Rob was from his hometown of Wedderburn in Victoria. Thinking about him made Bert think of Wedderburn. It was one of those tiny towns near Bendigo that had shared in the glory days of the Gold Rush. The glory days were long gone, but that hadn’t stopped the residents giving their young volunteers a big send-off. He couldn’t forget what the bank manager had told him publicly: that he was expecting great things from him. It had thrown him at the time. He was of medium height and had been a labourer for the Forests Department for only a short time when war broke out. How was he expected to do great things?

But now, when he thought about it, he did have some attributes that were proving useful in battle: a strong physique, for example. Back home he’d won long-distance cycling races and had excelled at Aussie Rules football. Then there was boxing—he could spar with the best of them; and now he had done something that stunned everyone. After what he’d been through at Anzac Cove he knew one thing for sure now—he feared no man.

Girls, on the other hand, were a completely different matter. Back home he sang in the local church choir, and if a girl so much as looked at him in an admiring manner, he’d blush like roses. Beer was out of the question, because he belonged to the Order of Rechabites—an organisation devoted to abstention from alcohol in all its forms. Was this the profile of a war hero?

He could put up with a lot, but he honestly hadn’t expected the war would be like this. The popular notion was action, but the reality was long periods of boredom punctuated by brief do or die efforts. Now people kept asking him how he could have done what he did up at Courtney’s Post that fateful morning. His standard answer: I think I lost my nut!

Bert was modest alright, and shy. The worst thing he could imagine was a great public fuss going on back at Wedderburn. But that didn’t mean he was without ambition. He had that in droves from the competitive sports culture that he’d grown up in. When out-of-the-line he wasn’t wasting any time either—he was studying at night to prepare for promotion.

He could get sniped tomorrow, so why study? He was too positive to let that possibility bother him. Nevertheless, getting sniped was a daily occurrence at Anzac Cove. Sergeant Reg Jones of the 14th, an electrician and a recent resident of the Melbourne suburb of Essendon, was a crack shot. He organised a team of snipers that operated out of a concealed position called the shooting gallery, and it was their job to snipe the snipers. It was not always clear who the ducks were roaming around the front lines at Gallipoli. Lieutenant General Sir William Riddell Birdwood was the commander of Anzac, and he could have been sniped as easily as Wilson and Earle. Birdwood was a British regular who had an abiding fondness for Australia and Australians. He was personable, and would often wander about, virtually incognito, striking up conversations to get a feel for what the enlisted men were experiencing.

Well, Wilson and Earle would be experiencing Heaven by now. They got fairly stung by Johnny Bourke’s snipers today alright, Bert thought. As he looked down the earthen wall of the trench a shadow moved across the top like a shroud, and some miles to the west the burning yellow sun drowned in the Aegean Sea. There was not much time left to write.

28.

Still in trenches. S. Wilson shot through the head. W. Earle (Wedderburn) shot through the head while carrying water.

Both died.

Two days later the battalion was rested at the foot of the hill. That evening Lieutenant Crabbe paid a visit to the 14th Battalion’s Padre, the Reverend Andrew Gillison. Gillison was a gentle man loved by all the regiment for his nature, and respected for his bravery. He had been born in Baldernock, Scotland, forty-seven years earlier, and his standards of modesty and self-sacrifice were the talk of the battalion. His hair was peppering at the sides, but the moustache was still full and dark. He may not have felt himself to be old, but he looked it to the young Anzacs. Here everyone above the age of thirty was considered old.

Prior to the war he’d lived in Hawthorn in Victoria and had ministered to the faithful of St George’s Presbyterian Church in East St Kilda. It would have been easier to stay home, but he felt the call of duty, so he left the comfort of home and hearth to follow the young men into battle. He seemed to be everywhere and accessible to everyone. During the days he would stroll about in his pith helmet, his white clerical collar the only thing distinguishing him from other soldiers. From one thousand yards he was just another target.

Crabbe was from St Kilda too. A clerk prior to the war, he’d easily slipped into the role of junior officer, and was already well regarded for his energy, efficiency and enthusiasm.

The Padre was writing condolence letters by candlelight, a duty that had caused him to give up on his own diary. He’d removed his thick white collar for the night, but still wore his black vest. He welcomed the young subaltern in his gentle Scottish accent. Reading the young man’s body language, he put down his pen. Too hot to sleep? he probed.

Oh, it’s not that, Padre, Crabbe began—then paused. He swallowed hard. I’ve just been wondering.

Yes?

Well … why haven’t I been killed, like the others? It seems like … just a matter of time.

That, unfortunately, is the barbaric nature of war, my son, it kills indiscriminately, replied the Padre.

But it doesn’t, Padre. A few weeks ago Quinton Smith was sleeping right next to Bert Jacka when that shell exploded above their heads. Quinton was killed and Bert didn’t get a scratch.

Crabbe had been fascinated by Bert Jacka’s exploits ever since the night of the VC stunt. He had written much more about the event to his parents than Jacka had, and it was his letter about it that was published in the Melbourne papers.

The Padre nodded and Crabbe continued as the Padre listened intently.

That night, up at Courtney’s Post, Hamilton rushed in and was killed in an instant, yet Bert jumped in and cleaned out the whole trench. He must have the luck of the devil!

Oh, no! Don’t say that son, grimaced the Padre, disapproving of the language. There’s no point in pondering such questions.

I’ve had some sleepless nights.

You’re not the only one, I can assure ye of that.

But I’m in charge of forty men. I have to set an example …

To lead …

Yes, to lead them to their deaths, when I know it’s madness.

Oh, it’s madness alright, nodded the Padre, I could no’ agree more. I’ve seen such sickening sights that I don’t wish ever to see again. And sometimes it’s leadership that leaves much to be desired. I’ll give ye an example. At the landing a naval officer in command of one of the destroyers came along after some shrapnel had burst over the boat. Seeing a chap lying down among his fellows he kicked him with his foot and said, ‘Why don’t ya stand up and take yer shrapnel like a man?’ The poor chap was already dead! But ye … you’ve been an inspiration to the lads. So positive and enthusiastic, he confirmed. Now young Hamilton had great potential too. What a pity. I can still remember the ceremony on the St Kilda foreshore, when we blessed the regimental colours.

Glorious morning, remarked Crabbe fondly. The breeze coming off the sea kept the flags fluttering proudly. Thousands of people cheering …

I had ma glad rags on …

Glad rags?

Ma academic robes! chuckled the Padre. And Major Rankine presented the colours to the Governor General, and he passed them to the younger generation.

To Hamilton …

Who knelt to receive them … and now he’s gone, but we go on, because we must see this terrible thing through to an end—out of duty to our King and country.

Crabbe nodded his agreement. Both his faith in the cause and his resolve having been restored by the softly spoken Padre, he returned to his dugout and went to sleep.

Wedderburn, Victoria, July 31st, 1915

The Mayor implored the assembled citizens of Wedderburn to calm down. It was the same hall of the Mechanics Institute where he’d given his speech to farewell the young lads. It was then that he’d foreshadowed a brilliant military career for young Bert Jacka. How prophetic those words appeared to him now. The stage was adorned in red, white and blue bunting and the backdrop was formed by a large Union Jack. It was almost precisely a year after the war had started, and Australia’s first Victoria Cross of the war had now been won.

Up on the stage sat Bert’s parents, Elizabeth and Nathaniel Jacka, as proud as could be. Overnight their son, the son of a dairy farmer and haulage contractor, had been thrust into national prominence. Now, assuming he survived the war, he would be assured of something better. His future seemed bright—as long as he came back. The family was large, but not too large by the standards of the day: seven children. His sisters, Fanny, Elsie and Bessy, sat proudly in the front row, applauding eagerly. Gradually, the applause died down, and the Mayor could address them once again.

He told them they’d gathered to pay tribute to a great son of Wedderburn. He was interrupted by spontaneous applause and stamping of feet, to which he responded by slapping his hand down on the table with considerable force. All went quiet.

Order! he shouted, even though one could now hear a pin drop. After a pause to confirm that order had in fact been achieved, he continued. Numerous telegrams have arrived for Albert’s parents. From senators, government ministers and the Premier. I will read out to you what the Prime Minister, the Right Honourable Mr Andrew Fisher, said. ‘It must have thrilled you that your brave soldier son’s gallant conduct on the field won the first Australian Victoria Cross of the war. Hope all Australians proud of him today, and congratulate you who gave him to us.’

The message released another wave of spontaneous applause and shouts. A man called out from the back of the hall: Let’s hear from the parents!

The Mayor took note and nodded approval to Elizabeth Jacka to speak. With some apprehension, but with a determination not to let down the family, she rose to her feet. After all, she was the one who had given him to Australia as the Prime Minister had said. Imagine that—the Prime Minister of Australia had congratulated her on bringing him into the world!

We are very proud of our Albert, she began, to a hushed audience now observing full reverence. He was a good boy, and so modest. He wrote to us about his promotion to Lance Corporal, but hardly mentioned his great deed at Courtney’s Post. All he’d hoped for was his name being mentioned in despatches to General Hamilton.

Her words, spoken from the heart, were greeted with applause by a townspeople gripped in a tide of Imperial loyalty. She lived in a village some fifty miles beyond the old mining town of Bendigo, one hundred miles from Melbourne and a ten-thousand mile sea voyage from London. But she, a resident mother of this seemingly insignificant village, had produced a hero that even Londoners now knew. She sat down with a satisfied smile, and her eyes glistened with pride.

Nathaniel rose from his chair. He was no longer the completely unknown farmer with a large family to support. His life had also been transformed. Whereas not long ago his opinion on matters had counted for nothing, now they would listen. He held to the tone of modesty set by his famous son, but he and Elizabeth had contributed more than just Albert.

I’d just like to say that two of my boys are now fighting for Australia at Gallipoli. Bert’s won the VC, and we’re mighty proud of him. But Bill’s there too, and we’re proud of him. He didn’t want to mention his other boy, Sidney, who was also itching to go. They’re volunteers, my boys—the best kind of soldier there is. Our hopes and prayers are with them.

They would pray and attend the Presbyterian Church at Wedderburn just as regularly as ever. But now their prayers would have a higher purpose, as their boys had voluntarily sailed off to the greatest armed conflict the Western world had ever known, a conflict that would ultimately bring death to eight million, mostly young men, and make spinsters and widows of an equal number of women.

The Mayor stood up to make an announcement. In order to celebrate this glorious event, at a given hour on Tuesday all the bells in town will ring out, and schoolchildren will be given a holiday! He then asked them to rise and sing God Save the King!. A woman at the piano struck up the introductory bars, and as everyone stood to attention their eyes too filled with tears of pride as they fixed upon the Union Jack. At no time before had they ever felt closer to the Mother Country as on this day.

Even as the people of Wedderburn sang, General Hamilton sat on a battleship off the coast of Gallipoli, putting together his plans for a great flanking movement that would require a British landing at Suvla Bay and a series of diversionary manoeuvres by the Australians and New Zealanders. It was to put their young hero’s incredible luck to the test yet again.

Hill 60, Gallipoli, August 21st, 1915, 3.40 pm

It was a hot day. At Anzac Cove, just a couple of miles south of Hill 60, the blue-green waters of the Aegean Sea sparkled crystal clear as waves gently rippled across the surface. A line of blue and yellow arm patches, the regimental colours of the 14th Battalion, ran along the trench, and tiny clouds of ochre-coloured dust were raised with every step of their heavy boots. They sweltered under their turned down, broad-brimmed khaki felt hats. Jacka bobbed up briefly from a fire-step to try to catch a glimpse of some of the Australian bodies that lay dead or dying on the ridgeline above the dry creek bed of the Kaiajik Dere, which in Turkish meant Valley of the Little Rock.

Two hundred yards away, about forty survivors from the 13th Battalion who had made a charge to the northern side of the gully had taken refuge under the protection of an embankment that rose seven to ten feet high behind them. You’ve got to be joking! thought Jacka. How can they be expected to raise themselves over that cliff and charge again for seventy yards across a wheat field in the face of machinegun fire?

Jacka thought about the first wave. Ten minutes ago one hundred and fifty lads had launched themselves over the spur and had disintegrated under withering fire. A number of bodies had rolled down and come to rest among a group of old Turkish bivouacs on the southern slope of the gully. He was just a Lance Corporal, but he was a VC winner, and his bravery could not be questioned. This was clearly stupid. The Heads must be mad, he thought.

The ping of Turkish bullets fired from the crest of Hill 60 ripped into the sandbags above Jacka’s head, releasing a trickle of yellow sand, like an hourglass. Hill 60 was really not much more than a gentle bump on the horizon. In Turkish, it was known as the Kaiajik Aghala, or Sheepfold of the Little Rock. How appropriate—they’d be like lambs to the slaughter. And it got better. Having taken Hill 60, their next objective would be Hill 100, which was higher. Above that, Hill 971 beckoned!

Hill 60 at Gallipoli

(showing the zigzag trench dug by the 4th Brigade on the night of August 21st, 1915)

Source: P.Schuler (1916), Australia in Arms, Fisher Unwin, London, p. 273.

For the British, Australians and New Zealanders, the tragedy of Gallipoli was that the Turks always owned the high ground—all of it. But now there weren’t enough British troops to mount a credible attack on any of the objectives on higher ground anyway, so what was the point?

This attack on Hill 60 was a truly Imperial affair—the British, the Australians, the New Zealanders and an Indian Brigade. The entire force was under the command of New Zealand’s Major General Russell. Lieutenant General Birdwood had not assembled this eclectic force by design—it had been forced upon him by the disintegration his army had suffered during the early stages of the August offensive.

Down the line of blue and yellow arm patches Lieutenant Crabbe, among others, was waiting to receive final orders from Major Dare, who was to lead the second wave. Major Charles Moreland Montague Dare was a graduate of the Faculty of Architecture at the University of Melbourne. Prior to the war he’d pursued an interest in military affairs through a commission in the citizen’s militia. At twenty-six, he was only a few years older than Crabbe and Jacka, but senior officers with experience were scarce in the Australian Imperial Force. His pleasantly formed features suggested a fresh-faced youth, but on the battlefield he was true to his name—he often dared, when others would not. His was a refined, if somewhat nasal, voice. He was scared but didn’t show it, and his sense of duty always prevailed over personal considerations.

These young men had known war for only a few months, but had already grown accustomed to the sight and smell of death. Life was something they had hitherto taken for granted. But with each day that passed the psychological pressure rose, and, like Crabbe, they wondered how long they could last.

For Major Dare, orders were to be obeyed, without question. In the army, he would say: One does not ‘go’ somewhere, one is ‘sent’. In the army there is no choice, no room for debate—one does what one is told. Today he was taking orders from Major Herring of the 13th Battalion, the officer with operational command for the southern attacking force. Herring informed his officers that the New Zealanders on their left flank were in position and that General Russell’s orders were to go.

Awaiting your command, Major, replied Dare.

Two minutes.

Dare walked back along the crowded trench and informed his complement of officers of the decision. He was fully aware that from that instant many of the one hundred and fifty young men under his command, and possibly he himself, had less than five minutes to live. The officers, including Captain Cox and Lieutenant Crabbe, walked back to their positions past the line of men leaning up against the trench wall. Each man was loaded down with iron rations, a rifle and two hundred rounds of SAA, or small arms ammunition. Weight: fifty pounds.

Much earlier in the campaign the Anzac’s camp had hummed with excitement prior to an engagement. But today the men’s expressions revealed a mood of pessimism. The attempted break-out from Anzac Cove over the past few weeks had taken a terrible toll: they were exhausted, sick and spent men. Half of the 14th had already become casualties.

For one short hour an inaccurate barrage had been directed upon the Turkish positions from battleships sitting off the coast. It had merely alerted the Turks that the Aussies were coming. Now the Turks were back in those trenches, waiting. Crabbe walked swiftly past his men, sometimes brushing against them as he went. Time was running out. Some smoked nervously to the last possible second. Others pushed back the rum ration that had been issued to them earlier. Rum, on a hot day.

That’ll slow you down, Crabbe remarked to one. It stopped him only briefly. He knocked down the rest as if it would be his last.

After what seemed like an eternity of staring into the expressionless faces of his men, Crabbe arrived at his position next to Jacka. Was it good, or bad, luck to be near him?

What did Major Dare say? Jacka asked, but Crabbe ignored him. Instead, he drew his pistol from its holster and made a short, sharp announcement to the men around him.

Prepare to charge! On the whistle! Fix bayonets!

Click … click … click went the clatter of steel down the line, and as they brought the rifles back up into their arms the blades glistened above the parapet like the menacing spears of some ancient army. The Turks opened fire at the sight of the bayonets, knowing that they signalled an attack was coming any second.

"They’re going ahead?" Jacka asked incredulously, as bullets struck bayonets and shattered them. After what happened to the 13th?

"Yes Jacka! Hill 60 is critical", Crabbe replied angrily.

In broad daylight? pressed Jacka. Carrying all this ammunition?

You’ll need it on the other side.

Not if you’re dead, Jacka whispered. He was furious. They were on that hill two weeks ago. They should have dug in then and there. Then this charge wouldn’t have been necessary.

Perspiration trickled from Crabbe’s brow as he looked at his watch. He wiped it away with his hand, still clutching his service revolver.

Stand to! he ordered firmly, ignoring Jacka. The men leant forward and coiled their bodies in readiness for a final push from the back foot.

Shut up! he barked into Jacka’s face. Get ready! With his left hand he awkwardly thrust his silver whistle into his mouth. The seconds ticked down.

At 3.45 pm the screech of the first whistle jolted Crabbe into blowing his.

Come on boys! he shouted. Over the bags!

A great roar issued from the lips of a now animated one hundred and fifty men. They leapt over the parapet and onto the ridge screaming like lunatics. It gave them a release that sustained the madness of forward movement against