Climbing Cliffs

Climbing Cliffs
The moon hides behind the clouds, neither a blessing nor a curse. If the moon had been brighter, it would have made the task of boarding the destroyers easier. But it would have made the Turk's task of spotting us on our way to Gallipoli easier, too. There is not much need for moonlight, anyway. The sea is so calm the gangway has been lowered, and we are boarding the Ribble by a much easier method than the rope ladders we have been practising on for the past 2 months.

"What a waste! Peter says.

I am about to disagree, thinking he means the hours of practise. The added moisture from my sweaty palms would have made descending by the rope ladders difficult and I am glad of the reprieve. But when I look at Peter and see he is not looking at the gangway, but the men of the 12th Battalion walking on it, I realise he does not mean the practise at all.

Peter is different from the other boys. He is not interested in football or movie stars or cigarette cards. He doesn't talk as much about war as the other boys, who all dream of glory and giving it to the Germans. Most of the time he prefers to sit down with a book, rather than talk to the rest of us. This suits most of the fellows just fine. It's not that they dislike him exactly, they just don't understand him. But I like him. He's very intelligent and comes out with some interesting statements. And when I'm with him I seem to appear more intelligent in myself. I like being around Peter and I like myself when I'm with Peter. He seems to like my company, too ' at least he puts his book down when I approach him, which is more than he does for the other blokes. Given time, we could become firm friends.

It is almost midnight when the Ribble leaves the Devanha. Sailors bring cocoa to us and as the drink warms my hands I feel like crying. Cocoa is a drink for winter evenings in front of the fire, spending time with family. Drinking cocoa in such different circumstances, when I am just about to fight for my country, reminds me of how far away from home I am.

Lieutenant-Commander Wilkinson leans over the bridge and says "You fellows can smoke and talk quietly. But I expect all lights to be put out and absolute silence to be kept when I give the order.

Funny how being told you can talk, often creates silence. For a while no-one speaks. It is a time for reflection, prayer and composing letters to loved ones. But my letters were all written yesterday or the day before. And I don't feel like praying any more. Anything that has to be said to God has been repeated a thousand times. There is nothing to do but watch the sea and the moon and wait. Some times I fancy I can see the faint outline of the land. The land where we will fight ' and perhaps die.

I don't want to think. What is there left to think about? Thinking just means repeating the same thoughts that have been running around my head since I enlisted. Will I fight well? Will I be brave? Will I be able to kill a man? Will I die? I look around, hoping that someone will start a conversation. I catch Gary's eye. Gary can never remain quiet for long. He winks at me and walks to the middle of our group.

"So what's everyone's goals in life? he asks.

I shake my head. Goals? At a time like this he asks about goals? Surely there would have been better topics of conversations. Surprisingly enough, though, most of the men appear to be thinking hard about it.

Jeff, who has been standing unnaturally still for about 15 minutes, turns around to the group. "I want to buy a house in Queensland, he says.

"Queensland, why Queensland? Gary asks, giving me another wink and a bit of a chuckle.

"I dunno. Just like the sound of it.

"It's hot in Queensland. Blue joins in.

"I like the heat, Jeff replies, smiling for the first time that day.

"I want to travel to England, Martin says. "I've got family there.

"My goal used to be to travel anywhere overseas. says Blue. "Looks
like I've achieved that one.

We all laugh, more from relief than amusement. We are grateful for this chance to laugh at something. The rest of the boys are shaking off their melancholy moods and are joining the conversation. In a few minutes, we have turned from total quiet to quite a lively conversation.

"I want to be a journalist, Mick says.

"A journalist. Why a journalist?

"I think I'd make a good journalist.

"Well here's your first assignment, says Gary. "Give us a first hand account of the battle of Gallipoli.

There is an uncomfortable silence, but not for long.

"I want to kiss Shelly Garran, Gary says.

Catcalls and whistles come from the men.

"Who's she, your sweetheart? asks Thommo.

"Nah! But I wish she was.

"I want to kiss Lillian Gish Martin says.

The men laugh loudly. The chances of Martin even meeting the famous actress are slim, let alone kissing her. Our laughs are genuine now, caused by humour, not by fear. Strangely enough, Gary's poor choice of subject has turned into a success. All around, the men are smiling. And if we are not quite as happy inside as we appear on the surface, and if an occasional flicker of fear marks the features and wipes the smile off someone's face, we pretend not to notice. We cling to this conversation. To talk and laugh prevents us of thinking of other things. Things that we would rather not think about. Things that we have spent too much time thinking about.

"What about you, Rich? Martin asks me. "What's your goal in life?

I could tell them that I want to buy my own car, see Perth, get married, have children, become a professional cricket player and make lots of money. Or I could joke around and say that I want to see Lucy Reynolds naked, go skinny-dipping and drink copious amounts of beer. But I want to say something different. I can't tell them the truth, that my biggest goal in life is simply to make it through this war. I have another goal, which I haven't told anyone, that might just do.

"I want someone to be better for having known me, I say.

Thommo takes off his hat and throws it at me. "That's not a goal, he says.

The rest of the boys laugh and poke me in the ribs. They push and shove and make fun of me. Only one boy does not join in - Peter.

"What do you want to do? I ask Peter. "What's your life goal. The others turn to look, interested in what he will say, because they know it will be strange and unusual. They are prepared to laugh at him. I listen, too, because I know that what he says will make me think.

He looks around the group, meeting each boy's eyes. "I want to make someone smile, he says.

There is silence for a moment and confused looks on the faces of the group. Then the confused looks are replaced by laughter.

"Smile, he wants to make someone smile.

"What kind of a goal is that?

"Look, Peter, I'm smiling. You've achieved your goal.

"Not that kind of a smile, Peter says slowly. "A special smile. A smile that means something. I'll know it if I see it.

"You're 20 years old, mate, says Martin. "You should have other goals besides making someone smile.

"Yes, Peter says. "Perhaps I should. Instead I'm here.

Everyone looks at him, waiting for an explanation, but he doesn't give one. I think I am the only one who understands.

All of us here on this boat think that we're invincible. We have an exaggerated idea of our own importance, which, to some extent, makes us feel immortal. Our thoughts and inner feelings seem too special to us to be killed by a bullet.

Martin said one day that he was sure he wasn't going to die in the war. He said he had the same feeling that his Dad had while fighting in the Boer War. And his dad made it through okay.

"What feeling was that? Freddie had asked.

"He felt like he was going to be okay.

Peter had given a rare smile. "So did all the people who died.

We might die. It seems like an impossibility, but we might. And although I feel important, invincible and immortal, I am also a realist. And the reality is that bullets, gunfire and bayonets don't care whether we consider ourselves important or not. Much as it seems impossible, death is quite probable.

Peter is not the type of man to set himself goals that he cannot reach. And I guess he can't see himself reaching any goals that he might set for later in life. I look into his eyes and he looks into mine and I am sure he knows that I understand him.

Lieutenant-Commander Wilson gives the order for quiet. "We're going in boys, he says. The moon has now sunk. It is so dark I cannot even see the destroyers next to us, or the rowboats in front of us, filled with the men who will land first.

A sheer cliff of about 300 to 500 feet is in front of us. Gorse-like bushes jut out from its face. We were expecting something much flatter. It seems like it will be a miracle if we climb that cliff, but we must try. The Turks fire at us, from places that we can't even see. They were shooting at us even as we moved into the rowboat. Some of the men, including a navy-boy, died before we had even landed.

We climb upwards and upwards into the gunfire. There is a machine-gun firing somewhere, and also rifle fire. Many soldiers near me are receiving gunshots. Men that I talked to yesterday or the day before are falling around me. Injured, dying, and dead.

I look at the top of a mountain, which juts out sort of like a head.
Freddie comes up next to me and follows my gaze. "It looks like the Sphinx. He begins to laugh, but it is cut short. Freddie falls face down. I bend down to help him, but when I turn him over I find his eyes are staring, motionless. Peter grabs my shirt and pulls me up.

"Keep moving, he whispers. "We can't help him now.

Poor Freddie. He will never kiss Shelley Gordon. I wonder if she cares. Will she spare a thought for him when she learns of his death? Perhaps even shed a tear? In 5 years time, will she still occasionally think of him? Or will she have other dead to mourn?

"Keep moving, Peter says. But he seems to say it without moving his lips. And I know that he means my mind, not just my legs. Don't dwell on it, he seems to say. Keep moving. We communicate, without speaking a word, both knowing what the other is thinking. Our minds seem to be in tune.
I think I always suspected that Peter and I were kindred spirits and in normal circumstances would probably become good friends. But in peace we would never have shared this spiritual intimacy. It took a war, strangely enough, to form this connection. Strange how it takes people fighting with each other, to bring others closer together.

We climb up and up. Try to dodge the bullets, even though we have no idea where they are coming from, when they will come or what they will hit. My mind is totally focused on survival. Survival, not just for myself, but for all the men I'm fighting with, especially Peter. I'm scared, shit scared. But this fear doesn't immobilise me, like I was worried it might. In fact, it keeps me moving.

A groan comes from Peter. I turn and find him lying on the ground, his hands clutched to his stomach. His face is drained of all colour. I kneel down next to him.

"Where are you injured? I ask quickly. "Stay there. I'll get a stretcher-bearer to carry you back.

He shakes his head. "Don't bother. I'm going to die anyway.

I stare at him, uncomprehending; my spiritual connection with him temporarily lost.

He moves his hand to reveal a huge pool of blood. There is a gaping hole in his stomach. Something squishy pokes out of it. I gag when I realise it is his intestines.

"Leave me, he says. "I'm gone now. To move me will just prolong the pain. If I'm lucky, I'll be hit by a stray bullet.

They are not just empty words. I seem to be connected to him again and I know, intuitively, that he really wants me to go. To stay would only be for myself. As a good friend, I must do what's best for him. I take the letter from his shirt, that he has written to his mother. Slowly, I start to walk away.

"Rich he calls me with a thin croaky voice. Quickly I run back to his side.

"I'm better for having known you, he says.

Though tears are falling down my face, I smile.

He coughs and blood splutters out of his mouth.

"Can die now¦reached goal, he whispers. "Now go!

I get up and walk from his side, each step taking me further away. Every couple of steps I turn back to see him lying on the ground, the blood coming from him, not far from death, but not quite there yet. His death appears very final. People usually say that death is final, but I haven't found it to be so. To me, death is like a novel put down before coming to the end of the story. Peter was too young to finish this story but, with his goal accomplished, I think he finished his chapter. Knowing Peter, I think he would have been pleased with that. He could die with a sense of fulfilment.

As I return to the battle, I realise I can too.