Ardnish Was Home Episode 32

It is now close to Christmas. The weather is pretty rotten. At least we have the shelter of the house and wood to burn, unlike the poor sods in their trenches. Two weeks have gone by, and there is no sign of anyone. Prissie and Louise take it in turn to go to the top of the hill and look at the ships offshore. They tell me that the Gloucester Castle is there, looking white and beautiful.

“Must be at least six miles away,” reckons Prissie. “With all those ravines I don’t think we’d get you there, even if there weren’t Turkish troops in the way.”

We have a lengthy discussion about what to do. Six miles is nothing compared to a month’s walk to the port, but the terrain is very rough, and no one has succeeded in sending help for us. We can only conclude that they didn’t make it through. If they couldn’t make it, what chance do we have?

“I just feel we have no chance of getting to Suvla,” Louise says at last. “At least heading away from the battle we can lie up during the day and sneak our way through in our own time.”

We all agree. This is our plan.

We decide to wait two more days, to see if anyone comes. Maybe the weather will improve, too. We hear distant gunfire, but see no one.

Stronger

I am definitely getting stronger. My shoulder is stiff and painful, but I know it is on the mend. I am not looking forward to stumbling across rough ground, but Louise keeps me at my exercises, half an hour four times a day.

We practise climbing fences and fallen trees, even running, though that is a disaster. On the odd sunny day, Louise and I walk around the steading. She pushes me to walk up hills and down steep slopes to get me used to exertion.

I ask her to tell me about the flowers and the trees, as I still find it impossible to make out any detail, but she doesn’t know any of them.

“A mining town in Wales wasn’t the place to learn about these things,” she says, with a grin.

I can move around the steading now, and walk for about an hour before I need a rest. My eyes are sore but not infected. I wear a hat taken from the farmhouse to stop the glare of the winter sun. Prissie is drying out pieces of goat meat in front of the fire, and Louise is filling wine gourds with water for the trip, when we hear a horse approach.

We hide in the farmhouse until we are sure it is an ally, and then we greet the man warmly.

He introduces himself. “I’m a New Zealander, from the Otago Mounted Rifles. John Stewart.”

He tells us that he had been sent to do reconnaissance and had been unable to get back to his regiment on Hill One Hundred with news, as there were Turks between him and his unit.

He hasn’t eaten for days, so Prissie gives him some of the precious goat.

He was trying to get to Suvla and had tried from various angles. It seemed that there were Turks everywhere and our troops were trying to get off the beaches and onto the boats as quickly as possible, loading at night so the Turks didn’t know of the evacuation.

Like all Aussies and New Zealanders I have encountered, he is friendly and open; we all warm to him.

Shivering

I ask him if he had come across a Dr Sheridan on the way. He had not, but he had seen a man with a donkey in the distance, which might have been him.

“Our donkey, probably. I hope the Turks get him,” says Prissie.

Nor had he news of the sailors and injured who left two weeks ago. He promises to get a message to the Scouts to let them know how we are, if he possibly can.

We have decided to leave tomorrow. We are sitting in the main room, shivering in the cold and covered with blankets. John is adamant that we won’t get back to the beach along the shore. The others from our beetle may have managed, but the path has Turks positioned all along its length.

He has decided to head around to the east and have another crack at it. We discuss our route – exactly the opposite way from where our troops were getting loaded onto boats on Suvla Bay. But we can’t stay here.

The Turkish troops are sure to come and, what with Sandy and I having suffered so gruesomely at their hands already, I am not keen to rely on their decency.

Father Joe doesn’t join our conversation. We are all acutely aware that he is not coming. There is no point in discussing it.

Louise and Prissie go through every drawer and cupboard, digging out clothes for us. “How do I look?” jokes Louise, posing for Prissie in a large straw hat.

Prissie tosses a woollen coat in her direction. “Goes well with this jacket – quite the rage!”

They try on various items, and I can hear that John is enjoying the show. “The less you have on, the better I like it, ladies,” he says. I feel a twinge of jealousy.

Me in an army uniform and them in their scarlet nurses’ uniform is not going to be a sensible way to play it. We need to be the colour of the ground and the bushes, as we intend to travel at night and take shelter during the day.

Scrutiny

The women who sell the cigarettes on the beach wear black and brown clothing, with a shawl over their heads. Of course, the problem is that the menfolk who had lived in this house were a great deal shorter and more stocky than me.

I am not far off six foot and slim. There are heavy leather sandals with a strap that we can adjust for our bigger feet, however. We won’t pass muster under scrutiny, but from a hundred yards away we might get away with it.

As we sit by the fire, sipping some ouzo, which we had found hidden with the owners’ clothing, we try not to think about the journey ahead.

“Tell us a story, DP,” pleads Prissie. “Cheer us up. Louise tells me you spent some time making whisky. Tell us about that.”

“Ach, that story will take hours and I really need to sleep. Have I told you about the clipping of the sheep, though?”

We decide to wait two more days. Maybe the weather will improve, too. We hear distant gunfire, but we see no one