The story of a original ANZAC

 

Private Roy Denning landed on Gallipoli on 25 April 1915 and served there until he received a severe gunshot wound in the back on 16 June. He was evacuated to Pembroke Camp in Malta four days later and after his recovery he went on to fight on the Western Front until the end of the war.

While he was recovering in Malta he wrote of the landing in Gallipoli, his first letter unfortunately no longer exists but the second letter I will publish here

For an hour or more I struggled on slipping every now and again right down the side where the earth was very loose, making my already wet and heavy clothes still heavier with the mud that hung to them. I found it very slow work my pack and rifle and shovel etc. catching every few minutes in the thick scrub, I had at times hard work to extricate myself I seemed to have handles sticking all over me, but what we accomplished that day we ourselves marvel at now. In spite of the dirty and in some cases ragged uniform covering tired bodies the men were cheerful and laughed at their plight, some jokingly saying "Oh, if only my girl could see me now".

All day long the fire of the big guns was terrific, the crack of rifles incessant. All day stretcher bearers carried away the wounded down rugged paths hastily cut by the pioneers and men struggled up the same paths carrying ammunition. The food that fed the only weapons that prevented us being overwhelmed by the superior numbers of the enemy. I was very thirsty, but dare not drink, not knowing when I would get a fresh supply of water, eating I never thought of until the long day was drawing to a close.

I had given up hope of finding my company at the firing line and was prepared to spend the night in the bed of a dry creek running down from the ridge, where with several of the reserves we endeavoured to keep ourselves warm by squeezing up close together.

About 8pm or perhaps later, it came on to rain, although not heavy it added to the darkness and misery of the already miserable state of affairs, particularly in the case of the wounded. Men struggled through the wet scrub, groping their way and slipping down every few steps, but only to struggle on again without a murmur. All night I sat half dozing and half wondering what the cost of this ceaseless fire would mean to our men, and not being an old warrior, I could not imagine so much ammunition being expended at random.

In the early hours of the morning I heard the Officers going along amongst the men, saying "Stick to it lads, don't go to sleep", and the cheerful reply would be "No Sir; we won't go to sleep", and my heart swelled with admiration, I knew what the ordeal of the strenuous day before had been, and knew what pluck and determination was necessary to keep awake and alert through the long weary hours of the night, therefore I thought I was justified in being proud of being an Australian and after that night I had no fear as to the result of our operations eventually. Give me Australians as comrades and I will go anywhere duty calls, and I hope to be pardoned for saying so, being one myself. Thus it was the Australians passed their first day and night on the battlefield, Sunday, April 25th. What a difference to the Sunday spent at home, I wondered often through the day and night if the loved ones at home had any kind of a presentiment of what we were doing.

From the time we settled down on that point until my last day on the Peninsula, when I was wounded, each day was very much the same, there being only a day now and again to be marked by anything worth reporting. Shrapnel poured onto the beach each day, picking off men every now and again. Terrible sights of suffering were seen at the hospital near our quarters, each day. The usual line of dead were to be seen waiting for sunset to be laid to rest on the hillside, when it would be safe to hold the usual burial service. And so things went on, day after day, we getting more accustomed to it each day.

Later, in this same letter, Roy Denning provides a memorable description of death and burial on the peninsula. He ponders, too, on the devastation the news of death will bring to family members. Despite his resort to fairly conventional imagery and sentiment, it none the less reveals a capacity on this soldier's part to see the tragedy of war as it reaches out far beyond the battlefield:

That night [May 1] we were working until 9 o'clock in pumping water, and were returning to our dugouts when we came up with two stretchers on each one lay the remains of an Australian. The stretcher bearer of one, having a bad hand, asked my friend and I if we would take some of the weight for him and willing did so and continued on to where the big grave waited for its prey. We laid the stretchers down gently, the bodies were lifted into the grave, then we stood with bowed heads while the Chaplain, with the aid of an electric torch read those memorable lines set apart for the burial of the dead. The graves being dug to take three side by side, I just threw enough earth over them to cover the bodies leaving one place vacant for another of our number. I wondered who would fill it, death seemed so close to us all, it may just be the click of a rifle and one of us may make the third to fill and thus satisfy the yearning of that open grave.

The service over, we returned to our dugouts, but in my case not to sleep. The sad proceeding we had just been through seemed so impressive and although only two in hundreds, made me picture the homes of the two departed. I wondered if ever the loved ones of the two deceased would hear or know how they were quietly laid to rest on the slope of the lonely Turkish hillside, where, when men ceased to slaughter and annihilate each other, there would be nothing but the gentle lap of the water at its foot and the nightingale's solitary note to break the silence.

I pictured an aged couple waiting for news of their son, dreading to answer the door bell for fear of what may be there, scanning the casualty list with trembling hands and aching hearts lest the dreaded news be found there. Perhaps it may be a young wife with a babe in arms, another little chubby face pressed against the window pane watching and waiting for that familiar form we just laid away To those dear ones the sad news of what we had just taken part in, had to be borne. Perhaps a young maiden waits for one of them living her life in a mingling of pride and bitter dread at what the morrow may bring with it and into that bright young life, blighting all hopes that had been so bright and promising, would be thrust that awful news, leaving as the only star to brighten the dark firmament of the future, the thoughts of valiant deeds in a strange land.

Is it any wonder I could not sleep, but rather prayed that God would be merciful and heal the broken hearts and that all mourners would fully realise the true meaning of the words, "Oh grave where is thy victory; oh death where is thy sting", and I felt that God would be good to men who had so nobly given their lives in such a cause for they had given their lives for their friends.

Private Roy Howard Denning at war’s end in 1918. The stress of four years on the battlefields is reflected in his face. Reproduced with the permission of Lorna Lancaster

In October 1918, because he was an original Anzac, Private Roy Denning received the so-called 'Anzac leave', and he was on the high seas when war ended on 11 November.