Typescript copies of letters from Hector Roy McLarty, 18 November 1914 to 7 August 1918 - Part 3

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the bank and completely buried us. Since I started this
blooming history of the world, at least thirty shells have
dropped around us (the evening's greetings are on), so
forgive me if I spell some of those 'orrible big words
rightly.
The mail service is dead. The least they could
do, I think, would be to see that our mails are delivered
promptly and quickly, but no, the cold-footed gentlemen
who run the Post Office Corps and bask all day in the
smiles of the ladies of Cairo have no time to think of the
poor devils who are doing the fighting - I apologise, they
do us the honour of pinching all our parcels.
I have had an "At home" today. My dug-out has
been filled with fellows all day and we have been discussing
everything under the sun. They have all gone now
except one dear little fellow named Bauny Castilla (the
Battery Mascot we call him). He is only about 16½ years
old, and we all thought it a shame that he should come, and
all prophesied that he would turn tail when the fighting
began. As a matter of fact, he has proved to be absolutely
fearless and is a very gallant little soldier. He was for
a long time doing very fatiguing work under very dangerous
circumstances, and came through with shining colors. I'll
just give you one instance - he was bringing a string of
mules up a steep gully loaded with provisions one day when
the Turks started a heavy bombardment. A shell burst among
them, killing several and he was knocked down. Did he
desert/them? Not he - he led the reaminder to shelter and
then had the cheek to go back and sneak a ham from the
packs of the dead mules. This mind you under shell fire.
He came into camp dirty, disreputable, but smiling like
blazes with his ham over his shoulder. The youngster is
often an inspiration to me. Amongst a lot of growling
devils he is a bright, cheerful lump of enthusiasm, and
honestly it takes a lot to be cheerful these days. I grow
fonder of him every day, and I hope to God he pulls through.

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Letters discovered on a Turkish Soldier
at Gallipoli.
To my dear Son-in-law, Hussein Aga,
First I send my best salaams and I kiss your
eyes. Your Mother Alif also kisses your eyes. Mustafa also
kisses your eyes and Mrs. Kerim also sends her salaams.
Your daughter Ayesha kisses your eyes. Should you enquire
after our health, thank God I can tell you we are all in
health, and I pray God we continue to be so.
Your mother kisses your eyes and Abdullah
kisses both your hands.
Your brother Bairham's wife has died - may
your own life be long - but before dying she brought into
the world a child. The child also has died.
What can I say about the decrees of God?
Your brother Bairham has also been taken as a soldier.
We pray God that his health may be preserved. The money
you sent has arrived. Thank God for it, for many is scarce
these days. Everybody sends salaams, everybody kisses your
hands and your feet. God keep you from danger.
Your father,
Faik.
To my dear husband, Hussein Aga,
I humbly beg to inquire after your blessed
health. Your daughter sends her special salaams and
kisses your hands. Since you left I have seen no one.
Since your departure I have had no peace. Your mother
has not ceased to weep since you left. We are all inna
bad way. Your wife says to herself "While my husband was
here we had some means" - since your departure I have
received nothing at all. Please write quickly and send
what money you can. All your friends kiss your hands and
your feet.
May God keep you and save you from the disasters
of the War.
Your wife, Fatima.

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21st July, 1915.
We had a disastrous day on the 17th instant. Two
of our Battery guns engaged four of the enemy's guns in an
artillery duel. One of our guns was silenced early in the
fight, and our boys behaved very gallantly indeed. A shell
burst right in the gun pit, killing two men, and a third who
I think will die. The two men killed were Stan Carter of
Fremantle and Douglas Barrett-Lennard of Guildford.
Sergeant Taylor was the man wounded.
This is how the men in this Battery die :-
When the smoke from the bursting shell had cleared
away, Wallis ran up to see the damage. He found Mick Taylor
crawling about on the ground covered in blood, and dazed.
Bill said "Are you badly hit Mick?" "No Bill" he said,
"I am only scratched, look after Doug and Stan". (We found
subsequently that he was wounded in fourteen places.) Bill
then picked Doug Lennard up. The poor lad had one arm off,
one leg shattered at the thigh, and internal wounds. He
said "I'm done, Bill, look after Mick and Stan. Don't mind
me." Stan Carter had a fearful wound in the side. He said
"I'm sorry I'm moaning, I know it will upset Mick and Doug,
but I can't help it, I can't help it." He died, poor lad,
almost immediately. His last words were "Did they get the
gun?" Doug was in fearful agony. He kept saying "I'm dying,
but by God I'll die hard." He lingered for two hours, and
it was pitiful to watch. He wanted an overdose of morphia
to stop his pain and in the end he begged his pal (Tommy
Cusack) to shoot him. His last words were "I died at the
gun, didn't I?", and so he went, dear lad, the most gallant,
the most unselfish little soldier God ever made. His monument
will be the sacred thoughts of his comrades. He has
taught us all how to die.
Mick may pull through. We all hope to God he will.
I do not think in the whole history of the War
there is anything to eclipse this incident for gallantry and
unselfish devotion to comrades. I cannot imagine anything
grander. The General was very cut up about it. He spoke

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to us all. He said, "Lads, I have heard of nothing grander
than the way your comrades died. I am proud of your Battery.
I would be proud to be gunner in your Battery. I only hope
that when you return you will be appreciated as you should
be.
We buried the dear lads at midnight side by
side. It was a real soldiers' burial. The parson's voice
was drowned in the crack of the bullets whistling overhead
and thus we left them.
I believe I can see the end of this Turkish War
in sight. I know I have said this before, but I am pretty
sure this time. The English are still storming Achi Baba.
From our hills we can see them dimly over the intervening
country. They are fighting harder than we are at present
and showing a brave determined front.
In a curious way a big battle resembles a "Prize
Fight". You can see them going like Hell; the fight
gradually rising in intensity until it attains its crisis,
and it is just then that the strain is greatest, one can
feel it in one's blood. Then it gradually dies and in the
quiet lull, one can almost hear the panting of the men as
they await the next round of hell.
Yesterday - to cheer us up a bit - the Turks
fired 38 - 8.2 shells at us. These shells are enormous.
The diameter at the base being almost 8½ inches and the
length about 3 feet. The burst is terrifying but the
charm of them is that one can see them coming and dodge.
Fortunately, they killed nobody, although wounding about
twelve Infantrymen.
This is rather a doleful letter, but things are
very bright here and I am in excellent health.
6th August, 1915.
It is now 14 weeks since we landed here, fighting
continually day and night. I understand we are to be relieved
soon and sent either to Egypt or England to re-organise. I
only hope it is England. What a time we will have!

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You would be amused if you could see the rig we
go about in. Boots and socks, no leggings, pants and cut
short (only about 4 inches long) and the sleeves out of
our shirts.
I have managed to get a few swims at night lately.
It is too dangerous in the day. It is very refreshing and
is the only pleasure we have.
One of the most exciting things I have seen to
date was an aeroplane fight last week. A German 'plane
high up in the air came over our lines and made for one
of our planes which was flying low. Of course, being on
top the German had a great advantage; also his aeroplane
was stronger and much faster than ours. As they came
together, my heart stood in my mouth, as I thought our
aeroplane was done, but he made a beautiful vol. plane
up into the air, and escaping the German flew to earth.
I write this scribble at the end of a glorious
day, the sun is setting on a nest of blood red clouds.
The land is green and beautiful with brown fields and it
is hard to imagine that we are at war except for the
continually bursting shells.
11th August, 1915.
Our evenings just now are filled with horror and
night is one long dreadful nightmare. The attacking is
always left until dark and the sounds and cries of the
wounded are quite indescribable. We are at this moment
in the midst of a large battle which has been raging four
days. I have snatched a few moments for rest and so am
writing to you. A very large force of English recently
landed here and I think that the result of our present
attack is likely to prove decisive. In the last few days
I have seen enough to keep me talking for weeks when I see
you again. The longer I am with these Australians the more
forcibly am I impressed with their truly wonderful pluck
and doggedness and the cheerful way in which they bear
their discomforts and hardships.

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I am still apparently in the care of the Gods,
for I am still untouched, although three nights ago a shell
passed within eighteen inches of me (so close that the force
knocked me over) and burst ten yards behind me, a very
narrow escape. I was dead scared for about twelve hours
afterwards.
I saw today perhaps the most gallant thing it is
permitted any man to see. In the daylight, the 2nd
Battalion charged a Turkish trench (it was practically a
fortress) and after a most bloody and terrible fight, took
it. All I can say is that it is almost unbelievable that
men can do such things. It was simply superb.
For four days they have been dragging Turkish
dead out of the captured trenches and burying them in
large holes. Each body is dragged past my "dug-out", so
I am having a most enjoyable time. They are four to five
days old, and they do buzz.
We are now in the 16th week of continuous fighting,
and you will not wonder at a man letting his thoughts stray
back to home and the delightful peaceful life that used to
be. We are dead sick of the continuity of it - if they
would only give us a rest. Just as I finished that last
word a large Howitzer shell (5 inch) struck the sides of my
"dug-out" within I suppose two feet of me, and by all the
laws of War should certainly have killed me, but you see it
didn't. I have cleared up the mess, and incidentally found
this writing pad again and will continue, as I have never
seen a shell hit exactly the same place twice.
Smithy was wounded yesterday - a finger smashed by
shrapnel. Fender also got a nasty hit on the head. Yesterday
also one of our poor boys was killed - Barber by name,
from Pinjarra. An 8.2 shell struck our No. 4 Gun and
literally blew it to pieces, killing Barber and wounding
Chris Ewing and Butcher.
I am on most interesting work - Observing. All day
I watch for targets for the guns and thus not only pick up
stray lots of Turks on the run, but also see the whole

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operations. I had a rather ticklish job yesterday. One
of the enemy's guns was firing from the open on to our
trenches - a most vicious little gun called a "Pip squeaker".
I had/to go and "spot" her for the Howitzer Battery, she fired
7 shells into the bank where I was observing her, and I can
assure you I was never more scared in my life. Our Howitzer
eventually got her.
I have heard bad news of the Light Horse. A &
B Squadrons charged an almost untakable trench and suffered
badly.
I have been observing all the morning. The
country is somewhat after the type of Cottesloe, but far
more rugged and precipitous; yet it reminds me of Cottesloe,
and thus brings back to me thoughts of many a delightful day
spent there.
14th August, 1915.
The battle I was telling you of has ended,
although not decisive. It finished very much to our
advantage and "Jacko" the Turk is now in a very desperate
position. He is like a dying donkey, his last kick always
the hardest.
The day is ending beautifully in a glory of
golden tinged clouds. It is very quiet and still after
the recent strife. The evening reminds me of our evenings
at Cottesloe and of many happy days.
8 p.m. - Can you picture me here in "My little dugout in the
East". I have one small piece of candle which I pinched
today. The doorway is covered with a blanket to hide the
light, as lights are not allowed after dark. I have laid
out my bed, 1 oil-sheet, 2 blankets, and an overcoat for
pillow on which I am sprawling and writing this serial
story - not an ideal posture for writing though. I haven't
many oil paintings on the walls, but I'll tell you what
there is. First, a dirty towel - dinkum dirty - none of
your half and half business about it, then a Haversack

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containing 2 razors, 3 toothbrushes (toothpaste nil, use
salt instead), a housewife - I think they call it, but
it's certainly not the kind of housewife I sometimes dream
of (break here a moment) - a terrific burst of rifle fire
just broke out and I went up to see what was doing - a
Turkish attack (slight) which has now been driven off.
As a matter of fact it is a pretty awful noise, about
20,000 rifles speaking besides a few dozen machine guns, and
a pitch dark night. It has now quietened down, so let us
continue - a hairbrush which I'll soon be able to use, as
my hair is growing wonderfully, tin of dog, packet of
buiscuits (God save the word), gas respirator, all of which
are held in case of emergency. Further round is an old mail
bag which contains all my worldly goods as far as clothes are
concerned, and they would make a tailor blush if he could
see them. Next is a row of knives, forks, spoons, empty
shell cases, Turkish bullets, fuse caps, etc. Above my
head like a beautiful chandelier hang a pair of boots,
the nails in the soles are more fitted for a 6 inch plank
than these dainty beetle crushers. Near me is a tin of
good cigarettes which Warren gave me. What a luxury!
and that best of good friends, my pipe. I am dressed
(let's see if I am dressed first). Yes, from the bottom
upwards is a dainty pair of foot sloggers that wouldn't
disgrace a Fremantle Lumper, a pair of grey socks, army
socks, which are the chief delight of those pleasant
creatures called "greybacks". Next, a good bit of bare
leg, then a dirty pair of knickers, a shoirt without sleeves,
me inside, including the bare legs, and there you have me.
Beside me, in the mug, is my modest issue of rum - one
tablespoonful per man per day (perhaps) which I haven't
drunk yet, as you can see by the prudent way I am writing.
Rum is a goodsend, the throb of a man's life runs so low
just now, it is essential to give him some artificial
stimulant to keep his heart out of his boots and somewhere
above his stomach. There is a picture for you.

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25th August, 1915.
By the way up to date I have some rather decent
curios - a Turkish rifle and bayonet, several Turkish shell
cases, fuse caps, etc., a dinkum bomb which fell on top of
my "dug-out" but forgot to explode, the Base caps of our
Japanese bombs (terrible things) and other odd trinkets,
including numerals which I took off a wounded Turk - a
desperate old buck, who yelled like a stuck pig because he
thought I was going to kill him. It will be rather hard to
get 'em back to Australia.
War is a terrible thing, isn’t it? - especially
in the daily papers. It makes my blood creep when I read
'em. The late attack has now given place to a few quiet
days. I will tell you some of the terrible things which
have happened me - yesterday, I arose at 4.30 a.m., swore
like a North Perth bowler, performed my toilet in half a
cup of water, that is cleaned my teeth, shaved, and then had
a damned good wash. I then decided I was in a merry mood
and sauntered up to the Observation station, put the good
old telescope in position (by the way I tried hard to lose
this damned instrument all the way from Egypt, because its
such an awkward thing to carry) had a look over the country,
but devil a Turk I could see. Thereupon I came out and
sang ditties to the men on telephone duty, in my usual
sympathetic way (they were fast asleep but that didn't
matter). This woke the telephonist. He said "For goodness
sake, shut up", turned over and went to sleep again - I
shut up. I was observing all day, but it was deadly slow.
In the evening, Wallis (who has just received his commission)
Sergeant Ducky Day and myself had a cup of tea about 10 p.m.
and yarned until about midnight. I then took to my virtuous
couch and slept the dreamless sleep of the good and innocent.
Big Bob has just been in to see me. He is about
6'6" and, as far as I can see, the biggest man in the army.
He is a regular character. On 19th May - during the big
attack - Bob sneaked off from the guns and got into the

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Infantry firing line. He is a deadly shot and got a
good "pozzy” from which he shot about 78 Turks before
he got one back. He was shot through the back from side
to side. When they brought him out he said, "Is there a
hole in my shirt". Yes they told him, "Well, sure then
there must be a hole in me", said he. When the medical
attendant went to attend him, he said "Wait a minute, me
bhoy, till I clean me rifle" and he wouldn't let 'em touch
him until he had finished. When coming back from hospital
he heard a big fellow slinging off at the old South
African soldiers, saying they had cold feet. Bob strolled
up and hit him a beauty on the nose, and knocked him about
7 feet away. "Sure me bhoy", he said "I'm an old African
soldier and me feet are as good as me hands. What do you
think of 'em?"
29th August, 1915.
It will sadden you to hear of poor Dave
Jackson's death: it came during a very big attack on our
part, which was crowned with a great deal of success, but
also with a big loss of live; success and death are
inseparable in War - as Woolf put it 100 years ago "Not
once or twice in our Island's story, the path of duty
leads but to the grave." It is ever more so in these
strenuous days. The one consolation of Dave's death is
that he died in that one wild mad rush on the Enemy Trench
in the glory of a charge, and is it not a splendid way to
die? It leaves his name imperishable, something to tell
little children of in the years to come. He was a fine
generous, chivalrous fellow, and I, for one, will greatly
miss him.
I'm sure you would smile if you could see me at
present in my new knickers, turned up at the bottom in the
latest style mind you, and a nice crease down each leg.
It is Sunday, and I'm loafing on the strength
of it. Fender has just left me; he is still suffering
a good deal from a crack on the head but otherwise O.K.