Turkish Delight: Chapter 4

Get Saved in Turkey

Life on the Razor’s Edge

I hoisted my camera bag onto my shoulders, picked up my tripod, and looked at Tommy. “Righto, mate, let’s get going on your mystery tour. I’ve only got so much energy in me, I’ve come a bloody long way for this, so every step needs to count.”

“Good-oh. First stop is something you won’t find in the guidebooks. But first, let’s orient ourselves.”

He led me to one of the outcrops I’d stood on earlier. From here, the whole coastline was visible and if I turned around, I could see some of the hills inland.

“See that point of land down there? That’s Gaba Tepe. That was the objective, a good port where they could build up from the sea while they cut across on the flat land to the Dardenelles and captured the forts that were stopping the Navy from sailing up to Constantinople.

“They had their headquarters on Imbros over there, they knew the coast, it all should have gone like clockwork. But somehow in the dark the sailors got lost, they got the wrong headland entirely and arrived just before dawn right here.”

He pointed to the headland below us, Anzac Cove on the left, North Beach where I’d parked on the right.

“Bloody hills and gullies and shit. Once the Turks were able to get here in strength and dig in along the hills, that was the end of the story. Anybody attacking out in the open against a trench line full of machine guns just got slaughtered. It took the generals a while to work that out and our blokes paid the price. To be honest, the Poms didn’t have a high opinion of the Turks. Dunno why; they’d already shot the shit out of the Royal Bloody Navy a couple of times. This was Plan B, and it failed even worse. Didn’t matter how good the Turks were; they just had to stand in a trench and pull a trigger. The British would have done far better if they didn’t have tickets on themselves.”

He pointed down again. “This was quite a busy little port for a while; They eventually had four piers where boats could unload, Anzac Cove was piled high with supplies, and it was where the general had his headquarters.”

“The general who went for a swim in the nude?”

“Yeah, Birdie. General Birdwood. Pommie, but he was popular here because he didn’t pretend he was any better than anyone else.”

He set off along a track along the edge of the plateau. Ahead of us, the long curve of coastline leading up to Suvla in the distance, a tangle of ridges and gullies below us, the yellow outcrop of the Sphinx prominent. I almost took a shot of it but thought better. Everyone would get the same shot and unless I came back and got it in moonlight or under a dramatic, stormy sky, what was the point?

Besides, Tommy was getting away. He had a loose stride to him, every movement of lanky legs perfectly controlled with the minimum of effort. When his leg came to the end of its natural swing, his foot plomped down. Me, I spend most of my life sitting and I felt like a jerky plastic doll in comparison, limbs stiff and awkward.

I trotted along the path after him, climbing slightly until we reached the highest point of the little plateau. Before us we had a tangled landscape of scrubby valleys and ridges.

“From here,” Tommy said, “We can see most of Anzac. There’s the old Sphinx there, Walkers Ridge just behind it, then Russells Top leading up to the Nek. The ridge keeps going on past that but we can’t see it from here.”

“The Nek; that’s where the Light Horse attacked.” I had seen the movie.

“Yeah. Bloody murder that was. We’ll head up there. You see above the Nek, another ridge splits off and goes south. That’s the Second Ridge, all along the skyline. We had this side, the Turks had the other side and we both spent seven months chucking bombs at each other and trying to dig underneath.”

It wasn’t that far. Less than a kilometre away I could see there was a road along the ridge, with tourist coaches crawling along. In between was a valley, a steep slope down, and an even steeper climb on the other side.

“All the supplies for the front line had to be carried up from the beach. Up these ridges, or along Monash Gully there and up again to our trenches on the ridge. Food, ammunition, barbed wire, water, everything. The Turks could see almost everything going on. A sniper over there with a good rifle would pick us off standing here chatting, no worries at all.

“It went on and on; every man had to be working or fighting day and night. They couldn’t relax. Over there at Quinn’s Post, the Turks were just a few yards away. If they caught us by surprise and captured our positions there, they could fire at our trenches from behind, roll up the whole line, and push everyone into the sea.

“Over there they were always firing, always chucking bombs across. Imagine trying to sleep with bombs going off all around you. It never stopped. Not for months.”

I tried to imagine it. Night time when you wanted to sleep and you’d have to work. The climb up from the beach had been hard enough. How would it be carrying a box of ammunition; heavy lead rifle bullets and their brass casings. Or containers of water to keep the men at the front line alive in the heat of summer.

“We’ll take a look there as well. I’ll show you the terrace housing they built.”

Terrace houses? Here? Narrow two-story houses like the older suburbs of Melbourne. Three rooms up, three down, skinny little porch facing onto the street and a tiny back yard. Quaint as. This I had to see.

Tommy smiled at my face, thinking of Richmond and Fitzroy living. “Nah, not like what you’re thinking of. Bloke called Malone built the terraces there, saved a lot of lives.”

I looked at the scrubby hills and valleys before me, clicked off a few shots. Nothing artistic or composed. Just a few landscape images to give a setting for the more detailed photographs I could make later.

Tommy turned around. “See that bit of a dip?”

I looked. Covered in straggly bushes now, there was a cut-out in the ground, maybe the size of a small house.

“There used to be a big steel water tank there. Huge thing, but the sides wouldn’t stop a rifle bullet, so they dug a shelter for it.”

It was a big hole. A thought struck me.

“How did they get it up here? In bits?”

“Nope. They cleared a road up from the beach, got the hundred biggest blokes on Anzac — Maoris from New Zealand — hauling on ropes and brought it up on rollers.”

I took a picture. Another thought occurred to me. “So where is it now? Rusted away?”

Tommy smiled. “Still around. We’ll see it later.”

He turned around. “This here wasn’t the front line for long. The Turks had a few soldiers here but they ran once they saw what was what. Our boys were running right after them. They had a choice here. They could slide down into the valley, or they could run across that.”

Our plateau ended in a narrow ridge running northeast. It was only a few centimetres wide on top and steep slopes dropped down either side. Worse, there was a steep gravel slide just to get down to it.

“Razor Edge,” Tommy said. “One slip and you are history. The other way is down into the gully and up again. The Turks have put paths and steps in, but it’s still a bit of a tangle down there. Or we could go down to your car and drive on the roads. Your choice.”

The ridge seemed awfully narrow. Like a tightrope.

“Relax,” Tommy said. “Done it heaps of times. The first diggers here ran across under fire, with rifles and full packs. We’ll take it slow and be careful. OK?”

I nodded and he was gone, sliding down the scree, one foot under his bum, the other stretched out ahead, skinny arms either side like wings for balance. He gave a whoop when he stopped, just short of a precipice that had no bottom at all from where I stood juggling my chances of awe-inspiring photographs against the likelihood of my mangled body being winched out by a glum and expensive chopper.

No time to think about it. Tommy stood waiting for me, arms outstretched. If I didn’t stop in time, we’d both go over the side together and he might cushion my fall.

I hitched up my pack, made sure I had my tripod and scooted down, doing my best to take it slow. I went down in a series of jerks but at least I made it down in one piece.

Tommy took hold of my free arm, anchoring me.

“Best to go with the flow,” he said, “put the brakes on right at the end. More fun that way.”

Right. I gave out a weak yell of my own. He grinned at me. “That‘s the spirit, girl. You’ll bloody fly down next time.”

I was wondering about the ‘take it slow and be careful’ advice of a moment ago. Judging by his behaviour, Tommy would scamper lightly across that narrow ridge and beckon me from the other side.

Honestly, I was having second thoughts. The ‘Razor Edge’ label was a good one. The top of the ridge — a few hundred metres long, broken only by a couple of wiggles and bumps — was about as wide as my foot. On the left, towards the sparkling Aegean, it was pretty much a cliff plunging a hundred metres straight down. On the inland side, the slope was less of a precipice but it was still something intended for mountain goats rather than tourists.

I pictured myself walking confidently along that narrow path, nothing but air and gravity on either side, arms out like a tightrope walker sweating on a sudden gust. No way.

I could make it on hands and knees. Tommy might laugh at me but four limbs in contact with the earth was far better than two in my book.

He was looking at me. No twinkle in his eye now. “Here’s how we do it. Watch.”

He moved carefully down the right side a little and then set his feet into the earth of the slope, where there was a narrow little path I hadn’t noticed. His left hand clutched at the crest beside him. He took a few paces, then looked back over his shoulder at me.

“Test every step before you put your weight on it,” he called. “Stamp down on anything that looks loose.”

I moved towards him but he raised his hand. “Stay there; I’m coming back.”

He turned on that fierce slope, turning inward and grasping the ridge top with both hands, and made his way back.

“That thing,” he pointed at my tripod. “Is there any way you can stick it in your pack?”

A thousand dollars worth of carbon fibre, it collapsed down like an umbrella. Too long for my daypack and while there were straps on my pack, they were fiddly and fragile. I preferred to keep it in my hands. Now I could see that having both hands free could be useful.

“Right-oh,” Tommy said as I slung the pack over my shoulders, my tripod wobbling precariously, secured by a narrow band of nylon and a plastic clip. “Off you go. I’ll hang on behind in case you slip.”

He tugged on my shoulder strap. “Go sideways like a crab if you want. There are some tricky bits. Don’t worry; it gets better in a bit.”

It wasn’t as bad as I had imagined. The path wasn’t wide but it was firm, though here and there soil and pebbles had to be brushed off with my foot. The stones bounced down the slope, rattling for several seconds. I hung onto the rocks on my left and Tommy behind me kept a firm grip on my pack.

“See? No worries. Piece of piss.”

Except it wasn’t. I reached for a handhold and what I’d taken for a rock crumbled in my fingers and I lurched sideways. My free foot skidded on loose pebbles and vertigo twirled my brain as I began to fall unstoppably.

Instantly Tommy’s arm was around my chest, pulling me back against the slope.

“Whoa! Take it easy there, Tiger!”

Tigress, I thought inanely, considering where his hand was planted.

My heart was pounding, banging like a drum in my chest, both my hands had fistfuls of Turkey, and I was within a whisker of disgracing myself down below.

I reached inside, turned off the panic button, and selected the calming channel in my mind. Focus. Be aware. Taste the present, register the sense perceptions.

It was a lovely sunny day, there was the solid earth in front of my nose, feel the touch of my hands and feet, the brush of air in my hair, the sensations of clothes against my skin…

I was good.

“I’m okay now,” I told Tommy. “You can let go.”

Please.

Oh no. The gentle touch of the wind in my hair. Where was my hat? Probably floating down, down, down that awful slope.

Tommy removed his hand — I’d have a bruise there later, for sure — and put my hat back on my head. Pressing it down over the hump of my ponytail.

“Ah, might be a few teethmarks in the brim. Sorry about that.”

I almost told him not to be an idiot. That hat had seen a lot of use over the years. It had sheltered me from sun in Persepolis, rain in Skara Brae, and been used to put out an ambitious campfire at Te Anau. A bitemark was nothing but more character and a great story.

My eyes were locked onto something in the earth, just in front of my nose. I let go of Turkey with one hand, plucked it out, and put it into my pocket for later. For now, I needed to get moving again.

One step at a time, we moved across Razor Edge. Tommy had lied to me. It didn’t get any better but I had the feel of the thing now. Another couple of hundred metres and the ridge widened out. I gratefully sank down onto some blessed flat ground, pulled out a camera, and took a shot of that impossible pathway.

“Don’t want to put your body over the skyline, you see.” Tommy said. “Turks up there would see a silhouette and knock you off like a tin duck at the fair.”

I remembered that thing in my pocket. I dug it out and showed it to him. “This what I think it is?”

“Yair. Turkish for sure. I’ll find you a bit of shrapnel later on and you can take the war home with you.”

A smooth piece of metal, as long as a joint in my finger, bent at the tip and ridged at the base. A century ago some Turkish sniper had sent it flying through the air at one of my countrymen. That crossing had been stress itself without somebody shooting at me. How would a soldier have felt, exposed on that slope with nothing to do but inch grimly forwards while bullets thumped into the dirt?

“This is Russells Top. There’s a path along the ridge takes us up to the Nek. All set?”

There was a bit of a scramble up the shoulder of the ridge. Tommy took my hand for some of the steeper bits and after a while I didn’t let go.

We followed a path along the heights. All around us were the old trenches in the scrub. Signs warned of snakes and gave a number to call if there was a fire. At one point was a little wooden outhouse.

“No water,” Tommy said. “Have to go higher.”

It was remarkably pleasant. A walk in the woods hiking trail rather than a battlefield. The signs were in English and Turkish and now there were a few tourists tramping along, following the signs. We smiled at one another, pilgrims far from home.

We turned aside at a cemetery. A place of incredible beauty, high up above the blue sea. The white headstones lined up on parade in the green lawn. I read the plaques. Aussies, Kiwis, British. A few Stars of David amongst the crosses. Some had a few words from home, a line or two composed by a grieving parent, carefully lettered onto a form, and sent off as a final message.

Beloved son, resting in peace, never forgotten, serving his country — the words were all much the same, a hundred grieving hearts trying to come up with 60 characters to mark eternity.

I stopped at one and I couldn’t help myself. This was too much. Private Robertson had been 16 years old when he died, a few weeks before Anzac was evacuated. A New Zealander on one side, a Lieutenant on the other, although his body resteth, his memory will never die.

Just a kid. He should have been back home, smearing plum jam on fresh bread, playing cricket, and doing his lessons. Instead he had been here, filling a duty nobody expected of him, humping rifle and pack up and down these scrubby hills, breaking his mother’s heart when the telegram came.

I leaned into Tommy’s shoulder and left tearstains on his shirt.

© 2021 Britni Pepper. All rights reserved.

First Chapter: Get Lost in Turkey Second Chapter: Get Naked in Turkey Third Chapter: Get High in Turkey Fifth Chapter: Get Shot in Turkey Sixth Chapter: Get Lucky in Turkey