Isabel George - Murphy the Hero Donkey - A true WW1 story

‘You know, mate, there’s only one way to go from here, don’t you?’ said Jack, straining his eyes to see the top of the sheet of rock above them. ‘We’re going to have to get up and over this lot if we want to see the day out alive.’

A crimson dusk spread over the battlefield of beach and cliffs. The shoreline washed back and forth with the bodies of young ANZACs. The tide had returned some of them to the Aegean Sea and others still floated close to the place where the Turks’ machine guns had cut into them before they’d even reached land. The water was red with blood.

Among the dead lay the dying, some calling out for their mothers. ‘My God,’ Jack sighed, ‘where the hell have we come to? Just hours ago we were in Cairo filling our boots with booze and looking forward to going home heroes. Now all I can see is my mates’ mangled bodies stretched out like a bleeding carpet.’ As the guns finally spluttered to an exhausted silence, Jack and Henderson stumbled towards an outstretched hand on the ground. Jack leant down and reached out. ‘It’s OK, mate,’ he said. ‘We’re here now. Going to get you on a stretcher and off to the dressing station. Hold tight, it’s going to be a bumpy ride over these rocks.’ Jack whistled a jolly song as he patted the man on the shoulder, and then he and Henderson loaded their casualty onto the stretcher.

As they lifted the man thigh-high, a bullet whizzed past Jack’s head. ‘Bloody hell, that was close! Someone doesn’t want you to get to the dressing station, mate. Let’s see if we can get you there before Johnny Turk has another go. One, two, three … lift!’ The stretcher creaked as the weight was lifted, and Jack shifted his feet to get a grip on the sand and shale beneath his solid army boots. A safe pathway between the lumps of rock seemed impossible as both men slipped and slid their way down the hillside, still keeping a firm grip on the stretcher’s smooth wooden handles. The first step onto the sand of the cove was a huge relief, and for the first time since picking their man off the rocks they had a chance to make sure he was still with them.

‘He doesn’t look too good, Jack. I’m not sure he’s going to make it. What do you think?’ said Henderson. Jack took a quick look at the man and then at the small section of the beach where the Red Cross dressing station had been erected. ‘We got him this far so he’s going to make it. Come on, let’s just run for it!’

Running in sand was easier than battling with the shifting shale, and the cover dusk provided inspired the courage needed for the last few yards. Searching for breath, Jack announced his casualty to the nurse standing guard over the stream of arrivals, and within minutes the man had joined the long line of others waiting for medical attention. Moans of fear and pain broke into the strange silence, and every now and then some asked nurses for water and to check limbs that were no longer there. Others lay quietly, the brown luggage labels pinned to their uniforms fluttering in the evening breeze. Standing outside the overcrowded tent and looking back to the rocks, Jack knew that he would have his work cut out and there would be no rest for any of the stretcher-bearers, especially while the guns were silent. Finding the living was a race against time and bullets.

Jack Simpson and Henderson tipped an empty stretcher on its side, picked it up and ran towards the cliffs.

Hundreds of crates and boxes still lay scattered on the beach, and the mules and donkeys shipped over to carry them had strayed along the cove. Wandering unnoticed in the chaos, Murphy had managed to survive and was quickly put into harness to carry the huge kerosene cans filled with water. All around him the other donkeys snorted and wrestled with the heavy burden strapped to their sides. Staggering under the weight, the donkeys picked their way over the sand, making their own virgin pathways between the stacks of supplies and then up onto the rocks. The drivers let the donkeys choose their own way; after all, they could judge the terrain better than any man.

Murphy swayed as he picked along the tracks, one trip after another onto the crags where the men were ‘digging in’, creating ‘bivvies’ – a small cave sliced out of the hillside that provided just enough cover from the snipers’ bullets and the bursts of shrapnel. A salvaged oil sheet pinned in place with bayonets was enough to keep off the heavy night-time dew and the harsh sunlight in the day. Sandbags and coats made good makeshift furniture and ‘carpeting’, but any hint of comfort was spoilt by the arrival of the usual uninvited houseguests – lice and flies. Supplies of food, water and ammunition needed to be brought up from the beach as quickly as possible.

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