Gallipoli: A Narrative Analysis

I, George Delpratt, have grown up in a time where honour is everything; an era where people believe the sole way to demonstrate true patriotism is to pay the ultimate sacrifice for one’s country. That’s why half the men are here, at Gallipoli. Heroes, they feel the need to be memorialised as heroes. But there’s also those, like me, who are here to defend those they hold in their heart; the ones they carry with them day by day. Every day I imagine them, reminisce while we march like cattle through an ocean of sludge constantly stepping over the soulless reminders of our potential fate. Like now, for example; I dream of my family, as I trudge after my only mate, Alan Thompson, through the trenches which the war has destroyed and abandoned, where
the ruthless heat intensifies the putrid odour of decaying flesh and demands me to swallow my breakfast for a second time that day. We wouldn’t have been forced down this gruesome track riddled with disease just to tell our men to retreat if this squadron hadn’t decided to pay the enemy a visit. The steady crunching of bones under my feet and the distant gunfire don’t even allow me to be alone with my thoughts, but in war, you don’t particularly want to be.
“Hey! George, let’s stop here and have a quick smoko,” wheeze’s Alan while he gasps in air as though it’s his first time breathing in years. We stop in an obliterated memory, an abandoned, dissipated machine gun pit with the gunner still attached. It watches our back for us, just in case the Turks decide it’s a desirable time to disrupt the peace.
“Bloody hell it’s hot!” curses Alan as he takes a decent swig of what he calls water, more commonly known as booze. I know what he means though. The middle of summer up here in Turkey is a scorcher, almost as though we’re carrying the sun on our back. Water, I need water. It’s bittersweet. The water quenches my thirst and I long to devour the whole bottle but I need to ration it for my survival
“How much further do you reckon until we reach the troops?” I query Alan.
“I don’t know, but when we get there I’m gunna’ slap the lot of them for making us walk all this way just to deliver a bloody message,” exclaims Alan in response. Laughter erupts from within me. I constantly ponder how the two of us became mates. Alan’s a reckless larrikin from out west that truly embodies the Australian way of life. He could cause your blood to run cold, but also struggles to string a single sentence together that wouldn’t corrupt a young juvenile. When people observe the two of us together, their mind goes into overdrive. Similar to seeing a crocodile and a koala being friends. The piddling, reserved comrade that’s just along for the ride, that’s all I am. Our friendship hasn’t suffered though. He listens when I talk about my family; he understands.
“You want some grog mate?” sputters Alan, almost forcing the liquid down my throat himself.
I grin creeps onto my face as I say, “Nah, you know I don’t dri – “
Suddenly the air explodes around us as a sea of bullets lands only meters away, causing dirt and debris to soar, as the vociferous racket disturbs the stillness of these desolated trenches.
“Machine gun!!” Alan roars.
The muddy base of the furrow embraces my face as Alan propels me out of harm’s way. How did the pit fail to shield us? The Turks can barely notice us from their trenches. I seize a glimpse of the home of the enemy and find no sign of life. If it’s not Turks then there’s only one other side in this war, our own. We can’t stay here. These pits aren’t constructed for a strike by your own side. People should at least be intelligent enough to recognise their own men. I search the destroyed land for a saviour, a place of sanctuary. I can’t die now, I can’t desert my family, not like this. And that’s when my prayers are answered; safety appears, a trench that will protect us from the imminent wall of
death.
Alan locates it too. Our eyes find each other’s as we communicate without speaking a word so as not to antagonise the machine gun. Our bodies move on their own accord and before I know it, we’re dashing towards our only chance of survival. My family is waiting for me in the trench; that is what I envision, and it’s this hope alone that urges me to go on. The machine gun doesn’t stop. It tries it’s hardest to draw blood. Sadly, when we’re half way to the trench, it does.
I could hear the bullet rip through his flesh as Alan becomes prey to the gun. His scream tears through me like a great shard of glass, causing me to stop in my tracks and once again collapse into the repulsive mire only to claw my way towards him as he lies at the base of the trench, moaning in agony as blood oozes out of the gaping hole in his stomach.
“Go! You need to reach the trench! Do it for your family. Do it for me,” Alan gasps out as the pain takes a hold of him. I can’t just leave him. That would be betraying my country. But as I look at him, his eyes wide in horror against his gaunt and almost immobile face, I know he’s already gone, no one could come back from this. It’s with a heavy heart that I leave him there screaming as I run to safety.
“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, tell them that’s why I died,” chokes Alan as he loses his battle, the amusement he always had leaving his eyes.
The worst part is that life goes on. The machine gun doesn’t stop, still searching for its second victim. He’s become one of the men I’ve been walking over, a reminder of the worst part of war. That saying, it’s from our training. Latin, but that’s all I can recall. As I search to find the answer the gunfire dies out.
I can’t help but stare at Alan’s lifeless shell. Alan, the only one there for me, the only one that listened to me as I talked about my family. How am I meant to continue through the rest of this war without him?
“Burada!” a voice booms. Turks, and by the sounds of it the whole army. I can’t escape them and even if I do the machine gun will hunt me down like it did Alan. There’s no avoiding this, it’s the end for me. And that’s when it hits me, it is sweet and honourable to die for the fatherland. Those were his last words. Every fallen soldier, including Alan, has paid the ultimate sacrifice for our country and they are the real hero’s from this war. If I were to die, then it would represent something to my family and my country. Let the Turks come. Dead or alive, I’ve played my part in this war and the legacy I’ve created will not be forgotten. The first enemy turns the corner and I know I’m ready, ready for whatever comes
next.