The Burial Party

By Mike Kanner

"What should we do with the body?" Private Jones was standing over the fly-covered body. It was one of the many which had been lying unburied for the last three weeks. Artillery and sniper fire had made retrieval of remains by either side impossible. Eventually, the smell of decaying flesh became unbearable, and both sides agreed to a ceasefire so that burial parties could collect the decomposing corpses.

Hopkins, Jones's sergeant, finished drinking from his canteen and replaced the scent-soaked bandana which made working among the corpses tolerable. "Theirs or ours?"

Jones studied the remains. "Judging by the kit, I'd say theirs."

Hopkins called over to his counterpart. "CAVUS BARZANI!"

On the Turkish side of the ceasefire line, a soldier turned, pulled his wool kabalak down on his head and walked over to where Hopkins and Jones stood. "Yes, Sergeant Hopkins?"

Hopkins pointed at the body. "This looks to be one of yours."

Barzani squatted down next to it. "He is. See the epaulets. He was sergeant like me." He stood back up and yelled orders in Turkish. Two soldiers came over with a litter. They carefully rolled the body onto the litter and carried it over to the mass grave that had been dug on their side.

After watching his men return to their lines, Barzani offered Hopkins a cigarette.

"Ta." Hopkins took one, lit his and Barzani's with his lighter and took a drag. Then, after blowing out some smoke, he spoke. "This is a bloody business."

"It is, but it is a sacred one."

"Don't know about sacred," Hopkins took a puff on his cigarette, "since we're just dumping the bodies into pits. But I guess it is better than be left out to rot or eaten by rats."

The two men stood there surveying the landscape which had been cratered by artillery and crosscut by trenches. The work parties had been clearing corpses since early that morning. Although the rains earlier that day had cooled things, it made their work twice as hard. Bodies had to be pulled from the mud that encased them and untangled from the barbed wire and other bodies.

Hopkins looked to his counterpart. "I suppose it's about noon. Do you agree to a break for lunch?" Any changes to conditions had to be agreed to by both sides.

"Yes. The dead will still be here."

“OI! YOU AUSSIES LISTEN UP!” Hopkins announced. "WE WILL BE BREAKING FOR LUNCH. YOU KNOW THE RULES. NO PEEKING AT THE TURKS' LINES! SO, GRAB YOUR PACKS AND BREAK OUT YOUR TINS."

Barzani shouted a repeat of Hopkins's announcement in Turkish.

The work parties broke for lunch where they were. The two sergeants finished their cigarettes.

"I've some extra rations if you'd like to share," Hopkins asked Barzani.

"Is it your bully beef?"

Hopkins nodded. "'fraid so."

"I will pass. Perhaps you would let me share my meal. Our cook has had luck recently. A local does not know it, but he has contributed to the war effort." Barzani smiled at his joke.

Hopkins thought about it. A fresh meal would be a relief from the canned meat and hardtack that had been the Australians’ diet since landing at Ari Burnu a month ago.

"That is very generous. Your trench?" He suggested.

Barzani wagged his finger. "A good try, but you know the conditions of the ceasefire: No examining positions. I will have one of my soldiers bring us some meals." Barzani shouted at one of the nearby Turkish soldiers to bring two meals.

The two sergeants searched for a place that would get them away from the stench coming from the piles of bodies that were still uncollected. Finally, they found a good location near a scrub pine at the head of a gully where wild thyme and myrtle would give some relief from the vomit-inducing odors. While they waited for their meal, Hopkins pulled a small trench stove from his pack and started making tea. By the time it was brewed, their meals had arrived. Barzani took the bowls from his soldier and dismissed him.

Passing one of the bowls to Hopkins, he said, "To your health" and began to eat. Hopkins followed.

"Say this is pretty good. What is it?"

"Kuzu Sote. Lamb stew."

Hopkins chuckled. "Bloody hell! All this way for lamb stew."

Barzani paused eating. "I don't understand."

"My folks ran a sheep station in New South Wales. We ate sheep stew morning and night." Pointing his fork at his bowl. "But Mum never cooked it like this."

Barzani nodded. "I will pass on compliments to our cook."

"You know, your English is pretty good. Where did you learn it? University?"

Barzani laughed. "No. My family grow fruit for trade. We have large orchards and deal with people from many countries. English is the common language. I also speak a little French."

Hopkins looked at the surrounding terrain. It was all rocky slopes and steep ravines. "I thought all Turkey was as barren as this place. Where do you grow fruit?"

Barzani pointed over his shoulder with his fork. "In Bursa. I left my wife and daughters in charge of tending the orchards while I am gone." He turned back to his bowl and ate a forkful before declaring. "I have traveled the grand distance of one hundred miles to have this meal." He pointed at Hopkins. "While you have traveled from the other side of the world."

Hopkins finished his stew. "It’d be nice to have some bread to soak this gravy up."

"Ah, I forgot. Here is some pita." Barzani opened up a bundle he'd been given along with the bowls and handed over some flatbread. Hopkins looked at it. "See, you rip it," Barzani demonstrated, "and then you wipe the bowl."

Hopkins mimicked Barzani and ate the soaked flatbread. "That's right marvelous.”

When they were done, Barzani called for one of his men to take the bowls back.

"We got extra rum rations for this," Hopkins said. "Too bad your religion won't let you have any."

"I'm not that good a Muslim," Barzani announced.

Hopkins reached into his pack and pulled out a small flask. "I guess out here, we've all done far worse than have a bit of a tipple." He poured some into a small cup and handed it to Barzani.

He raised the flask. "Cheers."

"Serefe. Luck."

After they drank, Hopkins refilled Barzani's cup. "They told us that you were all Muslim fanatics who were fighting a religious war." Hopkins leaned back against the scrub pine.

Barzani stretched his legs and reclined on his left elbow. "And they told us you were Greeks once again wishing to steal our country."

The two men laughed.

"Well, that is something we have in common," Hopkins said.

"Our leaders lie to us." Barzani finished his drink and handed the cup back to Hopkins.

Hopkins opened his tunic, took out his cigarettes and offered one to Barzani, who leaned forward for Hopkins to light it. The two sat there enjoying a slight breeze that freshened the air with the aroma of the wild herbs.

"The first name's Bob, by the way."

Barzani blew out some smoke. "Arman."

Hopkins put out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Arman." Barzani took the outstretched hand and shook it. "So, why did you join?"

Barzani plucked a few thyme leaves, crushed them and took a sniff. "The government come to my village and tell all of us we are now in the Army. Because I can read and write, they make me a sergeant. And you, Bob?"

"King and country!" He said sarcastically. "No, I was working the Cadia Mines and heard they were asking for volunteers. I figured it was better than mining. We were told it would all be over quick. It would be a bit of an overseas adventure. Some adventure!"

They sat there smoking their cigarettes.

Hopkins spoke up. "This is nice. You and me, sharing a meal, a bit of rum and a smoke."

Barzani stubbed out his cigarette. "It is." Pointing over to No Man's Land, "That over there is what comes from men that cannot sit and enjoy life."

"That is politics," Hopkins remarked. "God pity us soldiers. All of them died because some wanker in London decided it would be a good idea to take this spit of land."

A voice called from a distance. "SERGEANT HOPKINS!"

Hopkins stood, crushed his cigarette underfoot, and started to button up his uniform. "Fuck all. That would be one of my officers."

"I guess this means our lunch is over." Barzani got up, brushed the dirt and grass from his uniform and put his kabalak back on. "When war is over, you come to my home. We will sit in the orchards, drink raki and forget all of this."

Hopkins reached into his top right pocket and took out his paybook. "Here." He handed it and a pencil to Barzani. "You write down how to find you, and if I survive, I'll look you up." Barzani handed Hopkins his prayer book. "You write how I get hold of you." Once they were done, they returned each other's books and shook hands.

"You know in Turkey, we say that old friends cannot become enemies."

"Wish it were true, mate."

The two walked back to their respective sides.

Hopkins approached the officer, gave an off-handed salute and stood at ease.

"Sergeant Hopkins, where have you been?" The clean uniform of the red-tabbed staff officer showed that he had just come ashore from the barges that served as staff headquarters.

"Having lunch, Sir."

"Well, you and your men get back to it. We only have until half past four this afternoon, you know."

"Yes, Sir." Hopkins began to leave when the officer stopped him.

"And stop the men from fraternizing.” The officer demanded. “I caught several trading regimental badges for parts of Turkish uniforms."

"They're just looking for souvenirs. You know, something to show the girls back home when they're trying to get a leg over." Given the casualties they had already suffered in the last few weeks, Hopkins wondered how many would get the chance.

"Well, they're supposed to be separating our brave men from the Turkish carcasses."

"Soldiers, Sir."

"What?"

"The Turks, Sir. They're soldiers, the same as us."

"You won't be saying that when they're screaming 'Allah' and tearing through our trenches. Now, I must get back for a staff meeting. You know what you're supposed to be doing."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you for stopping by. Always good to see one's officers." Hopkins gave a cursory salute as the officer left.

At four-thirty that afternoon, soldiers were sent back to their lines, the last few taking the white flags that had marked no man's land with them. Rifle fire followed almost immediately. Exchanging bullets replaced exchanging badges.

There were still moments of mercy. A few days later, Sergeant Hopkins stopped one soldier from shooting a Turkish soldier whose head showed above their trench.

"Stand fast, Harris." He pushed the rifle down, so the muzzle was aimed at the dirt.

"But sergeant, he's—"

"Headed to the dunny. He's got the trots, same as most of us. No man deserves being shot with his pants down."

* * *

It was only a few weeks until the Australians were given the order to take the Turkish trench.

"ALL RIGHT, MEN!" The Company Sergeant Major shouted. "THE DIVISION OBJECTIVE IS ACHI BABA. OUR OBJECTIVE IS TO MAKE IT TO THE NEXT TRENCH ALIVE. UNDERSTOOD?"

"YES, SERGEANT MAJOR!" A chorus of voices answered.

Sergeant Hopkins walked along, examining the men in his squad. When he was done, he took up his position and checked his own weapon. Two questions came to mind—what would he do if he faced Barzani? What would Barzani do? As he wondered, the artillery halted, and three whistle blasts were heard from somewhere down the line. Like the rest of his company, he climbed the assault ladders and started to run the twenty-five yards to the Turkish trenches. It was one-quarter of the length of a rugby pitch. The Turkish rifles were deadly, and over half the company didn't make it across the distance. Those that didn't join the corpses that hadn't been retrieved during the ceasefire.

Hopkins and a few of his men made it to the Turkish lines. They jumped down and shot any Turkish soldier in front of them. Two more of Hopkins soldiers were shot. He did not know if they were wounded or killed, nor did he have time to check. Advancing along the Turkish trench, he led the remaining men in assaulting the trench. Soldiers that showed themselves were shot or bayoneted. Mills bombs were thrown into any communicating trenches or dugouts.

Turning into a small firing bay, Hopkins felt a sharp pain in his right leg and collapsed. Looking down, he had been shot. The bone was shattered and visible through his pants leg.

"Hopkins!" The soldier that had shot him cried.

"Barzani!" Hopkins grabbed his leg to try and stop the bleeding. Barzani came over to apply first aid. "I am sorry, my friend."

"No time. My men are coming. GO!"

“But ...”

Hopkins was right. His men were right behind. Seeing the Turkish soldier standing over their sergeant, they started to shoot. Barzani retreated along the trench, but one bullet caught him in the hand, shattering the bones. At that moment, whistle blasts could be heard signaling the Australians’ retreat. Hopkins's men dragged him back and carried him to the regimental aid station.

"I'm afraid the war is over for you, sergeant." The medical officer pronounced. "We're going to have to take your leg." as he administered morphine.

"The soldier that shot me ..." Hopkins started to as the morphine took hold.

"Don't worry about him, Sarge. Trey got him in the hand. That is the last time that Achmed will shoot one of us.

"Arman, his name is Arman." Hopkins drifted off as the narcotic took effect.

* * *

ANZAC Beach, 1985

"I think it was here." Despite his cane and limp, the old man strode across the landscape. He was smartly dressed in a blazer with a row of military medals covering the breast pocket. Looking at the surrounding area and then down the gully, he declared, "Yes, it was definitely here."

"Why do you think he will even be here?" The young woman dressed in a headscarf finally caught up to him. "You don't even know if he is alive."

"I learned long ago; you have to have a little faith. I wrote him and told him I would be here."

"If you say so, Dadaji. But at least let me get you something to sit on."

"When he gets here, we'll take a seat over by that tree." He pointed at a pine at the head of the gully.

It was almost a half-hour before two Turkish men approached them. One was casually dressed, but the older one was in a suit. "Cigarette?" The older man asked the man that had been standing there.

"Ta." The man took the cigarette and then took out an old lighter and lit their cigarettes.

"You are well, Sergeant Hopkins?"

"As well as you can be at my age with one leg. And you, Cavus Barzani?”

"There are times I miss my hand," He raised his right arm to reveal a prosthetic, "but was blessed by prosperity and many children and grandchildren," Barzani called over to the man that had accompanied him. "Ibrahim, gel." The young man walked over. "Bob, this is my grandson, Ibrahim. He just graduated university and is to be a doctor."

Hopkins shook the young man's hand and motioned for the woman to come over. "And this is Amoli, my granddaughter. She is following in the family profession."

"Sheep farming?" Barzani asked.

"No!” Hopkins chuckled. “Engineer! I couldn't go back to the mine missing half a leg, so I went to Uni and came back as an engineer and finally manager. My son builds bridges and roads. He met Amoli's mother when he was working in India."

"You have done well."

"I have. And you?"

Barzani sighed. "It was not easy. I went back to my orchards and family, hoping to find some peace, but my countrymen thought otherwise. We fought many wars among ourselves."

"I read about your civil wars. I wrote to see how you were and heard nothing."

"It was not a good time. Our government did little for us. Many of my neighbors died or left for the city. Soon it was just me and my family in our section of province. By end of next war, I thought you would have forgotten our lunch."

"Never." Hopkins tapped his artificial leg.

Barzani nodded. "I also thought you might not forgive me for shooting you."

Hopkins gave him a quick hug around the shoulders. "It was just luck that it was you that shot me. Turned out to be a blessing. Got me off of here and back home." He looked back toward the War Memorial. "Most of the blokes I came here with weren't that lucky."

The two veterans stood there remembering when Barzani abruptly announced. "By the way, I owe you something."

"You owe me nothing, Arman."

"Ah yes, but I do," Barzani spoke in Turkish to his grandson, who reached into the backpack he was carrying. "We never shared raki." His grandson handed him a bottle. "I think you will like this. We make it in my orchards." He handed Hopkins a bottle labeled 'Arkadaşlık.' "It means friendship. We advertise that it is to be sipped in the company of good friends."

"Still not that good a Muslim." The two laughed.

"Let us sit again and talk of how good life can be."

The two old friends settled under the pine and passed the time sipping raki and talking of their lives.

About the Author

Mike Kanner writes historical fiction having written and been published in other genres. A student of World War I and a retired Army officer, he tries to bring realism to stories of the trenches. He is currently working on additional stories in this series and a novel based on the tunneling companies. He pays the bills as an instructor in International Relations and security studies. Mike lives in Longmont and can often be found riding on the backroads of Boulder County.

About the illustration

The illustration is a photograph of the East Mudros Military Cemetery on Mudros Island, Greece, 1915. In the collection of The Australian War Memorial, Campbell, Australia. In the public domain.