John Maclean: A desert survivor's memoirs

The 90th anniversary of the Gallipoli disaster falls six decades since a world war and just over 62 years after the 2nd New Zealand Division fought the Battle of Tebaga Gap in Tunisia. Anzac Day reminds us of all this.

Orders come in the early afternoon: attack at 4pm through the enemy defences, including two Panzer formations, in the Tebaga Hills. The rest of the division will have maximum support with 22 squadrons of aircraft plus 200 tanks and maximum artillery. Every plane, tank and gun will reinforce the infantry assault.

But your battalion will have none of that help. Its role is to engage the enemy flank, to prevent infiltration around the New Zealand thrust. You will have the benefit of the sun in your opponents' eyes plus the wicked dust of your following wind.

There will be no aircraft, guns, or tanks to back you up. Just foot-soldiers versus full-on fire power. A classic case of "one more try by the PBI" (poor bloody infantry).

It's typical infantry work: grabbing the bull by both horns, not long-range exchange of shells.

Night attacks you're used to: you get cover from the darkness. This daylight combat is quite another caper; you feel naked, naive, nervous, knackered.

Your platoon is down to just two sections forward, with platoon headquarters close behind. There is no reserve section because of earlier casualties.

At 1600 hours you fix bayonets and cross the start line. You set your rifle sights at 600 yards (549m). Soon you're treading delicately through 900m of mine-field. You're not enjoying it.

Ahead on the right is a small hill; presently the other section begins to climb over it. Your own section keeps moving through the terrifying mines towards the spur ahead. At its foot there is shelter from the hostile fire; they can't spot your little group down there.

You look to see if the others are coming over their hill on the right, but they don't appear; so, naive to the last, you attempt to cross its forward face to make contact.

You're giving the enemy a target. The plethora of bullets makes lashing noises as they pass; you run in zig-zag breaks until you realise it's futile. They're just not going to show. Perhaps they have reached a consensus that discretion is, indeed, the better part of valour.

You turn around and keep running; a bullet gets you in the left thigh. You're quite relieved to join your own lot out of hostile view.

Orders are for a bayonet charge up the slope. You've got Mills bombs in your webbing pouches, so you propose crawling up a little to chuck one over the top to facilitate the charge.

Your colleagues "don't mind if you do". You're anxious, exceedingly so. You clamber up, grasp a hand-grenade, pull out the pin while holding down the release lever. You yell "Waitemata", the designated warning to your own side that a Mills bomb is being thrown. (It was chosen not so much because of a harbour as for a brand of beer.)

You hurl it aloft, it explodes, you charge. At the crest a mortar shell blasts you to the ground, heavy fire is streaking around you. Your mates haven't quite made it, so you're on your own.

Beside you are two holes with a pair of men in each. The further pit shows no movement (because of your grenade?). The nearer couple are showing white rags. The murderous fire is coming from along the ridge.

As you shrink behind a skinny thistle your attention is engaged by three holes 11m in front. As you watch three heads come up in sync.

You're not overjoyed at seeing the whites of their eyes. The centre man flings a grenade at you, the others fire their rifles. They miss.

The grenade lands close. It must be a tinny Italian one because, despite the force of explosion, the shrapnel hurts less than you expected. You had fired at the bloke in the middle but you'd missed, too. Why on earth don't you hit at this distance?

You keep yelling uncouth verbs like "bayonet" at the white-flag duo to sustain their sudden pacifism. But you could do with their hole: your scraggy thistle is yielding small comfort.

The trio come up again: same routine, grenade and rifles. This blast dazes you and now you're bleeding over the left eye along with other head and body injuries. But the riflemen can't shoot for toffee and don't touch you.

You've missed yet again. How can that be? Your shattered confidence is being scattered like breadcrumbs, and you're lonely.

They show up a third time. Three more bullets fail to get their marks, but this grenade knocks off your steel helmet. As you shove it on again you think to check your sights; they're still at 600 yards. Not smart. You've been shooting over his head.

Your fourth bullet connects, but a final offering already airborne lands on your back; it's a dud and rolls off. It brings you back to your senses: why not up the ante with another of your own grenades? Not too close of course - Mills bombs are lethal within 18m.

So you lob it beyond their holes and hug the ground yourself. It explodes: you hear the metal cracking past. You look up: it's got the two of them.

You pray for all three and for yourself. Killing fellow humans gets you in the gut. It's not your vocation to be a slaughterman, though it's a relief to be a survivor thus far, and to prove even a bumbling victor in a minor scrap.

The fire has eased a little; you wriggle back to wave on the others. They look surprised, but they charge. You're glad to have company but it provokes revved-up bombardment.

You call out to Eric lying on one side of you; he doesn't answer back. You look; there's a hole through his head. "Hi Merv, they've got Eric," but Merv doesn't respond, either.

Next morning, further along the front, Lieutenant Moana Ngarimu, of Ngati Porou and Whanau-a-Apanui, already severely wounded, still firing his submachine gun from the hip, dies in action. His valour will be recognised with the posthumous award of the Victoria Cross.

They fought and died for the peace of the world. Eric, Merv, Moana and so many others by air, sea, and land.

Especially remember the shambles of Gallipoli, the political pretensions, the flaccid generalship, the total mismanagement of the British High Command. So many corpses, so little achieved; so much terror endured; gallant young men persistently ordered into hopeless death charges.

A total of 91.97 per cent of the New Zealand force at Gallipoli became casualties, dead and wounded, many with multiple wounds, plus extreme thirst, malaria, dysentery. Read the records. Remember unthinkable carnage signalled by the thousands of wooden crosses.

Anzac Day is to remind us to remember. They were killed in their youth. They knew the defeat of rabid evil was imperative. Their goal was justice and peace. Think of them all. Commune with your own heart.

* John Mclean is a retired priest, of Remuera. Before Tebaga Gap, where he served as a lance-corporal, he had been awarded the Military Medal for gallantry during the Battle of El Alamein.