Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales

Autograph letter signed by Harley Matthews, written from Gallipoli Peninsula, to Bertram Stevens, relating to conditions at the front, 10 July 1915
DLDOC 135

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Gallipoli Peninsula, 10/7/1915
Dear Mr Stephens,
I know that the sight of indelible pencil makes you in your official capacity very annoyed still this is written to the man. And anyhow I have nothing else to write with.
There is not much I am afraid I can tell you about our position here, even were the censorships entirely well drawn. It is really surprising how little we know of what happens anywhere else except before our own eyes. Of course when we go down the valley for water there is always someone with a startling rumour. I would not be at all surprised if the rumours that must be now floating around Sydney about the duration of the war & what some high authority predicted concerning it, about a battle in the North Sea, & other things, originated from that water cask.

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The bank where we sit might well be on of Sydney’s lounge bars, except that the liquid dispensed is weaker & no bar-maid uses such language as the guard does. But the stories that buzz around it are just as startling just as interesting, & just as unreliable. Did you know that the Kaiser is carrying on with a woman? And the Crown Prince gets drunk too.
Water can breed arguments as well. There are always about 20 fellows arguing whether it was a German or British aeroplane that flew over this morning. Half saw red rings on the wings & the other half saw just as distinctly the German black crosses. And there is always a group of aerial experts arguing whether it was an aeroplane or a seaplane, a monoplane or a biplane.
The size of the shells that were flying about

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during the day always raises the hottest discussion. You can argue on whether it was a gun or a howitzer that threw them, whether they were [Lime] or percussion shrapnel or plain or high explosive shells when you have given up trying to convince the other fellow about the size. And when he has discomfited you by the information that he knows that they were a new kind of shell only just reached Turkey yesterday you still have the range & the whereabouts to convince him on.
So you see that though we have no scrimmage lately the Turks still do their beat to make life interesting for us. We often have the chance of a swim. The Mediterranean seems to be free from sharks but you never know when a shell is coming over. During our first days a shell was a thrilling performance. The Turks used

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to keep a look out for swimming parties & get their artillery & snipers to let go at the beach. I wonder what remedy Pro bono Publico would advocate in his aggrieved letter to the press if the surf bathers at Bondi or Manly had to shoot the breakers through a hail of shrapnel.
I don’t suppose that you have heard much about the Australians since the 19th May. And anyway you can be fairly certain that when the cables have nothing to report there is nothing doing. From what I can see that cable is just a ready to talk as the fellows round the water or other cask. And it magnifies some things & makes others very small just as much as a Hawkesbury fisherman can when he compares his own catch with the other fellow’s.

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The Turk as a soldier is not such a slouch as you might think after the Suez Canal foolishness. The troops sent here for their last big attack were a fine, well equipped lot & though badly led showed some courage. But they had no chance & hardly keep us awake of nights now.
They certainly have a country worth fighting for. It is the best place we have seen since we left Australia. Its scrub clad hills & beaches & its clean blue sea are not so very unlike Australia’s either. Its summer day & night – is glorious. I hope however that the campaign is over before the Winter as I suspect those valley roads of ours will be very mud like small rivers. But I think we can look forward to having to fight it out. I have long ago lost faith in the

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stories about shortage of munitions & food & coffee etc ending the war. Money might, but I think the bayonet will, all the same.
Would you mind looking at the enclosed. It might be good enough for the Lone Hand, & if you don’t object, the censor shouldn’t.
Hoping a lot of things, one of which is that you are still able to hold a glass to the light.
I am sincerely yours
Harley Matthews,

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The Quest of Love
My sleeping comrades never stirred,
For there had been no call to arms.
Still round the heights the battle rang
Yet not that woke me, but a bird
That somewhere sang.

To hear him sing made me forget
Why I lay here and all such things.
Straightway I felt the wind that blew.
I saw the scattered clouds that let
The stars shine through.

A flame felled all the sky! & then,
As swift, died out. But I had seen
The low black bushes on the hill.
The men that stirred in pain, the men
That lay so still.

At last the gun crashed. Then for long
The night was vivid with the light,
And shaken with the roar of guns.
And yet I heard a bird’s clear song
Ring through it once

I saw he moving on the slope.
At each form fearfully she knelt
And looked intently on the face.
Then on she went again, and hope
Made swift her pace.

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I saw her eyes as she came near.
Great Love, in that strange quivering light,
Burned through them with a steady flame
Her voice was low, yet I could hear
Her call his name.

She from her fears got no relief
And yet her face was dry of tears.
But when she kneeled beside the dead
For pity of some other’s grief
She bowed her head.

She paused and eyed each sleeping one,
Her lips were murmuring a prayer,
Weaved round that name more audible.
Were he her lover or her son
I could not tell.

And with that glance she passed us by.
I turned, and watched her climb the hill
In one white burst of flame she shone.
Sharp out she stood against the sky,
And she was gone

The dark was drizzling when we woke,
And stood to arms. "Was it a dream?"
And still that question rang and rang.
Near bye a bird, as daylight broke,
For answer sang.

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Summer Song
Down by the river,
Ere morning had grown into noon,
A thrush with his singing began,
And as sudden was silent. Again
His note came trilling, and soon
With a song that rippled and ran
To a constant happy refrain
The trees were aquiver.
While the dew-light around us still glistened
A thrush with his singing began.
And we stood, and listened and listened.
For hearing this joyous new-comer,
We knew you were too, O Summer,
Down by the river.

O, our hearts rang for you,
All through the morning of haze,
The tremulous song of the thrush,
Till you rose in a glory of light.
Then, season of radiant days,
There came a wonder and hush
That spread over hollow and height.
And no song rang for you.
Ah, though our lips may not follow
The tremulous song of the thrush,
Yet, when over the hillside and hollow
You break through the morning of haze,
That parts from your splendor asunder,
We too, may be mute in our wonder,
With him that sang for you.
Harley Matthews
Fairfield
N.S.W.

[Transcribed by John Kerr for the State Library of New South Wales]