Virtual
War Memorial
Australia

PRIVATE F. NEWLING.
Private Fred Newling (wounded) is 23 years of age and a native of Werris Creek, but had resided at Singleton for over 20 years. He was employed is a porter on the railway prior to enlisting. His parents reside in Singleton.

THE FIRING LINE
LETTER FROM PRIVATE
F. NEWLING.
Private Fred. Newling, son of Mr and Mrs F. Newling, of Singleton, writing from Valletta Hospital, Malta, describes how he was wounded at the Dardanelles. He says:—"We had been having a pretty heavy day of it in one way and another last Tuesday, May 18th, with the Turks, and they were treating us to a fair quantity of shells. Well, just about 5 p.m. the tea came into the trenches. I thought the Turks did not have the range, as most of the shells were exploding high over our heads, and consequently I started tea. Shortly afterwards they passed an 18 pounder shrapnel over. Someone said 'Duck!' I did, and ducked right into the blamed thing. It hit within six inches of my head and exploded. It brought all the side of the trench down on top of me, and I was buried under sandbags, rocks, rifles, cases of ammunition, and earth. I don't quite remember how things went for some time. When I came to, Dr. Beeston, from Newcastle, was doctoring my eyes. They took me aboard the hospital ship Soudan, and I was there for two days, when we sailed for Malta. I got my left eye open on Sunday, and it will not be long now before I can see. All my nerves are gone, and my memory slips a cog occasionally. My body is all aches and pains and bruises, but they don't count; while my back is like a bit of fencing wire—all kinks and knots. The nurses—or sisters as they are called here —are very kind, likewise the town people. When we came ashore we were on the docks for a couple of hours. The children, brought chairs, etc., for us to sit on. Then they started to load us up with chocolates, biscuits, cake, matches, and cigarettes. They think an Australian lives on cigarettes. I had two tins of tobacco, six packets of fags, and matches when I got to the hospital." Describing the departure from Egypt and landing at Gallipoli, Private New ling says:—"l have been keeping a diary, but there were times when a chap had to inscribe his name with a bayonet, and bullet for days and nights, so I have missed a few things.....
On the 25th April we hove to off Gallipoli Peninsula, and got our first idea of the real thing. The warships opened up just at daybreak. Gee! What a row. The first thing you hear is a terrible explosion. Then the shell screams over your head, and you see it explode over on the forts. Then the report comes drifting back over the water. Well, picture over a dozen of these great ships firing each about 12 guns incessantly for over an hour, and you can make some hazy idea of our first feelings. We were all up on deck watching the spectacle when two destroyers came alongside to take us off. Everything was done without any excitement. Nobody seemed to have the slightest fear, and we were off to the shore like a barrack square parade. We got along on the destroyer all right until about a quarter of a mile off the shore, and transhipped to lifeboats. Then the music began, and the soldiers danced to the tune of the Turkish national anthem played on shrapnel shells. The part that hurt most was the Turks firing at us and we could not have a crack back. But our time was to come. When the boat I was in got within 50 yards of the shore we all hopped over the side, up to our shoulders in water. We were fixing our bayonets as we scrambled out to dry land. Then I think we went mad for a while. I remomber jambing a clip of five cartridges in my magazine and wondering if they would go off on account of being wet. Then someone near me roared out 'Duck!' You could hear an 18-pounder screaming over the hill. I ducked, and almost instantly I thought my head was off, but it was only concussion. She had exploded just a little too high, and the bullets had gone over my head. (The shrapnel shell is filled with between 300 and 350 leaden pellets or bullets about the size of marbles). Next thing, I was down full length behind a rock, pumping lead into a big Turk who was trying to get a machine gun into action on the top of the cliff. I managed him, and only waited to fill my  magazine and off like up the cliff. We got together a bit up there, but the Turks were just ahead, pumping lead into us by the ton. They were mad because we had land ed, as they thought it  impossible. Fix bayonets and charge was the next or der. There was one almighty roar, and we were after the Turks. No thing could have withstood that charge. Men went down by the hundred, but others filled their places. This went on from early morning until about 5.30 p.m., and the constant strain was beginning to tell. During a bit of a lull in the firing I looked round. One poor chap had a leg blown clean off, and was doctoring some other fellow. He spot ed me watching him, and the first thing I heard was, 'Give us a fag, cobbo.' I shot him my packet, and he lit one for the other chap and himself. Then he turned round to his companion and said, 'How's your water bottle, matey?' His own had been blown away with his leg. After a bit of a swig he handed the bottle back and said, ' Come on, Joe, we will get to the beach; no good up here.' The other chap had his arm smashed with a dum dum. I looked round after a bit and saw one leaning on the other, hopping away happy as 'Larry.' This is only one case of how our chaps acted under fire. That is the sort of spirit that constitutes the Australian army. If the Turks think they can fight against the grit and pluck shown by our boys they make a great mistake Then came the dark. The Turks in front of where I was were only about 80 yards away in the scrub. About 1 in the morning there came a yell from them, and they seemed to be coming up in thousands. 'Fix bayonets!' came along the line. 'Pump the lead into them, boys,' our officer shouted, and didn't we just. It was hell upon earth. Bang just in front of me. My rifle goes back over my shoulder. When I looked at it again nine inches of the top was blown right off. I crawled back to where one of our chaps was dead, grabbed his rifle, and crawl ed back to the firing line. When I got there the Turks were nearly on us. I tried to open the bolt to charge her up, and found it was useless. Any how, I had the bayonet. The order came, 'Charge!' We were at them. They wavered for a few seconds, then turned in panic and fled. We did not charge after them too far, as we were tired and worn out; but we had found out that they can't stand the cold steel. Daylight came, and what a sight! Dead and wounded everywhere. At 8 a.m. on Monday morning we had a few biscuits, the first food since Saturday night. We started to dig trenches, and by Monday night were fairly safe. Hard fighting went on incessantly till Friday morning. Some times we thought the enemy were going to overwhelm us with numbers, but we still peppered them. Our rifles became that hot you could not touch the ironwork, and the woodwork was smoking. Things steadied down after Friday, and we started to dig the trenches till they are just like homes now.''
The Secretary of State cables that in his opinion Australia can help bost by producing 18-pounder shell bodies. He does not advise the manufacture of a larger calibre shell in Australia, except under certain conditions.

EX-PRIVATE NEWLING.
Mr Fred Newling, for some twelve months on the Scone staff of Messrs H. Rowland and Co., has (says the "Scone Advocate'') taken his departure for Murrurundi, there to manage the new branch of the firm. A conversable young man (and, by the way, a returned soldier who after seeing active service was under treatment in hospital for 15 months recovering from what he struck —or what struck him—on the other side) Mr Newling made many friends in Scone. His business acumen, together with a wide country experience, should adapt him for the post in the agency line which he has just gone to fill. Mr Newling is a cueist of no mean order, his best "break on the School of Arts table here being 93, which, if we mistake not, is a record compilation. Mr Newling is the son of Mr and Mrs F. Newling, of York-street, Singleton.