All language subtitles for Deadline.Gallipoli.S01E02.1080p.WEB.x265-PGW2222

(MAORI LANGUAGE)

You seen Bean? Charles Bean?

Yeah, he's at the medical station.

Ohh!

Is... is that sea water?

We ran out of alcohol.

Another two inches it would
have hit the artery

and you would have bled out.

Urgent cable, sir.

Well, read it for me.

It's from General HQ.

'Due to imminent military action on
the Gallipoli coast,

the travel ban on
all war correspondents

is hereby lifted,
effective immediately.'

The attack is on.

This will finish it.

Left, left, left right, left!

Soldier!

Over here!

What are you doing?

Someone's made a mistake here.

They've only ordered
enough water for one new division.

That's not a mistake.

That's how much water
they ordered from Cairo.

That should be enough for
two divisions for a few days.

Thank you.
You've been very helpful.

Don't let me influence you,
but pick a card.

Put it right here.

Cheers.

OK.

Shit! Fuck!

Oh, shit, shit, shit!

Stop. Fuck, get a rag
or something, Jimmy.

Oh, no, he's going
to kill me for this.

Tada!

Get out of my way.
Captain Bean...

Where are you meant to be, boy?

Get out!

Stupid idiots. What are you doing?

I'll redraw it, sir...
No, you don't know the terrain.

I do, sir.

So,
you want to know what's going on?

Yes, sir.

The Kiwis, Indians and Australians
will attack here, up from the...

Bazley, are you listening to me?
Mmm.

Kiwis...
the Kiwis, Indians and Australians

will attack here, up in the hills.

And the French and the Brits
will come up from here,

from Suvla Bay, and swing around
there, to meet up with us.

Sounds pretty complicated.

Yes, it is,
but it's a very good plan,

and at last we have
the element of surprise.

And we'll smash the fuckin'
Turks to smithereens.

That's the general idea.

Oi!

This one's full.
Tell him to put 'em on that one.

Have you been here?

To Suvla Bay?
No.

I'm an accountant
from Constantinople.

It is a holiday resort.

Is it farmland?

Rock.

You messing this up on purpose?

I told you to tell 'em
to put 'em over there.

Tell 'em to stop!

I said, over there!

(LAUGHTER)

What'd you say to 'em?

Why are they laughing?

If I tell you, you will shoot me.

Get back to work, you slimy Gyp.

This battle you start now is big?

This is the end.

Allah visikurtarsin.

What does that mean?

May God save us.

(DOOR KNOCK)

Enter.

Good evening, sir.

Owing to tomorrow morning's
Suvla offensive,

breakfast will be served at 6:30
instead of the usual 8 o'clock.

Is Hamilton still awake?

I couldn't tell you, sir.

You'd have to enquire
with his batman.

(DOOR KNOCK)

Enter.

I wondered
if I might have a quick word.

Well, make it quick.

Whisky?
Thanks.

Water if you want it.

Thank you.

To tell you the truth,
I can't sleep myself.

I keep thinking about
Winston's speech at Dundee.

Oh, yes?

Mustafa would have got that
intelligence a month ago.

Winston basically told
the Turks a new offensive...

Yes, well Churchill
should kept his mouth shut.

But we have momentum
and it is unbreakable,

if we stand together.

Yes, well what I'm getting at

is that the Turks would have
heavily reinforced by now...

We have three divisions. Kitchener
has also given us the Irish 13th.

Three?
Mm-hmm.

But we only have water for one.

Oh, Bartlett, we have
a murderous task ahead of us.

I'm not sure why we're
quibbling over details.

Everything is ready.

For the first time in months,
we have a bloody good chance.

We just need to have
faith in ourselves.

What we need, sir, is ammunition,
competent officers

and, in this particular enterprise,
water.

Now I understand...
No.

I don't believe you do understand.

It's very easy to stand on
the side-lines and just criticise.

We need to pull together.

Now, we both know the winner
is asked no questions.

And the loser has to
answer for everything.

And I plan on being the winner.

(EXPLOSIONS AND RATTLING)

Do you even know how to
use that thing, Bartlett?

There's nothing to it, really.
It's merely point and shoot.

Any fool could do it.

Perhaps not any, Lester. A blind
fool might find it a challenge.

What have you documented thus far?

Oh, some of the most
beautiful vistas, sir,

and a sunset
that'd make your wife weep.

Not to mention Harry here,
taking a dip,

as naked as the day he was born.

Oh, you did not?

No, you're right, I didn't.

There are certain horrors
of war even I can't stomach.

(RATTLING AND GUNFIRE)

Carry on.

Vera, here are the last
of the bandages.

Ahuh.

Hurry up!
We almost left without you.

Fear keeps you alert.
Keeps you sharp.

And it will keep you alive.

But being afraid will paralyse you,

make you freeze
when you should act.

Don't confuse the two.

It will kill you.

He's my son.

(CAMERA SNAP)

(GUNFIRE)

Remember, when you're in
the firing lines,

keep your mouths open at all times.

It'll reduce the impact
of the shock-waves

on your bodies.

Not yet, Jimmy, you bloody goose.

Bean!
Where's Ross?

With the New Zealanders,
towards Chanuk Bair.

They told me to go with
the 2nd Infantry.

Lone Pine.

Where?
Lone Pine.

It's the next gully over.

Look, you'd better hurry,

because the first is already
in the thick of it

and the second's about to go.
Good luck.

Get ready, men.

(WHISTLE BLOWS)

Get up, boys.

You'll be right, mate.
You'll be right.

(GUNFIRE)

Ladies.

You're a bit close to the action,
aren't you, mate?

I wanted to make sure you
boys stayed out of trouble.

You gonna cover us with that
camera? I feel safer already.

Hey, just take a picture, will ya?

Smile.
One for your Mum back home, huh?

Perfect.

OK, boys!

Thanks, Schuler.
Keep your head down.

(WHISTLE BLOWING)

Go, boys!

Get the fuck out of the way!

(EXPLOSION)

Bomb!

Move forward!

Help. Help.

Help.

It's OK.

Can I get a stretcher bearer!

It's alright. It's alright, mate.

I'm going, aren't I?

Message is to go, sir.
Are you sure?

Quite sure, sir. Yes.

Jimmy.

Why are the men not wearing
their coats and tunics?

Orders, sir. All great coats,

tunics, blankets, mess tins
were all collected last night.

They've been ordered to fight
in their flannels and shorts.

What?

Why have they stopped shelling?

Perhaps someone's watch is out,
sir.

The shelling was to continue,
unabated, until the men charged.

Tell the men to ready themselves.

Does Birdwood know the support
troops are not in place, sir?

You will follow orders,
Colonel White.

What are you doing?
I'm merely following orders, sir.

Don't be stupid, man.
You're a Colonel.

That's even more
reason why I should go.

Colonel White, you'll be...

I'll be what, sir?

Ready yourselves, boys.

Make sure your bayonets are fixed.

Unload your magazines.

Colonel White, the timing's out.

They're reinforcing every position.

This is a mistake, sir.

We stick to the plan, gentlemen.

We will push on.

You coming with us, sir?
I am.

Does that mean
you're confident, sir?

Very.

I promise to do my best.
I know you will, son.

One minute, men.

(WHISTLE BLOWS)

(GUNFIRE)

Ready yourselves gentlemen!

Good luck!

Charge!

What are you doing? Move it!

You get out there now, man!

I've got children.
I've got three children.

Please.

You get out there, now.

Here!

Alright, gentlemen, prepare to go!

(TURKISH)

What's that fucking Turk saying?

Stop.

He's saying 'stop'.

Unconscious.

Too much blood loss.

Red card.

Severe dehydration.

White card.

He should make it.

Red. No chance.

That looks like gangrene, sir.

Severe blood loss.

Thank you, sir.

Severe dehydration.

You know,
nobody's ever going to see these.

You did.

(SINGING)

♪ Whenever I had a face like you

♪ I joined the British Army ♪

'When I Was Wounded on Chocolate
Hill', by HW Nevinson.

Give it back. It's not done.

Listen here. 'A terrific crash
sounded above my head.'

'Instantly, came a blow
like a trip hammer,

falling upon my skull.

I fell like a slaughtered ox,
but was up again the next second'!

I thought only Bartlett could come
up with such purple bloody prose.

Look, Ross, I'm warning you!

'I heard a cry of 'stretcher!

Stretcher!' I kept repeating,
'no, I must see the battle!

I must see the battle!'

Oh, come on then Henry, put 'em up.

Ever the wordsmith, Henry.

Golden rule of
journalism is objectivity.

People don't want objects.
They want subjects.

Oh, subjects like you?

Better me who is here
than the rubbish

those hacks in Cairo
are tossing off as fact.

♪ Too rah loo rah, loo rah loo
# Look at the monkeys in the zoo

♪ If ever I had a face like you
# I'd join the British Army.

♪ Henry Nevison's such a lout

♪ Just give him a couple of jars
of stout

♪ He'll bend the enemy
with his mouth

♪ And save the British Army

♪ Too rah loo rah, loo rah loo
# Look at the monkeys in the zoo

♪ If ever I had a face like you
# I'd join the British Army

They belonged to a digger
named Charlie Hodson.

He used to carry them in his pack.

I can only presume they
hold some sentiment for his family.

I thought you might be
able to mail them for me.

This is why you came here?

And to say goodbye.

I'm leaving tomorrow.

I've decided to enlist.

I daresay your father is unaware
of this.

My father will learn to understand.

I doubt it.

I'm no different
from any of those men out there.

No, just luckier.

They're good men,

with futures.

Gone.

For what?

They give their lives so that
we can achieve an objective.

It is you,
you and the other journalists,

who give their death meaning,

with the words and the pictures
that you send home.

You seem to be in a
bit of a funk, Phillip.

Are you having trouble sleeping?

How do you sleep?

Not well, since you ask.

I have nightmares.

More often than not, the same one.

I am dining alone,
and I feel something.

I look down and a stray
dog is licking my palm.

Then it begins to gnaw
through my hand,

and through my legs,
ripping flesh from the bone.

I cannot move.

I'm frozen.

Stuck there.

Observing.

Never have I had such frightful
dreams, till I came here.

I thought you were dead.

I'm not dead.

I have something for you.

It's a goodbye present.

Efxaristo, Phillip.

Send me photos
of your grandchildren.

Good.
Now, just one more, Mr Murdoch.

The confidentiality agreement.

Just sign there at the bottom.

Very good.

Heard you were in the ballot

to be the official Australian war
correspondent here.

You against Captain Bean.

There were others.

Heard you came in second.

By six votes, I heard.

Three votes.

Must have stung pretty bad, eh?

More of this.
Jesus.

Bean?

Murdoch?

Just think.

Another three votes,
that could have been you.

Why are you here?

The mail. It's impossibly slow.

I'm investigating
the Australian Imperial Mail...

That's pure bullshit, Keith.

Look, the information
we're getting's not accurate.

The Government knows that.

We can't get anything out.

Nothing real, anyway.

You know,
we've got men dying of trench foot.

Stinking, rotting feet,
riddled with gangrene.

It beggars belief. We've got lice
and dysentery, typhoid, pneumonia.

What happens when we add
frostbite to the equation?

We're shipping one thousand a
day to ill-equipped hospitals.

How long's it been raining?

Three weeks, off and on.

No-one in London thought
about what happens now.

The August offensive failed.

We're stuck,

sinking in this rancid bloody mud.

This isn't war, this is a
slow death through negligence.

And I've come to realise
that the British

couldn't organise a fucking
children's fete.

There's nowhere left to bury them.

Blasted things.

Come on, where are you?

Who are you?

Murdoch.

I work for The Sun.

Oh, another hack and a whore.

It's a term I endearingly
apply to all journalists.

Bean told me
Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett was here.

Oh, don't bother with him.

He's the worst kind
of correspondent.

Deceitful?

Compliant.

It's flat.

I've read many of your articles.

Mr Bartlett.

Oh, an intelligent Australian?

Wonders will never cease.

Your recent dispatches
paint a picture

completely at odds with reality.

You called The Nek

'the greatest battle fought
on the Gallipoli Peninsula.'

Well, Bean told me today
it was a slaughter.

Murdoch, is it?

Did you read Bean's account?

It was a fraudulent dream.

I look forward to seeing you
do better.

I might turn in. I return to London
in the morning. Goodnight.

What are you doing?
Excuse me?

What are you doing in London?

Meeting the Australian Ambassador.

Tell me what you made of the Cove.

I've only been here four days.

I value an outsider's opinion.

I'd say it is the most terrible
chapter in Australia's history.

And the Mother Country?

A mother is supposed
to protect her children.

And um,
you believe that...

well, something must be done?

I'm not even going to answer that.

Goodnight, Mr Murdoch.

Dear Mr Asquith,

I hope you'll excuse the liberty
I am taking

in writing to you,

but I consider it absolutely
necessary that you should know

the true state of affairs out here.

Good morning, sir.

Which is Murdoch's tent?
It's just down the end, sir.

I'll take his.

Put it over there.

We agree that
something must be done.

Well, of course.

Only an imbecile
would think otherwise.

Everything we write is censored.

Nothing's getting out.

I believe that you and I
can radically influence this er,

dire um, situation.

This letter is a detailed account
of the Gallipoli campaign.

It is a summary of the many
failed offensives,

the bungling of the officer class,
specifically Hamilton,

and the slaughter
and chronic illness

that are mowing down thousands
of our young men.

It's addressed to Asquith,
the British Prime Minister...

I know who the British Prime
Minister is, Mr Bartlett.

I'll deliver it.

If the military find
the letter, you could be shot.

I'll take my chances.

Thank you.
My pleasure.

My despatches are blue lined
into oblivion.

They speak only
of a fairy-tale existence

that doesn't damn well exist.

What are you talking about?
Fairy tales?

My Australian editors
no longer publish my work.

I can assure you
that is not my doing.

But it is.

You know, you let these
Johnny-come-latelies publish

any sensationalist rubbish
they please.

This article states that
the Allied troops

have captured a German officer,

and are keeping him
captive in our trenches.

Now that is, as our men would
state, overcooked bullshit.

The men send these
articles from Cairo.

As you can see, I'm not in Cairo.

But you blue line
everything I write

until it is virtually unreadable.
You manipulate everything.

What you're doing
is not censorship,

but you're manufacturing
a whole lot of lies.

And I'll have you know,
it's been recently mentioned

in the New South Wales Parliament.

Where?
This is a short-lived problem.

Can't you see that, Bean?

War correspondents
are a dying breed.

In future, we won't need your kind.

The government will simply
tell the people what it thinks

is conducive to winning the war.

If truth is good for the war,
we will tell them the truth.

If a lie is likely to win the war,
we will tell them lies.

Now, as I see it,

this story may simply give people
back home a bit of a chuckle.

And Bean, really,
what is the problem with that?

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

No. I take full fuckin'
responsibility.

(MUSIC PLAYING:
'ON THE WINGS OF A DOVE')

Sir, something's not right.

Charles, you didn't tell me
we were breakfasting here.

And now they're drinking
pot after pot of fresh tea,

and the men have
no clean drinking water?

And I can see
that they're settling in for winter.

What are you doing?

I find it utterly perplexing.

I want to know
what the plan is!

We both know they have no plan.

We can wait for the ship to sink,

or we can swan dive
into the swirling Black Sea.

Such a rare pleasure
to be invited to join you.

You'll be pleased to know

that Mr Murdoch has been arrested
in Marseilles,

with your article
on his person.

You have put him
in a most compromising position.

What article?

You deny
you gave Murdoch an article?

I gave him a letter.

To whom?

To the Prime Minister.

To what did it pertain?

It pertained
to the state of affairs here.

You were under strict instructions
not to comment on the campaign,

or on its leadership.

You are no man's saviour.

I am aware of that, sir.

You have broken
every rule of censorship.

Your accreditation is withdrawn.

You will return home.

Then may I leave at once?

What the hell happened?

They sent over three men
to find your letter.

Oh.

Surprisingly,
I feel quite sad to leave.

Where are you going?

Murdoch was arrested
carrying my letter.

Braithwaite has let me off the chain.
I am to return home.

I can't believe it!

I came because you convinced me.

You cost me a bloody fortune!

You shouldn't be whinnying
about being left behind.

This is your chance to shine.

Everywhere you go,
you create a god-awful mess.

And others are forced to clean up
after you.

Have you ever thought about that?

And what of young Murdoch?
Where is he?

Probably got his cock
up some poor sheep's arse by now.

(RINGS BELL)

Shall we begin?

It is to our Prime Minister.

Dear Mr Fisher,

I shall talk as if you are
by my side, as in the good old days.

I write to you
of the Dardanelles campaign.

Make it,
"unfortunate Dardanelles campaign."

Officially, I have approved
the services of our stenographer

for your use,
for two hours.

Unofficially,
you should know

that I think
that what you're doing is seditious.

Do you know how hard this embassy
has worked to keep you out of jail?

I booked you a berth
on the Adelaide.

You should bloody well be on it.
What was that last bit?

Ah, "I write to you of the
unfortunate Dardanelles campaign."

It is undoubtedly one of the most
terrible chapters in our history.

Your fears are being justified.

I'm, of course, only repeating
what I've been told,

but you will trust me when I say

that the work of the General Staff
in Gallipoli has been deplorable.

The obvious conflicts and confusion
between the British Generals

is staggering.

We are left holding positions

which are nothing more than
an embarrassment.

Nowhere are our men protected
from Turkish shells.

End this section with,

"Winter is upon us,

"and it brings grave danger."

Take that.
Jimmy, hold my watch, please.

Come on.

Quickly, spread them out
so they don't run.

The mail boat has sunk.

This one's from my dad,

saying if I don't come home soon,

he's... he's gonna give me a hiding.
Take that off him.

Jimmy. Jimmy.

Keep each envelope
with each letter.

Otherwise we'll lose track.

I've got it.

Jimmy,
where are you meant to be, son?

I can feel it in my mouth.

Come here, come on..

Sit down.

Feel what?

It's a bullet.

It's... it's lodged in my mouth.

Jimmy, get a grip, OK?
There's nothing in your mouth.

Have you seen the medic about it?

He... he couldn't find it,
cos it's in...

cos it's in too deep.

It's in too deep.

It is stirring to see them,
magnificent manhood,

swinging their fine limbs
as they walk about Anzac.

To be an Australian is the greatest
privilege the world has to offer.

I don't remember writing that bit.

Well, you couldn't have.
You're not one of the privileged.

Why do all you colonials
have such a chip? Bean was the same.

Do you use the word 'colonial'
to make yourself feel superior?

Poor form to emphasise
the self-evident, don't you think?

Thank you.

So, you memorised my letter,
but you rewrote it as your own.

I intended to protect you.

So, nowhere do you mention me?

Well, I knew you would have done
the same for me.

Very decent of you.

We have to talk to the War Council.
How soon can you get us in?

It's difficult. Hamilton still has
support in the Council.

But I thought you also had support?
I'm not a general.

How long before your
article comes out?

Two days. We're staging it as an
interview to get around the censors.

And in this interview,
you will condemn Hamilton.

That's not something that I relish.

"Undoubtedly,
the essential and first step

"to restore the morale of the
shaken forces is to recall Hamilton.

"In his head, evacuation
will lead to 50% casualties."

If they attempt a Turkish winter,
they'll lose 80%.

I stated that in my letter.

(INDISTINCT YELLING)

We got it!

(LAUGHS) They fuckin' hate
bully beef as much as us.

Throw 'em some smokes.

I have mail. Arthur Smith.
I'm Smith.

Bobby Hayes.
Haven't had mail in months.

Go on, read it, Terry.
The hills of old Gallipoli

Are barren and austere...

There you go, Stan.

And fairy folk, unhappily

Are few indeed out there.

But one I know whose industry,
Both night and day is seen,

For all attest her ministry,

It's my Lady...

Nicotine...

(LAUGHTER)

(COUGHING)

Nigel. Nigel, you OK?

Where are we? I need a piss.
I got no piss.

I'm sorry, mate.

I've pissed myself.

This is it, isn't it?

Oh, mate, you'll be right.
Bullshit.

You'll pull through.
Could you go and get Mum?

Please? She's in the yard.

Yeah, mate, I'll go and get Mum
for ya, OK?

I'll get your Mum.

Stretcher bearer!

Bean?

Give the poem to Terry, Bean.

Give the poem to Terry.

Bean, give the poem to Terry.

He's OK.

Just telling Bean to give the poem
to Terry, getting reinforcements.

You know, legally, I can't pay you
for an interview?

We should start.
I have a luncheon engagement.

What are you getting out of this?

Fucked if I'm going to be upstaged
by an Australian.

Thank God. I thought
you'd had some sort of epiphany.

Can we just start?

Question one.
You even numbered them.

If you were to highlight one reason

for the failure
of the Dardanelles campaign,

what would it be?

From the very beginning,
few minds engaged in the enterprise

knew the fighting qualities
of the Turk

or the geography of his country.

It was almost
as if our leadership...

Perhaps we should outline
a little of the geography?

The geography doesn't matter.

This is solely about getting rid
of Hamilton.

Winter is approaching.

You already have 50,000 dead,
and incompetent leadership...

Perhaps you should temper that.
Calling Hamilton incompetent.

Thank you, I don't need to be told
the correct use of the word.

I've seen it in action for months.

You realise this article
will make you unemployable.

If you agree, we could secure
speaking engagements.

Do they pay well?
They can do.

If you pull a crowd.
This will pull a crowd.

Good.

It is time, Mr Bartlett.

General Hamilton says

that an evacuation
will lead to 50% casualties

at the hands of the Turks.

Certainly,
evacuation is fraught with danger,

but to stay will be catastrophic.

Ladies and gentlemen,
the true enemy in our midst

is not the honourable Turk.

It is our incompetent leadership.

(APPLAUSE)

And the price for such poor planning
is disastrous

not only for Great Britain,

but for her loyal and brave
dominion troops.

Hello. Excuse me.
Mr Bartlett.

Ah. Lady Hamilton.

You will be pleased to know

the Turks have translated
your Times article from last week

and it was greeted
with resounding cheers.

You've given the enemy hope
and courage.

My husband, on the other hand,

is to return home
completely dishonoured.

General Hamilton is returning?
Kitchener's recalled him.

Why do you look surprised?

He'll spend his remaining years
unveiling war memorials.

A great man, brought down
by your seditious gossip.

No, he is brought down by his own
strengths and weaknesses, madam.

Why would you unleash this vengeance
on my husband, Ellis?

It is not personal, Lady Hamilton.

This was a sort of cumulative thing,
you see.

Every day, I witnessed
the same polite incompetence,

and every day,
pointless suffering and death.

Until it became too much, I suppose,
and I had to act.

I'm sorry.
There was an awful queue.

That's quite alright.

We're finished here.
Good day, Mr Bartlett.

Good day.

You've bitten one too many hands.

Not by choice.

Are you alright?

Yes, never better.
Be careful.

(DISTANT GUNFIRE)

Bean.

I thought you might want this.

For your collection.

A letter came for him.

I don't want it.

Can you open it?

There's a new baby.

A boy.

Harold.

That's our dad's name. Harry.

Thank you.

You keep 'em.

The Christmas mail's here.

Oh, it's from France.

Who's it from?

I don't know.

It's from a friend.

My dear friend,

I'm in the Somme,
and joined the Ambulance Brigade.

So you can see your words
never fell on deaf ears.

I feel like I observed the life
from the sidelines until we met.

I pray this is all over soon.

I'm now collecting the limbs
of the men I once framed

in my camera lens.

Know you are
a most cherished memory.

I thought you would like
this photograph. I carry a copy.

Merry Christmas.

With fondest regard,
Phillip Schuler.

(GUNSHOT)

(ENGINE SPLUTTERS, STOPS)

"Dear, Mother?" Mum.

I've written this just to you

because I know Dad tends
to take these things a bit hard.

Captain Bean, the journalist,
is writing for me.

Terry Sutton passed away last week.

His brother Nigel's taking it
very hard.

If I don't get out,
I want you and Dad to know...

I can't write any more
of this rubbish.

It will break your mother's heart.

It's not rubbish.

22 of us came from Ballarat.

Only Nigel and I are left.

We've been pretending we'll get out.

We fuckin' won't.

Just don't waste
any more of my paper.

Oh, Jesus.

"Dear Mum, all is good here.

"We thought we might
be home for Christmas,

"but it is looking like
we'll stay on."

We are to get an extra ration
of rum and chocolate for Christmas,

so I have no doubt that the men
will make a party of it.

Tell me, Mr Murdoch,
what singular event proved to you

that our troops were such a bunch
of drooling simpletons,

and your Australians so competent?

Well, it was not one incident, sir,

but rather what I gleaned from many.

I write mainly
about the officer class.

Inefficiency is rife.

Instead of seeking out
our enemy's most vulnerable points,

we persist in attacking
prepared strongholds,

resulting in horrendous...

Are we to then take it

that all of the facts
in the aforementioned document

are what you gleaned from,
what was it, 48 hours on Gallipoli?

We are throwing innocent men
at a cause that we cannot...

Mr Murdoch had assistance
in this matter. Mr Bartlett.

You've made it your life's
mission to ruin this campaign.

What is your endgame, sir?

Evacuation.

Every source we have tells us

evacuation will have
devastating consequences.

Excuse me, sir.

By spring, you will not have troops
left on the cove to fight.

If we not evacuate before winter...
Mr Murdoch, Mr Bartlett,

we thank you for your frankness,
but let me remind you

that countless men's lives
are at stake.

You will both refrain
from speaking about the Dardanelles

again outside of this room.
And let me remind you,

Lord Kitchener,
that I'm under the jurisdiction

of the Australian Government

and I'm free to act and speak
as I see fit.

There will be no evacuation.

If we turn our back
on an entrenched enemy,

I will be condemning a large
percentage of our men to death.

General Monro has left
to take command.

He'll settle them in.
We will stay.

With all due respect, sir,
you've condemned them already.

Thank you, Mr Bartlett.

Your time here is done.

What do we do now?

We get very drunk.

(GUNFIRE AND EXPLOSIONS)

Jimmy?

Jimmy.

Dead? Over there.

Where will he be buried?

How the fuck should I know?

The boy's 15.
He just froze to death.

Why are they being moved?

They don't want the new bloke, Monro,
having to see all this mess.

This mess is flesh and blood.

This is exactly what he must see.

You're not to move a man.

Where is Monro?

Move 'em back.

Why are the men
not in winter uniform?

There seems to have been
some confusion, sir.

The great coats have not left Egypt.

Well, I suggest you go and ask HQ
what is happening.

Find out when they are arriving.
The men are cold.

The General Staff are not
on speaking terms with us, sir.

What?

They no longer
speak to each other, sir.

The men have lost all faith in HQ.

Who are you?
Charles Bean.

Official Australian correspondent.

No, just... just stop.
Please stop, sir. I need to speak.

I don't need to tell you
how bad things are here.

You see death and suffering
all around you.

We are stuck
in some sort of putrid hell.

We have 15,000 dead
for the 10 yards that you stand on.

We are evacuating 1,000 a day,
sick and wounded.

But most men don't make it to a
hospital. No, they die on the beach.

You look at these men,

you see weakness and suffering.

You don't think we have the will
or energy to get off this cove,

but you are mistaken.

Now these men, they volunteered
to fight for your nation,

but you have deserted us.

We're not stupid.

We know we have lost,
but we will not quietly

devote ourselves to death.

We will fight, with our last breath,
to get home.

You speak of defeat again,

I will shoot you myself.

Why is it so quiet?

We're under orders to hold all fire.

Why?

No fuckin' idea.

Beanie must be pretty crook
to let you come up.

Typhoid.
(WHISTLE)

Down. Don't move.

I can't fuckin' see a thing.

Baz, you stay in your corner.

Don't move.

Stay there.

Remember, boys, hold your fire.

(YELLING IN FOREIGN LANGUAGE)

Get him! Get him!

(SPEAKING FOREIGN LANGUAGE)

Nige!

Hey, Australia.

(SPEAKING FOREIGN LANGUAGE)

Hey, what's that?
Can you play that music?

Can you play that music for us,
like a little bit of Allah?

(PLAYS SOFTLY)

They'll never give up
this bastard of a place.

We've dug trenches
in their bloody backyards.

Oi! Go! Turn around! Abdul, get out!

Go!

You knew they'd shoot him.

You taking notes for Beanie?

Well you can fuck off back to him.

Go and have your little whinge
down on the beach.

Tell him we are shooting 'em
in the back,

cos no-one up here gives a shit.

(DOOR KNOCK)

Enter!

Bartlett.

Only men are allowed to call me
Bartlett.

I'm appalling at following orders.

I'm appalling at most things.

May I have a drink?

Sorry, of course.

This is awkward. I've come to ask
you to stop writing about us.

Did Winston send you?

God, what do you think I am?

I think you're a Churchill.
Well, I've come as your friend.

My friend?
You come to protect you and yours.

Winston's position is precarious.

And now with the evacuation,

please believe me,
these are frightening days for us.

What?

Evacuation?

They're evacuating the Dardanelles.

When?
Any day.

Will you please
stop writing about us?

Do you think I did the right thing?

To write the letter?

Well, Winston thinks
that the evacuation is suicide.

He's distraught,
and Clementine cries all the time...

Fuck the Churchills.
What do you think?

Does it matter what I think?

We've got over 50,000 men
to get out of here.

And we've only got seven nights.

Any ammo and supplies
we can't get off, we destroy.

Same with livestock.

If the Turks cotton on,
we'll be sitting ducks.

On the last night,
we will have 10,000 men to get off,

and we need to keep 170 men
on the front line,

so Abdul thinks
it's business as usual.

If anything goes wrong,

these men will be on their own.

We all know what that means.

Unmarried men can volunteer.

Stafford Wales,

Andrew Canny,

David Hopper.

Melvyn, you're in. Stan.

The rest of you, dismissed.

Sir.

Stan and I came from Ballarat
together.

Stan is not injured.

Captain Bean knows me.

I think you should go home.

I can't go home.
My brother's still here.

Mind your mouth.
You bloody asked him.

Your mother
still needs one son alive.

Please, sir.

Alright.

Thank you, sir.

Thank me on your gravestone,
you bloody idiot.

You're a fuckin' turncoat.

Take these, Bean.

Hey, Bean.

Good luck.

I won't come down.

It's best you be off
before the fireworks start.

I'm being practical.

One of us has to ensure
that all this gets out.

Otherwise, if it doesn't,
all this was for nothing.

Now, I'm not being maudlin,
but I just want it said.

If I don't get off, then
all the men's letters and diaries,

our recollections, especially
the unsentimental ones,

will be of enormous importance.

Don't let others
tell the men's story.

They won't get it right.

Not once have you let me down.

I don't think you know
how rare that is in a fellow.

I'll be waiting for you, sir.

It's like a little gift
for Johnny Turk I've left for him.

(GUNFIRE)

What, under here?

Yeah, under there.

It's just very gentle...
gentle, gentle.

That's it. A bit higher.

And that'll blow
Abdul's fuckin' head off.

You're a fuckin' animal.

You're not gonna write
about this, are you, Beanie?

Don't tell 'em we did this.

What's that?

Hmm?

Ah, he's getting wood.

Did you fix up Terry's grave?

Yeah. Got a nice spot alongside it
for you. - Get fucked.

Johnny Turk.

Enjoy these smokes.

Nigel Sutton from Ballarat.

Christmas 1915.

Winston, look who I found.
Well, well.

I had a wager with Clementine.

I swore there was no way in hell

you'd show your traitorous face
here tonight.

I have found myself
pilloried by the public

and the War Council alike.

Mr Bartlett.

How delightful you came.

Good evening.

Lovely bracelet. It suits you.

It was a gift from a friend.

The Hamiltons are expected.

So perhaps it may be better...

If I have another engagement. Oh.

I read the Times article.

You decimated Ian Hamilton.

You and that Australian are nothing
more than seditious meddlers.

Well, someone had to meddle.

You're a journalist,
not an agitator.

Maybe a war correspondent
needs to be both.

♪ God rest ye merry gentlemen

♪ Let nothing you dismay

♪ Remember Christ our saviour

♪ Was born on Christmas Day

♪ To save our souls
from Satan's power

♪ When we were gone astray

♪ Oh, tidings of comfort and joy

♪ Comfort and joy... ♪

Whot's that?
Don't shoot!

There's Turks crawling everywhere.

I'm looking
for the 3rd New Zealanders.

For fuck's sake,
they left hours ago. Get going!

Time's up, mate. Fall in.

I'm staying.

It's 2:00am. You've gotta come now.

Yeats, get down!

You're six minutes early.

The boats aren't back yet.

Something's not right.

Shut the fuck up!

Thank you.

Well, Merry Christmas,
Mr Bartlett. - Sir.

You have won.

While we are singing carols,
our men will be slaughtered.

(WHISTLE)

OK, that's it. Go.

Go, mate.

(DISTANT GUNFIRE)

Come on Beanie, get on the boat!

Get on the boat.
Almost there. Keep it down!

Yeats?

Any news?

Nothing as yet, sir.

General Birdwood.

The evacuation is complete.

Beanie.

G'day.

Stan.

Oh, thank god.

(CRYING SOFTLY, LAUGHING)

(EXPLOSIONS, CHEERING)

What is it?
Get over here.

What is it? What is that?

Sir, if you could move your hand
a little.

You're hiding the brand.

Oh. Should I take my hands away
altogether?

Just place them
as you normally would.

(DISTANT BAGPIPES AND DRUMMING)

France, I'm afraid.

Mr Bartlett, we can take a break,

if you'd like to see
the victory parade.

No, I don't think so.

Perfect.

That's it.
A little more to the right.

Yeah, just on top
of the old Turkish trench.

(MUSIC PLAYS)

He was playing that
just before he died.

Saw him get shot in the back.

A Turk.
Towards the end?

That's him, isn't it?

Here. We'll tag it.

♪ Songs

♪ In the days long vanished

♪ Seldom from her eyelids

♪ Were the teardrops banished

♪ Now I teach my children

♪ Each melodious measure

♪ Oft the tears are flowing

♪ Oft they flow
from my memory's treasure

♪ Treasure

♪ Songs my mother taught me

♪ In the days long vanished

♪ Seldom from her eyelids

♪ Were the teardrops banished... ♪