Читать книгу There and Back: The Story of an Australian Soldier 1915-35 - Edward Lording - Страница 11

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First thoughts—From hammock to officers' mess—Housie, banker and crown and anchor—A church parade—A dark horse and a fair cow—A concert and crossing the line—Maggots and weevils—Suez.

(9 November—11 December 1915)

Most Diggers sailed with a diary, few wrote them up. Ted's is reproduced here.

H.M.A.T. "Beltana" (A.72). At Sea, Nov. 9th 1915.—It has just gone 5 p.m., and according to the joker in the crow's nest, gazing out to sea and not taking the least notice of the chaps feeding the fishes—all's well. What with the excitement of the day, that damned cigar I'd saved for the occasion, and the sight of pickles on the mess-table for tea, it is little wonder I'm not feeling too good myself. Anyhow, I'm not the only one, and for that matter I guess the folk at home are feeling a bit off their tucker too. My thoughts up to now are mostly about what others are thinking, and I am worried about the sadness of Mother and Dad at home. I feel sorry that I have caused them so much trouble, but I am relieved to be at last on the way, for I know now that they will not call me back. Barney has just informed me he and I are mess orderlies for to-morrow, and, as the thought of it makes me feel like showing visible signs of seasickness, I'm going up on deck.

Thursday, Nov. 11th.—It is 8 p.m. and here we are again. Some of the boys are playing banker at one end of the mess-table, and a game of housie-housie is in progress on the hatch. As mess orderly yesterday, I managed to dish up the boys' tucker and keep mine down. It is rougher now, but I'm feeling better, so don't suppose I'll be seasick after all. The daily routine, according to orders, is to be: Reveille 6 a.m., physical jerks, 6.45 to 7.30, breakfast 7.45, parade 9.30 to 11.45 (with half an hour smoko), dinner at noon, parade again 2 to 4 (with a quarter of an hour smoko), tea at 4.30, and lights out at 9.15; no afternoon duties on Saturday, and only physical drill and church parade on Sunday. Counting church parade, because it is compulsory or optional to peeling spuds, the actual working hours on this voyage will total twenty per week with pay at the rate of two shillings per hour; and as food, if you can eat it, is chucked in, a soldier's life at sea in terms of £.s.d. is not too bad. Of course between parades there's always some fatigue duty to be done.

The hammocks, much more comfortable than bare boards, are strung up over the mess-tables in formation, so that you have the heads of two and feet of two other of your neighbours meeting on either side about your middle. The lights go out, the latecomers scramble in and are cursed for their bumps, someone sings a song and is told to shut his bloody mouth, a smutty yarn brings wild laughter while the wowsers go crook, and then, gently swaying to the motion of the ship, we fall asleep. As the troops are packed like sardines above the line of port-holes, the air becomes thick with the smell of smoke and bodies; awakening with reveille, we hurry to the deck and wait in long lines taking deep breaths of the fresh salt air, as we push those in front and curse the slowness of the early birds, who seem to have taken up permanent residence in the improvised and much too small wash-houses and latrines.

After stowing hammocks and blankets, we eat some canteen biscuits, and then a bout of boxing gives interest to the physical jerks parade. Sitting on forms at the bare board mess-tables, we await the orderlies, who come very carefully down the steep companion-way, carrying porridge, stew or sausages, and dippers of vile-tasting tea. We laugh as one of the orderlies, holding a dish of stew with both hands, falls ace over head from half-way down the steps, and we add insults to his injuries. Had it contained sausages we could have picked them up, but Tiny, our mongrel mascot, is already licking up the mess, and for us it only means waiting a little longer, for, as lots are suffering from seasickness, the galley has a surplus supply of food. Some; more finnicky than others, just pick here and there at the food, while a few, loudly complaining of the tucker, scoff it down their uncouth necks at a rate that is only checked by their belching after long gulps of the stinking tea.

The morning parade of the signallers if one is not detailed for duty on the bridge, is taken on the boat-deck. The usual flag-wagging and buzzer practice with the same old lectures will, no doubt, be dished up to us time and time again. We have to speed up the sending and reading of Morse to about thirty words per minute on the buzzer, and as Jim and Joe can do about forty they are marking time. Sometimes they talk to each other in Morse, and, judging by their amusement and the few words I pick up, "indulge in personalities," as Sam would say.

Each of the three courses of the midday meal tastes about the same, but perhaps that is because the soup spoons and the fork of the second course have to be used for the sweet. To-day's sweet consisted of plum duff, which was promptly labelled "guttapercha-pud," and, as (according to my dictionary) gutta-percha is a reddish-brown horn-like substance of inspissated juice of a certain tree, I reckon it's a good name. If the ship gets torpedoed when the men are carrying a belly full of this tack, they'll sink like stones.

This afternoon we had some instruction about the mercantile international code. In between parades most of the boys play card games and housie-housie, the latter being the only money game allowed. The most enjoyable part of the day, however, if you don't think of the good things they are eating, is the evening officers' mess when the band plays selections. I have just returned from the boat-deck, where, being alone, I feasted on the music, and, in the fading light of the setting sun, let my mind wander back to the old folk at home. Somehow I like the lonely feeling that comes over me at sunset, but I must not mention this in my letters or they'll think I'm homesick, which at this time of day, I truly am.

Friday, Nov. 12th.—Did my turn at duty on the bridge to-day, won 8/6 at banker—Barney says mugs for luck—and bought a feed of tinned fish. The weather is very rough and cold, so I am wearing my sheepskin vest for the first time. The officers have just finished dinner; I enjoyed it, I mean the music part, very much. There's a chap inviting all and sundry to try their luck at his crown-and-anchor board. "Come on, come on, stick it on, where you like and where you fancy, who'll have a bit on the ol' 'ook?" So here goes, I'll give it a fly.

Sunday, Nov. 14th.—It rained last night, and today is very cold and rough. Had another win at banker yesterday, but fell for the crown and anchor stunt again and am now down a few bob on the trip. Somehow I can't enjoy a smoke. Attended C. of E. church parade on the well deck this afternoon. The chaplain addressed us about the purpose of our mission in the cause of righteousness, and said that God, being ever just and merciful, would lead us to victory in this war to end wars for evermore. He made me feel glad that I am on the winning side—not that I have ever felt otherwise—and some of us, forgetting it was a church parade, began to clap. There where prayers for the Allies, the loved ones at home, and for forgiveness of the enemy. The service—with the hymns "Eternal Father," "Onward Christian Soldiers," and Kipling's "Recessional"—was most impressive, and concluded with the National Anthem.

Found out to-day that if you are in the know and have a few bob for a steward, you can get a hot bath and decent cup of tea, so I had both and a piece of toast as well. And now, having been to church, had a bath and a clean cup of tea, and written home, I feel at peace with the world, so will turn in.

Monday, Nov. 15th.—There's no change in the weather, the tucker, or the routine, and, as land or ships have not been sighted, I'm feeling fed up. Someone has told the O.C. my age, but, judging by his wink when he took me to task about it, I don't think he'll put me away. He probably remembers the night at the Showground when I overheard him taking a lingering farewell of "Babby"—she called him "Tanny." I was up on one of the tank stands feeding some fresh leaves to our native bear, and they were immediately underneath, until I disturbed them with an excellent imitation of a cock-crow. Yes, I think he will keep my secret, and Barney reckons it will be all right.

Fell down the blasted steps to-day, and, as I was bending down to get a view of my bruise in a polished steel mirror, someone squirted it with a mouthful of water. That's his idea of a joke—the dirty cow. Don't feel like sitting down any longer, so am going for a walk with Barney to get a drink of fresh air before turning in. The crown-and-anchor king has been put in clink for getting drunk. The whisky cost him about £2 a bottle, and Barney reckons he'd give a fiver for one now.

Tuesday, Nov. 16th.—The weather to-day has been calm, warm, and bright, and, except for my sore nether end, I'm feeling good-oh. The early morning topic of conversation was a review of what we were doing at that time a week ago—marching down to the transport. And then, at the same hour as leaving Sydney, we passed the hospital ship Kyarra homeward bound with wounded. Painted all white and flying a Red Cross flag she looked very nice, and I suppose those poor chaps on board are feeling very excited and happy at seeing the Aussie coast, at King George's Sound, which has just faded from our vision. I believe we expected to feel like different beings once the ship sailed, but after a week at sea we have come to realize ourselves as being little changed. The sight of the hospital ship has established our bearings—we have got a long way to go.

To return to the present—what is there to growl about? Only that something has gone wrong with the latrine just above our mess-deck and, as the filthy overflow would come through the port-holes, we have to keep them shut. It will be pretty rotten sleeping here to-night, so I think I'll go with Barney who has taken up lodgings on some bales down in the hold below.

Wednesday, Nov. 17th.—Sleeping down here has its disadvantages. We both slept in, missed the last sight of Aussie at 6.30 a.m., and got into trouble for being late on parade. Our bikes are stowed in this hold, and as there is plenty of room, we practise trick riding. This possie is below the water-line, and it gets a bit depressing in the dim yellow light of a few small electric globes. If anything goes wrong while we are down here I wonder if we'll hear. Must ask someone up top to give us the office if the alarm goes. A boxing match on the fore hatch this afternoon only lasted two rounds. But for the advice the spectators kept shouting, it was most uninteresting. The ship has taken to rolling instead of pitching, but otherwise things are much the same.

Thursday, Nov. 18th.—We are in the Indian Ocean and have to-day been shown our lifeboat and raft positions. Machine-gun positions have been fixed, and the best rifle-shots have also been detailed to act in the event of a submarine attack. I find myself almost wishing that a submarine would pay us a visit, and my thoughts have gone so far as to picture the signal section afloat on a raft, with O.C. Stan giving us physical jerks and complaining, as he does now, about our inability to remain steady despite the changing of the centre of gravity. It is a change to think of what might happen but I don't suppose anything half so interesting will come our way. In fact I am afraid we will be stiff enough to arrive too late for the war. It being our tenth day out we had a medical parade to-day, a most amusing affair, except for a few who have been isolated.

Friday, Nov. 19th.—Same old routine. Weather getting hot and sea very calm. Had life-belt drill this morning, and someone remarked that Jim J. looked like a native bear in the family way.

Saturday, Nov. 20th.—Washing clothes, boxing, and a tug-o'-war has been the programme this afternoon. Wish I could use my fins a bit better, but according to Barney I'm not the worst boxer on the boat. Barney has a long skinny chap in secret training, who is as slow with his fists as he is in waking up to the leg-pulling stunt. We rub him down with rough bags and engine-oil, and have him running round our hold for hours on end while we play cards. He has just come back for more and wants to know if he should enter for the heavy or lightweight championship of the boat, but Barney advises him to remain a dark horse, as indeed he will for many a day because we are gradually increasing the proportion of lamp-black in the engine-oil.

Heads to be shaved and upper lips to be left unshaved is the latest King's Regulation. Reg H. up to now has not broken one of the King's Regulations, but refuses to have his wool off. "It's a fair cow," he protests. The boys have grabbed him and have run one bald stripe from his forehead to the back of his neck. Poor old Reg is going crook a treat, but as he does not swear he can't get anyone to believe that he really wants the job finished. He'll be the goat on the altar at church parade to-morrow, and in a week's time I'll be the kid without a mo. It is time to go to the concert, the first on board I wonder what it will be like?

Sunday, Nov. 21st.—The concert was a great success. Major B. sang every verse of "Who killed Cock Robin," and one of the chaps, a born mimic, imitated everyone of any importance. He gave us the Governor-General's speech and took Major H. off to a "t." The boat rocked with laughter when he imitated the colonel and his funny whistle. The colonel, however, failed to see the joke and did not move a muscle or turn a hair of his so far un-bald head. Did not go to church parade this morning; was spud barber instead.

Monday, Nov. 22nd.—Inspection by the colonel of the morning's full-dress parade was followed by a tug-o'-war between the light horse and our officers, who won both ways. The weather now being tropical, awnings have been placed over the bridge and decks and most of us have cut our dungarees down to shorts. A canvas swimming-bath has been erected on the well-deck and an officer and several N.C.Os have been ducked fully dressed. One of the chaps has a hunt scene tattooed on his back, but as the fox is hopping into its hole you can only see its tail. The ocean is a beautiful blue to-day, and is only broken by the bow of our ship where I have spent a few hours sun-baking and looking at the flying-fish.

Reg has the hair off one side of his head now, and as he is beginning to froth at the mouth I think it's time to finish the job, so have invited him down here. As Barney shaves Reg's head and shouts encouragement to Puglongun who in his oiled nakedness is running the meat off his bones, this dismal hole looks like a rat-house.

Tuesday, Nov. 23rd.—Ron and I slept on deck last night, and the wind having changed we woke up to laugh at each other's faces covered in soot from the funnel. There has been a slight improvement in the food to-day—yesterday's was rotten. On my way to the boat-deck this evening I had a look at the officers feeding. The port-hole did not permit a full view of the performance, but I saw sufficient to convince me that at least a few know more about swinging a walking-stick than of wielding a knife, fork, and spoon. To one who tipped his soup plate the wrong way I felt like shouting, "When in doubt wait for the roll of the boat." I wish they would give me the job of teaching them table etiquette by numbers, or the post of taster would suit me as well. Food seems to be the principal subject of my diary, and so it should be, for did not some general say, "An army marches on its stomach." That may be so, but it seems to me that, apart from "the heads," this battalion sails on its wind. The evening band programme was, as usual, the most enjoyable event of the day.

Wednesday, Nov. 24th.—Owing to shortage of fresh water, steam has had to be diverted from the engines to the condensers, and our speed has been slowed up.

Friday, Nov. 26th.—Some of the chaps are continually scribbling. It beats me what they find to write about. Sam only draws sixpence a day and has everything worked out, even to the number of words he can write with an ink tablet. Wish this war was a bit nearer. Think I'll chuck up writing this diary until we arrive at the Big Smoke. It's about time we got some pay as I have spent nearly all my money except a pound I lent to Potash, who is running a banker school and has promised me a fiver if it turns out all right.

Saturday, Nov. 27th.—What the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve for, but, when you see maggots dropping from the seams of the bench where they cut up the meat behind the latrine, it reminds you there's only one thing worse than eating a grub and that's finding you have only eaten half of one. While others ate roast meat, Barney and I shared a tin of canteen tongues, and we were enjoying the issue of stewed dried-fruit when someone discovered the ground-rice-looking-substance to be weevils. Then the orderly officer came, and was greeted with song: "We don't want your apples, we don't want your apples, we don't want your apples, you can—" He agreed we had cause for complaint and mounted the stairs while the mob sang, to the tune of a bugle call, "Officers' wives have puddings and pies, but sergeants' wives have skilly; the dirty old cook he fell in our soup and burnt the skin off his belly." While some bandsmen played the "Dead March," mess orderlies, carrying dishes of stewed apples, led a "funeral" parade along the promenade deck.

So what we missed in nourishment, if any, we made up for in merriment, and some of the chaps suggested going on strike. Any strike other than a hunger strike would of course be mutiny on the high seas, and, though it was difficult to see how we could all be put in clink, the idea was ruled out. A boxing match that looked like providing the material for a real burial at sea came to an end when the prospective corpse's second threw in the towel at the end of the second round.

Sunday, Nov. 28th.—I don't know why, but for the first time in my life I have experienced the feeling of being uplifted from the state of self-consciousness that I have always felt in church. It was not because of anything in particular that the chaplain said—he, the officers, and we men were as one—but it seemed that the sky, the ocean, the breeze, and our singing were all sublimely blended in one beautiful presence. One does not discuss the spiritual with one's fellow men, but I am sure that they all equally feel, not the service, but the Presence. The service was but the medium that brought us together, and now that the chaplain and officers have returned to their saloon and we to our lesser quarters, I feel that we remain spiritually united in this great adventure of life. Life, as I see it, is like looking with envious and critical eyes through the port-hole of the officers' mess on one's way to view and enjoy the beauty and restfulness of the sunset. In time perhaps I might earn my place in that mess, but meantime I can share with them the sweet music of the spiritual life. That material life is one damn thing after another is true enough, but the thing to remember is that there is always something good. Must make a note in my diary twelve months hence to remind me of this day, for I might never again have the inspiration for such deep thought.

Monday, Nov. 29th.—Went on parade this morning with a false mo. and got told off. Father Neptune and his retinue of roughs came on board last night. Heralded by bugle, cornet, and trombone artists, all playing independently, and followed by other instrumentalists playing likewise, Father Nep., Mrs Nep., their chucker-out, slaves, and mermaids, together with a blanket elephant that had swallowed two men,: paraded the decks and gave us ten minutes' amusement before lights out. So that we might attend Neptune's court, this afternoon was proclaimed a holiday. From my high position on one of the derrick booms overlooking the well-deck I had a good view of the amusing proceedings, and was safe from being shanghaied into it. As each victim sat on the seat of initiation the barber's naked nigger offsider swiped him over both cheeks with a soap-sudded whitewash brush, and then the barber shaved him with two mighty sweeps of his immense wooden razor and knocked him rotten with a crack under the chin into the canvas tub where several willing slaves proceeded to try and drown him. So that's the delightful ceremony of crossing the line. For a while the "old timers" had it on us until the show ended with Nep. and Co. being thrown into the bath and forced to swallow much of its contents.

Crossing the line has brought the signallers some new work. We start off to-night by getting familiar with the stars of the northern hemisphere—Charlie Chaplin, Flora Finch, John Bunny, etc.—in case during our future nightly wanderings we want to locate the direction of the poles.

Drew a pound's worth of my eighteen-pence-a-day allowance yesterday, and proceeded to do it in at banker, but my luck changed for the better, and I'm now well in funds. It gives one a feeling of some contentment to have a well-filled money-belt rubbing against one's less contented tummie.

Tuesday, Nov. 30th.—The machine-gunners had some practice shooting at empty cases floating in our wake. A lecture about Egypt, the customs of the people, and the precautions to be taken against venereal disease, was, though more to the point, much about the same as I have already heard. It seems that there's more than one fly in the milk and honey pots of Egypt, and we have formed the impression that prostitution is the principal occupation of the female inhabitants, and its sexual side the only sight-seeing attraction. All this talk has made me curious, but I have decided that such forms of recreation are not for me. Two members of the crew have been convicted of stealing money-belts, etc., from the troops. The world does not seem such a beautiful place to-day.

Wednesday, Dec. 1st.—One long growl about the food. Complaints brought forth an issue of jam and a promise that things will be looked into.

Thursday, Dec. 2nd.—Slight improvement in the food. It is getting hotter every day. Sighted land at 5.30 this evening, otherwise nothing to report.

Friday, Dec. 3rd.—Had kit-bag inspection to-day. We continue towards the war at the hair-raising speed of ten knots, and all's well.

Saturday, Dec. 4th.—Passed the Island of Perim and about half a dozen ships to-day. The shores of the Red Sea are rugged and barren. The white buildings of the port of Mocha made a pretty picture and its isolation caused one to wonder why it was there.

Sunday, Dec. 5th.—Church parade cancelled owing to intense heat. Passed several ships, one with Indian troops on board, signalling us good luck. A storm commencing with a terrific thunder-clap put the wind up the boys, who rushed up on deck. All letters have to be handed in for censoring to-day, and we have been instructed not to write too much.

[Ted's letters home, complaining only of the elements beyond the control of man, such as the heat of the tropics and cold of the Australian Bight, gave the impression that he was enjoying a holiday cruise with a company of missionaries. He concluded his loving wishes and reassuring statements as to the cleanliness of body and state of mind with the usual phrase, "I am having a good time."]

Monday, Dec. 6th.—Paid ten bob. Paraded stewed peaches garnished with maggots before the colonel, who has instructed someone to look into it. We would like to have the pleasure of the company of the merchant who supplied the fodder for this trip.

Tuesday, Dec. 7th.—We have paraded in full marching order and are all bucked up at the prospect of arriving at Suez in the morning.

Wednesday, Dec. 8th.—We gave a good old cheer as the Beltana at 8 a.m. dropped anchor in the port of Suez, where about fifty other merchant ships, now mostly acting as troopers, and two warships make an impressive scene. Hundreds of natives in boats of all descriptions are making a bee-line for our ship, and, as lots of the boys are getting the hoses ready and arming themselves with spuds, I can see some fun within the next few minutes. The banker business of Potash & Co. has turned out all right for Potash but not so good for the Co. Potash is a Yid, and as he paid me principal and 200 per cent interest he told me I could have the three balls from above his door.

Saturday, Dec. 11th.—It has just gone 9 a.m. and we are at last drawing into the wharf. Of course there has been much disappointment and growling over the delay in disembarkation, but the last few days have not been without amusement. The Gyppo hawkers—mostly dressed in white, but not snow-like, flowing garments, and wearing various kinds of head gear including the red fez—have up to now attracted most of our attention. This attention has not always been to the Gyppo's liking. He has been beaten down in his prices, pelted with spuds and abused, but, having no self-respect, keeps coming back for more. His wares consist of postcards and souvenirs of Egyptian crafts, which I am told are mostly made in Birmingham and India. Then there are figs, dates, Turkish delight, oranges, and hard boiled eggs they call "eggs-a-cook." A couple of fortune tellers compete and try to outdo each other in predicting most marvellous good fortunes and victory for us in war.

Like the lady who when shown an oil-painting said "What a beautiful frame," I like the picture of Suez best when it is framed in the darkness of night. Then the inquiring searchlights of warships, a steamer coming slowly through the Canal and the sound of Eastern music stealing over the waters, transform this otherwise uninteresting place into an enchantment of ever-changing, brilliant illumination, twinkling lights, silhouettes and reflections of the low-lying hills and the city and ships in port.

Boat racing in the ship's lifeboats has afforded recreation to some of the boys; but without exception we are itching to get ashore and, according to all accounts, we shall be itching when we get there.

When at last the pilot came alongside, we, being ignorant of his official mission, presented him with the usual spray of spuds, which forced both him and his officer to leave the tiller and seek shelter in the cabin of their launch. The launch shot aimlessly here and there until it had received the last of the potatoes, when the pilot, with as much dignity as his smashed fez would permit, came aboard.

The wharf-labouring natives go easy with their work. They do it to music, or, rather, to a monotonous chant in which they all join "Ee-ar-ee-ar, ar-ar-ee-ar" and so on with much hand-clapping. The boss Gyppo carries a stick and when he has occasion to use it, as is often the case, all the other Gyppos knock off work to laugh at their less fortunate comrade. Seems to me there's good scope for a union secretary here and an employers' organization would also be an advantage.