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Comes of British stock—Seeks adventure in a sewer—Learns scripture and deportment—Receives a black eye—Plays truant—Wins a prize—Goes to work—Forgets love and tries to join the army.

(June 1899—June 1915)

Edward Rowland, born of Australian parents at Sydney on the 20th of June 1899, was working in his father's factory when war was declared in 1914. His grandfather of the one side and great-grandfather of the other, descended from British seamen (thought to be pirates) and English countryfolk respectively, had been among the first pioneers to settle in Victoria, where they and their descendants engaged in mining, horticultural, and commercial pursuits. It is therefore not surprising that "Ted," coming from such stock, was of sturdy physique, and was endowed with the spirit of adventure and patriotism.

Ted's brief childhood was sufficiently varied to equip him with at least the fundamental requirements of life. Setting out on an adventure at the age of four, he was some hours later discovered in an open sewer, minus his clothes. Later, after running the gauntlet of pneumonia, scarlet fever, and chicken pox, he was placed at a private school where scripture and deportment were the principal subjects on the curriculum. With his natural instincts somewhat subdued by this environment he entered upon a public school education, and within a week was initiated into the art of taking knocks—the first resulting in a black eye.

Following on a lengthy truancy from school during which he built a hut in a mangrove swamp and sailed the shark-infested waters of the Parramatta River in a home-made canvas boat, the boy achieved the not unexpected distinction of coming last in the school examination. A conference of father and schoolmaster thereupon resolved that, as chastisement had proved of no avail, they would try other methods. So Ted received a bicycle from his father and was appointed monitor to his master, and he responded by coming third at the subsequent examination in token of which he received the school's prize for progress—Robinson Crusoe.

Perhaps the adventures of Crusoe or his own satisfaction in considering that he had proved his ability, or perhaps both, gave Ted sufficient excuse for relaxation, but, whatever the cause, the remainder of his school-days were marked by sporting rather than scholastic achievements. He is probably remembered by his school-mates as captain of the footer team and runner-up in the swimming championship, but most of all for his chronic state of black eyes and occasional victories in fistic combat. As a chorister he led the church choir boys in everything but singing, and it must have been a great relief to the verger when Ted's voice broke, and he retired from that confraternity.

Much against his parents' wishes, he left school at the age of fourteen and was put to work in his father's business, where he remained—though, after the novelty had worn off, much against his inclination—for the next two years, up to the time of his enlistment in the Australian Imperial Force.

When the exigencies of compulsory military training allowed, he would tour the country on his bicycle in the holidays, carrying his provisions and sleeping out. On one such trip, which occupied three days, he covered 339 miles in a round trip from Sydney, touching at Burragorang, Wombeyan Caves, Goulburn, Moss Vale, Kangaroo Valley, and Nowra. This was no mean feat for a boy of but fourteen summers, who already had to his credit the saving of two lives from drowning.

If, during June or July of 1914, Ted heard anything of the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, it is probable that he promptly forgot it, for at that time his thoughts were mainly centred on a pretty girl who worked in a neighbouring factory. In exchange for penny-dreadfuls and an occasional bunch of violets he was allowed to accompany her as far as, but no farther than, her railway destination, and, as his weekly supply of pocket money was limited, it must be assumed that he booked more than one fare to the then equivalent of "Kitchener."

After the declaration of war his premature springtime fancies turned to thoughts of adventure. Newspapers and military text-books supplanted the penny-dreadfuls, while the scent of violets at least temporarily evaporated. Orators and the sight of so many khaki-clad figures fired his youthful imagination, but his first visit to Victoria Barracks, a suit of overalls covering his short pants, resulted merely in Ted's offer of enlistment being "received" by the sentry at the main gates. It was not until after Christmas of 1914, when he first got into long trousers that he succeeded in even gaining an entry to the Barracks. Taking his place in line with that morning's batch of volunteers he was confronted by a sergeant-major, who did not appear satisfied with the youth's answers concerning his age.

"Know anything about soldiering?" asked the S.M.

"Yes sir," came the ready reply.

"About turn! Quick march! Double!"

Receiving no further command, as he headed for the gate, Ted took the "office."

Though hurt in his pride and feeling wholly dejected, he nevertheless found some consolation in believing that those who predicted the early termination of hostilities might be wrong, and that the war would last more than another six months. So, with the idea of qualifying for the light horse, he saved sufficient money to hire a horse for a week-end, but after the first day's riding found it more comfortable to stand than sit. Next experimenting with a bugle, he had almost perfected the "Cook-house Door" when the patriotic patience of the neighbours petered out, and in silence he sounded "Retreat."

By the time when the news of the landing at Gallipoli arrived, Ted's frequent calls at the Barracks had led to a distant sparring acquaintance between him and the sergeant-major. But, except for his new-found interest in compulsory military training and the recent attainment of the rank of signal-corporal in the Senior Cadets, and three evenings of each week—when he was supposed to be at night school—in the company of a Boer War veteran turned night watchman, the time dragged wearily on to June.