Читать книгу There and Back: The Story of an Australian Soldier 1915-35 - Edward Lording - Страница 7

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A 16th birthday present—A successful cough—A tail of a shirt—A Liverpool Marmalade—A camp concert and a night without pyjamas.

(June—July 1915)

Sunday, 20 June 1915, was Ted's sixteenth birthday. His parents, fearful lest he should run away from home and join up under an assumed name in another State, compromised by giving their consent to his enlistment conditional upon his entering the signalling corps. It was their fond belief that the training for this unit would take at least twelve months, by which time the war might be over; and it is just possible also that they considered that army discipline might bring the boy's spirit under control.

With the ink hardly dry on this document—his most cherished birthday present—Ted again confronted his friend the sergeant-major.

"What! You bloody well here again?"

"Yes, have a look at this," said Ted, producing his parents' consent.

"What's your age?"

"Eighteen, sir."

"Stand easy."

Which he did with the utmost satisfaction in having, at last, settled his differences with the jolly old sergeant-major.

The rest was easy, being not at all unfamiliar to one who had received "inside" information from many who had been through the preliminaries. Particulars as to full name, date and place of birth, colour of eyes, hair and complexion, weight, and height, were duly recorded, and parental consent noted by a clerk in the recruiting office; and Ted, having expanded his chest, shown feet, said ninety-nine and coughed successfully, was ordered to report at the barracks on Monday, 19 July, ready for camp.

Though elated with this initial success he was conscious of yet a few more difficulties to be overcome. For example, he was a trainee under the compulsory service act, and the issue of a summons as the result of his absence from future parades would of course lead to the discovery of his enlistment in the A.I.F. under the prescribed age. But this was "fixed up" after a friendly talk with his Area Officer, to whom he gave an undertaking to attend as many parades as possible prior to embarking for service overseas.

Then there was the question of his military shirt. Compulsory trainees over eighteen years of age were in the militia and had on their shirts shoulder straps, which were not included on those of the senior cadets. So if Ted's cadet shirt was to be worn to camp it became necessary to make the required addition. A friend apprenticed in tailoring adjusted this matter by making shoulder straps out of material cut from the tail of the garment.

Monday, 19 July 1915, was ushered in with rain. This might have been taken as a bad omen—as events turned out, on the very first anniversary of his signing on for "three years or the duration," Fritz and fate in the Battle of Fromelles extended this period for life. But this was not a day to sit in the shadows of coming events. Rising from his bed after a sleepless night, Ted hurriedly bathed and, dressing in his slightly remodelled cadet uniform, sat down to the family breakfast. What with the incessant questioning of his younger brothers and sisters, the thoughtful silence of Mother and Dad, and his own pent-up feelings, it was with the greatest difficulty that he contrived to be outwardly calm and inwardly fed.

Breakfast over, the youth strapped up his valise and, with a lump—or was it breakfast—in his throat, grinned and said good-bye. Hearing but not remembering the words of parting, seeing without looking back, feeling kiss and handshake still with him, he set forth on the long adventure. On the train he chewed rather than smoked a cigarette, and, after a fit of coughing, received lengthy abuse from an old lady who threatened him with her gamp for being in a non-smoker. Blushing freely he came back to earth, and by the time the train reached Sydney was thinking of the day ahead.

On arrival at Victoria Barracks Ted sought out his old friend the sergeant-major, but if he expected a welcome home he was disappointed, for that gentleman merely ordered him to "wait." Wait! Why, the S.M. knew that Ted had already experienced eleven months of waiting, but perhaps after all, he used the word by way of recognition.

As the recruits arrived they gathered in groups and, the muster being a particularly large one, it seemed that all walks of life were represented. Ted attached himself to the group attired mostly in various cuts of khaki, and was agreeably surprised to find an old school chum, "Dab," some two years his senior. This group listened attentively for a while to the experiences of a New Guinea veteran, and was in the midst of a round of smutty yarns, when without the ceremony of a bugle call the order was given to "Fall in!"

Stepping out and re-forming lines in order of the roll-call effectively split up the groups, and, after numbering, the form-fours shuffle brought Ted in between a seaman and a chap with a bowler hat. As the column marched out of the barracks and Ted passed the sergeant-major, he could not resist a final word.

"So long, Major!"

"So long my boy, good luck!"

The recruits, receiving an occasional cheer as they swung along the road, were conscious of their motley appearance, and it was not until tramping through Surry Hills, when someone produced a mouth-organ, that they found their spirits. Some singing, some laughing, and others cursing the march, they arrived at Central Station and heartily cheered the engine for its whistle of cock-a-doodle-do. Entrained, the starting whistle was the signal for another wild outburst of cheering, which was repeated at each of the first few stations through which the train passed, and then the company settled down. Ted, who had taken a part, though not a leading one, in the cheering, accepted a dainty sandwich from his companion of the bowler hat and, after a gulp from another's bottle of beer, did the honours with cigarettes.

Detraining at Liverpool and crossing the river bridge they entered camp and were greeted by some thousands of their predecessors, who lined the lane-way between the huts and loudly jeered "Marmalades! "—signifying initiation to a camp where marmalade constituted the staple food.

The ceremony of attestation—taking the oath of allegiance, with the Bible grasped in the right hand—reminded Ted of the seriousness of his undertaking, but still uppermost in his mind was the fear of his age being found out. The rest of the afternoon was spent in getting established. Divided into squads they were marched to the quartermaster's store, where each was issued with blankets, dungarees, white hat, boots, socks, flannel shirts, tin plate, knife, fork and spoon. On returning there was a wild scramble for empty palliasses and straw, which had been dumped in the middle of the hut. Though some succeeded in getting palliasses and others had equal success with the straw, Ted, in spite of a good deal of rough handling, was one of the few who got both.

At the final parade of the day, after the orderlies for the morrow had been detailed it was intimated that although no leave would be granted that night, the troops were free to wander within the limits of the camp until 9.30, when they must be in the hut to answer roll call. At 10 o'clock, lights were to be put out. The parade was then dismissed, though not before several unsuccessful attempts had been made to carry out the order.

The evening meal—bread and marmalade, with a pannikin of sweet, black tea—being hurriedly taken, Ted and Dab set out on a tour of inspection. After viewing a cook-house and inspecting the guard, they had a look at the river and discussed it as an avenue for taking French leave, bought some cigarettes and lollies at the canteen and then finished up at the Y.M.C.A. tent where an impromptu concert was in progress. A song about a little grey home in the west was followed by a cornet solo; a humorous recitation was then given a good hearing, but a well-rendered classic on the piano was soon counted out and the concert resolved itself into chorus singing.

Less than the full number put in an appearance at roll-call, but as a reply—in some cases more than one—was received to each name called, it was let go at that. Except for some good-natured chaffing of those who produced pyjamas (Ted left his in his valise), there was comparative quiet for the half-hour preceding "lights out," all being more or less engaged in making preparations for turning in. This, however, was but the lull before the storm.

The scene that followed lights out began with an organized raid, some twenty toughs grabbing the ends of palliasses and pulling them from under their owners, who at first dealt out blows at random and then joined in the raid themselves. It was no time before the whole hut was in a state of turmoil, and more than one suffered as the light-fingered took advantage of the darkness. When a lull occurred in the yelling, shouting, and swearing, the hut sergeant threatened to bring in the guard, but he was promptly told what he could do. He thereupon retired, and the mob sorted itself out and subsided.

Taking stock with the aid of matches, Ted found that, apart from having fallen into the filthy mess of someone's vomit, he had not come out of the raid badly. He had managed to secure a well-filled palliasse in lieu of his own, and had lost only his issue knife, which he determined to replace in the morning.

Indelicate remarks—mostly crude, though occasionally witty—now bandied back and forth, were signals for renewed laughter and rebukes, which, though subdued, were sufficiently effective to keep all hands awake. It was well after one o'clock before peace and quiet, except for a few coughs and snores, reigned in the hut. Reviewing the events of the day, Ted's mind at first dwelt in shame on some of the unpleasant episodes and his minor parts in them, but it was not long ere his thoughts wandered back to the haven of home and in its blessing he found sleep.