Читать книгу There and Back: The Story of an Australian Soldier 1915-35 - Edward Lording - Страница 9

Table of Contents

Once a man always a man—Finding's keepings—A letter home—The battalion moves—Its colonel, his batman and others—A march through Sydney—A fair question—Sundry signallers—A crime and a visit to Hell—Barney and Mrs I-ti—A skating civvie and a bandy batman.

(August—November 1915)

Ted soon found his cadet-gained knowledge of signalling to be very elementary, yet his experience in Morse and semaphore "flag-wagging" was a good foundation for the more advanced training.

He liked the sham stunts in which three signallers would be sent out to man each visual signalling station. Sent out one day with Jim J. in charge, and another signaller who, like Jim, was ever ready to make way for youth when there was work to be done, Ted had had about two hours' continuous flag-wagging when he received the welcome message "emma-emma-esses" (M.M.S.)—meaning, "men may smoke." Ted was about to light up when Jim said, "Did that message say anything about boys may smoke."

"No—why?"

"Well, put your fag out."

Jim was promptly told to go to hell, but, being a good fellow and always too tired to exert himself, just rolled over and went to sleep.

An expert telegraphist, Jim considered that his effort towards winning the war would be confined to his skilled calling, so, except for taking part in route marches and in the general routine, he was never known to work. He would come back merry from leave and call out, "I've had two flounders, four bob each, and now I am going to assert my prerogative. If there's a man amongst you let him announce himself." One night someone did, but Jim only put out his hand and said, "Well I'm (hic) glad to meet you; once a man (hic) always a man (hic)—'ave a drink."

It was about this time that Alan L. ("Rubberneck") joined up with the signallers. Detailed to Ted's tent, he could not understand why all but one, Vic C., slept on one side of the tent. "This'll do me," he said as he dumped his gear down alongside Vic, but, having been kept awake all night with Vic's snoring, he woke up to the idea. Vic was the grand champion of snorers, and even a half-open box of matches lighted on his nose failed to cure him.

Tom H., the corporal signaller, was also an occupant of this tent. He took great pride in his hair and was most careful of his personal appearance and effects. One Sunday, after leaving camp with a lady friend whom he was taking to Sydney, he returned hurriedly from Liverpool station looking the picture of misery. During his absence Ted had found a pound note in the lines and, saying "finding's keepings," had promptly visited the canteen and also paid a deposit on his photograph. He was enjoying a good feed when he was surprised to see Tom come back.

"What's up, Tom, had a row?"

"No, I've lost a quid."

"Struth! Tom, that's bad luck. Have a piece of cake?"

Bronchitis and meningitis were very prevalent at the camp at this time, and Ted contracted the former complaint. The sergeant, going on week-end leave, allowed Ted to sleep on his stretcher in the store tent, and it was from there that Ted wrote home the following letter:

DEAR MOTHER AND DAD,

I am unable to come home this week-end as I have a bit of a cold. It is nothing much, so don't worry. I am sleeping in the sergeant's real bed in the store tent and will be well enough to go on parade to-morrow.

My bed faces the tent opening and I can see all the funerals that go along the road from the hospital. The band plays the "Dead March" with the drums muffled in black and the soldiers march with reversed arms. They go by very slowly and the music makes me feel as though I am in the funeral—I don't mean in the box. I suppose in time we will get used to such sights.

Toc R., the O.C.'s batman, went on leave to the country, and I am supposed to take his place. I don't like the idea of being a servant and cleaning boots, but suppose I'll have to do as I am told. You should have seen Toc going on leave. He had infantry breeches, light horse leggings and spurs he called 'ooks, a coloured artillery sig.'s badge and two stripes on his arm, signal corps badges on his shoulders, crossed flags in front of his cap, a white naval lanyard sticking out of his pocket and rolled overcoat across his chest, carrying a basket hold-all, signalling flags, riding' whip and umbrella, and leading Tiny, our dog mascot, on a piece of rope that kept getting tangled around his bandy legs. Toc has flat feet, and Jack F. says he is built for trench warfare.

I have had my photo taken and will send you one with this letter. I will try and get leave on Thursday night and will come home to dinner, and I would like you to make some sausage-rolls for me to bring back to camp.

It is feared that Ted took good care to be a failure as a batman. The light duties of this office, cleaning boots, polishing leather and metal, making the bed, bringing shaving water, cleaning up and folding up were more or less welcomed as a period of convalescence, but both he and the O.C. rejoiced when Toc came back to camp complete but for his umbrella.

During the month of September the battalion was transferred from Liverpool to the Royal Agricultural Showground in Sydney. The change was greatly appreciated by all ranks, for it brought the city within easy distance of the camp. The made roads and grassy training areas of the adjacent Moore Park were a decided change after the sticky, oozing mud or thickly flying dust of Liverpool. By this time, as a result of the training, and the issue of uniforms and equipment, and of horses for the senior officers, the mob had been converted into something approaching the appearance and standard of an infantry battalion.

The 30th had for its colonel a tall and, but for a moustache, most unwarlike-looking man with a highly pitched voice, who sported a shrill pea-whistle. He lived with his bulldog in the show-ground glass-house, and had for a batman an Englishman named Silvertail. This man's name, when called by the colonel, was music in itself. It was "Silvertail, Silvertail, how many more times am I to tell you not to wrap my pyjamas in a wet towel?" Also "Silvertail, I like my toast done a nice golden brown;" and, later, in France, "Silvertail, there's a beastie on my singlet, take it away from me, Silvertail, take it away!" But for all that, as the real test of soldiering later proved, the colonel was a great soldier; and it is doubtful if there was ever a more efficient batman than his Silvertail.

Next in command was Major H., a thick-set, dinkum-looking major with a florid complexion and suitable deep voice for giving military commands, as well as expressive colour to his Aussie vocabulary. He differed from the C.O. in every audible and apparent respect, even to the shade of his khaki and the leather polish he used. Later he was given command of another battalion.

With the leaders' contrasting qualities of ruggedness and blandness more or less serving to compensate each other, the H.Q. of the battalion also had an adjutant, one Captain S. A regular soldier, senior in age and military experience, he gave balance to the command and sympathetic understanding to those commanded. Affectionately known as "Tod," his pecuniary lavishness recouped more than one digger's loss at two-up, and at other times provided the wherewithal for sight-seeing and various kinds of recreation in Cairo and other pleasure resorts.

The battalion was divided into four companies, which in turn were divided into four platoons each of four sections. Each company and platoon had its O.C., and each O.C. had his peculiarities and eccentricities. For instance, there was Major B. of A Company, a crack rifle-shot, and known as "Cock Robin" for the one and only song he gave at each battalion concert. Though at one time he had a company of Queenslanders who proved as impossible for him to manage as did their two mascot monkeys, his command now for the most part comprised Victorian naval men from Williamstown. This change of personnel he welcomed, but he found some difficulty in converting them from naval to military practice. On one occasion Sergeant Tosch reported as to so many being "aboard sir," the number "ashore sir," and the names of those "adrift sir"—which, interpreted with the retention of but one "sir," turned out to be a report on the number in camp, on leave, and absent without leave (A.W.L.).

In accordance with "establishments," the battalion absorbed transport, machine-gun, and signalling sections, as well as a band which, under the leadership of Sergeant Les W., had by this time gained the reputation of being the best of its kind in Australia. The 30th was thus as complete and evenly balanced as its brief history and available equipment would permit.

The battalion's 1st Reinforcements joined the unit at the showground. "Come on, brighten up and sing a song," said their O.C. (Lieutenant Mac) when they were straggling along on a march. The boys accordingly struck up "We'll Hang Old Macfarlane on the Sour Apple Tree"—and that was the last time he called on them to sing.

To celebrate and demonstrate its advent, the battalion, wearing the latest type of equipment, made of green leather, and with its accoutrements highly polished, marched through the streets of Sydney. With the signal section leading, we fall into step with Ted and share with him the countless thrills that travel up and down his straight and youthful spine to the accompaniment of inspiring martial music from the band.

By the time the marching column reached King Street Ted felt as though he were walking on air. As it wheeled into George Street, the sight of a girl falling from one of the top windows of a store through the awning to the pavement below momentarily prompted him to break from the ranks and run to her assistance. But though he felt that as a participant in the march he was in some way responsible for the accident, he carried on, and was brought back to his bearings when an acquaintance on the sidewalk in Martin Place advised him that he was the only one in step.

Stanley E., the youthful lieutenant in charge of the signallers, was pinched in countenance and full of military theory; but, despite his swanky little ways and schoolmaster attitude, was a likeable chap. Instead of calling the members of his section boys and treating them as men, he addressed them as men and tried to manage them as school children. Military training and school teaching were to him synonymous terms, and Sam C., a Cambridge University graduate, took much delight in subjecting his newly found tutor to humiliating ridicule.

Stanley took great pains to instil into his men that they were the eyes and ears of the battalion, and, impressing upon them the necessity of being observant in all things, he invited questions on their observations. At one such question time Sam sought some information.

"Sir," he said, "for some time I have been giving my utmost concentration to a question not only of wide interest, but, might I say, of vital importance to the battalion in regard to the holding together of its command. With all the intelligence and power of observation that I, like my fellow signallers, have acquired from your teachings, sir, I regret to say that my research in the subject has, owing to my humble status as a private, been restricted, and I am unable to proceed to a definite determination of the final phase. And now, sir, I respectfully seek your aid and enlightenment, since you, as a commissioned officer of His Majesty the King, and commanding officer of this intelligence wing of our unit, are more favourably privileged to observe the finer points of the subject, which to my mind is the mainstay of the battalion command. Could you tell me, sir, if it is B.D. or D.V. corsets the Colonel wears?"

When the laughter subsided Sam came in for severe reprimand and, when the class was dismissed, he was given twenty alphabets to send by Morse flag. Ted received similar punishment for being the most outstanding with his laughter.

Sam, who liked to demonstrate his superior learning, wore underneath the collar of his tunic a stiff white collar, the feeling of which probably served to keep him from sinking into the uncouth habits of a soldier. But at times he would get a little bit rough and argumentative under the influence of higher class drinks, which he was careful to talk of for fear one might presume he had been partaking of common beer.

The signal section—excluding its sergeant and Toc R., the O.C.'s batman—comprised twenty-three men. With three signallers of the 1st Reinforcements, they were billeted in what had been a furniture showroom, which was like a home away from home, though without palliasses the floor was something of a disadvantage. The front opened on to a veranda where a trestle table served for taking meals, as well as for buzzer practice and card games. It was not until the night before leaving these premises that the erstwhile tenants discovered that gas was still connected to a meter in the room, and, when the main pipe was lit, the resultant five-foot flame served as a farewell beacon.

B., otherwise "Perlmutter," whose Yiddish cobber, Albert G., was called "Potash," slept on a locker in one corner of the bare room. One night, after they had returned from leave partly under the influence and given an acrobatic display in the nude among the rafters, Perlmutter sat fair in a bucket of water which had been purposely placed on his locker.

Rex, Reg, and Peter were the reinforcement signallers, and, as such, were looked upon by the originals as being below their standard. This view had no real foundation, for the length of service of these three was equal to that of the others, except Jack F. and Tom H., who had seen "active" service in New Guinea. (Those two, by the way, were wont to tell of the special service medal that was going to be struck for that campaign.) It is doubtful, however, if the reinforcement signallers ever felt any inferiority in their position. They were morally, socially, and generally in accord with each other, and, being so admirably suited, had no occasion to consider this other "secondary" status. The foundation of their friendship was, despite some difference in religious creeds, based on their code of moral ethics. That they did not adopt an attitude of aloofness, but joined in the collective amusements of the section was an influence for their good as well as for that of the others. It tended to broaden their outlook while at the same time rounding off the rough corners of others, for, if army life taught anything, it taught tolerance of the ways of men.

Other signaller friendships were for the most part based on some mutual characteristic or interest, yet the friendship of Eric W. and Bill M. was at first hard to understand. The former was a parson's son whose main interests lay in the direction of eating, sketching and photography, while of Bill it was said that he was writing a correspondence language course for bullock drivers; but each soon became an apt pupil of the other and they were almost inseparable.

Jim J. and Eric S., apart from being telegraphists by profession, were also united in their ideas of recreation, and in the art of elbow-bending they were about equal. Vic W. and Vic C., with names if nothing else in common, were also members of the "bar," as were Potash and Perlmutter and, later, Eric W. and Bill M. Alan L. (of furphy fame) was intelligence officer of the froth-blowers' circle, while Barney K., an ex-lightweight champion of the navy, was chief chucker-out and music maker.

Intellectual superiority and its finer tastes for both humour and edibles brought Sam C. and Dud C. to a state of perfect friendship, towards which Tom H. was ambitiously attracted and admitted on account of his somewhat polished mode of speech. On their returning to camp one evening Ted invited them to join him in his supper of fish and chips and beer, and was severely crushed by Sam's reply—"Fish and chips! Why we have just dined at Paris House!"

C.C. being the code letters for the word "cipher" in the signalling service, it was but natural that C.C.S. would be nicknamed accordingly. Cipher was of an inventive turn of mind, and at the time of his enlistment was in the midst of inventing some patent kind of headlight that would automatically project round corners. Jack G., an "umteenth" marine engineer, whose neat appearance was his outstanding social qualification, proved a suitable mate for Cipher. There was in the section another Jack G. who, having been a senior clerk to Stan (the O.C.) in a shipping office, apparently felt he had to keep up the dignity of his late position by playing a lone hand.

Other members of the section included Ron C., a close friend of the reinforcement signallers, yet even more adaptable than they were to the social requirements of soldiering. He shared with Ted the distinction of having a tunic embellished with officers' embossed oxidized metal buttons, and was the owner of a safety razor which Ted, receiving it as a parting gift, had exchanged with him for ready cash. Then there was Reg H., whose twin brother was on Gallipoli. Reg was another of the signallers' saints, and, when provoked in excited argument, as was frequently the case, because he was a good "bite," the only wickedness he was ever known to utter was "Ah, me tit!" Bob T., according to the nautical experiences he was ever ready to relate, was evidently born at sea, where he must have lived for about eighty years to have travelled so far and wide. Jim S. found pleasure in everything but shaving, though he had a kit of six or more razors with which to attack his wire-like growth; he was, without exception, the most obliging and unselfish one of the crowd. Wal C. was unequalled for his dryness of humour and his running capabilities, a most happy combination which was to serve him well in France. What Mac M., a ginger-headed Scotchman, lacked in humour he made up for in honesty; some ten years after the war, he went to no end of trouble to locate one of his Digger creditors with whom he insisted on settling a ten-bob debt. In 1915, however, Ted was in Mac's black books for having helped himself to the latter's gold-tipped cigarettes.

Ted had so far made no particular friend in the section, being evidently satisfied to be one of the company and on good terms with them all. His youth no doubt excluded his being welcomed into the froth-blowing circle of the hard heads; and, as the company of the wise heads would have cramped his style and made his youth more apparent to himself, if not others, he—well, just carried on.

One morning Ted was carrying on at the top of his voice, abusing all and sundry, when Major H. came in hearing, and promptly crimed him for using bad language. Ted was sorely tried all that day, and, though he came in for a good deal of chaffing from his cobbers, refrained from repeating anything of his morning address. Some told him that he would be given No. 1 field punishment and lose at least twenty-one days' pay, others that he would be "shot at dawn." He found that night to be a very long one. The hard boards on which he continually turned in trying to get to sleep were harder than ever before, and when at last he did go off, it was only to dream of even worse punishment than had been predicted by his mates. After he had faced the firing squad and received its issue of lead, his subconscious mind—taking a different course from that of most dreams—went travelling on through hell, where the devil took the form of the major who was gladly assisted in his tortures by all the signallers, and to make matters worse, he had been struck dumb. After ages and ages of continuous torture and just when he felt that he was about to die again, he heard the sound of Gabriel's trumpet, and awakening in a cold sweat, he found voice to curse the long drawn out blast of Lofty B.'s trombone in the adjoining shed.

Before the time arrived for orderly room parade, Ted paid an unofficial call on the major, who was then dressing and had evidently enjoyed a better night's rest than the lad, for, after receiving an apology and advising him to refrain from using such terms of "endearment," he withdrew the crime sheet. Ted, feeling that officers were not such inhuman creatures as he had previously imagined them to be, thereupon enjoyed a good breakfast and took added interest in the work of the day.

That night he and other signallers went to the Union Jack Club at Petersham. The club was run by a number of patriotic young girls, whose sole object was to entertain anything filling a khaki or naval uniform, and to send white feathers to those males who preferred civilian dress. They gave freely of lemonade, cakes, sweets, and kisses, and otherwise entertained with music, dancing, and games. In return, they were entertained by the troops, of whom Barney K. was their favourite with his sailor ditties, particularly the one that went "I-tiddle-i-ti, one for Mrs I-ti, slap her in the other eye," and so on. Barney, sitting on the floor among a bevy of pretty girls joining him in song, laughed and joked and sang with the same assurance that he had employed all the way out in the tram when not otherwise engaged in argument with the conductor over the troops' refusal to pay fares. "Book it up to Kitchener," he would say, and would then go on with "Farmer Brown, 'e 'ad a little farm, down on the E.I.O."

The roller skating rink at the Showground, opening as it did on to the street and into the ground, provided a good avenue for those taking and returning from French leave. It also afforded plenty of opportunity to those who liked this form of thrilling recreation, and furnished a handy, though in some cases last, meeting-place with members of the opposite sex. A flash civilian, expert in the art of skating, took much delight in upsetting the equilibrium of the troops not so skilled as himself. Ted suffered several falls in this fashion, and waited three successive nights before squaring the account, almost breaking the civvie's neck. Barney's challenge to a duel with or without skates was not accepted by the civvie, nor was the floor of the rink afterwards graced by his presence.

At this time the daily routine of the signallers commenced with physical training, a break for toilet, breakfast, and dressing for parade. Afterwards they would assemble with the rest of the battalion on the ground at the rear of the skating rink, where Major H.'s deep bass would bring the parade to order and he would hand it over to the colonel, who with the aid of his pea-whistle made himself promptly understood, despite his highly pitched voice which gave much amusement to the troops. The battalion would then get under way in its daily march to the foot of Mount Rennie, led by the band playing its regimental march.

At Mount Rennie the battalion split up for either company or platoon drill, while the band returned to camp to practise and the signallers got on with their visual training, which sometimes took the form of all-day stunts and resulted in their being spread out over the landscape as far as the sand-hills of Botany. They also had Morse buzzer practice and theory training, as well as instruction in infantry manoeuvres and rifle drill.

One day when both the O.C. and the sergeant were away, Toc R. led the signallers at the head of the battalion, as he was the proud possessor of two stripes to which, by the way, he was not entitled. Toc the batman had not previously been on a parade with the 30th, and, had not the colonel been immediately behind the signallers when Toc performed a fancy evolution with his signalling flag as he wheeled into the street, the boys would have all burst into laughter. Toc's left wheel resembled a tramwayman on point duty eurhythmically posing as Mercury in search of somewhere to go, and no doubt he was glad when his bandy legs and flat feet eventually got him there.

When the battalion made arrangements to stage a military tattoo, the signallers, because they were supposed to know something about telephone wires, were given the job of erecting electric-light poles in the show-ring, and for some years after the war these stood as the only visible monument to their existence as a unit.