Larrikins in Khaki

by Tim Bowden

  The lucky Diggers raced around, absorbing all the sights, smells and sounds of this fascinating city. A first port of call was the Australian Services Club for a soothing ale to celebrate their safe arrival. This was served in what were known as ‘Lady Blameys’. Because of the war, drinking glasses were scarce and the rate of attrition was high, so someone came up with a brilliant idea. Large beer bottles, when empty, were cut off neatly just below the shoulder, the edge of the bottom section sanded smooth, creating a very serviceable and generous drinking vessel.

  Early in June there was great rejoicing in the camp when the trusty Vickers guns and associated equipment arrived so they could now function properly as a fighting unit. Then a second miracle occurred. ‘Each seven-man gun crew received a brand-new Ford V8 one-ton utility truck. For us this meant one thing only—no more marching! Next day, the icing on the cake—we were issued with shiny new British mess dixies plus new modern webbing equipment and were able to get rid of the old World War I stuff which we had used for so long.’

  After getting all the guns back in good working order, they had to learn how to use the new Mark VIII ammunition which had also arrived. These new streamlined bullets had much greater range than the old Mark VII used in Australia. Their gun sights were still calibrated for the Mark VII and, as the new ammunition had an effective range of 3500 yards, against 2500 for the older bullets, this needed many calculations by section commanders to work out new settings for the gun sights. Rumours started to circulate that they might soon be seeing some action at last. Most of the crew started to stockpile tins of sausages, vegetables, fruit, condensed milk and chocolate bought from the canteen and stored in their new trucks for emergency use later.

  The French forces in Syria and Lebanon had remained loyal to the Vichy government in France after the collapse in that country, and had been ordered to allow the German and Italian air forces full use of all the aerodromes there. This presented a serious threat to the Allied forces in Egypt and Palestine and, of course, the Suez Canal.

  Clarry McCulloch recalled that, ‘After discussions with General de Gaulle, Winston Churchill ordered the invasion of Syria and Lebanon, and we would be part of this campaign. We were told that it was to be peaceful penetration, but someone neglected to tell the Vichy French about this, so when we did move in, we received quite a lively reception.’

  Ken Clift, with Sixth Division Signals, was sent to Qastina near Gaza. He eventually scored two days leave, and took off to the fleshpots of Jerusalem—such as they were—with his mates Harry, Tiny and Frank Inman, an Englishman with one of the other infantry sections. In Jerusalem, they were billeted in the King David Hotel, which had been converted to house troops on leave. The first day passed without incident. They saw the sights, visited numerous cafes, got a little drunk and retreated to their bunks.

  On the second morning, however, the room we occupied was raided by the Australian Military Police and we were packed off to the Jerusalem Gaol, much to our bewilderment. I, for one, didn’t have a clue whom or what we had offended but during the lengthy interrogation it appeared that in a less sober moment with cash running out, Frank had offered to barter or sell his respirator to some Arab bigwig who promptly reported to the gendarmes who, in turn, decided as we all came on leave together they’d put us all in the boob and then find out just what was going on. We were eventually escorted back to camp, charges were dropped against all but the unfortunate Frank, who received a penalty, but mercifully not a severe one.

  Ken’s experience in the Jerusalem Gaol reinforced his opinion that the military police ‘was run by a bunch of vicious malingering non-soldiers who would go to any lengths to avoid contact with the front line. Needless to say, their social activities were confined strictly to their own units or messes. They were not welcomed anywhere else except under duress.’

  Eventually the Sixth Division Signals formed their own camp at Kilo 89, for eight weeks. To relieve the monotony, Blue, Tiny, Harry and Ken decided to take a risk and borrow Captain ‘Rusty’ Reeve’s utility and have an evening in Tel Aviv, absent without leave.

  We had our evening all right, but a report must have been signalled to the Tel Aviv military police. We all experienced a hectic trip back to camp with Tiny at the wheel driving like a maniac and myself in the centre with Harry sitting on Blue’s lap, and his long legs hanging out of the window—Tiny crashing through a Provosts’ roadblock en route. Luck was with us and we avoided the Provosts, but were bailed up by Lieutenant Rusty Reeve in his pyjamas, dressing gown, webbing, pistol and boots with his pickets who—after we had been verbally reprimanded by him—promptly bundled us into the Guard Tent dragging poor unfortunate Archie out of his bunk and detailing him to get his rifle and guard us during the night. Poor Arch copped a lot of abuse and remarks such as ‘Provo bastard’, when he didn’t seem to want to do anything but go to sleep.

  Next morning they were paraded to Colonel Ken Eather by peppery Captain Arch Molloy, who shouted at Blue, ‘Get back into line, you bloody lout!’ Whereupon Blue put up his fists and challenged Molloy to a fight. After a lot of argument they fronted their sour old commanding officer (who they thought looked as if he had consumed too much whisky the evening before). Eather listened to the charges, fined them a hefty 5 pounds each, and gave them 30 days confined to barracks for good measure.

  To get away from parade ground drill and the eternal exercises on the Hebron Hills, Clift wangled a dispatch rider’s duty for a week between Kilo 89 camp and Gaza. He found it quite pleasant running between the orange and grapefruit groves with the countryside not unlike his native Australia. ‘There were even a lot of gum trees which had been planted years ago. On the last day of my duty, I collided with a Jewish car which had come out on the wrong side of a convoy which I was passing. The kick-start on my BSA motorcycle hamstrung me and so off to the field hospital I went with a gaping wound in my calf.’

  Clift was sent to a general hospital consisting of large tents, dirt floors, hospital beds, male orderlies—whom the patients called ‘pisspot jugglers’—severe-looking nursing sisters and medical officers who seemed to spend most of their time threatening to discipline all and sundry under their care.

  Ken recalled that the routine of the Australian General Hospital was very established:

  • About 4 am, the nurses came around to rouse the patients and insist they washed their face and hands.

  • The ‘pisspot jugglers’ reluctantly provided the patients with a cup of milky tea and maybe a biscuit, at the same time breathing over them ‘the remains of last night’s alicante, arrack, or any other vile brew they’d managed to drink’. Hospital orderlies and army cooks were notorious tipplers—which Ken and his companions soon discovered and used to full advantage.

  • The nurses then left for their breakfast. At 8.30 am they returned and ‘harassed the guts out of everyone, patients and “jugglers” alike’. The dusty tents then had to be made ship-shape and agreeable for the appearance of their commanding officer Colonel Stygrad.

  • The medical officers would inspect each patient (not too intimately) and prescribe aspirin for pain, or Number 9—a huge pill that would send the recipient racing to the toilet in a matter of minutes. After these episodes the patients would spend the rest of the day ‘telling lies, relating anecdotes, reading the Palestine Post or just waiting for the next meal’—but envying their mates who, still training hard, would be lining up for a few beers at the wet canteen after parade.

  Blue and ‘Snapper’ Smith came to see Ken—and put the hard word on him for money. The patients had just received their specialists’ pay and with the philosophy and logic of all soldiers, they could not see what possible use money was to anyone in hospital.

  While in hospital, Ken met a couple of very interesting characters indeed: ‘Pissy’ Wilson from the 2/3rd Battalion, and a giant of a man by the name of Rupe Heiptmann from the 2/1st Field Ambulance.

  ‘Pissy Wilson was in the cot to my left, Rupe in the cot to m
y right, and as anyone who has spent any time in hospital can tell you, life can be boring in the extreme, especially when you’re young, you’re mindful of adventure, your loins full of lust and the world your oyster.’

  Wilson had an injured leg and his face was cut to ribbons due to his efforts as a dispatch rider for the 2/3rd Battalion while drunk. He confided to Ken that his main source of revenue for the war was counterfeiting—but not in a big way. Two-bob coins were his only transgression on the Australian Mint, and he had fallen foul of the Commonwealth police on a few occasions and had seen the inside of His Majesty’s prisons more than once. Pissy explained that the head and tail of the two-bob piece presented very little problem, but the milling of the edges did. Just before enlisting, he’d adjusted the technicalities of that side of his counterfeiting with a small machine which he had thoughtfully included in his haversack before embarking. After looking over the local coinage, he felt confident that he could do a much better job, and proceeded to do so as soon as he was discharged from hospital. His raw materials came from disused toothpaste tubes, pieces of solder from army workshops and any other non-ferrous material he could lay his hands on.

  This coinage passed fairly freely without question on his leaves to Jerusalem, Haifa and Tel Aviv, but he made a faux pas by letting his thirst get the better of him and spending some of his homemade currency in the 2/3rd Battalion canteen. This was far too close to home and he was hauled up before Colonel Viv England, a very imposing soldier, and penalised. Pissy had to make amends from his pay book and he never passed any more dud money in the 2/3rd canteen, but it didn’t deter his further dealings with civilians and the whole Middle East, which he considered fair game.

  In the hospital cot on Ken’s other side was an equally dubious fellow:

  Rupe Heiptmann’s mode of making a crust was horse, cattle or sheep duffing in the Wyalong district. Rupe informed me of these facts quite airily and then dismissed them to discuss more important urgent requirements such as getting some amenities whilst in hospital. He disclosed that he was quite well cashed up having been the ‘boxer’ at the swy game at the 2/1st Field Ambulance for some weeks before being hospitalised. Furthermore he was very friendly with the English NAAFI canteen sergeant only a mile or so away from the General Hospital. Although the canteen wasn’t officially open until after parade, he felt we may be able to manage to get a beer if we limped along there, unbeknown to our militant nursing sisters. We both made off in our dressing gowns and after a few rests, arrived at the canteen where we were received with open arms.

  It was a long day as they sampled Whitbreads and Barclays beer (all tinned) and finally Rupe purchased several bottles of more potent brews such as cherry brandy for their comrades in the hospital ward.

  They wended their way back at a time when they knew the nursing staff would be at the mess and they would only have to contend with their mates and the pisspot jugglers—who, along with the patients, promptly demolished the firewater they had brought back in quick time. Remarkably even ‘Darkie’ White, who had just had a goitre removed from his throat and had to take his cherry brandy through a tube dangling from his larynx.

  All hell broke loose when the sisters arrived back, much to Rupe’s amazement. They summoned the colonel and most of the medical officers but as everyone in the ward smelt of grog, nothing much could be done individually. From then on, discipline in the ward was very severe and the patients were all greatly relieved to get their discharges some weeks later, and get back to their units. According to Ken, Rupe was not cut out for the military life:

  Rupe invariably paid no deference to rank. All attempts to awe him with threats from colonels, regimental sergeant-majors, sergeants and their ilk were of no avail. He was the despair of the Field Ambulance, and even on parade would address his commanding officer Colonel Cunningham by his nickname ‘Nugget’. Rupe was eventually sent back to Australia as incorrigible and was discharged.

  The last we heard of him was that he was on a manslaughter charge, due to a broken neck sustained by one of our American allies who had an altercation with Rupe in a Kings Cross dive not long before the war ended.

  On arriving back at Sixth Division, Clift found his feisty officer Captain Arch Molloy had again ‘hit the headlines’. On his rounds as adjutant the previous evening, he’d visited the other ranks’ wet canteens to find Signaller Henry ‘Mac’ MacIntosh in a truculent mood. Mac was a rough knockabout sort of character with a penchant for bar room and street brawling. ‘His scarred countenance gave mute testimony to this habit and it seemed that after being chipped by Captain Molloy, Mac indicated that the good captain would not be so overbearing if he had the guts to remove his officers “pips”, put up his fists and meet Mac man-to-man out on the parade ground.’

  No sooner had the challenge been issued than it was accepted and so captain and signaller—much to the delight of all Digger onlookers—stepped out to do battle royale with their fists. It was a massacre, Mac getting a scientific hiding that he wouldn’t forget in a hurry. It was discovered later that Molloy was not only Middleweight Champion of Military College Duntroon, but also the Indian Army.

  Captain Molloy was a fine soldier even if we disliked him at first. He was promoted, and sent to Air-Ground Liaison Group and was captured by the Germans in the desert, only to escape and find his way back by sheer guts and ingenuity, to his own lines. ‘Tubby’ Bruce’s theory was that the Huns didn’t like him any more than we did so they let Captain Arch go to get rid of him.

  The weather had changed from bitterly cold to extremely warm so it was necessary to issue the troops with lighter clothing and later with shorts. The first batch of shorts they were given, while ordnance waited for supplies from Australia, came from the British and were known as ‘Bombay bloomers’. The Australians were less than enchanted with these. Well named, they looked and felt like bloomers with great billowing legs and ‘our skinny shanks poking out of them like sticks. The flies, as always in the Middle East, were with us in their thousands and unless you were ever alert, would take a Cook’s Tour up one bloomer leg, trot around your vital zones and exit from the other leg.’

  Like Signaller Ken Clift, Private Bob ‘Hooker’ Holt’s unit, the 16th Brigade of the 2/3rd Infantry Battalion, was also sent to Helman camp in Egypt as the prospect of combat loomed ever closer. Bob, too, experienced the indignities of wearing Bombay bloomers when the surprisingly cold Middle East winters turned to a desert summer. When leave was granted, he had planned to hire transport and see the pyramids, but never made it past the Egyptiana Café, where the beer was cold and the salted peanuts were ‘on the house’.

  A district called the Berka was the mecca of the drunken and licentious soldiery of a dozen nations and it catered to the depraved tastes of all. The Berka, otherwise known as the Wazza, had been familiar to the 1st AIF. The whole area resembled an overturned ant heap as hordes of servicemen wandered from one establishment to another at all hours of the day or night. About a mile long, it was lined with three- or four-storey brick buildings: brothels on one side, and cafes, drinking shops and more brothels on the other. The girls were a polyglot mix of races and unfortunately for them not well paid. The going rate was 20 ackers (about 4 shillings). However, if money was short, Bob heard of some men sneaking in to patronise the houses of ill fame that catered to the carnal appetites of the Indian soldiers. The charge there was only 10 ackers. The notorious ‘Bull Ring’ was an alley off the main street and it resembled a rabbit warren, with girls hanging out of the windows importuning the soldiers in a dozen different languages. Bob recalled:

  The whole area had a distinctive smell all of its own. It wasn’t too bad in the mornings—but of an evening—phew! Drunken soldiers would urinate from the top of the stairs of some of the establishments and this would collect on the worn portions of the marble steps. Late-night soldiers wishing to visit ladies on the top floors would have to paddle and splash through pools of piss. It definitely wasn’t the scene for anyone wit
h a weak stomach.

  After a visit to one of the brothels it was customary for the soldier to go to a Blue Light Clinic for a washout. This involved some sort of ointment that left a greasy salve on the end of the penis, which was then covered with a piece of tissue paper. Most of us had to wear the wide-legged Bombay Bloomers. It was quite a usual sight, and it never failed to tickle my sense of humour, to see a team of soldiers wandering along the street with tissue paper falling from the front of their shorts like confetti!

  Jack Humphreys, Peter White and Bob Holt took ‘French Leave’ from camp and were meandering along the main street on the day of what became known as the ‘Battle of the Berka’. No one was ever sure what it was all about, but a roar and a scuffling starting at one end of the crowded street gradually worked down to the other end of the Berka. It would die out only to start up again an hour or so later. A form of mass hysteria, perhaps? The Australians and New Zealanders ‘thumped the tar’ out of anyone who happened to be near.

  At one stage of the game we were drinking with an Egyptian policeman and some Sudanese soldiers. We brawled with provosts from New Zealand as well as the Australian variety. During the course of the evening Peter and I had a difference of opinion with several English Military Policemen. I was thumping one gentleman and on the only place I could reach, his stomach. Someone leaned across me and punched the provost to the ground, whereupon the Red Cap got up and took himself off at the gallop. I thanked my mate Peter, but he denied any knowledge of it, as he was more than busy with his own opponent. It appears that a soldier with a big punch and a dislike for Military Police had seen I had my work cut out, and let go with a right hand punch over my shoulder as he was passing. I take this opportunity to thank the unknown soldier!