Larrikins in Khaki
Page 9
Our section had a couple of parties from the 4-gallon can then we gave it a miss. We had a visit from the well-educated eccentric Frankie Richardson who was in another section of 10 Platoon. In his well-modulated voice, Frankie asked us politely if we would be ‘so kind as to allow him to help himself to a small concoction of this lovely drink’. We told him to help himself and with that he pulled a length of rubber tubing from his pocket and lay down alongside the can, placed one end of the tubing in his mouth and the other in the can, and proceeded to drink himself senseless.
The 16th Brigade had spearheaded the attack on Bardia and Tobruk, and mainly owing to lack of transport, they were allowed to spell while the other two brigades were battling for Derna, the next town up the coast about 100 miles further west.
The battalion received a well-publicised visit from Prime Minister Menzies. He inspected them and told them how proud he and the people of Australia were of the doings of such patriots.
Signallers were responsible for communications in battle, and they also had to fight. Signaller Ken Clift was promoted to Acting Corporal as he joined J Section in the freezing cold before the attack on Tobruk. Like Bob Holt, he was also issued with a rare official tot of rum as the artillery barrage signalling the beginning of the offensive opened up.
The engineers had cut the defensive wire so the infantry passed through the gaps and found very little immediate opposition. There was a reason for this—the Italians’ infantry, except in a few pillboxes, had withdrawn pending the attack and waited until the Allied attackers were through the wire then put down an accurate ‘box barrage’ by their artillery to greet them.
Clift recalled, ‘Everyone went to ground and for some minutes the shells probed up and down the line.’ The whole front was a mass of dust and flying shale, casualties were sustained, but the brigade continued on until a suitable pillbox was captured and established a headquarters.
At this stage, Tubby Bruce was the driver of the signals truck which had been hit in the left wheel, leaving a great hunk of shrapnel embedded in the tyre that miraculously had not punctured. Porter McKee and I were the two linesmen. I was in charge of the detail although one wouldn’t think so by some of the language addressed to me by my two colleagues! We topped the rise amongst all the dust and confusion expecting to find what we fondly imagined would be the 2/3rd Battalion headquarters if its advance had been on schedule. Instead, on a salient about 150 yards away, was an enemy machine gun firing from a pillbox towards the forward troops of the company of the 2/3rd Battalion. Beyond the pillbox and 50 yards away was a battery of Italian field guns.
The enemy had obviously not sighted their truck, which Tubby smartly spun down into a gulley. The signalmen each had two rifles, plenty of grenades and a .45 pistol. Using the wadi as cover, they got within firing distance, keeping the enemy gun crews’ heads down with rifle fire. They returned fire but the traverse of the machine gun was restricted by the concrete loopholes, so they managed to get around the back of the Italian defenders. Clift ran forward and got a grenade down the back of the pillbox and ‘minced the machine gunners!’
The enemy field guns still firing on our troops came to our attention. And we gave them some rapid fire from our rifles. They ducked down into a labyrinth of trenches behind the guns and waved the white flag. I advanced on them with a grenade, pin out, while Butta and Tubby covered them with rifles. Their major had been wounded in the arm and there were several badly wounded men in the gun emplacements. We got them all out, about 60 Italians, made them pile their rifles in a heap, then in came B Company.
The dawn broke and another series of Australian attacks began. They again captured a tremendous number of prisoners and war booty of all descriptions, ranging from surgical instruments to heavy transport. The captured transport was worth many millions of pounds.
Tobruk fell. Ken thought it looked bigger than Bardia, although very much like it—whitewashed buildings lurching sideways from air, sea and land attacks. The Italian flag was lowered from the mast in the main square and a Digger’s slouch hat run up to replace it.
These cheeky little Italians had the audacity to take Mussolini at his word and had built, conveniently for us, a huge compound of stakes, barbed wire gates and prisoner amenities to house any British troops who attacked the fortress of Tobruk. Because there was a delay in sending prisoners from Bardia to Alexandria and beyond, the brigade gladly took advantage of this ready-made compound and herded as many as possible of the defeated enemy and their belongings into it. Valises, banjos, guitars and such-like all went in together.
After a couple of days acclimatisation, the Italian prisoners rendered some impromptu concerts for any troops outside the compound who came to listen. One Digger, who had lost his best mate during an attack on a strong-post when they were within bayoneting distance, was annoyed to such an extent that he hurled a Mills bomb over the wire into a group of the prisoners and invited them to ‘cut it up between them’. Several were killed and wounded. The perpetrator was arrested and charged accordingly.
Clift was garrisoned at Fort Pilastrino—another fort out of the pages of a Beau Geste novel, right in the heart of Tobruk. On arrival there, a signals station was established in what had been an officers’ brothel complete with four-poster beds, silk drapes and other luxurious furnishings. (A similar establishment on a much larger scale existed in the port area of Tobruk.) ‘We never found out just what happened to the ladies involved but imagined they must’ve been evacuated to Tripoli or beyond as things began to look a little too “fair dinkum” for comfort,’ Clift observed.
Our cookhouse was run by a group of rather un-military gentlemen all of whom were partial to alcoholic beverages and as Tobruk abounded in the leftovers from the Italians, such as chianti and kegs of cognac plus the addition of a splash of bottled water—if you wished to be effete—a rare old time was had by all. Next morning as we turned out for our usual morning mess of bully, biscuits and hot tea, there was no breakfast. All the cooks were blind drunk and quite incapable—a half-empty keg of cognac telling the sad story.
Senior officers were outraged. The Diggers involved were ordered to shave and smarten themselves up and all the looted grog was destroyed, causing great grief among those who had liberated it. A further report that two soldiers had died from alcoholic poisoning in Tobruk spelt the end of that particular bonanza.
But the relatively easy victory over the Italians at Tobruk was far from the end of the story. Australian soldiers were to be involved with Tobruk for far longer when the Germans entered the war.
Holt’s battalion arrived in Mersa Matruh and were put into an old barracks. They had a bath, shook the dust out of their clothes and took off up the road to a British camp full of newly arrived lines-of-communication troops. ‘Could you tell me where to find the canteen, mate?’ Bob asked a fresh-faced young fellow.
This creature looked us up and down as if we were scarab beetles and with an accent you would have cut with a knife he replied that he wasn’t my mate. He was an officer and a gentleman and would like to be addressed as such.
I noticed then that he was the proud possessor of one single shiny pip on his shoulder. He suggested I restart the conversation by saluting and calling him ‘Sir’. I told him to go and get himself fucked, and left him spluttering about insubordinate colonials. We eventually found the canteen without the young gentleman’s help and got ourselves a gut full of beer.
Bob and friends staggered back to their barracks about midnight, full of booze and happy, singing loudly and without a worry in the world. This happy state of affairs did not last long, as Lieutenant George Gibbons from Holt’s company had been annoyed for hours by returning drunks and by the time they arrived on the scene he’d had enough—more than enough. He bellowed like a bull and roared to them to shut up and get to bed.
We had a few words and I told him to go away and also get himself fucked. But it wasn’t a new chum English one-pipper I was addressing but one of our very o
wn Australian infantry officers. He ‘cooed’ for about a minute and then bellowed for the guard. It would have been foolish to hang about so I took off and wandered over to D Company’s lines. I borrowed a blanket from my mate Snowy Parkinson and put my head down.
Fortunately Holt and his companions found next morning that Lieutenant Gibbons had cooled off, and apart from reading the riot act to them, he didn’t carry on with the list of charges he had thought up. Besides, they were to entrain for Amiriya camp. ‘Our lieutenant was a good judge of a pot of beer, and had a few himself, and in the morning may have thought the paperwork was a bit much for him. We knew we were on the move and according to which “furphy” you believed, we were going to England, Cyprus, Turkey or Greece.’ In the meantime they were to get a day’s leave in Alexandria.
They all had three months pay in their pockets, and prepared to spend it on a day’s joyous leave. ‘Tich’ Parker and Holt were to go in together and Holt was nominated treasurer. They put in £50 apiece (carried by Holt) and Tich planted £10 in one of his socks for cab fares back to camp if anything went wrong.
We started the day like two gentlemen. We had a Turkish bath and then a meal before indulging ourselves in the odd measure or two of ale.
The hub of the red-light district in Alexandria was the Rue de Soeurs (Sister Street) and Tich and I decided to give it a good looking at. Judging by the hordes of AIF men milling around when we got there, most of the 6th Division must’ve had the same idea. Sister Street was an alleyway between the long row of three or four storey tenements. Each door and window was filled with ladies of the evening of every hue and nationality. There was a large two-up game in progress on the street and it was amusing to see the ladies betting on the pennies. The going rate for nonsense was 40 ackers (four shillings) and the ladies nearly always wagered that sum. If the girl won, the soldier threw the money up to her. If the lady lost, the AIF digger usually rushed upstairs to take his wager out in kind. Tich and I played some two-up, then sampled the delights of these latter-day houris, before settling down to some steady drinking.
It was still reasonably early and they realised if they wanted to see the finish of the day’s leave they would have to use their heads for thinking instead of fighting, and decided to go to a picture show. That wasn’t a great success either, for they had no sooner settled down in the theatre seats than around came a drinks waiter and introduced them to John Collins and other fancy cocktails.
They left the theatre and finished up in the out-of-bounds quarter of the city in a narrow brothel. It seemed appropriate to hire the entire staff of the bordello and put on their own version of the can-can. ‘The “bludger” [brothel keeper] banged out a rhythm on a drum while his offsider blew on some weird instrument, in the middle of the circle of jigging, prancing, dancing girls who were in the altogether. There were skinny ones, fat ones and all sorts of shapes and sizes in between. Their ages ranged from 15 to 50 and to be brutally honest, there was not one good sort amongst them.’ The pièce de résistance was an exhibition jig-a-jig. Holt and Tich had their wicked way with some of the ladies, drank some arrack and headed back to the city.
It was just on dark and the Australian military police were touring the city with loudspeakers on trucks, advising all Sixth Division personnel to return to Amiriya immediately. Holt and Tich decided on a trip out of the city and boarded a tram. Tich had been a ‘troubadour’ (tram conductor) in Sydney before enlistment, and after the driver accepted a drink or two Tich gained his confidence, speaking at length of the international solidarity of tramway men, and went through the procedure of driving a tram.
Convinced that Tich was a veteran tram driver from Sydney, the driver gave him a turn at the controls. Tich took over all right, but apparently the speed limit in Alexandria was a lot slower than in Sydney. By the time we reached the terminal the driver was tearing his hair and praying, cursing and swearing in Arabic, French and English. Some of the carried-over passengers had been having hysterics as the tram rattled and crashed along with Tich at the controls. There was an awful commotion when we eventually ran out of track at the terminus. The inspectors and tramway staff convinced us both it would be better for all concerned if we returned to the city by gharry [taxi]. They were very rude and spoke to us quite sharply. To make their point quite clear all hands, including the driver and passengers, threw rocks at us until we were out of sight.
It was then back to the city and into a cabaret with drink flowing freely. Most of the more regimental soldiers had returned to camp and most of the unruly elements remained. ‘Everyone was to some extent under the influence of John Barleycorn.’
The ‘Top of the Pops’ among all troops in the Middle East at this time was a dirty song sung to the tune of the Egyptian national anthem. A drunk from the 17th Brigade got up on the rostrum and gave a spirited rendition, deeply appreciated by the music lovers among the Australians. What the indigenous people thought about it was not considered, according to Holt:
The way the cash registers were ringing must have brought music to their ears, however, and I really believe they would have stood up en masse and blessed themselves if someone had recited the Lord’s Prayer. The Aussie version of the Gyppo national anthem song was:
And we howled ‘King Farouk’
He’s a bloody great galoot;
He’s the King of all the Wogs
And the jackals and the dogs.
CHORUS:
We’re all black bastards but we dearly love our King:
Inter quios, quicketere, mungaree, bardin.
Oh we love Queen Faridah;
How the boys would love to ride her.
We’d all like a chance
To drop her pants.
CHORUS
Italian Marshal Graziani,
How we fought your Libyan army
In the Western Desert brawl
When we answered to the call.
CHORUS
Oh we’re all 6th Division
And we don’t give a fuck
For the Wogs or the Jews
Or Faridah or Farouk.
CHORUS
King Farouk, King Farouk,
Hang your bollocks on a hook
Staniswire, pull your wire,
Inter quios, quicketere, mungaree, bardin.
By this time the club was really jumping, and to make room for the dancing and the brawling the unconscious drunks had been laid three or four deep alongside the walls around the establishment. Eventually treasurer Holt ran out of the ‘filluse’ (cash), but they’d had quite a day and were more than ready to return to camp.
Strange to say, Tich remained popular and had girls crawling all over him, fondling and kissing him and interfering with his clothing. Now Tich was a nice enough fellow and had a pleasant grin but I couldn’t really understand the carry-on as the hostesses usually drink cold tea instead of the alcoholic beverages and received a percentage from the management. Here was Tich with no money and still ruling the roost. It was strange. Suddenly the penny dropped. ‘Where the bloody hell is the cab fare back to the camp, you undersized runt?’ Tich held up about 50 ackers and gave a silly grin, so I knew the worst. He had spent our return fare on the ladies, who dropped him like a hot potato as soon as they knew he was skint.
The Australian military police arrived in force and were busy throwing drunks into the back of 3-ton trucks to return them to camp. Rather than route march all on their own, Tich and Bob climbed into one of the trucks.
The military jacks couldn’t have been too particular about who they had been firing into their vehicles for they had flung in an English swaddy [soldier]. He was still in a stupor when he woke up on the desert road. He sat up and complained bitterly about being shanghaied. ‘Up the Aussies, England forever,’ he shouted, and Tich flattened him. A few minutes later he sat up again—‘England forever’, and bang went Tich again. This happened all the way to Amiriya. If the trip had been much longer the Choom would have finished up punch drunk fo
r sure.
The Provosts threw everyone out at Amiriya camp. Tich and I got lost, had a nap and eventually found our own lines at daybreak. We were informed we were to ‘saddle up’ as the battalion was off to Greece. Talk about being ill! Still we didn’t have this all on our own and it was a very subdued platoon that climbed up on a gangway from the wharf to board HMS Gloucester—a cruiser.
We certainly weren’t sorry to see the last of Egypt. This anonymous verse sums up the feelings of that moment:
Land of flies and sweaty socks,
Sin and sand and lots of pox;
Streets of sorrow, streets of shame,
Streets to which we give no name;
Harlots, thieves and pestering Wogs,
Dust and stink and slinking dogs;
Blistering heat and aching feet,
Gyppo gripes and camel meat;
Clouds of choking dust that blinds,
Droves of flies and shattered minds.
The Arabs’ heaven, the soldiers’ hell,
Land of Bastards, Fare thee well.
Chapter 7
ILL-FATED GREEK ADVENTURE
The decision to commit Australian troops to fight in Greece in early 1941 turned out to be a disaster—a combination of bad strategic intelligence, British enthusiasm for Australian involvement, indecision on the part of the Australian prime minister Robert Menzies and a strangely belated warning on the likely success of the operation by General Thomas Blamey, Australia’s senior military commander.