Larrikins in Khaki

by Tim Bowden

  Holt’s unit trained long and hard to once more became an efficient team. There was no new campaign in the offing, and rumours became rife about home leave. This was denied by the authorities and there were rumblings throughout the brigade. A notice was put on the battalion noticeboard advising all and sundry to ‘go through’ (desert) early and ‘avoid the Christmas rush’. The colonel was not amused and told them so in no uncertain terms on a battalion parade.

  It was about this time that some of the men in the other divisions reckoned they were being treated like dogs, so during the evening retreat they began to bark like dogs.

  The idea took on like wildfire amongst the units of the three divisions on the Tablelands. First you could faintly hear the yapping and barking from faraway units and then louder, until it reached our camp. We would take up the call—or the bark—and then it could be heard fading away into the distance.

  In 1917 on the Western Front, the French armies mutinied. The poilus went into the trenches baaing like sheep as they believed they were being led to the slaughter. I believe our army authorities must’ve remembered this, for they did their best to stamp out the barking. For us, however, it was all in fun and if the military hierarchy didn’t like it, so much the better. The authorities didn’t have a great deal of success in spite of Divisional and Brigade orders, but eventually the barking died a natural death of its own accord.

  The Seventh and Ninth Divisions returned to New Guinea and attacked the Japanese at Lae and Finschhafen. There was heavy fighting in these campaigns and there were strong rumours for a while that the 2/1st Battalion were to join them. But the Japanese retreated up the coast, and the Sixth Division remained on the Atherton Tablelands.

  Holt remarked, ‘This was something of a let-down as we were packed and ready to move.’

  Chapter 15

  THE SAGA OF THE FLYING FOOTSLOGGERS

  Like the British Army, Australia did not have paratroops at the outbreak of World War II. However, the effective use of paratroops in the early stages of the war in Europe sparked an interest in developing a similar capability in Australia. Efforts to raise an operational parachute capability began with 40 volunteers being selected for a Parachute Training Unit (PTU), training at the air base at Tocumwal in southern New South Wales, with the first parachute course involving four jumps. Equipment for training at this stage was sparse to say the least, involving one Wirraway training aircraft and a lone DC2 aircraft (the precursor to the soon-to-be-produced enduring DC3). There were 60 parachutes, ten wooden dummies, some motorcycle helmets and some physical training equipment including a vaulting horse. As author Norm Fuller wrote, the dropping of the dummies was clumsy. Without an exit slide, ‘they tumbled out in an ungainly fashion with most of the canopies not opening’.

  Civil Constructional Corps (CCC) workers clearing tree stumps to enlarge the Tocumwal runways immediately went on strike, claiming any one of them could be hit by one of the falling dummies. They were awarded an extra 10 shillings a day danger money! ‘This award for the CCC workers astounded the paratroops who knew the men were scattered over more than a square kilometre from where the actual dropping zone was declared to be,’ Fuller recalled. ‘The paratroops themselves were unskilled in what they were doing, took many risks, but received no danger money.’

  Local people watching the dummies falling thought they were real men crashing to the ground. In the bar at night they would greet the soldiers with how many men they had seen falling to their death that day. ‘The paratroops looked sad and said for all they knew their turn could come tomorrow. On hearing this, the local citizens bought drinks for their heroes, never letting their glasses run dry.’

  Training and dropping techniques were still under experimentation. With the parachute pack on his back, the trooper clipped a static strop trailing from the apex of his chute onto a fixed line down the centre of the fuselage above his head. On stepping out of the aircraft, the parachute opened automatically, as the strop pulled the canopy out of the pack, and the trooper floated free. His next concern was landing, and the idea was, when about 4 metres from the ground—difficult to judge under the circumstances—he was supposed to pull himself up into the parachute shrouds quickly, so cushioning his landing.

  The paratroops knew they were taking part in high risk activities. Leg and ankle injuries were many—but not always through jumping from aircraft. A more frequent hazard was during training, where the recruit had to jump from a wooden tower 3 metres high, thought to duplicate the landing speed from an actual jump. This practice was soon discontinued, together with the army issue of elastic ankle supports. The casualty rate was considerably reduced! Still, physical training on the ground accounted for frequent broken limbs, sprains and concussion.

  It was well known in the ranks that paratroops were expensive to keep in the army, with their special equipment, vehicles, aircraft and RAAF personnel to fly and maintain them. Qualified paratroops were paid a rate equivalent to an infantry sergeant. Medical services were also more frequently used than in other army units.

  Over the head of the parachute battalion hung the constant threat of being disbanded because it cost too much. Norm Fuller believed that the only reason the unit continued was that it was tolerated by the Commander in Chief General Thomas Blamey, so it was in the unit’s interest to have the injury rates during training kept low key.

  During a training session at Richmond, in New South Wales, recruits were required to jump over a vaulting horse after a short run, and fall to the ground using an approved-style shoulder roll. In doing so, one soldier hit the ground awkwardly, breaking his ankle in two places, then spent several weeks recuperating at Ingleburn, before being declared fit to resume training.

  On his first day back at Richmond, this soldier was approached by an NCO and asked to sign a declaration that the injury had not been sustained during his parachute training course. The soldier was surprised that he had been asked to sign an untrue statement, and said so. The NCO replied that if he wished to remain with the unit, he had better sign. The soldier signed.

  After the war, Norm Fuller, who knew the soldier personally, went to search the archives, but he could find no evidence that the mishap had ever occurred.

  A similar mystery surrounded the first training death, involving a Private Johnson who was undertaking a normal training jump from the unit’s one and only DC2 aircraft. The apex of his parachute caught on the plane’s tail and nothing Johnson or the pilot, Flight Lieutenant Beeston, could do would dislodge him. A terrifying scenario then evolved.

  Tocumwal’s commanding officer, Wing Commander Clarence Glasscock, took off in a Wirraway in a desperate attempt to rescue Johnson. It appeared that his plan was to bring the smaller plane up close under Johnson and signal for the dangling parachutist to release his harness and drop into the open cockpit. But once Glasscock was in position with the Perspex canopy of the Wirraway open, a now terrified Johnson waved him away, apparently fearing he would be struck by the propeller.

  Beeston then decided to drop Johnson into the waters of a nearby dam. The afternoon was lengthening, and Beeston was aware of the coming darkness. He flew low at 50 metres above the water to entice Johnson to release himself. But the aircraft was so low, it nearly stalled and Beeston had to regain height quickly for fear of a further accident.

  The pilot swept back over the lake, again very low, and indicated to Johnson that he had best release himself. This he did, but not until he was about 300 metres above the surface of the lake, falling backwards. He was killed either by the impact or drowning.

  Fuller wrote that four days were spent dragging the lake before Johnson’s body was recovered.

  Training continued, and much time was spent on parachute theory which would, of course, be the lifeline of each soldier. The trainees were taught to pack their own parachutes! However, not much time was spent on this, despite the importance of the parachute opening successfully. Fuller remarked, ‘This in itself gave the volunteers the
impression of how expendable they were, and whether anybody cared.’

  Paratroops had to be special types of men—there were no others like them—but in those days the authorities didn’t really know what to look for. It was a matter of guessing whether the applicant was self-confident, and had the ability to face up to snap decisions and to questions after the event. Strength of mind and character were obvious pluses, egotism perhaps, and a spirit of camaraderie to be developed through the hazardous nature of the work. Parachutists had to be commandos, and were later trained as such.

  The first training course consisted of a solo jump from 2000 feet, two solo jumps from 1000 feet and a final ‘stick’ (jumping with ten men) from 5000 feet. During the initial course, one Private Kew set an unenviable record by being caught in a vicious updraft which lifted him skywards out of control, so that it took him eight minutes to drop 2000 feet. The freakish winds at Tocumwal made the dropping zone (DZ) particularly dangerous.

  On 12 April 1943 the Parachute Training Unit moved from Tocumwal south to the Richmond air base near Sydney, mainly because the weather was more suitable for training. Richmond had a well-equipped gymnasium, a new DC3 aircraft was provided and smaller parachutes to take the place of the older style—and the use of the Hawkesbury agricultural fields for a dropping zone and exercise area.

  The first two weeks of a four-week course were devoted to physical training and skills needed for dropping. Seven jumps had to be successfully completed to qualify, including stick jumping with groups of soldiers leaving the aircraft in quick time. The last two stick jumps were with 15 to 21 men, all carrying weapons—a .303 rifle with the butt held against the cheek or the face, or a Sten gun carried horizontally inside the front of the harness, and a Bren gun carried in a felt sheath which was lowered by a cord to the ground in the last moments before hitting the ground.

  Lieutenant Max Canning was in the first stick at Richmond to jump with weapons. On this occasion, according to Norm Fuller, ‘A dog, a cat and a magpie were included in the exercise. The cat fell from its master ten metres from the ground, the magpie flew off and the dog spied a rabbit when also a short distance from the ground and vanished chasing it.’

  The paratroop unit was becoming something of a foreign legion. It was hard to become a member, partly because of the high physical standards set and strict rules. No one, let alone its own members, knew its purpose, and many stories circulated, varying from attachments to fighting battalions, undercover work, or becoming a brigade strength force from within itself. Volunteers came from everywhere. One, who joined at Tocumwal, was a colourful character, Sergeant Leslie Morgan, who originally enlisted in Western Australia.

  Morgan was also an old soldier from past campaigns, having fought in the Spanish Civil War of 1936! He was one of the most decorated men in the paratroop ranks, wearing four Spanish decorations including the Order of the Golden Fleece. He had been in action with the 2/11th Battalion, a Western Australian unit. He fought in Greece and Crete, from which he escaped by tying himself to an oil drum and drifting out to sea. He was eventually picked up by a passing British submarine. Bored with military life back in Western Australia, he joined the paratroops. Morgan had one problem—his age. He put his age down substantially to join the paratroops. When he eventually went to the battalion in Mareeba later in the war, he was constantly afraid his advanced years would be discovered, and he would be marched out as the oldest parachutist in the battalion. This never happened. Norm Fuller wrote:

  Morgan was an unusual man in many ways, and he had many attributes, one of which was his mastery of the rifle and bayonet. Reticent to speak of his early army experiences, Morgan was known to have been a gunrunner around Spanish Morocco before becoming involved in the Civil War. He would tell his listeners he had done everything in the army except jump out of an aeroplane—which is why he joined the paratroops!

  A tall man, Morgan had an uncontrollable twitch about his face. On one occasion while a parade was being inspected by a visiting high-ranking officer, he noticed Morgan’s twitching face and exclaimed, ‘Good God, this man has been in the army too long!’

  Military records now show that Morgan was born in 1910, so in 1945 he was 35 years old—a mature age for a commando-trained parachutist, it is fair to say!

  Night jumping at Richmond was never very successful. Trainees were understandably nervous, and after some unfortunate incidents it was cancelled. The ending of the night jumps was more than partly due to the occasion on which the pilot, Lionel Van Praag, didn’t reach the proposed dropping zone. He mistook the lights of a farmhouse for the signal to drop. The paratroops left the DC3 in sticks of five, and Van Praag returned to Richmond.

  The hapless soldiers had been dropped over an area covered in tall trees. Due to the darkness they had no idea what was below them, and had no option but to hang in the trees in their harnesses till morning. When the sun rose, the men released themselves and fell to the ground. Miraculously there were only a few minor injuries. The clean-up and collection of parachutes and other equipment was expensive in time, loss and damage.

  The Canungra Jungle Warfare School, inland from Southport in southern Queensland, was used by the paratroops on more than one occasion. They carried out the normal training course, arriving at the camp sometimes by parachute in small groups, at other times in larger numbers more conventionally in truck convoys. On arrival at the main gate, the troops would form up in their ranks and march in—their attention being drawn to a gravesite at the side of the road, said to contain the remains of the soldier who failed to move quickly enough during his training to avoid being hit by live ammunition. Whether this grave actually did contain the remains of an unfortunate trainee is a matter for conjecture. Norm Fuller thought it might have been an instructor’s ploy to warn course members how necessary it was to obey orders quickly.

  Canungra consisted of an advanced reinforcement training centre for jungle warfare, a commando training battalion and any independent company that might be reforming or refitting. The infantry training centre was handling reinforcements for all combat units. Men trained to a normal Draft Priority One Standard were received at Canungra from Australian training camps for an extra four weeks in jungle warfare before being sent forward. There were 2000 reinforcements continually within the training program—500 were received each week and 500 were sent forward each week.

  The training was tough and realistic in the extreme. The concept was that the men should live and train under conditions as close as possible to active service. The reinforcements were ruthlessly disciplined, put through a hard physical fitness test, and given confidence in themselves and their weapons. With practically no amenities except for a canteen and a picture night once a week, no leave except for compassionate reasons, the men were trained rigorously for twelve hours on each of six days and six nights each week for three weeks. For the fourth week they were sent into the deep and rough bush country, which closely resembled that of New Guinea, on a six-day exercise in which they carried their own food. If the men qualified on the final test, they were passed as fit for jungle warfare. Training for independent company reinforcements was even more strenuous and covered eight weeks of intense work.

  Back at Richmond, on 23 October 1943, Captain Colin Dossetor died while attempting a parachute descent into the Cataract Dam, between Picton and Wollongong. His drop was experimental, with the aim of discovering how much weight in equipment and weapons could be carried by a parachutist when descending into water. Before the accident Dossetor was warned by his fellow officers that he was carrying too much weight. Lieutenant Des Green suggested he jump into a swimming pool to pre-test the weight. Dossetor was so sure of his load and his own prowess he ignored this suggestion to his great cost.

  Lieutenant Max Canning, who took part in the same exercise, saw Dossetor jump and vanish into the waters of Cataract Dam, never to surface. His deflated ‘Mae West’ must have filled with water and taken him straight to the bottom. Realising what
had happened, Canning jettisoned his own heavy equipment and jumped without it. When the plane landed, Canning hastily re-donned his overloaded equipment so no one knew he hadn’t worn it when he jumped. Other heavily laden troops crashed into the shallows, bent their rifles and damaged other weapons they carried, knocking themselves about badly.

  Parachute jumping into water was discontinued after the death of Captain Dossetor.

  Meanwhile, the parachute training unit at Richmond continued its courses with enthusiastic trainees and equally eager staff. One phase of this training enjoyed by all ranks was jumping off a moving vehicle and hitting the ground using the prescribed left or right shoulder roll.

  The paratroops would spend night and weekend leave in Sydney and their maroon berets would draw much attention from the public. They caused traffic congestion when a group would jump off moving trams, using their shoulder roll technique when they hit the street!

  There were always those who missed the last train back to Richmond, and having spent all their money they had nothing to look forward to but wandering the streets till morning. Luckily the police would gather up soldiers and take them to the nearest police station, where they would sleep in the cells till morning and the first train. This practice was unofficial, of course, and there were many occasions when lost paratroops in Sydney were grateful to the police.

  Several WAAAF personal were attached to the RAAF 224 group, as it was designated. These young women were fabric workers and their job was to repair and fold parachutes. They also learned the theory of parachute operations. They were examined for this work, after which they were able to fold and pack chutes without supervision. After packing a chute, the women were required to sign their names against the record book of that particular parachute. Damaged chutes that were washed and repaired were ‘dummy-dropped’ to make sure they hadn’t lost any of their efficiency. This was also the procedure with new parachutes delivered straight from the manufacturer.