Larrikins in Khaki

by Tim Bowden

  Ahead thunder rumbled and the light faded. There was no sign of dry land. They struggled on in increasing darkness as lightning flared closer. Rain started, and it became bitterly cold. There was an ear-splitting crack of lightning. The line stopped.

  We turned our backs to the deluge—it hammered down upon us, harder, harder, deafening. The surface of the swamp was smashed upwards in flying spray. We were blind, disoriented, staggering in the flailing dark chaos. A faint, thin shout, lost in the din. I staggered, bumped into a sapling and clung frantically. Someone clutched my belt and hung on.

  Slowly the uproar died away. The downpour slackened and we lifted our heads, mouths gaping, gasping for breath. Men stood waist deep shivering as if beaten. The light dull, glaucous, thick with moisture and leaves and branches littered the surface of the swamp.

  ‘Jesus,’ a shaky voice said, ‘wonder what it’s like when the bloody drought breaks?’

  The patrol slowly reformed, and the line moved ahead. Medcalf ’s equipment weighed him down, boots sinking in the slime. The day dragged to a close, the light died and the patrol weaved to a halt in front of a tangle of trees and looped and trailing vines.

  Medcalf felt totally done, standing, his legs apart, hip-deep in swamp, drooping, completely and absolutely miserable. He looked at the rest of the section and they seemed no better. ‘Eat something, and make yourself comfortable for the night,’ their leader Perce said. ‘We won’t need pickets in this place.’ He had a large, fat leech clinging to the back of his neck.

  Slowly the exhausted men gathered and looked for somewhere to sleep. The ground was impossible—if there was any, it was under a metre of dark, muddy water. ‘Fergie climbed a tree, hung his equipment on a branch, and draped his long frame along the thick limb.’ Others followed suit, wedging themselves in tree forks or making rough nests of branches and vines.

  It grew dark, and Medcalf was too tired to look for a decent tree. In desperation he cut a long length of thick vine, threw it over a branch and passed it under his armpits. He briefly relaxed, hanging in the loop, leaning back against the tree trunk.

  A firefly drifted by—blink, blink—his cold green light softly reflected on the black water. Quiet rustlings, a cough, a muttered curse as the platoon tried to settle. The water around my hips slowly grew chill. Rotting tree limbs and vegetation shone around us in a soft, eerie phosphorescent glow.

  Half asleep, I heard a scrabbling noise, and a loud splash. Someone had fallen out of bed!

  The night turned pitch black. Too tired to care about the mosquitoes, Medcalf hung in his vine. The night dragged on.

  Suddenly he woke, gasping and choking, almost underwater. The vine had broken! He staggered to his feet, clutched the tree trunk, and stood shivering, hugging it in the darkness. Incredibly he heard someone snoring.

  With the dim morning light they choked down a few mouthfuls of cold rations, slung their loads and pushed on following a compass bearing, looking for Sisiruai village.

  They never found it. For another two nights and three days they struggled through a waste of rotting swamp. At dusk one night they heard dogs barking but they saw no living thing, other than an army of leeches. And there were always the mosquitoes. ‘They even stung through our shirts. Our faces swelled, and the backs of our hands and our faces became lumpy and stiff.’

  On the third day the platoon staggered back to their camp. Some were sick, all completely exhausted—they resembled pale yellow-skinned corpses.

  Slowly peeling off his rotting socks, the soles of Medcalf ’s feet came off with his socks.

  In rear areas the cleanliness and good housekeeping of the company came under the care of the hygiene corporal. Every company had one. Slim recalled:

  Ours was five feet four, weighed fourteen stone and measured three axehandles across his barrel chest. His ham-like fists brushed his knees as his slightly bowed legs carried him on his daily rounds. A bullet head, a face like a chunk of brown basalt and a voice like a gravel-crusher completed the ensemble. With complete logic, he was called ‘Toddles’.

  One of Toddles’ many duties liked best was the daily burning-off of the company latrines. Every morning he would pour some 10 gallons of kerosene down the holes into the pit, so as to destroy all offensive organisms in the resulting inferno. But he possessed a sadistic sense of humour. Having poured the fuel down the holes, he would hide the drum, drop his pants and ensconce himself on one of the seats, lean back and peruse an old copy of Guinea Gold, the army newspaper.

  Like a squat spider in the centre of his web he would patiently await his victims. Surprisingly, in spite of his reputation, he rarely missed. Sooner or later some hapless innocents would arrive, nod ‘Owaryer mate’, drop their tweeds and take their seats, to pass among other things the time of the day. Rumours were discussed, officers castigated and the Army freely criticised, until Toddles had a full house. He would arise, adjust his dress, roll a smoke and borrow a match from the man on the next hole. Stepping back he would light his cigarette and drop the match into the pit. The resulting explosion was always impressive. The shaft of yellow flame would belch two feet high out of the holes, and was guaranteed to singe every bit of body hair of the unfortunates left enthroned. In the subsequent confusion, Toddles would make his escape, his victims helpless with their pants round their ankles.

  It was better than swabbing with Lysol.

  The beer available to the platoon was an evil brew with a snarling tiger’s head on the label. It was scathingly referred to as Panther Piss, ‘as it seemed to claw your throat all the way down’. The glasses were Lady Blameys—‘and there was only an even chance of cutting off your top lip when you drank’.

  That started Slim thinking. ‘We swallowed, and shuddered, and someone said, “We’ve got to get some decent grog.” Well we need a large container, yeast, raisins and dried fruit and sugar—in this heat she should brew up really well in a few days.’

  A committee was formed. Sugar was found semi-legally in the cookhouse by cutting the cooks in on the action. Other ingredients were traded, lifted or souvenired from the various units near their lines. A field bakery was a good source of yeast. In two days the committee had marshalled the essential ingredients and had grown to a dozen shareholders. But the basic equipment, the all-important large brewing container, was missing.

  Johnny McGann solved the problem. He convinced the battalion engineers of the worthiness of the cause, and two 44-gallon drums left over from the diesel fuel dump were welded together and delivered after dark. Shareholders now numbered nearly twenty.

  A narrow track was cut into the thick jungle behind their tents, an area cleared and the plant established. Buckets of water were added, ‘magic’ ingredients dippered in and a full case of canned blackcurrant juice added for flavour and effect. The brew was left to ferment in the heat for a week.

  The mixture stewed, topped by a raspberry-coloured froth. The smell resembled that of the public urinal in the Great Southern Hotel at 6 o’clock on a Saturday. The engineers obligingly sealed the system and rigged twenty feet of rusty water pipe leading from the top of the drums. We lit a fire around the base, wrapped wet bags around the pipe, and waited. A subdued cheer went up as a bright red distillate began to dribble from the pipe and was eagerly collected into empty beer bottles.

  As chief brewer, Slim took the first taste. The top of his tongue shrivelled and two amalgam fillings turned rough. ‘She’s ready!’ he gasped, eyes watering.

  After four dozen bottles had been coaxed from the still, the fire was dowsed and the liquid treasure lugged back to the company lines. A large hole was dug in the floor of a tent—all but a bottle for each of the shareholders was buried.

  To celebrate the event, the brew was introduced into the unit’s poker game. ‘This had been progressing for a week or more, night and day—only the players and the luck changed.’

  Sitting smugly on three queens, Slim ‘backed them higher than a cat’s back’ against Slats, the snipe
r from 13 Platoon. Slats was considered slow, but he called, and was sitting on a full house. Slim watched his last five bob disappear off the table and took another sip of his bottle. He shuddered and said, ‘Mother warned me not to play naughty games with strange men—you might as well take the bottle as well.’

  As it turned out, Slim said, ‘It was the smartest thing I had done all night. Billy the quartermaster sergeant grabbed the bottle and prepared for a long session.’

  Next morning was Sunday, battalion parade. They lined up in company files, presented arms, and listened to the commanding officer’s diatribe on their general lack of discipline. Slim had a splitting headache. The CO’s sermon ended. ‘Battalion! Slope … arms! By companies, by the right in column of threes … right … turn! Quick … march!’

  Billy held his place alongside the company and stepped, arms swinging high. Then he started to drift gently to one side. ‘Billy,’ his mates hissed, ‘straighten up! To your right!’

  Oblivious, Billy began to waver. He marched impeccably in a tight circle. The CO looked stunned and screamed, ‘That man! Get that man’s name!’

  They marched past. Billy leaned slowly and fell flat on his face. He was taken to hospital and diagnosed with temporary blindness and acute poisoning.

  That night the committee assembled and decided it had to get rid of the booze because somebody, somewhere, might drink it!

  The bottles were dug up, loaded into a Jeep and driven to American Marine Air Group 25. The feeling was that they would drink Fly-tox (insecticide) and thank you for the privilege. The guard on the gate was big, very dark, and suspicious. ‘What you Aussies want?’ he demanded.

  McGann said, ‘Mate, this is your lucky day. We are flogging top-grade guaranteed white lightning. We’ve even got a little sip for you to sample.’ A bottle was passed to the customer from under the groundsheet.

  The guard peered around, backed behind the guard box, pulled the cork and sniffed it. He took a long swallow. The grog syndicate waited with baited breath.

  His eyes bulged, and he breathed deeply.‘Hot damn,’ he said.‘How much?’ The price was two quid a bottle, or a carton of Lucky Strikes. Cash on demand, naturally.

  ‘Aussie, you’ve got yourself a deal,’ said the guard.

  The moonshine was duly delivered, and the syndicate departed with its ill-gotten gains. The next night there was a riot in the Marine Air Group 25 lines. Shots were fired and officers assaulted. The brewers laid low and decided to abandon the liquor business.

  Three men, moving a hundred yards out, silently circled the camp perimeter every hour throughout the day to avoid being caught by enemy probes. Slim had been patrolling with two mates when they squeezed through a break in the wire.

  Harry, the tank sergeant, had the engine covers of his Matilda tank open and was probing around in the motor housing when Slim asked, ‘What are you doing mate, fixing the rubber band?’

  The tank sergeant’s grease-smeared face rose from the recesses of his pet engine. He looked at Slim disdainfully. ‘You dumb, ignorant footsloggers couldn’t understand a precision machine like this! Shove off and dig another hole!’

  Then, without warning, over the river came the unmistakable Thud! Thud! Thud! of the Japanese guns. The sergeant scooted up the tank like a ferret and disappeared into the turret. Slim was caught, out in the open!

  The first salvo was coming with a high-pitched buzzing scream. Frantically I dropped down behind the tank and tried to squeeze into the ten-inch clearance beneath it. The shells arrived and slammed through the perimeter. There was an earsplitting crack beside the tank treads. The steel hull jumped slightly and was pressing down on my head and shoulders, forcing me into the soft earth. I panicked, squirmed out into the open, and leapt wildly towards the nearest dugouts. A black hole appeared on the ground and I dived into it, colliding with the occupants.

  A voice in the gloom asked, ‘Ar there Slim, how are you goin’ mate?’ It was Possum, 4 Section’s corporal.

  Slim was not all right. ‘That stinking tank! Got under it—bloody near got squashed! The last .75 shell landed right on the tracks. Jesus!’ He sat on the muddy floor and held his head in his hands. He was shaking down to his boots.

  The next salvo screamed in. The last two rounds struck the tree limbs above and spun thumping and clattering across the perimeter. They were duds!

  ‘Just relax,’ Possum continued, ‘you can stay here if you promise not to fart.’

  Crouched in the gloom, Possum lifted a finger and went through the motions of loading a .75 shell. Slitting his eyes and sticking out his front teeth, he bowed three times and said, ‘Hai, hai, ah sooooo.’ He dropped his hands suddenly, and on cue the guns went Thud! Thud! across the river.

  ‘Banzai!’ cried Possum. The shells arrived and exploded around the cook’s tent. Once again the last two rounds were duds, clipping the trees and spinning through the clearing.

  Bowing and grovelling, Possum grabbed his bayonet and prepared to commit an overacted hara kiri. ‘So sorry,’ he wept. ‘Have stuffed up honourable emperor’s ammo. So sorry!’

  Slim stared open-mouthed at him, and crouched in the muddy hole, started to laugh.

  ‘Stick your head out a while and see if that last lot buggered our lunch,’ Possum said, waving his bayonet. ‘My word. I bet old Greasy the cook will be on the essence of lemon for the next week after that.’

  Then he added, ‘See, other people got lots of troubles besides us.’

  On another patrol Slim Medcalf parted the leaves gently, and ‘stepped into a cathedral of twisted vines’. The scene before him was unexpected:

  The dense underbrush had abruptly disappeared. For 100 yards vast tree boles soared and towered into the matted canopy far above, the ground below a brilliant carpet of pink blossom. From the roof of the jungle an acre of flowering creeper had gently dropped its blooms. We trod through a hushed, glowing carpet. A single shaft of sunlight, saffron in the gloom, lit softly drifting petals. We moved silently through, uneasy at the open space but awed by the beauty around us. It did not belong in our world, only in our dreams and memories. We turned north-east with 4 Section leading, sweating and shoving through a mass of wait-a-bit thorns laced with spiders’ webs, disturbing hordes of voracious mosquitoes.

  Finally they reached the river, and squatted to rest in low ferns with the narrow, fast-flowing stream rushing between high banks to their backs. Slim turned to speak quietly to a mate, Al, and saw him suddenly lift his Owen gun, aiming back along their tracks.

  I spun around and looked into a yellow, sweaty face, almost obscured by leaves hanging from a steel helmet. He was only fifteen yards away and looking straight at us. Instinctively I jerked the gun up and fired a burst into his neck and shoulders, Al firing simultaneously. Muzzle smoke flared, and the Japanese was thrown backwards. Swift rustles in the bushes and movement behind him—the Japanese cried out, high-pitched, half screaming. He lay out of sight in foot high bracken between two big trees. I pulled the pin from a grenade, called a soft warning and lobbed it high and over him.

  There was the heavy slam of the explosion as Slim changed his magazine, and caught the eye of the artillery signaller. He was still kneeling in shock—more than six feet tall and built like a wrestler. Slim slung his web belt around his neck, held the Owen high and plunged waist-deep against the current. They tried to find a place to climb out, then hauled Sad Sack and his Bren gun up the bank to cover the crossing. Slim knelt behind a clump of feathery palms and peered anxiously ahead while the rest of the patrol clambered out of the river. The rain had eased to a gentle drizzle, and the heavy growth seemed to open out slightly.

  The patrol moved silently away from the river through a belt of banana trees to thick bush. A hundred yards in they found a large, newly built hut, no more than twenty yards away. Behind it were other huts with newly thatched roofs, split bamboo walls and the familiar latrine-like stink of an enemy camp.

  We could see no low cover from where we crouch
ed. Behind me our Leader Jeff said, ‘We’ve gotta get out of here, what with the noise we just made. Check if they’re occupied and move around to the left.’ ‘Jesus!’ I thought, ‘Officer’s privileges.’ Last week Bobby of 15 Platoon looked into a Japanese hut and caught four asleep, but any Japanese asleep in these huts would have to be stone deaf!

  Slim looked at Bunny, and with Fergie beside him, stepped into the clearing. The doorway at the first hut looked dark and ominous. He tiptoed to one side, approaching from the blind corner. He eased up to the corner with one eye on the gun muzzle around the door jamb. Empty. Only a low bench with a few rags and a battered tin dish on the floor.

  Sweat pouring, mouth open and breathing shallowly, Slim covered Fergie while he checked the next hut. He stepped back from the doorway and moved silently to the next, a building with a long wall. There was a faint smell of wood smoke. They slid up to the door, a small crackling noise from inside. Slim’s heart jumped.

  They found a cookhouse—empty! The rain started again.

  After they’d checked a few more huts, the patrol commander Jeff waved at them to skirt the camp. The rain increased and Slim walked around a large tree on the high bank above, tripped on a tree root and fell flat on his face.

  I heard Fergie shout, and the crack of a rifle shot. Desperately I struggled up, but the damned foresight on my Owen gun caught under a root. I tore it free in time to see shapes running in from the buildings. Fired more shots, and a Japanese sprinted behind the second hut. My burst followed him, striking and stitching a line the full length of the wall, wooden slats splintering. He didn’t come out the other side. The rain intensified, roaring down and obscuring everything. Jeff shouted, ‘Let’s go!’ And we turned and ran from the camp slipping and floundering into the welcome cover of the heavy jungle.