Walk a War in My Shoes

by Murray Ernest Hall

  There is a lot of talk and joking around the camp about a riot attributed to Australian and New Zealand soldiers in the Haret Al Wassir red light district of Cairo a few months back. The Aussie’s blame the New Zealanders and vice versa but behind the closed tent flap they all claim equal responsibility and are proud of trashing an area that they believed, deserved trashing anyway. There is no love lost between our soldiers and the locals, especially in the back streets where booze and “ladies of the night” are in abundance. Those that were there say that the riots started as pay back for the number of venereal diseases brought back into camp and the aggravation that caused the military establishment. (A fair bit of aggravation to the soldier as well I might add). Others will tell you that it was just an excuse to let off some of the pressure of camp life and sharing the company of thousands of men on a war footing. Either way, the chaps I spoke to were very proud of their involvement and offer up no guarantees that it won’t happen again.

  The official line is considerably different. We are constantly briefed on the behaviour expected of us when going into town. Any misbehaviour will have consequences in that leave will be declined or in the case of serious breaches more severe discipline, even lock-up, can be expected.

  I am selected to work out of a town just up the road called Zaytoun, acting as a battalion orderly. It’s a bonser job, not much work and plenty of tucker. Mainly running messages backwards and forwards between the officers. Sad to say it only lasts a week, then they select someone else.

  Zeitoun, Heliopolis and Aerodrome camps adjoin each other and play temporary home to thousands of New Zealand and Australian troops. Many of the men withdrawn from the Gallipoli campaign are here and their stories of Australia’s involvement are very unpleasant. My first thoughts are that their stories don’t quite align to the newspaper reports we had read back home. Certainly not in the detail that these chaps offer up in conversation. It would appear that the reporting of our losses may have been heavily censored.

  Some of these men appear to be struggling. They have a stare or glaze in their eye like they are weary or very, very tired. Not all of them are interested in talking much or joining in the banter. On the other hand, those that appear a bit stronger or more open are utilized by our command to assist with training briefings and drills so that we can all benefit from their first-hand experience.

  I do my best to take in as much from these sessions as possible. We can all expect that we may be fronted with similar circumstances at some point. The sharing of information on trench work, safe movement of men and equipment under fire, going out under cover of darkness and raiding parties is solid information coming from men who were doing this caper a couple of months back.

  I choose to spend a lot of my spare time with the Light Horse troops. I love being with the horses, reminds me of Cloverdale. I give my time freely to help groom these beautiful animals, occasionally being permitted to ride around in the exercise yard with them.

  I make inquiries about transferring to the Light Horse but the Officer in charge advises that it is not possible. I should have pushed the point when I first enlisted or enlisting through the 20th Light Horse in Colac would have been the way to go. Too late now, the horse has bolted, so to speak.

  Some mail from home is trickling through and it’s such a treat to open them. Never in my life have I seen such enthusiasm when the chaps receive theirs. I feel sorrow for some poor sods who don’t receive anything, they are very disheartened.

  I learn from home that my eldest cousin, Fenton Hall from the Woodlands farm has enlisted recently. He’s a lot older than me at thirty-eight. His reluctance to enlist earlier was due to his commitment to Woodlands. With his dad, Uncle Thomas, now into his mid-seventies, Fenton has been the driving force to keep their farm viable. With a bit of luck, I’ll catch up with him over here.

  The Pyramids are only about seven miles south of Cairo and we travel there by train. The local infrastructure is very modern and along the Nile there are bridges with lift out sections that allow shipping to pass through. We spend nearly the whole day there and thoroughly enjoy the experience of being a tourist. The local inhabitants around this area are very friendly and helpful. Considerably different from their countrymen in Cairo town.

  The camp I’m in ran a sports meeting and concert night to entertain the troops. It was well attended, and much laughter was had by all. The sports events included the 100-yard championship. As many chaps consider themselves to be decent runners, a series of heats and semi-finals were required to bring the final field down to ten men. The bookmakers did a fine trade and a stocky, well-built private from “C” company won the final in grand style, crossing the finish line a clear winner with both hands aloft.

  Other events around the packed program were the relay race. Each team was required to be made up of one officer and three ordinary men. A horse race put on by the Light Horsemen, a sack race that raised plenty of laughter, a one-mile championship, tug of war and the afternoon finished with a fancy dress. The winner had dressed up as one of our officers who immediately recognized himself and laughed it off in good spirits.

  The night entertainment was also a great success. There was a boxing match between the biggest man in camp and the shortest. It was all well staged and had the gathered troops in fits. The shorter man stood on a chair and pretended to knock the bigger chap out but was disqualified when the referee found a horse shoe in his glove!

  Another fight between two officers was called to a halt after two rounds when the contestants became too willing and brutal. Members of the respective companies had to jump in and pull the two apart. The referee declaring a draw. The band took up with “God save the King” but the crowd had dispersed by then.

  The officers in camp often complain that the quantity of work required to be done is greatly retarded due to the lack of materials available. However, this does not mean we sit around idle. There is plenty of drill in a variety of disciplines. We had two 10-mile marches last week, both before breakfast and another is scheduled for tomorrow. We are up at 4:00am, a light snack, then march five miles towards Cairo, turn around and march back in. The last mile coming back is encouraged as a free for all and everyone lifts the pace back through the gates.

  Some night training takes place. The companies are split up. C & D are sent out about a mile and a half from camp and told to, “Defend the position”, A & B companies follow later and are told to, “Take the position”.

  D company (my company now) were beaten badly recently but by underhanded methods. The other companies dressed up three or four men as nigs and pretended to be selling cigarettes or oranges which is not uncommon here as the niggers follow us around selling their goods wherever we go all the time.

  So, they discovered our strategic points, found out we were too strong within our stipulated boundaries and attacked us from another flank and won. We got back into camp around 10:30pm and had some tea, we hadn’t had anything for ten and a half hours so were pretty hungry.

  There is a lot of activity with aeroplanes flying in and out all day, a reminder that we have troops in contact with the Turks only forty miles from Aerodrome Camp, near Ismailia.

  No talk of where our mob is headed next, but we are keen to get our foot in the door of this war knowing that our mates are well and truly into it a few miles away.

  The Suez Canal is currently being defended by 750,000 British, Australian, New Zealand, Sikhs and Gurkha troops. It is critical for the Canal to remain open. Many skirmishes are being reported and the Turks on the Eastern side are being engaged with our big guns that have a range of up to 12 miles.

  I continue to enjoy the musketry training that we use on a 30-yard range at the back of camp. My eye is good, and I consistently score well on the plates. We also have grenade drill on a regular basis. There is a bit of theory and practice associated with this weapon, the bigger men doing far better with the practical exercise of throwing it. My height is a bit of a restriction when trying t
o lob a grenade out of a seven or eight-foot-deep trench and clearing the parapet significantly well. No one appreciates a grenade rolling back into the trench.

  There was an accident in one of the trenches during a live throwing demonstration recently when something went wrong, and a bomb exploded. Four officers were badly wounded, and two men were killed.

  There are several classroom style courses on a variety of weapons, machinery and one on map reading that I quite enjoyed and attended twice. The ability to pinpoint your position or to locate one within a couple of yards by being able to comprehend a map is a critical part of soldiering. Not everyone picks the skill up easily. I had some experience with this exercise when I was with the 20th Light Horse in Colac and believe I know what I’m doing.

  It is basically the breakdown of a large area map divided into twenty-four equal squares which are alphabetical noted. One of those squares is then broken up into thirty equal squares and numbered accordingly. One of those squares is then divided into four equal squares and noted as “A”, “B”, “C” or “D”. One of those squares is then broken up into ten points on the “Y” axis and the same on the “X” axis. So, basically the process just dilutes an area into smaller and smaller parcels until you’re within coo’ee of where you want to be.

  The maps we work with have been supplied by the British and are considerably comprehensive and recently printed. They are considered top secret and are gathered up and recorded after each session. They are not permitted to be taken outside the tent.

  I’m asked to locate the grid reference of “62.H.17.D.1.9”. I’ve got the hang of it and only takes me a minute to work my way down through the segments and put a claim in to the instructor that I have my feet in the centre of a French town called “Querrien”. When I ask the question, what is so important about Querrien, the reply is that it is a short distance from a larger town called Amiens and that, “We might finish up there”.

  On the 10th March, the Battalion is given short notice that we are moving out to a staging camp called Serapeum, situated at the southern end of the Suez Canal. We’ve been in Egypt around six weeks by this time, so this move is a substantial milestone for us. The term, “Staging Camp” spells out that we are on the move and getting closer to our final destination, but we are not told where this will be, secrecy remains very much the name of the game.

  We pack up our gear, have a bit of a clean-up and entrain at 1:30pm, arriving at Serapeum station at 6:00pm. We walked from there, crossing over the Canal and two miles in knee deep sand to a very dusty camp that the Turks had occupied previously. The camp is a bit rougher than we have been used to and quite exposed. On arrival, the cooks have knocked up a decent feed, we find tents and settle in.

  Next day we line up and are inoculated for Paratyphoid.

  There isn’t much opportunity or desire to move far from camp. The weather is quite hot and too much sand around for my liking. The flies are sending everyone crazy and the camp is a pig sty. We are kept relatively busy on routine drills and making an effort to clean the camp up as best we can.

  A week later and there is a restructuring of the 5th Battalion. I am “taken on strength” and transferred to the 1st Australian Pioneer Battalion which is classified as an Infantry and light engineering unit. I’m assigned to “D” Company and am comfortable with this transfer. All my training since joining the AIF sits well with any agenda the 1st Pioneers might have. Most of the chaps I’ve been with are transferred to the same unit unless they were ear marked for specialist duties. There is no need to move around tents or reshuffle beds within the camp, everyone knows quite well what unit they belong to now.

  Another week passes in Serapeum before we are given a days’ notice to pack up. “Get your mail to home in the post now, there might not be an opportunity for a few weeks” comes the order.

  Sunday, 26th March starts early, reveille at 4:00am, 4:15am breakfast. At 5:00am the Battalion is marched out of camp. All tents are left standing. Seventy-six men remain in camp to clean up and will follow later. We entrained at Serapeum siding and our train departs for Alexandria at 7:30am.

  It is a decent trip on the train, rattling north-west through Egypt all day. Had a few kips, saw a bit of country, mostly flat arid open space, a few camels walking around. Played some games of cards and exchanged banter about where we have been and where we might be heading now. Most of us are happy enough to be on the move again.

  We pull alongside three ships docked behind each other at Alexandria Port around 5:30 in the afternoon. Embarkation commences immediately, several units are directed to the HMAT Ballarat. Light Horse troops and horses load onto the Maryland and my unit boards the 14,000 ton, HMS Saxonia.

  At 7:00pm we push away from the wharf; destination – Marseilles, France.

  CHAPTER 7

  ALEXANDRIA TO THE FRONT LINE

  March - April - May 1916

  “To my dear Brother

  Good bye’s a word I hate to say, farewell is worse, by far,

  So, as I’ve learnt a bit of French, I’ll bid you “Au Revoir”.

  Now don’t imagine this is “Good Bye,” for that would give me pain.

  ‘Tis just because I’m told it means,

  “Until we meet again”.

  THE HMS SAXONIA does not much resemble the Cunard line passenger carrying steamship that she was pre-war. Painted up in grey and green camouflage stripes she looks more like what a navy warship should look like, evil and threatening.

  All hands were required to load the ship, we have a lot of support equipment travelling with us now and time is critical. The pace is frantic, and it takes just over two hours to move the equipment allocated to us and eleven hundred troops on board.

  It is crowded but comfortable enough. I score a decent bunk bed in a quiet room. The mess hall offers up a decent feed which is much appreciated after having been up and eaten very little since 4:00am. The Mediterranean Sea is very tame. I cannot see that sea sickness will be an issue on this voyage.

  We have a substantial escort of British navy vessels travelling with us. The Mediterranean is full of ships hostile towards us and we require all the help we can get on the six-day journey so that we arrive in Marseilles in one piece. Drill on board is constant, day and night. Lifeboat drill, small arms and rifle handling, lectures on trench warfare, constant refreshers on every aspect of a war that we haven’t quite arrived in. Yet.

  The crossing is uneventful, but everyone is on high alert and as nervous as billy-o. An enemy torpedo at any time would have us in the drink.

  The orders are that we are going to France but not specifically where. We are told that the front line runs roughly North-South, through the centre of Belgium and down into France. The main area of concern is around the Belgium/French border as this is the closest point for Fritz to attack Britain from, around Calais and Dunkirk. A world map on the wall of the ship is a good reference point as to how we will travel from Marseilles to Northern France. But all this is guess work, there is no official communique.

  On the 30th March, we sail within a half mile of Malta. The day is clear, and the country looks quite barren from this distance. I can see formation ridges, like large steps and a good many houses flow down to the beach. Might be a nice place to visit under different circumstances, a lot more appealing than the sand pit of Egypt.

  We arrive in Marseilles in the early evening of April 1st and drop anchor. What a magnificent sight, one of the prettiest places I’ve ever seen. There are a lot of ships in the harbour and the backdrop of night lights from the township make spectacular viewing. While we remain on alert, I sleep well this night with the comfort of being surrounded by twenty other ships and thousands of troops.

  The Saxonia docks around lunch time and we disembark at 2:00pm. We march off the wharf, fully laden with our packs and rifles to the train station. Entrain at 4:30 and depart at 5:00pm. Destination, unknown.

  The train is packed to the rafters with troops and their belongings, no r
oom to swing a cat. When you get a seat, guard it with your life and if you need to use the toilet, trust your cobbers to make sure the seat is still there when you return. Men are laying on the floor and between seats, anywhere a few inches can be found.

  There is no confirmation of how long we will be in this box for or where we will get off it. The train rattles off in a northerly direction.

  We roll on through the night, coughing and groaning with the discomfort of trying to sleep on top of each other. The train line follows the Rhone River north and during the night we rolled through French towns, Avignon, Montelimar and Vienne but the train does not stop. In daylight we travel over a very old bridge that an English chap on board explains was built by the Romans two thousand years ago. As we approach Lyon the same chap points out a variety of Roman ruins, castles, cathedrals and chateaus built hundreds, if not a thousand years before Australia was ever discovered.

  I am fascinated by the age, quality, and quantity of all these spectacular buildings. A hundred and fifty years ago we were chopping down trees in Australia to put a roof over our heads, a thousand years or more ago the tradesmen around here were cutting Limestone, Sandstone, Granite and Marble to build infrastructure. We spend a fair amount of time on board the train discussing this subject.

  At 7:30am we pull into Lyon and are allowed 30 minutes to stretch our legs. Quite a few French girls are on the platform and plead for our Aussie buttons and Rising Sun badges. I wonder how Mother and Father would feel about me returning home, walking through the front gate of Cloverdale with a French Tabby in tow?

  Back into the sardine can and off we roll again. It’s not until 2:30pm the next day when the tension and stress is at boiling point that we arrive in Amiens, Northern France. We fall out of the train, aggravated and tired, only to be told that this is not our destination. “Stretch your legs, get some water into you and be back on board in thirty minutes”.