‘That’s enough, lads, but yes, Sergeant Treloar’s platoon is one of those to be broken up and redistributed. I’ve asked for at least three of them, Brodie, Matthews and Jolly.’
There is a stunned silence.
‘But . . . but they were . . . ?’
Ben cuts Muddy Parthe off before he can go any further, ‘Yes, the three who went to hospital, they’re joining us with some others and I want you to make them welcome. And, by the way, Private Spencer, it’s Sergeant Black Jack Treloar to such as you.’
‘Jesus, now I’ve flamin’ ’eard everything,’ Cooligan gasps.
‘That’s enough, stow yer mess cans, it’s time to move out. Private Mustafa, go fetch the lieutenant, make sure he doesn’t leave anything behind.’
In the next few weeks the expanded platoon throws itself into training as if it is real war, though this is not uncommon with the 1st Division, all of whom want to make their mark. The young Australians are positively itching to go to war. The new blokes from Black Jack Treloar’s platoon work as hard as the rest of them, even harder on occasions. They’re naturally fit, accustomed to pick and shovel work, big, strong lads, perhaps a little basic, but tough as teak wood and scared of nothing. Like a journeyman boxer who always finds himself the sparring partner to the champion, they yearn for a chance to shine on their own.
Slogging it out in the desert is bloody hard work and the new members of the platoon give no quarter and ask no favours. Ben though is remorseless, and when the new group gets back to camp or bivouac in the desert at night he has them behind a rifle, sharpening their skills, making them catch up with the Lee-Enfield. They don’t complain, which is rare for young soldiers, and from their actions it seems as if they are somewhat ashamed of Black Jack Treloar and want to make up for the bad reputation they’ve earned. The axe incident on the deck of the Orvieto has given them tremendous respect for Ben and, now that they find out he’s a good bloke as well, they feel privileged to be in with the Clicks.
Brodie is an instant hit with the members of the old platoon and is immediately christened Brokenose, his hooter now considerably flattened on a face that could never be pretty but which is seldom less than cheerful. He and Library Spencer hit it off together a treat and are soon good mates. This first comes about when Brodie wanders aimlessly into the Y.M.C.A., a ramshackle hut in the camp where the men can write letters home, and observes Library seated at a table writing.
‘Whatcha doin’ then, Library?’ Brodie asks.
Library is too polite to point out that it must be perfectly bloody obvious that he’s writing a letter. ‘Writing home.’
‘Shit hey?’ Brokenose Brodie seems genuinely impressed. ‘Wish I could do that.’
‘Well, what’s to stop you? Sit down, there’s plenty o’ paper, pencils, it’s a free world, go for yer life.’
‘Nah, can’t, me old folks don’t read.’
‘Well, that doesn’t matter, mate, somebody can read it to them, a neighbour?’
‘Nah, wouldn’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’s ashamed like. Too proud.’
Library looks up at the huge form of Brokenose Brodie. ‘You can’t write, can you, mate?’
‘Course I can!’ Brokenose says proudly. ‘Me name.’ Whereupon he takes up a pencil and on a scrap of paper he laboriously writes KEVIN BRODIE in the script of a seven-year-old schoolchild. ‘There yer go,’ he says, smiling, ‘me moniker!’
‘That all you can write?’ Library enquires softly.
‘And me army number!’
Both break up at this and somebody at another table calls, ‘Shush!’
‘Can’t read neither, eh?’ Library asks in a half-whisper.
Brokenose Brodie shakes his head.
‘Wanna learn?’
‘Too old, mate, I ain’t got no brains, I’m a fuckin’ ditch digger, ain’t I?’
‘Don’t matter, I’ll teach ya.’
‘Yeah? So I can write ’ome?’ Brokenose Brodie says, then he seems to have a momentary doubt. ‘Me folk still can’t read. Fair dinkum yer reckon yer can do it?’
‘Not me, you. You can do it, Brokenose.’ Library extends his hand which is immediately lost in Brokenose Brodie’s huge callused paw.
The training the troops receive at the hands of General Bridges, though vigorous, is simply the traditional British army training from an outdated manual. Little or no advice comes to them from the Western Front, where a new kind of war is raging. The Australian and New Zealand officers must rely almost entirely on drills, tactics and manoeuvres written at another time for war in another place and after this use their own initiative.
The men are also showing that they can think on their feet and make decisions at the N.C.O. and even at the basic infantry level. It is somewhat disconcerting that when, in the mock battles they fight, the officer is killed, the platoon carries on as if nothing untoward has happened. They seem to cope with most situations they are thrown into with an almost cavalier carry-on-sergeant approach.
The troops of the 1st Division have toughened, their bodies almost black from exposure to the Egyptian sun. At the end of January a further ten thousand five hundred new Australian troops and two thousand New Zealanders arrive with Colonel John Monash in charge of the 4th Infantry Brigade. They are fine specimens all but they appear soft compared to the desert-hardened Australians and New Zealanders. Nobody in the War Office seems to have asked themselves whether troops trained to fight in the desert in wide-open spaces under a cloudless sky will be able to adapt to the trenches of Flanders and France. Just how these sons of Australia will react in an actual battle is anyone’s guess.
In Europe the men are learning to fight in trenches, often up to their knees in mud on battlefields covered in early morning mist or in a perpetual haze of smoke from heavy artillery shells and mortar attacks. Meanwhile, the Australians and New Zealanders have never seen a bomb or been subject to, or even heard, the roar and thunder of a sustained artillery attack, or the whine of a shell passing overhead, nor, in fact, experienced anything beyond the pop-pop of the 18-pounder field gun a four-man crew can drag into position. Most have never even seen a periscope and few of the thirty thousand men have fired a shot in anger except perhaps at a crow or a dingo. About the only thing they can be said to understand with a thoroughness of purpose is barbed wire and how to crawl through it. Furthermore, most of them can use a Lee-Enfield rifle with some skill and the bayonet attached with a singular and determined efficiency, that is, if you consider an unprotesting bag of sand the equivalent of an enemy.
Nevertheless, the intelligence shown by the men as they work their way on their bellies around a knoll or mount a night attack prompts a senior regular-army English officer, newly arrived to take up a position as adviser on Birdwood’s staff, to remark, ‘A better division than the 1st Australian together with the New Zealand Brigade has never gone to battle.’
When the platoon and company exercises are completed, Ben’s platoon is singled out as one of the three best in the 1st Division. Wordy Smith receives congratulations for their conduct in the field and a personal letter of commendation from General Bridges. In part the letter which Wordy Smith reads to the platoon says:
My only regret is that we did not have an enemy and a battle at hand to test your platoon, for I feel certain you and your men would have come through with flying colours.
That evening after tea the ‘belly dunce and snake six’, plus Brokenose Brodie, who now makes a regular seventh member of their mob, are seated in the soldiers’ mess when Crow Rigby suddenly says, ‘Hey, wait a mo, what if, after all our ’ard work keepin’ him safe from himself, Wordy Smith gets a promotion?’
‘Dead right!’ Numbers Cooligan exclaims. ‘We wouldn’t know how to operate without him! He’s like being a champion jockey what’s always been given an unfair handicap and is gunna show the bastards he can still win the flamin’ race!’
‘Nah, it couldn’t happen,’ Library Spencer says. ‘Not ev
en the general is that stupid.’
There is a momentary silence whilst they all think about this and then Crow Rigby mutters, ‘I dunno, I’m not so sure about that.’
‘What?’
‘The general.’
Around the middle of March, rumours are coming thick and fast. The British navy, in an effort to aid Russia by creating a supply line through the Bosphorus, fails when her ships are unable to force their way through the straits of the Dardanelles. Like everyone else, Britain has underestimated the Turks and arrogantly assumed the Dardanelles at their narrowest point will be easily breached by her navy and they will sail on to bombard Constantinople and force Turkey out of the war and so, in a military sense, kill two birds with one stone.
The failure of the navy’s attempt to force the straits makes a land attack on the peninsula almost inevitable. Though little of this is reported at the troop level, Wordy’s Wireless is still working. News is fairly freely discussed in the officers’ mess and Wordy Smith briefs Ben daily on what he hears.
The 3rd Brigade has disappeared a month ago and Wordy’s Wireless has it that they’re in Lemnos practising landing from the sea. Furthermore, Sister Atkins scribbles a note to Ben to inform him that Jolly and Matthews previously from Sergeant Treloar’s platoon need to see the army dentist now that their gums have had time to heal properly. In her note she mentions that the nurses have been ordered to get sunhats, which, she says, seems rather curious as they are all working indoors.
Much as Ben tries to see some special message and encouragement in the note which will enable him to make another advance to Sister Atkins, he is forced to concede that hers is simply a duty performed in the interest of the two lads. The sunhat information is couched as though she thinks it is a wonderful example of bumbling army bureaucracy. Ben knows it is strictly forbidden to fraternise with someone of officer rank, but in a moment of lovesickness he seriously contemplates catching pneumonia so that she might be brought to his bedside.
Much of this rumour and speculation about an imminent invasion is given out via Gob Sergeant Cooligan in the hope that it will attract further confirmation from other sources. In the Mena camp Wordy’s Wireless has lost none of its potency and has developed into a sort of highly sophisticated rumour cross-reference system. Library Spencer is charged with monitoring what comes back after a soundly based Gob-Sergeant rumour is circulated.
It is surprising how much information can be gathered in tiny scraps from the observations of clerks, the military police, the officers’ mess, the soldiers who drive the top brass around, even the barber who cuts the hair of the officers at General Hamilton’s headquarters at Shepheards or the corporals and privates who operate the various telephone switchboards. In fact there are a hundred different sources, the note from Sister Atkins being an excellent example of one of them. They learn how, when it is all co-ordinated, it is often possible to get surprisingly close to the truth. The proverbial grapevine has always worked in the army and what Ben is now doing is trying to create a sturdier and stronger vine with further-reaching tentacles.
For want of a better system it works pretty well and they soon develop an instinct for what is true. They firmly believe they’re going to fight the Turks somewhere along the coastline of the Dardanelles sometime in early April, though for a while they think the Australians are going to invade Alexandretta and are surprised when this comes to nothing as it qualified on almost all fronts as sound information.
Meanwhile, the Turks have launched a raid on the Suez Canal and although they are repulsed by the British and Indian troops, it becomes apparent from the reports sent in that they are no easy-beats. A new respect is growing for the fighting capacity of the Turkish soldier and they are no longer considered a second-class fighting force unworthy of the Anzacs.
Almost by sheer fluke the training they have undergone in the desert is not entirely redundant, the terrain around the straits is known to be hilly and, though hardly equivalent to the desert, it would appear they will be fighting a war in the open. Besides, they have grown accustomed to climbing steep dunes and rocky ridges and it will be a nice change to have firm ground under their feet as they advance against the enemy. And advance they will. There is not a single man from general to trooper and soldier who doubts for a moment that they will destroy the enemy, even though the Germans are training the Turks.
The first of April is a Thursday, still three days before the leg-weary platoon can expect a day off. Ben comes out of his tent at dawn to another cloudless sky. Though it is still cold, the sun not yet risen, he knows the temperature will climb above a hundred and ten degrees before noon. They are involved in a field day out along the burning dunes which he doesn’t much look forward to.
Ben, sick to the back teeth with Egypt, wonders how long it will be before they leave for the Peninsula to fight against the Turks. In the dawn light he takes from the breast pocket of his tunic the letter he has received from Victoria in the previous day’s mail. He has already read it half a dozen times but does so again. Rubbing his forefinger and thumb along the edge of the paper he imagines his sister writing it, a cool breeze blowing off the Derwent rustling the curtains as it enters gently through a bright, sunlit window. She will be seated at Mary’s old desk, which she tells him Hawk has removed from the Potato Factory and brought to her small study in Ann Solomon’s Hobart cottage which she and Hawk now occupy.
Hobart
5th February 1915
My dearest Ben,
You must be thoroughly sick of receiving a letter from me with almost every overseas mail arriving in Egypt, I simply cannot help myself. My mind is so constantly occupied with thoughts of you that my only comfort is to sit down at Mary’s old desk and write to you for the sheer relief of getting my thoughts down on paper. I pray each night that you are safe, though God does not seem to be listening, if what’s happening at the front is any indication.
Grandfather Hawk says much of what is happening in France is being kept from us. Heaven forbid, what we do hear is horrific enough and, while it may seem unpatriotic, every day you are kept away from the battlefield means another night I can sleep without wondering whether the morning will bring bad news.
I’m sorry to sound so pessimistic and not my usual cheerful self (the newspapers urge us always to sound cheerful when writing to the troops), but Grandfather Hawk brought back the news last night that Joshua, who has already been promoted to captain, has been transferred to be second in command of an ordnance company and is unlikely to see any fighting.
Abraham Solomon, who is visiting us here in Tasmania for a few days, says it is because of his thorough business training, they need men like him because the logistics of war supply require good, sound business principles. In your own words, all I can say is ‘Bulldust!’ We know perfectly well somebody has pulled strings! And pulled them b . . . . y hard too! It all seems so unfair that he should get a cushy job safe from harm and you will eventually be sent to the front line to fight the Hun.
I can almost see you smiling, I know you wouldn’t change places with him for all the tea in China. But please! Please! I beg you to be careful. I simply couldn’t bear it if you got wounded, especially knowing you-know-who was safe and sound counting tins of bullybeef.
In a more cheerful vein, I am going up to Launceston next week to see about opening a new warehouse. We are taking a bit of a drubbing from the James Boag Brewery because we sometimes run short of T & H beer in the local market and they, being on the spot, are quick to take advantage. I must say they are keen as mustard and we will have to be on our toes if we are going to keep our share of that market. Grandfather Hawk also wants me to look at a small factory turning out woollen blankets as he thinks he can get a contract from the government for supplies to the troops training here in Tasmania.
He seems a different person now that he is back in control again and looks years younger with a definite spring in his step. I simply don’t know where he gets his energy! I am learning
a great deal from him, though the thought of taking over if he should pass on is frightening, he is so wise and patient and is completely in control and on top of things. For my part I remain confused and I still have no clear idea of all we own, what’s more I am led to believe Tasmania is the smaller part of S & T. We went for a spin in the new Wolseley tourer on Sunday and Grandfather Hawk pointed out a dozen buildings and factory works which he said we owned. It’s really quite daunting.
I must end now as this has to catch the mail boat to Melbourne to connect with another travelling via Suez. I have become quite the expert at shipping routes since your departure.
Mrs Billings sends her love, she is knitting you a pair of gloves and seems to be taking ages. Sardine the cat has developed a permanent nose drip and she speaks of little else, being quite sure that ‘he is not long for this mortal coil’. She is comforted by the thought that her dear moggy will join her sainted husband, the immortal, though never existing in actual human form, Mortimer Billings. She says to tell you that if you should be cooking rice to add prunes to it as they prevent constipation and give the rice a nice savoury flavour! They should be soaked in water overnight and then the rice cooked in the prune juice together with the prunes. She has never quite gotten over, as she sees it, her appointment as Cook to the Australian Forces Abroad and tells everyone she can earbash for long enough about her billyjam tarts!
Grandfather Hawk says he will write to you at length next week, but to tell you the hops crop is looking splendid this year and everyone on the estate asks for news of you. They all send their love and best wishes, he also sends his love.
Will you get the chance to go to Luxor, I believe it is well worth the visit and, looking at the map, is not far from where you are?
Please try and stay away from the fighting as long as you are able and give my regards to your platoon, they seem like such nice lads and I am sure are very fond of you. I cannot imagine you being a strict sergeant who they have cause to fear. Taking twenty more young soldiers under your wing must be an added worry though. Grandfather Hawk says sappers can be a rough lot. I hope this is not true in your case? The desert sounds beastly hot, as usual the weather here in Hobart changes five times each day and I despair of ever wearing the right clothes when I go out to work of a morning.
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