Chapter 10 Life in the OCTU; The Don R;

Life in the OCTU; The Don R;

SOLDIER by Ivor Hele. A private of the A.I.F., after the capture of Tobruk.

LIFE IN THE "OCTU"

LUCKY devil-him! He's going to an Octu." How often one hears this statement from privates and N.C.O's. It represents the consensus of opinion on some fellow soldier who has won the chance to ascend the ladder of success through the Officer Cadet Training Unit.

The intensity of effort, concentration and study that lies ahead of the cadet officer who at last arrives at the school to commence the five months' training for his commission is generally little realised. And little does one realise, too, that these months will create indelible memories of comradeship formed on the square, on the tactical manoeuvre grounds and on the playing fields.

And so to the O.C. T.U. they go-, men from the Isles - men of Narvik and Dunkirk - from Rhodesia and South Africa, Australia, New Zealand and from the band of men fighting for the freedom of Poland. On the morning after arrival they meet in the barrack room, the shower room, and finally over the breakfast table. This day friendships are born as each man meets those fellows who are to be his room and class mates throughout the strenuous days to come.

On our first day - a day of personal liberty-initiation came with startling realism; and with it, the realization that life here was to be markedly different from any ideas of freedom and easiness that had been associated with "going for a commission."

The Regimental Sergeant-Major - still as smart, as efficient and impressive as of old, but more human-conducted the first "grilling," and then led his charges to the Commandant.

With mixed feelings the officers-to-be waited on the edge of the regimental square for the call that was to swing them into the beat of the first drill parade and from there to the lectures, the sand-table exercises, mechanics, and all else that belongs to the training of a modern army. And slowly through the first week each settled into the routine of the new life and environment.

The following weeks brought advancement in every aspect of training; and the days were indeed full; reveille, o6oo hours; P.T. or swimming parade, 0630 to 0700 hours; till 0830, breakfast and preps for first parade; and from 0830 to 1245 hours, drill, lectures and exercises. From that time until 5 p.m., time was the individual concern of each cadet - and it was a wise cadet who spent these hours in a close study of the finer points in the art of ultra-modern warfare. From 5 p.m. to 6.30, lectures and debates, or talks by senior and experienced officers in various arms of the services, imparted vital facts and helpful advice to the cadet officers. The serious student listened intently - with a silent prayer that he himself would be able to emulate the deeds of these men, already proven in battle.

But the O.C.T.U. is not just a place where men are assembled to listen to a host of words. It is a place wherein every student must prove his ability to absorb those lessons, to speak freely on them, to express ideas-new or old-a place to bring to light the personality of each individual. And above all that, to make him a leader, and to make that leadership sound by continual field exercises.

Perhaps the tactical exercises are the happiest portions of these weeks. First the sand-table, on which every cadet must solve the problems set by his fellow cadet. Then to the field of the desert, where theories learnt must be put into practice - where every move of an aggressive enemy must be visualized against a real background and where every cadet must be able to plan the delivery of a counter-attack.

Not all the time is devoted to studies. The playing fields represent the lighter side of the O.C.T.U., and on them the final polish is added to the personalities and characters of the tyro officers. Soccer, basketball, hockey, tennis, cricket and, in the, warmer months, swimming in the delightful barrack pool, are the main sports. Indeed, the final of an inter-wing or company soccer or hockey match brings enthusiasm to a pitch which would rival an "Easts versus Souths" League contest-the ground rings then with shouts of "Shoot, Laddie! Shoot" and the resounding echo of "Kick it, you mug".

The final stages of the five months are exacting. Comes the parade before the Wing Commander, and his quiet statement that one's efforts have not been in vain. Then the frantic scurry of outfitting oneself with all the details of kit so essential to an officer. And then-the last night! With it, the final dinner provides an outlet to all the repressed emotions of weeks, constitutes the first official mess at which the Company and Wing Commanders dine with their fledglings - men who have emerged from being led to leading others.

The "pips" take their place on each shoulder; the Commandant with a cheery, friendly word, bids each "good luck and quick promotion," extends a hearty handshake, and the graduate realizes that now he must stand alone.

Out in his unit, with his commands and responsibilities, each subaltern graduate remembers the O.C.T.U. with affection. He must go on preparing to pass the test of battle, to prove his worth in the face of his men and his country - to bring credit to his army "school," the Officer Cadet Training Unit.

"VX13939"

THE "DON R"
WHEN your ruminating is rudely interrupted by the roar of a motor cycle starting, think before you abuse the rider. He may take what appears to be an interminable time to shut up and clear off. Set your teeth, and think of the usefulness of motor cycle dispatch riders. These, the "Don R's," have at times given greater service to the Allied cause than wireless and telegraphy. When it is too dangerous to use wireless because the enemy is tuning in and listening, or when he is flooding your receiving sets with bogus reports, and when the telegraph lines are down, it is these riders who get the messages through.
When things were toughest in Greece, the Don R had still to keep going-forward. Along bullet-swept roads-roads that were covered with slimy mud and snow-these lads rode with as much speed as their machines would give without cracking. Dodging between trucks moving in the opposite direction, they kept plugging away, oblivious to all that was happening around them except the task that lay ahead. To some of them, the work is still just a sport with a spice of danger. In Australia, these Don R's used to ride up steep hillsides, in country scrambles, compete in trials or on speed tracks-with many a buster and many a laceration or bruise. That was real sport. They have been doing the same thing over here-with the difference that they are also playing a game of hide and seek with enemy aircraft, artillery and mortar shells. Don't be surprised if the lads tell you that "they've the best job in the army. Wouldn't swap it for a couple of crowns." Some of the older Don R's used to make their living by convincing others that motor cycling is the best sport in the world. The novices have come to take more than a passing interest in motor bikes. Their exploits in Greece and on other fronts have been just as praiseworthy as those of the veterans. These boys acquitted themselves admirably in Greece. There, it was often not a matter of "take this to 'A' Company," but rather "find 'A' Company and deliver this." In a swiftly changing situation, only vague directions could be given. Important messages had to be delivered. And so all that the Don R's had learned in their initial training - plus a bit extra - had to be called on. They travelled along roads that were frequently being machine-gunned. They became experts at hopping off their machines while still on the move, and dashing for the nearest cover. Disconsolately, they had sometimes to watch their bikes go up in a blaze in the wake of enemy planes. One rider who ran into a bullet-storm dived into the first convenient hole near the road. In the hole were four small snakes. He elected to remain in the hole, and was not bitten. The versatility of another Don R earned for him high praise from his colleagues. He was sent out to take a message to a unit that was being surrounded and forced to retreat. On finding the unit he discovered that, at the time, it was more important to evacuate the wounded than to go back with a return message. For three-quarters of an hour he drove a truck up and down a line of vehicles, conveying wounded to the nearest casualty station. Although his truck was full of shrapnel and bullet holes, the Don R was not hit. If they were absent for longer than three days, it was the practice in some areas to post the Don R's as missing. One rider away longer than a three-day span was duly posted as missing. He returned the next day, riding a different machine from the one on which he had set out with his message. His story was that the unit he was seeking had moved the night before. He had been attacked from the air, and his cycle wrecked. He had been picked up, had located and repaired another machine left on the side of the road, and had completed his mission. As the number of bikes dwindled, the riders had to commandeer all types of transport. Trucks, staff cars, and even mules and push bikes were used until something a little swifter could be found. But urgent messages to the front line had always to be carried by Don R's astride motor cycles. They had more chance of getting through. Very few riders escaped crashing on the slippery roads, but luckily only a small percentage became casualties this way. Anyhow, to many it was not a new experience. They had more thought for possible damage to the bike than to bruised bones and broken skin. Given a message that had to get through at all costs, one rider unknowingly went five miles past our front line troops. He was stopped by a patrol. A few more hundred 'yards and he would have barged straight into the enemy's hands. A few did make this unfortunate mistake. From one tight corner two Don R's fought their way out with "Tommy" guns. Not all their training was in the art of motor cycling. A great deal had to be left to the discretion of dispatch riders. No hard and fast rules could be laid down. Fear of paratroops dressed in our uniforms made unit commanders distrustful, even of dispatch riders. Unaware of pass-words, riders had first to convince sentries of their bona fides and then prove their identity before commanders would accept and act upon their messages. It was a necessary precaution, but it made the tasks of the riders more difficult. Members of the Provost Corps were of the greatest assistance to the riders -who were guided accurately through towns and to the localities of newly arrived units. The provost traffic controllers pointed out road blocks and shell holes. But for this excellent co-operation many more accidents would have occurred. Eye strain and insufficient sleep made the lot of the riders worse, particularly as they had to go without food for long periods. Another inevitable hardship was that once a rider had come to know a particular area well, he was called upon whenever vital messages had to be taken there. Australian Don R's pay the highest tribute to the work of their British comrades' whose sterling performances when things were blackest were carried out with tenacity. The British rider, they say, really can ride and ride fast. Whizzing bullets and whining shells did not overawe these crouched figures on motor cycles. In Syria, dispatch riders had a gruelling time over rough, steep roads and. tracks. Near Jezzine, hostile mortars would open up as soon as the Don R appeared. The rider had to travel under fire for a mile, sometimes two and three times daily. It was remarkable that so few became casualties. Uncertain about conditions on one important road where enemy tanks were reported to be operating, a commanding officer ordered two riders to travel 200 yards apart. If one got hit the other was to seek cover until it was safe to proceed. The message had to get through. It did, and so did the two Don R's, unperturbed after a nightmare ride. Another rider mistook Vichy infantry for our own troops. Bullets whistled round him. To show his identity he sat more upright and touched his tin hat. The next volley skittled his bike. He subsequently escaped from the hut in which he was held prisoner. Of course, when we settle down quietly again in good old Australia, some of these lads may become rowdy road hogs - and in greater numbers, too! But perhaps by then most of the Don R's will have had enough of explosions, excitements, detonations, and roaring engines. "SX710659"

"Give me some of them army biscuits, 'Q'-we're tryin' out a new armour piercin' shell this morning."

GUESTS OF THE BEDOUIN

IN a swirl of dust eight horsemen galloped towards us over the plain, their robes flying behind them. They shouted and brandished gleaming swords as they bore down on our truck. These were the young men of the Bedouin, and seeing them for the first time we were glad that we had come as guests and not as enemies.

We were a party of three - a captain, a subaltern and a sergeant - and we were paying a courtesy call on the Sheikh of a nomad tribe, to assure him of the friendly intentions of our forces and to see if there were any problems that he wanted to discuss.

About a mile away were the scattered black tents of the Bedouin. For mile on mile around us lay the Beka'a Plain, that vast level stretch in the heart of Syria, and in the distance the Lebanon Ranges showed clear and dazzling in the midday sun.

The tents, camel-hair erections of uneven shape, looked dilapidated from the outside, and we were anxious to see what surprises they contained. WC knew that the Sheikh was one of the few remaining Bedouin to keep the ancient customs of his race intact. He rules as a beloved despot over a tribe of about 6oo tents, a tribe from whose kindred King Ibn Saud took one of his 4oo wives. Year after year his people drive their camel herds in a great migration across the Syrian plains, going as far west as Rayak in the summer and returning to their eastern desert home when the first rains fall.

The horsemen were the escort sent to conduct us to the Sheikh. Swarthy and black bearded, they were the sons ol men who had fought under Lawrence through this country a quarter of a century ago. Their clothing was rich and their mounts of good Arab blood. The Bedouin is not wealthy as our standards go, but he knows how to cut a good figure. Their war cry of "Abu Huneik" meant "Father of the Chin," an allusion to the scarred chin of Glubb Pasha, commandant of the Arab Legion.

Riding beside and around our truck, and performing various feats of horsemanship, they escorted us into the tribal precincts.

We were greeted by the Sheikh's eldest son, a boy of thirteen with perfect manners. He led us to the tent of the head man, where the Sheikh was to receive us.

The tents of this tribe are scattered over many miles of country, and the Sheikh visits his various head men rather after the style of a colonel visiting the officers commanding his outlying squadrons in the field.

Before we reached the tent the Sheikh came out to meet us. He is a man of about forty, dignified but debonair in manner, and treated with immense respect by his tribe.

The head man's dwelling is a huge tent, long and low, and richly furnished inside with carpeted floor, silken couches and hangings on the walls. We were handed the ritual cup of guest coffee, strong, black and bitter. It was made in a fire of charcoal which burns always in a hole in the floor, and was poured out from a vessel of strange design, of which the spout was shaped like the bill of a bird.

The Sheikh was very much the central figure, with some sixty of his retainers in a circle around him. They did not presume to speak in his presence, but they were ready to fulfill our slightest wants. We could not move to light a cigarette or even to adjust our cushions without one of these men springing forward to do it for us.

We sat cross-legged on the floor until our knees ached and we had to stretch our legs. For about fifteen minutes we exchanged compliments. Having expressed the hope that we were well, and having assured us that we were welcome, the Sheikh proceeded to say the same things several times over again, using different words and phrases. That is politeness. The interpreter translated these cordial sentiments to us, and we replied with a few brilliant flights of fancy.

The Sheikh told us that he was proud to entertain members of the British Forces and that it was 'in his heart to help us in every possible way because of the fairness which the British had always shown his people. We knew that this tribe was traditionally pro-British, and we murmured our thanks. We saw several signs of warlike interests that added force to the Sheikh's words. A number of old-style French army rifles stood in a corner, and many of the men present openly carried pistols. They looked quite ready to use them if the need arose.

An amusing story concerns fire-arms in these parts. The Vichy French had offered to arm this tribe against the British, and sent them a quantity of rifles. The Sheikh rejected the offer and sent back the arms, but by strange mischance the convoy was waylaid shortly after leaving the tribal area and all the rifles disappeared. That is the story as we heard it.

Compliments were followed by small talk, largely about the grain shortage and the extent to which it had been relieved by British shipments into the country. The Bedouin is primarily a camel trader and he does a good deal of bartering by means of his sheep and goats; but he pays cash for his grain and takes it into the desert with him for the winter. A shortage such as exists at present means hardship for him, and the British are doing all they can to help him.

An hour of talk, which was enlivened by much laughter and joking-for the Bedouin has a great sense of humour-was followed by the appearance of the meal. Six men entered the tent carrying a huge brass dish piled high with food. It was about four feet across and six inches deep. An "eating carpet" (a slightly rougher variety which would not suffer if food was spilled on it) was laid on the floor, the dish was placed on it, and the Sheikh and our party took up action stations for the feast. The Sheikh insisted that the driver of our truck, who was picqueting it outside, should be called in to eat with us. The other Bedouin stood by and watched.

The chief ingredient of our meal was a vast pyramid of rice. From its corners protruded the heads of four sheep. judging by their teeth they were young lambs. On top of the pyramid and around its base were legs and ribs of mutton, smoking hot.

We ate with the right hand only, as the left is unclean by Moslem tradition. You take a little rice, roll it into a ball, press a piece of meat into it, and put the lot into your mouth. It does not do to roll too big a ball. You show your appreciation of the meal by belching. You drink by stretching the head back and directing a stream of water from the pitcher spout accurately down the throat. This takes practice.

Although this method of eating sounds messy, it is not so in actual fact, as the fat is removed from the meat, which is free from grease. The rice retains its starch and is easy to press into a lump. We noticed that our hosts were very clean in their persons and dress, although the same could not be said of some of the people we saw outside.

This part of the meal took at least three-quarters of an hour. Afterwards we rose and went outside the tent, where we were each given a towel and a piece of soap, and water was poured over our hands. We returned to cat several dishes of luscious grapes, after which we went outside again and the washing ceremony was repeated. We topped off with a kind of tea made from the roots of a herb that grows in the mountains. It is sweet and palatable, and we had chosen it in preference to coffee as we were anxious to taste it.

When we had eaten our fill, the sheep's heads were removed and taken into a curtained-off portion of the tent, which was presumably the quarters of the head man's wives. The other people, about ten at a sitting, then took their turn at the inexhaustible dish.

We met no womenfolk during our visit, but women and girls came out of their tents as we passed, to see the strangers. They were good looking and not badly proportioned. Their clothing consisted of the usual loose-fitting dress, under which were tight frilled ankle-length pantaloons rather like those favoured by Early Victorian women. Their feet were either bare or else encased in wooden clogs. Their heads were veiled.

After a further half-hour or so of small talk, we took leave of our host with another exchange of courtesies. He wished us good-bye, and we replied with the traditional "Peace be with you."

We returned very pleased to have made contact with a people who arc warlike, primitive and yet among the proudest on earth. The Bedouin, who thinks himself as good as any man alive, is a mystery even to the other Arabs, and much of his fierce and rigid code remains an enigma to Europeans. Thinking over our experience, a phrase of the Sheikh's stuck in our minds. It was involved in expression and was directed significantly at ourselves, and it meant:

"The enemies of your enemies are our friends."

"SX7083"

Silenced Italian Guns by Ivor Hele

JUST A MATTER OF ADJUSTMENT

THE fertile brains of our political and economic leaders are now concentrating on post-war reconstruction. But theirs is a problem that needs little solving compared with the task of reconstructing habits that will confront the Digger when this scrapping has finished.

And I think it's high time that some thought was given by the Aussie to this problem. If he delays until he returns to the quiet and correctitude of his home life ... but I shudder to think of the consequences! I'm not thinking only of Mum, wifey or even the boss (they'll all get their fair share of shocks) but of the Australian public generally.

Of importance to all Diggers is Food. You, Returning Soldier, will want to duck into the nearest restaurant (I nearly said beer cafe, forgetting you were back in Australia) and order breakfast. "Saida, George," will be your friendly greeting to the it waiter"-and you'll frizzle before the stony stare of a waitress. So the universal name of George must not be used.

Next comes the complex job of ordering. You won't expect to get exactly what you order; something near will do. There really wasn't much difference between a sheep and a mountain goat. You'll pick up an imaginary egg and place it in an imaginary saucepan of water. Instead of a boiled egg you'll expect an omelette, The greatest suspicion will creep into your dulled mind when you don't see coffee that is a sort of thick, black muck, and you'll refuse the lighter brew you receive because you've seen so much bad goat's milk.

Dinner will be even worse, and by the time you've sought to order it by means of gesticulations and inarticulate mutterings (such as fowls, chickens, rabbits, and sheep make) someone will have crept up behind you, snapped on a pair of handcuffs, and you'll be led quietly and discreetly away, destined for a nice, long holiday in the local asylum. You'll accuse the other fellow of being insane, but he knows that all insane people do exactly that.

just because the fruit on the stalls looks appetising, you'll not accept the rosiest of apples or the sweetest of melon until you have been assured that it is "very clean, very sweet, very hygiene, very sanitaire." You'll look inside the oranges and melons, and remember all that the officers told you about Middle Eastern fruit. You didn't believe it all, and yet you weren't sure, so you took precautions. The fruiterer by this time has let you have the ripest Australian tomato free of charge.

Not all the trouble, though, will be caused by your appetite. What are the taxi drivers going to say when you refuse to pay full fare? "Now listen, George," you'll explain, "you're a rogue and a thief, and if you think I'm going to pay all that . . ." You don't expect him to understand what you're talking about, and so you just toss him half of what he demanded, and go blissfully on your way. In the meantime, the Australian taxi-driver is undecided whether he'll just take you to court to recover the money you owe him, or whether he'll go you for slander as well.

Traffic cops at home were nice enough fellows in their own particular way, but there was always something about them that made you suspect that they mightn't have eaten well at breakfast, or the week-end lassitude hadn't worn off. When they bobbed up, you did everything strictly within the law-and cursed them. It'll be disastrous if you now forget they haven't the little traits and peculiarities of the brown-uniformed gendarmes abroad.

You used to cut inside the traffic and fall to go round the gendarme when he waved a white gloved hand and a baton at you. The gendarme blew his whistle, walked over with a broad smile on his face, and in a most friendly-like manner said, "Please go around me when I wave my hand." Good coves . . . knew their job, you told your passenger. But, by this time, you're looking into a face with an ugly scowl on it, and the man in blue, with notebook and pencil, is already scribbling down your number. He is now demanding to see your licence - which you've just remembered you haven't bothered to renew since 1939.

The Digger who first dashes along the main shopping centre astride a donkey will cause quite a panic. But if your inclinations are thus directed, you'll not consider it anything out of the ordinary. You won a race or two and a few bob by squatting tight to a donkey. I suppose to those not used to donkeys you'll present an incongruous sight, but to you-quite natural!

The race fan is likely to come to grips with the local bookie. The horse you backed may not have won the race, but you'll expect to collect just the same. It is not going to make sense to the bookie and everyone, bar your little clique of cobbers, will back up the bookie. Things are likely to get out of hand. You'll be persistent that you're well within your rights, and you'll demand cash. You know that at Beirut you backed a horse that didn't win, but you collected all right. You thought the betting system a good one. If the owner had three horses in a race and you backed one of them, a win to any one of the three horses enabled you to collect. The one you backed then, the same as now, ran last. You fail to convince the bookie of the logic of your argument, and finally the cop is called over and off you go to the rat-house once more.

Many Diggers have learned a special type of shooting over here - that of camera shooting. In the ranks of the A.I.F. are hundreds of amateur photographers. Some have travelled and seen so much that they have been inspired to rare heights of aesthetic appreciation. Albums and photographs reposing on mantelpieces at home will bear irrefutable testimony. But you're likely to click trouble if you wander through Australian streets and photograph all the pretty girls you see. You've got all brands and breeds of womanly beauty in your album and you were actuated by no other desire than to collect samples of "types." At home they may not understand.

Not everything that the Digger has learned over here will be the means of his getting into trouble. There are some good points, too. For instance, first thing in the morning when you scramble off your blankets on the passage floor and reach for your boots, polish and brush, you'll not only give your boots a really first-class "parade ground shine," but you'll also neatly fold your blankets, in a little heap over which everyone will either step or stumble for the remainder of the day.

You'll probably take some time to adjust yourself to shoes, even if there is less shining to be done. Then you'll wander into the back garden, hang your steel mirror on the branch of an orange-tree, and begin your shave. You dress with regimental alacrity, wondering who in Hades has pinched your shorts (it's raining outside with a strong sou'-westerly blowing). You can't figure out how the collar is attached to the shirt (you wouldn't be able to find the stud, anyway) and a piece of string is all you've got for suspenders and belt. Worst of all is that silly little thing you stick on your head. Reminds you of something altogether unsuitable for hats.

If you have been out with the boys the night before, which was Friday and pay day, and wifey has either locked you out or gone away to the in-laws for the week-end, your one-time utter consternation is completely and pleasantly missing. If she has locked you out, you merely sleep on the lawn (if it hasn't died during your absence), using for a bed the camping tent (this will never be used again-for CAMPING) or perhaps a few potato bags.

Household expenses can be cut down. You won't dream of having a hot shower in the morning, even when it's snowing outside. Cold water is invigorating. It should also have been mentioned that there is no need to light the gas stove just to get your shaving water ready. When you were in the desert, and there wasn't a stick of wood for hundreds of miles, you easily convinced yourself that shaving with hot water made your face tender and sore. The milkman needn't call, either. Tea with milk isn't a good thirst quencher. You found that out in the desert. Wifey needn't wear stockings, let alone silk stockings, because the women you used to see didn't wear stockings, or fur coats either, and they never seemed to get pneumonia, malaria, or anything.

Another item on the expense list that could, without inconvenience to anyone, be cut out altogether is the weekly tram or train fares. If you live not more than a five mile jaunt from your place of employment, a little route march in the bracing morning air wouldn't do any harm. Perhaps others will cotton on to the idea and you can form a little squad. You'll be the N.C.O., of course. You used to hike over sandhills and stony roads and tracks before breakfast, so a little stroll down the bitumen road oughtn't to be unpleasant. Of course, if any trucks or wagons come along, hitch-hiking is allowed, and you could then go to work with your feet dangling from the back of a three-tonner.

You're sure to be at the office in plenty of time, and won't the boss be thrilled when you "yes, sir" him about a dozen times a day. He will probably think that the army isn't such a bad organisation after all, even if it did take from the business the only reliable accountant it ever had. With the accountant back, all items of expenditure are accounted for, and those that cannot be traced are simply and conveniently marked "lost in action."

Perhaps some of these good points will help to lessen the shock of the dozen and one bad points. In any case, I think it's about time we did give some thought to this talk of "reconstruction of ideas."

"SX7106"

"Let's make it sporting, Diggah, I'll toss you"

VISIT TO A "KIBBUTZ"

IN case the title of this story may lead some reader into thinking that a tale with a harem background is about to be unfurled, it is as well to mention that this is not the case. And now that any misgivings have been removed, permit me to add that "Visit to a Kibbutz" is but a simple and ungarnished account of a phase of life in Palestine which it is not everyone's good fortune to observe at close quarters.

In between the jobs of assisting to straighten out this Mess which has brought us so many hundreds of miles from our own fair country, we are afforded occasional opportunities to observe different aspects of life during our peregrinations. One such opportunity came my way when, during the observance in Palestine of the Feast of Pentecost, I went along with several other members of the A.I.F. to the Jewish settlement of Naan. Like other settlements of its kind-and they are springing up rapidly in the Holy Land-Naan revealed a standard of living which is as far removed from that in "Aussie" as Sydney is from Berlin.

Yet, much of what I saw had a great deal to commend it, and, indeed, the entire settlement bore countless traces of a pioneering spirit which one could not help but admire. The unremitting and painstaking labours of the inhabitants seemed to hit you in the eye. Such settlements are not entirely free from worries, however, no matter how much they savour of the modern Utopia. The age-old shadow of the Arab v. Jew feud is clearly discernible. At one community I saw an armoured car on the property, and it bore bullet holes fired from Arab rifles not so very long ago. Sentries patrol inside the wire enclosure by night, and half a dozen mastiffs act as a double guard.

Ten years ago the now flourishing settlement of Naan was but a bare stretch of sandy country. To-day this combined agricultural-industrial commune-known in Hebrew as "Kibbutz"-is the home of some 6oo men, women and children, who came to Palestine from twenty different countries in Europe. At the outset forty settlers commenced the work of establishing a new colony, and to-day this form of colonisation has reached the stage where it is handled by an organisation.

Far back from the main thoroughfares and almost hidden by a belt of trees, the "Kibbutz" of Naan is reached by a road which motorists back home would not hesitate to describe as a "fair cow." Irrigation has brought an oasis-like effect throughout the settlement, for colourful blooms and shady trees set in tidy plots of green grass grow in profusion. Numerous youngsters, made much of by the soldiers, bore the stamp of healthy parentage. From the one much over-worked doctor who runs the hospital, I gathered that the arrival of a new infant at the settlement is the signal for rejoicing. Rejoicing is fairly frequent these days.

No dividing fences separate the houses of neighbours, and that privacy, such as the Englishman craves, is well-nigh impossible. The swimming pool is for general use - a state of affairs the "Aussies" were not slow to appreciate. The engineering workshop, where farm implements and intricate parts of motor-driven machinery are made, is an eye-opener to the casual observer, for there is no implement in use at the "Kibbutz" that cannot be turned out in this workshop. A clean bakery, fitted with all "mod. cons.," is the castle of the young man who bakes all the bread, while the community laundry, in which a number of young Jewish lasses wash, damp, and press, is likewise fitted with stream-lined gadgets, bearing the stamp of originality.

Each person living in the settlement has his or her regular task. In the agricultural section girls and women, clad in shorts, lend a hand to the men folk, for as the settlement grows the work increases.

On entering a settlement, new recruits hand over their possessions, retaining the clothes they stand up in. No money is handled by the inhabitants, who, when they require clothing replacements, inform the headman who gives his sanction for them to be drawn out of the reserves. A daily ration of six smokes is allotted the smokers.

Principal get-together place is the community dining-room in which the whole population meet at meal times. Seated at long tables, they are waited upon by members of the regular kitchen staff. The din that accompanies each meal is not unlike that created by a crowd of football fans on the famous Sydney "Hill." Though a shy people, it was apparent that they are pleased to meet visitors to their settlement. Believe me, the "Aussies" had a grand night's fun, even though there was nothing stronger on the house than lemonade.

Part of the celebrations included Jewish folk songs, sung by a young girls' choir, and some rather vigorous dancing performed by a team of local belles. The men folk expended their energies in a series of "slap-happy" contortions, coupled with much yelling and shouting-the true background to their Continental demeanour. It was a more energetic form of dancing than any jitterbugging you might see at any of the popular 2/6 dances in Sydney, Brisbane or Melbourne.

-In one of the houses I noseyed my way into, I found myself in the company of a Czecho-Slovakian, a Russian, a Rumanian, a couple of Austrians, and a Polish lass and not one of them could utter a syllable of the good old Anglo-Saxon language. Still, there were two other "Aussies" and a stray "Kiwi" making eyes at the Polish blonde, so the atmosphere was quite friendly.

And now that I've been on the inside of a "Kibbutz," I'm more than ever convinced that the manner in which we live back Home is the finest in the world.

BATTLE OF THE PLAGUES

IT seems to the writer, who has read many guide books on the Middle East, that no one has yet produced an authoritative work on its "wild life." To one who comes from a land where Man and Nature can live on terms of non-belligerence, this seems an oversight.

An endeavour will be made here to give an account of Nature and an intimate history of our campaigns against it in the Middle East.

The conflict between Nature and the A.I.F. has been a feature aside from all campaigns and has produced strong figures on both sides.

No Digger will forget the ever-present and all-absorbing struggle for existence between himself and those persistent creatures that move by night-Palestine fleas. Beside them the "barking mossies" of the Mallee look meek as designing widows. After spending one night in Palestine, the writer concluded that the very earth was alive, and that nothing short of a wholesale disinfestation of the land would bring relief.

A vow was then taken that fleas would become the subject of a scientific investigation. Behold us, next morning, with a fly spray (ask not how, or where, it was obtained) and half a gallon of kerosene. A liberal application of this to the floor produced instantaneous results in the form of a Benghaziac evacuation of the floor and a "protective occupancy" of blankets, underclothing and palliasse.

NC1 powder was then tried. This, while proving almost fatal to the N.C.O. who tried it, encouraged those previously unbidden bedfellows to unprecedented intimacies. Days, weeks, months passed, and so voracious were their attacks that one viewed "wild life" positively in the raw. Gone were any thoughts of humane extermination. We had already patented a machine to lure them into a confined space and cut their throats, but this was rejected in favour of a more dastardly device which put them to death as surely but much more slowly (after the fashion of an Oriental Grandee giving an "at home" in the torture chamber). The device had the added advantage of fitting into a tobacco tin, and including a folding gent's wardrobe and a travelling cocktail bar, F.S. With all these devices, it was still felt (distinctly) that nothing more than the edge of the problem had been touched. Much remained to be done.

We entered one day the cafe of one "Heavyweight Helen," in a small town well known to Ak-I-Foofers.

"What you drink, Aussie-beer?"

"Helen, you ethereal creature, I want some thing of extreme potency, inducive of instant forgetfulness, and productive of a flea proof hide."

Helen (who knows little Australian, but much of Australians) replied, "You mean ,beer?"

"No, woman, I was suckled on a beer barrel, weaned on a whisky still, and never intake water with my nitro-glycerine. Bring me DRINK."

Understanding the tone rather than the words of the reply, Helen brought her, best-or worst. It was Vodka, and the label said "96 per cent."

Nothing need be said of the fire that flowed through every vein after the first sip, for the loud explosion that followed the lighting of a cigarette. Suffice it to say that a triumphant return to camp followed this indulgence. Fire belched from mouth and nostril. Australia had succeeded 'in bringing a withering northerly to Palestine. Bitumen on the road home bubbled and smoked as the avenger passed. Foliage, grass and even Wogs were seared. The fleas? Well, they're still hiding out in the "Q" store.

Less annoying, but even more deadly, are the attentions of the Scarab beetle, abounding in Egyptian deserts. At a time when many Australians were resting on the ,outskirts of the desert, these creatures (in the absence of any other objects of distraction) came in for a good deal of attention. With their lumbering gait, they had an irresistible fascination, which, in moments of great boredom, became hypnotic. Men about to go "cafard" would find themselves, at full moon, on their hands and knees, following these creatures across the desert, imitating their inebriated roll and their terrifying night cry, which resembles the mating call of the giraffe.

There was only one remedy to avoid madness; shun the creatures as though one had not been introduced. We were moderately successful.

Coming back to Palestine, our cars are nightly offended by the dismal baying of the jackals. When a man rolls up in his blankets at night, and his ears unconsciously strain across thousands of miles to catch, perhaps, the notes of the poorly appreciated "maggie " or share the latest joke with the Prince of jesters and King of Birds (you've got it - jackass), the trance is suddenly broken by "Yowwwwwww. ,ooooooo-eeeeeee-yuf-yuf-yuf . . ." ad nauseam. Banshee of the Battlefields!

But one day, two separate and distinct dust storms will start somewhere about Mersa Matruh. One of these will collect all the scarabs between there and Alexandria, and all the fleas and jackals in Palestine, while its counterpart will complete the pincer movement by collecting the Duce and the Fuhrer, and the whole collection will be left to fight it out somewhere in Syria, and all Australians will then be repatriated and pensioned off.

Ask the opinion of any Digger, and he'll tell you, "That'll be the day, son."

"VX3820I"