 |
On Active Service: a range of books about the 3 Services in W W 2. A Digger History site. |
|
|
|
This page is from the book "Jungle Warfare". (1944) |
|
Charlie the Tuan; Picnic Races; Evolution of a patriot..... |
 |
|
"The Mudlark" by VX93433. "Near the top of the mountain there was a mud Pool deeper and slimier than the rest. . . . We saw an overloaded straggler making his way with grim earnestness up the slope towards us. We all watched him in silence, but with great interest. All of us had come to grief, more or less, in that mud pool, and we wanted to see what sort of a crossing he would make. He came to the edge, looked for a way round (there wasn't any-we knew!), stepped gingerly forward-and fell. That pool was three feet deep. He broke -surface again, looked pityingly at his heartless cobbers splitting their sides, and said, 'Great -- sense of humour you blokes've got!' " (From the artist's diary.) |
|
CHARLIE THE TUAN |
| IT is almost impossible to put Charlie down on paper. There is no way of reproducing
his clipped English voice, delivering sentences at machine-gun rate. As a matter of fact,
the boys labelled him "Machine Gun Charlie" because, they explained, he spoke in bursts
of five. It is necessary to tell you this to enable you to form a mental picture of him: tall, lean, and brown, with piercing English blue eyes; with that incredible English voice; and, as we learned, that incredible English courage. (I hope he never sees this. "Look here, old boy," he would say. "That's a bit thick. Do you want to make an ass of me?") But Charlie, who had been born in Malaya, sent home to be educated - good school, of course - was at heart a colonial. He was in fact what is known as a typical example of the self-exiled Englishman - the proud, English tuan. And he was immensely popular. His heart was in the East, always longing for the deep cool green of his rubber plantations at Telok Anson, which he had lost when the Jap overran the Malayan peninsula three years ago. Charlie had been a rubber-plantation manager for sixteen years. His eyes would grow wistful when he spun his stories of his life there; of his wife . . . dear, charming Wyn, "Prettiest gel in Malaya", and of his two little boys, Jerry- pronounced "Jerreh" - and Errol. His English reserve would be affronted if I were to suggest that he was capable of deep, and even poetic emotion. At first we used to rag Charlie ... gently, of course. He didn't mind. He happened upon me once entertaining a group of fellows by mimicking his voice. "I say, that's jolly good, my dear fellow," he said at breakneck 400 words-a-minute speed. "But don't talk so extraordinarilah fast-I can't understand a word you're saying." By last Christmas we had been moved back to our State for leave, but when the festive day came round we were in a northern camp somewhere, and-you will have no doubt feeling pretty nostalgic. On Christmas night, in that magic hour when you sit outside your tent, and defy the mosquitoes by growing insensitive, the talk drifted round to other days, other celebrations. We all said our piece. Charlie was silent. Suddenly he shifted. "You know, you fellows," he said, "we were having a Christmas party just after the show started in Malaya. Not beer, of course. Gin pahits and stengahs. Jolly good, too. We had no idea the Japanese were so close; weren't told a ruddy thing. . . ." We knew that Charlie had had a thin time of it during that Christmastide of 1941; that he and his small family had barely escaped with their lives; but the details he would not reveal. We professed disinterest. So he took up the tale again. "One of my plantation boys came in and told me that there was a forward Japanese patrol only about two hours away. My wife said, 'Better look sharp!' So we did. Threw a few things into the back of the car, popped the kids in, and beat it." He lapsed into silence. "Well, what happened?" we demanded. "Oh, we got down the road a piece, and ran slap-bang into an air raid. Rather nasty. Then we broke the spring in the car, had to get another. Nuisance. Got to Singapore in about a week, and ran into more ruddy air raids. Bomb fell on the house we were staying, as a matter of fact. Kids howled liked billyho. Couldn't get the little beggars back to sleep. We had no money of course. Very little, anyway. And there were no darned ships. Just had to sit there.
Got away day before Singapore fell ... subs chased us and bombed a few times. Got to Java in the end. Then things got hot there, so we managed to hop it down to Western Australia. We were in a frightful ruddy mess, really. Not a
darned thing you know. Got a job for a few weeks while we were looking for a
house, but I couldn't stick it and joined the ruddy Army." "Not really. Stinking luck of course. Darned annoyed about one thing though. Those ruddy Japs dropped a bomb in my garden and knocked a great hole in it. We were annoyed about that. Fresh vegetables hard to get in Malaya. . . ." "NX17653" |
 |
|
Patrol Leader reporting "No Contact" |
|
CANDLELIGHT |
"NX176465" |
|
PICNIC RACES - NORTH AUSTRALIA |
 |
| THE peace and quiet of overnight was transformed *into a state of feverish activity. We were going some place, and when the Army goes some place there is always hustle. Eventually we embussed. Each vehicle moved off at regulation intervals. We stood, crouched or sat on boxes. I noticed other convoys ahead and behind-Army, Navy and Air Force. Surely the whole of the services were en fête this day. An occasional plane passed high overhead. We swung off the main road at a sign which said: "To the course." We had left the bitumen of a grand highway and now bumped, swerved, steadied and struggled on again through a haze of billowing dust churned up by countless vehicles ahead. Then we stopped. Provosts directed the traffic to allotted parking areas. And so to the course proper. It deserves brief description. Situated in a clay-pan, completely surrounded by trees and scrub, bounded on the northern edge by a lagoon, the entire circuit of the track was railed off. There had been constructed out of bush-timber two grandstands, a totalizator, two canteens, a judge's stand and several minor buildings. Sawdust had been spread about to settle the dust and there were two saddling paddocks. Flags of the Allied nations towered above various stands. Vans of the combined amenities services were there in strength, and distributed free drinks and biscuits throughout the afternoon. Music was relayed through loudspeakers and there was a band in attendance. It was indeed an imposing spectacle. I paid a shilling for a programme. It would serve as an excellent souvenir. An official hammered a length of railway line which dangled from a tree. Mounted troopers, complete with side-arms, appeared and commenced to clear the track. Already there was a crowd of some eight thousand assembled. From my perch high up in one of the grandstands I saw them - six sprightly thoroughbreds. They filed out on to the track, their jockeys resplendent in jackets and caps generously lent by the Victorian Race Club - a blaze of colour, reminiscent of Flemington on Cup Day! Preliminary gallops completed, they stepped quietly round to the barrier. I selected a likely-looking animal by the name of Dreamer, a colt by Reveille out of Bed. Fighting my way to the tote I invested five shillings on this beast and heaved a sigh! I had scarcely time to climb on to the canopy of a truck when the field got away. Dreamer shot to the front, stumbled, and dropped back to last. The Ace had taken up the running and continued to lead throughout. Dreamer recovering ground splendidly, just failed to get up and was beaten by half a head. Drifter was third. For my modest investment of five shillings the totalizator returned me a fantastic dividend of four shillings. I wandered round meeting friends from other units. The sun now beat fiercely down. I perspired freely, so I gulped down large quantities of lolly-water! A fighter-pilot who had been hovering above at a great height threw his plane into a dive, flattened out at a ridiculously low level and raced across the track. I grasped my hat lest he should reach cut and snatch it from my head as he swept by! I caught only a glimpse of the P.W. Welter. Crushed in the midst of a surging mass I saw six horses flash past. That was all! I listened to the commentator. Weak Moments, by Popeye out of Spinach, had won the event from Tubby and Truck. Scattered here and there throughout the crowd I noticed girls in various uniforms. They too had come to back their fancies. Had come, too, very many miles from their homes, roughing it like the rest of us, to play their part in this gigantic war machine. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. A "Native Scamper" created much hilarity. Furiously belting their mounts with sticks and screaming at the tops of their voices, first one led and then another. It was like hell let loose! Bushfire, by Match out of Carelessness, won the next event in a canter from They're Off and Natives. Each unit supplied its own luncheon. I secured mine and with friends found a shady spot under the Pandanus palms which lined the banks of the lagoon, the waters of which were literally covered with giant lily-leaves. Here and there the beautiful lily itself-white and blue-reared majestically above the surface of the water. It was indeed a pretty spot. Altogether, eight races were contested. To mention other winning mounts I must include Gotcha, by Manpower out of Roundup, It's On, by Invasion out of England and Two-up, by Banned out of Don't Try. All horses were kindly lent by a nearby station-owner. They were auctioned before the day of the meeting. Usually a syndicate bought a horse. Stakes: were good, averaging about £300 for each of the six main events, so that when you consider that Bushfire, the highest priced horse of the day at £110 earned approximately £200 for his temporary owners, you will agree that, besides the sport, buyers of winning horses were returned handsome dividends on their investments. And so with all races decided, the meeting drew to a close. I counted what money remained in my pockets-four shillings. I had left £2/10s. with the totalizator, but as a large percentage of it, together with proceeds from the sale of programmes, went to swell prisoner of war funds, I did not consider it all a total loss. Provosts: again sprang into action, and in a short time had each convoy under way. It was a splendidly organized meeting and a grand day's outing. "WX33780 " |
|
DIAL AGAIN, PLEASE! |
| FEET was one of those coves whose sun-tan was almost a black dye. A week in the sun, and he had to keep talking all the time so we wouldn't take him for a boong. We had just finished four weeks' leave in Sydney, four weeks of great weather, and plenty of surfing. We reported back to L.T.D., and towards the end any questions they asked we answered automatically. Feet lined up one morning, still in a bit of a daze from pitching woo the previous night with his bit of fluff. "Number?" asked the clerk. Feet was miles away. He gave his telephone number; "FX6126." The clerk looked up, took in Feet's suntan, and rocked us where we stood. "Oh, a Fijian, eh?" "NX15943" |
 |
|
Bivouac at Wareo |
|
EVOLUTION OF A PATRIOT |
| THERE are times when even the most phlegmatic of us will stare goggle-eyed and mouth agape at the exigencies of the Army. Not that I hold anything against the Army. It is with considerable pride that I take up the banner and go marching forward with my head held high, my soul filled with patriotic ecstasy, and my boots with mud. My mates - colonial expression meaning colleagues - assure me I am suffering from a state of mental retrogression, or to use the vernacular, I am Troppo. Such an accusation grossly exaggerates my condition, and could prove quite embarrassing if I were to take it seriously. However, it is not in my nature to bear a grudge, so I merely pass it by with a light-hearted laugh and a hey nonny-nonny. In September 1939 when the world was plunged into war I was incensed at the thought of such barbarity, filled with patriotic fervour, and determined to do my bit as a British subject. Naturally I was very happy when I was called up three years later. Now was my opportunity! Who can tell - I might even be a lance-corporal one day! Having safely passed through the G.D.D. where I received my T.A.B., my T.T., my clothes S.D., my slacks K.D., and my A.A.B.83, I was passed on to a sergeant who was N.C.O.I.C. draft. These Army abbreviations prove a never-ending source of interest to me, and by adopting them the authorities can no doubt get on two pages what otherwise would take three, thereby enabling them to make more copies of everything. My blood-test, brain-test, reflex test and aptitude-test all proving negative I was sent to a camp to be trained as a signalman. Very soon my name would be spoken with awe and reverence. I would be a Leader of men! Anyone can make the grade provided he is keen. Take Hitler for example ... ! My signal-training was thorough and I soon became conversant with "Vic Eddy", "Ack R" and "A4", also various other interesting things. By the time I was due to gird my loins in the green raiment associated with jungle-fighting my tuition was complete. I knew ail about the cleaning of cook-house utensils, various out-houses and my boots. By the time we had embussed, debussed, entrained, detrained, embarked, and debarked we were in New Guinea. Now was the time I could prove myself a good soldier and keep Australia free from the Japanese menace. After our sea-journey we were given a temporary respite of five or six weeks in a staging camp, and I was very glad because my nervous system had undergone considerable strain in crossing the Coral Sea. They assured me there had been no Japanese activity in these waters for months, but one can never be certain.... While in the staging camp my sleep was disturbed only by meals and picture-shows, and I was pleased to be in the thick of it. When our recuperation was complete our unit was sent on an invasion. What a thrill is an invasion! Naturally it was necessary to go through a lot more embussing, debussing and so on, but eventually, after moving our equipment from a truck to the ground, and back again to the truck several times, we were on our way to Japanese-occupied territory. It was a very hush-hush affair as security must be, maintained at all costs. No more than a few thousand casual onlookers knew a thing about it. On "D" day we invaded "Y' Beach at "H" hour. All very involved and entertaining. It was here that I had my first experience of enemy activity since the unidentified aeroplane flew over Sydney. I had been wandering around doing nothing for a few hours when over came a flight of enemy planes. They began strafing us from a distance, and not knowing what it was all about, I speculated as to the cause of the disturbance. An officer shouted "Take cover!" and I ran around in eccentric circles until one of our Bofors
A.A. guns opened up. Not having previously heard a Bofors gun in action I mistook its detonations for falling bombs. Someone shouted "Don't panic!" so in order to show my self-control and iron nerve I echoed "Don't panic!" and threw myself, a
shivering mass, under a decayed log which housed a colony of ants. More heavy ack-ack was
heard, so I burrowed further under the log, white to the gills and praying madly. The ants resented my intrusion and showed their displeasure by crawling into my shirt and trousers, all the while attacking me with gay abandon. "NX141752" |
|
THE GUNNER TO THE MOON |
 |
"VX87177" |
 |
