Chapter 15 ABC of the Army, Mountain speaks; Matter of morale; Pin up girl

A.B.C. OF THE ARMY

WHETHER you serve in the A.I.F., P.M.F. or C.M.F., there is no escaping the Army's phantom "language"-initials.

The introduction to this science of letterfigure combinations is all very bewildering. When someone blandly demands an A.A.B. 83, WE 5 (a), A.A.F. F200 and an A.A.F. A63, the easiest solution is to ask for a translation, for the secret of the new art is to master a little at a time before exploring the higher grades.

Omission to do this, and a consequent lack of thorough groundwork, merely causes the pupil unnecessary stress and discouragement. Plus, if he is instructed to report to the S.O.R.A.E., A.O.M.E. or B.O.W.O., the rot sets in, when a little reflection and application of early technique would have saved the situation-perhaps.

But such trials are only the symptoms of the "teething" stage, inseparable from all branches of learning. Actually, the craft has its compensations. There is, for instance, extravagant pride in the ability to approach the B.G.S. and in concise, verbal shorthand, inform him that his P.A. has fallen in the L.T. and has been evacuated to the M.D.S. There's satisfaction, too, if you can pick the G.1 from a gathering of the C.C., C.S.O., A.P.M., A.L.O. and D.A.D. (P.O.L.). Just imagine what a paper-saving the mathematical wizard or alphabetical expert could make. The opportunity to match your skill in wits, words and figures always exists. Yes, there are great possibilities.

Take my case for example. It was nine o'clock on a dull, steamy morning. I was on the second page of Guinea Gold, when my O.C., who looked more energetic than I, discovered an ammunition shortage in the paper war.

"Will you go over to Stationery and get an E10?" he asked. "We haven't used one this month."

"Only one, sir?"

This, of course, was a fatal question. I paid dearly for my folly.

"Come to think of it," he added, "We could do with more. Better make a list. Half a dozen E8s, as many A.A.F. E5-1 (a) s as you can get. Also a pad of A.A.F. E5-8(a)s. Oh yes, we want some A.A.F. G4s and 52s for the next return."

He stopped to breathe, but only for a minute.

"Have we got plenty of A.F.G. 1033s and A.F.G. 997s?"

"Any amount," I replied, hoping to ease the barrage.

"What else is needed?"

"That just about covers it," I said craftily.

"Very well, see what you can do."

But I wasn't finished. Now that he was lulled into false security I mounted a counter-attack. My remark about having even-thing was just a feint.

"Haven't you forgotten something, sir'-"

"What, for instance?"

"'Well we're right out of forms A.F.G. 982Ds, A.F.G. 975, forms 'Schedule M, A.A. 126 and W.F. 131 As (Revised 1942, printed in pads of 100)."

He reeled under the force of this jumble. I was more advanced in the "figureology" than he supposed. Then he recovered slowly.

"All right, get whatever else comes to mind he said. "I'll leave it to you."

I felt a warm thrill of achievement as I prepared to leave the hut. As I was going, my O.C. called over his shoulder:

"By the way, while you're out, you might take those maps over to the A.I.B. and if you've time drop in to A.M.G.O.(E) and see the major about that plan."

"Yes, sir," rather humbly. I had been outwitted. Outclassed. I snatched the maps and hurried off.

Arriving at Stationery Depot I placed my list before an expert. With a few deft strokes he deleted two items. First words were brief and disheartening.

"No E10s or E8s."

"None," I queried.

"None," he repeated. "Doubt if there's one on the Island."

"Who's likely to have any?"

"Well you can try A.D.O.S., D.D.O.S. or even D.O.S. Don't like your luck."

"How about a Master Card?"

"Only got one for file. Can't let that out."

Obviously there was no success to be had here. I set off to search elsewhere.

Along the road I ran into an imposing display. Grouped on my left were F.E.L.O., C.O.S.C. and D.A.M.S. Further on I puzzled over the meaning of D.A.D.W.G.S., D.A.P.S., D.D.S.T., D.A.D.A.P.A. The lastnamed suggested affectionate baby-talk, but I dismissed the thought as unconvincing.

By this time my main object was fast diminishing before the lure of the alphabet gone wrong. The mission was lost anyway. A garish sign pointed the way to S.I.B., D.M.T., and E.S.B.E.L.S. I spent several ungainful minutes there, but I could have visited the F.C.O. and A.M.E.N. with profit.

Then recalling the O.C.'s suggestion I visited A.M.G.O.(E) and proceeded into the B.S.A. where the G.11 and D.A.A.G. were exercising.

It was now eleven o'clock and the new boots A.B. the Q.M. had given me were pinching, so I entered camp behind the offices of the A.Q.M.G., A.A. & Q.M.G., and D.A.Q.M.G. just then someone came out of G(Ops). It was Harry.

"Hiya, George," was his greeting, "going to the C.A.B. lecture tonight?"

"No, Harry, got to see a mate over at A.E.M.E., then on to a C.R.E. show."

That was two to one, but perhaps an unworthy victory.

Back in the office I was tempted to try conclusions again with the O.C. Thought better of it because just then our driver handed in his G. 2.

It had been an interesting morning, if not altogether successful. You see, there is adventure and a future in the new industry. With perseverance your knowledge might lead you to strange and unimagined worlds. I hope this reaches you. It was probably censored by D.P.R.!

"NX4779"

MATTER OF MORALE

T0 all outward appearances Steve Connors was just the same as a thousand others who had carried their rifles and their Brens, their Owens and their mortars up the Ramu and into the rugged battlements of the Finisterres. There was nothing to distinguish him now from any of the little band of men struggling up the heartbreaking slope to the crest of the ridge. His boots and gaiters were almost invisible through the thickly-coated mud, and his ragged green shirt and trousers were dark with sweat. On his back was his haversack with his sodden half-blanket and groundsheet rolled beneath it. The inevitable slouch hat, battered and shapeless, completed a typical jungle infanteer.

But, though Steve Connors was living, eating and fighting with his mates, he existed in a world apart, and his eyes, in confirmation, stared straight ahead vacantly. He had no more interest in his surroundings than an automaton.

His comrades, closer to him than anyone, had noticed the change in him. No longer was he the Steve they had known and fought with. They could recall many a tough spot when Steve's dry humour and fatalistic nonchalance had eased their ragged nerves and given them new heart. But not now. There had been something in his bearing in those last two brushes with the Jap that had sown the seed of doubt in their minds. They had begun to think he had lost his nerve.

One by one, as they reached the ridge, they threw themselves on the ground, thankful that their long climb was completed. In front of them the ground fell away into another valley, then up again to a higher ridge that seemed but a stone's-throw away. Tall timber and thick undergrowth clothed the crest where they lay, but farther down it thinned to open kunai on the valley floor.

When they had rested they began to prepare their evening meal - if the opening of a tin could be called preparation.

As they ate the officer in command., a young lieutenant named Weatherley, spread out a map on the ground and began to outline their mission.

"Corporal Connors," he said, "I want you to take particular note of what I am going to say and study this map carefully. You'll know the reason later.

"Now, this is the picture," he commenced. "Patrols from 'A' company have covered this area to the valley ahead of us," indicating the positions on the map as he spoke. "Our job is to continue from there to this oval-shaped knoll here. All being well that should take us about eight days. This first valley, however. is our main obstacle. Owing to this line of cliffs, the only wav to get to the bottom is, down this gully and across that kunai patch. That's the way 'A' company tried to go." He paused here to take a mouthful of food. He masticated slowly then continued, "They were cut to ribbons by guns concealed somewhere up the valley."

He paused again, this time to allow his words to sink in. "We think they have two heavy machine guns, woodpeckers, but we don't know where they are sited. Obviously our first job is to locate and destroy those gun positions. Just as obviously it has to be done by stealth and not by storm."

The men looked at him expectantly. They liked this young-old leader of theirs and respected his judgment.

"So," he went on, "I am sending you, Connors, with three others you will pick from your section, to do that first important job. You will leave at first light. Are there any questions?" He finished, and looked around at the lean unshaven faces about him. There were no questions. Steve Connors studied the map with very little show of interest or enthusiasm. Disinterestedly, too, he picked three men to accompany him.

The light faded and the hush of the jungle night cloaked everything. The men sat around for a while discussing the job in hand, very much in the same way as they would discuss next week's races. Gradually the murmur of voices died away as, one by one, they settled down to sleep, while around them the watchful eyes of the outpost sentries strained to pierce the darkness.

When the sun came up, tipping the ridges and peaks with silver, Steve Connors and his three companions were already picking their way down the gully. They were in semi twilight, as the valley was still deep in shadow and the thick foliage roofing the creek bed let little light through.

The rest of the patrol had wished them luck, and watched them till they were out of sight, then settled down to wait. They were all wondering about Steve Connors though they said nothing.

They had gone about an hour and a half when the men on the ridge started up as the slow stutter of a woodpecker echoed up from the valley floor. Another gun joined its rattling song. Then they stopped and the silence was deep and sudden. All eyes turned to the officer.

He looked at them and quietly answered their mute question. "We'll give them till midday."

The hours dragged by. Then, ten minutes before noon, a solitary figure staggered out of the head of the gully. As he came up to them they saw it was Steve Connors. His hat was gone and on top of his head the dark hair was matted by something darker. His eyes were still blank.

Someone cut away the hair from the wound on his head and bandaged the shallow score left by a heavy-calibre bullet. It was not a bad wound. The skin was barely broken. Slowly and listlessly he told his story.

He had decided to cross the kunai patch in extended line so as to present four small moving targets instead of one compact one. That had seemed the best plan to him. But he had not been prepared for the blast of close-range fire that had swept them when they had barely left the gully. Luckily he had only been creased and had managed to crawl back to cover.

"What about the others?" a voice asked.

"I could see them," Steve answered. "They didn't move."

Somehow the barrier between Steve and his comrades seemed to have become greater. They felt that his plan for crossing the kunai had been hopelessly unimaginative. They blamed him for the death of his three companions. Steve did not seem to care. He sat and gazed unseeingly across the valley.

Twenty minutes later, from the direction of headquarters, a sweating panting figure, with a bulky bag over his shoulder, reached the crest of the ridge. The magic word "Mail" ran like a ripple from lip to lip, and the men leapt to their feet and crowded around the newcomer.

"You beaut, Shorty, open her up."

"Any for me, Shorty?"

"Any parcels?"

From every side Shorty Jameson was bombarded with eager questions. The men, their eyes alight with anticipation, almost overran the little mail-orderly in their excitement. They could barely refrain from snatching the bag from his hand.

Shorty, coolly unconcerned, put the bag on the ground and sat on it.

"Now, until all you blokes get back and give me some air, I'm sitting on this bag and you'll never get your so-and-so mail," he threatened. As if by magic the crowd backed off a good six inches. Shorty was apparently satisfied with this as he rose to a kneeling position and tipped the bag's precious contents out on to the ground.

Bundle by bundle he sorted them, calling the names, and handing the letters out. On the outskirts of the crowd was Steve Connors. The pile of letters dwindled until only one small bundle remained, and the name Connors had not been called. With a hopeless expression on his face Steve turned away. He had gone a few paces when he was halted by Shorty's voice calling, "Connors, S. J. Anyone take Connors's mail?"

"Here!" called Steve, and was back in a flash, almost snatching the telegram from Shorty's hand. Eagerly he ripped the envelope open and scanned the short message. He read it again and slowly a smile lit up his gaunt features and he laughed aloud. His shoulders drew back and his back straightened visibly. Ignoring the curious glances of his mates, Steve strode over towards the officer, stuffing the precious scrap of paper in his pocket as he went. He was not smiling now but his eyes gleamed.

The officer looked up from the letter he was reading, as Steve approached.

"Yes, Connors," he said. "What is it?"

"Sir," Steve answered, "I'd like permission to have another crack at those b---- woodpeckers. Alone."

Lieutenant Weatherley studied Steve in silence. This man before him was something like the old Connors. He felt strangely confident as he replied quietly, "Righto, Corporal, you have my permission."

For the second time that day Steve set off down the gully. Before leaving, he had equipped himself with four grenades as well as his Owen gun. As he hurried down the rocky creek bed he was thinking quickly. How was he to cross that kunai patch? And once across then what? He tried to remember the details of the morning's tragic attempt as he made swift mental calculations as to the direction from which the fire had come.

Despite his furious thinking he had no plan made when he reached the point where the gully opened out on to the kunai. He saw the bodies of his mates, still lying where they had fallen, and a fierce anger gripped him. From the cover of a small bush he minutely examined the valley in the direction from which the fire had come. It was easier than he had thought. That big tree about three hundred yards up seemed the only spot the guns could be. He prayed so anyway.

His brain worked swiftly as he studied the approaches to the tree and formulated his plan of attack. Then the way to cross the kunai came to him suddenly. It was so simple he almost laughed. It was risky of course but everything was a gamble these days.

He rose from behind the bush and, with his Owen at the ready, he walked out into the open. He advanced ten yards and nothing happened. Twenty yards. Thirty. Forty. He held his breath. Ten yards to go. He steeled himself for the shock of the bullets. But none came. With a sigh of relief he entered the protection of the trees. The gamble had come off. The Japs behind the guns had taken him for the forward scout of a patrol and even now were squatting behind their weapons ready to open. Swiftly and silently he advanced up the valley, concealed from view by the trees and the thick undergrowth. Speed was essential. He must get there before the Japs realized they had been fooled.

He slowed down. He was getting close now. He heard the strike of metal on metal and he froze. Carefully he parted the bushes with his hands. His judgment had been correct. There, one on either side of the tree, duo, in between the roots and camouflaged to perfection, were the two woodpeckers. He thanked God the Japs, in their confidence, had not bothered to roof their gun-pits with logs and earth as they usually did. He edged closer until only a dozen yards separated him from the nearest g-un. The Japs were getting impatient now and he could hear them chattering.

He took his grenades from his belt and silently laid them beside him. He pulled the pin from one and with a smooth over-arm action lobbed it into the nearest gun-pit. In swift succession the others followed it, two into each position.

The valley reverberated to the explosions. Scarcely had the sound of the grenades died away when Steve was in the open, his Owen spitting a victory song. But it was not necessary.

Not a thing stirred in either pit and the guns were twisted, useless metal. Up on the ridge the officer smiled and the men began to grin and say, "Good old Steve."

Steve noticed with surprise that the deep shadows were creeping into the valley again. He must hurry to get back before dark.

After collecting any papers that might be of Intelligence value Steve started back down the valley, across the kunai patch, and began to toll up the gully towards the camp. His wounded head was aching and his weary body cried out for rest, but his heart was singing. He paused a minute and took the telegram from his pocket. He could barely see the words in the fading light. As he returned it to his pocket he grinned and went on his way whistling.

After all, it wasn't every day a man became the father of twins.

"VX107019"

PIN-UP GIRL

DON'T suppose there's anyone I ever liked better than Charlie Robins. He was a good natured, sentimental bird at heart, slow-witted and dreamy, and you just couldn't help being attracted to him. But he had one singular weakness, common to all males; that was a weakness for the opposite sex.

This fact was made evident when we were crawling over a morass of clinging mud one drizzly wet morning, with the jungle misty green and eerily silent all about us. I'd often wondered what the ecstatic, far-away look on his face could signify, and shrewdly guessed that some sweet girl back home was haunting his memory. Well, it was just when we'd halted for a bit of a breather that he lugged forth the photograph.

Of course it was soiled and crumpled, and he had to brush off a few lumps of caked mud before the subject of the picture became clearly discernible. And then I was pretty startled, to say the least of it; in fact, I couldn't restrain the whistle of astonishment that broke from my lips.

"Gosh, what a swell sort!" I exclaimed.

"Sure, dig," he drawled, while a strange light lit up his eyes. "Licks all the Betty Grables into a cocked hat, don't she?"

I nodded dumbly. The picture was no ordinary snapshot or anything like that. Oh no, it was a full-page, vividly coloured rotogravure torn from the pages of some American magazine. By the look of it, the poor sap had been carrying it around with him for months, probably forking it out every spare moment to gaze in admiration upon it. No small wonder! This girl's face should have been her fortune.

If you can conjure up the image of a sweet, cherry-cheeked countenance, two of the loveliest, twinkling blue eyes, lustrous, bright and smiling, an impishly tilted little nose, honey-golden hair that clustered in ringlets about the forehead and dropped smoothly down about a white, slender neck, and luscious ripe red lips, then you can visualize the girl in the photo as I saw her then, and imagine why my heart seemed to miss a few beats.

"Now I know what's been eating you all these months," I breathed. "Reckon it's just too bad it's only a camera study and you don't know the woman.

"At least," I added hastily, "you don't happen to know her, do you?"

He laughed gently in his stubbly black beard, and, folding the picture with great care, replaced it in his pocket.

"I've got to know her pretty well by looking at her day and night and thinking myself into a stupor about her. Some day I will meet her, though - I'm sure I will."

"Seems like you're kinda stuck on the dame," I laughed. "Half your luck, pal, being able to fall for a photograph. Where did you rake it up from, anyway?"

"Tore it out of some Yank journal several months ago," he replied. "Happened to notice it lying in a canteen back in Moresby. Didn't have time to read about her, who she was or anything else, as the Nips were coming over like flies at the time. That big raid, remember? "

"Mebbe she's some posh society snob, been divorced two or three times," I hinted with a, sly grin.

Charlie was deeply offended by this observation.

"A sweet-looking kid like that! Have a, heart, dig."

But my remark quite perturbed him, even if it didn't appear to minimize his fanatical devotion to the face in the photograph.

"Well, buck up, Charlie," I laughed. "You might come across her one day and, when you, do, don't forget to give your old cobber an introduction."

Those were the last words I spoke to Charlie Robins before we went into action. We were separated early in the fracas, which turned out to be a long-winded, bloody affair, what with rooting Japs out of trees and foxholes with mortar and machine gun, and having to tread carefully in case you fouled a booby-trap. It was in a skirmish with a Jap sniper, that threatened to develop into a sort of personal vendetta, that I copped a bullet in the leg which put me out of circulation for a while.

The doctors back at Moresby took a long time mending that particular limb, and for several weeks I lay stretched out in a most uncomfortable posture between white sheets. It wasn't so bad, though, because there'd always be one of the sisters fussing round you, putting flowers of a sort by your bedside or taking your temperature. It gave me plenty of opportunity to think of Charlie, and wonder how the passionate longing for his dream-girl was progressing. Perhaps, for all I knew, he might have got his ticket in the same fighting in which I was wounded. I hoped and prayed not. I wanted to see him again, and to look at that girl's picture once more. There was something puzzling. disturbingly familiar, about her features that awoke strange memories in my mind.

The final outcome of the affair was extremely ludicrous. Due to my leg wound, I was transferred to a movement-control unit along the coast. I was here only a few days when I received the greatest shock of my life, and I'll tell you why.

It appears a distinguished concert party from Australia with one or two celebrated American artists had been giving some shows to the boys up near the front line and were going to perform at our camp that night. Having nothing else to do and feeling a bit peaky, I decided to trot along. It was quite a battle grabbing a seat among the crowd that milled and pressed but I managed to annex about four square inches of a bench to squat upon.

The first few acts were nothing to talk about. Some woman who called herself Madame something or other warbled a few notes and a magician produced rabbits and things out of a hat-and I was just preparing to snooze off when I felt a heavy thump on my shoulder. I stared up incredulously into the face of the one and only Charlie Robins. He was grinning at me like a Cheshire cat as I pumped his hand vigorously. It was a pity such a hullabaloo was going on around us, so by mutual agreement we decided to postpone all yarn-swapping till after the show. He hadn't altered much, and there was still that happy, blissful look of doting adulation on his face which meant he still carried his dream-girl's picture with him.

The concert proceeded. A Johnnie came out with a violin and the antics he performed on it were nobody's business. There was nothing he couldn't do on that instrument bar cook a meal.

Then the Master of Ceremonies approached the mike to announce proudly the star act of the evening.

Someone clad in a white muslin frock tripped daintily on the stage, waving kisses to a clamorous, applauding audience.

A stunning-looking girl, she fluttered gaily into the bright arc of illumination cast by the stage lights.

"Good heavens, it's her!" I cried.

Swift presence of mind inspired me to grip Charlie's arm so as to stop the poor guy having a fit. It was her all right-Charlie's dream-girl in the flesh. My doting comrade was rendered speechless, and Just sat staring goggle-eyed at the stage as that angel sang and danced her way into several hundred soldiers' hearts. At the finish, which came all too soon, she was clapped and cheered to the echo.

Then the Master of Ceremonies reappeared and gave a little speech in which he thanked the audience for their appreciation, and hoped they'd all enjoyed the show. Then he threw a bombshell into our midst by revealing the identity of the glamorous star of the evening. You could have knocked me over with a feather when he announced the name. I think everyone was quite taken aback.

Of course I should have woken up to it earlier, and I realized why that camera study had struck a chord in my memory. Well could I remember that slender figure in the white frock dancing on the Australian stage only a few years past. It was quite a sensational act.

When I'd recovered my breath and managed to regain my composure, I conducted a fruitless search f or Charlie Robins who had vanished suddenly into the night. Poor Charlie! Perhaps he'd wished for the earth to swallow him up and it had happened. I wouldn't have been surprised, knowing how he must have felt.

For the sweet young thing who had thrilled us all with her breath-taking loveliness was no sweet young thing at all, but the one and only Tony Franklin, celebrated American female impersonator!

"N85725"