Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
The
Kangaroo Marines
By
CAPT. R. W. CAMPBELL
_Author of "Private Spud Tamson"_
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
First Published 1915
DEDICATED
TO THE
CONQUERORS OF ANZAC
AND THE
MANY KIND FRIENDS I MET
IN
AUSTRALASIA, EGYPT, AND THE DARDANELLES
PREFACE
I am not an Australasian, I am a Scot. Therefore, I hold no special
brief for the folks down under. But I am an Imperialist--one filled
with admiration for our overseas Dominions and the self-sacrifice of
our colonial cousins. They have played the game. They have astonished
the world. They have even exceeded our own expectations. Let us not
stint our praise. Let us write deep in the annals of our literature
and military history this supreme devotion, this noble heroism. And in
the greater Councils of Empire let us see to it that these sons of the
Motherland have a say in settling affairs.
And I can claim at least the right to write about our gallant
Australasians. I have lived in Australia and New Zealand. I have
served on a Sydney paper and with the New Zealand _Herald_. I have met
every Premier (Federal and otherwise), from "Andrew" Fisher to "Bill"
Massey. And, during my stay, I made it my duty to study the Citizen
Army--a National Service organisation.
This was before the war. And this army was founded by "K" and the
Governments of Australia and New Zealand. Did they see ahead? One is
almost tempted to think so. In any case, the possession of a General
Staff and the framework of a National Army ensured the rapid
mobilisation of a voluntary force to assist the Motherland. This force
was armed, clothed, equipped and staffed from the existing military
organisations in Australia and New Zealand. You have heard of their
courage at Anzac; you have read of how many have died.
Anzac is the cope-stone of Imperialism. It is the grim expression of a
faith that is everlasting, of a love that shall endure the shocks of
years, and all the cunning devilry of such as the Barbarous Huns.
Hence this little book. It is an inspiration of the Dardanelles, where
I met many of our Australasian friends. It is not an official history.
I have, in my own way, endeavoured to picture what like these warring
Bohemians are. The cloak of fiction has here and there been wound
round temperamental things as well as around some glorious facts.
I hope I shall please all and offend none.
R. W. CAMPBELL, _Capt._
_October_, 1915.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
1. A NOTABLE QUARTETTE
2. MELBOURNE VERSUS SYDNEY
3. THE LAND OF SIN
4. TREASURE TROVE
5. SYBIL, THE SQUATTER'S GIRL
6. THE WISDOM OF "K"
7. THE LANDING
8. "HELL-FIRE POST"
9. A BRAVE NEW ZEALANDER
10. VICTORY
11. WHAT LADY READERS LIKE
THE KANGAROO MARINES
CHAPTER I
A NOTABLE QUARTETTE
WANTED.--One Thousand cheerful toughs to enlist for the period of the
war in the Kangaroo Marines. Boosers, scrimshankers and loonies
barred. Gents with big waists and little hearts are warned off.
Sharpshooters on the wallaby, able to live on condensed air and boiled
snakes, are cordially invited. No parson's references are required.
Jackaroos, cattlemen, rouseabouts, shearers--every sort of handy-man
welcome. Pay, 6s. per day, and all the "jewels" in the Sultan's harem.
This is to be the crack corps of the Australian Force.
Hurry up and join.
(_Signed_) SAM KILLEM, _Lt. Col. Commanding_.
This alluring advertisement appeared on the front page of _The
Bushmen's Weekly_, a Sydney production, renowned for its wit and
originality. It was designed to tickle the sides of the horny-handed
men of the Bush, and to rope in the best of them. For these men of the
Never-Never Land are soldiers born and heroes in the toughest job.
They think deep and know the way of things. If they appear wild and
uncouth, they carry beneath that scrubby exterior the will of men and
the open heart of the child.
Moreover, they love the Motherland. This was specially true of the
four who tenanted a little shanty on the sheep station of "Old Graham,"
one of the wealthiest men in Australia. The quartette consisted of
Bill Buster, a typical Cornstalk with a nut-brown face, twinkling eyes
and a spice of the devil and the Lord in his soul. Next came Claud
Dufair, a handsome remittance man with an eye-glass and a drawl. This
fellow had personality. He insisted on wearing a white collar and
using kid gloves when doing anything, from dung lifting to sheep
shearing. Paddy Doolan was the third member. He was an Irishman by
birth, but Australian by adoption. He had been in the Bush since he
was a kid. A kind soul was Paddy, with the usual weakness--the craving
for the "cratur." Fourth, and by no means least, was Sandy Brown, a
Glasgow stoker, who had skipped away in a tramp from the Broomielaw
because of another fellow's wife.
A mixed bunch, these four, you will agree. All with a history, part of
it bad, but the main part certainly good. It takes a good heart to be
a Bushman. Work is hard, the heat is trying, pleasures few, and the
chances of wealth are only meagre. But the Australian Bush has a lure
of its own. It calls the bravest and the best. It calls and holds the
men primed for adventure, unafraid of death, and full of that innate
charm and gallantry which is always the particular prerogative of the
wanderer. No questions are asked in this land. A man's soul is never
probed, nor is he expected to reveal his birth, or the cause of his
being there. It is the place to hide a broken heart or mend an erring
past. But it is only a place for men. And this quartette was full of
the war. They were itching to fight. This advertisement, therefore,
cheered their hearts and clinched their hopes.
"Well, boys," said Bill, "this is our call. We'd better join."
"Hear, hear!" remarked the others. That was all. They immediately
packed their swag for the road. That afternoon they received their pay
from the squatter. While Buster, Brown, and Doolan said good-bye to
the master and mistress on the veranda, Claud was kissing Sybil, the
charming daughter of the house, a tender farewell. For Sybil Graham
loved the "English Johnny," as her friends called Claud. Her love was
returned--not in the way he had treated some women in England, but with
that reverence which is born out of true affection. This Englishman,
despite his faults, had a veneration for the straightforward type which
can be found in the Australian squatter's home.
"Come on, Claud--here's the coach," yelled Bill from the veranda. They
embraced once more, then stepped out of doors.
"Good-bye, boys--God bless you!" said old Graham with a husky throat.
"Good-bye--Good-bye!" said his wife, with tears in her eyes, while
Sybil had only strength to wave her arm to the fast disappearing figure
of Claud as he drove with his friends to the railway station twenty
miles beyond.
"You're queer lookin', Claud," said Sandy, as they went down the road.
"Shut up!" interjected Bill, who, like all Bushmen, had a true respect
for the sentiment inspired by the dangers of war. However, the sadness
of parting was soon forgotten. They were, also, cheered to see, coming
over the plains, little groups of cookies, shearers and others, bent on
their own errand.
"Sakes alive! where's all you mad fellows goin'?" inquired the wizened
old stationmaster.
"Berlin," said Bill.
"Ach sure, stationmaster, we're goin' to kiss the little darlints in
the Sultan's harem."
"Well, hurry up, boys; the train's ready."
With a wild whoop fifty of them dashed for tickets, some "tucker," and
a bottle or two of Scotch. Into the train they jumped, and in a jiffy
were rolling over the line to Sydney. Song and story helped to cheer
the long and somewhat tiring journey. During a sort of lull in the
proceedings Claud looked up and said: "Here, Bill, can't you recite us
some of that impromptu sort of doggerel that you get into the Sydney
weeklies now and then."
"Well--yes," said Bill, rising and clearing his throat.
"Order, order! ye sheep-eatin' blackguards," shouted Paddy, hitting a
table with his riding-whip. The gathering ceased their chatter, and
Bill rhymed out:
"We're the Kangaroo Marines,
We're not Lager-fed machines,
But Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains.
We can ride, and we can cook,
Ay, in shooting know our book,
We're out to wipe off Kaiser Billy's stains.
"We're not trim--and not polite,
And, perchance, get on the skite--
We're Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains.
Yet though we can't salute,
We can bayonet and can boot
The wily, wily Turk from our domains.
"So when we ride away,
Off hats and shout 'Hooray'
For Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains.
And, parsons, say your prayers
That we may pass "Upstairs"
Should a nasty little bullet hit our veins.
"Now, boys, stand up and sing
God save our good old King,
And Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains."
"Good, Bill, good!" shouted Claud, gripping the rough rhymster by the
hand.
"Hear, hear!" shouted the crowd.
"Rot! D---- rotten jingo slush! What the hades has the King done for
you and me?" roared a red-faced passenger at the other end of the car.
This was none other than Bill Neverwork, secretary of the Weary
Willies' Union and Socialist M.P. for the town of Wearyville.
"Go an' boil yer old fat 'ead!" said Bill, calmly lighting his pipe.
"Ye turnip-faced spalpeen, oi'll cut yer dirty thrapple wid my gully
knife."
"Rot!"
"You beastly fellow!" said Claud, giving him a scornful look.
But this Socialist gentleman was not to be denied. He would speak.
"Listen, boys," he roared above the din.
"All right, father--we'll listen," said Bill, giving the others a nod.
Peace reigned, then Neverwork commenced.
"Boys, you've been fooled. Why should you fight for Hengland----"
"Britain, please--I'm a Scot," interjected Sandy.
"Well, what has Britain done for Australia? We don't want Hengland to
hinterfere with our business and get hour boys killed. We've enough
work 'ere to do. This is the working man's paradise. And we can make
it a sight bigger paradise. We want more men like me."
"'Ave a banana," chirped Bill.
"Yes, mates; we want Socialism. We're going to get a Republic. We'll
cut the painter. Curse England!"
"Britain, auld cock!" interjected Sandy again.
"Curse Britain--and you, ye porridge-faced hemigrant! It's the
hemigrants that spoil this country. Kick them out, I say. Australia
for Australians. That's my motto, mates. I know what I'm talking
about. I'm Bill Neverwork----"
"B.F. for Wearyville," interjected Bill as he got up. "And now, you
puddin'-headed red flagger, if you'll sit down, I'll have a cut in."
The bucolic M.P. collapsed in his seat, wiping the perspiration off his
beetled brow with the aid of a navvy's red handkerchief.
"Now, boys, you know me."
"Good old Bill--give it him!"
"This gent, what is called M.P., is a worm. I'm a Union man--we're all
Union men. Andy Fisher's a Union man, and so is Pearce, the chap
that's defending Australia. But there's Union men and Union men.
They're mainly good, but some are bad. That's one of the bad ones
there. His name is Neverwork, and he never worked in his life. He's a
blowhard, a gasbagger, a balloon full of curses and twaddle. This
bloke thinks we're fools. He's kidded his Union on that he's a smart
fellow--a sort of High Priest of Salvation. He's talked himself into a
job, and he's drawing about five hundred a year out of another fellow's
pockets. He's called a Socialist to-day, but he'd call himself a Jew,
a nigger, a polecat to-morrow, if, by doing that, he'd get a hundred
more. In short, mates, he's a politician--you know what that means.
Now, Andy Fisher and Pearce don't shout like this thing here. They're
men, they're Australians. They want us to fight side by side with the
boys from the old country. That's why we're here. And we'll fight,
and so much for a fat-headed M.P. that couldn't write his own name ten
years ago. This chap's an insult to Australia."
"Hear, hear!" chorused all the Bushmen volunteers.
"Listen, boys! Listen!" roared the M.P. above the din; but they simply
howled him down. In the middle of this row Claud rose up, and putting
up his hand, asked for order. Again silence reigned.
"Well, gentlemen--I mean, boys," said Claud, fumbling with his
eyeglass, "I wish to make a motion----"
"You're a new chum--sit down," roared Neverwork.
"And that's why I want to speak," said Claud, in such a quiet, cynical
way that the M.P. almost choked. "I'm a new chum--yes. And I am,
also, one of the boys. I'm in the Shearers' Union, too. I have been
treated well here--don't cher know, and here are my good friends. And
we're all going to fight, for what----"
"For financiers and Jews," roared the M.P.
"No, my apoplectic friend! We're going to fight for Australia--not
Britain--and we're going to fight to prevent fools like you handing
this land over to German or Yellow men. It's the proper thing, don't
cher know. Now, gentlemen----"
"Not so much of the gentlemen," shouted Neverwork.
"My dear friend, you were not included in the term. I am addressing
these gentlemen from the Bush. You're too beastly dirty and lazy to be
a Bushman," said Claud, adjusting his eyeglass and surveying the squat
figure of the M.P. as if he were examining a maggot.
"My motion, boys, is simply this, that we stop the train by pulling the
communication cord, and hold the driver up for ten minutes. Meantime,
we might seize our political gasbag, secure him with a few bits of
rope, hoist him out of the carriage, and tie him up to one of the
signal posts, leaving a suitable inscription attached to his
corporation, so that all the world shall know what a delightful idiot
this gentleman--I mean politician--is."
"Carried, be jabers!" roared Paddy Doolan, pulling the communication
cord, while Bill, Sandy and some more, seized the Socialist. He
kicked, cursed, bit, screamed and wriggled, but to no purpose. As the
train slowed down, Bill jumped out, and, running along to the driver,
held him up with a masonic wink and a Scotch refreshment. The trussed
form of the M.P. was then carried out of the train. He was still
cursing. But the Bushmen quietly tied him to a signal post. This
completed, Claud pinned a great white sheet of paper with an
inscription on it.
"Good-bye, old cock," shouted the Bushmen, jumping into the train
again. The whistle blew, and as the train went slowly past the enraged
captive, the eyes of all read the notice fixed to his waist:
"THIS IS NOT AN AUSTRALIAN,
HE'S A D---- FOOL.
(_Signed_) KANGAROO MARINES."