knowing on what station I was born, and have called me a town-bred
scrub; but I cannot help that. I will not bore you with details of my
early career at Surry Hills as a “week-end” horse (I was then owned by a
prosperous butcher), nor will I inflict upon you my first impressions of
Army life at Moore Park; but I must say that I was at Broadmeadows,
learning “Sections right,” “Form troop,” and “Walk march,” before they
would put me in a unit.
On the 20th November, 1914, our troop was taken down to a big dock and
put on board what our masters called a transport. (I have heard them
call it a ship, a tub—and other names as occasion demanded). We horses
had a rough time all the way across; and judging by the manner in which
our masters cursed when they came to feed us and perform their stable
duties, or to lead us about the decks for exercise, I think they had a
rough time, too. I remember a remarkable incident on our deck when we
were somewhere in the tropics. (If you know anything about the tropics
and about ships, you will know how we and our masters existed). Ginger,
who never wore anything to speak of except a pair of shorts, shoes, and
a grin, looked after the horses on my off side; he also used to hitch
baskets on to a long rope, which disappeared through the deck above.
“Haul away!” was all he ever said, and the basket disappeared. Later, a
voice would echo from above: “Under below!” and Ginger would stand well
back until it landed again. One day when the rope slipped, the chap up
above forgot to say “Under below,” and the big basket fell down on
Ginger and extinguished him. When he got clear, his conversation with
the chap on top was so unrestrained and vivid that three horses broke
out of their stalls and tried to climb up on deck. I did not mind—I had
often heard the expressions Ginger used.
We reached Alexandria at last and were taken ashore. At first I thought
that a peculiarity existed in the ground of Egypt, for it kept rocking
and swaying under my feet like the movement of the ship; but this
feeling went away in two or three days. We were taken to Gabbari, put
into trucks, and rattled to Ma’adi, a pretty little suburb of Cairo. At
Ma’adi we had plenty of feed, good stables which kept the sun off us
during the day, and very little work while the boys were away at the
Peninsula. Sometimes we went out on route marches and dummy stunts, and
always on Sundays our masters used to take us out on to the desert
behind the camp, to gallop us until we were tired. Those gallops were
great sport. There would be horses all over the desert, some of them
with riders clinging affectionately to their necks, others without
riders, and all of them thoroughly enjoying the fun, and kicking their
heels playfully into the air. We were at Ma’adi right up till February,
1916, and then we were pushed off to Serapeum and dumped in a camp close
to the Canal. After the delights of Ma’adi, Serapeum came as a shock to
me; and in a few days I was feeling very ill on account of the sand I
had swallowed with my food. I could not stand, so I rolled about in
agony. Up till then I had never had a day’s sickness, so this experience
was quite a new one. The farrier-sergeant visited me on the evening of
my collapse, administered a “ball” to me, and told Bill (my boss) that I
would be all right in the morning. A lot he knew about horses! He ought
never to have left that boot factory. He also told Bill to give me a bit
more _berseem_. Bill stopped with me for a while, talking; then a
whistle blew and he cleared out. “Good-night, Baldy” (that is the name I
always got) he said as he departed, “you’ll be O.K. at reveille.” In the
morning I was almost better, and by lunch time, when Bill gave me a big
feed of _berseem_ that he had pinched from somewhere, I was as good as
ever again.
[Illustration:
5th LIGHT HORSE BRIGADE ENTERING NABLUS
]
[Illustration:
WATERING HORSES, ES SALT
]
[Illustration:
HORSES THIRSTY
]
[Illustration:
LIGHT HORSEMEN IN JUDEAN HILLS, JAN., 1918
]
We had been at Serapeum only a few weeks when I was taken up to Salhia,
where I was promoted on the strength (I think that is the term) of a new
Squadron. Bill came with me, so I had no complaints to make—not even
about the _tibbin_. Bill always was a good master, and he was never
tired of looking after me. In heat, in dust, in mud; across the desert,
over the plains, amongst the hills—anywhere at all—Bill always groomed
me and saw that I got my full issue of tucker. We used to have long
talks together; and I really think he understood what I had to say to
him. He was always considerate in the way he loaded my saddle, and
rather than sacrifice my bag of grain, he would dump his own gear. He
could not do enough for me; and, believe me, I could not do enough for
him. Unfortunately, all masters are not like Bill, or (pardon my vanity)
all horses like Baldy.
My first real stunt was from Salhia to Kantara across the desert; and I
think that it will live as long in my memory as that Amman show. We
travelled all night by short stages—Bill would ride for ten minutes,
then walk beside me during the next ten, and then we rested for ten
minutes. I had a fair load on the saddle, but this was Bill’s first
desert stunt, too, and he had not realized exactly how severe desert
stunts can be. After that he always let someone else have the heavy
gear, while he looked after the light stuff. That was in April, 1916.
The long months from then until March, 1917, were one nightmare of bombs
and sand, out of which our stunts—Romani, Bir el Abd, Mazar, Magdhaba,
Rafa, and many minor ones—stood like the milestones I have seen along
the roads at home. At the commencement of things in Sinai tucker was
plentiful, and we waxed fat in the land and thrived on brackish water;
now we no longer get the same amount—or so it seems—but the water is
good. I did not notice the change until yesterday, when I had recourse
to chew through my headrope so that I could visit the feed-heap while
the piquet slept. Yet the change has been very gradual, and it has not
been severe on me. I am still pretty sound in wind and limb, although I
have seen old Bill look sorrowfully at me, and say, “Baldy, ten pounds
of grain without fixings isn’t much to offer a man’s best cobber, is it?
Never mind, old chap, we’re coping very well—very well, you and I.”
Once Bill was away for seven days; and when he came back I noticed that
he was stable-guard for a whole fortnight. I thought it rather good of
Bill to look after the horses for such a long time without a break. I
heard all about it afterwards. Bill and the sergeant—a big, ugly bloke
like a Gyppo—were talking near me, and I overheard Bill’s final remark.
“Yes,” he said, “I’d be a stableman for a month if I could get those
three days in Cairo again.” Ah, Bill! what were you doing? While he was
away in Cairo we had a little stunt to blow up a railway line; and
because I was a good worker, the big Gyppo bloke passed me on for the
occasion. The chap who rode me was a dopey kind of individual, and,
although the stunt was only to occupy thirty hours, he loaded me up with
all sorts of gear, and forgot my lunch-bag. We came home in the night
time in a fog, tried to find Tel el Fara, and circled about all over the
place until I got tired of it, and wanted to make for home and a feed;
but my dopey rider kept with the column, refusing to be guided by me. On
another stunt, I just side-stepped the “Killed in Action” return by a
hair. Jacko sent across a few shells in our direction, and one of them
landed right underneath a horse next to me and sent him West. Two others
were as full of holes as a colander, but we got them home. Strangely,
the horses on my side of the burst were untouched, and merely suffered
from slight shock.
The summer of 1917 was what Bill called a “snifter”—he also called it
other things. Day after day, on those wind-swept, dust-covered plains of
Southern Palestine, we stood in the heat and sweated from sunrise to
sunset; during the night we shivered with the cold, and were wet with
the dew and mist. Then there came rumours of a big stunt. It was good to
hear that a big stunt was at last spoken about, not only because we got
more attention prior to it, but because we would be leaving these
sun-baked plains behind, and doing something towards earning our
_tibbin_. It was on 28th October that Bill loaded my saddle, and rode me
away towards Beersheba with the Squadron. From there onwards to Jaffa we
dodged shells and planes, and existed on a very scanty ration. (Even
Bill complained now and again.) We went without water on more than one
occasion for sixty hours on end; and we had many weary night marches.
Just after we left Beersheba I lost a good pal. She was following the
General’s car, and had a despatch-rider in the saddle; and while doing a
stiff gallop she stumbled, fell, and rolled over—dead. I think her death
was due to lack of water, since she had had none for three days. She was
a dear old thing, and I have yarned away many an hour with her. She died
as I would like to die—a soldier.
Winter caught us at Jaffa, and the rain came down unceasingly day and
night. Here I had a lot of trouble with our labour corps—the mules. They
were a hungry lot of cannibals, and, not being satisfied with a ration
of grain, they used to break away from their lines at night and eat our
rugs. Some of them even gnawed the hair and tail off a sick pal of
mine—he did look a wreck in the morning! Another inconvenience was that
I shivered so much that I always shook the rug off, no matter how
careful Bill was about putting it on. The early part of 1918 was a time
of wind, cold, rain, rocks and mud, and stunts amongst tremendous hills.
We had a most exciting time then, and I often wonder how it was I kept
out of hospital. Later on, when we stopped in the Valley, I tried to
“swing it” a bit, and succeeded in bluffing the sergeant; but the vet
knew too much for me, and so I remained. Fortunately, we moved back to
Bethlehem, where the bracing hill air, and the sight of the olive trees,
made a new horse of me.
Our last big stunt was rather pleasant, as well as most profitable.
(Bill agreed with me in that.) We again went to Amman, and this time
captured all the Jackos in that part of the world; it was quite a
different affair from that first Amman stunt, when I slipped on the
muddy track and almost went overboard into a wady some hundreds of feet
below. After we had collected all the gear which Jacko had left behind,
we turned our heads west, came through Jericho, and passed up into the
hills. We stopped for a day at Jerusalem, and then travelled down to the
coastal plains near Jaffa. We returned to Richon to recuperate, and to
await further developments.
Now our masters are talking of going home, and I hear them whisper in
the lines—“Yes, they’ll remain behind”—“Ah! They’ve done their work
bravely and well”—“I wonder what will happen to them?” Bill is going
home; to-day he came to me and told me so. “Good-bye, Baldy, old
comrade. You’ve been a good pal to me,” he said; and then he was gone.
Here at Richon I would like to stay with Bill, and end my days. Richon,
with its trees, its vines, its orchards, recalls my early life in some
strange way; its fertile fields and pleasant surroundings make the
desert days seem but a bad dream of long ago; and in its shady lanes,
the toilsome hills and the rain, and the dust of the Valley, are
forgotten. But Bill is gone! I must stay behind! Let them shoot me—and
quickly—for I would go to that land of eternal sunlight, there to wait
until Bill calls to me.... Then together we shall gallop for ever over
the plains.
E. L. D. HUSBAND.
[Illustration]
THE HORSES STAY BEHIND
In days to come we’ll wander west and cross the range again;
We’ll hear the bush birds singing in the green trees after rain;
We’ll canter through the Mitchell grass and breast the bracing wind:
But we’ll have other horses. Our chargers stay behind.
Around the fire at night we’ll yarn about old Sinai;
We’ll fight our battles o’er again; and as the days go by
There’ll be old mates to greet us. The bush girls will be kind
Still our thoughts will often wander to the horses left behind.
I don’t think I could stand the thought of my old fancy hack
Just crawling round old Cairo with a ’Gyppo on his back.
Perhaps some English tourist out in Palestine may find
My broken-hearted waler with a wooden plough behind.
No; I think I’d better shoot him and tell a little lie:—
“He floundered in a wombat hole and then lay down to die.”
May be I’ll get court-martialled; but I’m damned if I’m inclined
To go back to Australia and leave my horse behind.
_Trooper Bluegum._
[Illustration:
EVENING AMONGST THE JUDEAN HILLS
]
[Illustration:
A CAMP IN THE DESERT
_Photos, in colour by Capt. Frank Hurley_
]
One Too Many
It was a hell of a night. Thunder enough to wake the “Jacko” dead, and
raining fit to swamp old Solomon’s Pool. I was a good ten miles from
camp, and it was with a dinkum bullocky’s curse that I swung into the
saddle again and turned the pony’s nose for home. For about an hour we
battled along, and then the supply dump at S—— hove in sight. Glad of a
brief respite, I guided him toward it, and for a few minutes we rested
in the shelter of a huge stack of _tibbin_.
The rain had eased off, and for a brief second a sickly-looking moon
gazed down on things earthly. That was what started the trouble.
An Algerian guard was on duty, and, to the initiated, there is no need
to say more than that. You might trick a Tommy or induce a Billjim to
look the other way, but the man who beats an Algerian is going some.
But, as I was saying, it was the moon that caused the trouble. When she
took that peep from behind her cloud bank she gazed fair on to four
shadowy figures, each surmounted by a bag of barley and a felt hat.
Chuckling a little, she dodged behind the clouds again; but it was too
late. The mischief had been done, and in a trice the “shadowy figures”
found themselves surrounded by about a dozen sons of the Sahara and a
like number of business-like bayonets.
The result was a confused babble of voices for ten minutes, and then a
procession to the Supply Officer’s tent. From where I was standing I
could see and hear everything that passed, and everybody seemed to be
trying to talk at once. As the “shadowy figures” could not speak a word
of Arabic, and the Algerians vice versa, the result was laughable. But
with the advent of the Supply Officer things took a different turn. He
had been wakened from a sound sleep, and was arrayed in the pink pyjamas
the girl had sent him, and a desire to be “firm in the matter.” He had
no knowledge of Arabic, and was placing the “shadowy figures” under
guard pending the arrival of an interpreter in the morning.
That would have been serious for the said “shadowy figures,” so I
decided to see whether I could help them at all. I had borrowed a
cobber’s flash civvy raincoat in the morning, and that and the Jacko
pony I rode must have made the S.O. think I was an officer. Anyhow, he
greeted me very decently; and when I told him I could yabber Arabic
pretty fluently, he was more than delighted at my arrival.
Well, for a good ten minutes I did the interpreter stunt, and then I got
him to dismiss the guard.
Then I opened the case for the defence. I pictured to him the love of
the Colonial for his horse, the long night rides, and a dozen other
pitiful things, and altogether put up such a beautiful tale that even
old Judge Jeffreys would have had to declare the accused “Not guilty.”
So the S.O. decided to give the “shadowy figures” a stern lecture, take
their names and numbers, and refer the matter to their O.C. next
morning. Forth came the note-book and down went the particulars. I am
pretty hard in the dial, but I was glad he was not looking my way then.
For every one of the four had a number with six figures in it and
belonged to the 19th Light Horse Regiment, 9th Light Horse Brigade.
Luckily, he was a new man out, or the bluff wouldn’t have worked. But it
did, and that was all that mattered then. He gave them the lecture, and
in it repeated often, “I’ve been one too many for you fellows this time,
what!”. Then he let them go, and as they left the tent the last one
winked at me, and in that wink there was a world of mystery.
Five minutes later I was in the saddle again and thinking hard. I was
wondering where the “shadowy figures” had left their horses, and whether
they would bump further trouble on the way home. Then I remembered a
young wady that runs by the side of the dump and turned the pony’s head
toward it. Half-way to it, I met them coming back. But where there had
been four “shadowy figures” there were SIX, and where there should have
been four horses there were ten. And the spare nags were loaded heavily,
too. The chap who gave me the wink told me the rest of the yarn, and
here it is.
Two of them had acted as horse-holders while the other four had carried
out the raiding part of the business. Three times they had returned
without mishap, and it was on the fourth trip that the moon peeped out
and made a mess of things.
It started to rain again then, so we parted; they to their bivvies and I
to a sharp trot home.
Two hours after the sun came up, the chap who was “one too many” rolled
out of bed and prepared his report for the O.C. 19th Light Horse
Regiment, 9th Light Horse Brigade.
“ANON”
[Illustration:
WADY NIMRIN
Along whose banks the A.L.H. had many sharp fights
ARAB AGENTS ARRIVING FROM A TRIP ACROSS THE DEAD SEA
GERMAN PRISONERS IN JERICHO
]
[Illustration:
MEAL TIME
]
[Illustration:
“SHE’S BOILING”
]
“The Light that Failed”
(And some that didn’t)
Among the many examples of ingenuity displayed by Billjim on service,
the manufacture of illuminants, if you will pardon the prolixity, shines
out the most brilliantly. The Sun itself is considered to be a pretty
perfect and economical source of light, but it is not infallible. The
annoying habit it has of dodging off about sundown excludes it from the
category of the perfectly perfect, and Billjim is forced to procure a
substitute to enable him to relieve the tedium of his evenings with the
exhilarating influence of two-up, poker, swapping yarns and other
harmless pursuits.
The issue candle is, of course, the recognized form of illuminant; but
by the time the Greatest, the Sub-Greatest, the Q-Emmer, the
Orderly-Room Ogre and the Sigs get their cut, the stock is usually
depleted to a mere skeleton of its former fat self, and the
insignificant stump that is left to shed its radiance around the humble
bivvies of the rank and file, is, as often as not, irretrievably lost to
sight owing to the shortage of telescopes in the unit’s equipment. Hence
the exercise of Billjim’s ingenuity.
Some devices were truly efficient, others resembled the seeds that fell
on stony ground; while one I know of was positively dangerous. The one
in question was disapproved of from its very inception. The wise ones
shook their heads dubiously, and opined that it was sheer flying in the
face of Providence to use one’s issue of rum for the sacrilegious
purpose of making air-gas for a blooming light. After the explosion
occurred, and the blasphemous one was struck off the strength, they
said, “I told him so,” and everybody was satisfied.
The most popular form is the slush-light, which is simply composed of
any old thing that will hold grease, and any kind of grease that will
fit into it; first, a layer of sand or clay is dumped into the jam,
milk, cigarette or other tin; then a wick made of “3 x 2,” or issue
flannelette, wrapped around a thin pine stick, is stuck upright in the
middle of the sand or clay; and finally the grease is introduced, the
quantity being governed by the amount one has been able to acquire. It
is on record that some chaps have had the effrontery to use dubbin, yes,
“dubbin!” but, of course, this is not official, just common furphy.
Next to the slushie comes the bottle-o; but to employ this it is
necessary to have the above-mentioned rarity, candle. For candle one is
not wholly dependent on the “issue” brand, for it has been known to be
purchaseable at the canteen—when those institutions are in the vicinity.
Supposing the possession of candle to be an established and material
fact, the next necessity is a clear-glass bottle; old lime-juice bottles
are excellent, and they can be found outside any officers’ mess, or the
messes of troopers who “did a trot.” The bottom of the bottle is knocked
out by insistent but vigorous tapping with the marlin-spike of a
jack-knife till a hole is broken through, and then the rest is chipped
off in small instalments till the end is quite out. The candle is then
pared at the bottom end to fit the slope of the bottle neck, and a deep
groove gouged in it, the candle, to admit air. Apply a match to the
candle, drop it into the inverted bottle, and there is your light. If it
is not very windy, of course, all that is necessary is to drop some
melted grease on someone else’s tin hat, and stick the candle in it;
simple, isn’t it?
There are a few of the lesser Edisons who eliminate disturbance by wind
by curling a legging around the candle; but only a very narrow chink of
light exudes from its gaping edges, and the odour of singeing leather is
not pleasant.
One of the finest ideas was a combination of the slushie and the
bottle-o. A squat chutney-bottle that fitted snugly into a toffee tin,
was found, and the quality and steadiness of the light generated made
drawn filament look painfully experimental. Some wire _tibbin_ bands
secure the “globe” to the body, at the same time forming a handle.
The designs, elaborations and embellishments of the original idea are
practically numberless; they range from the primitive cremation of a
religious aunt’s epistles and incriminating love effusions up to the
princely slushie-cum-bottle-o; and they radiate in all classes of
bivvies, and shed their glory on the tangle of the newly erected as
brightly as on the white-stoned splendour of the resident.
With these remarks, and any necessary apologies to the Dinkum Military
Scribe, I shall leave them to shine on the just and the unjust, like
their mighty lord, the Sun.
“SARG.”
[Illustration:
DEFENCES IN THE GHORANIYEH BRIDGEHEAD
]
[Illustration:
THE BRICKMAKER
]
[Illustration:
A TYPICAL ARAB VILLAGE
]
[Illustration:
4th LIGHT HORSE BRIGADE WATERING HORSES AT THE JORDAN
]
A Night March
At twilight, when the air is cool, we prepare for our second consecutive
night march. Overcoats and mufflers are put on, saddles are inspected to
see that all is secure. Later it will be too dark, and we too tired to
attend to such matters.
After a short wait we move off. Two to three hours steady plodding
through the darkness, with the effects of fatigue scarcely noticeable.
Then, suddenly, an utter weariness assails us, numbing limbs, distorting
vision, and rendering minds a prey to tantalizing and disturbing
thoughts—thoughts that mock and taunt; thoughts of feather beds and
roaring fires; thoughts that accentuate our weariness and awake us to
the realization of the cold.
We ride, with drooping eyelids, a swaying body, and a precarious seat,
surrendered to the inevitable.
The column halts, and simultaneously we fall forward on our horses’
necks, hoping to ease our aching limbs. Hoping against hope to hear the
order to dismount. A jerk, our horses move forward again, and
disappointedly we resign ourselves to the further delusions of minds
tortured from want of sleep.
Visions become distorted, we visualize the objects of our thoughts. A
thought of water, and the road becomes a flowing stream. Thoughts of
horses and trees, and in the darkness arises a village—a village that
remains ever in the distance, and endures only so long as our thoughts
are of villages. The horse ahead moves strangely; it appears to be
dancing, and has taken unto itself the shape of a beast of prehistoric
ages. By an effort of will we shake off this state of semi-somnolence,
and, for a time, see things in their normal shapes again.
At last, the order to dismount. Tumbling off we throw ourselves down at
our horses’ feet, indifferent to our position and its possibilities.
With heads pillowed on arms, water-bottles or haversacks, we endeavour
to win a few minutes respite. Follows sleep and blissful
unconsciousness, until friendly hands awake us, and wearily we rise to a
repetition of the last hour. On moving off some walk and lead their
horses, stepping out briskly in an endeavour to dispel the
ever-increasing drowsiness. It succeeds whilst walking, but a reaction
sets in on regaining the saddle, leaving the walker in worse plight than
ever.