directs the Medical Bloke, and the patient sees at once visions of the
cushy comfort of a Base Hospital, wherein he may hope to wallow shortly.
He has netted a trip!
Medical Blokes have a restless job. Sickness and accidents call upon
them at any time. Men drop into the Medical Tent at all hours of the day
and night for “a couple of pills for a headache,” or something else.
“Got any liniment?” is the next inquiry, followed by a request for
eye-lotion. In this country a scratch or a graze does not heal in the
course of things—it is just as likely to turn septic. Neglected, it
spreads and develops initiative; it breaks out in fresh places without
waiting for the skin to be knocked off. Hot foments and ointment
dressings are the cure. Bandaged hands are the badge of the Palestine
campaigner. Half the men, half the time, have either boils or septic
sores. They meander into the Medical Tent in pairs, and out of hours, to
get them bandaged. They are met there with scant courtesy—probably they
are the umpteenth interruption to the letter which the Medical Bloke is
trying to write; but I do not think it is often that they turn away
unattended to. The Medical Blokes are just ... your friends, servants
and comrades, the Medical Blokes.
“LARRIE.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
CONVALESCENT
]
[Illustration:
MOUNTING FIRST GUARD IN JERICHO
]
[Illustration:
HALT AND REST
]
[Illustration:
1. CHURCH AND TOMB OF THE VIRGIN
2. JAFFA GATE, JERUSALEM
3. CHURCH OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE, JERUSALEM
4. CHURCH OF THE NATIVITY, BETHLEHEM
]
The Signal Service
Scattered throughout Egypt and Palestine and Syria, in the community of
war-worn Australians, is a certain section known to the initiated as the
Engineer Signal Service of the Australian Imperial Force in Egypt. To
the casual Light Horseman they are “Sigs”—a vague and most inadequate
designation. Little is known of the Engineer Signaller and his work by
his brother of the Light Horse, whose one idea of signalling begins and
ends with the Regimental signaller, a being who shares with him the
pleasures and hardships of all stunts, but who is on a plane above,
because no piquets and fatigues are his. At home, the popular conception
of signalling is of a soldier standing on the last, lone, bullet-swept
ridge, coolly flag-wagging a message which turns a forlorn hope into a
brilliant victory, and earns for him Oblivion. Signalling, as the Signal
Service know it, is far from being a flag-wagging occupation; they find
themselves part of a well-planned business, which is based on
efficiency, and conducted with that thoroughness for detail only to be
found in an army.
* * * * *
“Sapper Smith, get your horse saddled up right away and report at the
Signal office. You need not worry about your tea—I’ll see it is kept for
you. You are only going to Romani.”
The Squadron horses, after their first stunt on the desert of Sinai in
April, ’16, had been off-saddled and fed at Hill 40, so the order came
as a surprise.
“Right-o! Corporal!”
[Illustration]
The horse was soon saddled, and Smith reported at the Signal office at
five o’clock.
“What’s doing, Mac?”
“Light Horse Brigade, Romani.” The signal-master read out the address as
he handed over the despatch to Smith.
“Where’s Romani, Mac?”
Mac, the signal-master, came outside and pointed across an unbroken
stretch of desert to the east.
“About five miles in that direction, I think,” he replied. “Keep near
the railway line and you’ll be pretty right.”
Smith departed, and rode out into the gathering dusk of the East. He had
never heard of Romani before, nor did he know how many miles he had to
travel across this desert, where the Turk had been but a few hours ago,
to reach the place; so he spurred his horse on over the heavy sand and
covered four miles in quick time.
“We ought to be there before dark.” He spoke to the horse rather than to
himself. “We’ve covered a good four miles now.”
He rode on over the level places, climbed the loose sand of the steep,
razor-backed dunes, and slid down their opposite slopes to the level
again, until another four miles had been crossed; yet he had not reached
Romani. The darkness found him still pushing east over the toilsome,
never-ending sand, with a set of new northern stars for guides.
A desert dog started up at his horse’s feet, yelped away into the night,
and threw the horse into a panic of fear; a stunted bush loomed in the
darkness ahead and took on the shape of a crouching figure, sinister in
the gloom. Here was a dilemma!
[Illustration]
“Shall I let the horse bolt while I try to loosen my rifle? or is it
better to hang on to the horse and chance—ah! It is only a bush. Am I
near Romani yet?”
Eight more weary miles slipped slowly by, the sandhills pressed in on
all sides, and ever the horse stumbled on gamely over loose sand and
steep ridges.
“Yes, it’s a light.”
Smith swayed in the saddle and spoke again.
“Hooray! I’ve arrived,” he said.
Some time after ten o’clock a wearied despatch-rider came out of the
night, handed in a despatch at its Romani address, obtained a receipt
and departed. Next morning Smith reported to the signal-master and
handed him the receipted slip for his despatch.
“How far is it to Romani, Mac?” was all he remarked.
* * * * *
At Ed Dhaberiye, and at Tel Khuweilfeh, in the hills to the north-east
of Bir el Saba, the fight waged hot during the first week of November,
’17. That week is one to be remembered by the cable troop of the
squadron; in it they knew no rest, for they worked night and day on the
communications, and laid miles of cable to and from the Brigades.
[Illustration:
A SIGNAL OFFICE IN THE FIELD
_By T. H. Ivers_
]
[Illustration]
“Corporal Dawk!”
“Here, sir,” responded Dawk from behind one of the cable-wagons where he
had been trying to dispose of a hasty meal.
“Hook in your team and get away to the 2nd Brigade with that line.”
“Very good, sir.”
Dawk turns to the drivers.
“Get your horses in, Charlie; we’ve got another job. Hey! Gunner.”
“What, again?” says Gunner, as he looks at his half-finished meal.
“Come over, Baldy! Back, Ginger!”
The polers are hooked up, and in a short space the wagon moves off to
the Signal office for final instructions. Gunner jumps down from the
body of the wagon, drags the end of the wire into the Signal office, and
then mounts and pulls out over the hill.
The wagon rolls steadily over the rocky hills, reeling out the cable as
it proceeds. Darkness settles down, but this does not deter the cable
detachment.
“Whoa!” roars the lead driver as a wady-bed opens up below him in the
darkness. “Steady with those horses behind—who’s in the pole?”
“What’s the matter?” inquires Dawk, riding up to the leaders.
“Oh, another wady; it looks pretty solid, too.”
Dawk looks ahead, rides off to the right, and after a few minutes calls
out directions to the drivers.
“This way with that wagon; you can get across here.”
Charlie swings his leaders round and heads for the spot where Dawk’s
voice is heard. The wagon jolts over a rock, and lurches toward the wady
so closely that a huge lump of earth detaches itself from the steep bank
and rattles down on to the boulders beneath.
“Get over to the right!” yells Gunner from the back of the wagon. “What
the blazes are you drivers doing? You’ll have the whole box and dice in
the wady in a minute!”
[Illustration]
“Get up, Tiger! Up, Ginger!”
“Come over Baldy! Come over, you——!”
The wagon draws away from the dangerous edge, swings round, and, with
rattling and bumping, descends into the wady-bed in a cloud of dust. The
horses bend their backs to the opposite bank and are urged up by the
drivers, who have risen in the stirrups and are leaning over their
necks. With a last effort the team pulls forward, the wagon jolts over
the top, and then stops.
[Illustration]
Harry, who was thrown from his seat at the back of the cable-wagon as it
bumped the wady-bed, comes limping up the slope. As he climbs into his
seat he makes a remark to Gunner.
“That was a snifter!” he says.
“My oath! a beaut.”
More wady-beds open up, more detours are made, more dizzy descents and
stiff ascents are negotiated, until, at last, the wagon draws in to
Brigade Headquarters. The line is through, and everything is in
readiness for the attack at dawn.
* * * * *
“When you’ve done with that pack-saddle, I want to ‘inergate’ a scheme
with you.”
“Yes, sir?”
“This stunt is going to be a tough one, so I want you to see that all
your pack-sets are in good-going order, and that those pack-saddles are
fitted properly. Where are you putting the aerial load, Hook?”
“Everything is ready now; I’m fixing this saddle for the masts.”
“Right-o! And see that the farrier gets to work on those mules straight
away.”
“Yes, sir. Have you any idea when we move out?”
“I’ve no idea; in about a week, possibly.”
Hook busied himself with the pack-saddle, fixing gadgets here and
knocking bits off there, until he had it to his satisfaction. All the
technical equipment—wireless sets, cable gear, etc.—had to be converted
for use on pack-saddles in this Amman business during March, ’18.
[Illustration]
Six days later the Squadron moved out in the rain, wound its way through
the Judean Hills, travelled over the Jordan Valley, crossed the river,
and passed up into the hills of Moab.
No wagons or wheeled transport of any kind could possibly traverse those
tremendous hills, where the narrow track clung to the steep sides of the
hills and threatened to fall away over precipices into rock-fanged
valleys beneath. The rain poured down, and along the slippery track the
column wended its way, toiling in single file up steep hills and down
into precipitous valleys. The path became a river; water poured over the
rocky sides of the hills and rushed into the valleys below. Everybody
was wet through and greatcoats flapped soggily about weary legs;
dripping horsemen led their horses and stumbled and splashed along the
track; pack-horses and mules struggled and scrambled as their loads
slipped; but the column pushed on and reached a position at Amman after
two days and two nights of rain.
“We cannot use the helios, and the cable is ‘dis’ somewhere back in the
hills. Is the wireless set up yet?”
Rip-p-p-p-p-p. Rip-p-p-p-rip-p-p-p-rip-p-p-p-rip-p-p-p-p-p-p.
The crash of the transmitting sent echoes through the rain-sodden air
and the singing spark sent its message through space, and then whined
away into silence. The engine had “karked”—communication had ceased.
No. A basket crate was brought from one of the packs, a message was
written on a special form, of thin paper, and placed in a small
aluminium tube; a carrier pigeon was taken from the crate, and released
with the small tube containing the message attached to one of its legs.
The bird circled round uncertainly for a few moments and then flew off
in a straight line toward the leaden clouds in the West.
Communication was still maintained.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
These are but three incidents—three of many—which have happened in the
Signal Service. The Service calls for initiative, coolness, and
devotion; all these it has in its ranks. In the desert of Sinai, on the
dusty stretches of Southern Palestine, on the plains of Philistia, in
the hills of Judea—everywhere “east of the Canal”—the Signal Service has
always maintained a high standard which has brought credit to itself,
and to the Australian Imperial Force in Egypt.
“ACK-VIC-ACK.”
[Illustration: THE END]
[Illustration]
Battle Song
Silver and white are the planes aflight, and the guns are manifold,
And hour and hour we gain that power which the Lords of war extolled
When the wrath-fires flared, and the blades were bared, in the first red
tide that flowed.
We’ve quelled the fears of the darkest years, and the vistas of remorse
Grow less and less in the wilderness where the south wind gathers force,
And a golden scope in the sun of hope rolls north of the Anzac Horse.
When shrapnel breaks and the skyline quakes in the tempest loud and
long,
We’ll gallop our files through the shell-torn aisles of a sadly shaken
throng,
And the fire of hell will grandly swell to a martial storm of song.
Swift as the tide then we shall ride for the goal that burns ahead—
When night rolls round we’ll slumber sound where God’s sweet light is
shed,
And the silver eyes of the cloudless skies will watch o’er the valiant
dead.
“GERARDY.”
The Little Bint of Wady Hanein
Throughout the long campaign the fighting was fairly constant, but there
were occasional brief seasons of rest, and the happiest of these were
spent in the neighbourhood of the Jewish orchard settlements. The 1st
Light Horse Brigade and the New Zealanders favoured Richon, where the
wine vaults are said to be the largest in the world; and the Jewish
girls are the prettiest in all Palestine. But the 2nd Brigade was loyal
to modest little Wady Hanein. The three Jewish villages of Richon, Wady
Hanein and Deiran stand about three miles apart in a rough line across
the sandhills. Deiran, where the polyglot lassies were wooed by the
troops associated with Desert Mounted Corps headquarters, is, like
Richon, a large village, almost a town, with considerable social
pretentions. There the Jews hold political meetings, and the girls dress
with an eye on distant Paris. But Wady Hanein is demure—a true little
Arcady set amidst hills and hollows beautiful and fragrant with orange
groves and orchards of almonds. In the early spring the settlement was a
glory of pink and white blossoms, and, later, its lanes were scented
with the breath of the flowering oranges. As I write, the 2nd Brigade is
in Wady Hanein for the last time, having come down from its strenuous
work around Amman, across the Jordan; and the plump round oranges are
coquetting between green and golden.
[Illustration]
It was from Wady Hanein that the Brigade moved out on the long trek
across Judea and Jordan Valley and the Mountains of Moab for the first
attack on Amman, in March, 1918. Nearly every Australian feigns
qualification in his regard for the Jews in Palestine. But as the
Regiments made ready for the road that morning it was pretty to see
Jewish families visiting their favourite officers and men in the
bustling camp, and wishing them God-speed with a sincerity and a touch
of distress quite unmistakable. And all ranks rode to that bitter fight
the stronger and better for those Jewish good wishes.
The 2nd Brigade also chanced to be in the village in December of 1917,
when Jerusalem was captured, and the citizens entertained the Brigadier
and his officers at a feast, a speech-making and a dance. Proceedings
were, for a time, somewhat formal and cold. The Brigadier and his senior
officers sat at a central table in a large hall with the village fathers
and notables. The girls, expectant, their toes tingling for the dance,
sat stiffly in a row down one wall and the matrons along the other—a
very convenient arrangement, because the dashing young Light Horse
subalterns could seek a pretty partner without feeling obliged to ask
for the programme of her elderly chaperon. The young men of the village
stood with the junior officers of the Brigade at one end of the hall.
The eloquence was terrific. The erudite village schoolmaster proposed
the “Health of the King of England,” coupled with the name of the
Brigadier, the British Army, the Australian Army, and the British
universe generally. He spoke fluent and faultless Russian—or so it
seemed to us. (Our linguistic attainments will startle Australians when
we come home. There is not a man amongst us who cannot now say Bread and
Wine and Darling, in all the languages of East and West.) He made happy
reference to great British apostles of freedom, instancing Cromwell,
Lord Byron, and Gladstone. He garbled the names, but we caught his
drift; and, anxious to get in, we cheered tumultuously; and then, in an
unhappy moment, some one on our side released the Brigade interpreter—a
dusky fellow of dubious nationality—who rose eagerly to make the meaning
of the village schoolmaster a little clearer to us. His success was
indifferent, but he brought down the house with references to Lord
Cromwell, Mr. Byron, and Sir Gladstone.
[Illustration]
Then the Brigadier hopped up to respond. He was at his best. He referred
to the joy which we, as Christians, experienced in driving the infidel
from the Holy Land, and then, after an apt allusion to the Crusaders and
King Richard, he became so eloquent and forceful, and slammed the table
so hard, that all the village matrons gave play to their religious and
patriotic feelings in subdued but prolific tears; which, when you
consider that they did not know a word of English, was a unique
testimonial to the eloquence and dominating personality of our versatile
Brigadier. And then came the swelling triumphant peroration in which the
“Old Brig.,” declared that “Palestine had been conquered and Jerusalem
delivered by the help of God, but mainly by the might of the British
Army.” After that we danced, and very gay it was, despite our unanimous
opinion that speaking Russian was an easy task, compared with attempting
correctly to foot a Russian measure with a pretty Jewish maiden. To be
honest, it was a dumb show; but eyes were eloquent.
But we have been a long time coming to the story of the Little Bint. She
was one of many of her unhappy kind in Palestine. In that country, as in
all the East, the rich know no compassion for the poor. If you starve it
is the will of God and no concern of the more fortunate. That
interference with the ways of Allah is the cardinal sin is a
satisfactory article in the creed of the rich in Palestine. So the poor
starve, unsuccoured, about the doors of the wealthy.
The Little Bint of Wady Hanein was first seen slinking around the
outskirts of Brigade headquarters. She was a wretched little Arab of
seven or eight years, clad only in a tattered filthy shirt which came to
her knees; with matted verminous hair, sparkling black eyes and a
pitifully skinny little body. She sneaked round the lines at meal time,
pouncing like a hungry dog on empty bully tins and jam tins, scooping
out the remnants with a deft forefinger and flashing happy smiles as she
put the finger to her mouth. The men were quick to notice, and soon the
Bint had ten times more than she could eat. But she did not thrive. The
vermin on her wretched body, and her unsheltered winter nights, kept her
thin and miserable.
[Illustration]
The grooms and batmen on Brigade conferred on the subject of the Bint
and her future. The ringleader, whom we shall call Pine, a groom whose
Regimental reputation was far from the best, led a deputation,
accompanied by the interpreter and the Bint, up to the Bey, a fat Arab
with a comfortable home and substantial wealth. Pine was forceful and
the interpreter glib and honest. But the sleek Bey was obdurate. “There
are many such,” he said suavely and finally, disowning any
responsibility for the Little Bint, and he was not at all moved at the
nasty reflections which the outspoken Pine cast upon his mother as the
deputation withdrew. The missionaries returned to camp, baffled but not
defeated. “We’ll adopt the little beggar ourselves,” declared Pine, “and
take her on as a blasted mascot.” And they did. The preliminary work was
decided. First the Bint must, as they say in plain army English, be
“deloused” and bathed. Nobody wanted the job. But Pine was determined to
see it through, and with the Brigade Major’s batman he cut the Bint’s
hair, disinfected her and scrubbed her until her dusky colour was in
danger. Other clumsy but Christian fingers cut up shirts and made her
clothes; the remainder contrived a bivvy in which she was to sleep. And
the Little Bint of Wady Hanein waxed fat and happy, and was a touch of
soft femininity and a source of much delight to Brigade headquarters.
Then came marching orders for Amman. You occasionally find Arab boys
travelling with the Light Horse, keen little beggars who act as cooks’
offsiders and batmen’s batmen, and officers smile and sympathetically
shut their eyes to it. But it was clear that the sprightly little
black-eyed Bint could not be taken out over the mountains into the
bitter cold and bloody fighting at Amman. So Pine sought the Padre, and
the Padre went off twelve miles to Jaffa and talked to the Mother
Superior at the convent. Next day the Brigadier lent his car, and
Pine—his leggings gleaming and spurs shining, and amusingly
self-conscious—accompanied the Bint to Jaffa, and handed her over to the
kindly nuns. Perhaps, as he left her, he gave her a big brotherly kiss
and a trooper’s rough benediction; but probably he was too shy. I do not
know.
“CAMP FOLLOWER”
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
BRIG.-GENERAL RYRIE INSPECTS THE “BULLY”
]
[Illustration:
BRIG.-GENERAL COX ON RIVER JORDAN
]
[Illustration:
A WALLAD OF PALESTINE
]
Algy, Misfit
“Hullo, old chappa!”
It was Algy, an old camp acquaintance from Australia, whom I hadn’t seen
before over this way. By his greeting, you will probably be able to
imagine Algy; yet, with all his “haw-haw,” when you got to know him, he
was quite the opposite to what was suggested by his manner of speech.
He had the habit of unbosoming himself to everybody regarding his
career, past, present and future, so when I met him, I knew that I would
get the whole story of his army life. And I did.
“How have I been getting on? Top hole. The only thing is that my failure
to rise in the army worries my mater. With my brains, or at least the
brains mater believes I possess, I was expected to rise in big leaps.
But the only rise I’ve made has been from my blankets in the morning,
and then, too, only by the greatest effort. Awful bore, old chappa,
these early reveilles.
[Illustration]
“I try to explain to mater why it is that I am still ‘just merely one of
the men,’ and seek to console her by quoting that well-known pictorial
post card, ‘We can’t all be officers; somebody’s got to do the work.’
You know, the poor old lady believes in me so much that she lives in the
hope of some day seeing me wearing a whole string of ribbons on my bally
chest. No hope. You know, some people have most peculiar ideas regarding
the military. They talk about ribbons as if the military were in the
habit of issuing such things in lieu of something—say as a sort of
consolation when the rations are short. If they did, well, I’d be
wearing all the variegated colours of the bally rainbow.
“I’ve had a most varied career in the army. I was originally in the
infantry—a private. You see, I started right at the bottom of the
ladder, scorning all offers of assistance to get a commission. I was
quite determined to go right up the ladder by my own unaided efforts.
Eh, gad, I was an egotistical ass, that’s what I was. I never for one
moment imagined that the rungs of the ladder leading to stripes and
stars were so wide apart.
“But about the infantry. Goodness, shall I ever forget the beastly
infantry. The unnecessary walking, and the enormous packs one had to
carry, and the really rude sergeant-major, who always roared at me when
on parade because I could not execute the fantastic movements he
insisted upon—really, when I think about it I shudder. I always did my
best, but marching used to make me _so_ exhausted, and I never _could_
succeed in keeping in step with the other fellows.
[Illustration]
“Finding the infantry uncongenial, I concluded that if I HAD to be a
soldier I might as well sit down to the bally job, so I got a transfer
to the mounted. I had never ridden a horse other than that of a
merry-go-round, but I was satisfied that I could master the art. I’ve
got a different idea now. I was quite all right while the animal walked,
but when it trotted, oh, goodness me, I could never harmonize with the
beast.