features of Damascus. Our men will not forget the Hedjaz Headquarters in
the heart of the city, the German Club, the Local Resources Office, the
filthy Turkish hospital, the English and French hospitals in the suburb,
the littered railway station, the suburban roads, unspeakably rough and
muddy, the afternoon perambulations of blatant under-dressed bints in
gharries, the guards—on the aerodrome, on the Ottoman Bank, on the
captured grain stores, on the captured guns—the plentiful lack of
ordnance and canteen stores, the corpses of dogs and horses in open
spaces, the multitudinous beggars, the exorbitant prices asked for
German razors that cost their vendors nothing, the moderate cost of
silver and brass ware, the Hedjaz recruiting processions, the glut of
matches, the potency of arak, the cunning of the plausible
English-speaking small boys, the puzzling complexity and fluctuation of
the currency, the paucity of mails, the liberty and the usefulness of
Turkish prisoners, the fitful and lawless discharge of firearms about
the city all through the night, the suddenness with which sickness made
its descent upon the apparently immune, the daily receipt and despatch
to time-table of official mails by air, the dancing lights of Salahiye
that burned till dawn....
H. W. D.
[Illustration]
Malaria
You, with your winding, creeping course,
What of the men of our Southern Horse?
Valley of night, with your wingèd pest,
What of our heroes now at rest,
Down by your Dead, salt Sea?
What of the ones we have left behind?
What of these men of our kith and kind,
Nigh where your blood streams hiss?
Better the true and unerring shot!
Better the Death when their blood runs hot—
Than this,
Malaria! Malaria!
You, with your agèd river’s flow,
What of our Riders laid below?
Valley of Death, with your torpid heat,
Look where your swirling hill streams meet,
Down by your Dead, salt Sea!
Look to the ones on your mounded knoll!
Look to the ones of your chosen toll!
Those of your fevered kiss!
Better the blast of the rending shell!
Better the toll of the War God’s knell,
Than this,
Malaria! Malaria!
“KOOLAWARRA.”
Fall Out the 1914 Men
After four years’ service, the remnants of the First and Second
Contingents were assembled preparatory to return to Australia. Such a
prolonged absence from their homes might have led one to expect a wild
emotional outburst; but they received the tidings casually.
[Illustration]
As they fell into line to be farewelled by the Brigadier, they presented
an inspiring sight; shoulder to shoulder, each man a history in himself;
true mates, every one of them: their fellowship cemented by the blood of
fallen comrades. Alert they stood, hardened by the privations and
hardships of long years of campaigning, but—true test of manhood—ready
to face it all over again if their principles were involved.
As they waited for the “Old Man,” as the Brig. is affectionately termed,
visions of the past began to take form before their eyes. Mine saw the
silent, winding streams of human life, being hurried through the streets
of sleeping cities on their way to grim, silent transports. No gay
farewells, no playing of bands, no gathering of gaily-dressed crowds to
wave them farewell on their way to foreign shores. As they strained
their eyes for a last glimpse of their native land, many must have tried
to visualize their return. None realized how or when, and many of the
stout hearts on those sea-sprayed ships who gazed with loving eyes on
their sunny land were saying the last farewell. Their graves are in
strange lands, their deeds imperishable memories.
“Boys”—it was the Old Man speaking—“we come together to say good-bye.”
He outlined his association with the Brigade, and touched briefly on the
outstanding incidents of its career. He humorously alluded to their
“weakness” in a few respects, but he was proud to say that no man had
ever complained of his punishment. Everybody had played the game, and
his life was infinitely richer because of his association with them. He
wished all a bright future, and they were never to forget him if they
were ever in any difficulty.
At the close of the homily, I am afraid, the etiquette of military
discipline was violated in many ways. “Good old Brig., the whitest ever
made,” and such-like remarks were punctuated by cheering and the waving
of hats. A personal handshake with each man and wishes of “good luck”;
and then came the farewells round the camp, when mates of years bade
each other good-bye, and turned away.
Friendship such as this will stand the test of time.
“BATAGGI.”
[Illustration:
MRS. CHISHOLM’S CANTEEN AT KANTARA
]
[Illustration:
BETHLEHEM
]
[Illustration:
TROOPERS ENTERING JERICHO
]
[Illustration:
DAMASCUS
]
“Old Horse o’ Mine”
Hoof-beats, that rang on the crowded street,
Had never beat unto me
All the wealth of the gold in your old black hide,
All the grit of your loyalty;
But deep in the sand of a lonely land,
Out on many a far flung trail,
Your old hoofs spoke of a heart you broke
For me, that _you_ might not fail.
Great eyes, that dusked in the green gums’ wave,
Though I recked not that you were there,
That danced or dulled at the whim mayhap
Of a fancy unaware—
How the mateship grew in the depths of you,
When the waste spread its gauntness wide.
How you parched with me, how you marched with me,
Through that Hell of a thirst denied.
Brave Soul that sprung in the colt of you,
Unguessed in the years far back,
Ere your Fate ran out from a land of streams
To the drought of a sun-blazed track—
For the days since seen, for the pals we’ve been,
When Old Time sees us through—
O! If then there be for the likes o’ me,
A Heav’n—it must hold you, too.
T. V. B.
[Illustration]
Concerning Machine Guns
“Vickers Light Automatic, ·303,” so saith the machine gun handbook.
Further on, it informs the reader that the gun weighs 38 lbs. when the
water jacket is filled. These statements have been the subject of many
bitter outbursts, and not a few have wondered whether they had a pair of
scales at the War Office (this unfortunate institution is, of course,
responsible for everything that goes wrong).
There have been countless instances where a sweating, cursing Billjim,
struggling up a scorching precipice with the said Vickers Light
Automatic, would have betted all his deferred pay that it weighed at
least ten times as much as the handbook implies. Even on such
kindergarten exercises as gun drill, wonder has often been expressed
that “they” had the blooming neck to print such a fib. Still another
proof that the real weight greatly exceeds the official figures. Watch
the hefty No. 2, capable of lifting an 18 pdr., as, after continuous
firing, he gets the order, “Out of action!” In a flash, the pins are
wrenched out, he seizes the smoking gun where the protecting piece of
puttee, numnah pad or sock isn’t, and instantly drops the weapon to the
ground. Isn’t that convincing?
There are other minor details about the machine gun handbook that are
apt to be misleading. It states that there is a No. 1, who is the boss
and only carries the tripod—a flimsy toy of some 48 lbs. of brass and
steel; next, a No. 2, who juggles with a Vickers Light Automatic; also a
No. 3, who has nothing to do but carry a few boxes of ammunition, these
being mere tin cases no bigger than the handbag he used to carry his
pyjamas in, and containing only one belt; then there are a few other
superfluous hangers-on; a No. 4, who aids the No. 3; a No. 5, who aids
him; and so _ad infinitum_ down to that humble creature, the pack
leader, who holds three horses during an action.
Thus far, the handbook is perfect, photographic plates and all. Where
the discrepancy comes in, is that there is no advice regarding a hitch.
It has nothing to say about this: A person is observed toiling along
with the tripod, a box of 250 cartridges hanging on each leg, straddled
across his shoulders; some distance behind him wobbles another sagging
individual, bearing the gun, more belt boxes, a pick and a shovel; while
a third—sometimes—struggles on with still more belt boxes, range-finder,
spare parts wallet, a can of water, steam escape tube, a bag to prevent
dust at the gun’s muzzle, and a few other trifles; and down in some more
or less protected hollow, three or four distracted pack leaders curse
away their last remaining hope of salvation trying to keep untangled the
twenty-odd hungry brutes that crane their necks to nibble at
infinitesimal, dead grass stalks. Let us dismiss the handbook.
The machine gun can be put to many uses. As a seat, it is admirable,
also as a clothes horse for small gear; and as a horse rack, providing
the animal doesn’t pull it over, it stands alone. It has also been known
to remove Turkish folks from their ration strength—but accidents will
happen.
The gunner is at his best when using his gun as anti-aircraft. He
reverses the position of the gun on the tripod in order to get a sharper
angle, and lies down on his back beneath it, pillowing his shoulders on
some soft substance, such as the spare parts box. The No. 2 crouches
alongside to tuck in—at this angle—the reluctant belt; the Taube
approaches at a reasonable altitude, and then ratta-tatta-tatta stutters
the gun.
A heartrending episode occurred in the Jordan Valley one morning. The
guns, at the top of the precipitous cliffs lining the Jordan, were being
snugly tucked away in their little dust-proof positions for the day,
when sinister humming in the sky was heard. Out of the woolly, cumulus
clouds a flock of Taubes dived and began their fell work. In a
twinkling, the guns were violently slammed on the tripods, fresh, full
belts rattled into the feed-blocks, and the gunners flopped into their
positions, grimly inviting the visitors to come a bit closer and “have a
fly.” They did, and answered the prompt leaden stream with their own
guns.
One gun had been firing merrily at the wheeling Taubes for some time
when the prostrate, grim-jawed No. 1 uttered a wild, squealing yell, and
writhed fearfully. “Good God, Percy is hit!” cried young Bobbie, the No.
2, and he turned in alarm to his friend, who was out-writhing any live
wire.
The No. 1 gasped and stuttered in his agony, but managed to ejaculate:
“Hit, be dinged! It’s the bloomin’ hot shells that trickled inside me
shirt. Hop into ’em!”
I give this illustration merely to show the risks attached to machine
gunnery.
The Machine Gun Squadron is regarded as a desirable unit. It has
numerous advantages over the Regiments; notably, there are no duties or
fatigues to speak of, except, perhaps, stables, watering, rations,
cook’s, Q.M.’s, road-making, laying interminable miles of stones in
line, whitewashing same, erecting this, that and the other, cleaning
saddlery, polishing reluctant steel work, an odd guard or two (mostly
odd), and a few other trifles, which the conscientious soldier performs
with assiduity and alacrity.
There is little else about machine guns to learn, they are so perfect
that a machine gunner is now made in six weeks instead of six years.
They have performed some remarkable work during the war, moral effect
being one of their greatest assets—observe the sprightly vigour with
which the officer inspecting outposts bounds away from the front of a
machine gun position, where he has wandered by misadventure, when the
man on guard sings out, “Machine gun here, Sir!”
The boys will be sorry to say good-bye to their vicious, stuttering
pets; and let us hope that, the guns, when they are returned to
Ordnance, will cease to (metaphorically) curl their lips in disdain at
their humble and erratic poor relations, the Hotchkiss rifles of the
Regiments.
“SARG.”
Delivered!
A wounded earth is free again,
The barriers of the East are down;
With many a mound above the slain,
The zones of battle, bare and brown,
Shall feel the tears of wintertide,
(War’s aftermath of sorrowing)
Till Nature heals their scars of pride
And flowers perfume a deathless spring.
“GERARDY.”
[Illustration: FINISH]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
4. Superscripts are denoted by a caret before a single superscript
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curly braces, e.g. M^r. or M^{ister}.