OFF
We sailed from Southampton on December 12, 1914, the name of our
transport being the _Dunera_, an old British India Company steamer,
I believe. The Canadians were no end sorry that they weren't going
with us, and our fellows would have liked nothing better, for both
contingents had grown to like and respect each other. However, it
wasn't to be, and being debarred from accompanying us the men of
the Western Dominion did the next best thing and gave us a rousing
send-off. They turned out about two battalions as a guard of honour,
and, headed by a couple of bands, we marched the two miles to Bulford
Siding between a double line of cheering and hat-waving "Kanucks."
They may have been a bit lively, those Canadians, but their hearts were
where they belonged, and they were all white.
She was a rare old hooker, was the ss. _Dunera_. Besides our little
lot of 250 she carried over 1400 "Terriers," many of whom looked as
if they hadn't forgotten the taste of their mothers' milk. They were
a poor lot as regards height and build, and our fellows could have
given them a couple of inches and a deal of weight all round. However,
they may have done all right in the scrapping, like many another
Territorial regiment: one often gets left when one starts in to judge
by appearances, and a weed many a time carries a bigger heart than a
score of six-footers.
We slept in hammocks, and were packed in like sheep in a pen. The
tucker wasn't much to write home about; still there was enough of it,
and sea air is one of the best sauces I know of—when there isn't too
much of it! Our deck space was a bit limited, of course, and after
dark it almost vanished, so that a chap was never quite sure whether he
was walking on it or on Territorial. Then there were other things which
made the going even more treacherous—and we carried broken weather
right down through the Bay!
Our lot were quartered in the 'tween decks. At the best of times the
atmosphere there couldn't have been much catch, so the reader can
imagine what it was like when every inch was taken up by living,
breathing (and sweating) humans. I don't like rubbing it in where men
who have rolled up to do their bit are concerned, but the habits of
those Terrier shipmates of ours were enough to set you thinking. They
brought homeliness to a fine art. Spittoons (had we possessed such)
would have been scorned by them as savouring of artificiality. Socks
were made to wear, not to be hung up at night and looked at. Feet were
intended to be walked on—and soap cost money. As for toothbrushes,
well, they were all right for polishing buttons. The spectacle of a
big, husky bushman cleaning his teeth night and morning was a thing
they couldn't understand at any price, much less appreciate. "If I did
that," observed one in my hearing, "I'd have toothache bad"; which
seemed to be the general opinion.
They were great trenchermen, those shipmates of ours. Lord, how they
did eat! I am beginning to think that we rough-and-ready Colonials from
the back of beyond have girlish appetites as compared with some of the
Old Country boys. And we like our tucker clean: we can chew hard tack
with the next one, but we take all sorts of fine care that the cook
washes both himself and his utensils. But those Terriers of ours didn't
seem to care a cent whether the stuff was clean or filthy. Trifles like
that didn't worry them. And the way they used their knives! Still, they
were wonderfully expert: I didn't see a single cut mouth all the time
I was on board the _Dunera_. Funning apart, however, they just ate
like pigs and lived ditto. I don't like to have to record this, but
necessity compels me. Tommy Atkins can fight; we admit it, and we take
off our hats to him, but compared with the Australasian bushman—the
man who fears neither God, man, nor devil—he is in many respects an
uncivilised animal. True, we may have run across him at his worst. I
hope so, anyway.
After leaving the Bay the weather took a change for the better; the sea
calmed down and the atmosphere grew much more balmy. We were a little
fleet of some five or six transports, escorted by a couple of small
cruisers. Our ships were by no means ocean greyhounds, so we made slow,
if steady, progress.
We killed time in the usual way—concerts, boxing, etc. on weekdays,
and Church Parade on Sundays. Life on a trooper is about the last
thing God made. I've had my share of it, and I don't want any more. I'm
not greedy.
On reaching Gibraltar our escort left us, signalling to the
transports to follow their own courses. We didn't stop at Gib., but
pushed straight on up the Mediterranean. The weather was now quite
summer-like, and all on board began to perk up considerably. The sea
was a beautiful deep blue, the air had the wine of the South in it, the
sun shone brightly, and its setting was glorious.
On sighting Malta we mistook a signal, and made tracks for the harbour
of Valetta. Before we could get in, however, we were _shoo'd_ off
by the Powers that Be. We didn't seem to be the party they wanted,
so we had to hit back to the old trail. Apart from wishing to see
the place and getting a chance to stretch my legs, I had a personal
interest in paying it a visit, as a great-uncle of mine, who had been a
fleet-surgeon during the Crimean War, lay buried in the naval cemetery
in Valetta. However, it wasn't to be.
The weather all through the Mediterranean remained as near perfect as
they make it, hence seasickness was a thing of the past. We had the
usual boat-drills, fire alarms and so forth. At that time there were
no submarines down south, so we travelled with all lights going, both
aloft and below. What with sea games, boxing, concerts, and cards the
time passed quickly. Likewise our money. Faro and Crown and Anchor were
the favourite card games; you could lose your partable cash fairly
slickly at either. I have seen more than one pound resting on the turn
of a single card. I reckon Colonials are to a man born gamblers, so it
wasn't surprising that our available capital should be "floating"—in
more ways than one. However, some one introduced a roulette table, and
our cash soon floated all one way, the "bank" taking no risks and the
"limit" being strictly enforced. Needless to say, the bank was never
broken—but I fancy the wheel was.
Being in wireless communication with the shore we got an almost daily
smattering of news, which was typed out and read aloud in various parts
of the ship. Thus we heard straight away of the German bombardment of
the Hartlepools. The Russians, also, seemed to be going strong, but we
were never quite sure where, as the wireless operator made a queer fist
of the names on the map. Come to think of it, it wasn't surprising, for
they seemed to get most all of the alphabet into those Eastern front
locations, and they sounded jolly like an assorted mixture of coughs
and sneezes. It is easy to account for the illiterate state of the
inhabitants of those parts; it would take them a lifetime to learn to
spell their own names. So I reckon they just give the whole thing best.
We arrived without mishap at Alexandria on the 24th of
December—Christmas Eve. It was a beautiful morning as we steamed up
the Bay, and we got a fair idea of what the warships had to face the
time they bombarded and captured the place. And right here I don't
make any beans about stating what I think of that scrap. The town, at
that time, was quite open to attack; the forts were old and crumbling;
I am fairly sure the guns were not of the latest pattern; and as for
the natives who served them, if they were anything like the fellows
_we_ ran across I don't think our jolly tars would lose much sweat
in knocking the fight out of them. I used to read a lot about the
Bombardment of Alexandria, but now after seeing the place (and I had,
on various occasions, a good look round the old positions) I don't
think much of it.
Once tied up to the wharf it was a case of get our coats off and set
to work unloading ship. This took up most of the day, and a very hot
day we found it. Some of the packages were fairly hefty and took a
deal of handling, and I can't say we were over gentle in our methods
of shifting them—at least the flying men didn't seem to think we were
when it came to handling the cases containing their engines. Our old
hooker was just alive with cockroaches, too, and regular boomers they
were; some as big as locusts. As the various packages were swung over
the ship's side the beggars kept dropping on us below. We didn't like
it; there are nicer things than fishing for lively cockroaches inside
your shirt. The natives who were assisting us didn't care a hang about
trifles of that kind. They weren't a handsome lot by any means, but
they were a fine, stalwart crowd, lively and animated—like their
shirts. They wore flowing skirts, elastic-side boots, and stockings
that pretended to be white. They are intensely religious, always
looking for _backsheesh_, and have no morals. When we started in to
boss them up they didn't seem to know the meaning of the word "hustle,"
but, ignorant as we were of their language, we managed to enlighten
them; truly, the army boot hath its uses.
English money, we found, would pass in Alexandria—with profit to
the merchant who accepted it. Thus we were enabled to purchase
oranges, figs, grapes, tobacco, cigarettes—in fact, 'most anything
one had a hankering for. The native hawkers and bumboat men are a
picturesque-looking lot of blackguards enough, in a comic opera way;
they are to a man top-knotch liars, and invoke the aid of Allah to help
them out in their perjuries. They are truly Eastern in their love of
bargaining; also in their smell.
We left the same evening by train for Cairo. The Egyptian State
Railways are, on the whole, not bad; the trains got over the ground
much faster than I had anticipated: about forty miles an hour, I should
say. The accommodation was good enough (no cushions in the third-class,
of course), and the whole outfit appeared to be kept fairly clean. The
carriages were hitched on to each other like a series of tramcars, a
corridor running down the centre of each, and a couple of overlapping
metal plates taking the place of the concertina-like arrangement used
in corridor trains in England. If you got tired of sitting inside the
cars you could always find an airy perch on the platform outside. To go
from one car to another necessitated a climb over the platform guard on
to the afore-mentioned metal plates. The officials appeared to be all
Egyptians, and I am bound to admit they were as civil and courteous a
lot as one could wish to bump up against. They knew their work, too,
and didn't grow flies. The fares were reasonable—and soldiers only
paid half.
Being a troop train, we travelled third class. On ordinary occasions,
however, it is only natives who do so, whites going first or second.
There are reasons for this; lively ones, too.
The old _Dunera_ had been a temperance ship, hence our chaps had
worked up a forty-horse thirst on the voyage. Now drinks were
cheap (for the East) in Alexandria, so our crowd, being mostly old
campaigners, took full advantage of what they considered a merciful
dispensation of Providence. The bank not being too solvent, they
couldn't all run to whisky, of course, and many had to content
themselves with larger beer "made in Germany"; however, the bottles
(and things in general) became a bit mixed _en route_, so they got,
perhaps, even more fun out of the assorted brew than if they had all
been sipping at the same fount. Our train travelled to an accompaniment
of coo-ees, war-cries, bush ballads, and breaking bottles. It was a
distinctly lively trip, and I shan't forget my first Christmas Eve in
the Land of the Pharaohs. So far as I recollect, there were no bones
broken, either, and not so very many windows.
We ran into Pont de Koubbeh station, a few miles outside Cairo, about
ten o'clock that night, and disembarked straight away. A number of
staff officers were on the platform, so we were fallen-in for a hasty
inspection; and it was really marvellous, considering the amount of
liquid refreshment that had been consumed, how steady a line was kept.
It might certainly have been improved, but any little shortcomings in
the way of dressing, _et cetera_, were put down by our officers to the
fatiguing day we had had, plus the heat of Egypt. Perhaps the staff
believed them. But it was a mistake to give the order, "Fix Bayonets!"
when those weapons were already so firmly "fixed" amidst the gear we
were burdened with that nearly half the company utterly failed at first
to find them—and when they did succeed, the officers of the staff had
turned to go: thinking, no doubt, that the climate had a lot to answer
for.
We marched the couple of miles or so to Zeitoun, where the New
Zealanders were camped, about seven miles from Cairo, passing on the
way many soldiers of the Dominion, who were in a slightly "elevated"
condition. One six-foot infantryman attached himself to us as guide,
informing all and sundry the while that he was as "right as the
_adjectived_ bank!" He may have been, but he didn't look it. And those
two miles were easily the longest I ever padded. However, we found our
camp at last, and in the fullness of time our blankets and kits also,
and, after doing justice to a savoury, if rather overcooked, stew,
turned in early on Christmas morning. Later we were informed that the
boys had fixed to give us a boncer welcome, but "Christmas come but
once a year," and in the words of our informant, "they blued their
cheques, got shikkared, and the show was bust up." We got to sleep
at last, lulled by the dulcet strains of a Maori _haka_ voiced by a
home-coming band of late—or early!—revellers.