Anzac Types
1.—Wallaby Joe
His real name matters little; suffice it that he was known among his comrades as “Wallaby Joe.”
He came to Gallipoli via Egypt with the Light Horse. Incidentally, he had ridden nearly a thousand miles over sun-scorched, drought-stricken plains to join them.
Age about 38. In appearance the typical bushman. Tall and lean, but strong as a piece of hickory. A horseman from head to toe, and a dead shot. He possessed the usual bushy beard of the lonely prospector of the extreme backblocks. Out of deference to a delicate hint from his squadron commander he shaved it off, but resolved to let it grow again when the exigencies of active service should discount such finicking niceties.
His conversation was laconic in the extreme. When the occasion demanded it he could swear profusely, and in a most picturesque vein. When a bursting shell from a “75” on one occasion blew away a chunk of prime Berkshire which he was cooking for breakfast, his remarks were intensely original and illuminative.
He could also drink beer for indefinite periods, but seldom committed the vulgar error of becoming “tanked.” Not even that locality “east of Suez,” where, as the song tells us, “There ain’t no Ten Commandments and a man can raise a thirst,” could make his steps erratic.
He was very shy in the presence of the softer sex. On one occasion his unwary footsteps caused him some embarrassment. Feeling thirsty he turned into one of those establishments, fairly common in Cairo, where the southern proprietors try to hide the villainous quality of their beer by bribing sundry young ladies of various nationalities and colours to give more high-class vaudeville turns. The aforementioned young ladies are aided and abetted by a coloured orchestra, one member of which manipulates the bagpipes.
A portly damsel had just concluded, amidst uproarious applause, the haunting strains of “Ta-ra-ra boom-de-ay.” She sidled up to Joe with a large-sized grin on her olive features.
“Gib it kiss,” she murmured, trying to look ravishing.
But Joe had fled.
Henceforth during his stay in Egypt he took his beer in a little Russian bar, the proprietor of which could speak English, and had been through the Russo-Japanese War.
When the Light Horse were ordered at last to the front, Joe took a sad farewell of his old bay mare. He was, as a rule, about as sentimental as a steamroller, but “leaving the old nag behind hurt some.”
On the Peninsula and under fire his sterling qualities were not long in coming to the surface. Living all his life in an environment in which the pick and shovel plays an important part he proved himself an adept at sapping and mining. At this game he was worth four ordinary men. No matter how circuitous the maze of trenches, he could find his way with ease. He could turn out all sorts of dishes from his daily rations of flour, bacon, jam, and of course the inevitable “bully” and biscuits. An endless amount of initiative showed itself in everything he did. His mates learned quite a lot of things just by watching him potter about the trenches and bivouacs. His training at the military camps of Australia and, later, in Egypt, combined with the knowledge he had been imbibing from Nature all his life, made him an ideal soldier.
He was used extensively by his officers as a scout. As the Turkish trenches were often not more than twenty yards from our own, needless to say the scouting was done at night, the Turks’ favourite time to attack being just before dawn. Often during these nocturnal excursions a slight rustle in the thick scrub would cause his mate to grasp his rifle with fixed bayonet and peer into the darkness, with strained eyes and ears and quickened pulse.
“A hare,” Joe would whisper, and probably advise him to take things easy while he himself watched.
This went on for some time until one night his mate came in alone, pale-faced and wild-eyed. Interrogated by the officer on duty, he informed him that Joe had been shot.
We brought the body in. He had been shot through the heart—a typical affair of outposts.
Tucked away in one of the innumerable gullies, a little grave, one among hundreds, contains the body of one of Nature’s grand men. On the wooden cross surmounting it is the following:
| No. 008 Trooper J. Redgum, | ||
| 20th Australian Light Horse. | ||
| Killed in Action. | ||
W. R. C.,
8th A.L.H.
2.—The Dag
Yes; ’Enessy was a dag if ever there was one! I remember the day ’e came into camp at Liverpool ’e was wearin’ ’is best Sunday grin, and when some bloke wot was in the mob yelled out “Marmalade,” ’e turns round and says to ’im: “Wot’s your complaint, mate?” The bloke ’e repeats “Marmalade.” And ’Enessy says: “Ah! That’s wot I thought it was. You’d better see a doctor, and ’ave it operated on right away, me man!”
’E could eat like a ’orse. Blime! The way ’e used ter stoke up on ther bread and jam was a treat for sore eyes. ’E always used ter ask to be put on the job of picket round the quartermaster’s store, and they never tumbled to ’is game for a long while. ’E used ter watch ’is chance, and every night would slip in and pinch a loaf of bread and a tin of jam, and as ’is job consisted of keeping the cook’s fire a-going all night, ’e always ’ad a cup of coffee ready when ’e wanted it. One night ’e nips into the store to git ’is usual bit of supper, and ’e bangs right into the bloke wot was just put in new at the Q.M. that day.
“Wot are you doin’ ’ere?” asks the bloke.
“Blime! I thought I ’ad a fair cop,” says ’Enessy, quick as lightning. “I ’eard someone moving about in ’ere, and thought it was a chap pinchin’ stuff.”
“And who are you?” says the bloke.
“Me! I’m the bloomin’ picket,” says ’Enessy.
“Oh! Alright, picket,” replies the bloke. “I sleep in here, so you needn’t worry about the store while I’m here.”
“Alright, mate!” says ’Enessy. “Can yer give us a bit of grub? Fair dinkum, I’m ’ungry!”
So ’e gets ’is grub after all, but ’e couldn’t come the double no more after that.
When ’e came over the water and first sees the Turkish trenches, ’e says: “Strike me pink! But where’s them Turks they talk about?”
Says I: “They’re right there behind them sandbags, old cock! And don’t you forget it, neither!”
“And don’t they come out and show themselves?” ’e asks.
“Wot for?” says I.
“Why, for us blokes to shoot at, of course!” ’e says.
One mornin’ early while we was standin’ to arms ’e lights up a bumper, so I tells ’im not to let the officer cop ’im or there’d be trouble. Just then along comes the bloomin’ officer, so ’Enessy sticks ’is lighted bumper down south into ’is overcoat pocket, and ’olds it there out of sight. The officer sniffs about a bit, then ’e asks ’Enessy: “Are you smoking?”
“No, sir!” says ’Enessy.
“Well, I can smell smoke!” says the officer. Then ’e looks pretty ’ard at ’Enessy and says: “What’s your name?”
“’Enessy, sir.”
“Well, Henessy, your pocket’s on fire!”
’Enessy looks, and hang me if that bloomin’ cigarette ’adn’t set fire to ’is coat pocket. But the officer only says: “Don’t do it again!” and whips off.
It was when we came out of the firin’-line for a week’s spell that ’Enessy met ’is Waterloo. ’E was detailed for guard down at the drinkin’ water, and ’e was to take all his nap and camp down there. The first night, when ’e was doin’ ’is shift ’e sees a dark shape movin’ along and challenged it three times, but never gets no answer. So ’e ups with ’is gun and lets fly. When the corporal rushes along to know what the blazes was the matter, ’Enessy ups and tells ’im, so they goes forward together pretty careful, and soon they sees a black heap lyin’ on the sand ahead of them. Gor blime! If ’Enessy ’adn’t gone and shot one of them poor little Indian donkeys which ’ad strayed along the beach. Well, ’e was chaffed pretty considerable by ’is cobbers,[9] and got fairly sick of hearin’ about it.
Next night when ’e was doin’ ’is shift again, ’e sees another black shape movin’ along the beach, so thinkin’ ’is cobbers were ’avin’ a joke with ’im, ’e picks up a big stick and goes forward with it. ’E ’ad gone about twenty yards, when suddenly there was a flash and a report, and ’Enessy drops down with a bullet through ’is chest. Strike me pink! A real Abdul ’ad come up this time, and it wasn’t no bloomin’ donkey, neither! ’Enessy was ’it pretty bad, but ’e grabs ’is rifle and lets fly, and one more bloomin’ Abdul ’ad gone to join ’is Prophet. Next day ’Enessy was taken away on a ’ospital ship, but that was near three months ago. I ’ear that the blighter is back on the beach now, and you will be able to see him yourself when ’e comes back to the squadron. But strike me! ’E’s a bloomin’ dag!
E. A. M. W.
3.—Bobbie of the New Army
Bobbie’s gone sick.
This probably doesn’t interest you. But, oh, how we miss him.
So we must tell somebody.
Bobbie, the ever-smiling embodiment of breezy youth; the spirit of cheerfulness; the Beau Brummell of the trenches.
Bobbie landed with the regiment, and went through thick and thin with it. But always with a smile and never a scratch. Bullets flew off Bobbie at a tangent.
Of our officers, three only of the original arrivals were left when Bobbie went. He had watched the others go away one by one, some wounded, some sick, and some—well, just left,
“Where the foe and the stranger will tread o’er their heads
When we’re far away on the billow.”
Bobbie had grown quite proud of his staying powers, which carried him through three months of real hardship and trying work night and day. But for Bobbie’s smile in adversity and his way—for he has a way with him—many of his brave boys would have given up. But Bobbie’s bright example spurred them on and they “stuck it,” like their idol.
Bobbie’s only a youngster, but he is made of the real “stuff that’s bred in the army.” When he found himself exalted to the command of a company his head didn’t swell. The added responsibilities were not too heavy for Bobbie’s shoulders, which really were not broad relatively when compared with his broad smile. Bobbie acted like a tonic to a man run-down.
But, at last, Nature (in collusion with the M.O.) asserted her imperious will, and Bobbie just had to go to hospital. So Bobbie bowed to the inevitable, and, still smiling, went away.
Bobbie in hospital! What a picture! His bright smile, his rosy cheeks, and his immaculately parted hair, framed in snowy-white pillows. Bobbie—the irresistible!
Bobbie, we were loath to lose you; Bobbie, we miss you; but, Bobbie, won’t there be a weeping and a wailing when the nurses have to let you go?
Still, “it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.” Bobbie’s chocolate sweetened the bitterness of parting; Bobbie’s tinned fruit sustains us in his absence; Bobbie’s cigarettes sooth our sorrow.
“Tentmate,”
11th London Regt.
Footnotes:
[9] Cobbers—mates.