Chapter 12 Driver's Friend; Battings isn't always batting; Sniper; Gas Warfare...

BATTING ISN'T ALWAYS BATTING!

"FRITZIE" used to be a lawyer in Hungary a few years ago-now he's a soldier of the A.I.F. The transition period is marred by some not-too-happy memories, but that hasn't impaired his optimism or his ability to "take it on the chin". In fact, his ready acceptance, at all times, of the inevitable is a source of amazement and amusement to his confreres, and is one of the reasons why Fritzie is a good Australian soldier with a large stake of his own in quite a few Australian hearts.

Early in his Army career he was offered a job as a batman, but none thought to tell him what a barman was.

So he drew his own conclusions.

"These Australians," he reasoned, "are very fond of sport. Their batmen are their national heroes. If I succeed as a batman, shall I not gain fame and succeed elsewhere?"

To the Orderly Sergeant he said, "Yes, I will become a batman."

He was marched to an officer's tent, told to clean a pair of boors, and wait there for further instructions. He thought this was an inauspicious beginning to the career of an embryo Bradman, but concluded that it was some sort of drill-by-numbers to toughen the muscles of wrists and elbows. He could visualize the day when he would open his shoulders and drive the ball for sixes and fours; when future Larwoods would break their hearts and scream over his masterly bat; when occupants of members' stands would break their vows of polite silence and stampede around the compiler of multiple "centuries".

Then he would look back to his boot-cleaning days as the foundation upon which his success had been built. So he cleaned the boots with a will.

Presently the owner of the boots arrived, and asked Fritzie whether he was the new batman. "Yes, sir," he replied, "but when will I start to bat?"

"Well, you seem to have started already, by the look of it," and a good start too, replied the officer, regarding the gleaming boot-leather with *satisfaction, and wondering a little at his batman's eagerness.

"Is this called 'batting', sir?" asked a slightly dismayed Fritzie upon whom realization was now beginning to grow. The sad truth was explained to him, and he hastily reconsidered his decision after complaining about the vagaries of the English language.

Now he is determined to seek fame only as a soldier - for the duration, at any rate. It is best summed up in the philosophical words of Fritzie himself who has learned much of our ways in his three years' service with the A.I.F., and has travelled far since that day when he thought to become a batsman:

"So ... I gave away a creekit careerrr."

"VX3820I"

SNIPER

THE C.O. picked up the phone and said, "Maki calling Badu. Maki calling Badu. Maki calling Badu."

Private Bill Martin took the cigarette from his mouth and pressed the head-piece closer ~over his ears as he heard the call come over 'the party line. He moved cautiously to a more comfortable position on the platform in the sniper's tree.

"Badu answering. Badu answering. Badu 4nswering," he replied with his mouth pressed ,close to the phone.

He heard the line crackle and fade. Faintly to his ears came the voice of someone asking -for ammunition supplies and then the C.O.'s "Voice came through. "Clear the line for a moment. Saunders here. Is that you, Martin?"

"Martin speaking," Bill said.

"Anything doing up your way?"

"Nothing at all. Very quiet. Haven't seen one today."

"Well, keep a good lookout, Martin, and phone back if any turn up. We're expecting a few to try and break through today."

"I'll be watching for them," Bill said, while his eyes roved over the swaying kunai a hundred feet below him. Only the kunai moved down there. Not a Jap was in sight.

The voice asking for more ammunition supplies came back on the line, and someone at 'the other end was repeating the quantity. From his position in the tree he looked over the kunai once more with his glasses. It was bordered on the east and west by the patches of timber, and running through it was the ankle-deep, muddy trail that snaked its way to the coast. The sun was creeping over the patch of 'timber on his right, and last night's rain still lay flashing and glittering on the tips of the kunai.

Already he felt the perspiration beginning to run down his chest and soak into his shirt, and he smelt again the rotten stench of mud on his clothes. From where the track broke suddenly from the timber the boong-train plodded slowly out into the sun. He watched it through his glasses and he saw their eyes flicking nervously into the kunai, watching for any signs of the Jap.

He saw the bulge of the sacks they carried. The familiar shape of the bully-beef tins and cheese, and the sweating boongs lower down the train who carried the bigger tins of biscuits.

There was no fresh meat. They'd never get any while they held this forward perimeter along the trail. He thought of chunks of steak, and roasts, and how it felt to bite into fresh meat that was tender and wholesome. He'd thought about that fresh meat often while he sat silently in the tree, with the sun streaming on his body. There were other things he thought about too, but always his thoughts came back to fresh meat.

Smoke was drifting lazily from the belt of timber on his right, where a company was preparing for breakfast. That meant they were boiling water for tea. He pulled his haversack towards him and looked at the tins lying in the bottom. Two of bully-beef and one of cheese. He swore softly to himself and closed the haversack. A cigarette would do for his breakfast today.

The men from the company were filing past the steaming dixie of tea. He saw them stoop and scramble through the jungle back to their pits. The sun was glinting on the barrels of the Brens, and one of the men was checking over his magazine before he lifted his mug to his lips.

The party line was quiet. Everyone seemed to have stopped for tea. Bill checked the kunai again. Right from the coast, where the water lapped the coconut-fringed sand, up to the timber on both sides of his position. The Japs were scarce today, as scarce as fresh meat. Maybe they were waiting for night to fall, and then they would creep through the kunai across the track into the timber and on up the coast.

He saw them break from the timber and then come into, the kunai at the same time as the Wirraway swooped low over the track. His glasses brought them close to him. He held them in one hand while he felt for his rifle and put it across his knees. They were coming closer, slowly across the kunai. At two hundred yards he put the glasses on the platform and lifted the rifle to his shoulder.

The rifle felt light in his hands, and as he sighted along the barrel he felt strangely confident that he would kill them. His two shots followed in quick succession. He saw one of them fall, stiff and lifeless in the kunai. The company on his right had all come to their feet. The Owen-gunners were all looking in his direction, where the rifle smoke drifted from the tree.

Faintly he heard the voice coming from the phone. "Maki calling Badu. Maki calling Badu." He picked up the phone. "Badu answering. Badu answering." He was sure it would be the C.O. They'd all want to know how he had done it. "It's Martin here," he said.

"What was the firing I heard?" The C.O.'s voice was quick and clear.

"I got one," Bill answered slowly. "Got him with my second shot."

"Got what, Martin?"

"A beaut King Pigeon. I got him with my second shot. I missed the other one."

"Damn it all, Martin" the C.O. shouted excitedly. "I put you up there to shoot Japs, not pigeons! You'll give your position away. I'll have Brigade down on me in a minute. Get down out of that tree at once. I'm sending a relief out."

He felt happy as he swung out off the platform and groped for the ladder with his foot. A hundred yards away a fat pigeon lay in the grass. Tonight he would cook it, and sink his teeth into the flesh. It was fresh meat, and he couldn't eat a dead Jap.

"NX143660"

GAS WARFARE

NOW the Lieut. was passionately fond of gardening, and on his garden he lavished every care and affection. And not in vain, for the garden was a show piece in the town.

But in the same town many goats were domiciled. They were no less appreciative of the products of the garden. The cabbages were their "piece de resistance" and the brushwood fence offered no resistance to their voracious appetites.

Why he should call in the services of two sappers to repel the invasion no one knows, but the fact that he did, and that the sappers were refrigerator mechanics, makes this story possible.

The engineers accepted with alacrity and theirs was the stroke of genius. The effect of ammonia gas on animals is well known, on cabbages not so well known. But that is anticipating. From a nearby dump were scrounged several lengths of ammonia piping and these were pierced at intervals, connected to an ammonia cylinder and concealed in the cabbage patch.

In due course the goats arrived, and as usual began nibbling the delicate leaves. At the appropriate moment the Guardians of the Garden released the ammonia. The results were spectacular - as one the goats turned and in a solid phalanx struck the fence, rebounded, leaped again and in a twinkling of an eye disappeared in the general direction of the distant hills.

The following morning the Lieut. was horrified to see that his pride and joy, the cabbages, were tinted a vivid purple. He is now a worried man; neither the Gardeners' Guide nor the Home Gardener can explain the "obscure disease".

If he asked the engineers perhaps they might tell him - the joke would be too good to keep.

As far as we know the goats are still going.

"NX161134"

HANDS UP!

"HANDS up! "

He started guiltily as the call rang clearly in his ears, then stopped as the realization sank in that he was too late-much too late. Trapped, without a counter!

"Funny," he mused to himself, as he waited for his captor to draw nearer. Funny how easily he had been tricked. He who had outwitted them all up to date, he who had always been at least one think ahead, to come this far and then to fall such an easy victim.

Peculiar how one's memory raced back at times like this. Remember that day in Tobruk, when the shell screamed its way into the bank not ten yards from where he and "Bluey" had stood - and didn't explode! Poor old "Bluey" - he wasn't so lucky two days later when one hit the dug-out in which he was sleeping.

Then there was that time when he was playing poker with "Butch", Jim and that lanky bloke from Queensland-the bloke who never talked unless it was about his farm and he was called away to the Orderly Room. Then the Huns started to send 'em over, and he got back in time to help "Butch" and Jim cart the Queensland bloke down to the M.O. His leg was amputated that night.

Greece, Crete, and then back to good old Aussie and up to New Guinea to fight back the dirty little Japs - blast them! Remember that night when he'd stalked that Jap sniper for over an hour - and got him! And the day when he lay, foxing death, while two Sons of Heaven came gleefully nearer - and got theirs!

And now, to be caught like this - caught napping, as it were; why it wasn't right - he never had a chance. The dice was loaded from the beginning.

"Hands up!"

Obediently he raised his hands, and allowed his wife to place on them a skein of wool, ready to be wound.

"VX110466"