Brookvale Days, Night Raid, Topsy Turvy Tactics

Leave soon became one of the main problems, for after the keenness to do something, had started to wear off (and it did wear off on account of lack of equipment), all sorts of requests started to pour in for night leave, home leave, special leave, compassionate leave, and leave without pay. As usual, all the excuses imaginable were forthcoming, the most popular being "mother-in-law sick and dying" or "a boy in the A.I.F. going away or coming home". One old fellow, known as "Mac" to many at Corps H.Q., came to the R.S.M. one day for a few hours' "extra", and when he was asked the reason said his daughter was going to the Middle East. When he was reminded that the Government was bringing every one back from the Middle East, he replied, "Well, sergeant-major, I had to find a new one."

One application which caused a lot of amusement was read to the troops as a lesson, and went something like this:

I hereby apply for 21 days' leave without pay for the purpose of taking off my crop of cherries. Unless I can be granted this leave at an early date, the crop will rot and I will be a big loser."

As all applications for leave without pay had to be dealt with by Corps Headquarters, this one was duly for-warded and marked "Urgent". A week later the application came back to "Brooky" with a note asking for more particulars. It was handed back to Private X who shortly afterwards submitted a fresh application:

"I hereby apply for leave without pay for the purpose of proceeding to my property at - - - where I have 30 acres of potatoes ready to be dug. Unless this crop is taken out immediately the potatoes will rot, and both the country and myself will suffer."

The orderly-room staff thereupon decided that both the original application and this one were "phonies", and needless to say Private X did not get away to the shearing sheds, which he later admitted was his intention when making the first application.

One afternoon the Camp Commandant got a "bush signal" that the new Corps Commander, Brigadier England, who had recently returned from the Middle East, would be paying a visit to the camp the next morning. At once there was a hustle and bustle to put on a show, and everything was arranged for 1000 hours.

The guard was warned to be on its toes, for we were going to show the Brigadier that Brookvale was second to none. At 0915 W.0. Kennedy was sent down to the guardroom to give the last-minute instructions. While this was going on, a voice broke the stillness. "Come on, you jokers. Fall out, here he is."

The guard tumbled out. As Kennedy said afterwards, the look on the Corps Commander's face boded ill for what was to come and when he reprimanded the guard, one of ,hem said that the commander had no right to come before io o'clock which he had said would be the time of his -arrival.

Having inspected the guard, Brigadier England came to H.Q. and the "blitz" was on. As usual, the R.S.M. stood the blast after his departure.

The following day the chaplain from the 18th Battalion came to the camp and divine service was arranged for the next morning, and the i8th Battalion band was to come down and play the music. No sooner had this been arranged when the tip was received that the brigadier was again coming on the morrow at 1000 hrs.

"Right," said the S.M. A special guard was picked and rehearsed until they nearly dropped. The companies were put through the march past until they almost met themselves coming back. We were not going to be caught again. Our pride had been hurt, and we were now on our toes to redeem our good name.

Next morning broke fine and clear. Fatigue parties were early on the job and the whitewash brush worked overtime. Rifles got the twenty-times over, boots had a high shine, giggle trousers came from under the palliasses, and we were ready for church parade and anything else that might come. At 0845 the band marched through the gates-and to old soldiers the music was nectar from the gods. Shoulders lifted another couple of inches and the will-to-do crept into each eye.

The service was held in the pavilion, but it's safe to say that the One-up-above did not matter so much as the ONE that was due to arrive on the scene.

After the service permission was obtained f or the band to stay the day. A collection was taken up and the bandsmen were fortified with extra air for the auspicious occasion. The troops were lined up and dressed. The minutes crept near to the hour, and at last we heard, '-'Turn out the guard!"

N.C.Os buzzed round the troops. Not a man was an inch out of place-and then he came.

After the general salute, and to the strains of "The Duke of York", our worthy Corps Commander made his inspection. We knew by our set-up and our bearing that this was OUR day. The march past took place at the appointed time. It was a good show. The 1914-18 man is a great soldier behind a band. As I marched past with my head to the right I tried to imagine what the Corps Commander was thinking, but I realized that he would be unable to think, as our efforts this time, in such a marked contrast to the previous occasion, must have dumbfounded him.

We were told later that he was very pleased, but I can assure him that the window-dressing staff of a great emporium never had so much to do in so little time as we had at our disposal on that occasion.

Brookvale Camp was to the end of its days a place where many friends were made, and the esprit de corps among the old Diggers there was a thing to be marvelled at. It definitely proved at least one thing - that the spirit of the old soldier is something that is not easily broken.

Visiting officers spoke highly of the "Green Gondoliers" of "Brooky". The men were so much in demand that when the coastal defence authorities came to inspect the troops to select suitable men for relieving more active personnel on the coastal defences, they took about eighty per cent of our strength.

It was a sad day for the F.T.D. V.D.C. personnel that day they marched out. The more active members hated leaving those who did not make the grade; and the same could be said of the less active ones. They did not want to break up the gang. From that day "Brooky" was not the same, and everyone just waited for the axe to fall and complete the job of dispersing those who had thought that through thick and thin they would fight together.

As I watched them go, I could see silent tears and knew that there were lumps in many throats, and I felt that it does not matter how tough you make it for a fair dinkum Aussie, he will take it, growl a bit, and smile, but take him away from his mates and his smile is only the camouflage to an aching heart.

So we waited for the axe, and when it fell we knew that never again would so many V.D.C. men be together in one camp. And, as the higher authorities deemed it advisable to break us up, we had no option but to smile and take it.

The farewell dinner was the most sober affair that I have ever attended. Though there was plenty "laid on" no one felt like rejoicing. It was farewell to "Brooky" and to our officers and instructors. Their stewardship left nothing to be desired, and I know that at the smokos that peace-time will bring, "Brooky" will always live in the hearts of the lads who joined up for a second helping.

"NP9295"

NIGHT RAID

INFORMATION: "X" Company from a neighbouring battalion is reported to be camped at Wonga Park which is within my territory. Strength, anything up to 120men.

INTENTION: Raid them, of course.

METHOD: Well, we could decide that as we went along. Not orthodox, perhaps, but elaborate plans usually go astray.

I sat and pondered over the order before calling my platoon together. My platoon is seventy-seven strong, and when I say strong I mean strong. Everything about them is strong-their language in particular.

That train of thought led me to realize that seventy-seven men make a lot of noise too much for a night raid. I did not require seventy-seven men to clean up "X" Company Umpth Battalion. I could do the job with seven, or, say, nine, to be on the safe side. So I reached for the phone. An hour later I was driving three of my H.Q. staff in the Old Red Terror to our R.V. two miles north of the park.

It was just on dark as we approached the R.V., and we spied a red light twinkling through the gums. We slowed down, flicked our headlights, and received an answering flick from the red light. So far so good. The remainder of my party were there on time, and, more important, were safe; so we went forward and joined them.

And a bright lot we looked in the dim light. There was Corporal Cyril looking like a nigger from the station across the Murray. Lance-corporal Geoff in his oldest and dirtiest togs, looking smaller than ever. Good man this - could wriggle into and out of any trap. Private Alf, our Q.M., just the opposite. Largest man in my platoon, so large in fact that I had necessarily made him Q.M. to ensure that he would get a uniform that fitted. Now, why had I brought him? I don't know, but I must have been looking for trouble.

The others were good men who knew their jobs and were keen to get going. Young Bill

was dressed as a farmer's son. His task was to go ahead as a scout, and if he were caught he had some vague story about two head of cattle which had wandered down the road "Had they seen them?" So we sent him to look for his poddies, while we enjoyed our last smoke for the night.

Presently a low whistle indicated that he was safely over the first of the two bridges ahead; so with lights out we crawled along, picked him up and came up to the second bridge. Defiles, these, and if the enemy had seen fit to place outposts, here they would be. Young Bill went ahead and we waited.

But what was that light-two lights-to the left? Good Lord! That was the back road into the park and those lights were moving.

Wait or dash. Dash, I said, so on we went, picked up the dazed searcher of stock, crossed the unguarded bridge, and got safely past the park gate before the lights were near enough to show us up.

Here was a mess, for we had not waited to complete our plans. Well, we must keep on and pull up round the bend until the danger was over. Round the bend, with the broad waters of the Murray on our right, we halted, debussed and made for the scrub.

just in time; for round the bend came those two white beams-on our tall, all right. And, of course, a squeal of brakes and a slamming of car doors. Presently the gleam of a torch and "Who's there?" We didn't tell them, but we fervently hoped our cars would suggest a fishing party. It was then that I went hot and cold, and felt my face going red. I, a blinking "Loot", had left a water bottle, Army issue, in the back of my car. Why the devil hadn't I brought a bottle of beer instead, like any sensible soldier? Ah, the car was starting up - now look out for its lights.

Sure enough we got the beams as the driver swung on to the road, but we must have been well hidden, for on he went. Gone to raise the alarm, no doubt, so we must get busy. A hurried order- "Two parties, proceed independently to the park, use all possible cover, and meet by the woolshed."

All possible cover! I smiled as we sneaked across open paddocks and sandhills-perfect skyline targets. Oh well, it was good practice, anyway. Yes, there was the belt of timber by the Wonga lagoon; here was the home paddock, and Wonga homestead would be dead ahead.

It was, but we had not allowed for a defender's best sentries-horses. I might have known there would be three or four frisky mares in the home paddock. Neighs and whinnies, then thump, thumpety thump from several directions, the horses' hooves and our own beating hearts. Keep going, and trust to luck - only thing to do. It was here that we heard a crash as our hefty Q.M. floundered into a ditch filled with dry but very prickly thornbush. I knew it. Never take an elephant on a rat hunt.

When things had quietened down, which seemed several hours later, we pushed on to the woolshed, and here, lo and behold, the second party was in before us. Nothing to report, so we got to plans. Every man was given an area and told to get information and return in fifteen minutes. Back they came and this was their information: "Enemy" were camped here all right; beds were made up everywhere, but no life showed in the place except at the homestead (which was out of bounds, of course) and in the cookhouse. It was the cooks who unconsciously spilled the beans. Lance-Corporal Geoff had gathered all the dope, including a cert for the Melbourne Cup. The whole company was out on manoeuvres, and would return for a cup of coffee at 2300 hours. They had left no sentries!

The rest, I assured my men, should be easy. They were to surround the cookhouse in good cover, and I was to climb into a clump of pepper-trees opposite the cookhouse door. Then when I blew my whistle they were to heave their grenades into the mob, and a bayonet charge would put what was left of them out of their misery.

So I climbed my tree and waited.

The cooks went on talking, and we were thus kept well informed of the hour, as well as of their opinion of the war and the part their own officers were playing in it. It tallied with ours.

Lights to the south, and presently enemy trucks and cars were coming in the gate. And coming straight for me! Hell, why hadn't I used my block? I was right in the centre of their car-parking area. Cars and trucks all round me, each with its powerful headlights on my tree. This was the end, I told myself, as I tried to look more like a willowy bough. But no; two by two the lights flicked off while the men made for the cookhouse door. All but one carload, who, horror of horrors, gathered round the trunk of my tree and proceeded to open up a case of the doings. Breakaways, who did not care for coffee, blast them!

Well, I could still blow my whistle ... or could I? I went cold all over as it dawned on me that I had no whistle. No whistle, no action, nothing! Perhaps Lance-Corporal Geoff had one; but could I reach him? The party below me were getting merry; all to one side of the tree trunk, I noticed. Well, I would have to slip down the opposite side - a hundred to one chance, but it came off.

Beer has its uses, even in enemy hands.

Ten minutes later Lance-Corporal Geoff was telling me to get off his blinking neck. He was well concealed. Yes, he had a whistle, and one shrill blast was sufficient to send "X" Company sky high. There was no need for bayonets, as we picked our way among the bodies and helped ourselves to their coffee, slightly smoked but most acceptable.

Half an hour later, "X" Company's officers were sufficiently recovered to explain why they had not posted any sentries. I wonder if it would have made any difference if they had. We'll try them again sometime.

Oh, yes, that car. It belonged to one of their party who was trying to find his way into camp, but had lost himself in the dark.

"V374733"

By Order. Greatcoats Will Be Worn. By N23780