Sand, Wind & Super: Old Harry: Great Offensive: Fighting Patrol: Bass Ale

OLD HARRY

OLD Harry Damson's name is a household word throughout the prosperous fruit-growing district of Bungerim.

Tinker, carpenter, painter, and general handyman, the ubiquitous Harry has the happy knack of getting things done and of pleasing people-hence his popularity.

If the primus goes bung or the clock goes phut, Old Harry is the man to put it in working order again. "Take it to Old Harry. He'll fix it," has become a commonplace.

With the outbreak of hostilities came a slackening in the building trade.

The induction of his men into the Army and the impressment of his motor vehicle cramped Old Harry's style somewhat, but failed to upset his equanimity and he quickly found an outlet for his vitality and enthusiasm in the multifarious patriotic activities surrounding the life of a small country town. The public hall became the hub of the district and here Old Harry found an infinite delight in "offsiding" in the kitchen, conducting raffles, and acting as general factotum about the place. Hadn't the war to be won? Harry was doing his bit and was mighty proud of the part he was playing.

The Jap was coming closer. In quick succession Rabaul, Madang, Lae, Salamaua and Buna fell, and Moresby was threatened. In fact, the homeland itself was in dire peril. Every man capable of bearing arms was called upon to stand to.

The V.D.C. was born.

Despite his sixty years Old Harry was the first in Bungerim to offer his services. Like thousands of others he was proud that he could demonstrate his patriotism in a practical form.

Almost every available man in Bungerim answered the call. What a bunch of rookies! All ages and all shapes and sizes-enough to sadden the heart of any ambitious sergeant-major. But was the O.C. dismayed? Not a bit. He had a job to do and he set about doing it. The men knew what was expected of them and knuckled down to the task without a whimper. Wasn't the honour of Bungerim at stake? With the help of ex-Digger N.C.Os and the field troops in the locality the gradual unfolding of a complete metamorphosis was as interesting as it was satisfying to the instructors. At last the company was ready for any eventuality. It had become a fighting unit!

Besides the training of his men, the O.C. had additional worries: a range to construct, targets to build, lockers to make, and a thousand and one things that call for a handy man. Old Harry was the complete answer to the V.D.C. captain's prayer. Proud to serve, he was never happier than when putting his talents to good use.

"Wonderful!" "Marvelous!" "As good as the A.I.F." and such like encomiums were passed on the men as, resplendent in their uniforms of green, they marched the country roads.

The Nips were certainly in for a bad time if they landed in this neck of the woods. The settlers could at last sleep soundly, feeling that the local lads would put up a good show if called upon.

The day of the great inter-platoon stunt arrived. The exercise had been carefully planned and the men were just "rarin' to go". The Nips had "landed", and headquarters, their objective, had been established at the little school at Cooloolaba. The sergeant major (the local headmaster) was left in charge with a section, while the remainder were organized into fighting patrols and sent out to look for the enemy.

The sergeant-major quickly threw a cordon round H.Q. and, like Micawber, settled down and waited for something to turn up.

It was a glorious day. The sea was flat calm, with the whales working northward. Flocks of gulls and threshing bonito indicated the mullet shoals working out from the shore. Nothing discordant arose to disturb the serenity of the surroundings.

At last a figure came into view. It was a woman.

"Poor old soul!" mused the sergeant-major, "Somebody's mother bowed down with the years. Probably has a son or two at the front. Old age-what a tragedy! Must be living in the old tin shack. Wonder who she can be?"

"Put 'em up! Don't speak, and play the game!" came sharply from the old woman.

"Well, I'll go hopping to Hades!" muttered the sergeant-major. "A man with any wits at all should have been a wake-up to that figure and those hairy legs."

One by one the cordon was eliminated and H.Q. reduced, and Old Harry's resourcefulness resulted in a meritorious win for the enemy.

He had become famous overnight - a successful rival to Bill Adams of Waterloo fame. Even the lads at school next day glanced at the sergeant-major as much as to say, "Old Harry fired a beauty over you yesterday, eh? "

In future stunts the word went forth to "Watch Old Harry", but he remained quiescent and just bided his time. It appeared as if he were content to rest on his laurels.

Time passed. The annual V.D.C. concert, the most popular social event of the year, was due. Although it was a secret, everybody seemed to know that Old Harry intended putting over his impersonation with the skit, "How I tricked the sergeant-major". It brought down the house. Old Harry had definitely arrived. He was on top of the globe and, like Alexander of old, dreamed of new worlds to conquer.

He hadn't long to wait. Preparations had been completed for the big stunt which was to be an "all-nighter". An enemy landing had been made at Cooloolaba, five miles distant, and the public hall at Bungerim was to be the objective. Zero hour was set down for 2100 hours.

Rivalry was keen and the exercise promised well. The clock struck nine. The defenders just lolled around satisfied that things would be quiet for an hour or so. A road-block half-way to the coast had orders to stop and search all motor traffic. A service truck full of Diggers off to a dance was the first to come through.

When it was stopped by the patrol loud protests issued from it. "Here, cut it out, boys. We're in a hurry. We're not fifth columnists."

"Righto, Dig.," said the N.C.O. in charge of the post. "Away you go."

Little did he realize that Old Harry was well secreted in the darkest comer of the vehicle, the Diggers aiding and abetting the wily old fox.

At 2115 hours a figure holding a Tommy gun filled the doorway of the public hall. Could it be an apparition, or was it that man again?

"Stick 'em up! I've got you all covered."

Old Harry the one-man army had again triumphed, but it was a hollow victory. The lone wolf came in for general condemnation and got a good caning all round. He had stolen the thunder, but had out-smarted himself. For the future he stuck to his section and wasn't guilty of offending in this respect again.

He was yet to put on his star turn. The stormy season had set in and the field stunts gave way to work on the range. The day set aside for musketry practice was made for shooting and never had the range looked more beautiful. Set in sylvan surroundings, nature in all her glory seemed to have run riot in a profusion of colour. Good scores were the order of the day and everybody seemed happy. The sergeant-major was down on the mound and was heading for the possible when,

"Bang! "-there was a loud explosion away to the rear.

"What the hell was that?" gasped the O.C.

Old Harry had shot himself.

"He must have committed suicide," said the S.M. with consternation. "He knew too much about the .303 for it to have been an accident. What was he doing over there, anyway? "

Old Bill and Old Boompa, of the first-aid detachment sprang to it and when they arrived on the scene Old Harry was lying on the ground with blood streaming from his temple.

"Poor old fellow!" said Boompa. "Fancy the silly old cow going out like this! "

He still breathed. His pulse seemed O.K. Then the old cow sat up, wiped the cochineal off his temple and started to laugh.

Old Bill and Old Boompa bristled with indignation. This was a bit over the fence, anyway. Old Harry was in the black properly this time.

When the excitement had died down, the second-in-charge explained that he had put over the little stunt to see how the first-aiders would react in a sudden emergency, so the boys took it in good part and the incident blew over.

Old Harry is still soldiering on. He would be a handy man in a scrap but age is beginning to make its demands. Soon thousands of "Old Harrys" throughout the V.D.C. will receive, as their reward for service, a place on the reserve for an honourable discharge.

You can't put the clock back.

"Q205187"

At last Cranbrook Oval has been "captured". It has been a hard and bitter struggle resulting in many casualties but it is now ours. We owe a great deal to the 3-inch mortars; practically every prominent water-tower, school, weathercock, and red and green roofed building has been destroyed.

I look back at the gruelling nights when patrols went out and captured bunker after bunker. Under cover of darkness, many men were lost and only the rallying whistle brought them home; others were reported as captured or gone home. Even the compasses were wrong but still we advanced. Nothing daunted our brave boys.

Sunday after Sunday we threw bombs when the enemy was obviously unprepared and certainly not in sight. These we threw from the prone position, from the kneeling position, over hedges, and underhand. How we charged with the bayonet until the unseen enemy were beaten back, and how we used a rifle grenade-minus the grenade! What a team! What a sight! Our unseen enemy was terrified. How we drove the Bots from Botany, then retired to prepared positions to be reorganized and issued with our trusty .310s!

To mislead the enemy we removed the wire from Bondi and when an invasion seemed likely at Pagewood Hill, stubbornly held by the enemy, was assaulted at dawn after an all night "recce". The glorious advance preceded the taking of the hill with only one casualty, and that our colonel, and he only suffered from head injuries.

Then came our Victory breakfast. What a breakfast! Boer War rissoles floured with Botany Bay sand, which our devoted Q.M. had spent the whole night preparing. He knew that victory was inevitable and the reception of his breakfast dish he will never forget. What a night! What a victory! What a breakfast!

Then back to Cranbrook, which was a hard nut to crack. But our plans had been prepared and were practised at Centennial Park.

Again we suffered casualties, the rusty bombs refusing to land where they were thrown; and of the thirteen Molotovs we threw into the ditch in which the enemy crouched, only two went off. Somebody must have put water in Maloney's kerosene.

What a battle! What a victory! (What a lot of silly rot, said the wife.)

"N323532"

FIGHTING PATROL IN THE NORTH

IT was a hot steamy Saturday afternoon in Ingham, North Queensland, in March 1942. The company patrols had gone out on their exercise for the day when a dispatch rider informed me that a message had come from Intelligence at Townsville to the effect that an officer would meet me at my office at four o'clock.

On my way back to town I wondered what was the cause of this official visit. This had been a bad month for us. The Jap had taken Rabaul and Lae, he was bombing the daylights out of Moresby, and he had his foot raised to plant it down in Australia. I wondered if that foot had landed.

heading to sea. I agreed to take Lieutenant Rudikoff and his men and, as I could not recall the unit from the heavy scrub in the time available, I gathered four V.D.C. men all of whom were experienced in boat work and bushcraft. One of the latter happened to be the owner of a very fine seaboat. Sergeant Pike arrived from Townsville to join the party, and we started with a patrol of thirteen men, each of whom carried a rifle, a bayonet, and 120 rounds of ammunition. The sergeant and I were armed with revolvers, while the other members of the V.D.C. carried that useful weapon, the cane-knife. It was extremely hot and on this account we decided

Soon after I returned to the town, Lieutenant Rudikoff, of the 52nd Militia Battalion, with six men, arrived and handed me a message from Brigadier North. The text of the message was somewhat as follows:

"Four Jap paratroops are said to have landed on the northern end of Hinchinbrook Island. You are required to organize a patrol for the purpose of investigating this report. You may use either V.D.C. or Militia troops, or both."

Prompt action was needed as the tide would shortly be falling and we were obliged to voyage some eight miles down the river before

to wear shorts and short-sleeved shirts but later were to regret this decision.

We victualled the boat and hurried down the river in order to make the sea while daylight and the tide held. We made it and as darkness fell ran some thirty miles up the Hinchinbrook Channel with a view to arriving by midnight at a good landing beach, near the spot where the Japs were reported to have landed. On the trip I decided to take five of the party ashore to establish a bridgehead, if need be, when daylight broke. All the members volunteered for this enterprise so I had to make the selection and chose Charlie Carr, Frank Hanson, and Howard Morley of the V.D.C. and Lieutenant Rudikoff and Sergeant Pike.

Our dinghy was very small and the landing was therefore made in parties of three under the supervision of Charlie Carr, who had some knowledge of the beach. Upon landing we gathered under cover to decide upon a camping site when suddenly we heard a noise which sounded like an elephant charging through the scrub. We swung round with bayonets at the ready to meet a possible onslaught, but were amused when the "elephant" proved to be a small wallaby with a wild dog in hot pursuit! Our chuckles were a relief to strung nerves.

Then down came the rain and with it millions of mosquitoes and our first regret at having dressed in shorts and short-sleeved shirts. It appeared that we were in for a sorry night, when Charlie Carr recalled an old disused hut to which he led us through the jungle. This served to keep off the rain but the "mossies" had a merry time at our expense till sunrise.

A quick search of the beach at daybreak revealed a second hut. Smoke was issuing from its chimney. Cautiously we approached it to discover that it was occupied by a fisherman who had been on the island for a few days. He told us that he had neither seen nor heard any planes except those on the usual patrols. We then returned to the boat for breakfast and decided to search elsewhere. During breakfast we got our craft under way and when we were proceeding down the seaward side of the island the lookout spotted an object that appeared to be a parachute hanging in the trees high up the slopes of a rugged hill.

Thirteen pairs of eyes surveyed it through field glasses and we decided it was a parachute. We therefore dropped anchor under the lee of a headland and Lieutenant Rudikoff, with Frank Hanson as second-in command, with Charlie Carr as guide and eight others went ashore to investigate. An old wound in the right knee joint sustained in the last war precluded my undertaking the heavy climb, so I was reluctantly obliged to stay behind with Herb Morley (the boat owner, a man of fifty-five) to guard the boat.

Although the climb to the "parachute" and the return journey to the beach were reckoned at only five to six miles, it was estimated that it would take at least four hours to negotiate the thick jungle and cross the streams that lay in the path. Our estimate was correct. Some four hours later the party returned, torn and weary, with the information that the object they had gone to investigate was nothing but a large white rock, and that the waving effect had been brought about by shadows of nearby trees that were swaying in the wind falling upon it. Then until the light faded we were busy investigating the many small coves and beaches of the island, with frequent excursions into the scrub in order to climb to vantage points from which to scan the surrounding country.

Darkness fell with a howling gale accompanied by rain. We spent a most uncomfortable night on a lee shore, and were a sorry and miserable crew when day broke. Despite our misery we continued the patrol and examined a further thirty miles of shore with occasional landings. Three of the party undertook to scale Mount Leaf, involving a steep climb of iooo feet. On their return they reported that the mosquitoes at that altitude were so numerous that it was impossible to hold the glasses to one's eyes for more than a few seconds at a time.

The place known as "Hoffensetzs" is the most thickly mosquito-infested spot on the island. Many years ago an abortive attempt at settlement was made in a secluded area at the head of a good waterway about a mile inland.

We steered up a creek and landed to make a detailed reconnaissance, but in less than an hour were driven back to the boat by hordes of large black mosquitoes.

With our provisions exhausted and night again closing in upon us we decided to return to the mainland and arrived home in the small hours of the morning, very tired but happy at the thought that we were probably the first V.D.C. unit to undertake a fighting patrol under active service conditions.

" Q2 18123"

CAUGHT WITH THEIR MOUTHS OPEN

B.R.O.'s (Battery Routine Orders) had laid it down in no unmistakable manner that the Nth Battalion V.D.C. would hold manoeuvres on the night of X the Uniteenth in an area "somewhere in Z".

So far, everything was fair and above board-even the officers seemed to know what was afoot.

As the operational area was within marching distance of Battalion H.Q.-a mere fifteen miles-the colonel decided that the troops should hoof it. This decision was hailed with delight, for V.D.C. personnel do not approve of transport f or their ops., as riding on the bare boards of motor transport has a softening-up effect on their anatomy. Anyhow, a fifteen-mile slog on a cold winter's night is much healthier!

The night of the Uniteenth arrived according to schedule, and to the roll of imaginary drums, the paratroops-correction, the parrakeets-staggered off into the night. In their green zoot-suits, the local lads resembled a cross between Robin Hood and his merry men and an Irishmen's procession in New York city.

As jungle green was the fashion note at the time, many of the lads were fortunate still to possess smart green uniforms, for their V.D.C. widows had low designs on the broadcloth, and had pictured themselves exercising

the torso in jungle green, with the intention of sending their friends green with envy. However, restraint had been exercised and the Home Guard was still clad in its picturesque, if somewhat ill-fitting, green zooters.

If they moved at a fast clip, they would be in position in about four hours' time. So gritting their dentures, they put their best foot forward and faded from the scene.

On arrival at the destination, the battalion was provided with a generous portion of burnt soup and dog biscuits by their old friends the "babbling brooks". This dish-out is very seldom appreciated, as the lads are inclined to more fancy foods, but the chaff or sawdust with which the biscuits are made, and the glutinous residue of the soup-the extract of boiled bullocks' hooves-provides the system with the bulk and lubrication so necessary in developing robust constitutions.

After a short rest, the troops moved off to their various positions, and as some hours of darkness were left before the dawn assault (the main operation of the night), some "recce" patrol practice was undertaken.

The mission of the patrols, was to examine thoroughly different sectors of a specified area and to make a report on their return. Areas were allotted, and in deathly silence the section moved off into the inky blackness of the night. Among the array of silhouettes meandering off into the murk, the variegated profiles of Section V promised to be well worth watching, so we will pass the narrative over to our walkie-talkie section who will give the reader a fall-to-fall description of their ups and downs.

"Walkie-talkie speaking. Pay attention, please."

Section V had covered a considerable portion of their area without undue incident when No. 1 scout sent the patrol to earth and reported movement ahead. After a short consultation the patrol leader decided to investigate himself and ordered the patrol to lie low till his return.

He either met with some foul mishap or walked off with a "zombie" as he was not seen again until the patrol returned to base.

After some time had elapsed, without sign of the P.L., the leaderless legion organized another brain trust and decided to get to hell out of the place, so, with No. 1 in the lead, it began to retrace its steps.

No. 1, who was some distance ahead, stopped suddenly and, with nostrils aquiver, raised his Chicago violin (Owen gun to you) and fell flat on his face. Something extraordinary had occurred.

A Bronx cheer had floated out of the murk ahead and laid our man cold. Lying prone with his face in the mud, No. 1 was on the horns of a llama. Here was a situation for which no pam. had provided a solution, and as No. 1 was pam.-happy he found himself in a merry old quandary.

What would the old man expect his jungle clad warrior to do when a low-grade razzberry confronted him in the middle of the night in No-man's-land? If a charge was undertaken the patrol might decapitate itself on each others' bayonets, or, at the very least, strangle itself to death in its leather equipment.

What to do?

No. 1 decided to have a "decco". So carefully crawling forward in the direction from which the rude noise had originated, he observed to his amazement a picket line lying out there.

After some moments of unmitigated inertia, our pam.-happy pal decided that he could not lie there all night till the "heralds of the morning sun drew back the curtains of the mom", so after some deliberation he ploughed his way back to the patrol.

His retreat was made with such care that he might have passed right through his thickheaded cobbers without being noticed, had not his right foot plunged into the open mouth of No. 2 scout, who was having a quiet yawn. After No. 2 had spat out the mud which he had collected from No. 1's boot, the rest of the patrol joined the pathfinder in a round robin, and with commendable discretion decided to evacuate the area. A flanking movement was indicated, so with elaborate precaution the ghostly line of V patrol writhed away once more into the night.

So far the nocturnal gyrations of the patrol had been revolving in a pretty lousy fashion. They deserved a break. This came unexpectedly and caught them with their mouths open. The whole patrol fell into a ditch which someone had filled with decayed vegetable matter and the decomposed remains of a hairy goat.

At this stage, the batteries of the walkie talkie exploded under the strain, to the vast relief of the "I" officer who was acting as battalion censor. A verbal pang of this nature should be seen and not heard.

Somewhat subdued, the garrulous guerrillas squelched their way back to base, and, in terms which do not appear in the military vocabulary, reported that they had run into a picket line while returning from their mission.

"Picket line be so-and-so'd," roared the raging patrol leader. "I ran into them - they were only some of the local half-wits out with their sheilas on a necking party. You ought to all get pinched."

"N225605"