Chapter 8 Stout Hearts that Never Failed; Service Girl in Japan; Sound reply to Jerry...

Those bitterly fought, extraordinarily difficult campaigns would have been impossible but for the courage of our horses. Through constant danger, hardship almost unimaginable, they battled ever on as bravely as the men who rode them. We loved our horses. We know they loved us.

At the commencement of the desert campaign, twenty thousand of us were wondering if our horses could last out. Conditions there were so utterly different to those of our homelands. Blazing deserts, sand, sand, sand.

Never the sign of a bird except a vulture. Not a blade of grass, not a drop of water, not a tree, except in the oases so far apart.

Nothing but a blazing sky, burning sand, accursed flies and the howl of the mad khamsin!

The Jif Jaffa raid made us laughing glad, not because it was our first action in this new war, but because of what the horses did. They carried the raiders for two days and nights into an unknown desert of sand and stone and returned to camp fresher than the exhausted camels.

The Australian "Waler" had beaten the Ship of the Desert in his own stamping grounds. We rode out to the Romani battles with a confidence that would brook no defeat.

In those weeks of desert fighting, terrible marches, thirst and heat and longing for sleep, horse and man grew very close. It was the period that cemented the lasting mateship between them. Each man came to realise that his horse no longer looked on him as "The Master" but as "My Friend". The friend who cared for him by day, slept beside him by night, the friend who grimly saved, stole, fought for every precious grain from comrade or foe that his horse might eat. The friend who comforted him when the rifles were crackling like a bushfire raging with the dawn. The friend who laved his muzzle with the last few drops from his water-bottle during the terrible marches when man and horse battled on in a sleepless half-world of exhaustion and fantasy.

And in return for the friendship of the man the horse never failed him throughout the stern years that followed. Man and horse became one, each knew the other’s exhilaration, thirst, dog-tiredness, laziness, expectancy or sense of immanent danger. The feel of the man in the saddle, the pressure of knees or rein, his tone of voice told the horse exactly what was doing.

The horse felt and reacted to the tenseness, to the thrill of the rider as we mounted, preparatory to a charge. We in turn felt the response in the quicker movement of our horses, their tossing heads, eager necks, saw their eyes brighten as we trotted up over the skyline. Then squadron after squadron plunged ahead in the thunder of a breathless charge. As we closed together knee to knee in yelling madness towards the shell bursts, the horses responded with a furious energy as abandoned as our own indescribable feelings.

Then on picket lines the horses knew well the familiar faces, the walk, the voices of those on duty - knew as well as we what those duties were. Knew too the drone of the Taube. Heads erect, ears pricked, many of them at the tremble, they watched for us to come running. They could hardly wait for us to unstring the halter and vault upon their backs; then they were away in the scatter to the desert. They knew just as well as we did when the cursed thing droned away; for as they turned back to the picket lines we could feel the easiness in their bodies. It was wonderful when we got them into the drab, rocky hills. Brilliant daylight, the column on the march!

Suddenly the drone of planes coming up over the hilltops. Too late to scatter, fatal to move! At the instant the column dismounted, every man stood by his horse, warning hand on soft muzzle, murmuring at the understanding brown eyes. Hundreds of horses standing as still as mice, The motionless column merged into the drab landscape.

The enemy planes would drone right over us, then go on their way. Again and again has the "old regiment" frozen thus, every man hiding the white of his hands, his face staring downwards, his horse motionless, while the planes swept so low overhead that we could feel the wind of their passing. Horses who did not understand their job, who did not "feel" the "feeling" of their riders, could never have done that!

The close understanding between man and horse, allied to endurance, helped us to win not only one of the most victorious campaigns in history, but throughout years of fighting was constantly saving lives. We realised this early at Romani.

The Turks, brilliantly led, were sweeping onto the Canal. That artery to the heart of Egypt lay at our backs. From the Romani sandhills, where we were to make the stand that was to decide the fate of Egypt, we rode forty miles out into the desert, keeping in touch with the advancing enemy throughout the far-flung chain of Katia oases.

Roaming patrols, scouting patrols, outposts, isolated groups of horsemen strung for miles across the line of the Turkish advance, while away behind us our comrades were feverishly preparing the Romani sandhills for the Big Stand.

Those were a weird three weeks, those dark nights within the blackness of the palms, our ears straining for the whispering sighs of the desert night. Those moonlit nights when the palm shadows were ink pillars splashed with moonlight in a camouflage through which a thousand grey-coated men might be creeping but yards away, while out in the open every desert bush could become a moving thing to the straining eyes of the Cossack posts.

They were crouched by the dark shadow of their horses – horses that rarely moved.

Horses whose big eyes also stared into the desert, whose ears and nostrils were ever twitching, whose bodies were instantly ready for the leap into the saddle and the wild plunge back into the sheltering night.

Our job was to wait until the Turks were right on us. No matter if right or left they had crept between the next post and us and were surrounding us; we had to wait to the very last moment. Only thus could the distant "Heads" get some idea of the length of line of the Turkish advance, and at what points it was of greatest strength.

Perhaps the listening posts experienced the worst of the tension. For these tiny isolated posts could not have the relief of fighting, of one quick volley before mounting and away, then to wheel around ad wait again. The listening post must stand in utter silence, listen and learn.

The horses were wonderful. The almost uncontrollable longing with the urge to neigh when a vagrant breeze brought them the scent of another horse in some distant outpost. The tenseness, the loneliness, the definite sense of danger drawing near urged them to neigh to a mate as an uneasy human might raise his voice at the sign of company. We had struggled hard, throughout long training, to control this and now the horses knew; though in occasional urgency it depended the vigilance of the horse-holder. Throughout the tense hours his eyes never left his horse. At the slightest sign it meant a quick urgent whisper, the comforting hand upon the muzzle and the horse would sigh his neigh away.

The horse often knew when danger was drawing near, perhaps because some current of air brought then the unforgettable tang which is the smell of men or things of the East.

The Turks throughout the centuries had become past masters at desert fighting. Now at night, creeping upon us in their grey uniforms, indistinguishable in the night from the shadows and varying desert sands, they sometimes completely surrounded our outlying posts.

On occasions the first sign of them was the glint of steel as they sprang up and charged. A leap to the saddle and the horses were away to the howls of "Allah!" Allah!" "Kill!" "Kill!" "Finish Australia!" "Finish Australia!" The horses knew that they were enemy hands snatching at the bridles, and charged straight through with a violent plunge of the head, even pawing out at the screaming Turks.

I have felt my horse shiver expressively at the sudden close glint of steel. But they knew our steel too, knew by the flask and click of the bayonet driven home that something exciting was doing, and we felt it in the wave throughout the hundreds of horses in the regiment. How well we were to learn that feeling merging through men and horses! Never will we forget them in that first mad charge with fixed bayonets at Katia.

During the next two years men and horses were to react to the steel of friend and foe many, many times.

When the Turks broke through they hurled themselves on the grim Romani hills en masse. Then our horses experienced a terrible form of fighting and endurance. Screaming thousands came plunging up the sandhills to hurled back by steel and bullet, only to come again hour after screaming hour. But against our pathetically thin lines they took hill after hill, ever gouging into the heart of Romani. The Horses were under the crash of shells, listening prick-eared to the howling charges, with only a wall of sand separating them from the hot smell of blood and Eastern foemen.

They stared in eager readiness at our boys plunging back down the hills; instinctively they were ready and away at a gallop when the men leapt for the saddles. Under a hail of bullets they raced for the next hill where the nerve-racking crash forth again, hill after hill.

Understand that in the Headquarters tents the temperature was 166 degrees F. In this inferno, under the backbreaking loads and constant galloping over sand, again and again the horses went thirty hours without water. The struggle and movement was on both day and night and throughout the worst fortnight sleep was only snatched for one precious hour every now and again, but the horses never failed us.

The battle of Romani was touch and go. It finally hinged on the last few hours of endurance. Our horses gave that endurance. They were still on their feet when the Turkish army faded into utter exhaustion. The Australian and New Zealand Walers won the battle of Romani and by saving the Suez Canal saved Egypt.

Then commenced the well organised and fighting retreat of the Turks, choosing their own ground to fight their stubborn rearguard battles at Katia, Oghratina, Bir-el-Abd, Mazar until at last they faded back to the redoubts of Magdhaba and Rafa, on the borders of Palestine.

To us, those were nightmare days and nights, but worse for our horses. The ride throughout the night, the attack at dawn, the stubborn resistance through hell’s own heat, the blistering misery of thirst, the long ride back next night because we must have water! Water! Water!

Swaying in the saddles, riding by the stars, the long black columns winding through the ghostly sandhills. The horses with bowed heads doggedly pressed on, heartened by the murmuring of their thousands of hooves, by the great breath of the tight packed columns, by the smell of sweat and humanity, by the reassuring feel of the riders. Halting instantly to the Voice, you could hear them sigh. Flopping down to the sand as the riders dismounted, lying motionless in the weariness of utter exhaustion.

Many a time have I dropped to my knees and used my old horse as a pillow, his body for warmth during that heavenly moment of time, that ten minutes rest each hour. Then the horses would hear the Voice again. We would stumble to our feet. They too would stumble to theirs and the columns were on the move again, asleep in the saddles, the horses doggedly ploughing on, on, on.

From the Canal to the borders of Palestine, two hundred miles across terrible desert, our heavily laden horses more than we drove the Turks out of Sinai

None of us living can forget El Arish. Riding by night, subconsciously puzzling that something was missing, and the murmuring sigh of the horse’s hooves. Something had taken its place, almost a low rumbling. My old horse stumbled, giving me a shock. He had not stumbled for; it seemed, years and years. Then the horses were suddenly moving quicker with a strange excited sprightliness. My horse stumbled again; other horses were stumbling. Puzzled I stared down, the ground seemed black. Then a murmur of astonishment came whispering down the column. solid ground! For the first time in over two years our horses were again treading solid earth.

It was after Magdhaba, when many troops were four days and nights in the saddle or fighting without rest, and the equally bitter Rafia battle, that our horses went mad. We felt it just before dawn. A quickening, a pricking of ears and nostrils, a stretching out of necks, then muzzles jerking to the ground. Again and again and again! Shivering with some strange excitement, For the first time we could remember our horses were breaking line, jerking our arms as they reached to the ground. For quite a time we could hardly believe that they were eating, excited voices were murmuring, "There’s grass on the ground." Then came a beautiful dawn bringing madness to the horses for as far as the eye could see was a sea of green barley. Horses became almost uncontrollable, a ripple of laughing delight came down the column, a lark rose to sing sweetly high in the sky, excited shouts as the men pointed out the scarlet poppies, the lovely wild flowers of Palestine.

Our horses simply went crazy.

In the Palestinian plain we gradually grew into a great army that stretched right across Palestine from Gaza to Beersheba. The spearhead of this host was Forty Thousand Horse, a wonderful sight when seen from the hills when on the warpath, clouds of horsemen as far as the eye could see. Other clouds above them growing from the lazy puffs of shrapnel and the ugly brownish-black spoutings of the high explosive. At night the horizon was a vivid lightning of the guns.

But always the horses pressed on, against deep wadis, unbroken plains, rocky hills, trenches, pits, redoubts, fortresses and fortified towns. Saddles were emptied, horses crashed to the dust, but always they went on. We knew at times they felt fear as we did, but always they went on, even when at perfect liberty to turn around and gallop back from hell. We all have seen a riderless horse lead the charge hell for leather. How often have we galloped with the riderless horses of our mates beside us!

My old horse was once wounded in the early morning. He gave no sign through out a furious day of galloping, heat and thirst. It was only at sundown that I noticed the congealed blood under the saddlecloth.

I have seen men hard pressed not to weep when their horses were killed. It was a blow when a horse was wounded or, at long last, led back to the sick lines.

But within a month or so the horse would be back fresh and eager as our wounded men returned. The meeting of the horse and the friend was a reunion of true mates.

Though the big battles were frightening to the horses it was the snipers they feared most, just as we were unnerved by them. At time the regiment would be under partial cover behind a ridge or village awaiting the order to gallop into line. A sniper would crawl around our flank, settle himself down, and then proceed to systematically shoot the horses. They knew that distant crack! Then the hammer blow and the squeal as a stricken horse reared and crashed down. The close smell of blood, the tense atmosphere was all absorbed by the horses. I have seen men go berserk with rage as we helplessly waited there while a distant sniper went Crack! Crack! Crack! at the horses.

Into our horses bewildering New World came fog, the ghostly columns riding upon German planes that took to the air like startled partridges, and then a world of suffocating dust. The villages, orchards; how the horses stared at the trees. Then the great cactus hedges "spitting" at us where Turkish bullets were fired through the green spiky walls.

Then a glimpse of the sea and again the horses went crazy as they swam in the surf and rolled on the clean sweet beach. Then back to the dry lands and the howling Khamsin that, in swirling blackness, filled the mouth, ears and nostrils and cut into the eyes like needlepoints of fire. But still the horses toiled on!

Through the great series of battle in which we pushed the Turks back from one end of Palestine to the other perhaps the terrible country in the Amman and El Salt fighting tested men and horses most. A maze of rocky mountains where goat tracks skirting precipices were the only trails. Bitter rains, icy winds, slippery rocks and the gorges roaring under rifle and machine gun fire. Soon all food, all grain was gone! Five days and nights without sleep!

But the horses carried on and returned with the wounded on their backs, their weary legs sometimes carrying even more pitiful wreckage of war, women and babies and children moaning through the black night for their husbands and fathers, victim of the treachery of the Circassian villagers. Hellish misery was that retreat!

Again and yet again men and horses battled back again into those hellish gorges of death, then utterly exhausted staggered down again into the Jordan Valley. That valley itself was hell, smothered under dust with frightful heat by day, a valley of fever to the men, a valley of vipers, mosquitoes, flies and scorpions to the horses. Even the Arabs shook their heads and swore that neither man nor horse could live there in summer. For centuries they had called it the Valley of Death.

The good old horses battled through it all, cold so bitter, exhaustion so terrible that even Arab camel drivers lay down beside their camels and died. The horsemen saw them thus in the bitter dawns, the dead camel, and the frozen driver beside him. But the Waler still carried on.

That vast and magnificently led campaign ended in the complete destruction of the Turkish armies. Rarely in history has annihilation been so complete.

But for our horses it could not have been accomplished. The Turkish Empire had no more armies and sued for peace.

A bitter peace to the horsemen!

A law is that no animal from foreign shores can be landed in Australia, lest it introduce disease.

Our beloved horses were never to return to Australia, never to see again the dear homeland they had fought so bravely to save. It was a heart-breaking decision to make, but many horsemen shot their faithful friends rather than allow them to drag out their lives under the whip of the fellaheen and the Arab.

Thus were our horses sacrificed when they had won the victory.

Vale! Old Mates!

Ian L Idriess, 5th Australian Light Horse Regiment

SOUND REPLY TO JERRY

MICK REYNOLDS, who had been sitting on a stone outside the "doover" he shared with Eddie Wilson, stood up and stretched himself, his left arm thrown wide and his right hand placed delicately over his mouth as he yawned.

"There's no need for them fancy manners here in Tobruk," said Eddie, grinning. "Ya'll be insistin' on usin' the butter knife next."

Mick grinned, too, but more at the attitude of Eddie, who lay on the dusty ground, his head against a rock, his hands clasped behind his neck and his feet resting on a respirator.

Mick was nearly as tall as Eddie, who was six feet, and his pale face was tanned by the Tobruk sun. His 1* ht brown hair was always falling over his 'forehead in civil life; it was heavy with dust now. His brown eyes had become harder in the months he had been in Tobruk and his hair was going grey at the sides. He was a conscientious N.C.O. and took the responsibilities of infantry section leader seriously.

"Definition of a gentleman," he said, "a man who uses the butter knife when he's alone."

Eddie chuckled and his blue eyes twinkled. "Yeah. What the well-dressed gents are wearin'," he said, looking at his dirty shirt, dusty shorts and socks and battered tan boots. "Why pay more? join the A.I.F. an' get this classy rigout for nothin'. Be in it, sport. It costs ya nothin' an' it saves ya pounds. Come to beautiful Tobruk by the sea. The greatest health resort in the world. Thousands of Australians are there now, enjoyin' its sunny climate an' its lovely sand. There's no rent to pay. Just dig yerself a hole. If yer lookin' for a place for the summer go to Tobruk, where the-"

He stopped suddenly and turned his head to one side. Mick stopped grinning and listened, too. A shell screamed over and they heard it explode about a mile away.

The lines came back into Mick's face and his jaw tightened. Eddie's face, too, became hard. ".As if our mates down at the harbour haven't enough to put up with without 'Bardia Bill' shellin' 'em, too," he said.

"Yeah," said Mick. He looked up, and thousands of feet above he saw the tiny outline of a plane gleaming in the sun. "There's that Jerry again," he - said. "Spotting for 'Bardia Bill'. It makes it easier for the Jerries on the gun when that Jerry up there radios back a report on where their shells are landing. I'm going up to the Sigs to see if Johnny is going to try to jam him. Coming?"

Eddie wriggled his shoulders against the dust. "No thanks," he said. "I'm gettin' it easy. Don't believe in tirin' meself out."

Mick grinned. "See you later," he said. "Don't go getting drunk at the Ritz Carlton or eloping with any of the dancing girls while I'm away."

"No fear. They're not in me class. Anyhow the social life's gettin' me down."

Two more shells tore over Mick as he went up towards the aerodrome, and he remembered the first day he had seen "Bardia Bill" open up. He was walking down a street in the battered town and suddenly a shell, fired from the Bardia Road sector twelve miles away, had landed near the harbour. It had come from one of the three big guns the boys had named "Bardia Bill", "Salient Sue" and "Pilastrino Phyllis".

Johnny Harrison, Mick's friend, was a sergeant in Corps Signals attached to Ninth Division Signals. For months he and his mates had been doing interception work, taking down German messages, and the cipher men were still trying to break the code.

Another shell crashed into the harbour area as Mick went down into the dug-out. Poles were operating two of the radio sets, and Johnny and his corporal, the other two. Mick shook hands with the grinning Poles, said "Hullo" to the corporal, a tall youth with his hair cut off so close to his scalp that his head gleamed, and then he asked Johnny whether he was trying to tune in to the Germans above them.

"I don't think it's any use," said Johnny, a little bald-headed sergeant who had served in the 1914- 18 war. His voice was always low and he had an earnest confidential air as if telling a secret. "We've tried again and again and just can't seem to pick him up."

The telephone rang. The corporal, who answered it, said "It's the Trump. He wants you, Sarge."

"O.K.," said Johnny. He took up the phone and said "Sergeant Harrison here, sir. Yes, sir. Yes. Well I don't think we'll do any good but we'll have a go. Right, sir."

Everybody watched him as he put down the receiver.

"The colonel wants us to have a go at jamming those Jerries up above," he said. "I've lost all hope but I s'pose we ought to try again to give those poor blokes at the harbour a break. I'll have a go on a new wave length."

He sat down at the radio, put the earphones on and began twiddling the dial. Suddenly Mick saw his eyes gleam, and he yelled "Got him at last! Plug in that pair of headphones, Mick, and listen to the fun."

Mick plugged the earphones in and heard the guttural German the radio operator 20,000 feet above. "We got him this time all right," said Johnny.

"What can you do?" asked Mick.

"Do? You watch." He switched over to transmission and began to whistle "Waltzing Matilda" into the mouthpiece. Then he made contact with two pieces of wire, rubbing them together vigorously, his eyes gleaming. "We're transmitting on the same wave length as the plane," he said.

Mick looked round at the Poles, who were nodding their heads and saying "Good. Good."

"He's copping something now," said Mick.

"He's not copping it," said Johnny. "It's the Jerries back there on the gun that are copping it. They won't be able to hear a thing he says. Let's go over to him now and hear what he is saying.

He switched over and after a few seconds' silence they heard a frantic voice cry something that sounded like "Nicht verstant. Nicht verstant! " The radio operator could not understand why the Germans manning the gun could not hear him clearly.

The corporal strode over and I said, "Give us a go!" Putting his face close to Johnny's mouthpiece he yelled, "Get off the air, you mug! You ugly square-headed Jerry no-hoper! You rotten dingo, get off the flamin' air. A man ought to go up there and do you, you bludger, bludging on your mates' And give Hitler a personal message from me! Who am I? Why, I'm Corporal James Middleton Harold Knox, non-Aryan and proud of it! Well, tell Herr Schickelgruber from me that we've got some latrines to paint here; so if he can spare the time off from listening to the B.B.C. to hear how the war's really going we'd like to see him. Yes, we'd like to see him all right. Get off the air, you poor misguided Nazi mug! Ya, ya, ya! " and he jumped up and down in front of the microphone, holding his bare head in his hands and screaming further insults.

He switched back to receiving, and after waiting a while they heard the puzzled wail of the German: "Nicht verstant! Nicht verstant "

The Poles were grinning in delight. "You Australians," they said. "You funny Australians."

"Johnny," said Mick. "Let me tell a German exactly what he can do with his New Order," and, leaning over the mouthpiece, Mick told him. Then he said to one of the Poles, "You have a go."

The Pole's grin vanished and he shook his head. He sat there, as if plagued by some poignant memory, and then he stood up and strode over. He bent over the microphone and German words flowed from him. Mick did not understand them but he knew they were angry, burning words and felt the hatred and contempt in them just as clearly as he saw the hatred blazing in the Pole's blue eyes as he turned away.

The corporal took over, mocking and jeering at the Germans, and he was still screaming insults when the telephone rang.

The corporal went across the dug-out and lifted the receiver. "Yes, sir. We got on to them at last. Tried a new wave length. Good, sir. I'll tell the sergeant."

When he turned to Johnny, his eyes were the Trump says they've stopped and the plane's gone home."

'You beaut!" cried Mick and clapped Johnny on the back, and the Poles grinned again.

"I knew we'd do it if only we could get on to them," said Johnny in his quiet voice. "I knew we'd do it. We've given those blokes down at the harbour a rest for a while anyway." He turned to Mick. "Well, will you admit now that we Sigs do some good sometimes?" he asked.

"Admit it?" said Mick. "Why, Johnny, you've expressed the defiance of the free people of the world. You're a great man."

LAWSON GLASSOP (Second A.I.F.)

SOME AUSTRALIAN GUNNERS OF LAST CENTURY

Plans are being made now for the Australian Army of the future. It is more than interesting at this point to cast a glance back. Take, for instance, the Victorian units. What quaint pictures are brought to view as we turn over the pages of our short history.

Nearly ninety years ago men with luxuriant, dashing whiskers were drilling with Snider and Martini-Henry rifles and smoothbore muzzle-loading guns in preparation for an attack on Australia by bearded Russians! In those days the little brown man from Japan was not thought of other than as a cheerful and acrobatic personality.

One reads and hears a lot about "crack" regiments of the past, notably those connected with the artillery arm, but how many today know anything about "Sargood's Kids", "Stubbs' Bulldogs", the "Ham and Beef" battery and the "Rupertswood" battery of Horse Artillery, all well-known regiments of early Victoria. These were the men of other days, the great-grandfathers of the A.I.F.

Victoria early began a military system, which, when the importance of the then colony increased, became sufficient to meet any aggression. Fate was kind, for although from time to time there had been many premonitions of international trouble in which Victoria might have been involved, the nearest clash of arms was the Maori War of i 86o.

In 1854 three field artillery batteries were raised under a Volunteer Act-the Metropolitan, East Melbourne and St. Kilda batteries, members of which were dressed in a blue uniform with scarlet facings. By 1874 the St. Kilda battery was commanded by Major (later Sir) Frederick Sargood, who in the course of time became a lieutenant-colonel, and in the Victorian Legislature became Minister for Defence.

It was he who sponsored the change-over from the volunteer system to the militia system in 1883. The St. Kilda battery were reputed to be the "crack" battery 4 the time, and also the best dressed. They had the large brass letters "SK" (for St. Kilda) on their shoulder straps, but to the "boys" of those days the interpretation quickly became "Sargood's Kids" alluding, of course, to the name of their commanding officer. And proud they were of the nickname!

In 1870, the war between France and Germany, and the possible contingency that England might be drawn into it, caused considerable anxiety in the public mind and steps were taken to establish a corps of permanent artillery in Victoria. This corps consisted of seventy men, including all the drill instructors who, for some strange reason, were classed as artillery men. For many years the corps under the command of Captain Stubbs, a retired officer of the British Army, held pride of place among the land forces of the colony.

They rejoiced in the sobriquet of "Stubbs' Bulldogs", which, fax from insinuating any bullying, aptly combined their tenacity and the name of their esteemed leader. But among the eyes focused on the corps were those of the Chief Commissioner of Police. After each man had given full proof of his efficiency as a soldier his services were claimed in order to complete the establishment of the Victorian Police Force.

"Stubbs' Bulldogs" were condemned by the Victorian Treasury as a serious waste of public money because they appeared to exist simply for training policemen at great expense. In a severe retrenchment, much to the regret of the military authorities, the Government ordered their disbandment in December i88o. One officer and twelve men were retained for military works.

Perhaps the most notable regiment of the gay days of the eighties was the Victorian Horse Artillery known to everybody in those days as the "Rupertswood" battery, an appellation they carried to perpetuate the name of the house of their sponsor, Sir W. J. Clarke, at Sunbury. Their original formation goes back to 1885 when approval was given for the formation of a section of a Nordenfeldt Battery in connection with the Victorian Cavalry. In 1889 this battery was converted into the Victorian Horse Artillery, under the

command of Major (later Brigadier-General) F. G. Hughes with headquarters at the Sunbury house of Sir W. J. Clarke, who, at his own expense, maintained the unit. About the same time Mr. Chirnside undertook the maintenance at Werribee of a half-battery on similar lines, armed with 12-pounder field guns. These batteries were composed of the cream of Victorian amateur athletes, and were very soldier-like in their bearing and neat in their dress which was similar to that worn by the famous batteries of the Royal Horse Artillery, the only difference being that they had a white helmet instead of the familiar Busby.

The "Rupertswood" battery were indeed a fine body of men. Their drivers could handle a team of horses in many difficult manoeuvres not seen today. It was really a sight to see them disentangle one of the horses which overstepped the traces of a gun team the horse artillery driver of those days was indeed a man to himself and the "Rupertswood" battery contained many of them.

How many people know that there was once a bullock battery in Victoria? On 20 July 1890 the Government of Victoria approved of the formation of a battery of artillery at Hastings, and of its being designated "The Hastings 40-pounder battery, Victorian Rangers". This battery, sometimes called in error the "bullock battery", was formed through the energies of Colonel Teddy ("Battleaxe") Otter. The personnel of the battery must have been recruited from men with the vocabulary necessary to handle the unemotional animals yoked to the guns. The unit was, in fact, a position batten, for the protection of Western Port, and took the place of earthworks for the defence of that locality. It had an establishment of fifty-four all ranks.

Victorians of their day always referred jokingly to the battery as the "cow battery". It was commanded by Major Ham and from this fact it earned the popular sobriquet of the "Ham and Beef" battery. The members of the battery wore uniform similar to the garrison artillery arm, except that the material was of khaki cloth instead of blue; khaki helmets with brass ball and mountings were worn and also the "pillbox" forage cap.

It would be doing the Hastings battery an injustice if the name of their sergeant-major (Jack Creaney) were not mentioned. He knew the men, he knew the guns and one might even say the bullocks. He used to say that there were no words of command laid down for the bovines - that was left to the driver.

Taking into consideration the scanty population of the district at the time this battery was in existence, it is interesting to record that its strength always exceeded its establishment. Men of the old "Ham and Beef" battery were a fine lot and were skilful and speedy in their work.

Mention of the Victorian Rangers leads to another episode in the history of this famous old regiment, which is the parent unit of many of our Victorian infantry battalions. It was the "border event" of December 1892. About this time the Echuca Company of Victorian Rangers desired to have a change of ground and a march out for military activities. The people of Moama, in New South Wales, learned of this and invited the Rangers to visit their town which was within a mile of Echuca but was on the New South Wales side of the Murray.

This invitation was the conception of Captain Swannell, of Moama. It was nothing more than a sudden inspiration of a patriotic mind. At the time it was thought that the visit would be hailed with delight on both sides of the Murray, but it was found that stringent rules would be broken if the event took place.

It had been, at this date, contrary to all military regulations then in force in each of the Australian colonies, that a volunteer force should, to use the term current then, "invade" another colony.

It seems curious to us nowadays that the Echuca Company of Rangers could not cross the Murray to Moama under arms without a violation of the military law of two colonies. Could the permission of the Governments be obtained to bring about such a grand consummation? That was the question. To get the Rangers over without some celebration was another thing. Both Governments were believed to be against such an "invasion".

Mr. Chanter, M.L.A., was written to in Sydney, in order to feel the pulse of the Dibbs Ministry on the subject. Would he approach the Victorian Government upon the subject? He took the matter up and saw the Secretary for Defence. He then got Sir George Dibbs to communicate with the Premier of Victoria. The matter hung fire for a while, and then formal letters were received to indicate that the Governments and their respective Commandants were agreeable.

Having obtained his permission, it was resolved to place the whole matter before the public, the result being that a public committee was formed. Invitations were sent to other detachments to take part in the festivities and those assembled for the event were from Stawell, Sale, Ararat, Hastings, Murtoa, Inglewood, St. Arnaud, Eaglehawk, Cheltenham, Melbourne, Dandenong, Kyabram and, of course, the Echuca Company.

They composed a force of 240 officers and men, Colonel Otter was in command and with him were Captains Eddy, McKnight, Rodd and Tivey. The "crack" band of the Cheltenham Company was there, and its men were massed with the Echuca band under Bandmaster Haig, Drum-major Hall leading the van. After the military manoeuvres and a great reception, Colonel Otter thanked the Mayor and the people of Moama for the cordial welcome and the hospitality they received.

The Rangers regarded with the utmost satisfaction the permission to enter New South Wales. The occasion was the first time in the history of Australia that an armed force from Victoria had entered the colony of New South Wales. It was nothing less than a national event, and quite a master stroke of colonial military diplomacy.

Time marches on!

R. K. PEACOCK (V.P.A. and R.A.G.A.)

A BLOODLESS MISSION

Paddy Doyle is the name he was known by in two wars and it is near enough to his real name as not to matter. When he was asked to spin a yarn for this book his eyes twinkled. "Yes," he said, "I'll tell you the story of a 'bloodless mission' that Vendetta engaged upon in the Mediterranean in July 1940-" And here is his story just as he told it.

"Old Man Moon was sound asleep, thank Heavens; the time was nearing midnight and the destroyers Vendetta and Vampire of the x9th Division, 10th Flotilla were about to depart in company with the cruiser Orion. There were numerous other warships at anchor and I must confess their gallant crews were not very interested in our midnight mission. The Aldis lamp was blinking from Orion's flag deck and we were going slowly astern whilst the flash lamps continued their ceaseless blinking. We soon had ourselves sorted out and steamed in line ahead out of the harbour at Alexandria.

"The words of that old poem, 'Where are you going to, my pretty maid?' passed through my noodle as we lunged onward at a lively pace. I was standing on the lee side of the lower bridge, with my bos'n's pipe in my hand and another pipe jutting from the lee side of my mouth. The smoke of it kept getting in the eyes of the port lookout preventing him from keeping a sharp watch on the lumbering Orion. I pondered on that old poem and wondered where the devil Orion was leading us*

"I entered the wheelhouse and, ignoring the helmsman and his modem gyro, I lifted the binnacle lid of the reliable magnetic compass. The lubber's point swung from north by west to north-east by north then back to north ere. 'Any idea where we are going, Pat?' whispered a voice.

-I reloaded my pipe and thundered up the voice pipe so that the Skipper could hear me, 'At the pace we are going and the course we are steering we should sight land anywhere

between Syria and the island of Rhodes, where,' I added, 'we are in for a warm reception.1

"The Skipper heard me all right and promptly required my presence on Monkey's Island. I bounded up the weather ladder, my pipe still ablaze, and as the ship was darkened, for a moment I ran the risk of revealing our presence to enemy E-boats, should any be lurking in our path. However, I had the presence of mind to drop it into a fanny of lukewarm cocoa left sculling by a devil-may-care Lewis gunner named Alf Bawden. I could see the outline of the Skipper seated behind the standard compass peering intently at the will-o'-the-wisp stem light of Vampire.

"As soon as he became aware of my presence near him, he leaned towards me and said, 'Doyle, I overheard you through the voice pipe trying to satisfy the curiosity of all and sundry, yourself included. That is why I have called you up here. You made a very wide sweep from Syria to Rhodes,' said he, as he surveyed the chart laid out in its cubby hole illuminated by a tiny pilot lamp. 'Have a look for yourself.' I glanced at the chart and noted the island of Rhodes, also a section of the Asia Minor coast.

A faint pencil mark indicated a tiny dot. Pointing to this dot and turning to the Skipper I asked, 'What is it, sir?' He replied, 'That dot is the isle of Castelrosa, once inhabited by Greeks. In bygone days the Turks when bored with their harem wives used to visit there; fishing and flirting with the Greek maids was their pastime. A change of diet is what it is termed these days.'

"I listened spellbound. So that was it - we were going to enjoy a change of air and diet, leaving Egypt and its dates and so on to the A.I.F. Whilst I was detained at the Skipper's side a kind-hearted cook, Ted Clegg by name, entered the wheelhouse. Nothing strange in that - I have seen a young supply assistant take the wheel from a groggy helmsman during our unsuccessful chase after the elusive German merchantman Labn in 1939, with Vendetta pile-driving at each turn of her screws. I have also seen our chief cook, Jock Dodd, giving a hint to our veteran coxswain, Archie Bradley, on how to use minimum helm with the sea on the port quarter. To any of your readers who have ever served in the
boats, sometime or other, I say you must have had a lively time trying to catch up with the lubber's point, especially in a cross sea.

"Getting back to Cook Clegg, he was not interested in steering this night of nights. He was there to see what he could hear. His ears flapped on hearing what I had foretold and that the Skipper had called me to his side. He there and then offered to make cocoa for those who were not too off-colour to consume it. Picking up the fanny, which I have already mentioned, he slid down to his galley.

He added more water, some sugar and a tin of Crusader milk to its contents, blissfully unaware that my pipe was soaking in it. He returned to the wheelhouse with a steaming hot brew and a handful of cups.

"During this time the Skipper had sent me to shake the middy as he wanted to know the distance between the island's highest peak and sea level. I don't know why he wanted this information, but I do know that there are all kinds of screwy signs in code books. I should know, I was bos'n's mate of Vendetta and saw it all even if I did not comprehend it all.

"Wending my way along the iron deck in my non-skid boots a voice from the vicinity of the torpedo tubes whispered 'What's the latest?' I answered, 'An island with plenty of romance in the air.' 'I don't feel in the least thrilled,' the voice replied, 'and it wouldn't surprise me to see the air dotted with a variety of Dago aircraft.' I slid away in the gloom with harsh laughter and that sinister voice ringing in my ears, the laughter of a chief stoker.

"Returning to Monkey's Island I handed the message to the Skipper re the island's highest peak. I then made a few entries in the deck log, revolutions per mile per hour, temperature of the sea, etc. I also inserted the remark uttered by that voice in the dark.

"I couldn't help noticing the marked change that had come over everyone while I was below getting all this data. Bunting tosser Penfold who usually spent most of the watch peering through his binoculars and thirsting for cocoa was regaling a torpedoman named 'Turk' Milne, with some of his romantic interludes in Marseilles. 0n seeing me, he remarked. 'If you doubt my word, ask Paddy,' as if I knew anything about his 'duel-de-amour'.

"The Skipper appeared to be in a happy mood as he crooned a few bars of that old song, 'I would climb the highest mountain, if I knew that at the summit I'd find dew.' The navigator was puffing at his pipe stuffed with some talcum scented weed which reacted on me like magic.

"Bounding from the scene just described down the weather ladder, 'Holy smoke,' I said. That fanny-it had flown. Wrenching the wheelhouse door open, I stepped over the reclining telegraph rating who normally sat on a box of Lewis gun ammunition. The other occupants also appeared to have lost all interest in life with the exception of 'Tanky' McAllister the quartermaster, and he was busy endeavouring to prevent the lubber's point from wandering too far off his given course.

"'What's happened?' This time I whispered as I didn't want the Skipper to hear me. Struggling to hold something down, 'Tanky" mumbled, 'Cook Clegg's cocoa, curse him. The helmsman felt faint after drinking some and he had to make a hurried departure. I expect he is draped over the wing of the bridge and I've been hanging on by grim determination.'

" 'Did Clegg take any cocoa up top?' I asked. 'Yes,' answered the diehard 'Tanky', and I've noticed a marked change in the tone of the orders coming through.' "Well, there was no use bemoaning the loss of my cherished and seasoned pipe which caused all this upset. I'd been smoking it for four years, although I had several others nestling in out of the way corners of the galley flat. I kept one inside the secondary light lamp in my caboose but the time was 3-30 a.m. and 'Tanky' needed a spell. I snatched the wheel from him. 'Be back in fifteen minutes,' I said. 'Your trick,' he mumbled, as he hurried toward the wing of the bridge.

"Fixing my eye on the gyro compass situated at an angle of 45 degrees from my nose and doing likewise with the right eye on the magnetic compass which stood in front of me, I stared at and steered by, two lubber's points. I hope that I am not taking your readers out of their depth but I had a reason for this method. The steering motor was fixed to the aft bulkhead of the engine-room, and you had to use the wheel carefully else the motor protested frightfully. One of the relieving officers' cabins was close handy to the motor, so was the engineer's and as I did not feel inclined to pay a personal call on him, I used plenty of wheel and helm which roused both of them, the engineer's temper included. 'Tanky' having rejoined me at 3.45 a.m. as promised, I promptly handed him back the wheel.

"A few stinging slaps in the face brought the unconscious forms back to grim reality. I had to move swiftly: the watch below awaited the call. Forcing my way through the darkened ship's screens and blowing a shrill blast on my pipe, 'Bos'ns,' I bellowed, 'herald the morn. By eventide we near an island where there are plenty of Greek goddesses and romance in the air.' But that voice I heard in the dark kept ringing in my cars those sinister word; 'Dago aircraft'. Handing the weight of the ship to Nigger Randle, my co-partner, I took the spare pipe from the secondary light lamp. Not even bothering to dust it I crammed it with Dark Champion. Having got it under way, I dumped myself fully booted and spurred on to the mess lockers, thereby crushing dozens of cockroaches.

"I lay awake for some time smoking; the events of the night passing through my noodle -Cook Clegg, the cocoa fanny, the Skipper's revelations, that harsh voice, my doubts, the wheelhouse scene, etc. Eventually I dozed off into a troubled slumber. I dreamt that I was back in Sydney breasting the bar counter in Plasto's 'Ship Inn', sinking all the beer offered me free gratis by a host of spellbound landlubbers who, on noticing my cap ribbon, knew I had been places and naturally dubbed me both a hero, and a beer-o.

"The shuffling of some of my messmates who were using me as a back rest and the fumes of tinned herrings broke my dream. I woke with a foul taste in my mouth and all my joints aching. Assisting me to a sitting position those soft-hearted young messmates, whose faces pass through my mind as I tell this story, poured me out a hot cup of tea. Then they all said in chorus, 'Come, Paddy, do tell us all about this island and when do we reach there; is it true the Skipper gave you the dinkum oil and did the generous hearted Cook Clegg pour a flask of Gyppo rum into the cocoa?' 'Have mercy on me,' I pleaded. 'The contents of that cocoa will have to remain a dark secret from the Skipper at any rate, else Cook Clegg might be the innocent victim of a-' 'Of a what?' they persisted. 'Of a hasty act on some other's part,' I answered, quickly changing the subject before they had time to press me further.

"I said, 'We should near the isle by twilight but I doubt if we will enjoy the pleasures the Turks indulged in in the sixteenth century.' 'Why not?' someone eagerly asked. 'Because I heard a voice in the dark and I've seen the light,' I replied as I left them.

"Climbing on to the lower bridge and scanning the ocean which was as smooth as a billiard table, I observed Orion with Vampire and Vendetta keeping station line abreast in a V for Victory formation. Sandwiched in between us were two of the most dilapidated looking tubs that I had ever set eyes on. Belching black smoke they were all out to make the grade - about ten knots.

"'When did we pick those two up,' I asked a veteran bunting tosser named Joe Sutcliffe. 'About 5.15 a.m. by arrangement,' he replied as he hoisted a string of bunting aloft. Picking up his telescope I got a close view of the khaki figures crowding the rails, some of them sprawled in attitudes of gay abandon. Peering intently for some time I observed no movement among any of them, therefore I presumed they must be some of the famous Guards battalions who could stand, sit or lay perfectly still for hours without even blinking an eyelid. Curious to know where those troops came from, I asked Joe. Looking furtively up at Monkey's Island, he cupped both hands over my ear, then whispered, 'Those troops came from Jim Irish's cardboard box factory at Port Said.' 'But,' I stuttered, dumbfounded at this piece of information, 'surely they could have sent along some real soldiers.'

"Here Joe cut me short, handing me a signal pad as he trained his telescope on Orion, 'Stand by to write down, Pat.' In the same breath he told the lookout to look lively and run the answering pennant close up. Then the message began to trickle through the telescope, out of Joe's mouth and on to my pencil. 'Orion to Vampire and Vendetta. Suspect island to harbour a hornets' nest of Dago aircraft. Intend closing to within 3000 yards nearing dusk. Smoke screens to enshroud the supposed landing of dummies from troopships. General disturbance to be created. Starshells from Orion. Destroyers to drop depth charges. Steam on all boilers for a quick getaway. Enemy expected to retaliate at daylight. Expect heavy cardboard casualties. Time of origin 8 a.m. Splash.' Snatching the pad from me Joe made for Monkey's Island telling me over his shoulder to haul down the answering pennant.

"Imagine how I felt after seeing the writing on the pad. I felt chagrined and others I knew would feel likewise against me, seeing that I had fired their imagination with the prospects of a visit to the romantic isle, maybe to be captured by Greek maids and spoon-fed on Turkish delight. Now it appeared as if the Dagoes had got there, and having already made their acquaintance at Malta, I knew that our visit to Castelrosa would be anything but rosy.

"However attack by aircraft lacked the ferocity and deadly accuracy which later on we encountered, and now I felt confident that we could not be hit by a bomb. I once read an article that a destroyer looked like a cigarette from 12,000 feet. The writer's statement was 'supported by a picture in a well-known illustrated periodical. Therefore I concluded that we would be nearly invisible from 20,000 feet or more. I might add that experience has proved to me how that writer and his picture had erred.

"Stowing away that answering pennant I felt very foolish about all I had told that voice in the dark, the morning watch, and my messmates. I couldn't look them in the face, I thought. How I longed to hide somewhere until something else occurred to take their attention off me.

"I entered the wheelhouse. 'Tanky' was nursing the wheel with his ear glued to the voice pipe in case he should miss any orders and also endeavouring to overhear any remarks the Skipper might let drop. His assistants still looked off-colour. I expected they would be; that pipe I dropped in the cocoa fanny was potent. I felt sorry for Cook Clegg; he meant well, was always smiling, even once when his stove backfired.

"A torrent of orders came tumbling down the voice pipe: 'Who's on the wheel? Where's your head? Pay more attention. Port 15. 150 revolutions. Bos'n's mate. Midships, meet her.' There was the ringing of repeat bells. Leaving 'Tanky' to do all the answering I hastened to Monkey's Island. All the officers both on and off watch were up there, not to mention Maxie Robin, Yeoman of Signals and Leading Signalman Penfold, his matured assistant, with their heads together and bursting with importance.

Joe looked quite pleased with the effect his signal had on the Skipper, who was reading it aloud. He sighed, then remarked, 'Well, boys, I thought that both you and I would have the good fortune to enjoy the balmy air and scenery at Castelrosa, but all we get this time at any rate is a longing look and a change of course.' Then he added, 'Vendetta had many a dummy run off Sydney Heads at the commencement of hostilities, but this stunt is unique. Here we have two battalions of dummies.' He pointed towards the two tramps. We all laughed up the sleeves of our tropical singlets except the Skipper, who remarked, 'Some of us may lose the number of our mess. Yes, I mean Lt and I rely on you
Mr. Nairn, as engineer officer, that when I give you the nod let you and your men give her the works.' 'You bet I will, sir,' answered the engineer. 'I won't have any peace of mind until that island is so far astern that it will be just a memory.' Second degree of readiness was maintained throughout the day, which passed without incident except when some lookout shouted 'Aircraft', which turned out to be either an albatross or seagull, touch wood.

"We closed up to action stations at 5 p.m dressed in cork lifejackets in case our rubber Carley floats should by some mishap become punctured. The forbidding coast line of Asia Minor hove in view during the last dog watch, to be eagerly scanned by all hands. Every available glass was focused in that direction. All kinds of remarks were passed about the ugliness of the landscape and 'Were there any "good sorts" there?' Ears flapped when someone remarked that the place was famous for its abundance of delicious sultanas. 'I fail to notice any,' remarked 'Tubby' Glazebrook as he peered intently through the training sight of B gun. 'Anyhow the ground is unsuitable. I doubt if prickly pear could grow there.' 'Have it your way,' someone else said, 'but if you could peer over yonder harem walls through your gun sight believe me, Tubby, you'd wish that you had half the luck of a eunuch.'

"A hoist of flags on Orion prevented me from hearing any more details, also the faint outline of Castelrosa could be discerned in the distance. I wondered what the watchers there would do next, and I cursed the two coal burning tramps who were 'putting our weights up' by pouring out volumes of smoke. Thank heavens it would be dark before the Dago mechanical seagulls could get the drop on us.

"As we veered close to the isle it looked anything but romantic in the gathering dusk. It snuggled close to the mainland; you could sail across without the aid of a compass and the discomfort you suffered in rough weather probably had its reward. The Turks braved the elements to find consolation there, it was said. Tonight we did not feel very consoled by its nearness. We felt tense and expectant by now; we were well within range of shore batteries.

"Executive signal from Orion., 'Get cracking' and the stunt had begun. Vampire and Vendetta unleashed a pattern of depth charges. The explosions must have shaken the island's foundations but they did not stir the Dago seagulls from their rookery; neither did any shore batteries molest us as we gamboled about at the prescribed 3,000 yards.

"By now heavenly night had draped its mantle over the isle and ourselves. Orion threw a garland of Starshells which lit up the landscape but we failed to observe any enemy movement or even cuddling couples. Shades of Clifton Gardens and Fairy Bower! Having completed our dummy run Orion bid us hasten away with all speed and, believe me, we did not need any second bidding. You could not see Vendetta's stern sheets for spray as Nairn and his men gave the old greyhound an open throttle. We arrived at Port Said the following afternoon and to this day I don't know what became of the two tramps and their cardboard soldiers.

"I met Jim Irish in the Belgian Bar and while we yarned over our 'hookas' and grog he confided to me that he intended to manufacture two million dummies at five 'ackers' each

to feint tor the Allied cause in the Middle East. I had not seen Jim since 1917. 1 was then an ordinary seaman on Bryony. I must leave it to your readers' imagination as to how I spent the evening. I had a frightful hangover next morning when we sailed for Alexandria.

"Seated alone in the Fleet Club one night with half a dozen bottles of Stella beer at my elbow and my pipe wafting clouds of Dark Havelock around the festoons, the band leader must have sensed my presence amongst the vast audience of sailors. With a flourish of his baton the band pealed off into that haunting air, 'When Irish Eyes are blood-shot the bombs don't worry me.'

"I soon had a circle of guests at my table and as the bottles were laid low some tall tales were related. Grim battles were refought in Norway, Dunkirk, Dakar and Oran. Then a battle commenced a few tables away from me which was soon quelled by the patrol.

"When order was restored I managed to render my famous ballad, 'Vendetta's Crows nest' which put my guests in good humour. 'Forget your gory tales,' I roared, 'and listen to the story of my bloodless mission.' They became so entranced as I recounted this true war story, just as I've told it to you here, that their Stella beer went flat.

"But Stella beer was never much good, flat or not."

PADDY DOYLE (R.A.N.)