Chapter 6 Bad bargain; Foo; Sudan Days; Songs we sang; Road & RAE; Boongsters..

THE BAD BARGAIN

LOOKED at from the point of view that a soldier spends only a very small portion of his time in the actual front line Rusty Matson was a bad bargain for any C.O. He came through the 1914-18 war with a record distinguished only by the amount of red ink in his pay book. He was a master of the art of swinging the lead; he spent more time in clink than out of it and he had little respect, if any, for authority. Had there been any possibility of reforming, him he'd have finished up with a V.C., or at least a M.M., for he was one of those men with no fear of personal danger.

"If we recommend him for anything it will only make him a darned sight worse when he's out of the line," his C.O. had once said. To which Rusty's company commander replied: "Impossible!"

To men like Rusty wars are a godsend, freeing them of the bonds of responsibility and providing an outlet for their true feelings. He was among the first to volunteer in 1939. In the interval between the two wars he had, to use his own words, had a crack at everything - droving, horse breaking, ring-barking and, last of all, mackerel fishing. He looked like settling down to fishing, for there was something about the ever-changing life that appealed to his restless nature.

But the chance of taking part in another war was too good to miss. He tried the Navy, the Army and the Air Force and was rejected

for all three, not only on account of his age but because, during his varied civilian career, he had lost an eye and acquired a slight limp. His glass eye was an excellent match for his good one. Admittedly it sometimes gave the impression of a half-squinting leer but that was the expression one normally expected to see on Rusty's hard dial. He was of the lean, wiry type and that fact, together with his thick mop of sandy hair, made it difficult to tell his age.

A glass eye may fool a lot of people but it cannot fool the medical officer testing one's sight. Rusty had almost given up hope of seeing his second war when the Americans called for men to man their small supply ships.

This, Rusty declared as he studied the preliminary entry form, was "right up his alley". Reasoning that he might as well take off ten years as two he put his age down as thirty-five. He put a large "Yes" opposite the question, "Are you willing to enter the combat zone," and the same opposite "Can you do celestial navigation?" although he didn't know the difference between a sextant and a chronometer. Anyone reading the completed document must have come to the conclusion that either Rusty should have been master of Queen Mary or else he was Australia's champion liar.

Whatever the Americans thought they signed him on and put him in charge of a small wooden trawler, sixty-five feet in length and diesel powered. She was called Lucy May.

The worries of the American Officer-in-Charge, Small Ships, Brisbane, were increased considerably as from that day. Rusty gathered himself a crew of four kindred spirits. They could get booze when no one else could get it and, together or singly, they seemed to attract trouble. To rid himself of one of his major worries the officer-in-charge got Lucy May ready for sea in record time. Watching them depart down the Brisbane River on the first leg of their voyage to Moresby he devoutly hoped he'd never see Rusty again.

The voyage north was leisurely in the extreme. Using engine trouble or shortage of stores as excuses Lucy May put in to every port on the coast. Not until a publican in Cooktown had convinced them that there was not another drop of grog in the town did they make a serious start for Moresby.

Rusty was no navigator. He had never learned even the rudiments of that science but could read a chart and he had what so any outdoor Australians have - a good store sound commonsense and a well developed use of locality. If he had any difficulty in locating Port Moresby he told no one.

On the New Guinea coast he was no more popular with his superiors than he had been in Brisbane. Moresby worked him off on to Milne Bay and Milne Bay passed him on to Oro Bay as soon as that port was opened, the general policy being to keep him busy and keep him as close to the front line as a small supply craft could be sent. It was not easy to keep him busy in those advanced areas. Lucy May had a habit of turning up at her base port two or three days overdue. Engine trouble as the usual excuse but it was noticeable that whenever she was late she returned with a few mackerel and a supply of fruit from some native village. Although she was in "dry" territory her crew got over that difficulty by wing a particularly vile brand of jungle juice in their engine-room.

The fact that he was being continually sent and held in the most forward areas worried Rusty not a bit. In his philosophy of life if you were going to get it you'd get it, wherever you were. Nor was he greatly concerned over now frequent reproofs by his superiors, being old soldier enough to know just how far he could go.

The only thing that really caused him concern was his glass eye. He'd got into this show without a medical examination and his greatest fear was that if anyone discovered his defect he might be chucked out. Because he was making more money in a month than he normally made in six and, incidentally, enjoying himself, a discharge was the last thing he wanted. To be on the safe side he had left Australia with six glass eyes wrapped in cotton wool and carefully stowed in the locker under his bunk.

"Ya never know when ya'll do one in," he informed Ted, his engineer. "It's easy ter drop 'em, takin' 'em out, specially if ya're a bit full."

Because of his missing eye Rusty never attempted to swing the lead in New Guinea; he was scared to go within half a mile of a doctor.

It was on the Oro Bay-Morobe run that Rusty proved the truth of the claim that even the worst of bad bargains have been known to pay dividends. In the early days the principal drawbacks to this run were, firstly, it had to be done under cover of darkness and, secondly, a Jap navy-type float plane operating in the vicinity of Cape Ward Hunt showed a marked fondness for small craft as targets. Because his plane was slow and noisy the pilot was known as "Washing Machine Charlie" but for all his lack of speed Charlie managed to account for several small craft without damage to himself.

Rusty's introduction to him came one calm clear night as he was plugging steadily back to Oro Bay. Lucy May was running twenty-four hours behind schedule but Rusty, lounging over the wheel with a banana in one hand, was not concerned about that. The delay had been caused by a strictly unauthorized call at a native village where army rations and cigarettes had been exchanged for bananas, papaws and two grass skirts - the latter destined to be sold to the Yanks at a handsome profit.

The homeward run tonight was without any of the usual worries. Lucy May had neither cargo nor passengers and there was no rain to make night navigation a matter of more luck than judgment. A mile or so ahead Cape Ward Hunt and Mitre Rock stood out bold and

clear. Rusty saw that there was something else there, too, after studying the dim black shape carefully. Gradually, in the twin stumpy masts, the low freeboard and the broad beam, he recognized the ex-New Zealand scow Wahine ploughing steadily northward. There was no mistaking her as she made the turn around the Cape. Unlike Lucy May, whose wheelhouse was set well for'ard, Wahine's wheelhouse had been built as a wartime makeshift, right aft above her engine.

The white phosphorescent gleam of her bow wash was plainly visible when Rusty heard the faint clatter of gunfire and saw the glowing tracers of the attacking plane. They flitted downwards like streams of harmless fireflies but unlike fireflies they threshed the water around Wahine into gleaming foam. Wahine's solitary gun, a 5o-calibre machine gun, commenced firing back - a futile gesture with one chance in a thousand of hitting the attacker in a vital spot.

The one-sided fight was no concern of Rusty's. He was a civilian, in charge of a small supply vessel, not a naval officer commanding a fighting ship. The fire power of his single gun could do nothing to beat off the attack and would only draw attention to his own ship. The sensible thing for him to do was to stop his engine in the hope that without the tell-tale gleam of her wake Lucy May would remain unseen. When the plane had departed he could go in and pick up the survivors.

But Rusty had never been noted for doing the sensible thing. Yelling to his but half-wakened crew to turn out and man the gun, he opened his throttle to its fullest extent and headed straight into the scrap. Streams of down-flitting tracers told him that the plane had turned and was making its second strafing run. They boiled and spluttered across the calm water and a red glow showed that Wahine had commenced to burn.

Lucy May's gun was firing now. Whether she was being attacked or whether her crew were firing from sheer nervousness Rusty had no means of telling. The gun was right in the stern and from his position in the little wheelhouse he could see nothing but the sea ahead and the now fiercely-burning Wahine. Not for in instant did he hesitate although he had no doubt about the nature of her cargo. Like
all the small ships she would be loaded with rations and ammunition but, because of her large hold space, she would also have drums of aviation fuel for the M.T.Bs based on Morobe.

There were troops aboard, too, more than a score of Australians. He could see them crowding for'ard, away from the blaze which was right in the stern. Obviously the fire was in her engine-room and she was drifting helplessly. There was no time for niceties of seamanship. Lucy May's shoulder struck Wahine just for'ard of amidships with a force that stove in her own wooden bulwarks as Rusty, leaping from his wheelhouse, seized the burning ship's rail and yelled:

"Jump, mates! Git a b-- move on!"

A superfluous order-for already the men from Wahine were jumping and scrambling aboard, assisted by Lucy May's crew. Nor was there any need to tell them to move aft. Their one desire was to get as far as possible from the seat of the fire and the explosion that might come at any moment. Two men, wounded or badly hurt, were dumped over Lucy May's rail like so much deck cargo.

The steel rail was burning Rusty's hands as he held the two ships together and the heat from the blaze was scorching his face, even singeing his hair and eyebrows. With the two ships lying head to stem he was nearer to the fire than anyone. Not that it would have made any difference when the ammunition blew up. If that happened before Lucy May got clear no one would be left alive.

The first explosion came just as the last two men jumped. Probably it was a fuel tank for it was only a faint, muffled thud. It blew the glass from Wahine's wheelhouse windows and scattered sparks for several yards. It shook Rusty badly. Something-flying glass, he supposed-struck the side of his face but he didn't stop to investigate. He sprang into his wheelhouse and put his engine full astern.

Slowly, painfully slowly, Lucy May drew clear. To the crowd huddled in her stem she seemed not to be moving yet there was a gap of well over a hundred yards between the two vessels before Wahine went up with a mighty roar and a sheet of flame that shot high into the night air. For what seemed like minutes burning debris rained down, spitting viciously as it struck the dark water.

A figure edged itself into the wheelhouse and said: "Gawd! Wot a turn-up! You all right, Rusty? "

"Yeah. I'm jake." Rusty recognized the voice of Wahine's skipper and asked, "How come she lasted so long?"

Musta been the rations. They come on first we stacked 'em aft. Against the engine in bulkhead. The ammo and the petrol was for'ard."

That was luck. Everyone get orf?"

Yeah. There's two or three wounded. What happened to Washin' Machine Charlie? wonder why he never had a go at you."

"Search me. Reckoned he'd done enough fer one night, I s'pose."

Others were crowding into the little wheelhouse now and in the dim glow from the binnacle lamp Rusty recognized the bald head his own engineer and, just behind him, an American naval officer.

"Say, skipper," the naval man said. "I'd like shake your hand. That sure was a mighty fine job of work you did." He elbowed his ay past bald Ted and paused. "Say!" he sped in awed tones. "What the hell?" He seized Ted roughly by the shoulder. "Get that medical guy up here, quick," he ordered, "can't you see this man's wounded, bad?"

Rusty ran his hand over the left side of his ce. It came away wet and sticky with blood. He remembered the first explosion then and a panic seized him.

"Never mind the medical man," he said, making a grab at Ted. "Ted'll fix me. 'E's a , first class doctor. One of yous take the heel." Dragging his astonished engineer with in he vanished below and slammed the hatch shut. "Quick, Ted," he ordered. "Grab that torch and shine it on me dial." A circle of light illuminated his face and he snapped, "Well? Is she gone?"

She's gone all right, Rusty," Ted answered, " you're in a mess! "

"Mess, me foot. It's only scratches. Help clean it up before that Yank comes down."

With the aid of a mirror, some cotton wool and water they cleaned most of the blood away. Although fresh blood kept welling up they were able to see that the principal damage was in and around the gaping eye socket. Obviously it would be weeks before Rusty could wear one of his stock of glass eyes.

"Dig out yer Seaman's Insurance Policy," he ordered, holding a pad of crimsoned cotton wool over his injured socket. "See what it says about the loss of one eye."

Two minutes later Rusty was reading it for himself. "Eight hundred quid," he breathed. "Ted, it's money from 'ome. Bandage me up and leave plenty o' blood showin', then nick up and tell 'em the patient's as good as can be expected, poor cow."

When his engineer had gone Rusty lay back on his bunk and closed his good eye. Five minutes later he was sleeping peacefully.

It was daylight when the slowing down of the motor awoke him. For some time he lay listening. He heard the tramp of feet overhead and felt the bump as Lucy May came alongside the jetty. The thump of the engine died down and ceased, making the voices on deck quite audible. Among them Rusty recognized that of Lieutenant Stienbach, his immediate superior.

"The coolest guy I ever saw," another voice was saying. "Lootenant, I'm tellin' you that skipper of yours has what it takes. One eye blown clean out and his face all shot to hell and he still carries on. He ought to get a medal. He ought to get a whole row of 'em. Here's the ambulance now. A couple of you guys slip down and help him up."

That would be the naval bloke, Rusty thought, composing himself in an attitude of extreme suffering and throwing in a groan for good measure.

"Eight hundred quid!" he whispered to the deck head. "Eight hundred flamin' quid for an eye that cost me thirty bob! And if I don't work three months 'ospital on full pay outa this me name ain't Rusty Matson."

And he probably did.

"STANDBY" (R. S. PORTEOUS), Merchant Navy

FOO

I met him first at Wayville staging camp, Adelaide, where we were both reinforcements for the same searchlight battery at Darwin.

It was not his almond complexion and slant eyes which attracted me towards him, it was his name. And of all names it was Foo, Micky Foo. He was an Australian-born Chinese.

On the -long overland trip to Darwin he was, naturally enough, the butt of all jokes and cracks that the various draft-checking N.C.Os could muster, but he seemed to take the lot with a smile and a real Oriental demeanour.

However, it is at Darwin that this story really begins.

By dint of hard talking, Micky and I became posted to the same site and Micky's troubles really started.

As a searchlight number he was a complete "no-hoper". He did not seem to be able to do a thing right, he was more hindrance than help and the despair of the detachment commander.

Eventually, as a last resort, he was detailed to the cookhouse. And it was obvious that Micky had found his niche. In the kitchen he was a wizard. He did more things to rice and bully than the average cook ever dreamed of and we loved him for it. People who spoke disrespectfully of Army cooks were not popular on our location.

But there was the proverbial fly in the ointment-we knew it was too good to last. We tried to keep Micky's culinary skill a secret; tried to prevent his fame leaking back to our headquarters, and in this regard we were successful, but Micky was destined to go much farther.

It happened on the day the commander of N Group came around on his periodical visit. We had been tipped off about the visit and had taken what we thought were all necessary precautions, but one thing we overlooked - we didn't hide Foo.

The colonel was a nice cove, in a way. He reckoned that he had the men's well-being at heart, and we saw no reason to doubt him. What we did take exception to, on this visit particularly, was his habit of carrying this "well-being at heart" stunt into the cookhouse.

"An army marches on its stomach," he would say to the cook as he lifted the lid of a dixie and sniffed the contents.

This habit earned him the highly unofficial nickname of "Snifter".

At Foo's cookhouse during inspection he lifts the lid of Micky's dixie and takes a deep sniff. He drops the lid, walks two paces, does a smart about-turn and dives back for another sniff. Unfortunately, the adjutant who is following in the colonel's footsteps, is busy sniffing at this juncture with the result that their heads meet with a resounding crack.

"Snifter", weighing approximately ten stone, is fairly bounced back by the adjutant's greater avoirdupois, and reels around the cookhouse clasping his head with both hands and rending the air with some blasphemous words.

After a convalescing period of approximately fifteen minutes, during which time all suggestions by the adjutant are met with black looks, the colonel sees Foo serving up the meal.

When his eyes get focused again, "Snifter" suggests that, as it's getting on a bit, etc., and as it's quite a drive back to Group, etc., and as he feels a bit peckish, etc., he wonders if the cook would be good enough to supply his party with a meal, etc.

Well, Micky has no chance with the pistol at his head, as it were, so he tells "Snifter" that he believes he can supply him with a modicum of Victuals, though we who know him can see that he is loath and reluctant so to do.

So the colonel and his henchmen sit down to steaming plates of fried rice, which is one of Micky's specialties, some bully 'a la prawn and chicken rolls, which are also the goods, and some bamboo shoots which Micky collects daily from over near the "civvy" drome.

The colonel finishes, licks his lips and ever so politely asks Micky his name. When told it is Foo, he doesn't even smirk, but just makes rare sign with his hand and the adjutant writes it down in a notebook.

After the party left we knew it would only a matter of time before we would lose Micky, but we weren't prepared to lose him e following day, which we did. We got a one message for Private Foo to have his bag packed and ready to move into AA Group as the new cook. We all took long-faced farewells of Micky.

Micky was back-three days later. The same truck that took him away brought him back. We could see from his sly grin that he had worked something and we asked him.

"Have you ever tried my sweet and sour goldfish?" he replied. "Have you ever tried my bully beef omelette?"

We answered with head-shakes or noes.

"Well, 'Snifter' has," he replied, "he had an omelette each morning for breakfast and sweet and sour goldfish for lunch every day I was there."

"What did you give him for dinner ?' I asked.

"He never came home for dinner," Micky replied smiling blandly.

As I said, Micky was an extra good cook......... for the boys.

ELLIS GLOVER, Second A.I.F.

THOSE SUDAN DAYS

I WAS a member of the New South Wales Contingent that went to the Sudan in 1885.

It is all history now - recorded mostly in yellowing newspaper files and coldly impersonal narratives. But as an "old soldier" who was privileged to be among those 750 men, I carry in my mind some unforgettable memories which, in the light of the ever changing methods of warfare, become all the more vivid.

War as we knew it in 1885 was a thrilling affair. There was free discussion and speculation on all phases of the project, and the day of embarkation brought all this excitement to a noisy climax in Sydney as we marched through the streets to Circular Quay.

We were eager to be off to this mysterious .Sudan where 50,000 Arabs were embarrassing Britain at an awkward time. Ours was no under-cover-of-night departure; no slogans advising people to seal lips and save ships. Quite the reverse. We had passed through medical examinations; we had been bellowed at on the parade ground; we carried our old rifles, complete with saw-edged bayonets and all this was rounded off by the glorious feeling of wearing the splendid scarlet and blue uniform. In short, we were soldiers, and Sydney shouted it from the housetops. London papers published pictures of our feted departure.

On the water at last - and Army life aboard a troopship is one experience which doesn't appear to have changed greatly since.

One of our first shipboard jobs was to dye our brilliant white equipment and pith helmets with the only medium available: tobacco juice. This was probably the introduction of the science of camouflage into Australia's military life and a foreshadowing of the days when jungle green was to become fashionable for soldiers!

Another interesting point about our personal equipment was the charcoal water filter carried by each man. This item consisted of a canister of charcoal granules with a tube attached with which the water was sucked up through the filter unit. In addition, a pair of special goggles was issued to combat glare and dust. When not in actual use, they were usually slipped up on to the helmet, giving one the appearance of a modem speedway rider.

Our canteens were well stocked with tobacco and a small range of other necessities, but whatever was lacking in the matter of things to buy, was more than compensated by the fact that everything was free! These goods had been gifts to the contingent by firms and individuals, and there was plenty of everything.

Iberia, carrying the infantry, arrived in Suakin harbour on 29 March. Established at this important Red Sea port was the Guards Brigade commanded by General Graham and we were longing to meet and mingle with these famous soldiers. During disembarkation, however, our feelings were somewhat ruffled to hear such remarks as: "Blimey, Bill; these Walers' are white blokes!"

The "Walers" were soon put to work though, after donning khaki jacket and trousers and shin-length gaiters of canvas. The tunic was fitted with a long pad of cloth running down the back to cover the spine as protection from sunstroke. Another flap of material hung from the back of the helmet to shelter the neck.

It was a rough and tough country and, as expected, terribly hot. At halts it was useless trying to sit on the ground, which meant that during daylight everything from "smokos" to eating was usually carried out at "the stand".

The rebel leader in this area was Osman Digna, who had fled to Tamai, some twenty-one miles away. The New South Wales Contingent was detailed to accompany an expedition to occupy the position. This operation was duly carried out and the Australians had their first taste of the enemy, who, incidentally, were known as "Fuzzy-Wuzzies". It took another war to change the Sudan soldier's conception of that term.

These dark gentry were exceedingly nasty customers and, surprising as it may seem, they were equipped with better arms than the British. Each man had a range of weapons which chilled the blood of many a Guardsman. In the first place they each carried an American Remington rifle - a far more effective weapon than ours. This was supplemented by two spears, a "throwing stick" shaped something like a boomerang and a terrible ham-stringing "knife-dagger" in the form of a capital J, the size of a large carving knife and razor-sharp on every edge. To this formidable kit of tools was added a shield, altogether a strange and deadly outfit, combining the old and the new.

A favourite "sabotage" measure adopted by e Fuzzy-Wuzzies was to poison the water! thus defeating our filters and causing casualties. This action necessitated the wholesale condensing of sea water on ships in akin harbour and its transport to the troops skin bags (jerbas) per camel express. Not any Sudan men will ever forget the taste of at water; some even maintained that poisoned water was more palatable.

The Arabs were also the original "terrors-night". During the time we worked on the Suakin-Berber railway, guard duties at night became rather an ordeal. The natives lurked in the enveloping darkness, ready, and more than willing, to pounce on an unwary sentry with a specially selected spear. In this midnight stalking they used great stealth and patience. One procedure was first to steal some grease from the railway construction job, smear their bodies all over, then roll in the sand like a milkman's horse. Thus camouflaged, they used to lie flat on their faces and commence a tortuously slow slither-crawl towards our camp. Usually the stalker would cut a small bush, push it forward to arm's length, then inch by inch, slither up to it. The operation would then be repeated. It was necessary for a sentry to note the exact position of every bush in his area. Any that moved - or appeared to move- were fired at without challenge. Morning inspections sometimes revealed the wisdom of this action.

Not all the natives were hostile, of course; and one tribe, the Amaras, gave great service as night scouts. It was when we were camped at Otao, twenty-three miles inland, that one of their patrols discovered a Fuzzy-Wuzzy who had come to the wells for water, bringing with him an old donkey and two jerbas. Without ceremony the gentle Amaras hacked off his left hand at the wrist and continued on their way without another thought of the incident. Next morning one of the British Mounted Infantry, hearing groaning, cautiously approached through the thick mimosa scrub and found the victim, who was taken to hospital. The donkey, however, was somehow acquired by the officers' cook who used it to carry his valise whilst in the Sudan. This soldier actually brought the animal back to Australia, where it lived in luxury at the Zoo, eventually expiring quietly in a paddock at Narellan, N.S.W.

The contingent's other mascot was a sheep -not an Arab goat-about which a section of the Press said a great deal. Late one afternoon some thousands of sheep and goats captured in a ravine between Handoub and Hasheen were driven through our camp by mounted infantry. Next day we marched through the same ravine to engage our old friend Osman Digna who had a strong force at Hasheen. Two other columns, one from Suakin and one from Takdul, should have hemmed the Arabs in, but were too late; and we had the mortification of seeing the tail end of Osman's retreat. Passing through the ravine on the outward trip, however, we heard a faint bleating high up on the mountain side. We mocked it and the animal responded by coming down, where it was easily caught - a half-grown lamb, black and white, with short curly wool. It was taken back to camp with us and commandeered by one of the men. Instead of a battle, we got a sheep; but it really was a sheep - not a goat!

Our departure from Suakin was a hurried affair, but the authorities were in no hurry back at Sydney. From Friday, 27 June, until the following Tuesday we languished in quarantine, seething with impatience. During those trying days one bright spot was the gift of forty baskets of fish from some local fishermen. That welcome gift is commemorated today in maps of Sydney harbour by the name "Forty Baskets Beach".

TOM GUNNING, New South Wales Sudan Contingent

THE SONGS WE SANG

WE all sang "South of the Border", and if we were not singing it we were listening to someone else singing it. Orchestras blared it, message boys whistled it and there were those who broke down and wept at the futility of trying to find a radio station which did not play it at least once every two hours.

But it was in the camps, those over-populated, under-organized camps of 1940, that the tune really came into its own. We even tried it as a marching song but its tempo suited no pace ever marched by men. Its effect was to reduce our far from perfect column into a rabble and our more accurate and humourless N.C.Os to the verge of apoplexy.

It was handy at Army concerts. When coughing and whispering and shuffling of feet bore witness to the lack of entertainment value in the baritone's rendering of "The Volga Boatmen"; when the lady who played her own compositions on the piano accordion met with only sullen interest; when even the charm of the chorus failed to awaken any enthusiasm, "South of the Border" could always turn the trick. The wise pianist would seek inspiration from "Down Mexico Way", the wise entrepreneur would invite us ... and we would sing ourselves back into a good humour.

There were other songs; some of them specially manufactured for the occasion. But in those dark days after the Dunkirk business we were a little self-conscious about "Hanging our Washing on the Siegfried Line" and the like. We stuck to "South of the Border" with "Roll Out the Barrel" as first reserve.

We got those unexpectedly early warnings for draft and our musical memories of that last mad fortnight are more of the popping of beer-bottle tops and the screech of the taxi brakes as they landed us back at camp, often just too late for parade.

Whenever I hear "The Maori Farewell" I think of the day we sailed; of the dinginess of the wharves behind the bright dresses of the girls; of countless launches loaded to the scuppers with feminine freight circling round us as we lay offshore; of messages and persiflage, story and song thrown and returned from troopship to dock and to ferryboat; and of a sudden spontaneous communal chorus, coming from thousands of throats, so sincere., so intense that the world itself seemed in fancy to shake with the reverberations. "Now is the hour when we must say goodbye" and the long drawn out conclusion-"You'll find me waiting here-" It was often followed by a silence as spontaneous as the song had been.

The voyage to the Middle East was more memorable for its smells than its sounds. Smells of overcrowded living quarters, of food cooked in bulk in the ship's galley; of Colombo and its warm sweet sickliness attacking our noses.

But there were a few songs apart from the stale ditties heard around the wet canteen. "Begin the Beguine" was in favour; and "Till the Lights of London Shine Again". And there was the "Salvo Bloke" and his hymns.

The only decent-sized recreation saloon set aside for the use of other ranks was overrun with two-up, dice, crown and anchor and similar pastimes. Repeated ukases from the ship's orderly room, accompanied by dire warnings of penalties to those caught gambling, had no effect. There was not a square foot of floor or table space where we couldn't find some way of losing our money. And not a corner where we could read a book or write a letter.

But where Authority failed the "Salvo Bloke" succeeded. He would take his stand where the gambling was loudest and he would sing. Should anyone catch his eye he would wave a bundle of hymn books and go on singing. His earliest votaries were men of his own outlook on gambling. He got a lot of starters when we found that his words were arranged to fit tunes that we all knew, that we could "Praise the Lord" to the strains of "Smile the While" and find salvation to the melody of "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles". Most of these were the born community singer type; others were recruited from the

ranks of the gamblers who were not taking their losses too kindly. After three nights he had a regular chorus of twenty or more; after a week he had so many that the betting could not be heard. Arguments developed over indistinctly heard offers and acceptances of wagers. The game runners found other spots on the ship. The few foolish ones who tried to "buck" got put on charge sheets. Peace, diversified by occasional singing of hymns, reigned in the saloon. The Unrighteous had been overthrown!

The monotony of the Red Sea and the Canal followed. There was no music there. Port Said appeared and our first sight of a blackout and we heard an anchor chanty sung in some outlandish tongue on a rakish looking coaster which drifted past us. Haifa and the cry of "Orangies; very sweet orangies" went up. Then we were in Palestine, in the mud. But there was leave, brief but glorious leave; and in Tel Aviv we heard "The Blue Danube". We heard it played by dress-suited orchestras in pretentious cabarets on Ben Yehudi Street; by plump young pianistes with big ear-rings (and ankles) in little cafe's along the waterfront; and by soulful gypsies, all hair and eyebrows, fiddling in the streets.

And back in camp we celebrated the fall of Bardia with convivial rendering of a song which was new to most of us:

"Bless 'em all; bless 'em all;
- The long and the short and the tall."

This news of Bardia was the first of a series of glad tidings. It looked as if our trip overseas was all for nothing; there was nothing left for us to do, we thought. Then the Sixth Division came back, gave us Itie rifles, revolvers and ground sheets and a very good song:

"And I think I'll call you 'Lena'
- 'Cause it rhymes with 'Talla heena'
  - My little Gyppo bint, you're quies kateer."

when winter had gone; but before the leave roster was completed we started on our way to Libya. On the Frontier someone got hold of a radio and we learnt new songs from the B.B.C.-"Dolores", "Down Argentine Way" and "The Last Time I Saw Paris"-to which the unit wit commented that he was more interested in "The Next Time I See Pitt Street",

There was a Tipperary man in the London Rifle Brigade who sang "Killarney" in a way that made us wonder why our grandparents ever emigrated. The night we celebrated our first anniversary in the Army we gave a rather regretful rendering of "South of the Border".

Next move was back to Mersa Matruh, with the siren blasting off and on all and every night. A banal ballad from the radio, "There goes that song again; that same old song again" might have been written in its honour. But more appropriate was the song from the machine gunners:

"And I hear those lousy Ities as they circle round at night
- O'er my flea-bound louse-bound dugout in Matruh."

Palestine again and leave. We sang a lot of songs on these jaunts. Then we went to the Lebanon.

Blue skies beyond the glittering snow of the mountains; blue seas beyond the shining roofs of Damascus; these were our visible boundaries. Around us the green of the olive groves and the red roofs of the villages. The monastery bells sounded out the hours and the Gay Lotharios, who had despised Arabic as~ the language of Wogs, had one look at the local lasses, bought new bilingual dictionaries. and went a-wooing. Some of these even learned to sing, according to the custom of the country, but their songs got them no, further than the bully beef and spare comforts fund woollens of the more practically minded. But arrack was cheap and potent and the man who can't sing on arrack has no song in him at all.

There was little song left in any of us as that winter gave place to spring. The Eighth had gone with Singapore, the Sixth and Seventh had gone from the Middle East where we did not know. Our letters were not coming through very fast from home; Rommel was on the move again and moving the wrong way. In the clubs in Beirut and Tripoli the orchestras played "God Save the King" with "The Red Flag" for an encore.

Then we went southward with our slouch hats out of sight, our unit and divisional signs painted over and the distinctive Australian tan boots telling the world who we were. Southward with one on our truck who had left a fair share of his heart and his money in the Lebanon, singing "Until you fall in love, a love song's just another tune".

He sang alone. Though we were all pretty certain that it was tin hats that we would be wearing when we crossed the Canal, there was just a chance that it might be sand shoes. So we did some wishful thinking in silence.

Tin hats it was. Matruh had fallen before we reached Ismailia.

There was little time for song during the next few months. There came a night when we heard a piper playing "The Road to the Isles" conjuring up visions of Highland fighting men. Those visions materialized. The 51st Highland Division came to see us and we found them great blokes, worthy of their sires and of their songs.

They were to hear, as we were to hear, a chorus louder and stronger than any we had heard before or since: the guns of the Eighth Army at El Alamein, when, on that October night, they opened up in that terrible barrage which was to prove "the overture to victory".

TOM M. RONAN, Second A.I.F.

THE ROAD AND THE R.A.E.

POPULAR notion of the work of the Royal Australian Engineers is that when they are not engaged in laying or destroying minefields, or cutting barbed wire, they are either constructing bridges or blowing them up. But the tasks of the engineers are many and varied, and this concerns only a minor one of the numerous jobs that came their way.

Our camp late in 1942 was about eight miles from the sea at Milne Bay, and seemed quite cut off from headquarters. There was no road and our drivers were constantly getting bogged trying to find new tracks through the coconut palms. One morning came the news that a company of engineers had arrived. A few days later their O.C. turned up at our orderly room. He was a brisk little man with keen bright eyes.

"Hear you want a road through here?" He spoke very rapidly.

"Yes, we do want one pretty badly, especially over the mile or so from the ford," said our C.O. "We've been trying to make one ourselves, but with only a few men to spare we've hardly made any progress."

"Right! What's today? Wednesday? We'll have it through by tomorrow week. That do?" And he was gone, before we could stutter our appreciation.

We didn't see a sign of any engineers for a few days, but on the following Saturday a gang of hefty men - about ten of them - made their appearance and started work near the orderly room. Their job was to make a culvert over a nearby ditch.

After watching this gang at work, we soon realized how their company had earned its Middle East description -"famous". They were a perfect team. The gang set to work with pick and shovel, with axes, with a truck. In double quick time they had an ample supply of coconut-palm logs for their purpose. Then they went to work on the culvert itself. What a team they were! Each man knew his place. One worked a winch from the truck, hauling

logs into position. Others dug. Others cut the logs into their correct lengths. A big fat chap -but muscular, mind you- did nothing but wield a mallet, driving wedges to split logs. No "Government stroke" about him, either.

All worked simultaneously, directed by a hard-bitten but obviously popular N.C.O., who at the same time did his own share of hard "yakker".

Only one man puzzled us a bit at first. Not once did we surprise him in the act of doing any manual labour - unless you count boiling the billy every two hours. But we soon discovered that he, too, was a valuable member of this little team. His job seemed to be to stand around cracking jokes - good Army dry humour his was. He kept the morale of his mates right at its top.

Whenever a difficulty in construction of the culvert arose - such as a log in an awkward position, or the winch hawser taking the strain in the wrong place, an argument would arise as to what to do. Always it was the "funny man" who came forward with what invariably proved to be the solution to the problem. Yes, he was worth his place in the team, all right.

As the culvert neared completion, thirty or forty men came into sight through the coconut palms, already nearly a mile from their starting point at the ford. Drains came shooting between the trees and down past the culvert. Charges of dynamite sent inconveniently placed trees crashing to the ground. Truck after truck spread gravel, gathered from the creek bed. A grader worked continuously.

On Thursday a jeep drove up to the orderly room at a great pace. It was the first time in weeks here that we had seen a vehicle travel at more than ten miles an hour. A brisk little man got out.

"Road all right? Good. Now your water arrangements. We'll run you up a pipe from the creek. Save you a half-mile trip with your water truck. What's today? Thursday? Right. We'll have it fixed for Friday afternoon. That do? Good. See you later."

C. P. JACOBS, Second A.I.F.

"THE BOONGSTER SWINGSTERS"

0UTSIDE it is raining. Shadows sweep hungrily up the Ramu Valley, threatening hills fade swiftly behind a veil of purple mist; day birds sing their evensong and are replaced by feathered denizens of the night with their raucous bickering. Night comes tumbling down. Hordes of malignant mosquitoes swarm into action and, in sibilant fury, strive to penetrate the security of my net, - whilst I -well, I am tossing and turning, shivering and shaking in the throes of tropical malaria.

Despite the heaviness of the sudden downpour there emanates from the bush natives' camp across the Ramu a hideous caterwauling as the dusky heathens, with reckless abandon, plunge deafeningly into their nightly sing-sing. Night after night it is the same; the same old discordant dirge rends the tropic evening with monotonous regularity; night after night we suffer these torments. Ate? I am not in a fit state of health for such, and with soaring temperature and splitting head, I find the performance completely unbearable. I try desperately to shut out the offending clamour but with little success.

I toss and turn, toss and turn......

I think maybe it is the next day, or maybe the day after -I'm a little vague about this- when Cummo, Bowden, Veitchy and a crowd of the boys push their way into my tent and we have a little pow-wow on the subject of these heathen. We decide that something just has to be done about it- either they stop their sing-sings or take the consequences.

Well, as it turns out, it is much less trouble to make this resolution than to carry it out. Those boongs absolutely refuse. We bluster, we curse, we threaten-no good! The more we bluster the more enthusiastic they become; the more we threaten the more diligently they perform; the more we curse the more lustily they sing.

We i finally arrive at the stage where we are seriously considering if a few scattered hand-grenades will do the trick when, out of the blue, Veitch brings down the house with a real idea.

Yes, Veitchy gets a real, bang-up, honest-to-goodness, cracker-jack idea! "Seeing that there is apparently no power on earth can stop these boongs from yodelling," he says, "well, what's wrong with teaching 'em to sing properly'? You know, popular numbers-swing and all that."

We tell Veitchy he is a so-and-so genius. This obviously pleases him but, whilst he is busy lapping up these words of praise, I have a niggling feeling that, somewhere or other, there is a snag to this suggestion of Veitchy's. For the life of me, however, I can't quite put my finger on it. This is probably due to my state of health. Then suddenly it strikes me. It was in a story I read.

"Who," I ask, "is going to do this teaching? "

There is much biting of nails and wrinkling of foreheads in a certain unit high up in the Ramu Valley until Cummo, delving deeply into the dim old days of the Middle East, strikes gold.

"I seem to recollect," he says thoughtfully, a night when a bunch of us are ack-willy in Cairo and a certain guy gets up on the stage at the Cabaret Bibi and sings a song for the Wogs."

We all look fixedly at Veitchy who squirms but says nothing.

"I also seem to recollect," Bowden says deliberately, "a time when we are all snowed up in Aleppo and the concert party calls for applicants to join their unit. This same guy who sang a song at the Bibi was one of those applicants."

Veitchy can see it coming and, in consequence, he becomes a little difficult to handle. "Not on your so-and-so life!" he howls defiantly, and gives us his solemn oath that a team of wild horses couldn't drag him over to the boongs' camp-but do we relent? We do not! He is elected.

We have to adopt stand-over methods; but, after we carefully and firmly point out to him all the disadvantages and little, unpleasant things likely to come his way in the event of his lack co-operation, he sees things our way and reluctantly agrees to give it a go.

"But what about music?" he queries.

"Well," we come back, "what about it?"

"Well, strike me lucky," he says, "you can't have singing lessons without music, can you.

Cummo again solves the problem. "Wimpy!" he exclaims.

We work out the pros and cons. We want music-Wimpy has a mouth organ. We need a musician-Wimpy can play a mouth organ. No matter which way we look at it the answer adds up the same. We decide that Wimpy is our orchestra.

We send down to his tent, invite him to join our party and then we break the good news to him-and does that little runt put on an act? He even threatens to go to the C.O. about it. You'd think we were asking him to go out and bring in the whole Nip army on his very own, the way he performs. He absolutely jibs.

We, of course, are very indignant with him for his regrettable lack of team spirit, in fact, some of us are inclined to regard him as the next best thing to a Quisling in our midst a regular Fifth Columnist. We tell him SO. We also tell him a few of the things we told Veitchy about what happens to saboteurs of a good cause. We tell him plenty and in the end he, also, grudgingly agrees to string along with us.

He, however, squeezes out of us a promise that, if he does take on the job, we will refrain from visiting the scene in the role of onlookers. Veitchy brightens up considerably when he hears this and, although it hurts us a bit to agree to this stipulation, we find we have little choice, so we do so, though reluctantly.

On the following day, after sundown, with the boongs flat out broadcasting their discordant agony, we bundle them off to their assignment across the Ramu.

Unfortunately, owing to our arrangement with Wimpy, we are not there to see how the boongs react to our proposal. All we know is that a sudden silence descends on the camp across the river, followed by an excited jabbering like a Paddy's Market gone wrong. Next we hear the squeaky tones of Wimpy's mouth organ as he opens up with his favourite number, "White Christmas".

To our critical ears he starts off rather shakily but, gaining confidence as he swings into his stride, he finishes up by making rather a fair effort of it. He starts and finishes it as a solo, however, so we are more than a little disappointed because the boongs don't join in. Maybe, however, we are just a little too optimistic of immediate success. Then Wimpy breaks into "Ole Man River" and we hear Veitchy trying out his voice in an effort to kid the boongs on a bit. To our great delight a few of the boongs do join in but in an extremely hesitant and half-hearted sort of fashion.

We wait impatiently and hopefully for the next number and we do not wait in vain. All the boongs come in lustily, although far from tunefully and we taste the sweet fruits of success. From that moment everything is jake. The Boongster Swingsters are well on the way.

When Veitchy returns to camp that night he looks rather pleased with himself. The next night he needs no urging at all-in fact, he takes it upon himself to round up Wimpy and drag him off to the boongs' camp. And so it goes on night after night.

Veitchy confides to us that he has great hopes of making a real top-notch concert party out of the material in hand although, I must admit, there is a decided difference of opinion amongst the rest of us. Some say the boongs are worse than ever, others can't detect any difference whatsoever. I honestly think that they are making fair progress considering the circumstances.

Veitchy assures us that he has a boss boy with a rich baritone voice who, when properly trained, will make Paul Robeson shake in his shoes. At the same time though, he admits that he has struck one or two difficulties which are causing him no end of worry. Not the least of these is the boongs' habit of stamping their feet and clapping their hands as they sing-as Veitchy suggests, this is just not done in the best of circles.

Another difficulty is their habitual use of pidgin English. For instance, Veitchy claims that, although his boong repeatedly gives a masterly rendering of "Asleep in the Deep", he doggedly persists in substituting the words "One pfellah him he go sleep-sleep along water". Naturally a fair amount of juggling has to be resorted to in order to fit the words to the music and Veitchy is very concerned about it.

Apart from these minor hitches, however, everything goes swimmingly. Certainly the C.O. sends word through the usual channels that the unseemly noise must cease forthwith but, as we point out to the lance-jack- who relays it back, we're doing all we can about it.

And so on until the day that Veitchy comes bustling in and enthusiastically informs us that the Boongster Swingsters are ready to face their public. In other words he proposes to put on a concert for our entertainment. He is not without his troubles, however: his boongs become temperamental and he has production worries.

There is a song on which he has set his heart as the ideal number for the opening chorus but he has to scrap it. "Tramp, tramp, tramp the boys are marching" is the name of this song and a good rousing number too, we all agree, but plead as he will, Veitchy can't get the boongs to sing it as he wishes -they persist in substituting "walkabout" for "tramp" and won't budge an inch.

Finally he scrubs it from the programme with the idea of giving them a topical number which, at least, they'd know something about. He introduces them to "Yes, We have no Bananas" - and strikes more trouble. The boongs are highly indignant because, as they point out (and rightly) there is no shortage of bananas at all. They have, in fact, plenty-papaws, too.

With the success of the show already assured, we are invited to see the final rehearsal. Crickets deafen the ear with their everlasting shrillness, fireflies flicker against a background of impenetrable jungle and our dusky friends are assembled waiting and eager to begin their final try-out for the big show. The stage is set.

Veitchy takes up position and gives his charges an encouraging pep talk.

Betel-chewing natives sit in awed silence and listen attentively. Wimpy blows a note or two on his mouth organ and then, at a signal from the proud producer, the show begins.

A burst of applause greets the opening chorus with eight strapping boongs entering the arena. Stamping their feet and clapping their hands in frenzied fashion, they hit the ear with a pretty lively rendering of "Him pfellah catchum number one time bye and by--, maybe long time", or, as we know it, "There's a good time coming be it ever so far away".

We have considerable argument over this with Cherry Sutton heatedly trying to lay 6 to 4 on "Tiger Rag" but getting no takers. He is lucky because, as it turns out, "Tiger Rag" is a no-hoper. Veitchy settles the argument - much to the delight of Bowden who is the only one to pick it.

It is a good effort for boongs, however, and they receive the plaudits of those present. For an encore they give us "Catchum barrel, Rollum out"-a credit to Veitchy, who is beaming at us like the doting mother of the boy soprano at the local Sunday school concert.

Every now and then he looks at us as much as to say "Pretty good, eh?" and we nod our heads and clap loudly, thereby inspiring the boongs to further efforts.

The crooner-the next item on the programme-is hot stuff. No kidding! This boong, who has adopted the stage name of "Boong Moresby", is definitely the goods.

With the usual frenzied stamping and wearing a look of agony upon his face (if anything, accentuated by the piece of timber threaded through his nostrils), he goes to town properly over the haunting melody of "One Pfellah Rose belongum San Antone".

There are no swooners in the audience but, long before the last long-drawn note has reverberated down the valley, an hysterical crowd of boongs rises to its feet and shouts in wild acclaim. The Moresby boy almost stamps his lap-lap adrift in the excitement.

After this turn there is a short interlude during which Cummo and Bowden have a bright idea. They make the suggestion that maybe the inclusion of a few Marys would be an asset to the show. We agree on this but Veitchy, after long and studied consideration, says no. He explains that the time element is against us as the Marys would lack the intensive training necessary for the occasion. "Maybe next time," he concedes generously and with this we have to be content.

The boongs, however, are openly aghast at the suggestion. It is clear that they have a strong aversion to their Marys becoming career women. Fifty embarrassed darkies wiggle their toes in the dirt and mutter uneasily as their indignant spokesman hastens to inform these misguided white masters that, if any Marys are included in the show, the boys will all quit.

Undoubtedly they have a legitimate grievance for, as they put it: "Mary all the time walkabout, sing-sing, no catchum work."

The idea is shelved for the time being and the show goes on.

Among other items produced we hear a modem swing version of "Two pfellah Mary wearum blue"; a dusky quartette who combine splendidly and forcefully in presenting "Him Watchum Larboard"; a nicely executed piece of harmonizing featuring two gay young sparks and their novel version of "You no fetchum Lulu"; and a stage arrangement of a local war-dance in which the Boongster Swingsters really come into their own.

According to Veitchy, however, the highlight of the evening has yet to come. He introduces the much-lauded possessor of the rich baritone who, squirming with embarrassment, giggles nervously. Veitchy looks considerably startled at this display of emotion but hastily explains that the boong, not having performed before the white masters before, has developed a mild attack of stage-fright. He asks for a sympathetic hearing. But no sound issues forth.

Fifty woolly heads turn and stare curiously at their black brother, who, making a supreme effort to return stare for stare, fails miserably and again gives way to hysterical giggling.

This is too much for the boongs who giggle uncontrollably whilst Veitchy, apparently the only one who fails to see any humour in the situation, is fit to burst.

But the boong comes good, to the acclaim of the appreciative gathering, and announces that he will favour us with "Ribber you no come walkabout my door". Even the clatter of the crickets seems to have hushed for the occasion. Wimpy drags a few unwilling notes from his mouth organ, the boong nervously clears his throat, and the audience sits ready to pay homage to the efforts of their dusky wonder.

Suddenly, all is confusion! High overhead we hear the scream of a plane as Tojo, unheralded and uninvited, decides to take a hand in the proceedings. The first bomb lands a scant half-mile a-way but our experienced ears tell us more is coming and that it's coming our way. We hit the turf smartly and stay put whilst, to all four corners of New Guinea, the Boongster Swingsters go bush.

There is a crash of metal and splintering trees mingled with the terrified yells of the departing boongs. Then, just as suddenly, there follows a silence broken only by the hum of the departing plane and the rustle of falling leaves.

The only damage is to Veitchy's self-esteem and, of course, the loss of our dusky pals.

I have the feeling that they will not be coming back.

"An unwarranted attack on a peaceful, music-loving community," Veitchy complains. I laugh at him but he's in no mood for raillery.

"For the love of Mike," he snorts indignantly, "what's funny about it?"

I am about to answer this when a strange thing happens. Veitchy seems to recede in the distance and I am looking at him through a black mist. This has me worried-I can't make it out at all.

I am tossing and turning, tossing and turning.

I am thinking of the Boongster Swingsters and wondering about this strange something that, had happened to Veitchy.

I open my eyes and through the mosquito net I see him on the far side of the tent, packing my gear. He looks worried. In a weak voice which I have considerable difficulty in recognizing as my own, I speak to him.

"Did they come back?" I ask.

"Did who come back?" he asks curiously.

"The Boongster Swingsters," I mumble.

Veitchy is looking more than worried now, he looks definitely alarmed. He glances meaningly at an R.A.P. bloke who is in the tent, then, turning to me, he asks in a small voice, "Did you say Boongster Swingsters?"

I try to nod but it hurts, so I desist, and in the meantime, the R.A.P. bloke whispers something to Veitchy, who looks relieved. They lift me on to a stretcher then, carrying me out into the open, they dump me into an ambulance jeep.

I notice it has stopped raining but I am puzzling about these Boongster Swingsters. I still can't fathom this out at all. But I do.

Loudly at first and then gradually fading into the distance as we leave the camp area behind, from the bush natives' camp across the Ramu, comes a hideous caterwauling as the boongs, with reckless abandon, go to town, unmercifully, upon their nightly sing-sing; the same old dirge rends the tropic evening with monotonous regularity.

J. D. RUTHERFORD, Second A.I.F.