A Sojourn in Papua; Spin of a coin; Day of days; Saga of Showground...

Preparing for the Pantomime, Changi by Murray Griffin

A SOJOURN IN PAPUA

"A cup of tea! Just show us the way." And this he did through treacherous swamps, thick jungle, palm-tree groves and eventually to the beach.

Mrs Taylor was waiting at home to meet us-a fine young Queensland girl with a six months-old infant in her arms. She had been in Papua about fifteen months, her husband for five years. The house was large and rambling, balancing on stilts nine feet or so off a cement floor; dining-room and vestibule, stores, study and bathroom below, with four huge bedrooms above.

In true Queensland style Mrs. Taylor arranged beds, mosquito nets, towels, pyjamas and a complete change of shorts and shirts for the four of us. Native girls washed and ironed our own clothes. Even forced landings weren't so bad provided one showed forethought and landed on the right place!

Early next morning found us at the plane radioing to base, telling them that we would have a runway ready in four days' time ... then to send a plane and refuel us. Dennis Taylor had told me that the natives could clear a strip in that time, which they did under his capable supervision and forceful (native) language. Tribes of these natives came from near and far to see the "ship that flies".

I remember a group of them standing in front of an idle engine (the other engine was running to generate power for the radio) when I switched on the landing light under the wing. The light automatically extended and shone a powerful beam right on to their faces. One moment-two score brown bodies, goggle-eyed. The next-they'd vanished! Soon they crept back like scared rabbits and viewed the monstrosity with loud cries, much gesticulation and clucking of the throat, which, to them, expressed amazement.

Feeling like Dante entertaining a large audience, I fired a Very cartridge for their benefit. I was encored with deafening cries and much clucking and in return the natives carried us through a stream on the way home. In case some of the audience got a little too curious, Dennis placed one of his trusted boys, named Russell, to guard the plane. Russell could speak English amazingly well, like-wise his pretty little wife Molly, and when we left they gave us several gifts including a comb made of unusual feathers which we treasure to this day.

From then onwards, while the strip was being cleared, Dennis arranged all manner of entertainment for us. The following afternoon we were poled in several native canoes up one of the many jungle rivers in the hope of shooting, some crocodiles, but the blighters were timid-according to the natives-and remained hidden. However the growth on either side of us was truly breathtaking. As Lance remarked in his South Australian dialect, it was "extra!" Tall timbers, to all appearances strangled by thousands of thick creepers, reared their heads towards the sky, then spread their foliage as they reached dizzy heights ... and freedom. The result was a meagre infiltration of light to the dank stream below.

It was an eerie experience gliding silently upstream, dodging the overhanging growth; the only sounds the chattering of cockatoos' the fluttering of pigeons, the screams and laughter of the natives.

On Sunday we attended the church. This was a very long thatched-roof building, quite airy and spacious which, considering the odoriferous state of the natives and the perpetual humidity of these climes, was most advisable. It had a sandy floor on which the natives sat, sapling rails on which they leant. We, the 611te, had the usual hard church seats, book rests and mats. Everyone, the clergyman included, came barefooted. There being no organ, a trained lad set a high key to start off the singing. By the time the last verse of each hymn was reached, the rear end of the congregation was singing two whole octaves lower than the front! Dennis gave thanks to the Lord for our safe landing and we likewise, with deep feeling and gratitude for this, our second miraculous escape on active service.

That night we all strolled out of the front porch and on to the beach to watch the children dancing in the moonlight. They hopped round in large circles stamping their feet and clapping hands to the rhythm of some weird chants. The tunes were wistfully sung in a minor key with not the slightest trace of a flat note as had been the case earlier that day in church. The words, we were told, they themselves did not understand, for they had been passed down from generation to generation. They danced until the moon sank behind the coconut palms; in fact I wondered how the youngsters got their necessary sleep. Miss Thompson, the missionary nurse, enlightened me. She said that they made up for the loss in school classes the next morning.

On Monday we had lunch, picnic style, under the shade of the plane's wing followed by a strenuous swim in a nearby stream. After overseeing the lads who were working on the strip we decided, in true unionist style, that we were being overworked ourselves and so made tracks for the nearest native village with Dennis acting as guide.

Of course the inhabitants of the village turned out to greet us and Ron's fame as Clark Gable the Second must have spread, for the lasses gathered round him admiring his handsome profile and his "beautiful skin", much to his embarrassment and our amusement. On the whole they were very clean in their bodies and their habits. They rigorously observed our Christian marriage laws and were ingenious in building houses and making little odds and ends for their livelihood: fish nets, cord, clay pots, bamboo pipes, tapa cloth and the like. The men wore aras (or sarongs); the women wore skirts only, of cloth or rushes.

During our tour of inspection we came across a graveyard covered with miniature houses. Dennis informed us that the houses, or grass huts really, were built over the bodies, buried in two feet of earth, to stop the pigs from rooting them out. We were more impressed by one of their full size huts-particularly by the delicate aroma surrounding it, until we walked into the living-room and found a succulent young grunter tied to a post.

A young girl, stiff-legged, who appeared to have been touching her toes for the last five minutes, had us all mystified, until we approached closer and saw that she was shaping a lump of clay on the ground. It gave me a backache just to watch her. She was evidently an old hand at the game, that being her fourth pot for the day. Firstly she would separate lime from the clay she was going to use by washing it with water, then mould it to the required shape. A little sun-baking would follow and then the article would be tossed into a roaring fire and cooked white hot for five minutes. The resultant job was as hard as porcelain but not as tough.

They made string from the bark of a tree. The fibres were rolled together on the thigh, the end of the cord being held between the toes. The fibres were then rolled with the palm of the hand. We tried this later, back at camp, but only succeeded in painfully rolling the hairs from our legs. Out of this string they made first class fishing-nets, carrying-bags and small wristlet bands. According to Dennis they wore these bands for mourning and when the things got so rotten that they fell off the wearer's arm, the mourning was officially declared "over".

The youngsters of the tribe had skins as smooth as velvet and teeth as strong and white as ivory. The mums and dads had gnarled skins and teeth stained black through their constant chewing of betel nut. The effect of this nut, served 'a la carte with a dash of lime and a dainty sprig of banana leaf, was stimulating, owing to its drugging quality, and you would see them chewing the stuff at all hours of the day and night.

But what intrigued us most of all was the infinite patience they showed in making tapa cloth for their aras or skirts. For days on end they'd hammer a large piece of maple-tree bark to the required thinness and then add patterns with a red dye from the mangrove root, or black paste made from ash.

A fine institution indeed, this village, for the womenfolk did all the hard work around the place. From dawn till dusk you'd see dusky maidens tramping the beach with huge pitchers of water perched on their heads, or colossal loads of firewood on their backs; and they thrived on it. Their principal meal was in the evening, the menu varying from wild pig or fish to fruit and vegetables of all types imaginable. You had to taste these delectables, steamed in coconut oil, to appreciate them and they were truly delicious.

But His Majesty's Government was paying us just on twenty shillings a day to spend our time thus and our consciences pricked us to such an extent, that we radioed back to base the minute the strip was finished, which, by the way, was the following day. Within four hours a plane was sent out to meet us (Lloyd Milne was the pilot), and by lunchtime the job of pumping fuel from one plane to the other was completed. Enjoying our stay to the last minute, we all trooped down to a nearby stream and cooled our steaming bodies in the rippling waters. It was the devil's own job dragging Lloyd away from playing with the native children. He was having great fun ducking and splashing and tossing a hollow coconut about. "In future," he said, "If I'm ever missing from operations you'll know where to find me."

But leave we must and that evening found us relating our adventures back at camp with nothing but memories-beautiful memories and two large bunches of bananas to remind us of our little sojourn in Papua.

Exactly four weeks later I landed there again, this time with some high-ranking Allied officials on board, and inspected the strip and its surroundings for possibilities as an aircraft base. Mrs Taylor again turned on abundant eats and her famous brew of tea, while Dennis told us all he knew about the local terrain, sea approaches, etc.

Only a matter of months later while we were south, I opened up the morning newspaper and read how Allied planes had landed heavy guns and supplies on our strip for the successful southern pincers movement on Buna.

Was it fate that led us there? I wonder.

LEX HALLIDAY, R.A.A.F.

THE SPIN OF A COIN

E. H. GIESEN, SECOND A.I.F.

 DAY OF DAYS

L. C. HUDSON, R.A.N.

SAGA OF THE SHOWGROUND

And the swish of hose and broom, the rattle of dixies, voices cursing and laughter ringing, wagons laden with blankets, with uniforms, with medical supplies, with rifles, with all the paraphernalia that dresses the grim pomp and circumstance of war and completes the outfitting of the man who has lost his former identity and who is now a number as well as a name in the maelstrom of conflict.

The transition of the Royal Agricultural Showground from a nation's exhibition of achievement to a great military depot for the reception and preliminary training of recruits was not accomplished overnight, nor without the solving of many seemingly insoluble problems. Men were enlisting in such mounting numbers that immediate accommodation had to be found for them. Tents sufficient to cover
so many thousands were not available. Such established camps as existed could not in those early days cope with the rush. As the news from Europe became more sombre and it became only too obvious that we were not going to hang out our washing on the Siegfried Line, the deadly menace of Germany's conquering legions brought to the recruiting centres in all British lands an ever-swelling tide of men determined to stop Hitler and his equally paranoid pal, Mussolini.

So the Showground was opened for the reception of recruits for Australia's Second A.I.F. In they came, singly or with their mates, then in dozens and then in their hundreds, following guides who led them to their allotted units and quarters. All at this stage were dressed in "civvies" and they carried a weird assortment of suitcases and bags; all were very sure of themselves, yet unknowingly they betrayed the over-concealed bewilderment of the rookie and the determined casualness of the youngster who knew there were old and experienced eyes watching him, and who, because of the tough traditions of Bluey and Snowy and other real and legendary heroes of the First A.I.F., were certainly not, even from the very beginning, going to be less tough than those hard-bitten old blokes who in no uncertain manner had helped to thrash the Turk and the Hun.

The Showground was not at any time designed for the reception and retention of military recruits: it was the annual home and parade of the superb livestock, produce and manufactured articles of all Australia. Here in this colossal maze of revealed effort, once a year, products of land, lathe and loom were shown to multitudes. Generations of men and women had witnessed its growth, generations by their skill and toll had made it paramount among the world's shows. And the rapid converting of this great arena of industry to military needs was an immediate task that called for genius in swift organization and decision.

The first problem was the getting together of a headquarters staff of experienced officers, N.C.O's and men. This was done by telegram and telephone, by letter and by word of mouth. Some were close at hand, others were still riding the miles of the Riverina and the western plains, others again were already in khaki in distant camps, but all on receipt of the call came swiftly. Now indeed was seen the value of the veterans, those who had in past years tackled the jobs of billeting weary battalions in the rubble of ruins, of feeding them, of reorganizing them, of re-equipping them under conditions infinitely more stark than those arising at the peaceful Showground. Nevertheless, as the men began to pour in, the task was one for giants to tackle. Nothing was easy. The Showground authorities, on the civil side, were, it was suspected, somewhat aghast at this ruthless invasion of their citadel, and no doubt their pulses palpitated with apprehension as they listened to the banging of hammers and the rasping of saws as urgently-needed alterations and extensions were made.

But it had to be done quickly. Sections of the ground were allotted to the various services -artillery in one part, infantry in another, signallers in another, Army Service Corps somewhere apart, engineers elsewhere, pioneers in another place. Units formed their own staffs, organized their areas, got their men under cover in pavilions and horse stalls, arranged for messing space, for training areas in Centennial Park just outside the Showground, supervised the usual sick parades, formed themselves into detachments, batteries, companies, battalions, regiments. And it seemed as though the wondering, ghostly gaze of the Tattooed Lady, the Fat Lady, the Smallest Man on Earth, the Sword Swallower, the giants, the jugglers, the pugs, the spruikers, and the youngsters shedding banana peel, followed the giggle-suited, painfully-booted, slop-hatted representatives of Australia's embryo army as they swaggered, marched, laughed and sang their way through the tangle of buildings and streets.

In July 1940 there were 10,600 men in the Showground. In the weeks that had passed since the gates first opened for the recruits the indefatigable efforts of headquarters and unit staffs had worked military miracles. The greatest two difficulties that arose were faced and overcome: the smashing by competent medical services of the dangerous outbreaks of meningitis, measles and influenza and the coping with the messing problems by catering experts.

For a time sickness seriously threatened to make the Showground untenable for troops. Wintry winds that cut with a razor's edge sliced through the twisted alleyways, lanes and winding streets.  The hospitals were full. Ominous rumours began to spread: it was whispered that men were dying like flies and that the authorities were deliberately suppressing this information.

But the truth was that no soldier during this period died of sickness at the Showground.

Medical officers, orderlies and gallant nurses in the Burma Pavilion and in the auxiliary -hospital some distance away, worked day and night under the most difficult conditions and their devoted and skilful work undoubtedly did save lives. 

And during this anxious time, when medical equipment was at its nadir, when the hospitals themselves were merely converted exhibition halls where lurking filth and quick improvisation had to be overcome, when all that the Army authorities could provide for the transport of the sick was a tumbril-like, horse-drawn wagon, the splendid gestures and generosity of the Canterbury District Ambulance in donating two motor ambulances and the professional officers of the Postmaster General's Department in donating a brand new motor ambulance, were a God-sent relief to those battling to beat the outbreaks.

Many volunteer services were rendered during those crowded days. Women's organizations such as the Ladies' Auxiliary Sewing Guild and the Business Girls' Association, by the patching of garments and the sewing on of buttons, did more than they themselves perhaps realized to uphold the dignity, and the pants, of a considerable portion of the new army. And the lighter side of soldiering was not overlooked. Football teams, concert parties, boxing exhibitions, ice skating in the nearby Palais, picture shows, libraries, and a flood of amenities of all descriptions contributed to the relaxation and enjoyment of the leisure hours. 

By day and by night there was ceaseless activity; the ground hummed with it, echoed to the tramp of feet, to the sharp order. Men trained until within the short space of weeks the changing of the guard at the main gate, to the accompaniment of the Barracks' Band, was in itself a spectacle that won admiration and applause not only from military observers but also from hundreds of onlooking visitors. It seemed incredible that in so short a time such efficiency in the finer points of a difficult ceremonial drill could be so well mastered by recruits and it showed both the spirit of the men and the excellent training imparted by their instructors.

While excessive praise is to be deprecated, understatement is to be deplored for the simple reason that in time it becomes accepted and the false modesty that prompted it is then responsible for the lack of knowledge and the ignorance that follows. It was seen, even in the first few days, that the men coming in to the Showground were fine physical types. As the simple training progressed impression became conviction that here, as yet in the raw, were troops who would maintain, even possibly surpass, the heroic standard set by their fathers. Mostly they were young, some were not so young, but under their easy, rather careless bearing was seen the vital will to go in and win.

But the quick raising of masses of men for military training threw a spotlight on Australia's chronic and dangerous attitude to military training during the days of peace. The Australian hates war and all that it implies, yet when it strikes he comes in his thousands, freely, willingly, to do his part. But he -was a little dismayed to be told there were no rifles, no machine guns, no artillery, no cars, no trucks, no planes. He remembers when he was given a broomstick instead of a rifle to keep his hands employed; he was given interminable fatigue duties because there was a dearth of competent instructors and lecturers; he was given a pea rifle instead of a -303 to learn the art of shooting; he was given blistering route marches before he had broken in his boots and before he had been taught the elements of march discipline; he was fed on frightful concoctions while Army cooks were being trained; he lay in his hut with a high fever because there were no military hospitals to receive him.

And yet, to his eternal credit, he took it all in his springy stride. On his broad willing shoulders he carried his pack as well as the mistakes of his elected legislators. But he wondered, not always silently, often profanely, if Australia would always be able to buy time at someone else's expense. Behind the roaring chorus of "Roll out the Barrel" was the thought "For God's sake roll out a few thousand guns." Always and forever, it seemed to him, Australia would, as Britain once did, rely on "the thin red line. In Australia's case in those days a willing but emasculated militia; would always send a boy on a man's errand; would always smother procrastination under platitudes. He was forced to accept the deadly philosophy "Oh, we'll muddle through somehow - Britain always wins the last battle, you know."

And now that the Showground, that cradle of his Army days, is but a memory, he wonders if the recruits of the Third A.I.F. when time and destiny call them together, will be put through the ordeal of unpreparedness he endured, will have to makeshift and stall for want of equipment, arms and instruction. He does not know, but looking round him he sees nothing to give him any confidence in Australia's future security, and he is now wise enough to know that political speeches do not win battles, and that a Churchill is given to a nation only once in a long, long while.

But he will remember the Showground, where he met his mates and from where he and they marched together across the world. He will remember those blurred, formative days and nights in the long stalls and on the concrete beds of the stands. He will recall as he grows older and forgets the sting of the first barbs of discipline, the pride he carefully concealed under a giggle suit. And when thoughts of those days come stealing back he will reflect upon the frosty morning sunlight of Centennial Park, where he first learned to keep in step; rain hissing through the muddy, Showground alleyways; gnome-like forms in glistening ground sheets; smiling red-caped sisters; the eager rush of the Sunday visitors; his first uniform; the crowded canteens; the cursing in the dark of a careless one stumbling over a "rosebowl"; the long trestles of the messes; the mournful call of the Last Post; quiet thoughts in the dark; the biting cold that pierced his blankets; that letter he should have written; mum and the kids; brass hats; the girl friend; pennants fluttering on the bonnets of cars; the harlots at the gate; booze; that blister; reveille; hot coffee that tasted like castor oil; markers at the double; leave cancelled; route marches; orderly room; the slow understanding of it all; grease traps; shining boots; would he come through the war; snapshots; naked men on medical inspection; what was death, anyway; spuds; military police; the gradual changing of himself from a civilian into a soldier; the talk of war, of women, of mates, of many, many things.

He will not forget the beginning of that indefinable spirit that comes to men banded together in a common will to destroy an evil thing. He will look back from the desert and jungle graves of his comrades and think of their laughter ringing in the high pavilions and winding ways of the Showground. Yes; he will think of all these things that made him and those who marched away never to return a living part of the saga of the Showground, that small pattern in the great tapestry of later war experiences on which at last were emblazoned the ultimate and triumphant words: Victory through valour and sacrifice.

E. V. TIMMS, FIRST AND SECOND A.I.F.

FROM THE ARCHIVES

A NEW HAT IN A NEW WORLD

There was something uncanny about that hat. To commence with, it was taller and more undentable than any other hat I had ever seen. It was a size too big and it had no chinstrap. But it did have the ability to respond instantly any word of command by leaping from head and sailing happily away - with me in pursuit.

I must have chased it for miles that day. They kept marching us about and halting us in front of those huts with the maddening, meaningless initials. Somebody would say, "Stand at EASE! " and away I would go after my hat. By the time I had recovered it, my little band would have marched off to some new mystery and I would be left to wander about, a pathetic and ridiculous figure, asking silly questions.

In the gathering darkness of the early winter evening they marched us off to mess, thoroughly cowed and deeply depressed by the terrors of the coming night and the sheer impossibility of ever learning to fold our blankets in the regulation manner.

Outside the mess hut we were halted and addressed by a warrant officer who had a very red face and obviously hated us intensely. He told us about the playing of "Retreat" and promised faithfully to personally dismember any man who moved a muscle while it was being played. We were deeply impressed.

The first clear notes of the bugle sliced the air. Somebody moved a muscle.

"Stand FAST!" thundered the W.O.

That did it! My hat shot straight into the air, looped neatly and whizzed ecstatically off into the gloom.

Within ten minutes I had been soundly ticked off for (a) allowing it to blow away, (b) attempting to follow it and (c) answering back. I had found my hat in a puddle of muddy water, had walked on it in the process of recovering it, had cut my finger on a piece of broken glass and had returned in search of food to find the kitchen staff united in a great campaign of hatred against me because I was late. They asked me, among other things, who I thought I was and what I thought they were.

Later, I went to the R.A.P. and asked for a piece of plaster to put over the cut on my finger. The man there asked me who I thought I was and what I thought he was and directed my attention to the little board detailing the sick parade times.

With a number of other shivering unfortunates, I reported at the R.A.P. the following morning and was eventually attended to. I then went to the kitchen, asked about breakfast and recoiled before the fury of the staff once again. It seemed that I had no "chit" and much as they had detested me the previous evening, without a chit I was a much lower type than any previously encountered. They also made one or two references to me and mine that were not at all complimentary.

After breakfast I went on parade and was soon wilting under a barrage of abuse from an officer who was most anxious to discover who I thought I was, what I thought he was and what the something I meant by wearing a bat in that condition. He made several fantastic suggestions about what I had no doubt been doing with it and ordered me to change it. "NOW," he concluded.

I caught my hat about two hundred yards away and took it to the "Q" store. I got in first and told the sergeant who I thought I was and what I thought he was and please could I have a new hat.

He spoke, if I remember correctly, for about five minutes. It was a magnificent performance but at the end of it I got a new hat. It was slighter larger and much more air minded than the first one and I soon found myself weltering in a morass of official displeasure resulting from my extraordinary habit of clutching frantically at my head every time somebody appeared likely to give me an order.

I developed a tendency to giggle slightly.

I still do.

K. A. COLLIE, SECOND A.I.F.

TELLING OFF THE CANNON

Over came the target, orders were barked through the amplifiers, the first round was loaded and the ammo runners stood ready to throw up further rounds to the loader. "Fire!" came the order and Chappie was just dwelling on it. Bang went his hand on give up the hand-firing lever and simultaneously he shut his eyes and waited for the detonation.

All that followed was an awful silence.

Astounded (we'd never previously had a misfire), he opened one eye and then the other. Rapidly he realized what had happened, re-cocked and fired again with the same result.

"- - - misfire!" he barked to his Number 1. "Wouldn't it --- haunt you!" By the time we'd unloaded, Nip, of course, was halfway back to Timor.

Cream of the joke was that during the afternoon we fired the best part of twenty rounds in practice without a hitch.

Each time Chappie fired he'd tell the old cannon off . . . "Yes . . . bang! . . . you old cow . . . bang! You would - - - well . . . bang! . . . fire . . . wouldn't you ....bang! . . . now Nip's not about .. . . one recco . . . bang! . . . and you give up the flamin' . . .  bang! . . . ghost.

Suppose if a flight . . . bang!. . of bombers came over . . . bang! you'd b------ well . . . bang! . . . fall to pieces . . .bang!

M. MORGAN, SECOND A.I.F.

FOOTSLOGGERS SOMETIMES RODE

"I tell you they are!" barked the Old Man. "And I won't have it."

So Pongo climbed down the steep ladder and there, sure enough, were some of his hardest doers, miners and men from the Outback, seated around a blanket-covered mess table, each with a little pile of gold and silver in front of him. They pretended to be unaware of his existence and went on "seeing" each other so vigorously that he began to sweat a little in the palms of his hands.  But suddenly an inspiration came to him.

"Would you mind stopping for one moment?" he remarked politely and they put down their hands and stared at him wonderingly.

"When gentlemen play cards," he continued, "they play for chips or er - matches. It is considered very bad form to have money on the table, and", his voice grew stem, "if ever I find money on the table again - you're for it."

There was deep silence when he withdrew, which continued until he was some way up the ladder, and then a friendly voice called after him, "We get yer, Steve."

There were thirty-mine ships in the convoy. They steamed three abreast across the Indian Ocean guarded by Australian cruisers and a battleship from Japan. Every ship was in its station when the sun went down. With all lights out, all through the night the convoy travelled over an empty sea. The sun went down, the glittering stars wheeled in formation overhead; then came the dawn and every  ship w as in its place. It seemed as if they had not moved.

But one morning there was some excitement, for H.M.A.S. Sydney left the convoy and steamed north at full speed. The excitement grew in intensity when it became known that she had gone to meet the Emden. Jap ship followed her, draped in an immense battle flag, but when she was hull down there came a message from Sydney: "Emden beached and done for" and from thirty thousand throats a gale of cheering swept the sea.

They sweated in their hammocks on the way to Aden and in the Red Sea, for there was room for only half of the men to sleep on deck. When they passed through the Canal its eastern bank was lined with Indian troops. Turkey had entered the war!

From Alexandria they went by train to Cairo and thence by tram, battalion after battalion in endless lines of trams, to Mena at the foot of the Pyramids. In the cool of the evening they trudged through heavy sand to their camping ground, piled arms and bivouacked. When the blankets arrived at four the next morning, the sands of the desert had grown cold.

There wasn't room inside the trams for all the men with leave passes for Cairo, so the overflow climbed on the roof and sat with legs dangling over the sides. One of the outside passengers was appointed manipulator and he stopped the tram by pulling the trolley wheel off the wire. When the passengers who wished to alight had done so, he called to the Egyptian driver, "Let 'er go, George", at the at the same time easing the trolley wheel back into position.

Affluent Diggers sometimes overstayed their leave and returned to camp by motor. There was a guard on the bridge over the canal near Mena, where leave passes were examined, but for a consideration the Greek motor drivers would dash past the sentry at high speed, thus enabling the latecomers to reach their lines undetected.

Colonel Eyeglass at Divisional Headquarters was very annoyed when this happened and asked the officer of the guard what the devil he thought he was paid for.

"How could I stop them, sir?" pleaded Pongo.

"You were armed, weren't you?" snapped the colonel.

When Smithers had charge of the guard he placed a sentry a hundred yards up the road. The first car was challenged and the driver "stepped on it", but ,Smithers was waiting at the bridge and as the car flashed past he fired a shot from his revolver into a rear tyre. It toppled over the embankment, the driver's leg was broken and Smithers was ordered to parade at H.Q.

Colonel Eyeglass stared at him until his flesh became all prickly, and then "That will be all, thank you," said the colonel. "I just wanted to see what a subaltern looked like who wasn't afraid to obey orders."

Footsloggers rode on donkeys when they visited nearby villages and they were carried on camels to see the tombs of the sacred bulls at Sakkara. They rode in the little two-horsed gharries of Cairo; sometimes they ousted the drivers and held chariot races through the streets of the city, but this was only very late at night. There was one day in eight allowed for such diversions; on the others they trudged with full packs up through the sand and stones of the desert learning to become soldiers, training grimly for war.

Some rode in a dirty old tramp, with iron decks, from Alexandria to Lemnos, where for weeks they practised landing operations. They went in battleships to near the isle of Imbros, off the coast of Gallipoli, and on a still dark night they were crammed into ships' boats and towed ashore.

That was the last time they rode for many months, except those who were carried on stretchers, but many lived to ride again, and went in ships, first to Egypt and then to France. Troop trains carried them through green fields and over gleaming rivers; "8 hommes" to a compartment, "8 chevaux ou 40 hommes" to a truck! But first they marched through the crowded streets of Marseilles where women and girls strewed a pathway of flowers for the "Saviours of France".

After three days in the train, the footsloggers found themselves once again on their feet. Loaded with packs, blankets and ground sheets, with bombs and ammunition, they sauntered "up the line" and after some days drifted out again to billets, to thin beer and vin ordinaire; then "up the line" and out again; again and again until a major stunt broke the monotony. To that they rode some of the way, at least, in buses or in trains.

When they were out of the line Pongo drank a little and he tried out his French on Margot and Yvonne. He loved them both, which made him very unhappy, for Mary, back at home, knitted him socks and wrote him charming letters every mail. Smithers had no inhibitions. He drank freely of the best wines procurable and his ardour was amply rewarded.

They went on leave to Paris, where Pongo suffered periods of remorse, but Smithers had the time of his life. And it so happened, after a big stunt, that they caught the same Red Cross train for Blighty. When they left hospital they saw Chu Chin Chow in all its splendour and next day. from the top of a Blackfriars tram, London in all its vastness. Through miles and miles of streets they passed. Streets lined with houses standing shoulder to shoulder, like diggers on parade, with pubs for markers and chemists' shops for N.C.Os.

"This tram makes me feel sort of homesick," said Pongo to the smart little conductorette, who clipped their tickets.

"Why, sir, you don't 'ave tramcars in Australia, do yer?"

"Oh, yes," said Smithers, butting in, "and trains, and motor cars, and-push bikes."

"Do yer?" she gasped. "Yer know I always fink of Australia as so - so wild", and she moved her right hand uncertainly through a ragged arc.

They rode in the "Flying Scotsman" touching seventy and on the Glasgow trams for a ha'penny a section. A Highlander who couldn't speak English drove them through the Trossachs in his wagonette and they sailed across Loch Katrine in a little pleasure boat.

They couldn't get a taxi when they returned to London. Smithers said, "Let's take a hansom and see the town, the day being fine." The driver, Alf as they called him, replied, "'Arf a crown an hour, guv'nor." So they visited Buckingham Palace and the Abbey and called at the Tower and at No. io Downing Street. All through that sunny afternoon they listened to a quaint Cockney commentary delivered through the little trap door in the roof of the cab. When Alf grew hoarse he stopped, at their suggestion, at a friendly inn.

Footsloggers; sometimes rode-in jaunting cars in Ireland, in aeroplanes and blimps, but how they marched with heads erect and shining eyes, aboard the troopships which brought them home!

G. D. SHAW, First A.I.F.

THE LITTLE HELL

B J T Stone Second AIF

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