Chapter 10 Death in the barley; Greatcoats, khaki, one; The Mariner

DEATH IN THE BARLEY

El Salt had fallen, captured at small cost by the Australian and New Zealand mounted forces. The raid had been a well planned surprise, swiftly and brilliantly executed. The outer defences had fallen to a series of bayonet charges by dismounted light horsemen. The town itself had offered little resistance for the Turks seemed unable to grasp the fact that the mounted columns had come up the rugged mountain track in the darkness and overcome their trenches within an hour or two of dawn.

In a mad gallop our squadron, "A" Squadron of the 8th Light Horse, swept through the town and pursued Jacko's fleeing transport along the Amman road, a winding road that clung perilously to the rocky mountain sides. Horse-drawn waggons toppled and crashed into the gorges far below, motor lorries and even staff cars pulled into the hillside and surrendered. We were wildly elated, carried by the speed and ease of our victory. Show us more Turks, we felt, and we'd clean them all up.

But by sunrise next morning our high spirits had completely vanished. Rumour, the ever present Furphy, had it that our infantry had been held up behind us and we were in danger of being cut off. Heavy Turkish reinforcements were advancing to retake the town and we were spread out in a very thin line to defend it.

The man in the ranks can form no true picture of a large-scale action. He is lucky if he can fully grasp all that goes on In his immediate sector. And, in this story, I propose to deal only with what I actually saw, with the doings of my own squadron and with the outstanding leadership of one man. To me his feat was an epic of courage, of quick thinking and, above all, leadership.

I am ashamed to admit that I don't know how he spelt his name -Nicholas, I think- but I do remember everything else about him. He was the major commanding the 3rd Aust. Machine Gun Squadron, a big broad-shouldered man with two outstanding qualities for a leader, absolute fearlessness in action and a fine carrying voice. Incidentally, when the need arose, he could out-curse any trooper in the brigade.

It was late afternoon when we handed our horses over to our horse holders and climbed to the top of the ridge allotted to us. As an observation post it was ideal, for we could look down into the rocky valley across a large patch of ripening, barley and beyond the valley to miles of open, rolling hills. But as a defensive position it had one tremendous disadvantage. A dozen yards ahead of us the hillside dropped away into "dead ground". If the Turks chose to attack in the night they could creep up the valley, form up in that dead ground and be right on top of us before we could fire a shot.

After a short conference of officers it was decided to move the squadron two hundred yards downhill. There our field of fire wag excellent; the country sloped gradually away from us, bare of &11 cover except for the barley crop about one hundred yards ahead.

True, the barley could conceal a large body of troops but to reach it the enemy would have to cross an exposed ridge well within our range. The disadvantage of this position was obvious to us all. We were a small isolated unit of one squadron supported by two Vickers guns and our only line of communication lay up that exposed hillside. Still it wasn't our job to worry about that; our immediate orders were to make our position as. strong as possible and to hold it against the expected attack. To do this we set about building protective stone sangars. There was, no lack of material, for the hill was composed of boulders, grey granite rocks of all sizes and shapes.

An hour or so before dark, when our building was completed, the Turks opened fire from the distant ridges. They were not doing us any harm. The range was extreme and everything was going well over our heads, possibly because they didn't realize we were not manning the top of the hill. Even when they opened up with a few light field guns the shells whistled harmlessly over to explode among the rocks far behind us.

We didn't return their fire, firstly because we were ordered to save our ammunition and secondly because we had no target worth shooting at. In our immediate rear two guns of the Hong Kong Mountain Battery opened up and we gave them a cheer. We admired those grave, bearded Indian gunners immensely-the Bing Boys, we called them. Heaven knows how they had struggled up the steep mountain track to Es Salt with their guns strapped to the backs of their camels, but here they were and we wanted them to know how much we appreciated their efforts to support us.

Night fell, a night of soft, starry darkness, its peace broken by the distant rifle fire, the occasional far-off clatter of a machine gun and now and then a crash behind us as the Bing Boys retaliated with one of their tiny shells. We lay or crouched behind our stone shelters peering out into the darkness and we weren't happy. Our scant desert clothing was pitifully inadequate against the chill mountain air. We shivered and longed for the warmth that daylight would bring. Ahead of us and all down the hillside the grey, rocky outcrops shone pale and ghostly in the starlight. A faint breeze ruffled the barley, giving an impression of vast movements. In our imagination we saw figures stealing silently forward among the rocks; the barley was stirring, not with wind but with the stealthy movements of Turkish battalions who would presently rise up and come charging up the slope.

But worst of all was the feeling of isolation; we were so completely cut off from the rest of our brigade, so out of touch even with our own regimental headquarters. Our left flank rested on nothing. I was painfully aware of that for I was on the extreme flank and on my left there was nothing; nothing but grey rocks and black, impenetrable darkness. Five yards away on my right lay my nearest neighbour. Word was passed along that an attack was expected before dawn and the news did nothing to cheer us. We were hungry, tired and miserably cold.

Slowly the night dragged on with the rifle fire sometimes increasing in volume, sometimes dying right away until an hour or so before dawn when there was complete silence. Occasionally my troop leader, Lieutenant Taylor, came along to my position.

"For God's sake keep a sharp look-out to the left," he said once. "As far as I know there's no one supporting us out there."

I assured him I'd been doing nothing else all night.

The faint grey of approaching dawn showed above the ridge behind us and still no attack had developed. Instead came orders for the squadron to retire to the crest of the ridge. We doubted the wisdom of the order as we made ready to obey, but then doubting the judgment of his superiors is one of a soldier's few privileges. Lieutenant Taylor came along to my end of the line as I dragged myself stiffly to my feet.

"Stay behind and take a quick look along the line, Sergeant," he said. "See that nothing is left behind. Some of these chaps would forget their rifles if you didn't watch them." He spoke quietly as men do on lonely outposts in that chill, bleak period of early dawn.

I nodded and began to move from one sangar to another. As far as I was concerned it would be a quick look. I didn't relish the idea of being left alone on this barren, cheerless hillside. I longed for full daylight so that I could at least smoke and talk with my mates.

It was strange how those sangars revealed the character of their builders. Some were neatly constructed, carefully planned to give the maximum protection; others were merely untidy heaps of stones carelessly thrown together. In one of the latter type I found a haversack. A light mist was forming in the valley I saw as I slung the haversack over my shoulder. It was growing easier to distinguish objects in the increasing light. A few yards further on I came on a bandolier and I cursed the feckless owner as I bent to pick it up. As Lieutenant Taylor had said, some chaps would even forget their rifles, and I had enough to carry without weighting myself down with an extra ninety rounds of ammunition.

Not long before this stunt we had been issued with Mills bombs and as most of my mates knew nothing of them whilst I had just come back from a bombing school I found myself landed with a haversack full of the things, a very hefty weight.

I never did add that bandolier to my load. In the act of bending to pick it up I caught sight of a closely-packed line of men, dark figures against the mist. For a second I thought I'd become "slewed", that I'd lost my sense of direction and that these were my own mates, but a quick glance over my shoulder revealed a much thinner line of men, their felt hats clearly silhouetted against the dawn. My mates were uphill from me, these others were downhill and they were wearing the shapeless cloth caps of the Turks.

I don't know how long it took me to grasp these facts. Longer than it should have taken, certainly, for I had time to think how wrong, how utterly fantastic it all was. Jacko just didn't do things like this. We'd been fighting the Turks for three years and we'd never known them to attack silently. They gave us fair warning, working themselves up for the charge by an endless calling on Allah. They yelled "Allah, Allah, Allah", as they charged so that we knew just when to expect them. Yet here they were, moving silently, relentlessly forward, a line of shadowy figures emerging from the mists. Possibly it was the utter, uncanny silence that held me, for on all that barren hillside not a sound could be heard and not a shot was fired.

Then quite suddenly my instinct of self-preservation came to life. I pulled the pin from a bomb, flung it at the advancing line and ran hell-for-leather up the hill, yelling "Look out! Here they come! " at the top of my lungs.

The crash of the exploding bomb drowned my words. It echoed around that grey, silent hillside like the crack of doom, a grim enough warning in itself. Directly ahead of me and lagging slightly behind our retreating men were Major Nicholas and Lieutenant Taylor, the former easily recognizable by his bulk.

Both officers carried rifles that night and, like the rest of us, their bayonets had been fixed since sundown. Major Nicholas was senior officer but technically he was not in command of the squadron. He and his two Vickers gun teams were only attached to us for the night but he didn't let that worry him. He acted. How acted! He swung around, taking in the whole situation in a flash.

"Come on boys," he roared. "We've been waiting for the b------s all night. Into 'em with the bayonet."

Down the hill he came, roaring defiance in a torrent of lurid language, the whole squadron racing at his heels.

It is remarkable how the conduct of one man can alter the course of an entire action, turning defeat into victory, cowards into heroes. Ten seconds previously we had been tired, hungry and utterly dispirited, wanting only to reach some peaceful valley where we could eat our miserable iron rations and perhaps-heavenly thought-find enough wood to brew some scalding tea. Now we were charging with the bayonet, yelling and cursing in a blast of language that in itself should have withered the enemy, and all because of the inspiring leadership of this man.

The Turks broke and ran. It was, I suppose, the element of surprise, the sudden turning of the tables. They had come as attackers and suddenly found themselves attacked. Good soldiers, fatalists under fire, they had one weakness. They never could stand up to a resolute bayonet charge. They turned without firing a shot and we pursued them. In that mood we would have chased them clear to Amman or until we dropped from exhaustion but at our line of sangars the major called a halt.

Then, but not until then, the first shot of that strange action was fired. A man near me threw up his rifle and shot the nearest Turk through the back. All along the line firing broke out. The light was quite good now and at point-blank range we scored freely.

To escape our fire the enemy went to ground in the barley crop, a bad, ostrich-like mistake on their part.

They couldn't see us and although we couldn't see them we could, and did, rake the barley with a steady fire.

Behind us the sun rose above the barren hills, dispersing the mists which might have aided the enemy in their withdrawal had they been quick enough to take advantage of them.

But now they were trapped.

Whichever way they moved we had them, for there was not a vestige of cover away from the crop.

It must have been plain hell in that barley. Vickers and Hotchkiss guns clattered away, raking it up and down, doing heaven alone knows what damage to the men cowering there. Occasionally a Turkish officer would spring to his feet in an effort to induce his men to charge again - gallant, forlorn efforts, for the officer and the few men who responded would be shot down as soon as they appeared.

We all admired Jacko's officers that morning. It took real courage to do that sort of thing, but we didn't spare them. We couldn't afford to. A determined charge by those hidden Turks might easily turn the action in their favour. They were so close we could hear them calling to each other, so close that we couldn't miss. It was plain murder, I suppose, but then all war is murder. It was like a shooting gallery with its suddenly appearing figures but these figures were human.

For us all thoughts of rest, food and even tea vanished. We were carried away by excitement, intent only on wiping out every man of the attacking force. The engagement didn't last long, of course.

No troops could stand up to such one-sided slaughter. A white flag showed above the barley and with upraised arms the survivors straggled towards us.

We never learned how many casualties we inflicted that morning. Ours was but a small local victory with little or no bearing on the main situation.

A general retreat from Es Salt was ordered but we of "A" Squadron had positive proof of our success in the form of a batch of dejected prisoners outnumbering us by nearly two to one.

"STANDBY" R S PORTEOUS, FIRST A.I.F.

GREATCOATS, KHAKI, ONE

I HADN'T opened that cupboard in the laundry for months, I suppose, and at first I couldn't make out what the bulky garment inside could be. Then' it emerged into the light of day as my army greatcoat complete with red cross and two stripes. And as I gazed at its shapeless expanse the years slipped away again and I could see a nervous rookie lining up for uniform inspection. Dinned in her ears was the corporal's instruction:

"Keep your greatcoat folded beside you till Major tells you to put it on,"

There came the moment when the major (female variety) did tell me to put it on. I hastily grabbed the coat and promptly disappeared in its capacious folds. I was puzzled and somewhat hurt. I'd always considered my greatcoat rather a neat fit. Could it be that I had shrunk? I plucked helplessly at various buttons but nothing would diminish its size. The major's pained expression changed to one of amazement at a queer noise from my neighbour. A lass of ample proportions, she was struggling madly into a greatcoat at least three sizes too small for her. We shook silently as we corrected the affair.

That greatcoat was to be a firm stand-by to me in later years. Not for me were to be the atebrin yellow of New Guinea, the lovely rain-coats, the dashing slacks, and the clinging kiss of the malaria mosquito. Winter found me clutching a veil against a sleety wind and, rugged in the greatcoat, fighting the battle of the Heidelberg duck-boards.

Ah, that veil! To me in V.A.D. days it symbolized the badge of service-with that veil I'd be a nurse. It rather damped my enthusiasm when I was detailed to a mess to wash dishes on arrival at a hospital. But after a week my chance came and I reported to a ward. There, in a glow of patriotic fervour, I washed more dishes. Time passed and I was promoted to washing backs instead of beakers.

I took temperatures with what I hoped was a nonchalant air and it seemed a far cry to the day, back home on part-time duty, when I popped the thermometer into my first patient's mouth. I can still remember the concentration with which I read that man's temperature and the professional flip I gave that thermometer. Strangely enough the mercury remained at the same level and, somewhat agitated, I flipped it again less professionally. Still no result. Then from the patient came the maddening suggestion:

"Try the other end, nursie!"

The greatcoat's sterling worth was even more apparent when I was moved to a base hospital further north in Victoria where the winter frosts are something to talk about. Here its great weight on top of the regulation army blankets gave an illusion of warmth in our airy tent, and it's not everyone who has been able to scrape the ice off their coat in the morning.

Then on the early morning trek to an outlying ward it was undoubtedly the coat and the Red Cross mittens which saved me from an early death from frost-bite. On night duty it covered my assorted cardigans. as I staggered on duty, laden with oddments of long woollen socks, slippers and torches for slinking round the darkened ward.

Of course there were months when the thought of wearing a "poona"-that heavy drill garment that served as an outdoor summer uniform-raised a gentle perspiration, and the mere thought of a greatcoat might have caused a sunstroke, but the buffer against Melbourne sleet and Bonegilla. frost deserved a better fate than this. Perhaps time has a softening influence, and certainly there's not a trace of the "new look" about it, but sitting on the laundry floor weighed down under the khaki folds, I felt it was rather unkind to have banished an old and trusted friend to such oblivion.

HELEN CATERER, A.A.M.W.S.

THE MARINER

YOU could still see the harbour Bridge arching its graceful bulk across the Sydney sky-line when we first noticed the albatross. Nobody actually remembered seeing him arrive. Everyone was too busy watching the Australian coastline smear away into the inky-blue Pacific swell to bother overmuch about a solitary sea-bird. We all forgot about him till the next morning when we had settled down into the routine of the troopship. And then there he was, lazily weaving around in the wake of the ship or hovering gently in the up-draught over the superstructure.

At the first morning parade we christened him "The Ancient Mariner". As the days and the sea drowsily merged and slid by, the Mariner became almost as much a topic for discussion as did our ultimate destination. Basking lizard-like in the sun on deck after breakfast it was pleasant watching the big bird wheeling and swinging against the big white clouds that sailed serenely and endlessly against the blue expanse of the Pacific sky.

I'd never suspected that the rest of my mates amongst the draft of Australian air crews on board were so well versed in sea lore. Tale after tale of other albatrosses on other seas would go the rounds. Even the most cynical seemed to find the Mariner's presence comforting. Attacks by Jap submarines on our Pacific shipping had been head-lined in the newspapers just before we left Sydney and now the Mariner somehow seemed to make up for the escort vessel we didn't have. It didn't seem quite so lonely with the big bird watching over us.

Once he created something of a sensation by lethargic troopship standards - when he swooped down behind a rolling swell. He rode into view dipping his beak into the foam streaked water before soaring away up on patrol again. Questioned about his feeding habits the seamen said that he probably fed on
the scraps of garbage which were dumped overboard at night-time.

It was just after this that the Mariner suffered a temporary loss of popularity. Early one morning we threw him some bread and boxes of galley leavings. Apparently the brass on the ship's bridge had seen the Mariner diving on the stuff because ten minutes later we were mustered on the boat deck to listen to an irate American officer forcibly point out that it was bad enough being on our unprintable own without spreading galley slush "all over the goddam Pacific Ocean" for Japanese Navy units to see and from which to draw their own conclusions. Dumping the trash at night at least gave the ship a few hours' start if the clue were found and followed up.

After we were dismissed a babble of voices discussed the ill-luck that might waylay an albatross-escorted ship. The Mariner's stocks were way down, unfairly so perhaps, but then ship-confined troops were rarely angels of logic and sweet reason. But the bird's stocks rocketed up once more during the blow that later rolled and bucked the big ship for two days and nights. If you were well enough to get up on deck and shield your eyes against ,the driving spray and rain you'd catch glimpses of the Mariner skimming low over the ship's storm-tom wake.

Afterwards when the sun glinted again on a placid sea flicked and teased into gentle protest by the trade winds, there was the Mariner still nonchalantly going through his familiar routine. Even when they released target balloons and the "Chicago Pianos" pumped tracer up into the sky after them the Mariner just sheered away to the other side of the ship with all the tolerant boredom of a battle-wise veteran.

It was the following Sunday morning when we'd just finished a slightly unsteady church parade on the gently rolling boat deck and all eyes were watching the Mariner that he suddenly keeled over and went down in a dive for all the world like a dive-bomber, ahead and to starboard of the ship. He flattened out of his dive low over the sea and began flying round and round in tight circles.

Simultaneously the decks shook to the singing crack of the ship's 6-inch guns and the Mariner disappeared in a concentration of spouting geysers of foam and smoke. Then the ship heeled as she swung to starboard and headed straight for the Mariner's find. Everyone felt the crunching jar as the ex-liner rammed the sub and everyone saw the oil slick smoothing out the tumbling water astern. But nobody saw the Mariner. After the excitement had died down and the chastened spirits amongst us who had been thirsting for action had finished a bout of chain-smoking, we all felt blue about the Mariner's death in action and every morning on the last few days' run to the American coast we'd scan the empty sky for the big bird.

We never saw him again.

But months later I met a friend in the mess at an English airfield. He had crossed the Pacific in a later draft of troops in the same ship. He mentioned that they had not had an escort. They had been on their own all the way across the Pacific except for a big albatross that left them suddenly a few days before they reached San Francisco!

GEOFF TAYLOR, R.A.A.F.