Part 8

In my youthful days I’ve paid two shillings to see a horse perform evolutions and gyroscope stunts not to be compared with the tricks that animal unearthed. I had an irresistible tendency from the first to fall off over the place where, in normal times, his head and neck should have been. Finally, yielding to impulse, I descended to good Palestine mud amid the shrieks of an ill-mannered crowd. Some imbecile sauntered up and said, “By jove, matey, if you could only have stopped up another five secs. I would have had one of the best snaps in the Unit.” I wouldn’t trust my reply to a green envelope. The sergeant remarked that horsemanship didn’t seem to be my forte, so I informed him that my marching-in papers proclaimed me a flag-wagger, not a Bronco Buster.

“Right,” said he, “take Maaleesh.”

I took him, for better or for worse, and went to make his acquaintance. That horse didn’t belie his name. Maaleeshness fairly radiated from him, from his huge, out-of-proportion head that an A.S.C. mule might envy, to his stump of a tail, the missing part of which had provided food for a hungry moke on the Jaffa stunt. What was left of it provided me with food for reflection.

He wasn’t a bad horse. As the Troop farrier said, he had no vice in him. The trouble was, he was as devoid of energy or grey matter as he was of vice. He progressed at a lumbering shuffle, with his head low down after the manner of a cow-catcher on a locomotive. He had also acquired a taste for feed-bags, and was blessed with a very good appetite. Every time I fed him he disposed of _tibbin_, grain and nose-bag. The day before we went on the stunt Maaleesh contracted Spanish Influenza, and on the vet administering that panacea for all equine ailments, a ball, he barracked and refused to move.

Then I was handed over to the tender mercies of “Lofty.” The lancejack, who knew a bit about horses, confidently informed me that Lofty was one of those horses that never carry much condition, and he knew a horse at Cunnawulla.... I hastily agreed with him, especially the former part of his statement. We looked at Lofty, who favoured us with an apathetic stare. If the third generation theory is correct, Lofty’s granddad was a camel. Going through a neighbouring town I was No. 1 of the section, and being of a sensitive nature, it hurt me to see the people laugh; but Lofty appeared indifferent.

The first day out he chewed up two signal flags and all the straps on my mate’s gear. Half-way through the stunt he faced the East, struck a prayerful attitude and, with a don’t-give-a-hang-if-you-shoot-me-I-won’t-move expression in his eyes, prepared to rest. Our sergeant shot him, whereupon he displayed more agility than anyone had hitherto thought he possessed, and gambolled off over a ridge. A sympathetic New Zealander recaptured him, but took warning from the black looks and wild gesticulations of the mob. Shortly afterward a report was heard. Lofty’s soul had gone West. Visions of the photo I intended to send to my best girl, of my illustrious self mounted on a fiery charger, faded into oblivion; and as I transferred my trappings to a spare mule, I vaguely wondered, from force of habit, what characteristic and peculiarities my new mount possessed.

“ACRABAH.”

Concerning Medical Blokes

The Army Medical Corps is a chain of many links. Let the lay mind which has condensed its conception of the Corps’ duties into “picking up the wounded,” reflect upon an interwoven organization of Base Hospitals, Convalescent Homes and Rest Camps; Auxiliary Hospitals, Isolation Hospitals and Dermatological Hospitals; Stationary Hospitals (which are liable to move about) and Casualty Clearing Hospitals—we are working up the chain from the back to the front—Motor Ambulance Units and Hospital Trains and Hospital Ships; Divisional Receiving Stations, Field Dental Units, Field Operating Units and Field Laboratories (these all hear the firing of the guns); Field Ambulances (which comprise within themselves Field Hospitals), Dressing Stations and Advanced Dressing Stations (these get bullets through their tents and shells in their bivvies); and, end of the chain, the Medical Blokes with the Regiments. They are the last link; they are the tip of the longest tentacle of the Medical octopus. Truly, modesty forbids me from adding that they are the sweetest violet in the bunch.

The Medical Blokes are detailed from the Ambulance at the rate of an N.C.O. and one man to each Regiment. Thereafter they become part and parcel of that Regiment; live with it, move with it, minister to it; share its trials, troubles, tribulations, triumphs and rum issues. Nevertheless, in cold, official fact, they still belong to the Ambulance, being upon its supernumerary strength—“attached for duty and discipline to the Xth Regiment.” This little complication has its unsuspected advantages, for it sometimes breeds in the mind of an R.S.M. a shade of doubt as to exactly how far the Medical Blokes come within his jurisdiction, and he is constrained to permit them a certain independence of existence and exemption from routine. They obey “Reveille;” they approximate their appearance on the horse-lines, to groom, feed and water, as nearly to the Regimental schedule as the exigencies of the medical service permit; they generally manage to scratch an instant to be present at the cook-house at meal times; at the Quartermaster’s bivvy when he is doling out rations, and at the Orderly Room on pay-day. Their liabilities discharged, they are left free to order their time as they please. They are usually to be found lurking in the medical tent, though they sometimes go to earth in a bivvy pitched somewhere in its vicinity.

In addition to the two above-mentioned stalwarts, the Regimental medical establishment carries a Medical Officer and an offsider, a trooper of the Regiment, detailed for the job, who, in course of time, is likely to become so imbued with the spirit of his surroundings that he is not to be distinguished from genuine Medical Blokes themselves. Nominally he is intended for water duties; to carry out daily at the area drinking-water supply the mysterious rite (known to the uninitiated as “chlorinating” and to the rank and file as “poisoning”) by which the further existence of cholera and other germs in the water is discouraged. He is the man responsible for making the water taste as if there were a very dead camel lying a hundred yards further up the stream whence it was drawn; while tea made with it always seems to have been cut with an oniony knife. Yet he deserves a certain amount of pity. If he over-chlorinates, the whole Brigade will blaspheme him and his activities; if he under-chlorinates, Medical Officers accuse him of encouraging epidemic; and the happy medium of chlorination is so deucedly elusive that he never strikes it!

By way of transport for their chattels the Medical Blokes have a cart, called Maltese, a square contrivance on two wheels and no springs, drawn by three horses abreast. You can pick it out on the road at the tail end of the Regimental transport in company with the water-cart. It is invariably overloaded with what looks like a lunatic’s purchases at a bargain auction sale—or somebody’s goods undergoing a back street removal—baskets, bottles, barrels, boxes, bedding, brushes, blankets, bivvies, buckets, to say nothing of all the things which begin with other letters of the alphabet. The driver of the cart is not a Medical Bloke; he is a Philistine from the transport lines.

There are cinema-and-picture-nourished imaginations at Home who fancy war as one unending, crimson, bloody pageant of battle, whereas it is merely a different sort of humdrum existence from their own, with occasional violent patches of excitement. Also, they worship the A.M.C. man as the Red Cross Hero of the Piece, whereas ... never mind. But you will grant me that, of all the A.M.C. personnel, the Medical Bloke gets nearest to the heroic rôle. He shares the hazards of a fighting unit; he is an all-but combatant. When the squadrons go out to fight he sloughs all his bulky baggage, puts gauze, wool, bandages, iodine and scissors into his haversack, and follows. Comes at dawn—we have branded dawn for ever as the battle hour—a moment when a ragged, scattered line of men begin to walk forward up the gentle slope of a low ridge. This is attack. The split and scatter of shrapnel, the hiss-bang-crash of H.E., and z-z-z-en of flying fragments, make death a chance in the shallow gully. But the top of the ridge is the edge of open, machine gun-swept country. It is a hundred yards to the crest—and death for someone. This Medical Bloke, the wind well up, has shrunk himself into a crevice and waits for a call. He desires nothing better than to stay there. He watches the men walking up the slope—such everyday, wise, silly, plain, good, bad, smart, childish men—just simply walking up the slope. And in that moment our Medical Bloke realizes that they are better men than he, because they are walking up that slope of which _he_ is afraid. Are they better? He is walking, rather slowly, up the slope now. He runs a few steps and drops behind cover on the crest, and waits for the need that will call him. Fate grants him a few minutes’ spell, and then puts him to the test. “Stretcher-bearers!” they cry to the left. The Medical Bloke can see two men bending over the third, and he faces one of those decisions which mould character. Quite properly, he may wait until they carry the man to him, behind cover (there are troopers whose hazardous duty it is to act as stretcher-bearers), or he may walk out and help. He walks out as steady as he can; it is quicker and ... well, what peculiar right has a Medical Bloke to the safety of cover when the men are “out there”?

It is little enough can be done in action for the wounded; to cut away the blood-clotted clothing, to clap a rough dressing of iodine and gauze on the wound, or a crude splint on a smashed limb; to get the man to comparative cover, to rig some sort of a shade over him and to give him water; and then to wait—for the M.O. to come with the skill that soothes and the hypodermical needle of comfort. But the bitterest game of patience on earth is played when the tide of battle fails to flow onward, and the wounded lie all the livelong, sun-tormented day in the fire-swept zone, and the Medical Blokes can only watch and wait for nightfall to give safe-conduct to the ambulance carts or the camels, with great, unwieldy, white cacolets, which come to carry their poor shattered charges to sanctuary.

Believe me, romantic reader, that I will now reveal the true _raison d’être_ of Medical Blokes; the nature of their life-work, their excuse for existing. It is not, bless you, ministering to the wounded under fire. It _is_ merely to bandage up septic sores and to distribute a variety of pills, most commonly known in the proportion of “two of these and one of those.”

The daily life of the Medical Bloke hinges on “Sick Parade.” It is the Daily Event. The M.O. sits enthroned in the Medical Tent. Orderly corporals present their list of competitors. One by one they enter and face the Presence. Pulses, tongues, throats, eyes, temperatures are submitted to scrutiny. The questing stethoscope roams over bared bosoms and backs. Each man speaks his piece—the most sick say least and the least sick say most, as a general rule.

“Give him two of these and one of those,” prescribes the M.O., and the victim, a handful of tablets clutched in his fist, retires. The rewards to be gained by braving “Sick Parade” run up a scale from “Medicine and Duty,” through “Light Duty” and “Exempt Duty,” to “Evacuate,” which last is the coveted prize.

“Go and get your gear together and be ready to go to the Ambulance,” directs the Medical Bloke, and the patient sees at once visions of the cushy comfort of a Base Hospital, wherein he may hope to wallow shortly. He has netted a trip!

Medical Blokes have a restless job. Sickness and accidents call upon them at any time. Men drop into the Medical Tent at all hours of the day and night for “a couple of pills for a headache,” or something else. “Got any liniment?” is the next inquiry, followed by a request for eye-lotion. In this country a scratch or a graze does not heal in the course of things—it is just as likely to turn septic. Neglected, it spreads and develops initiative; it breaks out in fresh places without waiting for the skin to be knocked off. Hot foments and ointment dressings are the cure. Bandaged hands are the badge of the Palestine campaigner. Half the men, half the time, have either boils or septic sores. They meander into the Medical Tent in pairs, and out of hours, to get them bandaged. They are met there with scant courtesy—probably they are the umpteenth interruption to the letter which the Medical Bloke is trying to write; but I do not think it is often that they turn away unattended to. The Medical Blokes are just ... your friends, servants and comrades, the Medical Blokes.

“LARRIE.”

The Signal Service

Scattered throughout Egypt and Palestine and Syria, in the community of war-worn Australians, is a certain section known to the initiated as the Engineer Signal Service of the Australian Imperial Force in Egypt. To the casual Light Horseman they are “Sigs”—a vague and most inadequate designation. Little is known of the Engineer Signaller and his work by his brother of the Light Horse, whose one idea of signalling begins and ends with the Regimental signaller, a being who shares with him the pleasures and hardships of all stunts, but who is on a plane above, because no piquets and fatigues are his. At home, the popular conception of signalling is of a soldier standing on the last, lone, bullet-swept ridge, coolly flag-wagging a message which turns a forlorn hope into a brilliant victory, and earns for him Oblivion. Signalling, as the Signal Service know it, is far from being a flag-wagging occupation; they find themselves part of a well-planned business, which is based on efficiency, and conducted with that thoroughness for detail only to be found in an army.

* * * * *

“Sapper Smith, get your horse saddled up right away and report at the Signal office. You need not worry about your tea—I’ll see it is kept for you. You are only going to Romani.”

The Squadron horses, after their first stunt on the desert of Sinai in April, ’16, had been off-saddled and fed at Hill 40, so the order came as a surprise.

“Right-o! Corporal!”

The horse was soon saddled, and Smith reported at the Signal office at five o’clock.

“What’s doing, Mac?”

“Light Horse Brigade, Romani.” The signal-master read out the address as he handed over the despatch to Smith.

“Where’s Romani, Mac?”

Mac, the signal-master, came outside and pointed across an unbroken stretch of desert to the east.

“About five miles in that direction, I think,” he replied. “Keep near the railway line and you’ll be pretty right.”

Smith departed, and rode out into the gathering dusk of the East. He had never heard of Romani before, nor did he know how many miles he had to travel across this desert, where the Turk had been but a few hours ago, to reach the place; so he spurred his horse on over the heavy sand and covered four miles in quick time.

“We ought to be there before dark.” He spoke to the horse rather than to himself. “We’ve covered a good four miles now.”

He rode on over the level places, climbed the loose sand of the steep, razor-backed dunes, and slid down their opposite slopes to the level again, until another four miles had been crossed; yet he had not reached Romani. The darkness found him still pushing east over the toilsome, never-ending sand, with a set of new northern stars for guides.

A desert dog started up at his horse’s feet, yelped away into the night, and threw the horse into a panic of fear; a stunted bush loomed in the darkness ahead and took on the shape of a crouching figure, sinister in the gloom. Here was a dilemma!

“Shall I let the horse bolt while I try to loosen my rifle? or is it better to hang on to the horse and chance—ah! It is only a bush. Am I near Romani yet?”

Eight more weary miles slipped slowly by, the sandhills pressed in on all sides, and ever the horse stumbled on gamely over loose sand and steep ridges.

“Yes, it’s a light.”

Smith swayed in the saddle and spoke again.

“Hooray! I’ve arrived,” he said.

Some time after ten o’clock a wearied despatch-rider came out of the night, handed in a despatch at its Romani address, obtained a receipt and departed. Next morning Smith reported to the signal-master and handed him the receipted slip for his despatch.

“How far is it to Romani, Mac?” was all he remarked.

* * * * *

At Ed Dhaberiye, and at Tel Khuweilfeh, in the hills to the north-east of Bir el Saba, the fight waged hot during the first week of November, ’17. That week is one to be remembered by the cable troop of the squadron; in it they knew no rest, for they worked night and day on the communications, and laid miles of cable to and from the Brigades.

“Corporal Dawk!”

“Here, sir,” responded Dawk from behind one of the cable-wagons where he had been trying to dispose of a hasty meal.

“Hook in your team and get away to the 2nd Brigade with that line.”

“Very good, sir.”

Dawk turns to the drivers.

“Get your horses in, Charlie; we’ve got another job. Hey! Gunner.”

“What, again?” says Gunner, as he looks at his half-finished meal.

“Come over, Baldy! Back, Ginger!”

The polers are hooked up, and in a short space the wagon moves off to the Signal office for final instructions. Gunner jumps down from the body of the wagon, drags the end of the wire into the Signal office, and then mounts and pulls out over the hill.

The wagon rolls steadily over the rocky hills, reeling out the cable as it proceeds. Darkness settles down, but this does not deter the cable detachment.

“Whoa!” roars the lead driver as a wady-bed opens up below him in the darkness. “Steady with those horses behind—who’s in the pole?”

“What’s the matter?” inquires Dawk, riding up to the leaders.

“Oh, another wady; it looks pretty solid, too.”

Dawk looks ahead, rides off to the right, and after a few minutes calls out directions to the drivers.

“This way with that wagon; you can get across here.”

Charlie swings his leaders round and heads for the spot where Dawk’s voice is heard. The wagon jolts over a rock, and lurches toward the wady so closely that a huge lump of earth detaches itself from the steep bank and rattles down on to the boulders beneath.

“Get over to the right!” yells Gunner from the back of the wagon. “What the blazes are you drivers doing? You’ll have the whole box and dice in the wady in a minute!”

“Get up, Tiger! Up, Ginger!”

“Come over Baldy! Come over, you——!”

The wagon draws away from the dangerous edge, swings round, and, with rattling and bumping, descends into the wady-bed in a cloud of dust. The horses bend their backs to the opposite bank and are urged up by the drivers, who have risen in the stirrups and are leaning over their necks. With a last effort the team pulls forward, the wagon jolts over the top, and then stops.

Harry, who was thrown from his seat at the back of the cable-wagon as it bumped the wady-bed, comes limping up the slope. As he climbs into his seat he makes a remark to Gunner.

“That was a snifter!” he says.

“My oath! a beaut.”

More wady-beds open up, more detours are made, more dizzy descents and stiff ascents are negotiated, until, at last, the wagon draws in to Brigade Headquarters. The line is through, and everything is in readiness for the attack at dawn.

* * * * *

“When you’ve done with that pack-saddle, I want to ‘inergate’ a scheme with you.”

“Yes, sir?”

“This stunt is going to be a tough one, so I want you to see that all your pack-sets are in good-going order, and that those pack-saddles are fitted properly. Where are you putting the aerial load, Hook?”

“Everything is ready now; I’m fixing this saddle for the masts.”

“Right-o! And see that the farrier gets to work on those mules straight away.”

“Yes, sir. Have you any idea when we move out?”

“I’ve no idea; in about a week, possibly.”

Hook busied himself with the pack-saddle, fixing gadgets here and knocking bits off there, until he had it to his satisfaction. All the technical equipment—wireless sets, cable gear, etc.—had to be converted for use on pack-saddles in this Amman business during March, ’18.

Six days later the Squadron moved out in the rain, wound its way through the Judean Hills, travelled over the Jordan Valley, crossed the river, and passed up into the hills of Moab.

No wagons or wheeled transport of any kind could possibly traverse those tremendous hills, where the narrow track clung to the steep sides of the hills and threatened to fall away over precipices into rock-fanged valleys beneath. The rain poured down, and along the slippery track the column wended its way, toiling in single file up steep hills and down into precipitous valleys. The path became a river; water poured over the rocky sides of the hills and rushed into the valleys below. Everybody was wet through and greatcoats flapped soggily about weary legs; dripping horsemen led their horses and stumbled and splashed along the track; pack-horses and mules struggled and scrambled as their loads slipped; but the column pushed on and reached a position at Amman after two days and two nights of rain.

“We cannot use the helios, and the cable is ‘dis’ somewhere back in the hills. Is the wireless set up yet?”

Rip-p-p-p-p-p. Rip-p-p-p-rip-p-p-p-rip-p-p-p-rip-p-p-p-p-p-p.

The crash of the transmitting sent echoes through the rain-sodden air and the singing spark sent its message through space, and then whined away into silence. The engine had “karked”—communication had ceased.

No. A basket crate was brought from one of the packs, a message was written on a special form, of thin paper, and placed in a small aluminium tube; a carrier pigeon was taken from the crate, and released with the small tube containing the message attached to one of its legs. The bird circled round uncertainly for a few moments and then flew off in a straight line toward the leaden clouds in the West.

Communication was still maintained.

* * * * *

These are but three incidents—three of many—which have happened in the Signal Service. The Service calls for initiative, coolness, and devotion; all these it has in its ranks. In the desert of Sinai, on the dusty stretches of Southern Palestine, on the plains of Philistia, in the hills of Judea—everywhere “east of the Canal”—the Signal Service has always maintained a high standard which has brought credit to itself, and to the Australian Imperial Force in Egypt.

“ACK-VIC-ACK.”

Battle Song

Silver and white are the planes aflight, and the guns are manifold, And hour and hour we gain that power which the Lords of war extolled When the wrath-fires flared, and the blades were bared, in the first red tide that flowed.