Part 9
We’ve quelled the fears of the darkest years, and the vistas of remorse Grow less and less in the wilderness where the south wind gathers force, And a golden scope in the sun of hope rolls north of the Anzac Horse.
When shrapnel breaks and the skyline quakes in the tempest loud and long, We’ll gallop our files through the shell-torn aisles of a sadly shaken throng, And the fire of hell will grandly swell to a martial storm of song.
Swift as the tide then we shall ride for the goal that burns ahead— When night rolls round we’ll slumber sound where God’s sweet light is shed, And the silver eyes of the cloudless skies will watch o’er the valiant dead.
“GERARDY.”
The Little Bint of Wady Hanein
Throughout the long campaign the fighting was fairly constant, but there were occasional brief seasons of rest, and the happiest of these were spent in the neighbourhood of the Jewish orchard settlements. The 1st Light Horse Brigade and the New Zealanders favoured Richon, where the wine vaults are said to be the largest in the world; and the Jewish girls are the prettiest in all Palestine. But the 2nd Brigade was loyal to modest little Wady Hanein. The three Jewish villages of Richon, Wady Hanein and Deiran stand about three miles apart in a rough line across the sandhills. Deiran, where the polyglot lassies were wooed by the troops associated with Desert Mounted Corps headquarters, is, like Richon, a large village, almost a town, with considerable social pretentions. There the Jews hold political meetings, and the girls dress with an eye on distant Paris. But Wady Hanein is demure—a true little Arcady set amidst hills and hollows beautiful and fragrant with orange groves and orchards of almonds. In the early spring the settlement was a glory of pink and white blossoms, and, later, its lanes were scented with the breath of the flowering oranges. As I write, the 2nd Brigade is in Wady Hanein for the last time, having come down from its strenuous work around Amman, across the Jordan; and the plump round oranges are coquetting between green and golden.
It was from Wady Hanein that the Brigade moved out on the long trek across Judea and Jordan Valley and the Mountains of Moab for the first attack on Amman, in March, 1918. Nearly every Australian feigns qualification in his regard for the Jews in Palestine. But as the Regiments made ready for the road that morning it was pretty to see Jewish families visiting their favourite officers and men in the bustling camp, and wishing them God-speed with a sincerity and a touch of distress quite unmistakable. And all ranks rode to that bitter fight the stronger and better for those Jewish good wishes.
The 2nd Brigade also chanced to be in the village in December of 1917, when Jerusalem was captured, and the citizens entertained the Brigadier and his officers at a feast, a speech-making and a dance. Proceedings were, for a time, somewhat formal and cold. The Brigadier and his senior officers sat at a central table in a large hall with the village fathers and notables. The girls, expectant, their toes tingling for the dance, sat stiffly in a row down one wall and the matrons along the other—a very convenient arrangement, because the dashing young Light Horse subalterns could seek a pretty partner without feeling obliged to ask for the programme of her elderly chaperon. The young men of the village stood with the junior officers of the Brigade at one end of the hall.
The eloquence was terrific. The erudite village schoolmaster proposed the “Health of the King of England,” coupled with the name of the Brigadier, the British Army, the Australian Army, and the British universe generally. He spoke fluent and faultless Russian—or so it seemed to us. (Our linguistic attainments will startle Australians when we come home. There is not a man amongst us who cannot now say Bread and Wine and Darling, in all the languages of East and West.) He made happy reference to great British apostles of freedom, instancing Cromwell, Lord Byron, and Gladstone. He garbled the names, but we caught his drift; and, anxious to get in, we cheered tumultuously; and then, in an unhappy moment, some one on our side released the Brigade interpreter—a dusky fellow of dubious nationality—who rose eagerly to make the meaning of the village schoolmaster a little clearer to us. His success was indifferent, but he brought down the house with references to Lord Cromwell, Mr. Byron, and Sir Gladstone.
Then the Brigadier hopped up to respond. He was at his best. He referred to the joy which we, as Christians, experienced in driving the infidel from the Holy Land, and then, after an apt allusion to the Crusaders and King Richard, he became so eloquent and forceful, and slammed the table so hard, that all the village matrons gave play to their religious and patriotic feelings in subdued but prolific tears; which, when you consider that they did not know a word of English, was a unique testimonial to the eloquence and dominating personality of our versatile Brigadier. And then came the swelling triumphant peroration in which the “Old Brig.,” declared that “Palestine had been conquered and Jerusalem delivered by the help of God, but mainly by the might of the British Army.” After that we danced, and very gay it was, despite our unanimous opinion that speaking Russian was an easy task, compared with attempting correctly to foot a Russian measure with a pretty Jewish maiden. To be honest, it was a dumb show; but eyes were eloquent.
But we have been a long time coming to the story of the Little Bint. She was one of many of her unhappy kind in Palestine. In that country, as in all the East, the rich know no compassion for the poor. If you starve it is the will of God and no concern of the more fortunate. That interference with the ways of Allah is the cardinal sin is a satisfactory article in the creed of the rich in Palestine. So the poor starve, unsuccoured, about the doors of the wealthy.
The Little Bint of Wady Hanein was first seen slinking around the outskirts of Brigade headquarters. She was a wretched little Arab of seven or eight years, clad only in a tattered filthy shirt which came to her knees; with matted verminous hair, sparkling black eyes and a pitifully skinny little body. She sneaked round the lines at meal time, pouncing like a hungry dog on empty bully tins and jam tins, scooping out the remnants with a deft forefinger and flashing happy smiles as she put the finger to her mouth. The men were quick to notice, and soon the Bint had ten times more than she could eat. But she did not thrive. The vermin on her wretched body, and her unsheltered winter nights, kept her thin and miserable.
The grooms and batmen on Brigade conferred on the subject of the Bint and her future. The ringleader, whom we shall call Pine, a groom whose Regimental reputation was far from the best, led a deputation, accompanied by the interpreter and the Bint, up to the Bey, a fat Arab with a comfortable home and substantial wealth. Pine was forceful and the interpreter glib and honest. But the sleek Bey was obdurate. “There are many such,” he said suavely and finally, disowning any responsibility for the Little Bint, and he was not at all moved at the nasty reflections which the outspoken Pine cast upon his mother as the deputation withdrew. The missionaries returned to camp, baffled but not defeated. “We’ll adopt the little beggar ourselves,” declared Pine, “and take her on as a blasted mascot.” And they did. The preliminary work was decided. First the Bint must, as they say in plain army English, be “deloused” and bathed. Nobody wanted the job. But Pine was determined to see it through, and with the Brigade Major’s batman he cut the Bint’s hair, disinfected her and scrubbed her until her dusky colour was in danger. Other clumsy but Christian fingers cut up shirts and made her clothes; the remainder contrived a bivvy in which she was to sleep. And the Little Bint of Wady Hanein waxed fat and happy, and was a touch of soft femininity and a source of much delight to Brigade headquarters.
Then came marching orders for Amman. You occasionally find Arab boys travelling with the Light Horse, keen little beggars who act as cooks’ offsiders and batmen’s batmen, and officers smile and sympathetically shut their eyes to it. But it was clear that the sprightly little black-eyed Bint could not be taken out over the mountains into the bitter cold and bloody fighting at Amman. So Pine sought the Padre, and the Padre went off twelve miles to Jaffa and talked to the Mother Superior at the convent. Next day the Brigadier lent his car, and Pine—his leggings gleaming and spurs shining, and amusingly self-conscious—accompanied the Bint to Jaffa, and handed her over to the kindly nuns. Perhaps, as he left her, he gave her a big brotherly kiss and a trooper’s rough benediction; but probably he was too shy. I do not know.
“CAMP FOLLOWER”
Algy, Misfit
“Hullo, old chappa!”
It was Algy, an old camp acquaintance from Australia, whom I hadn’t seen before over this way. By his greeting, you will probably be able to imagine Algy; yet, with all his “haw-haw,” when you got to know him, he was quite the opposite to what was suggested by his manner of speech.
He had the habit of unbosoming himself to everybody regarding his career, past, present and future, so when I met him, I knew that I would get the whole story of his army life. And I did.
“How have I been getting on? Top hole. The only thing is that my failure to rise in the army worries my mater. With my brains, or at least the brains mater believes I possess, I was expected to rise in big leaps. But the only rise I’ve made has been from my blankets in the morning, and then, too, only by the greatest effort. Awful bore, old chappa, these early reveilles.
“I try to explain to mater why it is that I am still ‘just merely one of the men,’ and seek to console her by quoting that well-known pictorial post card, ‘We can’t all be officers; somebody’s got to do the work.’ You know, the poor old lady believes in me so much that she lives in the hope of some day seeing me wearing a whole string of ribbons on my bally chest. No hope. You know, some people have most peculiar ideas regarding the military. They talk about ribbons as if the military were in the habit of issuing such things in lieu of something—say as a sort of consolation when the rations are short. If they did, well, I’d be wearing all the variegated colours of the bally rainbow.
“I’ve had a most varied career in the army. I was originally in the infantry—a private. You see, I started right at the bottom of the ladder, scorning all offers of assistance to get a commission. I was quite determined to go right up the ladder by my own unaided efforts. Eh, gad, I was an egotistical ass, that’s what I was. I never for one moment imagined that the rungs of the ladder leading to stripes and stars were so wide apart.
“But about the infantry. Goodness, shall I ever forget the beastly infantry. The unnecessary walking, and the enormous packs one had to carry, and the really rude sergeant-major, who always roared at me when on parade because I could not execute the fantastic movements he insisted upon—really, when I think about it I shudder. I always did my best, but marching used to make me _so_ exhausted, and I never _could_ succeed in keeping in step with the other fellows.
“Finding the infantry uncongenial, I concluded that if I HAD to be a soldier I might as well sit down to the bally job, so I got a transfer to the mounted. I had never ridden a horse other than that of a merry-go-round, but I was satisfied that I could master the art. I’ve got a different idea now. I was quite all right while the animal walked, but when it trotted, oh, goodness me, I could never harmonize with the beast.
“Ultimately, I came over here with a unit which did not use horses and was not required to do much, if any, walking. At least, that is what they said, though I should have thought at the time how the unit was to move itself. Maybe, the authorities, when I left, were contemplating providing privates with motor-cars. I’ve found out, since I’ve been here, how the unit moves itself. Don’t do any walking? Well, look here, if there is a piece of accessible ground in Palestine, and not forgetting Syria, that I haven’t trampled on trudging behind heavily-laden G.S. wagons and limbers in the course of many and frequent camp shiftings, I’d like to find it and have it photographed.”
With a “Cheeryo,” Algy was gone.
“BILLZAC.”
Palestine
A league-long line of mountains: Some fertile plains: Bright, rippling, purling fountains, After the rains. Vast valleys, lorn and lonely; Smiling and green: Dead cities, telling only What might have been.
A weary, stricken people, So long enslaved; A spire and broken steeple, By lanes ill-paved: A thousand superstitions; A hundred creeds; The beggars’ vain petitions That no one heeds.
A field of poppies blazing: Orchids new-born: A wealth of flowers amazing Fringing the corn: A line of camels stringing Across the brae: The skylark sweetly singing, To welcome day.
A home of races, mingled Gentile and Jew: Women with veilèd faces: Rogues, not a few. A Sacred Land, and Holy: Beersheba to Dan; Where once a King so lowly Lived as a man.
A land of milk and honey, In Moses’ day: A place of paper money Since Abdul’s sway: A prophets’ land and sages’, By right divine: The heir of all the Ages, Poor Palestine!!
“TROOPER BLUEGUM.”
The Camel Brigade
There are, maybe, ten thousand Australians who will never see a map of Egypt or Palestine, never hear of the Great War, never sing or listen to a Christmas Carol, and, perhaps, never even boil a billy, without thinking of camels.
Nor is it altogether surprising; for camels played so prominent a part in their lives in the days of Armageddon. They lived on camels; they always slept near, and often on camels; and camels carried their tucker, their water, their clothes, their blankets. The last thing they saw as they fell asleep at night was a string of long-necked camels silhouetted against the bare horizon. The first thing they heard after reveille was the raucous noise of a camel lifting up its voice in the wilderness. Nothing but camel, day and night, from the Senussi stunt to the Jerusalem-Jericho-Jordan scrapping.
None of us really liked our camels. Frankly, most of us loathed them. They were a necessary evil. In a desert campaign they were indispensable: so they were tolerated. But for many, many months the Cameleers cursed them without ceasing for the vilest, stupidest, craziest beasts that ever cumbered the earth.
Then, suddenly—it was about midsummer, 1918—we began to realize some of the many virtues of the much-maligned camel. We remembered that even on the scorching sands of Sinai, we were rarely short of water. We reminded each other that, while Light Horsemen shivered on the freezing Judean Hills, we snuggled cosily ’neath a bivvy and four blankets. We thought of all the little extra canteen delicacies we had carried in our capacious saddle-bags. And we talked about the good times we had at the camel sports with Horace, and Mange Dressing and Starlight.
The reason for this _volte-face_, this sudden revulsion of feeling in favour of the camel, lay in the fact that our camels were to be taken away from us. We were to be transformed into cavalry for that Big Push which we hoped would result in the smashing of the Turkish Army. And remembering the comparative luxury of the Cameleer’s life, we tried to make the _amende honorable_ and say kind things of and to our old _hooshtas_.
The Australian Camel Corps was formed early in 1916, when the Senussi became troublesome. Four companies of infantry just back from Gallipoli formed the nucleus of the corps. They proved a most valuable asset, so more were demanded. But it was not certain that a sufficient number of Australians could be provided, so the 2nd Battalion was composed of English and Scotch Territorials, and the force became known as the Imperial Camel Corps. Later, a third Battalion was made up of Australians and New Zealanders, and, at the end of the year, a fourth Battalion, of Australians.
The Camel Corps was handicapped because of the general ignorance concerning it. The A.I.F. in Sinai knew little of it; Australia knew less. Often it was confused with and mistaken for the Camel Transport Corps, a valuable unit, which has done splendid work, but is not a fighting unit like the I.C.C. The members of the Imperial Camel Corps had all left their parent Regiments, and so, for a long time, missed those welcome parcels that the different Comfort Funds so generously sent to the boys. Later, however, the A.I.F. Comforts took a kindly interest in the poor Cameleers—and the Cameleers were unfeignedly grateful.
Coming back to Egypt from the Western Desert, the Cameleers spelled awhile, then moved over the Canal to Sinai and participated in the Romani-Bir-el-Abd fighting. Then came the big trek east towards El Arish with its attendant patrols and skirmishes. When Abdul bolted from El Arish the Army followed, the Light Horse and the Camel Corps in the van.
Maghdaba and Rafa followed, two of the most picturesque and decisive battles of the campaign; and in each the Camel Corps distinguished itself greatly. Then on to Khan Yunis—where lived Delilah of old—and then to historic Gaza: the lion in our path. The story of the three battles of Gaza has already been told. There is no need to recapitulate here the part played by the Camelry in those engagements, save to mention that in the second battle the I.C.C. rushed and captured their objective, suffering about 75 per cent. casualties; while in the third, and victorious, battle, they held the line at Kouelphi and Ras el Nagb in face of heavy counter-attacks.
The army had now turned the corner, and, under General Allenby’s inspiring leadership, the Camel Brigade pushed north with the remainder of the force until Jerusalem was captured. Then the army settled down in the stalemate line of trenches stretching from just north of Jaffa to the Jordan near Jericho; by which time the Cameleers had suffered so many casualties, and the camels were in such deplorable condition, that they were sent back to Rafa to recuperate—and hold a sports meeting.
Mention should be made of the Hong Kong-Singapore Indian Mounted Battery, known to the Camel Corps as “The Bing Boys.” These Indian soldiers participated in all the fighting in Palestine.
In March, 1918, the Camel Corps trekked through Palestine to Richon, where they sampled the wine of the country. Then, after the rains, they ploughed their way through mud and slush and wire to Bethlehem. From the wintry heights of Judea they descended by way of Jericho to the midsummer of the Jordan Valley and on to Amman. Much has been written about the adventure, or misadventure, into the hills of Moab. Never will the Cameleers forget that night journey over slippery goat-tracks to Es Salt. Never before or since was there ever such a journey. Hour after hour the cavalcade struggled onward and upward, crawling round ugly devil’s-elbows on mountain tracks, slipping and floundering in the mud. Time and again camels would collapse, bogged and helpless, and some toppled over the precipice. But the Brigade got to Amman and blew up the Hedjaz Railway.
Back to the Jordan Valley again, the prey of snakes and scorpions and spiders, mosquitos and flies and Turkish shells—but the mosquitos were the worst. Scores and scores of men went sick with malaria, which recurred during subsequent operations. The last big scrap of the I.C.C. was the defence of Musallabeh, which the Turks attacked with grim determination. In spite of very heavy casualties, the Cameleers held on and beat off the enemy. Because of this gallant defence, General Allenby decreed that henceforth Musallabeh should be called “The Camel’s Hump.”
With Sinai far behind and well-watered country ahead, it was seen that the Camel Brigade had outlived its usefulness. So, in May, the Cameleers returned westward towards Jaffa, handed over their camels, and were mounted on horses and armed with swords for the Big Push.
“TROOPER BLUEGUM.”
RESTING
There’s a delightful sound about that little word “Rest.” It conjures up delicious visions of breakfast in bed, scrambled eggs on toast, lying about in the sun, nice books to read, etc., etc., as the imagination wills. Now, we didn’t expect all these things, but when we got the word, “The regiment is going for a rest behind the lines,” everybody’s ears pricked up, and we were all on the _qui vive_ for the few days following.
Sure enough, we moved out all right, and camped one moonlight night on a gently-sloping plateau to the west of the hills, taking up our abode comfortably in bell tents, six of us to a tent. We’d had a long day, so soon turned in and slept the sleep of the conscienceless. Behold us next morning, at that cold, cheerless grey hour which just precedes the dawn, lying in various picturesque attitudes, with the cold wind playing on us, as yet untouched by the sun’s compensating warmth. A bugle gave out its brass-mouthed message, and one of those necessary evils known as corporals invited us to “turn out and fall in.” Now, it was the witching hour of 4 a.m., and we didn’t like “turning out” or “falling in,” or any kindred mysterious movement; but necessity knows no law, so, to the accompaniment of many an ungracious “Blarst the war,” “What sort of a rest is this?” we crawled out of bed, dressed, and wended our weary way to the stables.