Chapter IV: Part 4

Whilst on afternoon reconnaissance, the observer located a large body of enemy troops, and, immediately on receipt of his report, a bomb raid was ordered on which every available machine was to be sent. Luckily, I was detailed for escort duty, and it was a pleasant experience to watch the bombing machines assembling overhead, as they arrived from the different aerodromes, and took up the allotted formation. About 5 p.m. the leader fired his light and thirty machines, like a flock of great birds, set off on their journey to play havoc with our old friend, the Turk. After dropping the bombs, all machines swooped down on the troops and used their spare machine gun ammunition in shooting them up and generally giving them a devil of a time.

All good things come to an end, and, finally, we set out for home, which we reached just as the sun, a ball of fire, was sinking to rest. The machines, glistening white in the reflected sunlight, resembled a flock of swans coming home, as, in slow, stately circles, one by one, they glided to earth. The Mediterranean, as calm and unruffled as a mill-pond, reflected the glory of the sun until its surface glowed like a sheet of burnished gold. By the time we, as escort, had seen the last of our charges land in safety and commenced our own descent, the sun was well below the skyline, and the narrow ribbon of the pink afterglow that skirted the horizon was all that remained to remind us of the sun and its glory.

H. BOWDEN FLETCHER.

THE END OF THE SCRAP

_By Lieut. O. H. Coulson_
]

TURKISH PRISONERS AT ES SALT
]

JERICHO
]

NAZARETH FROM THE AIR
]

Mounts and Remounts

On my arrival at the Unit, I considered myself fortunate when the corporal presented me with a fat, sleek remount, only lately up from the Base. My suspicions were not aroused until, preparing to mount, I discovered what an enormous supply of cameras the Troop possessed. All classes seemed to be represented, from the V.P.K. pip-squeak to the ponderous P.C. “Jericho Jane” variety. Maintaining a professional attitude, I mounted.

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.”

“A LIGHT HORSE TYPE”

_By W. O. David Barker_
]

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.”

CONVALESCENT
]

MOUNTING FIRST GUARD IN JERICHO
]

HALT AND REST
]

1. CHURCH AND TOMB OF THE VIRGIN

2. JAFFA GATE, JERUSALEM

3. CHURCH OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE, JERUSALEM

4. CHURCH OF THE NATIVITY, BETHLEHEM
]

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.

A SIGNAL OFFICE IN THE FIELD

_By T. H. Ivers_
]

“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.

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”

BRIG.-GENERAL RYRIE INSPECTS THE “BULLY”
]

BRIG.-GENERAL COX ON RIVER JORDAN
]

A WALLAD OF PALESTINE
]

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.

MOSQUE OF OMAR
]

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.”

SOME SOUVENIR

(AN AUSTRALIAN TROOPER WITH GERMAN HELMET)

_By James McBey. British Official Artist_
]

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 MIDDAY HALT
]

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.

BRIG.-GENERAL G L. SMITH, V.C., M.C.
]

OUR WATER SUPPLY
]

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.

WATERING TIME, CAMEL BRIGADE
]

“PREPARE TO MOUNT”
]

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.”

PORTION OF CONVOY OF 8,000 CAMELS BEARING SUPPLIES ON THE PHILISTINE
PLAIN

_Australian Official Photograph_
]

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.

BEDOUINS CAPTURED AT HASSANIYA
]

STREET MARKET, JERUSALEM
]

BEDOUIN VILLAGE
]

TURKISH PRISONERS, NABLUS
]

The next hour or two saw us busy among the horses—removing the superfluous dirt from their coats, cleaning up the stable lines, and watering and feeding our jaded mounts. We were then marched to the Q.M.’s to be issued with an extra blanket. In the usual way of Q.M.’s, this just allowed us back in time for six o’clock breakfast. During the meal they broke the news gently to us that there was a mounted parade at seven, to go through a “little training.” More grumbles, of course, but the time was too short to allow of any delay for grousing, so we got out for our “little training.” This delightful exercise consisted of a gruelling couple of hours in the sun, after which we had to groom and stable our horses, had a quarter of an hour’s “smoke-o,” and then the pleasure of lecture for half an hour or so.

Dismissed to our tents, we distributed ourselves behind the covers of various journals—ranging, according to taste, from “War Cry” to the “Bulletin.” Hardly was our interest fixed, when there was borne in on our ears a stentorian cry which resolved itself into the voice of our two-bar artist yelling “Fall in for water!” and away we went again like lambs. A struggle with four horses, two on each side of you, and each couple desiring to go in a different direction, is not calculated to improve one’s temper; but we got the job done and returned for dinner. This meal was not the one of our dreams, but we settled down after it as though we’d lunched at “Shepheards,” and began to think that the “rest” part of the stunt was at hand. Then the orderly sergeant announced that there would be a grazing parade at two o’clock. So out we all had to turn again and spend a couple of hours on the grassy slope a mile or so away, thinking sad thoughts and uttering strong utterances.

Back again, stable the horses, we finished just in time for tea, to which we did ample justice, and allowed ourselves to drift into a better frame of mind. After tea we at last settled down in our tents, and had just dealt the cards for a quiet game of poker, when, lo and behold! the orderly corporal looked in and said, quite pleasantly and off-hand, too, “There will be an inspection at 9 a.m. to-morrow; all saddlery and gear to be cleaned and placed outside tents at 8 a.m.” Well, we looked at one another—we were past words. Slowly the hands were thrown in; more in sorrow than in anger we cleared the card-blanket away, and the last scene saw six queerly silent figures listlessly polishing up bits and stirrup irons and greasing leather gear, with the mutely suffering look in each face akin to the look of the dog which has just received a kick in the ribs as the grand finale to a series of ill-usages. So ended a day of rest. In that tent, that night, men went to bunk murmuring, “If this is rest, send us back to work.”

“TRALAS.”

THE MUKHTAR’S GOATS

Said Breezy Bob to Baldy Bill, “I’m giving you the oil;
There’s whips of blinking eatables on this ’ere virgin soil.
So what abart a forage hunt, me bold and noble chief?
It’s time we had some mutton now instead of bully-beef.”

Now, Baldy Bill was leader of an enterprising mess;
His cobbers all would back him up in deeds of wickedness.
So when Old Bob suggested that the gang should have a hunt
For tasty chops and cutlets, they agreed upon the stunt.

It happened that the n’th Light Horse were camping in a grove
Of olives, figs and oranges, the hedges interwove
With prickly pear grown very thick, and on the other side
The grazing land by cattle, sheep and goats was occupied.

An Arab Chief, or Mukhtar, was the owner of the flock,
Named “Abdul el Mahomed,” a monopolist in stock.
Now Baldy Bill and Breezy Bob were socialistic coves
Who spouted on equality amongst the olive groves.