Chapter II: Melbourne Versus Sydney

Sam Killem, Commanding Officer of the Kangaroo Marines, sat in his Recruiting Office chewing a cigar in the usual Australian style. Now and again he looked at his recruiting figures and smiled. "Five hundred men in three days," he mused. "Not bad for you, Sam; and good stuff at that"--for Sam was a judge of men. He was a squatter and as rich as Croesus. His big, bony frame spoke of strength, while his eye and face told the tale of shrewdness and resource. He was forty, and successful. Three hundred miles of land was chartered as his own. His sheep were counted in thousands, and his brand as familiar as a postage stamp. Yet, in all his struggles for success, Sam had found time to be a patriot. He had served as a Tommy in the African War, and since then had commanded a corps of mounted men in the back of beyond. He was the fairest yet fiercest, the most faithful and fearless man in the force. A man who disobeyed his orders always received a knock-out blow, for Sam boxed like a pro. and hit like a hammer.

"Some more recruits, sir," said his sergeant-major, opening the door.

"Right, Jones; show them in."

The door closed on the now famous quartette--Claud, Bill, Paddy, and Sandy. They were still in their rough bush-whacking clothes, while their eyes told the tale of a merry night before.

"Well, boys--glad to see you."

"We've met before, Sam," said Bill.

"Guess we have, but cut out the 'Sam,' click your heels together, say 'sir,' when you answer, and salute when you meet me. I'm bossing this show. And we can't have sheep-shearing familiarities--understand!"

"Bit sudden like!" smiled Bill, trying to comply.

"Not so sudden as death, or a shrapnel. Now, to business. You fellows look fit. What's your names?"

"Bill Buster's mine."

"Age?"

"About thirty--that's near enough."

"Religion?"

"Ain't got any."

"That means you're officially C. of E."

"What's that, Sam--eh--sir?"

"Church of England--they father queer birds like you."

"Now, your father and mother?"

"None."

"How's that?"

"I was found as a kid on the Woolamaloo Road, with a newspaper for a bellyband and a rubber tit in my mouth. The old woman who found me said I dropped from heaven."

"The other's the most likely place. Now, sign.

"Right! Next."

Paddy Doolan described himself as an Irishman, born in Kerry, and an egg-merchant by trade.

"Your religion?" asked Sam.

"Sure, I'm a Catholic."

"When were you at Confession last?"

"It's a long time now, yer riverance; but if yis'll lend me a pound I'll have something worth confessing by early Mass to-morrow."

"_Your_ name, now?"

"Sandy Brown."

"Where from?"

"Glesca, sir."

"Where's Glesca?"

"The place whaur they mak' gunboats an' bailies."

"Trade?"

"Coal merchant--I mean stoker."

"Married?"

"Often."

A few more questions settled Sandy. Then Claud came forward, adjusting his eyeglass.

"Better take that window out of your face, young fellow. What's your name?"

"Claud Dufair."

"Father?"

"Lord Dufair."

"You're the goods, young fellow. Now, do you think you can stand up to me for five rounds?"

"Boxing's a beastly bore, sir; but I would have a go--certainly."

"Right! I'll make you corporal. We've need of your brains. By the way, why did you leave home--women and wine, eh?"

"Well--yes, sir."

"Human failing--we're all like that," soliloquised Sam, who had been one of the lads in his day. "Now, boys, about turn, and off for your uniform--good day."

"Good day, sir," replied the four, attempting to salute.

"Good lads--good lads!" muttered Sam to himself as they stumbled through the door.

Three days afterwards Sam had his thousand men. He quartered them in tents, selected some old soldiers for instructors, and commenced to train for war. Sergeant-Major Jones, an ex-Imperial Army man, was the terror of the show. This warrant officer realised what he was up against--a thousand rebels against convention, hypocrisies, and shams. They called a spade a spade. "Red tape" they cursed, and stupid officialdom they loathed. They were freemen, Bohemians of the plains. In the Bush they had learned to fight, cook, scheme, and generally look after themselves. Pioneers of the toughest kind. The type that has made our Empire what it is to-day. In drink they were like savages, ready to shoot the men they hated, ready to give a drunken embrace to the men they liked and respected.

And few of them were fools. Many could rip off Shakespeare by the yard; others could recite, in a feeling way, the best of Byron, Tennyson, Kipling, and Burns. The lonely plains and self-communion had given each a soul. Indeed, they were the oddest bunch of daring, devilry, romance, and villainy that had ever gathered for war. For such men there is only one type of leader, that is--the gentleman. Not the gentleman who says, "Please," like a drawing-room lady; but the gentleman who says, "Come on, boys--here's a job," in a kindly, but firm manner, with that touch of authority in the words which spells the master and the man, and reveals to the skunk that if he refuses a great fist will crack right under his chin and lay him out. Sergeant-Major Jones was, therefore, the gentleman required. He represented the finest virtues of the British N.C.O.--a class which has made the British Army what it is to-day, and a class meanly paid and shockingly neglected by the Governments of the past.

Sergeant-Major Jones had a breast of medals. He knew his job. Now that was important to these Australians. Australians are always up against what they call "the imported man." But if the imported man is what they call "a good fellow," and knows his job better than they do, they are fair enough to shake him by the hand and call him "friend." And the sergeant-major knew that he had to find an opportunity in the first week to show that he _was_ the sergeant-major and that they were there to be disciplined. The opportunity came on the third day. A weak-looking sergeant, with a shrill, piping voice, was moving a squad up and down.

"Left--rights-left---- Stop your talking, Private Grouse," he shouted to a tall, burly-built and dour-looking man in his squad.

"Wot the deuce are you chippin' at?"

"Hold your tongue."

"Swank," replied the insolent man.

Sergeant-Major Jones heard him. "Halt!" he bellowed to the squad.

"Now, young fellow, what do you mean?"

"Just 'aving a little lark, major," he answered casually.

"Stand to attention, and 'sir' me when you speak."

"You'll make us laugh," said the man in a familiar way. The other Bushmen craned their necks. They were interested. They knew that Grouse had gone over the score, and they waited to see the stuff that the sergeant-major was made of. It was, in fact, the psychological moment which makes or mars the reputation of a sergeant-major in such a corps. The sergeant-major knew it.

"Look here, young man, I make great allowance for inexperience, for none of you have been soldiers before, but I make no allowance for insolence. Take off your coat."

"What!"

"Take off your coat," said the sergeant-major with emphasis, at the same time throwing off his own. The man followed suit.

"Now step out here, and we'll decide who's going to run this show."

Then the unexpected happened. The man shoved out his hand. "Shake, sir; you're a good fellow. I'm afeard of no man, but I won't fight you, for I'm in the wrong."

"Well, you're a man, anyway," said Jones, shaking him cordially by the hand, while the whole squad gave out a thrilling cheer.

Colonel Sam Killem had watched it all from the corner of the parade ground. For him it was an anxious moment. He was a broad-minded Australian who realised the need of experienced Britishers like Jones for the training of his men. But he was also aware of the national prejudice against the imported man. If Jones had adopted the usual way in the British regiment, that is, clapping the offender in the guard room and formally charging him with "insubordination in the ranks," Sam knew that his prestige as a sergeant-major would have dropped fifty per cent. However, he was well pleased to see him handle the man in the Australian manner.

"Made good that time, Jones," said the colonel with a dry grin as the sergeant-major came forward.

"That's the only way with these men, sir."

"Glad you know it. By the way, I know that man. He half killed one of the Mounted Police two years ago. He's three-quarters blackguard and one-quarter of a good fellow; but we'll make a man of him. Put him in orders to-night for the lance stripe. I always believe in making N.C.O.'s out of these rascals."

"Splendid idea, sir," said the sergeant-major, saluting and falling out.

Next day Lance-Corporal Grouse commenced a new career--that of a gallant soldier and an Australian gentleman.

Another interesting incident occurred during the training. Side by side with the Kangaroo Marines lay the Melbourne Nuts, a battalion of superior persons. You see, the Kangaroo Marines were nominally a Sydney crowd. Therefore the Melbourne boys showered on them all the envy which Melbourne has for Sydney. To understand this point thoroughly you must have lived in Australia. Between Melbourne and Sydney there exists a feud as fierce as an Italian vendetta. This animosity crystallises the more general hatred of the respective States--Victoria and New South Wales. Both sides think they are the Lord's Anointed. A Governor-General in any speech must be careful to whitewash both States with the same degree of eyewash. Friendships, fortunes, and reputations have been lost in this really amusing controversy. Indeed, they are like the farmers of Kerry--they go to law if a hen roosts for a second in the enemy's barnyard.

Picture the scene then--two corps side by side, and imagine the language. The first trouble arose through a pioneer of the Kangaroos dropping a shovelful of dirt in the lines of the Melbourne men. The offender was Bill Buster.

"Get out of this, ye Sydney rattlesnake," chirped a youth, looking out of his tent.

"Worm!" exclaimed Bill contemptuously.

"Ye dirty-necked beachcomber, I'll split yer pumpkin head."

"Take that," shouted Bill, throwing a shovelful of manure into the tent of his aggressor. Honour, of course, had to be satisfied after that. The Melbourne man got a broken nose, and Bill had two lovely black eyes.

Both regiments decided to have revenge, and, for that purpose, secret meetings were called. The Melbourne boys decided to leave their affairs in the hands of Happy Harry, a local comedian. He was given liberty to spend anything up to twenty pounds on a scheme of revenge. In the case of the Kangaroos it was decided by ballot that Bill would plan out something to stagger the Melbourne crowd. Meantime, armed neutrality reigned; yet the air seemed charged with the spirit of friction and the feeling of secret preparation. Remarkable to relate, both schemes panned out on the morning of the same day. The Melbourne Nuts woke up to see, in great, black, varnished letters, across their huge dining-tent, the following:

MELBOURNE
IS A
ONE-EYED TOWN
FULL OF
SNIVELLING SNOBS,
PAWNSHOPS, AND GROG SALOONS.

This was a good stroke for the Sydney men, but the Melbourne men had, also, a neat revenge. That morning, an old broken-down donkey was found wandering in the Kangaroos' lines, with placards flapping at his sides, on which the Sydney men saw:

THIS IS THE FATHER
OF SYDNEY AND
THE KANGAROO MARINES.

The battle of wits was a drawn affair. But, that night, more trouble ensued. While the famous quartette were casually strolling through the town a Melbourne man jostled Sandy.

"Wha are ye pushin'?" he inquired.

"I'll push yer face for you--you bag of haggis," replied the cool Melbourne lad.

"Ye daur meddle wi' me," said Sandy, leering at him, for he had tasted deep of the national fluid. "Hit me!" he roared, baring his chest towards his aggressor. "Ma fit is on ma native heath, an' ma name's M'Greegor," continued the fierce, red-whiskered Scot.

"Here's one for you, M'Greegor!" And the Melbourne man let fly. Poor Sandy, he buckled up and fell gasping to the ground. Bill now set to, but in a minute he, Claud, and Paddy were surrounded by a gang of Melbourne hands.

"Ye miserable spalpeens," said Paddy, laying to with a great big stick, and between times whipping the treasures from the pockets of fallen men. Claud had his monocle smashed and his nose burst, while poor old Bill was severely winded just as reinforcements arrived from the Kangaroos. It was a bloody combat. Indeed, it might have been a serious riot had Sam Killem not doubled up a company with buckets of water to throw over the antagonists.

Then the bugle call to assembly ended the first and last fight between these two corps. Afterwards they were loyal friends, and, in action, died nobly side by side.