Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales

Edward Sparke letter diary, 23 August 1914-June 1917
MLMSS 3042/Item 1

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[Previous pages are cover and library information]
[Transcriber's note: This series of letters covers the period from camp life in Sydney to shipboard transfer to Egypt and ultimately a very descriptive account of the landing on Gallipoli shore. After Gallipoli the letters tell of life in the trenches in France and Flanders. Battles include Pozieres and Bullecourt, two of the toughest battles involving Australian troops. There is a distinct literary style in the vivid descriptions given and the emotions felt. This document is beautifully written throughout.]

Letters.
Australia.

Chap 1. Sydney
23rd August 1914.
We have been in camp a week now and are all settling down to the open-air life which we are going to lead for goodness knows how long. We rise at 6.30 and have exercises before our breakfast and then parade at 9.30 after that is over we have our dinner and then more parade at 2.p.m. About 4.30 we are free to go our way unless we are on the Guard list. The life is very pleasant and the fellows are all very fine, they come mostly from the cities and are followers of the Surf but we have, of course, a fair number of cornstalks. I expect we shall be in camp for about another six weeks before we sail although

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every day there are rumours that we are off in a week. Everyone seems to have a friend in a high office who told them something in its utmost secrecy. We have formed a little band of our own which is made up mostly of the Surfing men and I think we will get on very well together. There are Tom, George, Steve and Rob also Hal and myself.
Hal is still in good form but the exercise does not seem to take away any of the adipose tissue.
I made another friend today, an Irishman called Gillan, I think we will be great pals, he is very witty and has a fund of stories.
Now I must close as I’m mess orderly today and have to scrub the dixies and fed the lions.

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Queens ParkSydney.
16th October 1914.
I think we are really off this time and glad of it too, we were getting a bit fed up of this camp life, it does get monotonous when there is something else to do over the other side.
I was down helping to load the ship today and in an unguarded moment Hal and I partook of some ginger-beer and biscuits which were damaged being lowered into the hold nobody saw us and we feel real criminals now. They say all soldiers become thieves and scoundrels in the course of time. I am just going up to say Good-bye to my people and I suppose that will be the worst part of getting away. I saw some fellows saying good-bye to people today and I saw the look in the girl’s eyes and it seems

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to me that we who go will not suffer most in this War but those we leave behind who will always be trying to picture the unknown and always be making it a thousand times worse than it really is.
And so its Good-bye old man till we meet again. I wish it could have been my lot to have you with me through whatever it may be, but there is a destiny which shapes our ends and doubtless you will find your proper sphere of work in the War sooner or later but I know it must hurt you not to be with us.

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Chap ll.
On the troopship
Troopship A 14
A 14. Indian Ocean
14th November 1914

Tomorrow we enter Colombo Harbor the first bit of foreign country we have seen.
We left Albany a fortnight ago and said Good-bye to Australia late the same afternoon.
A few days out of Albany one of our convoy, H.M.A.S Sydney met and sunk the German cruiser "Emden" off Cocos Island, we were about 16 miles away from the scene of the fight and were very excited when we heard the news and the band struck up and everyone sang but unfortunately the rejoicing was cut short as one of our comrades, who had been suffering from pneumonia, passed away. We buried him at sea that afternoon and I thought as "the Last Post" sounded how sad it was for a man to die in that way before he had reached the

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field. You cannot imagine what a fine sight our convoy presents as it steams along in stately fashion, guarded on each side by cruisers, there are about 38 ships in all and they are formed up in three lines.
The "Osterley" passed us last week homeward bound and the people cheered us as they passed and also told us "Kingsborough" won the Melbourne Cup.
15/11/14
I was called away last night but I can now give you my impression of Colombo before I post this. The "Sydney" passed us this morning before daylight, we could just see her dim form in the distance, we cheered heartily.
Soon after this we noticed a spicy smell in the air and learnt that was our introduction to Ceylon.
Daylight enabled us to pick out the land some miles ahead and in about an hour we were passing

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Cape Galle with the famous Galle Face Hotel in the distance. Colombo Harbor was absolutely crammed with shipping- men-o-war, colliers and transports. Tom is very busy taking photos of every conceivable thing and Gillan is improving the shining hour making fun of the natives in their coracles below. Hal of course is bartering with said natives for cigars and cocoanuts. Colombo itself looks an awfully interesting town nestling at the bottom of a hill but we will not have a closer inspection unfortunately as we sail again almost immediately.

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A14
Mediterranean Sea Red Sea
30 11.17

We just called in to Aden for a night but it is just a rock as far as one can see and having read Kipling I had no desire to become further acquainted with it. We arrived at Suez two days ago and entered the Canal about midnight (before entering the Canal we had a searchlight put on our bows to show the way clearly.) At daylight we were near Ishmailia and there we got our first glimpse of the Arabs who ran along the banks shouting for "baksheesh" We passed some Indian encampments and also an English one they had been guarding the Canal since Turkey entered the War. About mid-day we reached Port Said and were immediately surrounded by bum-boats containing

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oranges, Turkish delight and cigarettes.
We have just discovered that we are really going to Egypt for training, we hear it is a place called Mena near the Pyramids but that at present conveys nothing to me. Last night we had an awful epidemic of ptomaine poisoning and about 1200 of the fellows were down to it. I was lucky enough to escape but I was up nearly the whole night doing what I could for the poor devils. I hear the Ras-el-Tin Lighthouse is in sight so Ill close as I want to get the first glimpse of Alexandria.
Hal thinks he has ptomaine but he hasn’t, he’s eaten too much Turkish delight.

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Chap lll Egypt.
Mena Camp
22 December 1914.

We are settling down on the sands of the Libyan Desert where it is hot in the day time and cold at night. The sands of the desert do really get cold so the song is right after all. Ive been into Cairo a couple of times and I was on a train between there and Alexandria for the first 10 days after we landed. It is a strange city and I think all the flotsam and jetsam of this earth must have gathered together at one time and sent here. Right in the heart of the city are some beautiful gardens called the Esbekieh gardens and one can always get away from the city by walking through their gardens.
Nearly all the people indulge in a

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mid-day siesta and consequently most of the shops are closed between 12.30 and 2 p.m. Our camp is right at the foot of the Pyramids which are three in number of course there are heaps more but these three are the most important and largest. Inside the principal one Cheops, there is a Kings Chamber, a Queens Chamber and gallery. They are made out of huge slabs of rock about 40 to 50 yards square. A kind faced gentleman known as the Sphinx squats immediately below them. We training here is going to be pretty solid as marching through this sand is no catch.

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Mena Camp.
3rd January 1915.

Another The New Year has come along and we are still here but suppose we will have about another two months training and then off to France perhaps- who knows?
George and I have now got a black friend he is not black really, he is brown, an Bedouin Arab and a vendor of antiquities, today he took us to his home and gave us coffee and cake and afterwards presented us with a charm – the eye of Horus- which will guard us from all evil spirits and bring us safe through the War. Of course we believed all this for the afternoon as it wouldn’t been at all nice to doubt a man in his own house would it? His name is Hessien

[Page 16]bdel Salam, it sounds alright if you say it quickly. On New Year’s Day I went out to Heliopolis the Garden City, it is a most beautiful place and was built and is being administered by the Belgian Government I understand. George came with me and we afterwards went back to Cairo and had dinner and then on to the Kurscal which is a sort of variety performance.
About midnight we hailed a passing four-wheeler and started off for camp but it got so cold about half-way home that we got out to walk a little way to get warm, the gentleman on the box took this as a direct insult to himself and his horses and immediately whipped up and was off at a gallop but pulled up about a mile up the road. We deducted this from his fare and so we had the last laugh after all.

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Mena Camp
1 Febuary 1915

Since last I wrote I have been dashing round seeing the sights but they are far too numerous and varied to describe.
I have been across the desert to Sakkara to see the tombs and the Step Pyramid and from there I went to Memphis (or rather where Memphis once was) then I crossed the Nile by barge and wandered up to Heluan and thence by train to Cairo. Another day I went to Old Cairo & Rhoda Island and saw the tree against which Moses was supposed to have been found. But you must not think by this that I am running round sight-seeing all the time, no indeed, only one day a week are we free from the lash of the

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oppressor. We had a very fine church parade on Sunday the whole Brigade was drawn up as usual but General Birdwood and his staff came along and the sermon was delivered by the Bishop of Jerusalem.
News has just come through that their is fighting going on with the Turks on the Canal. I wonder if we shall have the luck to get down there for the fun.
Hal of course is full of ideas about our movements but George refuses to listen to them. They seem to be getting very nasty in the hot weather.
There are some queer little creatures here who turn eggs into rabbits and rabbits into pieces of colored paper and all that sort of thing and they murmur "Golla Golla Golla" all the time. What language is that?

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Mena Camp
30th March 1915

Quite a while since last I wrote to you Im afraid but I must plead the exigencies of the Service to clear myself. Well it really looks as if we are to move out of this god-forsaken country. One Brigade has already gone, the Lord knows where and to-day Sir Ian Hamilton inspected us. He is a grissled old soldier and has a withered arm. Small-pox broke out in our Brigade and that has delayed us as we cant leave the country under 21 days from the date of the last case.
We buried a comrade a few days ago, he died of pneumonia this is the first death we have had. The day after his funeral

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All his kit excepting his personal belongings were sold by auction and the money will be sent to his people. (This is an army custom during peace times but I dont think it can be done on the field).
Have just had news that we move on Saturday (three days time) and we are all as happy as can and rumour is rife as to our destination but Turkey is easily favorite. I hope it is in a way but I suppose we’ll growl wherever we go.
Goodbye will write again later

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Mudros Bay
24th April 1915.
And so at last we are very near the Great Adventure and everyone of us having his own thoughts and keeping them strictly to himself for fear his pals will call him a sentimental fool. It is strange the thoughts that come to one at such a time as this for we have been lying here for over a week and the harbour is crowded with transports and men-o-war and we know we are about to embark on a feat of arms which if successful will be without parallel in the world’s history. All day I’ve been busy making a small canvas wallet in case I get wet when we do our last dash for the unknown shore. The ship’s are already moving out and soon we shall be off and passing down that long line of grey monsters- the grim

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sentinels of the sea silent now but soon to be barking joyously as they enter the fray after all these years of waiting.
We are moving now so Ill close.
Good-bye old pal if it must be [indecipherable.]
Somewhere across the water a cornet is playing Tosti’s Goodbye. I wonder

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Chapter IV
Anzac

Anzac
30th April 1915.
Well Im still alive and kicking tho’ how or why I dont know. The last few days have been just like some strange dream but I shall try and tell you what I know of it. To begin with our boat was about tenth in the line and consequently we were later to shore than some. We transferred onto a destroyer- the Scourge- and after running within about a mile of the shore we again changed into barges towed by a pinnace and then commenced our last wild dash with shrapnel hailing round us in the water- and then the shore and after that I can only remember carrying stretchers for what seemed like years and sometimes carrying tins of water or boxes of ammunition back

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to the boys. George and I were carrying one poor chap late in the afternoon and near the beach General Birdwood passed us and said a few words to us and the wounded man but soon after this incident a shell-burst above and killed the poor beggar we were carrying. I shall never forget that, it was the first I saw how close one can be to death and yet come out unscathed. The fighting was terrific all through those first days and one night, I don’t know if it was the first or the second, we were ordered to withdraw but our General refused for the time being and thank goodness things rallied and we shall now be able to bury our fallen ourselves. You have no idea what a hearty meal you can make off a single biscuit hard enough to tire you in eating it. One has only to glance round anywhere on the small piece of land which we now hold to realise the wastage of war- everywhere are

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scattered packs, Web Equipment, bayonets, rifles, entrenching tools ammunition and all manner of things. I suppose when things become settled all these things will be gathered up and re-issued but it gives one an idea of what must happen during a retreat. All day and night the battleships out in the Bay are pounding away at unseen fortresses and lines of communication- The Triumph and the Bacchante are firmly established as favorites with the Australians and their broadsides rattle out incessantly and ever and anon the deep-tuned roar of the Lizzie’s guns remind us of the War.
Aurevoir there is work to be done

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25th May 1915.
This letter will be absolutely crammed with incident old bird so prepare yourself. After I wrote to you last things went quietly enough for several days and we were enabled to consolidate our position and to make ourselves as comfortable as possible but on the morning of the 20th Bedlam was let loose and we found the Turks were counter-attacking and the fighting became terrific but we held them off and gave them Hell they fairly fell in hundreds and after about 36 hours they gave up the attempt and went back to see Allah about it.
Across the water lie Imbros and stately Samothrace within whose bays Xerxes gathered the dusky

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warriors before launching his attack on Thermopolae, many centuries have passed over them Since that day but still within their sight we civilised beings are making war and killing our fellow-beings and this for world-power the cause of wars from time immemorial.
Yesterday we had an armistice to bury the dead and we who were lucky enough to go out, talked as freely as possible with our friend the Turk- He is a strange little creature- the Turk in his blue-grey green clothes and slippered feet and I expect he thinks the same of us for he was surprised to find us white and human. He is a sport and I hope he thinks the same of us. I do not think I shall tell anymore of our doings out in front that day enough to say we buried all our dead and our padres held services over them

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not individually but collectively as circumstances demanded. Before 4 o’clock No Man’s Land was deserted once more and on the stroke of the clock rifles rang out from here and there along the line to show the game had re-commenced.
Last letter I told you of the Triumph, tonight she is no more. She was torpedoed off Gaba Tepe at about 12.30 to-day and thousands of us watched her go and truly it was like the passing of an old friend as indeed she was. First she listed slightly to one side and we could see the blue-jackets crawling up the decks.
Destroyers rushed to her assistance and the sailors taking to the water were quickly picked up. In about twenty minutes she was almost on her side and sailors could be seen standing on the side and not on the deck and then slowly at first then quicker and quicker she began to disappear from sight and then without

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a sound or even a rushing of water (as is popularly said to be the case when a ship sinks) she had gone to her resting place, her duty nobly done. About 100 of her crew her lost and these mostly the gallant stokers who remained at their posts drawing the fire to avoid an explosion.
Sic transit gloria mundi.
[The following crossed out but legible reads:
The "Lizzie" as we have called her is firing broadsides as if to make up for the loss of the Triumph’s fire.]

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Anzac
16th June 1915.
Im very lonely tonight, poor old George was badly hit with shrapnel to-day and we have never been apart for long since the Landing. We have been living in the same dug-out, you know, with Hal and Rob next door but somehow we used to usually wander off together, we worked together, swam together, ate together and yarned and argued (sometimes furiously) and this brings men together perhaps more than anything else could do. You know the true value of friendship. Don’t think Im getting down on it, old man, but George leaving me so suddenly and having seen death with all its awful suddeness in these last few

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days I cannot help being just a little sad, it recalled to my mind a little verse I saw since
La vie est breve
Un peu d’espoir
Un peu de reve
Et puis- Bon soir.
And it is so very very true too, isn’t it? Many of these poor lads have had their dreams, their ambitions but alas! For them it has truly been Et puis-Bon soir.
To-morrow Im going to the hospital ship to see George before he sails but Im afraid it for him as those others it is- Bon soir.
But I must tell you some news. For days we have seen the inflated hides of floating mules bobbing about in the Bay but yesterday we saw something come floating in, it was a cask and more followed and all along the shore were busy helping them

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ashore. "Its wine" said one and so it proved to be, Yes the good red wine of France. A fatigue party carrying water who happened to be passing soon emptied their tins and were filling up again with wine while the cook was left to wait their pleasure with the water for the evening meal.
But the Turks could not let this go on with impunity so he shelled the beach and many of the crowd took cover but some of the most zealous still remained and crouching behind the casks continued to fill their tins. "What a glorious death" someone said behind me and I looked behind round and there stood Rob with a heavy tin in each hand, he had been an early bird and our menu will have Burgundy to grace it for some weeks to come.

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Anzac
26th July 1915.
Nothing much doing since last I wrote except about a month ago when we attacked on the right flank to cause a diversion from Cape Helles where there was an important attack in hand.
Our effort was one of the variety one sees the paper nowadays and is only given about two lines "Yesterday our right flank advanced 200 yards over a front of half a mile"
The general public read that with scarcely a thought, they want the big news, the tale that tells of the din and roar and battle, this has been nothing. But to those who take part this little involvement spells death just as surely as the great movement

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along a wide front in which the papers revel and paint pen-pictures about. Nothing much doing I started off by telling you and yet to those who gave their all at Chatham’s Post it was as much as the greatest battle that ever raged. I am writing by the light of a fat lamp and the voices of the boys in the water comes floating faintly up the hillside. After dark each night every chap, who can get away, goes for a swim for it is only then that the water is safe from "Beachy Bill" our shrapnel friend from the olive grove

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10th August 1915.
We have just come through the hardest and fiercest fighting we have had yet. Its started on the 6th inst when we attacked at Lone Pine, a position which was said to be impregnable. Right from the beginning it was practically hand to hand fighting all the time. Our Brigade had the honor of the attack and everything worked out as arranged and we reached our objective without a great number of casualties but holding on was the trouble, the Turk came time and time again but we drove him off but their bombing was very severe and our trenches became crowded with wounded.
Further up the coast at Suvla

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Bay another landing was effected by the English and under cover of our attack which acted as a diversion it was very successful up to a point but it now transpires that someone caused unnecessary delay by trying to run the affair according to the drill book and consequently the successful landing was shortly over-shadowed by a reverse which utterly spelt disaster for a movement which had it been carried through on the spur of the movement must undoubtedly have surprised the enemy and carried us within sight of the Narrows which we have previously striven so hard to reach. Somehow I think we have played our last card now and this thing which might have been such a crowning success must soon bear another name- Failure.
It is really pathetic to think that twice we have had the situation within our grasp and each time

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It has failed owing to things that need not have been. Everyone knows to-day that lack of men was the first reason and now it is lack of ----- but perhaps I had better just say someone blundered.
I think it was Nelson who said "Five minutes is the difference between victory and defeat" and this Suvla Bay affair has been a fair illustration. The losses for our Brigade during this fighting have been 1350 up to the present. Among that number there are some who will have their last resting-place here. Are we to leave them in their graves a monument to our defeat from this Moslem throng?

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Chapter V
Lemnos

Sarpi
Lemnos
16th September 1915.
You will think by my change of address that I have been either sick or wounded but this is not the case we have been relieved and sent off the Peninsula, the last affair at Lone Pine did the trick, we were so badly battered that something had to be done. As we stood off Anzac in one of the Channel packet boats and looked back at the shore with its myriad twinkling lights denoting that several gentlemen were at home in their dugouts, I think we all wondered if we should ever see this place again and hoping we would not and yet there was an intangible something which made us love the

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place, a sadness mixed with pride, for it cost us many noble lives but those lives have made the name of Australia immortal. The twinkling lights drew dim in the distance and I wondered who was tending the light in my little dug-out, my home for the past five months, the light which emanated from a tobacco tin filled with fat from my weekly chop. Here and there a rifle spat viciously and occasionally a spurt of flame preceded the rattle of a field gun and told us that that harbinger of death the 18 pounder was at work again.
On our left the lights of Cape Helles come slowly into view and Anzac for the time being is but a memory, a bitter sweet memory which we shall all hold dear while life lasts.

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Sarpi Lemnos
4.10.15.
Here we are training on this bleak barren island which marks the first stepping stone of our entry into the War
It is interesting enough in its way, I suppose, with its strange Greek population who till the soil and rob the poor simple Australian. Today I saw some Australian nurses it was truly like a breath of Heaven after our months of enforced hermitage. You smile at the word hermitage but so it was so.
I have just heard that poor old George has died of wounds in Alexandria but somehow the news did not surprise me for I felt it would be so when last I saw him. He was one of the finest men I have ever known, always cheery

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and ever ready to do someone else’s work. Poor old Gillan is not at all well, he has been ill for a couple of months but would not leave the Peninsula and now we are away the re-action has been nearly too much for him but he is sticking it like a true soldier.
We walked to the capital of the island a few days a place called Castro it has a rather fine old fort built by Philip III of Spain but that is about the only thing of interest, it is a rambling old town and fishing appears to be the chief industry. On the way home to camp we called at the Mineral Baths at Thurmae and indulged therein and the hot water was nearly too much for us. We got back at 10 p. m after an eighteen mile tramp and slept well.
Au revoir, mon ami.

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Sarpi Lemnos
23.12.15
And so that thing which has been a matter of idle rumour for so many weeks has really come to pass and in the passing it has saddened the hearts of us despite its unprecedented success.
I speak, of course, of the Evacuation of Gallipoli after all these weary months of fighting and monotony and useless loss of life but indeed it had to be the effort once launched and failing made it necessary, after futile attempts to carry it through, to bows to the fates and leave the place with the least loss of life possible and indeed in this respect the Evacuation was entirely a success, a crowning success and fitting end to a campaign dogged from the outset by disaster. For weeks the troops practiced walking in sandbagged feet and then when

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all was ready the troops were taken off each night till on the 19th December only a skeleton garrison remained. Stores were burnt, guns were destroyed and everything of use was done away with and then the final withdrawal which was carried out successfully and all unknown to the Turk. Here and there along the line a rifle would ring out and this by means to a string attached to the trigger and a tin attached to the string and above the tin another and larger tin filled with water which dripped incessantly till the tin below became heavy enough to release the trigger and thus keep up appearances. And so ended the place known as Anzac which eight short months ago was known by another name and to that name it has reverted to-day but to us and ours it shall always be remembered by the name made out of the first letters of Birdy’s army- the

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Australian and New Zealand Army Corps.
And now we are here waiting to sail for Egypt and ever the troops are rolling from Helles- Scotch English and French- all of whom have left many dear pals behind them, those who have gone west, those who doing their long last sentry-go on those blood-stained shores- Gallipoli. And so a chapter has closed in all our lives and we look out into the dim future- a future potent with interest, full of surprise and certainly full of battle-fields in some country new to us.
Perhaps it will be France, we all hope so but certainly it will be the hard cold sands of the desert for more of the galling training which has helped so much during these past months.

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Chapter VI
Egypt Again

Tel-el-Kebir
Egypt
10.1.16.
As you will see by my address the above we came to Egypt as prophesied by Me- the Prophet. [Next sentence crossed out] Some say we are off to France, some Mespot and even India seems to have found a place but France seems to be the general favorite.
This is the spot where the famous battle of the 80’s was fought and across the canal from our camp stands the monument to those of ours who fell. This is the only thing that commends the place at all for otherwise it is sand and filthy Arabs. Occasionally in the stilly night one hears the bleat of the jackal or the cackle of the hippopotamus

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and various other noises of the jungle which one reads about in books dealing with the Call of the Desert but these books I might mention are written by men in the pay of an enterprising company who are trying to run the desert as a pleasure resort. And the noises are really emitted by youthful Arabs who are being kicked by fond parents clad in military boots (our boots). But I digress. We are all polishing up the remnants of our French vocabulary with a view to obtaining French pastry and French jellies on our arrival in that beautiful country, I have mentioned the subject to a few Frenchmen here but they don’t seem to know France very well as they don’t know where we can buy these things. However I suppose the man from Cook’s will be there to meet us, so all will be well.

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Serapeum, Sinai
20.2.17 [?]
Once again we have changed our abode we have moved to the seaside or rather the Canal-side but are the wrong side of the Canal and cut off from civilisation. Although now and again a liner passes up the Canal homeward-bound carrying passengers- many of the fair sex- and sometimes they throw us cigarettes and fruit- no doubt they mistake us for the "baksheesh" beggars of previous trips, we assume that role without loss of prestige. It is if anything less interesting than Tel-el- Kebir, it was behind the times when Adam was a boy in short pants. Occasionally we have a sandstorm and that breaks the monotony of things, it usually

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takes days to see normally again so I suppose it is meant to keep us out of mischief. We are going to France alright and it should be fairly soon now, I think. Today a troopship went through to Alex from Australia and one of the boys started the old cry "Are we downhearted?" Chorus "No." One of our boys sitting on the bank occupied in the old and justly celebrated pastime of inspecting his shirt for his closest friends, sang out "Well you ---- soon will be." The badinage from the ship lacked enthusiasm from then on. It is really a Cruel awakening for those setting out with all the romance of war and that sort of thing heavy upon them to be suddenly popped into the East- the mystic fascinating quaint picturesque East- the country of beautiful moonlight, of soft strange bewitching music, strange people and pungent odours, and to find that these things are a suave and a delusion and that it is just Sand-Sand-Sand.

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Chap VII.
France

Strazelle. France
4.4.16
And so at last we are here, we are really in France and to-night I sit in a billet in an old world village not so many miles from the line and the guns shake the walls ceaselessly.
Somewhere a concertina is pumping out some of the time-worn rags and now and again a Frenchman’s voice can be heard singing one of those many songs the war has given to these poor people- they are pathetic songs telling of the devastation of their lands, of the loss of their dear ones.
We landed at Marseilles and so by train through the Rhone Valley, the vineyard country and then skirting Paris to Calais and then here. Every thing where the women are wearing black, everywhere

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they are bright and cheerful. "C’est la guerre, monsieur, C’est la guerre" They are truly a wonderful people. Here and there along the cobbled roads one meets a few old poilus in uniform keeping the road in order for the heavy traffic passing to and from the front, too old for service in the line, they are used on the lines of communication, just the cogs of a huge machine but very necessary cogs. and Sometimes their old backs get stiff so they sit down and smoke their pipes and rest a while "C’est la guerre, monsieur." they say.
They are doing their bit for their beloved France. "Oh yes but surely the Allies will win but all the men must fight to drive the Boche from France, it is very necessary for all to do something to help, yes, it is very necessary."
"C’est la guerre, monsieur."

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Le Nouveau Monde
28.4.16
And so at last we are in the line opposite the Hun at last we did our last part of the journey a little over a week ago and now we are settled for our preliminary canter in a spot which has been most aptly termed "the Nursery" It is here that all new Divisions in France have their first introduction to trench warfare. The war here is still a thing of wonder to us, it is all so utterly unlike Gallipoli and what I pictured it would be, flares of all the colors of the rainbows appear several times nightly from the trenches opposite; here and there the "phut-phut-phut" of a machine gun; a dull booming ever and anon from behind and before denote the presence of big guns

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doing their work unseen; now and then the cry of "Stretcher-bearers, Stretcher-bearers" and just another one has got a "Blighty", just another one is going down those long straight roads which lead to the coast and then to England and all it holds for us. It is very strange but not a bit like we pictured it to be. We expected the whole line to be a raging battle, I think where troops were thrown in like coals to a furnace and brought out- well much as the coal comes out of the furnace. But bear in mind we are in the Nursery, this is but the crysalis stage, later we shall all probably wish our Nursery days over again. Out in front in No Man’s Land a witty Hun has posted a notice to the Australians telling them us to return to our homes as they do not wish to fight us. Perhaps they are right but we are not coming home just yet. You have probably

[Page 53]
read all about "the Mad Major" long before this reaches you but lest you should think the story fiction I hasten to assure you that anything reckless you hear about him is quite true. He is a battery commander in the R.F.A but also flies to do his own observing. He flies at about 3000 feet and then suddenly drops to about 100 feet and skims along and observes to his heart’s content and then up again before the Hun has recovered from his stupefaction.
Anzac Day passed quietly with us it was not to us a day for rejoicing for its memories are still to heavy on us, the sadness of it all is still so fresh in all our minds. We drank in the wine of France to those absent ones, the silent toast to those who solved the great problem on those far-away shores. When the Calendar passes round its course again I wonder to how many of those who are here now it will have

[Page 54]
been "un peu de reve Et puis- Bon Soir."
It is the glorious uncertainty of this life that fascinates us all. By the way leave has started and I expect my next letter will be full of London, theatres and all the joys of life one can rake out in ten short days. The thought of being free for ten days is almost too much for me, no orderly sergeants to kick me out of bed, tea from thin china cups with real saucers, taxis to move you instead of feet, oh, it is all too much like a dream.

[Page 55]
London
20.5.16.
The last week I have spent totally away from all things savouring of war. Seeing the sights of London, the theatres and resteraunts and generally rushing about and this we call our rest. I think I shall feel more tired when I get back to France than I have felt for ages and ages. A few days ago I went up into Suffolk to see my brother and the country looked lovely, rushing through Norfolk at about 30 miles an hour on the Great Eastern certainly gives one a great impression of the beauty of England. I rushed out to Lowestoft and Yarmouth and saw a little of the damage done by the German raiders.
The impressions one gets in London at night while it is now clothed

[Page 56]
in darkness, as protection from air-raids, are many and varied. One feels the crowd which cannot be seen, there is the feeling of loneliness which one feels in the midst of the great seething mass of humanity, lonely yet not alone, strange undefinable.
Out across the water in No-Man’s Land, one gets the feeling of being all alone against the world, strange unseen beings seem to be hovering about ready to spring, there is always the feeling of the unknown but in London it is not that "sort of loneliness, it is as I say strange, unexplainable.
Tonight the clock goes forward one hour, the Daylight Saving Scheme you know. I saw Big Ben the famous old clock switch forward one hour this afternoon. To morrow I go back to France, back to endless growling or monotony or too much work or anything as long as its growling.
Such is the world and its inhabitants

[Page 57]
Flanders
28.6.16.
Well I’ve been back in France for over a month now and we have been preparing for a Push which would have surprised the world but for reason which will not be published it has been abandoned and we are moving to another part of this great stage- the Western Front. Long ere this letter reaches you the world will know we have made our debut in the real fighting against the Hun. We have been formed into what is known as a Mobile Division to be rushed hither and thither wherever we are most needed. In a very few days the English will strike the initial blow and we shall probably be in the thick of it in a little over

[Page 58]
a fortnight. Perhaps the stagnation, the monotony of trench warfare will become a thing of the past. Perhaps the cavalry will get their long looked for chance. The whole thing is full of possibility, full of hope but behind it all there lurks that harbinger- Death- waiting to take his toll and who will fill the places of those who are going west. If people at home could only realise what this war means the necessity to keep up the flow of men to feed the furnace of war surely they would not hold back when the Motherland and humanity calls them.

[Page 59]
Warloy
26.7.16
Well It is over for us for the time being. Posieres today stands within our lines or rather lies I should say for the village is but a thing of past glories, here and there a cellar is intact, everywhere bricks and pieces of tin are scattered about. It was hard fighting, the hardest we have ever known. Picture for yourself rows and rows of guns standing wheel to wheel and stretching back to a depth of three miles firing spontaneously, picture those shells bursting, picture the enemy replying not in kind certainly but as near as he can to it.
Picture most of those shells landing in a little over a square mile of country and you will have just the

[Page 60]
faintest idea what the Battle of Posieres was like. Under all that shelling there was fighting going on, machine guns telling out their toll, snipers adding to their bag, men shouting to their pals not a yard away.
Poor battered figures wearily dragging themselves through the shell-holes
back to safety. Stretcher-bearers working at top pressure. Parties carrying ammunition, bombs, water, food, it has all got to go on even in the midst of the thickest fighting.
Back along the road we came passing under the leaning statue of the Church in Albert. Beneath the eyes of that figure have passed thousands of soldiers pouring into the Battle of the Somme some pass twice, once forward and once coming back from the gates of Hell, some pass that second time beaten and torn in an ambulance car, some plod wearily out too tired to realise

[Page 61]
that they have been spared yet once again. Few certainly look up and see the Statue of the Virgin Mary with the infant Jesus in her arms looking down on them as they pass.

[Page 62]
Halloy
Somme
8.8.16.
Today I was sent for by the Brigadier and afteres an interview with a Colonel of one of the Battalions I went before the G.O.C and he told me I had been recommended for a commission and so I am leaving my old associations to pick up the threads of new existence totally unlike the care-free life of the private which I have been leading for two years. When one gets responsibility suddenly thrown upon them the obstacles loom up large and formidable at first but I suppose they vanish with closer association. We are just starting to move up again and this time I make my debut on the field as an infantry officer- a platoon commander. I hope I can justify myself in the eyes of my men

[Page 63]
for I know the super-critical eye of the private, the little things that earn the respect of the men, the little things that earn their condemnation
These men, I think, are going to know more about the game this time than I do but will they let me off lightly for the mistakes I make at first. It is a big question when you look at carefully- On the one hand myself utterly unversed in the ways and means of this new life- on the other men who have been at the game through all its phases. There is just one way but everyone must find that way out for themselves, there is no written law on the subject, it just comes to you and by it you stand or fall.

[Page 64]
Warloy
24.8.16.
Once again we are back here from the line this time we were in at Mouquet Farm just to the left of Posieres. It was all strange and new to me and even the commonplace was interesting the first day in I got a piece of shell through the foot but my boot saved me and after a trip to the dressing-station I was able to carry on. I got on alright, one soon gets into the swing of things. Im going to love the life, there is so much to learn about the work and such scope for study of human nature among these men who bear all the hardships and pleasures of war alike. Always grousing over some trivial little thing just as a cloak to hide their real thoughts, always ready to help their pals and to share

[Page 65]
their last crumb. Have you ever watched the habits of an animal for any length of time? Have you ever watched what time it eats, goes for water and all that sort of thing? If you have you realise more easily what it is like to watch for the habits of a sniper who each day is adding to the notches in his rifle, each day making a Company a few men less. That was what was happening to us, we knew where he was but we couldn’t get at him so we just waited to note his habits and eventually we learnt how he reached his post and when. Next day in the dim mist of dawn we had four rifles laid ready along the track which he had to come to take up his position, slowly along the path came the figure of a man-a Hun walking carelessly to his post. Slowly those rifles come to the shoulder, there are four flashes at once and then silence. It is all done through observation of habit.

[Page 66]
Flanders
3.9.16.
We have left the Somme and come up North again and are now stationed in a camp, bearing a Canadian name, just off the long white road which runs from Ypres to Poperinghe. Here the Canadians made their name in the second and Third Battles of Ypres here their names have been immortalised and everything bears a Canadian name it. We are just moving into the line at Hill 60, the famous hill a little to the left of Verbrandmolen which has been the scene of the greatest mining activity throughout the war. Day and night the miners, both ours and the Huns, work incessantly counter-mining, blowing in each others shafts, establishing listening-posts, working always. The whole area is a labrynth of underground passages. Above the infantry manning the trenches

[Page 67]
guarding against attack, beneath the miner guarding the infantry from being blown up from below. It is all very wonderful this underground warfare and calls for all the ingenuity of man, all the strategy of war. Behind it lies Ypres silent, battered out of semblance of the city it once was, the one remaining tower of the Cloth Hall standing out in bold relief, the one silent sentinel over the ruined city. Through the streets at night the waggons bearing food and ammunition rattle strangely over the cobbles and the skeleton walls of houses give back the echoes. At the southern end of the town an empty train stands waiting for the troops coming out of the trenches. Soon it will be a seething mass of mud-stained humanity eager to take shelter in its carriages so that they may light their "fags" and pipes for to strike a match in the open round Ypres is a criminal offence for it may mean the loss of many lives when a relief is taking place.

[Page 68]
Flanders
4.10.16.
We are in yet another part of the line in the Salient, the home of gas attacks, almost nightly somewhere along the line a siren blows and is taken up growing steadily in intensity telling all within three miles of the line that a gas attack has been launched. Helmets are taken out. Eyes are strained out across No Mans Land to try and trace that white cloud which might at any moment envelop you bringing Death in its wake.
But no the attack is further down the line, it is not coming this way and work is resumed. Our line stretches along the bank of a Canal, for a mile you can walk along a trench completely covered by willow trees. Here is the home of the sniper the natural cover for the observer, further along our line runs through three craters

[Page 69]
each of which are about sixty feet deep, the work of the miner. First the crater is blown up and then before the enemy have time to recover from the shock, the infantry rush it and occupy it and the line is advanced just so much, yet another form of attack. But I was going to tell you the story of a boy, a wee strip of a boy, with steel blue eyes and a dogged chin. He joined us a little over a month ago and liked him the first moment I saw him. He has personality written all over him. He reminded me of my own brother. "How old are you" I asked him one day "Just twenty, sir" he said and I knew he lied but I said nothing. He took to the life like a duck takes to water. Keen as mustard, steady, self-reliant. I grew to love that boy. Today an armoured train came up somewhere behind the German line and fired on Thames Street (the trench by the Canal). The boy was the only one who suffered, both feet were taken off.

[Page 70]
He asked for me and I went to him. He smiled up at me, thank God he had no pain. "I am only sixteen, sir, and I came away without my Mother’s consent. My father is over the other side of the Canal with the –th Battalion, he doesnt know I’m here" There were tears in my eyes as I took his hands and thanked him for the way he had done his bit.
"I don’t suppose they will let me come back again, Sir and Ive only been here a little while"
"Dont try to come back, Murray" I said and the stretcher-bearers moved away.
"Good-bye and Good luck Murray"
"Goodbye Sir Good luck."
He died on the way to the dressing station two hours later.
Somewhere out in No Mans Land the other side of the Canal the boy’s father lies killed in a raid the night before
Such is war but how seldom do we realise its grim reality.

[Page 71]
Somme
8.12.16.
And now we come to the winter, the most trying of all our experiences. Merciless rain beating down endlessly, sharp winds cutting like a knife, and knee-deep everywhere, mud squelching, thick impossible mud. Food soaked in rain, clothing and equipment caked in slimy mud. Inside the craving for warm food outside the craving for relief for benumbed limbs. Over everything a pall, a feeling of utter hopelessness and there you have Winter as it is here. Three days ago we attacked in that, all that which I have just pictured to you and it failed. We who have never failed before because the flesh was too weak, it had reached the breaking point, privation exposure, lack of sleep all told their tale. The attack was launched in

[Page 72]
the pouring rain, over we went with German machine guns tearing great gaps in our lines and then half way across No Mans Land we were up to our armpits in water, through it we ploughed the machine guns still taking their toll. But it was too much, we were beaten back. Three times we tried but the task was hopeless and at last we gave it up.
At dawn I stood a mile behind the line seeing my Company through to Delville Wood, men, listlessly dragging their feet behind them, with the grey pallor and staring eyes of sheer fatigue passed me by unseeingly. It was weird, uncanny they were sound asleep to all around them quite unconscious just moving by instinct not picking their way, just stumbling along through rough and smooth alike. What’s the use anyway?

[Page 73]
X Extra page to be inserted at the Cross. [See next page]
I have talked of a sea of mud but even across that sea of mud several cases of Christmas presents, cakes and puddings arrived most opportunely last night from the War Chest Fund.
To-day the boys are feeling the benefit of these things, their day has been made cheerful by their advent, it has somehow brought them nearer home, they feel that there are still friends who think of them and work for them. No Christmas mail it has been delayed, no parcels from home but these cases with their presents and a postcard addressed to the donor. I went into some of the huts. One chap said "More work for you, sir" I said "Why" "Oh! We’ve all got a new girl" I laughed and went out into the wind again.
"God bless the people at home," I thought, If they could only see the result of their labours, they would have their share of happiness.

[There appears to be a page missing here]
[Page 74]
white paint words of Christmas cheer to the Hun. "A present from Canada" "With the Best Wishes of Buster Brown" (Buster brown is a 6 inch howitzer)
X
There are eight of us gathered together in this hut, we have been telling yarns of our other Christmases and comparing notes on the last few we have spent out here.
Most of us are writing now, One feels that it is very necessary to write on Christmas Day of all days. Looking back over the year it has been one of many changes for me and I don’t think I have suffered from any of them. Many of my old friends have answered their Last Post but I have been spared to come through yet another year. The hand of Fate is a strange thing, its fingers pass over some time and time again, others it clutches at the first grip.

[The next sentence is struck through but reads:
Well I must away to the festive board which is tottering under the weight of its sumptuous repast.]

[Page 75]
Eaucourt L’Abbaye
2.2.17
Gone is the rich luscious mud which we have grown to know but not to love & in its place or rather over it has come a good frost making a hard but slippery footing. For miles around snow frozen hard meets the eye broken here and there by the advent of a large shell which has torn up great masses of ice and laid bare Mother Earth again. Here two months ago we were buried to our knees in mud now we slip and slide on a hard slippery surface of ice but it is great to feel a hard surface meeting the foot again.
At night in the distance one can hear the metallic ring of

[Page 76]
horses’ hoofs on the ice-bound roads, these poor animals must rejoice at the disappearance of the mud, for weeks on end they struggled nightly through that mud carrying huge quantities of food and ammunition on their poor strained backs, struggling and blundering through dimly seen shell-holes, tearing their legs on unseen barbed wire and then back to the transport lines to rest miserably surrounded by a sea of mud and discomfort. Who knows what agonies those poor dumb things suffer out here, during their duty nobly and resignedly.
Nearer to me than that road is a duckboard track leading round the edge of High Wood to the line along this come throngs of men carrying supplies, slipping and falling and cursing volubly but struggling doggedly on, it would be an evil

[Page 77]
moment for the Kaiser were to be walking along that same duckboard path when these men are trudging along their hearts filled with black hopelessness of it all.
Out in front, in No Man’s Land which is now no longer a spot of lurking black mystery but is also clothed in the dress of Jack Frost, a patrol is moving clothed garbed in white canvas smocks and white washed steel helmets, a man’s camouflage for the winter nights out there in that land of unsolved mysteries.
Back behind the lines a man is shrilly whistling a call to his mates, he is off the track and has lost his way in this white wilderness unadorned by structure of any kind, he can pick out no signs of habitation but fifty yards

[Page 78]
away from him lies the black entrance to a trench (the Support line) but he will never see it unless he stumbles upon it my chance, there is no sign on the surface of the ground that this is not a great white plain.
Everywhere is this great strange white expanse seen but in another month the thaw and then back to the mud till the sun and Spring days dry up the Earth and prepare it for the Summer offensive.

[Page 79]
D’Oignees
23.4.17
The enemy have been steadily retiring for some time, evacuating their positions on the Somme front and are taking up a new position known as the Hindenburg Line in this manner they will shorten their front and conserve their troops. We are now well in front of that shell strewn area over which the battles of the Somme raged last year. Bapaume, Ligny Thilloy, le Transloy, Beauleucourt all lie behind us. We are fighting over green fields and the beautiful sunken roads of France, the villages were too hastily evacuated to be destroyed and only now are some of them beginning to feel the effect of shelling. On our left lies the highway from Bapaume to Cambrai

[Page 80]
and here at least are left the signs of the Boche’s resource, for right along that road as far as the eye can reach the German saw has been at work on the stately trees and across the road lie great trunks at intervals which effectively block its use for vehicular traffic. About ten days ago he counter-attacked after we had taken this village and several others and for a time he succeeded in breaking the line at Lagnicourt (this you have doubtless read) and captured some of our field guns but these were recovered after brisk fighting and the Hun driven back. On our front he came time and time again starting just on daylight and it was a most wonderful sight to see hundreds of men coming over the low undulating country in dense masses.
Three miles behind their line one could see the men hurrying forward to join their comrades in front, it

[Page 81]
magnificent, just like watching a field day at home but not what one expects to see of the battlefields of the present day. We a
We are going out of the line to-morrow and then will move back across the regained France to civilisation and the long-promised rest, the sun shines out of the sky now for it is Spring-time and with the bitterness of winter behind us and the joy of the warm weather to come, some of the sun has entered into our hearts, the joy of life has come back to us

[Page 82]
Paris-Plage-Le Touquet, France
D of W’s Hospital
18.5.17
So at last Im properly "pipped", Ive got my "Blighty", a fracture of the upper part of the right arm. Im quite satisfied with it, it was a bullet from a sniper about 30 yards away and anyone who is missed at 30 yards should be satisfied. Bullecourt was my undoing and it was also the worst Ive ever been in since I began known. Just picture a sunken road leading to a shell-torn area with here and there a disabled "Tank" standing out on the skyline, a line of battered trenches running across this road. In front the enemy, along the trench to the right about 400 yards the enemy, to the left about 400 yards the enemy, to the left and rear about 200 yds

[Page 83]
again the enemy, a rain of shells falling incessantly on that little garrison holding part of what once was the Hindenburg Line, a quarter half of a mile to the left the smouldering ruins of the village of Bullecourt, the air dense with the smell of powder and all around the cries of the wounded. Picture all that as vividly as you possibly can and even then you will have a very poor idea of what the battle of Bullecourt was really like.
I was wounded on the fourth day and walked out along that sunken road for three miles to the dressing station and there were hundreds going in the same direction, some had got their "Blighty", others, poor chaps, would never see another day. I passed through the dressing-station and so by car to the Clearing-station and then by train to the Base (ie here), and since then Ive been sleeping

[Page 84]
and eating alternately. Im off to England to-morrow night, I am at least going to have a long rest but it is not the one I had counted on.
We have just had afternoon tea and now some girls are singing sweetly and softly at the far end of the ward, Here and there a padre is flitting from bed to bed writing letters for the patients and generally helping them. A jolly girl is wheeling a table covered with books about and offering them to the boys, she is a worker for the Red Cross, it is all very peaceful and quiet- but out there somewhere is my battalion what of it? Ive had no word of it since Ive been here. What happened after I was wounded? Were they annihilated or did relief come that night? They were fighting hard and well those dear chaps but could they last, the strain had been terrific and they were over-tired

[Page 85]
Such were my thoughts amid that peaceful scene until I was awakened from my reverie by a soft voice asking me if I would like some tea. I acquiesced and watched her flit quietly away and then I must have dozed off again for the voice was back in my ear again before I could think. Cheerio, till I reach "Blighty"

[Page 86]
Chap VIII.
England
Wandsworth
3.6.17.
Four miles from the heart of London I have come to rest in hospital.
The noise of the city does not reach here we are surrounded on all sides by trees- the trees of a huge common, after school hours the voices of children playing drifts over the walls and comes into our wards, children enjoying the summer sunshine and making the most of it while it is there. I have not been out all yet but have been up a couple to times and am looking forward to the day when I can go out for a few hours to learn better the threads of London life of which I know so little. I have had

[Page 87]
heaps of visitors and it is great to see some dear Australian faces after all these weary months.
There is a great concert hall in the hospital and nearly every week some of the well-known actors and actresses come out and cheer us up. In my ward are officers from English, Scotch, Canadian and Australian regiments and it here more than anywhere else that one can form an idea of the War from the soldier’s viewpoint for we exchange yarns and experiences, and oftentimes we talk of home life and then comes the question of country but at this point I must draw the curtain for argument and friendly banter invariably follows.
My brother has be down from Edinburgh to see me, he now has his commission in the Royal Field Artillery, the youngster came down expecting to find me

[Page 88]
a battered mass of flesh and bone I think he was rather surprised to find me playing bridge and smoking a cigarette. He seemed quite disconcerted having mustered up his best bedside manners and speeches.

[Page 89]
Wandsworth.
30.6.17.
I am being sent out to Australia for six months, I was rather surprised to receive this news and somewhat worried as I had hoped to be here till the end. The break of leaving your Battalion and flying home is greater than one would think. A Battalion becomes the second family of a man, in it you know and are known, it is home where you will welcomed on your return from hospital, where you make friendships which are tried by the supreme tests. Somewhere out in France that battalion, that family, is fighting it looks you for your support when you are able to return and that is

[Page 90]
why one feels the break. However Im useless for six months and Ive got to go and Im now looking forward happily to the sight of the dear old place and people. My brother left a few days ago for Salonica, I saw him off from Paddington on a troop train crowded with men going out to do their bit. The train moved out slowly leaving misty-eyed mothers, wives and sweethearts waving frantically to their soldier-men and then it disappeared. The crowd turned and wandered forlornly out into the seething streets of the great city, here and there one saw the look in a woman’s eyes which her soldier-man would never see there, the look she hides behind a wistfully smiling face, back they go through the streets of London to their homes to wait for- God knows what. We have nothing with which to express this, the French would say "C’est la guerre."

[Page 91]
We had an air raid here a few days ago, the planes came right across London dropping bombs at intervals, all the anti-aircraft guns were firing and the sky was dotted with puffs of smoke but the maurauders sailed serenely beneath the mid-day Sun scattering death and destruction in their path. Three of them were afterwards brought down on the French Coast on their way home.
For about a fortnight I have been doing the rounds of the City going to all the theatres, looking up old pals and generally seeing the sights generally. London has quite settled down to the War life, All the Parks- Hyde Park, Green Park, Battersea Park and dozens of others- have their vegetable allotments and these have tended by business men and the outcome of their labours goes

[Page 92]
to the upkeep of the country’s food supply.
Everywhere one sees signs telling one to "Eat Less Bread", "To Dress Extravagantly in Wartime is to help the Enemy" and so on. Women wait in queues to obtain their weekly sugar-supply. Resteraunts are limited in the amount of food they give to their customers. Taxis get a limited supply of petrol. I wonder if the war is being felt in Australia to this extent, I wonder if people there realise that only by economy in the early stages can avert actual want later. The toll of the submarine is making our shipping facilities a serious question, with America’s advent into the War the situation in this respect becomes more acute, America must utilise the greater part of her own shipping for the transportation of her troops with their attendant impedimenta, and this takes away from Great Britain the great source of her supply of necessities.

[Page 93]
The submarine as a means of blockade has been a miserable failure but it has greatly reduced the number of Allied ships and this will eventually make itself felt to a very large extent in Australia.
The first contingent of the American Army are arriving here and they are a very fine stamp of manhood but as a fighting nation America will not be felt till next spring for she cannot possibly get more than half a million men in France before May of next year and then will come the blow. Before that blow falls however Germany will make some frantic drives to try and bring the lesser of the Allies to their knees and on that they will lay their claims to peace.

[Page 94]
Off Plymouth Hoe.
25.7.17.
It is ten o’clock across the water are the twinkling lights of ships of all kinds, troopships laden with men, men of war, mystery ships and Colliers. At the entrance a searchlight swings lazily back and forth, now and then stopping abruptly all attention on some object and then it leisurely resumes its swing, behind it the vigilant eye of the Navy guarding the safety of England’s ports, here and there a wasp-like destroyer dashing along throwing aside sheets of water en route. Across the bay the strains of Naval band, come from the Barracks in shore. Further out- right through the entrance a destroyer, with a balloon sailing over it, is slowly picking its

[Page 95]
way behind are a line of slowly moving transports, guarded on each side by four destroyers, we will soon be out joining in the line, the anchor is up, the propeller slowly turning as the nose swings round, the lights of the town flickered out their farewells to us and we are on our way homeward-bound for Australia. All hands are wearing lifebelts and will be wearing them till we are clear of this submarine area. All the portholes are closed and lights shaded.
The searchlight swings slowly round on us as we cross the bar and then passes on to return later on. Dimly ahead the great phantom-like shapes of the transports loom up, behind us the twinkling lights of Plymouth and its shipping. On either side the great cliffs of England rising shear out of the water, dark forbidding formidable

[Page 96]
so unlike the England one knows from the inside. And thus we leave England sneaking out under cover of darkness, creeping cautiously along through those infested waters.
Everyone watching the last of England silently, immersed in their own thoughts most of us thinking not of England only I think, but of France and those we know in France who to-night are perhaps fighting for their lives.
Once again those words come back to my mind, words which sum up the individual side of the War more, I think, that any others I know.
La vie est breve
Un peu d’espoir
Un peu de reve
Et puis- Bon Soir.

Finis Initials

[Page 97]
The Desert [This document now returns to February 1916 in Egypt]
[These appear to be impressions of his experiences in the army.]
Serapeum
23.2.16
From my youth up I read the romance of the desert and the strange nomads which are wont to roam its fastnesses and indeed had built up quite a fancy for the life of the gypsy Arab roaming at will across the desert on a champing Arab steed.
I fear we, ye novelists and poets who chant the praises and fascinations of the desert have seen its beauties from your armchairs beside the roaring logs on your hearth during a chilly winter’s night. The strange nomads may be picturesque but they smell horrible and the desert may be charming when looked on from afar but spend a day on it when "the wild sirocco bloweth" and you will take in its vast beauties in actuality. The glorious

[Page 98]
oasis where the weary traveler always stops to rest and eat the festive cocoanut while fanning himself with a palm-leaf is no more than a snare and a delusion and the cam-u-els ate all the palm-leaves when Adam was a boy in short pants (fig leaves).
Palm leaves may be had in Egypt but they grow in pots on the balconies of Sheppheards and other country inns. Cocoanuts are also obtainable in the antique shops of any of the Eastern Cities. The land on which Heliopolis stands I understand was once an oasis but any part of it now unbuilt on and still retaining the fragrant verdure bears a sign "Keep off the Grass", this of course is like this [Arabic writing-see images.]
On seeing a sign of this nature one immediately complies with the request

[Page 99]
some people even stop smoking or "look out for trains" just to show they are thoroughly conversant with the customs of the Country. But I digress I was talking of the desert. Well having had all the romance of the desert killed in its infancy before my eyes, I have started reading up the history of the place and find that several famous men were here some thousands of years before I saw it myself. I suppose this is really so although one must read the works of these ancient historians with a certain amount of doubt as they are said to have possessed very fervid imaginations. This of course is also hearsay.
Initials.

[Page 100]
The Graves of Anzac
14.12.17.
On the shores of ancient Hellespont kissed by the ripples of the Aegean Sea they lie our honoured dead buried in soil which bore the name of Anzac for eight short months. Neat little crosses mark the spot in that Moslem country where the first of our men paid the great price in the fight for the freedom of the Empire. Here Leander met his death in bygone days for the love of a woman and here our men met theirs for just that same reason.
Across the water the stately mount of Samothrace rises sheer out of the sea and stands as the lonely Sentinel over those little cemeteries, over which the noise of battle once rolled, silent now no doubt and perhaps the grass is growing over those little mounds set out

[Page 101]
in orderly rows above which was to us Brighton Beach. The little village of Gallipoli are probably inhabited again and perhaps now and then some solitary old fisherman passes over the hills of Anzac and comes to that spot. I wonder what his thoughts are as he looks down on the one lasting memorial left there by us. Perhaps he tends the graves a little for the Turk has above all things the greatest respect for the dead. Back over the past months the thought of that first day comes to me, when we went in all untried not knowing what to expect, hoping to be able to face it without a flinch when the moment arrived and then to some the question was solved very early.
I can see it all now. It is the dusk of evening a small group are gathered together above the

[Page 102]
beach. At the little cemetery near Hell’s Spit, the voice of the padre reading the burial service, the lowering of the blanket coffin into the grave and then- prayers. No volley of rifles, no Last Post, the position does not permit this, just a quiet but very impressive service and then back to duty. Next night another little group paying their last tribute to their comrade. It is all very sad, the bitter sweet memories of the land we won and left and leaving some of those who had more than paid their share in the winning of it.
Initials.

[Page 103]
Sambo.
His name was Sambo. He was employed to burn off the rubbish and keep our lines clean. He lives in the village on the other side of the Canal and had sworn a vendetta on the people of the village to the north of Tel-el-Kebir.
Those Arabs would come into the camp and sneak off with all kinds of clothing and food but Sambo’s eagle eye wanders ever and anon around his domain and no stealthy native escapes him.
He waylays and searches them and burns all he finds unless they happen to be useful to himself or his kinsmen, he then belabours them soundly and chases them off with a stick.
Sambo setting off for his demesne is quite another

[Page 104]
sight. I have seen him come to work in the morning, clad only in shirt and trousers and at night depart with boots on his feet, two cardigan jackets over his shirt and a blanket thrown loosely over all in true Egyptian fashion and thus the wily gentleman reaches his home without being detained by our sentries

[Page 105]
Christmas
It is Christmas-time, the streets of the towns of Australia are thronged with bustling crowds, young men and women drifting along in the tide exchanging light-hearted badinage, mothers with their infant children, country families down for the shopping. Screaming whistles, blatant toy trumpets, colored balloons everywhere. And this the fourth year of the war and some say Australia has done her share.
There are few among those crowds who realise what this War is, it is has never been brought home to them in its poignancy of horror and devastation. They know there is a War- the papers say so, sometimes they see wounded soldiers, sometimes the cinema shows produce

[Page 106]
a recent battle but other than that it is just a myth and a thing they are not willing to inquire into too closely lest their path of duty should be too clearly outlined before them. These young men are jubilant this Christmas for has it not just been decided that they are not to be sent to the War but are free to sate themselves in a round of pleasure whilst their fellow-men fight on for the destinies of the World and the freedom of this beautiful country- this free white Australia.
No they don’t realise how near the brink of calamity we stand this Christmas. "Why worry" they say "eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die" And how true that may be, for with Germany dominating the world, Australia as a nation would most certainly die.
* * * *

[Page 107]
In France 100,000 Australians are watching another Christmas pass them by. No gaiety here just the cheerful chatter to shut out the misery of their surroundings, no prospects for them of merry-making. A driving sleet, snow perhaps, mud to the knee, everywhere desolation and this in contrast to the scene that meets the eye of the young men here, the sun-kissed waves of our beaches, the blue-hazed outline of the mountains after a perfect summer day and the smiles of Australia’s daughters. For these things above all our men in France are fighting while these others stay and enjoy them with never a thought for the men they once called pals.
To-morrow these boys will probably get gifts from Comforts Funds and they’ll think that all Australia

[Page 108]
will be thinking of them. Poor fools, little do they guess that Australia has grown war-tired and has gone back to the round of pleasures, casting aside this hazy indefinite object War and taking the road of Pleasures which leads downhill to National decadency.
Waratah
24.12.17.
Initials.

[Page 109]
Midnight
It is just midnight. Before me bathed in soft moonlight stretch the green fields of France- the France untouched by the devastation of War-
About 20 miles to the east an occasional flare fitfully illuminates the sky as if contesting the light of the moon, the dull rumble to thunder comes faintly across the fields breaking the gentle peacefulness of the countryside. Far below on the right nestling in the valley the Somme’s pale silver waters flow slowly towards the scene of war. Across the Valley of the Somme the soft notes of a church-bell float up to me from the sleeping village of St Sauveur.
What an exquisite peace. I turn towards the west and think of England and of home and wonder

[Page 110]
if anyone could picture me standing surveying this peaceful scene. No they think of us always fighting for our lives, facing unknown terrors, enduring untold hardships but never as enjoying the scenery in the very midst of War. The dull rumblings break in on my thoughts and I turn again and think of those out there holding the thin black line that now marks the boundary of France. Men instead of toll-gates guarding the border, bullets instead money as toll for those who try to pass, and yet back here perfect peace reigns, the village sleeps undisturbed by fears of the enemy, a tribute to that thin black line far out across the fields.
It is All very beautiful and I wander thoughtfully down to the village wondering when all the world will feel this joy of blissful peace again.
St Sauveur.
24.11.16
Initials.

[Page 111]
Shopping
Until recently my only knowledge of shopping consisted of standing outside shops and staring vacantly into the windows full of the bargains or carrying innumerable parcels for somebody else- but now I tasted of its joys and I think not again.
It happened in Cairo, I had come up from the Canal for two days and during my wanderings had collected many parcels for other fellows and having an unenviable ride back across the desert before me, I thought it meet and right to purchase a receptacle wherein to deposit these things during my journey. With this object in view I stepped into a shop with much purpose and accosting a French draper asked in execrable French if they keep bags. He asked in English what

[Page 112]
I wanted. I had suffered the first reverse of the over-ardent shopper in a cosmopolitan city. And following on this I was taken to the Trunk & Portmanteau Department but quickly fled.- Next I entered an Italian’s and as the only Italian I know is something to do with love I refrained from proposing to the shopkeeper and gesticulated wildly for a few moments. The shopkeeper thinking I was displaying my knowledge of physical culture entered heartily into the matter and showed his prowess by leaping the counter. This I mistook at the time for a hostile movement and promptly departed.- Nothing loathe I next tried a Greek emporium but met with no more fortune there as I greeted the owner in his own language and he got so excited and would talk

[Page 113]
of nothing else but Venizelos and other "oses" and "ires" so I left him and tried another French establishment and asked in carefully worded English if they had any pillow-slips. I was directed to the next floor and there- but no let us pass up still another flight where I brightened considerably on observing bedsteads. I felt I was getting to the end of the chase and indeed on enquiry I was conducted to a counter and then followed a harangue between shop-walker and the assistant, I suspected them of conspiring to assassinate me but gripped my nail-file firmly. However the conversation having been amicably settled the assistant came to me and then departed to return immediately with a large box and then he spread before

[Page 114]
me a pillow-slip with a lace border.
I subsided blushing deeply as the place was full of nurses and other people who screamed with delight at my discomfort. However I persisted in my quest and finally I retired victorious and happy. Thus ended my shopping Quoth the raven "Never more".
Serapeum Egypt
14.3.16
Initials

[Page 115]
The Calling back.
What is that feeling that comes to those of us who have returned to Australia from the War? The feeling of expectancy, the longing to be on the move, to be back joining in the excitement of the fight and yet the horrors of monotony and the stern drudgery of War lives fresh in all our memories. It is not the feeling that called us when first War broke out. That was the call of the unknown, of dangers and the gamble of life, the desire for adventure, strange and indefinable. Now the case is different, many of those questions have been solved, the romance of War has fallen away from us and lies a broken thing, gaunt and forbidding before our eyes. The disillusionment is complete and yet somewhere hidden away within

[Page 116]
a spirit is calling us to return and test again the hands of Fate.
I don’t think this is patriotism but perhaps the sense of duty actuates it but in some degree but that is not all there is something- something intangible, a subtle fascination.
To those men who have not gone to the War, these instincts are dead, it is not because they fear to go but simply that their nature contains none of these instincts, they have never been fostered and have simply faded out of existence, and that added to the disinclination to leave their beaten track of Life’ has kept them from joining in the struggle. X ***
The world to-day grows war-weary, but that is the civilian, and this is being made manifest in every country in various ways; but the men, who are doing the fighting are not thinking of peace, they too

[Page 117]
are war-weary from the physical viewpoint but thoughts of peace before a definite ending has been reached does not exist with them.
** But I digress, I was talking of the magic call which has dulled Australia’s beauties in our eyes, the desire to be back sharing the risks, the pleasures and excitement with our friends at the front. But this beggars description. The call just exists, it cannot be analysied its origin cannot be traced.
A band plays somewhere out in the streets, the strains of a march wafted faintly through an office window makes a man lay down his pen, his eyes gaze through the window at the blue skies, he sits still lost in thought long after the band has died away, memories of Egypt, France and other places pass through his mind, thoughts of

[Page 118]
X Extra Page.

I speak of course, of the men, who have no ties to keep them to the beaten track, who are physically fit to face the more strenuous life. There are many who have to remain through force of circumstance and general unfitness and to them the inaction is a continual drag. They sit and listen to the talk of war with feelings of their own impotence, straining at the leash like hounds thirsting for the chase. They are debarred from doing their share in the fighting and they feel it in their act they show their feelings in their every action, every word.

[Page 119]
A blank page.

[Page 120]
Those men who he left out there, the men with whom he had shared joys and sorrows, trials and hardship for months on end.- He starts from his reverie and looks at his one lasting souvenir of the War- an artificial limb- and then out of the window again. He has felt the call but it must go unanswered. He smiles wistfully and picks up his pen once more, but still the call had come and would keep on coming while war lasts. To one and all that call comes, by some it must go unanswered through force of circumstance but to those others it does not pass unheeded, it bears no refusal.
Waratah.
26.12.17.
Initials.

[Page 121]
Letters that might have been
Letters from a Boche to his wife
" " Kaiser to Horatio Bottomley.

[Page 122]
Letters from a Boche to his wife.
Belgium
August 1914

Mein Liebe Frau
This letter to you I in haste write to tell you I well am and hope soon in Paris to be where once I a waiter was. The war will now soon over be as the English pigs running before us are also the French. The All Highest came to us today and told us that soon again sausage and beer we would have. To morrow to Calais we go but we might not to walk there in one day be able. Another bag send to me as I with loot the other one have filled.
Your Hunselfish
Hans

[Page 123]
Somme
Aug 1916.

Mein Leibe Frau,
At last the English we on the run have but they this way are running are but our Hindenburg a great general is and makes us faster run and so we soon shall tire the enemy out with exercise much and "Der Tag" will come be. You say a lot of prisoners we have lost but I can that explain. The great Hindenburg lets the English many prisoners take, and so that they will soon them out of house and house eat and then the Great War shall we win. The Australians very keen on marriage are and wish to be prisoner taken so that

[Page 124]
they can our pretty Frauleins marry.
Make our Gretchen the Australian learn so that she will ready be when we some prisoners take.
I must this letter close as the English again running are and they might not me a prisoner take.
Your Hunselfish
Hans

[Page 125]
England
Aug 1917.

Mein Leibe Frau,
I now a prisoner am and very happy but wishing to the Front again to go-not. We every day some kind of fun have and food we all day eat but a little sausage I would like as the skin I am very fond of chewing am. To morrow of some sports we take but I shall an expectorater be as I too full of food am.
Goodbye till the War over is
Your Hun Selfish
Hans

[Page 126]
A Letter from the Kaiser to Horatio Bottomley re "the end of the War"
Potsdam
10th April 1917

My Dear Mr Bottomley,
To you I must turn in my trouble and ask for your able assistance and advice. Knowing you to be one who is ever ready to right a wrong or wrong a right as the case may be, I seek your advice as I feel you are even such another as myself although you manage to keep within the Law.
My gallant men on the Western front have found it policy according to the laws of strategy to withdraw to the famous And impregnable Hindenburg Line but the fighting has indeed become very heavy in that region and I feel that something might happen which would not please me.

[Page 127]
Since the beginning of the War I have had copies of your paper "John Bull" sent to me from my special agent in London and I always read it with great avidity and I sometimes burn the copies as you at times have called me cruel and unworthy names, these things I now pass over, however and offer you my full forgiveness- but to return to my subject, often in your paper I have found that which I seek and that is your own personal article on the termination of the War, sometimes you make it end in February, sometimes May, July, August and even October which as we know is the beginning of the winter, always after reading this article I am light of heart and free to arrange for a gigantic new agent of war but the month named approaches and passes by always with same the result as end to the War. Now this should

[Page 128]
not be so for when one such as you us declares that a thing shall be on a certain date so it should be, but your Lloyd George and other creatures just wish to prolong this War, which I have already won, merely for their own glory. This must cease so if you will but make another declaration that I may show to my brave people who are bearing this struggle with so great a valour I will promise to bomb Downing Street if the War does not end on the day you say. Hoping this generous proposal will be accepted with the honor with which it is sent.
I am
The All Highest Kaiser
P.S. How does one find Downing Street from the air, I’ve been looking for three years?
Bill.

[Page 129]
Short Stories.

[Page 130]
The Gullibility of Cuthbert.
"The Adjutant told me to report to the O.C of "A" Coy for duty" We all looked up from our bridge to observe the speaker and beheld a rotund personage bristling with instruments of war which marked him down immediately as one who had not yet experienced the necessities of War but had been guided by the catalogue of some artful military outfiter. There are many such, we see them often, trudging along the roads to join up with their Units, labouring with automatic pistols, binoculars, prismatic compass, small cooking stoves, [will "fits in the pocket" but never does]. Combination dinner sets and other superfluous impedimenta.
But to resume. "Right-ho

[Page 131]
old man," said the O.C after the scrutiny was over "make yourself at home. Would you like something to eat?" "I would like a little bwead and butter, sir, if you don’t mind". We looked at one another, he lisps thought everyone of us. However the "Bwead" was produced and Cuthbert as we afterwards called him settled down and we resumed our bridge.
That was our first introduction to Cuthbert. We were all frankly puzzled with him from then on, for we had not met his type before.
He came to us outwardly laden with the entire kit of a military outfiter’s shop but inwardly we discovered he was laden with original ideas of how to finish the war and these he expounded at every opportunity. His listeners looking frankly bored the while.

[Page 132]
After the arrival of his valise, we would stumble upon him eating in the most secluded corner of the hut. He explained this away each time by saying that he didn’t want to bother anybody, so he was just having a quiet little snack. At that time he averaged three meals and twelve snacks a day. As for the rest of us, I won the prize by one ginger-nut to me and this he confided to me was because he didn’t wish to appear greedy. This went on for a fortnight and then the time came for us to leave our comfortable hut for the mud and slush of the trenches.
Cuthbert up to this time had been rather satisfied with life at the Front. The day before we moved the O.C and two

[Page 133]
other officers had to visit the line to make arrangements for taking over from the outgoing battalion and Cuthbert was selected to join the party. Here it was that we first discovered his gullible nature. Somebody asked him as the party were leaving if he had his iron rations for 48 hours, and receiving a reply in the negative, advised him to get them at once and then we all joined in each with a different tale of some dire necessity for such an expedition. And finally Cuthbert left, after we had solemnly shaken hands and wished the entire party good-bye with tears in our eyes, with a bag of rations, a water bottle, a revolver and pouch, a gas helmet, a steel helmet, binoculars and a machine-gun magazine (this

[Page 134]
last for a mythical machine-gun party who were to cover their advance from an unseen position). We watched the party out of sight and returned to the hut, sore with laughter.
Late in the afternoon the party returned, Cuthbert came in first with the air of a General who had taken an impregnable position and fuller still of ideas to terminate the War. He explained the whole position to us to help us when we saw the sights he had himself witnessed. Later from the O.C we learnt that on nearing the trenches he had made Cuthbert take the lead and adjured to have his revolver handy. Cuthbert to make doubly certain held his revolver in his hand until he jeopardised the lives of them all in his efforts to keep on his feet in the slippery mud.

[Page 135]
Having fully taken in the details, they started back and then it was that Cuthbert thought of his unwonted abstinence from snacks and immediately sat down to eat his rations. I could tell many tales of Cuthbert learning the ropes. There was the time when he struggled to the trenches with a blanket on his back and then the very first night while he was on watch somebody stole it and at midnight a voice could be heard everywhere (even by the Germans) shouting "Somebody’s stolen my bwown bwanket, Who’s got my bwown bwanket?"
Then again there was the morning he saw his first Hun, two of them working on their barb wire one hundred and fifty yards away. With a loud

[Page 136]
war whoop he rushed down to the trench firing his revolver madly, and narrowly missing the sentries in front of him But that was the Cuthbert of the early days, his passing through the crysalis stage. To-day we find him, wise from experience, a very useful cog in the wheels of a huge machine. Should he happen to read these lines, I hope he will not think I am maligning him. I am not I have the utmost respect for him and merely use the incident to illustrate the experiences that go to the making of a soldier.
Ribemont
12.1.17
Initials.

[Page 137]
Gaston.

"Monsieur, is dining here once more to-night, yes?" "Yes, Gaston" I replied "I am just waiting for some friends"
Outside on the cobbled streets endless streams of limbers and wagons rattled by with their supplies for the great god- War.
I am seated in the lounge smoking a lonely cigarette, Gaston has left me to flit about the tables, his fat face beaming, his tongue prattling out small talk to his patrons. I begin musing as to the appearance of this resteraunt before the war, before the dark clouds rolled over Belgium, leaving death and devastation in their wake casting fear and apprehension before them. Only eight miles in front of this town

[Page 138]
had the great onward rush been checked. Even now an occasional big shell rumbled warningly over, or dropped thunderously on the streets or houses.
Mere chance had saved this town from the fate of that great silent heaps of ruins but six short miles away- Ypres.
"Monsieur, is very thoughtful to-night, Monsieur, thinks of home perhaps and Mademoiselle?"
"No, Gaston, I was thinking how close your town came to being ruined like many of your Belgian cities" "But yes, Monsieur, almost, when first the War broke out and those Boche came through Belgium, there were many who joined in the flight. Thousands of people passed through here, walking, in farm-carts, on horses, anyhow, all eager to

[Page 139]
seek the safety of the South, all told most terrible tales of the advance in the North, and many of our townspeople joined in the mad rush South."
"And you, Gaston?" I asked "Ah, Monsieur, I had lived here fifty years, I had much to lose, I remained but my wife and children I sent to Rouen.
Sometimes we thought we would have to leave, sometimes the [indecipherable] would come very near, sometimes the shells would come very often and then the British Army came, Monsieur, and we felt more safe and soon many people began to return.
But then we thought that business would be finished till after the War, but soon we found the English soldiers come to our town for what you

[Page 140]
call "billet." Everybody has some soldiers to stay with them and they want to eat and smoke and drink and so we try to make things nice for them while they are away from the fighting. But yes, Monsieur, it was very near to ruin us- this War. Pardon Monsieur" And he was gone again. Still the waggons rolled by outside but I thought of them as going in the other direction two years before full of children, old men and women thrown out from their homes to the mercy of the world, fleeing from the hands of a ruthless nation. Perhaps-
But here my musing is broken again by the arrival of my pals and we go in to submit ourselves to the cares of Gaston.
Poperinghe
26.9.16
Initials.

[Page 141]
The Camel Corps.
Once upon a time moved by the mystic wand of romance, I had aspirations for a post in the Camel Corps and pictured myself in the role of a bold roamer of the desert scouring its fastnesses for the elusive Turk and eating a humble crust in the shade of my humble steed, who would watch my every movement with dog-like devotion despite the fact that it had neither meat not drink for many days.
But all these wild fancies had being before I had the fortune to see the aforesaid Camel Corps and now having seen it in full swing my fancies have dwindled day by day.
After close observation of the animal itself, I have found that although it is

[Page 142]
a ready food-container, it is apt to nip off its driver’s arm as a playful pastime on the slightest provocation and this, of course, although not serious causes a certain amount of trouble owing to the jealous nature of the camels themselves.
Even the desert picnic is a thing of the past now for all the camels have bed-sores brought on through years of inactivity and one cant have a siesta in the desert without shade.
Members of the Camel Corps are usually old members of the Navy or the merchant Service as seamanship is an essential owing to the heavy swell of the beast while in motion, also the smell of their breath is akin to seaweed,

[Page 143]
and their glad young cries are very similar to the rattle of the anchor-chain.
Embonpoint restricted me from entering on this joyous life which goes to prove that all things have their uses though mis-applied.
Initials
Serapeum, Egypt.
18.3.16.

[Page 144]
The Troopship.
Troopships and the life thereon are a thing of bygone interest but there is still a little scope in this strange phase of the life of every Australian soldier.
As one wanders down the deck of the ship, stepping gingerly to avoid the legs and bodies of those sprawled upon about basking in the rich warm sunshine of the Gulf of Lyons, one cannot fail to be struck by the many and varied types of humanity thrown together by this great War- and purely by the War for in no other way could they have become affiliated. Here one sees the student, the professional man, the drunkard, the man from the out back, the nondescript- all

[Page 145]
indelibly marked. Here and there are small groups more closely gathered together than their fellows, each man intently looking at a card before him and somewhere among them a voice is droning out numbers which are repeated by another in the group and ever and anon the figures mark their cards till the cry of "Ouse correct" goes up and the game is at an end. This is the game known as House without which no troopship is complete.
Fore and aft and amidships are small detachments of machine gunners with their guns mounted ready to try conclusions with the submarine’s periscope should that uninvited guest suddenly appear. One of the crew searches the smooth

[Page 146]
surface of the sea incessantly to guard against any surprise.
Then one comes to a long line of seething humanity ranged along a dingy alley-way and the layman would immediately scent a story but this ever lengthening and never decreasing line are merely performing the solemn rite of Mess-Orderly, which of all things on a troopship is the limit. From Sunrise to Lights Out this line is in evidence somewhere in the ship, drawing rations or meals most of the day and cleaning up the remnants for the rest. Later in the day when the sun has sunk to rest beneath the waves one wanders to the poop-deck and leaning on the taffrail gazes into the passing waters to dream of

[Page 147]
the days when the War is no more, when all the world turns back to normal things, cleansed by the mighty furnace that has passed over it, when Mess-Orderlies and troopships are taboo.
At Sea off Corsica Medditerranean Sea
Initials
28.3.16.

[Page 148]
Victor at the Estaminet.
They sat in the village inn- Jean, Gaston, Pierre and Leon all soldiers of Class 48 of the French Republic, also there is Victor but he is in the garb of a civilian, but only because he is the father of eight children and has not yet been called on for service. Victor sings little snatches of song, both Sentimental and patriotic, to his comrades and when he starts to sing the inn immediately becomes silent and attentive for his voice is very sweet and impulsive. In the middle of one of these songs, some khaki-clad figures enter- Australians- and Victor stops and invites them to join his table and this invitation is readily accepted

[Page 149]
Victor in broken English suggests a musical evening and leads off with a pathetic war song called "La Refugee" and then follows a verse of Tipperary in French in which he talks of the arrival of the Australians in France. The Frenchman then asks for an Australian song and "Advance Australia Fair" and other songs are the outcome. Song and chorus goes round that merry little party till at 8 o’clock Madame toddles round the table saying "Messieurs: of you plees".
For the inn must be closed at 8 p. m and Madame finds the Estaminet profitable and does not want the military authorities to close it for her.
12.4.16.
Initials
Strazeele France.

[Page 150]
Des Bretells
"Bon jour, monsieur" "Bon jour, Mamzelle" I reply "Comment t’allez vous?" And then approaching the little shop counter over which she presides I brace myself for a herculean onslaught on her native tongue, I say brace advisedly as you will see. "Avez-vous des braces, mamzelle? "Des braces, monsieur?" with raised eyebrows and perplexed face "Qu’est-ce que c’est monsieur?" "Des braces pour des pantaloons, mamzelle" "Pour des pantaloons, monsieur?" "Mais non, monsieur" Im losing hope and prestige rapidly, there is that sinking feeling in the sole of my boots which tells me blue funk is about to envelop me entirely so I summon all my remaining courage I bravely unbutton my tunic and crying "Regardez, mamzelle" in a plaintive voice I point to the buttons of my nether garments to which my braces should be attached and then illustrate the fastening of that article to them. I am

[Page 151]
rewarded by a silvery laugh and she says "La, La, des bretelles, monsieur, vous desirez des bretelles." And away she goes to produce them laughing merrily the while. At last she returns with a box and then and only then does she say "These are what you want, are they not, monsieur?" I look at her reproachfully and say "Mademoiselle you have been playing with me"
But yes, monsieur, it is so funny to hear you ask for things in French and I did not know that Australians did all speak English so well". And then she told me of her life how once she had lived in Armentieres until the War came and she had to leave her home, as did so many others in the first awful days of the War when the Germans were sweeping all before them, and she had come to this town. Yes surely she would return to Armentieres perhaps soon for the Germans would soon be driven back again now.

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She told me of her beloved Gaston fighting somewhere at Verdun. Soon he would be coming to visit her "en permission" soon and then back to the dreadful war again.
Yes, her mother was living and I would meet her someday, yes I must come and have some coffee- no tea the English drink tea always- and she would play the piano. In her home in Armentieres she had a beautiful piano but it was lost with everything else and here she was with her little shop what would you? C’est la guerre, monsieur, c’est la guerre. Then I left and promised to come again.
I was back in five minutes, I had forgotten the braces. Again I repeat "C’est la guerre"
Estaires Initials.
France.
14.6.16.

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The Zero Hour.
The scene a dark reeking trench crammed with men standing nearly knee-deep in mud, everywhere the signs of war, dud shells, bombs, ammunition, empty tins, coiled wire. A gentle rain beating on those silent figures covered with their waterproof sheets, on the faces of each of these figures there is the strained look of expectancy, the puzzle of the unknown as a Verey light fitfully illuminates No Man’s Land in front of them.
For it is a quarter of an hour to the zero hour and they will be passing across that unknown land to their objective under cover of a creeping barrage from those big guns now resting silently some three miles behind them.
It is just going to be a local attack to strengthen the position of the line, just a move to make a

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good stepping off point for an advance but for some of those silent figures standing there it is to be the Supreme sacrifice and not one of them who does not know it and hope that it will be – a Blighty.
"Half a minute to go, boys" whispers the platoon-commander. There is a faint rustle, a return of life of those statuesque figures, a final look at bombs, ammunition and glance at the trusty old rifle with the pin fixed firmly on the end. And then the heavy unnatural silence of a moment before turns swiftly into a storm of shells, shrieking, roaring tearing grinding shells all with there own special mission, all playing their part in the play being enacted and beneath this storm those figures creep out of their trench, their old home,

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and follow their barrage across that strip of space- No Man’s Land till it passes over the enemy line and then comes the hand to hand fighting, the merging of the hazy indefinite enemy into the individual, the being of flesh and blood.
Bombing the dugouts out, clearing the trenches, silencing the machine guns, blocking the communication trenches, it has all got to be done in those first few minutes that follow the zero hour, the minutes of surprise which bring panic to the enemy.
"Poor old Bill stopped one before we got to the trench, a machine gun, I think"
Yes the movement was successful it has paved the way to a great action later but to poor old Bill it meant more than we shall ever know till we ourselves solve the Great Problem.
Guidecourt.
5.11.16.
Initials.

[Transcribed by Lynne Palmer for the State Library of New South Wales]