that the raw material he had been given to work with was not straight from the top drawer.
All put together, they were a rum lot these blokes of the 39th, essentially a snapshot of the very young Australian male population at that time who had been left behind by the AIF—some so young they didn’t need razors, and the rest chosen from older generations, including a few really old codgers who in turn had been just about taken from the retirement home. One young bloke there was blind in one eye, the bugler had just one arm, another was an epileptic, yet another was a severe asthmatic, while others were reasonably physically fit but had résumés that wouldn’t get them a job anywhere else. Lined up for their first parade it was not straining fancy to say that within their ranks could be found all of the ‘butcher, baker, candlestick-maker, rich man, poor man, beggar man and thief’ of popular folklore.
As one, however, they were bound by their common oath, which was taken with their right hand raised (if they had one), their left hand stiff by their side and their eyes staring straight at the Australian flag.
‘I swear,’ the new blokes had intoned as one, ‘that I will well and truly serve our Sovereign Lord, the King, in the Military Forces of the Commonwealth of Australia until the cessation of the present time of war or until sooner lawfully discharged, dismissed, or removed, and that I will resist His Majesty’s enemies and cause His Majesty’s peace to be kept and maintained, and that I will in all matters appertaining to my service faithfully discharge my duty according to law. So help me God.’
So help them, God. And so they began. For the next two months they trained the best they could.
One among them was Joe Dawson—now Sergeant Dawson, if you please—who had lied about his age to join the militia a couple of years earlier, and had been one of fifty or so who had transferred from the 32nd Battalion, Footscray Regiment, to join the 39th Battalion. Joe figured it was his best chance to see some action overseas, just as he had always wanted to do with the AIF, and he was delighted to be there.
Another was a rough ’n’ ready kinda bloke by the name of Smoky Howson, one of nineteen children who had at last found a way out of working all day in the bloody market garden his alcoholic father had run. The kids at school had called him ‘Smoky’ because he always smelt of smoke, ’cos at home the only way he could get warm was to practically get right in the open fireplace the family also used as its stove, and it wasn’t as if his clothes got a wash too often anyway. Smoky had come to the 39th by way of the 52nd Battalion and, all up, he just couldn’t believe how luxurious the army life was! Three meals a day! A real bed! Weekly pay! Frankly, he had never had it so good, and he couldn’t quite believe it when the other guys sometimes complained about having to get up so early, train so hard, and eat such ordinary grub in the Mess Hall. Plenty of them, to be sure though, simply weren’t fit, whereas Smoky was as strong as a mallee bull. For most of his twenty years he had worked like a human bullock, carrying bags of spuds, and bags of fertiliser weighing 180 pounds, and now that strength was going to be useful.
While by this time the likes of Joe Dawson were familiar with much of military life, most of the wet-behind-the-ears newcomers had a lot of learning to do. And so it began…
Each morning at 5.30 a.m. the newly formed battalion band, led by their one-armed bugler, marched up and down between the huts thumping out the one martial tune they’d been able to master, ‘Sussex by the Sea’. After that the soldiers’ days would be filled with instruction in basic military skills and endless training to improve their physical fitness. Over the coming weeks they learnt such things as how you set up a defensive perimeter; how you could penetrate such a perimeter when you were attacking; how
All put together, they were a rum lot these blokes of the 39th, essentially a snapshot of the very young Australian male population at that time who had been left behind by the AIF—some so young they didn’t need razors, and the rest chosen from older generations, including a few really old codgers who in turn had been just about taken from the retirement home. One young bloke there was blind in one eye, the bugler had just one arm, another was an epileptic, yet another was a severe asthmatic, while others were reasonably physically fit but had résumés that wouldn’t get them a job anywhere else. Lined up for their first parade it was not straining fancy to say that within their ranks could be found all of the ‘butcher, baker, candlestick-maker, rich man, poor man, beggar man and thief’ of popular folklore.
As one, however, they were bound by their common oath, which was taken with their right hand raised (if they had one), their left hand stiff by their side and their eyes staring straight at the Australian flag.
‘I swear,’ the new blokes had intoned as one, ‘that I will well and truly serve our Sovereign Lord, the King, in the Military Forces of the Commonwealth of Australia until the cessation of the present time of war or until sooner lawfully discharged, dismissed, or removed, and that I will resist His Majesty’s enemies and cause His Majesty’s peace to be kept and maintained, and that I will in all matters appertaining to my service faithfully discharge my duty according to law. So help me God.’
So help them, God. And so they began. For the next two months they trained the best they could.
One among them was Joe Dawson—now Sergeant Dawson, if you please—who had lied about his age to join the militia a couple of years earlier, and had been one of fifty or so who had transferred from the 32nd Battalion, Footscray Regiment, to join the 39th Battalion. Joe figured it was his best chance to see some action overseas, just as he had always wanted to do with the AIF, and he was delighted to be there.
Another was a rough ’n’ ready kinda bloke by the name of Smoky Howson, one of nineteen children who had at last found a way out of working all day in the bloody market garden his alcoholic father had run. The kids at school had called him ‘Smoky’ because he always smelt of smoke, ’cos at home the only way he could get warm was to practically get right in the open fireplace the family also used as its stove, and it wasn’t as if his clothes got a wash too often anyway. Smoky had come to the 39th by way of the 52nd Battalion and, all up, he just couldn’t believe how luxurious the army life was! Three meals a day! A real bed! Weekly pay! Frankly, he had never had it so good, and he couldn’t quite believe it when the other guys sometimes complained about having to get up so early, train so hard, and eat such ordinary grub in the Mess Hall. Plenty of them, to be sure though, simply weren’t fit, whereas Smoky was as strong as a mallee bull. For most of his twenty years he had worked like a human bullock, carrying bags of spuds, and bags of fertiliser weighing 180 pounds, and now that strength was going to be useful.
While by this time the likes of Joe Dawson were familiar with much of military life, most of the wet-behind-the-ears newcomers had a lot of learning to do. And so it began…
Each morning at 5.30 a.m. the newly formed battalion band, led by their one-armed bugler, marched up and down between the huts thumping out the one martial tune they’d been able to master, ‘Sussex by the Sea’. After that the soldiers’ days would be filled with instruction in basic military skills and endless training to improve their physical fitness. Over the coming weeks they learnt such things as how you set up a defensive perimeter; how you could penetrate such a perimeter when you were attacking; how
Similar Books
