Authors: Bryce Courtenay
However, we are fast learning that during a period of war the best-laid plans of mice and men are apt to be frustrated. My job is no more important than any other entrusted to the rank of major in the War Office, but it has the singular advantage of bringing me into frequent contact with Colonel Chauvel, the Australian representative with the W.O.
And what a splendid chap he is, straight as a die and not in the least pretentious. It is said he is a disciplinarian and a stickler for protocol and correct military procedure, though I have not seen this side of him. He seems happy enough to mix with the lower officer ranks here at the W.O. and is often to be seen having a beer at the local, where he is fond of pronouncing the English beer as ‘tasting like warm piss’.
It was during just such an occasion that he told me in his own colourful vernacular why the Australian and New Zealand contingent have been diverted for further training to Egypt.
As the official explanation doesn’t differ in essence, but rather in detail, I am confident that Col. Chauvel’s version doesn’t transgress the OSA. (Official Secrets Act 1912).
I shall try to put my amateur theatrical experience to work to capture the tone and manner of his dialogue, as I feel sure it will amuse you. I apologise in advance if it doesn’t ring quite true to your acquired Australian ear.
The following conversation takes place with yours truly and the colonel after the third pint of ‘luke-warm piss’ or, if you like, best British bitter:
‘Harry, didn’t you mention you had a nephew back home who enlisted with the A.I.F.?’
‘Yes, sir, my brother William’s son, we were greatly looking forward to seeing how the lad has turned out, he had a rather nasty chest problem when he left England.’
‘I shouldn’t worry about that, lots of sun and good red meat, soon fix his chest, pity you won’t see him. [Takes a sip of LWR] Good thing, though, would’ve been a complete shambles.’
‘Oh? ‘I say, not understanding how meeting you could possibly lead to a shambles.
‘The weather, the camp, bloody impossible,’ he exclaims.
‘You mean on Salisbury Plain, sir?’
‘Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? Bad enough for your own troops and the Canadians, you’re accustomed to the mud and the cold, but our blokes are not used to that sort of thing.’
‘You mean it doesn’t rain in Australia, sir?’
‘Well, it doesn’t piss down twenty-four hours a day, day in and day out, until you’re up to your bollocks in mud!’
‘Well, how will they be at the front?’ I ask cheekily, ‘That’s nothing but mud, sir?’
‘Hmmph, I daresay they’ll do a damn fine job when the time comes, but that’s a purely academic observation, the poor buggers would all have been dead from pneumonia long before they ever got to France! Half the Canadians who are encamped on Salisbury Plain are crook, and the others are rioting in the streets of Salisbury!’
‘Crook?’
‘Yes, down with flu or pneumonia and the other half are close to rebellion. They were promised huts, heated huts for the winter, and they’re still in tents, which at night are cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. What’s more, they have no hope of getting better billets until the spring.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir. What a good thing the old man changed his mind and sent your lot to Egypt.’
‘Had it changed for him, you mean?’
At this last remark I raise my eyebrow somewhat. Chauvel is superior in rank to me and I don’t wish to point out that Lord Kitchener is not inclined to listen to the opinions of or be persuaded by a junior officer. ‘Well done,’ I say, deciding discretion is the better part… etc.
‘Good God, man, not me! Georgie Reid!’ Chauvel exclaims. ‘I reported the conditions on Salisbury Plain to him and he telephoned his nibs on the spot for an appointment’
In case you are not aware, Peregrine, Sir George Reid is your Australian High Commissioner in London, and is well known for his casual disregard for the niceties of diplomacy.
However, being in the W.O., I know that access to the Field Marshal’s room by telephone is impossible to obtain. Not even the Prime Minister would think to call him without prior warning and I daresay that pretty well goes for the King as well.
But I wasn’t to know that Kitchener makes an exception with Sir George. It seems he enjoys the Australian’s disregard for protocol, especially his ability to tell a good after-dinner yarn and generally play the buffoon. (Clever man, what?) Col. Chauvel calls it ‘being a larrikin’ which is, I believe, a uniquely Australian expression meaning a number of things, both good and bad. It would appear that being a larrikin (good) allows Sir George to get to the great man at any time and to freely discuss subjects which few would dare to broach.
Col. Chauvel then went on to say, ‘Georgie saw Kitchener the following morning with my report and told him our convoy would be passing Egypt in a few days. That there was no time to lose, the Australian troops must be diverted to Egypt at once, and on no account be allowed to come to England where they would only increase the already unmanageable congestion.’
I must say Sir George Reid must be a remarkably persuasive chap, because Kitchener immediately advised the Australian government and the plan was adopted in a matter of hours.
So there you have it, dear fellow, straight from the horse’s mouth.
While your aunt and I will be disappointed not to see you, it’s been a beastly winter, freezing winds from the north, with January, and possibly snow, yet to come. I don’t imagine, with such short notice, that things are all they should be in your Cairo camp -I’m told there’s a great shortage of tents-but the prospect of wintering on Salisbury Plain is not one I would wish even on the Hun. You are far better out of it.
The newspapers here have expressed the view that the Australians and New Zealanders are disappointed with the decision not to bring you to England, being of the opinion that the diversion to Egypt means you will not fight on the Western Front.
I am inclined to think this is not correct, as you are much needed in France, where things are not going as well as they might. All things considered, a bit of the Australian ‘larrikin’ (good and bad) might be a jolly good thing.
The first time I was stuck in a military office job was during the Boer War when I begged for an active-service posting but was refused. Once an office wallah always one, the War Office is unlikely to give me a company command in this one, so it is going to fall upon your shoulders to follow in your grandfather’s (Crimea) and your father’s footsteps and to represent the family at the sharp end. I want you to know that your aunt and I are extremely proud of you and we wish you and your platoon the very best of luck.
That’s about all I have to say, old chap. Agatha asks me to send you our Christmas greetings and to tell you to make sure you visit the Pyramids. (Isn’t your camp close by?) She also says I must take care to inform you that the damage to the face of the Sphinx was caused when Napoleon’s troops used it for cannon practice. She has never been fond of the French - ‘Too much side and front but essentially lacking in substance.’ She also sends her love and asks you to write a postcard. Though, I daresay, not one showing the Sphinx.
With my very best wishes from your uncle Harry;
Harold Ormington-Smith, Major.
There is some amusement in the platoon at Wordy Smith’s Uncle Harry’s perception of his nephew, but they feel included and complimented that Wordy would think to read the letter in its entirety to them. Uncle Harry seems like a good sort of bloke despite being an officer and his nephew is so completely inadequate to the task that the Click platoon simply cannot harbour the suspicions they instinctively reserve for the officer class.
None of them can possibly imagine Second Lieutenant Peregrine Ormington-Smith performing as a fighting man, issuing the order to go over the top and, with whistle in his mouth and revolver in hand, leading the charge against the enemy. They look to Ben to lead them with the vague notion that Second Lieutenant Ormington-Smith, with his kneepads firmly secured, his bum in the air and his magnifying glass inches from the ground, will be off somewhere finding his flowers to paint.
‘London to a brick, if he’s wounded it will be in the arse, a bullet through both cheeks,’ Crow Rigby says at tea on the evening they reach the Suez Canal.
‘We ought to paint a face on his bum,’ Numbers Cooligan ventures. ‘For his own protection. Bloody sight better getting a bullet through both them cheeks than the ones higher up.’
They see the Sinai Desert for the first time stretching away to the foot of the Arabian hills, painted pink in the sunset.
‘It looks bloody lonely,’ Muddy Parthe remarks. ‘Yiz wouldn’t want to fight in a place like that, would youse?’
The Orvieto is put on alert as they approach the ninety-nine-mile canal cut straight as an arrow through the desert and it is thought that they may be fired on by the Bedouins from the east. But instead, in what remains of the daylight, they see the first evidence of the Allies, a tented company who have created a series of small sangars with sandbagged breastworks in a semicircle, the loopholes in the breastwork facing outwards from the canal. Any enemy attempting a surprise attack at night would be met with an outer ring of barbed-wire entanglements. Behind the breastworks, as a fall-back position, are a line of trenches and, behind these, the tents for the men. It is the first sign they’ve seen of any serious commitment to wage war and there is a great deal of shouting, which brings a number of Indian soldiers out of their tents and up onto the banks of the canal. They are soon followed by two British officers with baggy khaki shorts which fall to well beyond their knees. Shouted greetings are exchanged and they learn from two English officers that they are the Indian Army, the 128th Native Infantry.
‘You’ll probably join us here soon,’ one of the officers shouts.
‘Not bloody likely!’ a chorus of Australian voices shout back. ‘We’re off to Britain, mate!’
For the first time the men on board get an actual sense of being involved in something bigger than the A.I.F., a war where others, like themselves, have come from the far ends of the earth to fight with them. It is one thing to be told you are a part of something larger and quite another to experience it.
The Orvieto’s original destination of Port Said has now been changed to Alexandria, where they arrive just a few hours ahead of the first ships in the convoy. On the morning of December 3rd, the 3rd and the 5th Battalions entrain from Alexandria for Cairo. They cross the Nile delta with the annual floods rapidly subsiding in the burning sun so that the Nile flats are a brilliant green. People in long white robes are working the fields with wooden ploughs pulled by oxen. A woman walking ahead of a male on a donkey catches their attention.
‘Hey, wait a mo! Ain’t it supposed to be the other way around?’ Crow Rigby says suddenly.
‘What yer talking about?’ someone asks.
‘The bloke on the donkey, ain’t the Virgin Mary supposed to be on the donkey?’
‘Shit, you’re right,’ Numbers Cooligan exclaims. ‘Look at bloody Joseph, you’d think it was him up the duff, Jesus!’
‘It’s just like being in Sunday school with all them pictures they show you o’ these parts,’ Woggy now says.
‘You should know,’ Cooligan says. ‘They’re your kin folks, ain’t they, Woggy?’
‘I told yiz, we’re Christians, them lot’s Arabs, mate.’
‘What say you, Library?’ Hornbill asks.
‘Well, it’s all academic, ain’t it? There were no Christians at that time, Woggy’s ancestors were either Arab or Jewish.’
‘There you go! I told ya, didn’t I, Woggy’s a bloody Arab, no risk!’ Cooligan says triumphantly.
It is nightfall when they finally reach the outskirts of Cairo. Seen from the railway carriages it seems to be a big, untidy-looking city.
Hornbill sticks his nose out of the carriage window and sniffs. ‘Smells crook,’ he announces. ‘Me uncle says every city has a smell, it’s mostly from the food.’
‘Melbourne don’t smell o’ meat pies, mate,’ Cooligan says.
‘Flinders Street Station does, you can smell me uncle’s meat pies the moment you get off the train and all the way across Flinders Street.’
‘Hornbill’s right,’ Library says, ‘it’s the oil they use for cooking mixed with the spices. We smelled it in the bazaar in Aden, though not as bad as this.’
‘Wonder if they’ve got any belly dunces and snakes here,’ Crow Rigby says.
The belly dancer and the snake has by this time been told so many times and in increasingly lurid detail that even the six who were present are becoming convinced that the snake was several feet long and the belly dancer’s weight around the four hundred pound mark with the three spare tyres around her belly big enough to fit out a Leyland truck.
‘There’ll be nothing to beat that ever,’ Numbers Cooligan says emphatically. ‘We’ll go to our graves remembering that, lads.’
The train pulls into a railway siding specially built for the Australian troops in the heart of Cairo. The idea is to show the Australian colours by marching both battalions down the broad European streets with the bands playing ‘Sons of Australia’.
The buildings on either side of the grand central avenue, some of which must have originally been quite impressive, are now dilapidated, with the stucco damaged, the paint peeling, and the windows dirty. They look as though they’ve not seen a lick of attention since the day they were built, which is probably true. The whole scene resembles a sort of huge stage set, for the streets have been cleared of traffic and the people, for the most part, have been told to stay indoors. So the hard crunch of boots, the sounds of the bands and the shrill commands against the backdrop of crumbling buildings seem contrived and theatrical.
They pass the Kasr el Nil Barracks where the sound of the bands brings out the Lancashire Territorials of the 42nd Division, who rush across the parade ground to cheer the Australians on.
‘Jeez, take a look at ‘em, they’re all dwarfs,’ Hornbill says out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I always thought, yer know, the Brits were big blokes.’ Indeed the soldiers from the north of England, recruited originally from the coal mines and the cotton mills, are tiny compared to the average Australian and New Zealander, who are astonished to find that they are, for the most part, a head taller than their British counterparts.