A fair bit of procrastination takes place over the next two weeks before the camp site is finally selected. When the order was given, we went from being under roof to being under canvas within a few hours. Every day there had been site visits and inspections of both the potential camp sites and our existing quarters by AIF officers and officials from the Department of Defence. While we had plenty to do during the day with multiple drills, classes, marches, rifle and gun handling, the question was thrown around by our chaps, “How can we expect to win a war if it takes two weeks to set up a camp?”
Three carpenters had been brought up from Melbourne to floor the tents but because of the delays setting up, only a handful of tents had floors in them by the first day. A lot of men slept on the damp, cold ground for a while until their floors were installed. There was considerable frustration and aggravation amongst our chaps who complained bitterly and requested to be allowed to sleep back at the Town Hall, but this was denied. You can imagine the adjectives being thrown out freely! I fluked a tent first up that had a dry floor and a rickety writing table in it.
There were other teething problems in setting up the camp, like waking up one morning with water from a burst water pipe flowing through the tents. Morning cuppa made with muddy water was a hard start to the day.
A “blue” erupted between the Melbourne carpenters and the Castlemaine Amalgamated Society of Carpenters who believed that unemployed local tradesmen should be doing the work. The Department of Defence got involved before a riot started and a day later there were fifteen carpenters working on flooring the tents.
When we were under roof in town there was a general order that all men were to be in bed by 9:30pm or 21:30 in the Army’s way of telling the time, but there was no control to enforce this. With six hundred men in one camp there was always going to be a percentage of larrikins who push the boundaries a bit and our mob was no different. Quite a few chaps could be found wandering the streets after dark seeking out sly liquor or dubious company.
The new camp came with far greater military control and curfews were put in place. Leave into Castlemaine was now only permitted about once a week. You were given a card which must be handed to the guard on duty when you returned. There is a very real threat of loss of pay or even lock-up for anyone breaching these orders, it pulled a few chaps into line.
Very quickly the quality and quantity of training drills is increased. Trench work becomes a primary activity. They need to be dug between six and eight feet deep, four feet wide and as long as the Officer in charge wishes to make them. The emphasis is on speed and accuracy, each man starts off with his own hole to dig but it then must join in with the next man’s efforts and so on down the line till a length of trench is formed.
Using sand bags to a height of two or three feet on the side facing the enemy, a parapet is erected. The opposite side or rear of the trench, another row of sandbags is built up, this is called the parados. The parados should be higher than the parapet. The rationale is that it protects those in the trench from anyone firing from behind and acts as a backdrop so enemy snipers cannot see troops standing up in the trench silhouetted against the skyline.
The exercise is conducted under pressure with officers yelling instructions from above, doing their best to simulate genuine front-line conditions. A couple of recruits have mining experience and they offer up practical advice on different ground conditions and shoring up trench walls when the ground is unstable.
When dismissed from trench preparation, another company of men will then jump in and prepare dugouts. They will be followed by yet another company who conduct drills in charging from the trench and negotiating barbed wire entanglements. The next day the trench is filled in and the process is recommenced a couple of yards away.
The primary weapon of choice of the AIF is the trusty Lee-Enfield .303 rifle. I enjoy the rifle practice and we drill on it two or three times a week.
I had handled the .303 a few times when I was with the 20th Light Horse and there were a couple of them available at the Beech Forest Rifle Club. Some of my home-grown skills kick in and I am considered a decent shot, consistently scoring well in practice. It’s a much heavier rifle than I am used to on the farm, but I get the feel of it quickly. The heavier bullet kicks like a mule and you need to spend a second or two refocusing before pulling the trigger again if your intention is accuracy. The ten-round magazine is a massive advancement in modern armoury, the infantry chaps must love it.
The carpenters are kept busy and build a stadium (platform). To christen it a fight is organized to take place late one afternoon. Because it is considered a camp activity, we get off from drill a little earlier to get a few spars off. The main fight is between two middleweights who claim some previous boxing experience but there are a lot of chaps walking around here claiming that anyway. A couple of impromptu SP bookmakers are doing a trade down the back of the paddock, the officers pretending they don’t see what’s going on. Everyone has picked their favourite and there is a lot of yahooing and carry-on amongst the spectators.
It turns out to be quite a brutal affair, with a bit of blood being spilt. The referee is fair and does his best to keep it clean however the fighters must have a pound or two wagered on the result and they slug it out with an aggressive street-fighting style. Not much foot or guard work is in play, just wild swinging, head down, hoping to connect. The longer it goes, the slower the reaction time to defend is and when there is a connect it does a fair bit of damage.
Towards the end of the third round they can hardly stand up, clinging to each other, more for support than to get in close and deliver a punch. The troops and the corner supporters are yelling encouragement and egging them on but it’s about over. Blood is running from the nose and nicks over the eyes of both men. The bell rings and one fighter remains in the middle, bending over with both hands on his knees trying to suck in some air, I’m thinking he’ll pass out. He eventually makes it back to his stool for a bit of a rinse and a wet towel but when the bell rings again he doesn’t move. In the other corner the fighter is on his feet but there is no confidence in his stance. A towel is turfed into the ring and the man standing is awarded the contest.
You can tell who had a few shillings on the winner, they bolt down to the SP bookies to collect their winnings.
The referee sings out, asking if anybody else wishes for a fight. As there is a chap in our tent who has been talking fight lately, him & yours truly toed the line. We had a very willing two rounds, (friendly enough mind), but no damage done, ended up fairly even, the referee would not award a decision.
The next morning, I wake up quite well, but my ears had taken a bit of a pounding and are a bit sore. The same morning, we attend Military Church and the Minister gave his address from the stadium after the blood from the night before had been cleaned up.
I don’t know if I’ll be able to get leave to get home from Castlemaine camp, there is some talk about letting seven percent go out every weekend as soon as the current isolation is taken off but there is also the burden of having to pay half-fare on the train. I don’t know if that will suit me very well as it would take me a day and a half to get home, I’d have to leave Friday to get to Cloverdale by late Saturday. I am quite satisfied with Castlemaine camp, but Geelong camp is a lot closer to home, so I apply for a transfer. It gets declined.
There is a call for reinforcements, they are seeking one hundred and fifty men. I stepped forward but am rejected on account of being short, they are taking the biggest men first. Eventually, fifty men are selected from each company (A, B, C), nearly one hundred had volunteered from my company (C) alone which was very encouraging. We will all go in time, no chance of getting drafted into a Brigade though.
We have a band here, made up of recruits picked out of the companies, some nights they practice in our tent, they are quite good. On Sunday afternoons they play for an hour or two on the stadium which adds a bit of entertainment in camp and makes a pleasant change from the rigors
of drill.
In mid-September we receive a second issue of clothing which is most welcomed. We joke that we have so much that we don’t know where to store it! I even scored a “house-wife” containing needles and a few cast-off buttons with a little cotton. All will come in very handy as the first issue of clothing needs some repair.
In the last week of September there is another call for reinforcements, two hundred men are required and this time I am selected. We are given short notice to pack up our personnel effects and be ready to move out. I ride my bike around to Mr Thompson’s place and ask him to look after it till I can arrange for it to be picked up or sent to Wal who is currently staying with relatives in South Melbourne. Mr Thompson is a friend of my parents and I had many a meal at his house while in Castlemaine.
We catch the train down to Williamstown, but no one is told what the plans for us are. Speculation is that we will board the next troopship leaving from Port Melbourne within a week but in the meantime we will continue with musketry training in this camp. Things are obviously getting pretty solid as on arrival we are issued our own rifles and bayonets, quite a hint that departure will be soon.
As soon as I have settled in to my tent I write to Wal, letting him know about the bike and suggesting to him that he might take a run out here and catch up. I give him accurate instructions where to find me, the tent I’m in is the forth row from the west and the seventh tent down from the road. He should work that out okay. I haven’t seen Mum, Dad, Frank or Wal since I was posted to Castlemaine, leave was never granted. I miss them all and hope that I am here long enough for Wal to come out.
We are in Williamstown camp for 10 days when we are told that the HMAT Nestor, leaving next day from the new Railway Pier in Port Melbourne, is full. They are unable to take another two hundred troops so to coin a phrase, we missed the boat. Within a couple of days, we pack up and are transferred to Broadmeadows camp. It would be a fair assumption that we must travel soon, if we only missed the Nestor by the skin of our teeth, surely, we must be on the next ship.
I managed to catch up with Wal for a couple of hours, he caught the train out on a Sunday, it was great to see my youngest brother. He is very keen to sign up with the AIF and follow me, but at 16 years of age he’s too young. He tells me that Frank applied to join but was knocked back because of his missing hand.
It was only a short walk from Broadmeadows railway station to the camp and the first thing I notice is the size of it. Over three thousand men are here when my company moves in. The land is flat, and a bit wind swept, it would be good farming soil under different circumstances. At the arrival briefing we learn that the land has been donated to the AIF by a very patriotic local farmer. Another example of everyone pulling their weight for the war effort.
The training in musketry, trench work and bayonet drills has all stepped up to another level, we rise at 05:30 and each day is very well laid out for us. No need to apply for a leave pass, there aren’t any.
The rumour train has my head spinning. I struggle to keep up with what we are told officially, which is very little, and what version of that story is exaggerated and twisted one hundred times during the day makes it difficult to separate truth from rubbish. The common thread is that “we are on the next boat” but three thousand men are getting the same story. There continues to be regular recruitment and selection processes taking place which appear to be governed by height, size, previous trade experience, military competence etc. Our company is approached a few times and I offer myself at every opportunity, but I guess there is more important trades required in war than that of a dairy farmer.
Days turn into weeks and the training is relentless, there is no slacking off just because a thousand men move out one day and two days later another thousand more move in. Those that are shipped out leave the front gate with a very clear understanding that their next stop is Port Melbourne pier.
As Christmas 1915 approaches I start to feel a little confident that I might not travel for a while yet. Seven ships have sailed out of Port Melbourne for the war since my mob was first given notice back at Williamstown Camp in September. I even suggest to Mum and Dad that leave for Christmas could be on, I certainly have my fingers crossed for that to happen as I haven’t seen Cloverdale since late July. There are hundreds of men in camp sharing the same thought, while leave hasn’t been on the table, many of us apply anyway.
Four days before Christmas a camp notice is pinned up stating there is no leave to be granted, the war does not take into account what day of the year it is. End of story.
Nothing could be closer to the truth when on Christmas Day we get the nod, next boat it is, schedule departure is set for Wednesday 29th December on a tub known as HMAT 64 – Demosthenes. I get letters away immediately to Cloverdale but am doubtful they will arrive in time, highly unlikely anyone I know will be at the wharf.
CHAPTER 5
HMAT 64 – DEMOSTHENES
December 1915 – January 1916
“In writing this I’m away out in mid ocean with nothing but water as far as the eye can reach. So far it has been a bonzer trip, except for the first couple of days when my little Mary started turning somersaults (it was no joke) but I can eat like a horse now”.
AS THE TRAIN travels slowly through Melbourne I look down from the carriage window onto the tree lined streets and terrace houses that gradually blend into factories and then storage houses of Port Melbourne. It’s a gentle transition from one snippet of life to another and my mind wanders a little, absorbing and enjoying the changing landscape. I reflect briefly on my current circumstances. I’m as excited as the other thousand men on the train are to be heading off to the adventure of a lifetime, but I hesitate to think that some of them might not make the return trip. The daily papers are full of reports of Germany’s army spreading further out across Europe and our losses in Gallipoli fighting the Turks have been horrendous.
When will I make the return journey past these buildings on my way home to Beech Forest? Will the war be over in the two or three months it will take to get us to our destination? Is it possible that the ship will be turned around before we step foot on land again? Christmas 1915 was spent in a tent, could I dare to wish being back home within twelve months to celebrate Christmas 1916 in Cloverdale?
These are not sad thoughts, quite the opposite. There is a warm feeling running through my veins, I’m ready for the challenge. Fit, trained, eager to go. I’ve never been on a boat before, the thrill of that thought alone puts a smile on my face. How big is it, where will we sleep, will the tucker be any good, what sort of drills can we expect on board? After all the training and drill work of the last five months it’s a welcome relief to know that we are finally on the move. No more false starts or rumours, this train is going direct to the port.
As the train swings onto the wharf I get a glimpse of a very large ship, there are already hundreds of troops on board waving to the thousands of family and friends gathered on the dock below. I’m not expecting any of my mob to be here to see me off, unlikely that the letter telling them I was leaving would have reached them yet. Not a problem, there are a lot of chaps in the same situation. We will just have to pick out someone else’s family and give them a wave anyway.
Thousands of paper streamers run from the ship deck to the crowd below, the general idea is that a soldier on deck can be connected to a love one below by holding their end of a common streamer. Great idea but I doubt many are directly connected. Maybe if you were the first soldier on board to throw one over you might be in luck.
There is not much time spent lingering on the wharf, the train pulls away and we are directed up the gangway and onto the top deck of the ship. It takes a bit of effort to lug our packs and rifles on board and when we get to the top there is a fair bit of pushing and shoving going on. It’s quite crowded as all the men wish to be on deck for the departure. There is equipment and personnel belongings stacked everywhere with no control or orders as to where we should find a bu
nk or store our gear. For the time being it’s a free for all and it’s hard to hear yourself think with all the yelling going backwards and forwards to the civilian gathering below.
Eventually I find a gap against the handrail and run my eyes up and down the mass of faces below. I know quite a few chaps from Beech Forest who have come aboard so I search for any face that might be recognisable, someone that might pass a message onto my parents that I was sighted would be a nice gesture. It’s not to be, there are simply too many people, they are too far away and as dusk falls it becomes impossible to distinguish features.
One of the crew tells me it is the biggest crowd he has ever seen on Port Melbourne pier.
The rowdy behaviour on deck starts to mellow. I see the guide ropes being released and the big steel hull inches away from the wharf. There is a final “hooray” from the deck and the stern of the Demosthenes is pointed out into Port Phillip Bay. The rumour train is in full swing immediately and it seems that this may not be the last view of our homeland as we will be stopping in Albany, Western Australia for stores within the week.
The HMAT 64 Demosthenes is an eleven-thousand-ton, coal driven monster. She is one of 28 vessels leased by the Commonwealth of Australia and converted for specific use as a troop ship. Her only previous voyage in this current configuration was earlier this year, in July (1915) when she transported troops from Melbourne to London. In her previously life she had been a passenger ship operating out of London. HMAT stands for “His Majesty’s Australian Transport” and 64 is the troopship number. On this trip she has already picked up troops in Sydney before floating around to Melbourne to pick my mob up.
The conversion from passenger ship to troop carrier is mainly that now there are bunk beds everywhere, doors to rooms have been removed, (except for the officers) and bunks line every corridor, nook and cranny. We found a ship-hand walking around waving a bunk list and match our names to a deck level and bunk number. I found mine without much trouble and dump my gear on top. The next adventure was to locate the mess hall and get some grub in.
Walk a War in My Shoes Page 4
