by Alan Tucker
‘Fortune favours the brave,’ declared Fish as he stood and straightened his uniform. ‘I’m off to get a cuppa, lads. Don’t be worried about me if I’m gone quite some time,’ he said with a wink and strode off in pursuit of the nurses.
Friday, 18 September
There’s a strong rumour that we’ll soon be on our way to France. The prospect keeps us on our toes and compels our instructors and trainers to use every minute of the day to drill and lecture us.
So far this week we’ve had lectures on tactics, participated in physical exercise classes, competed in target practice, drilled on parade and conducted an all-day route march.
Tomorrow we have a battalion parade for the South Australian Governor. He’s going to present us with our battalion colours. It’s another sure sign we’ll soon be shipped off.
The men are growing impatient. They’ve had enough of practising for war: they want the real thing.
Wednesday, 30 September
Dear Mother,
You’d be so proud of me. Last week I marched through the streets of Adelaide with my battalion and the Governor saluted us. There were thousands of cheering spectators. I bet you never thought your little boy would be treated like a hero by people from the Big Smoke.
Since the parade we’ve been drilled relentlessly and completed two route marches. We camped near Brighton and did night manouevres across open farmland. Without the aid of a lamp it was very difficult to find our way. Every one of us became tangled in the barbed wire at some stage. In the worst cases the barbs not only tore uniforms but also ripped open men’s hands, arms or legs. You’ll be pleased to hear that I escaped unscathed.
Hopefully we’ll soon be moving off. Camp life has become tedious (but not as boring as picking ore off the conveyor belt).
Your dutiful son, Victor
PS-Sad news. One of the lads died of pneumonia. He’ll be buried with full military honours, including a gun salute. I didn’t know him personally but feel sorry for his friends and family.
Good news: The parents of men in my battalion are allowed to visit camp this week. I wish you lived closer or we were richer so you could afford to visit.
Saturday, 10 October
I received a wonderful surprise today—my parents visited the camp. Mother was very emotional. Father maintained a manly face. They caught the late train down on Friday and have booked return tickets for Sunday afternoon. I know the travel cost and time commitment is huge for them and was humbled they were prepared to make such a sacrifice to see me.
They both admired my uniform and said how much I’d filled out. Mother asked to be shown around. She particularly wanted to see my sleeping quarters and where I ate. Father was more interested in the parade ground and fitness course.
My friends were on their best behaviour and impressed Mother.
‘They’re good-hearted,’ I told her, ‘and they look after me.’
‘We’re proud of you, Victor,’ she replied and gave me a hug. ‘I can sleep better now, knowing you’re in good company.’
I asked how Hans was getting along. She grimaced.
‘He’s not his old self. There are signs of improvement on the days he has an appetite but on the days he has to report to the police station he gets so nervous that he can’t stomach food.
‘He sits outside more than he did a month ago. The sunlight lifts his spirits. He relaxes then gets up and potters in the garden. I love it when he forgets his worries.’
Towards sunset we said our farewells and they left to catch the train back to their city accommodation.
After they left I felt happy but sad. Needle noticed I was unusually quiet and sat next to me.
‘Your folks are very proud of you, Quickie, and what you’re doing.’
Wednesday, 14 October
We were granted Leave today.
‘Enjoy these few hours,’ Robbo suggested. ‘Our time will soon be occupied with more dangerous and demanding duties.’
Needle looked at me. ‘Come with us, Quickie. We’re off to Glenelg. You can enjoy a refreshing swim.’
He put his arms around Robbo’s and my shoulders and we set off along the Bay Road at a cracking pace.
‘You’re like thirsty horses that have smelled a water hole,’ Fish said with a laugh as he ran to join us.
Thursday, 15 October
We were awakened at 5.30 am. At parade, the battalion was ordered to ready themselves within one hour for a route march with full pack to National Park in the Adelaide hills.
We bivouacked for two nights and conducted a series of battlefield operations, by day and by night. The officers were precise in their orders and strict in their demands. Men or groups who failed to meet the standard were publicly singled out as men who had let the team down. It was drilled into us that teamwork was the key to military success.
‘Your lives and the lives of your cobbers will depend on every individual soldier doing his job. Your Hun opponents are well-drilled and battle-hardened and will slaughter you in the frontline unless you show discipline and resolve.’
I think we all realise that the great adventure is about to begin and that not all of us will return unscathed to Australia.
Monday, 19 October
Dear Mother and Father,
Big news. We’re breaking camp tomorrow and being moved by train to Port Adelaide. In a few weeks we’ll be in Europe and facing the Huns—unless the war is over by then. Let’s hope so then I’ll be free to visit Grandfather in Cornwall.
I can’t write much because we have to pack our clothes. Our winter gear will be stored in the ship’s hold: we’ll carry our lightweight summer uniforms with us. It’s the luck of the draw whether we get a cabin and bunk or have to sling a hammock in the hold. I’m not fussed either way—I just want this adventure to begin.
My love to you both. I’ll think of you every day I’m away. Please give Hans a hearty hug from me.
Your proud soldier boy,
Private Victor March
Tuesday, 20 October
I’m on board the Ascanius. It’s not a luxury liner but it’s comfortable enough especially for those of us lucky enough to have been allocated a cabin.
I was excited but sad to pull down our tent. It’s been my home away from home for the past two months. Our train was cheered by onlookers all the way from Morphettville to Port Adelaide where thousands of family members and patriotic locals had gathered.
Needle insisted I join him and his family on the wharf. Once again they welcomed me and made me feel that my safety and well-being in the unknown challenge ahead was just as important to them as Needle’s.
‘I’d be devastated if I lost my oldest child to the war,’ Mrs Sharpe told me as she hugged me farewell. ‘Please look after my boy, Victor. He’s a loving son. Keep a close eye on him: he can be impetuous and impulsive. He’ll need a good steady friend beside him at times to help him make good judgements. Promise me you’ll be that friend.’
I promised.
She put her arms around Needle and me while the Governor officially farewelled us from South Australian soil. He urged us to follow King George’s advice to British troops: stand united, firm and resolute, and trusting in God.
I can’t wait to go to sea. I’ve never been out on the water before, not even in a rowboat on Moonta bay. I hope my sea legs are as sound as Father’s were when he migrated to Australia.
Friday, 30 October
My sense of excitement was short-lived. Within hours of leaving port I was lying on my bunk with seasickness. I vomited until I could vomit no more. I felt so ill I wished I could die. My friends tried to comfort me but I was beyond help. The best they could do was carry me up onto the deck so I got some fresh air.
Chaplain Frank visited me several times each day and said he’d pray for my recovery. His prayers did no good.
We arrived in Fremantle this morning and came ashore. How on earth will I survive another six or seven weeks at sea?
Saturday, 31 O
ctober
I was one of the few exceptions when Shore Leave was cancelled. I was placed in hospital for two days while I recovered my fluids then allowed to remain on-shore until today when everyone was required to report on board.
A few men overstayed their Leave and the military police, known as provosts, were ordered to find, detain and charge them.
Sunday, 1 November
I was very excited to receive a letter from home this morning. The contents, however, upset me greatly.
My Dear Victor,
It is with a sad, sad heart that I tell you that Hans has been removed from our house. He was taken by the police and sent to a place the government has just built on Torrens Island: it’s called an Internment Camp (that’s a fancy name for a prison camp).
All South Australians of German descent, even those like our dear Hans who are naturalised Australians, have been taken from their homes and farms and families and businesses and locked up in camps similar to your Morphettville camp–except they’re not volunteers like the men in your battalion. I feel so sad and angry and ashamed. Hans is a good man.
Hopefully you will not receive this letter until you are overseas. I don’t want this terrible news to spoil your last days in Australia.
I know we’re at war, Victor, but surely we do not need to treat every German as an enemy.
Where is our compassion?
I hope, my son, that if you are ever in the hands of the Germans, and I pray you will never be in that situation, that they treat you better than we are treating Hans.
Your angry (not at you) loving Mother
Tuesday, 3 November
We are anchored offshore from Albany on the south coast of Western Australia.
The journey here from Fremantle was not rough and where we are anchored is protected from the big waves. The medical care I received in Fremantle seems to have eased my seasickness. Either that or the calm seas did the trick.
We will not remain here for long because nearly all the ships have assembled. At a quick estimate I reckon our convoy comprises forty or fifty troop ships and naval vessels.
Friday, 6 November
I’m ill again and confined to cabin. I could be seasick or my body could be having a bad reaction to an injection I was given. We’ve all been inoculated against a range of diseases that we’re not exposed to in Australia. I’m not sure what’s worse: the cure or the disease.
It’s no fun being below deck because it’s so hot. Perspiration oozes from every pore and my pillow and bed sheets are constantly soaked.
Monday, 9 November
‘We’ve got some news that’ll make you feel better,’ Needle said. ‘One of our escort ships has defeated a German cruiser. We knew something was up when we saw the Sydney steaming over the horizon at full power.’
‘General Bridges has confirmed the Emden is beached and done for,’ Robbo added.
‘He’s given us the rest of the day off and, the best news of all, granted troops an extra issue of beer with dinner,’ Needle told me excitedly.
‘I hope the Huns learn a lesson from this,’ Fish concluded. ‘Don’t muck around with the Australians.’
Wednesday, 11 November
The Ascanius stopped today while a sad ceremony was conducted. A man from the 11th Battalion died overnight and a burial at sea was conducted.
I felt obliged to attend and dragged myself up onto the deck. It was the first funeral I’ve ever attended. I found myself moved to tears. I am puzzled as to why. I did not know the man and I was so far back that I couldn’t hear what was said about him. I suppose the serious mood was made more emotional by the unexpected stillness and silence.
When it’s so quiet you have time to think and daydream. I felt as if I was floating above the ship looking down on the proceedings. I was brought back to reality when the bugle sounded The Last Post and the man’s body, wrapped in an Australian flag, slid from the deck into the ocean. His parents will never be able to visit his grave. I know how much Father grieves that he cannot visit his mother’s grave back in Cornwall.
At the end of the ceremony I subtly wiped my eyes and replaced my slouch hat. I was relieved, when I looked around, to see that many other men were also sombre faced and red-eyed.
Sunday, 15 November
We arrived in the port of Colombo, Ceylon, today. The heat is stifling.
At this evening’s service Chaplain Frank thanked God for our safe passage this far and prayed for our safety for the remainder of the journey. This was the first shipboard service I’d attended because of my seasickness. I was impressed by the size of the congregation.
‘Do you know why?’ Needle asked.
I shook my head.
He laughed. ‘Because non-attenders are given the worst possible fatigues to complete while lads like you are sitting around listening to the Chaplain. Given that choice a lot of lads suddenly find a religious side to their nature.’
I spoke to Chaplain Frank after the service. He commented that I looked a lot better.
‘Being in the fresh air helps,’ I told him.
‘Fresh is not the word I would use, Victor,’ he replied. The tropical heat and humidity highlighted the odours of the city, the ships’ diesel and the nearby markets. He smiled. ‘I was delighted to see so many men attend this evening’s service. Numbers have increased every week since the voyage began,’ he told me proudly.
I smiled but did not have the heart to tell him why.
Dear Mother and Father,
I have not written as regularly as promised because I have been chronically seasick since we left Australia. Pardon me for not mentioning where I am now but the censor reads every one of our letters. We have been warned not to record information that could be used by the enemy if our letter falls into their hands.
I am very sorry to hear the news about Hans. I received your letter the morning before we left port. Please write again soon and tell me the latest regarding his cruel situation.
I wish I had inherited Father’s sea legs.
Your failed sailor son, Vic
Tuesday, 17 November
Even though we were denied Shore Leave in Colombo, the city came to us. Flimsy boats, which a crewman said are called junks, came alongside from the moment we dropped anchor. They are floating shops from which dark-skinned vendors sold our lads all sorts of necessities and souvenirs. We set sail for Europe later today.
Saturday, 21 November
I was thrown from my bunk before dawn when the Ascanius collided with another vessel. I climbed to my feet, quickly dressed, pulled a lifebelt down from the rack above me and moved with my friends along the passageway to the ladder that led up onto the deck.
I was very frightened but followed the evacuation procedures we had practised. No-one spoke. Silence was required so orders could be heard and a roll call conducted.
We waited at our allocated evacuation areas expecting to be ordered to jump into the water at any moment. The motors were either turned off or had ceased to function. The silence was eerie. But as the minutes passed and the ship did not develop a list, I began to feel safer. If the Ascanius was sinking, she was doing so slowly and other vessels would have time to rescue us.
The hooded lamps of other vessels were visible all around us. The silhouette of one ship loomed larger than the others and approached us on the starboard side. She broke convoy orders and turned on a spotlight. It roamed up and down our hull for some minutes then someone onboard her used a loud hailer to give us the All Clear. Our engines started up and as the sun began to rise, we were ordered to Dismiss.
I remained on deck after most of the men went below. The sea was a dark colour but its surface sparkled with phosphorescence. As the sun rose to starboard, the ocean quickly turned a magnificent aquamarine blue and reflected the soft oranges of the sunrise.
For the first time since we put to sea I felt glad to be alive.
Tuesday, 1 December
A strong rumour’s circulating that we’ll so
on be disembarking—in Egypt! Some fellows are angry that we’re not going to England.
‘If I’d known I was going to be plonked down in the middle of the desert, I would have stayed in Broken Hill and not bothered to enlist,’ one fellow snarled. ‘I’ve seen enough deserts up there to last me a lifetime.’
‘I don’t mind where we’re off-loaded,’ I told Robbo. ‘Anywhere that’s not Moonta is an adventure as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Good lad,’ he replied. ‘You’re made of the right spirit.’
Robbo believes the reason we’re disembarking in Egypt is to protect the Suez canal from Turkish attack.
‘I overheard two officers say the Turks have announced that they’ll fight as a German ally. Turkey’s the centre of the Ottoman Empire which is a rival of the British Empire.’ He laughed. ‘We’re fighting with the big boys now, Quickie.’
Saturday, 5 December
Dear Mother and Father,
My seasickness has eased and my friends tell me I have some of my old spark back again.
Once again I must be discrete and not mention where we are but I can tell you (unless the censor blanks it out) that we have steamed past several large Allied encampments. I feel very safe even though we are rumoured to be within sniping distance of enemy marksmen. As a precaution we have mounted an armed guard on the boat deck. Machine-guns are manned around the clock. I dare anyone to attack us. My battalion is yearning for a fight.
