Open Writing

'How old are you, soldier?'

This question by my Commanding Office was the one I had been dreading since I lied about my age to join the 2nd A.I.F. At seventeen years and two months I blandly told the recruiting officer at the Melbourne Town Hall I was twenty-one.

The crunch came at the most unlikely place. My unit was on bivouac in a desert of sand and scrub at Mingenew, W.A., the place where blowflies spend the winter. It did not cross my mind when the Sergeant told me to report to the C.O's tent, that I was in any real trouble. I thought my less than complimentary remarks about the porridge and bacon we had for breakfast had reached 'the top'. I was still preparing to argue that the porridge tasted like wallpaper paste, and the piece of fat given to me was not bacon, when the C.O sprang his question. Flustered and unnerved, I answered with the age shown in my pay-book.

'Twenty-one, sir.'

With a hint of a smile about his lips the Captain appeared to read from a signal he held. Looking directly at me he asked, 'Your mother would know your correct age better than you, wouldn't she?'

'Yes Sir' I squeaked out.

The C.O continued, 'I have a signal here that says your mother has told the Prime Minister that you are only seventeen. That's your correct age, isn't it?'

There was no purpose in denying the matter any longer. He was holding confirmation that I was lying. I sheepishly nodded my head and murmured, 'Yes Sir.'

The C.O. was a tall, bronzed, friendly man, with a shock of fair hair. Across the pocket of his khaki shirt were a number of campaign ribbons showing he had already served overseas. The whole unit respected him. Sensing my worry and embarrassment, he removed his cap and told me to 'stand easy'. That's about as close as the Army comes to saying 'make yourself at home'. Smiling broadly, he assured me nothing drastic was going to happen to me. However, he explained, he had to arrange for my return to Melbourne until I reached eighteen years of age.

'It's a great thing to want to fight overseas for your country so don't feel that you have offended the Army' he said, trying hard to make light of my offence.

His attitude was so encouraging, I gained sufficient nerve to tell him my mother had threatened she would take whatever action necessary to stop me going away.

My father was already serving in Egypt and, if necessary to stop me from going too, she would write to the Prime Minister, The Duke of Windsor, the Pope and anyone else she could think of. I'm sure if Bruce Ruxton had been invented then, he too, would have received an epistle. She would stop at nothing to get her way. I may have felt brave enough to fight for my country, but my mother was a different matter.

On arrival back in Melbourne I was sent to the Recruit Training Battalion at Watsonia. All recruits spend their first eight weeks there undergoing basic training before being posted to allotted units as reinforcements. Training staff were the only long term people at Watsonia. As it was necessary for me to remain there for some months, and I could snap my feet to attention like the jaws of a rabbit trap, they promoted me to corporal. Under the direction of a sergeant, just returned home from active service because of injuries, my job was to take each new platoon for basic drill.

I was a slight, boyish figure but I had charge of a group of new volunteers, chosen from a cross section of Victoria's male population. Individuals in the group varied greatly and consisted of clerks, wharfies, accountants, trammies, salesmen, unemployed and others. A very mixed lot!

Right from the start I lacked the confidence to maintain discipline. Some of the older blokes enjoyed taking advantage of my youth. They lit cigarettes before I gave permission, and to upset me, made snide remarks while marching.

'Is there a volunteer to carry the little toy soldier's rifle?'
somebody teased. I told the Sergeant about my problem.

'We'll soon fix that' he grunted with his big jaw jutting forward. 'I'll tell ya what we'll do.'

The plan he outlined I reckoned was too far-fetched.

'That's like using a Guillotine to cure dandruff' I told him.
Undeterred by my doubts he continued to outline his remedy for my troubles. Against my better judgement he convinced me to trust his plan.

The scheme required the Sergeant to pick an argument with me in our hut in front of the whole platoon. I would let him bawl me out for a few minutes and then say, 'If that's how you feel about things Serg. why don't we rip off these stripes and go down behind the canteen and settle it 'man to man'.

At this point I had protested, 'Every man in the hut will want a front row seat; they'll all want to see me get beaten up.'

'Don't you worry about that; I'll threaten to charge any man who leaves the hut.' I must admit I admired his deviousness.

We had our pretend argument about the way I did rifle inspections. Then we both dramatically ripped off our stripes and stormed out of the hut. Serg. dallied long enough to threaten anyone who tried to follow us.

When we were out of sight behind the canteen the Sergeant grabbed me by the shoulder and said, 'So far, so good. We've got 'em in. Now the next bit is the most important. I'll stagger back into the hut holding a hand over my right eye. I'll yell, why didn't one of you blokes warn me? Didn't any of you know he's the Welter Weight Champion of Queensland? Take a tip from me, if he ever invites any of you to meet him behind the canteen, be bloody wary, he's a real goer!'

It was this part of the scheme which worried me most.

'Serg, I'm no Welter Weight Champion. I don't know much about boxing but I do know that a welter weight is about 10 stone. I wouldn't be 10 stone in full marching order and wringing wet.'

'Don't worry about that' said Serg. with a wave of his big hands, 'none of 'em are going to check it out for themselves.'

He was right! It surprised and pleased me, how successful we were.

From that night on I received awesome respect from the whole platoon; they jumped with alacrity to carry out every order. Previously, when I ordered 'on the double' it resulted in a sort of hurried stroll. Now they broke into a smart trot. I even had to instruct a couple of blokes that it was not necessary to salute me. Each incoming recruit learned about my fighting status from those moving out.

After a few weeks I became complacent and forgot about how we achieved this harmony. It was about this time that the Sergeant instructed me to take the Company jeep and pick up two cases of oranges from Watsonia station. A relative of one of our men from Mildura had sent them for him to 'share with his mates'. I pointed out, although I could drive, I did not have an Army licence. I was too young to have a civilian licence. The Sergeant, who was playing the old Army game of passing any unwanted task to the next lower rank, refused to listen to any of these excuses.

'There are no Military Police around here and the civvy cops wont worry you' was his contribution to our discussion. The unit kept the jeep down behind the Canteen under a large pine tree. When I turned the key to start, it made strange gurgling noises, like a boarding-house pudding. I have a less than laudable track record in mechanical matters, but I had a flash of inspiration. I went to the Company office and checked the occupations of the men in my platoon. I was lucky. A big bloke named Private Ben Adams was a motor mechanic.

I waited until the end of the afternoon drill period and as I was about to dismiss the group I made the simple request, 'Private Adams, after the platoon is dismissed, I want you to meet me down behind the Canteen.'

There was an awkward silence and all eyes turned towards Pte. Adams.

Then, with a pale face, the big bloke spluttered . . . . .

'Aw. Struth Corp. what'd I do wrong?'