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George Lancaster's Story
On Friday morning, the 14th June 1940, I did something that changed my life forever. I went with four other young men into the city of Melbourne, and enlisted in the 2nd Australian Imperial Forces.
At the time I had not yet turned 18, and had no conception of what was going to happen to me over the next five years. I was the fifth son of James Henry and Grace Victoria Lancaster, and had few if any survival skills for everyday life, let alone being in the army.
My father was, at this time, the manager of the tin mines on the island of Phuket in the Gulf of Siam, and had been there since 1937. My mother had sent me to Spencer Street railway station to farewell my father, who went by rail to Sydney and by ocean liner to Phuket.
As he boarded the train he said to me, "There is a war coming. I do not want you to go, for your mother has enough to bear without you going to a God-forsaken war in some God-forsaken place."
He was a World War I veteran who had seen action on the Somme and Passchendaele fronts, and had been gassed and wounded.
"Look after your mother: she will need you more than ever now."
I was well aware of what he was saying, for my mother was still sad over the death of her younger brother, killed at the `First battle of Bullecourt', and lay in an unmarked grave in France, and my father would not be home to support her. Whenever I asked my father about Uncle Frank's death, he very grimly said,"Your uncle was killed at the butchers' picnic." Years later I was to understand what he meant by this remark and by another of his angry utterances, "We were lions led by donkeys. The British General Staff were little more than murderers."
My father and I shook hands, no hugs or kisses (as was the custom those days) and away went the train. I did not know when I would see him again. When I did, it was in June 1941 with my unit in Malaya, and my mother was dead.
On this Friday morning, we five lads met at half past nine and dared each other to go and enlist. So we caught the tram from Moreland, and went into the city. Once there, we went to the Recruiting Centre at the Melbourne Town Hall and lined up behind the other men.
From the first, for me it had all the overtones of high comedy. On reaching the counter, the sergeant asked me my name and address. When he asked me my age, I confidently said, "21."
"What's your date of birth?"
I went into a confused state, and had three stabs ranging from 1914 to 1917. He sat there not saying a word, until I spluttered, "I just can't remember."
Slowly he tore up the papers, never taking his eyes off mine. Then he said, "Are you that desperate to go, lad? It's all right to wait until you're the proper age."
I assured him that I wanted to go now, and asked him what should I do.
"Go out of here and walk round the block and come back to any counter other than this one, and lad, this time, do your sums first, won't you?"
Feeling very foolish, a feeling that was not going to desert me for a single minute of the next four months, I scurried around the block, returned to the Town Hall, and presented myself to a new face.
This time I got my date of birth right, and then I was asked my occupation. As I was still going to school and didn't have one, I looked about for inspiration, and there it was. Behind the sergeant on a notice board were listed several occupations.
"Merchant seaman," I said resolutely.
He gave me a very nasty look and began to tear up the papers saying, "Can't you read? Can't you see that sign behind me listing all the deferred occupations? No one whose occupation is on that notice can enlist. You are wasting my time. Piss off."
What an idiot I am, I tell myself, and around the block I go again, and back to another table.
This time, I hear the man in front of me say that he is a labourer and that causes no reaction, so this time round, when asked my occupation, I say labourer, and at last make the preliminaries, but I'm not yet in the army.
The medical examination was another nightmare. When asked to squat with my hands on my hips, I kept falling over. After my fifth try, the M.O. called his colleague from next-door to observe my efforts, muttering darkly about flat feet and maybe lordosis, whatever that may have meant.
They both looked quizzically at me and said to try again. With a consummate effort, I squatted and made it. My feeling of great joy soon deserted me when the first doctor shouted at me that I'd had my little joke, now get out.
Scurrying to the next medical line I shuffled along with the others, wondering what was going to happen now. By this time I was desperately in need of a pee, and as there was a lavatory nearby, I managed to get myself in the throng that was using this facility. There seemed to be a mass need among the men to use it, and I gratefully relieved myself.
Arriving in the room for my next medical test, I was confronted by a medical sergeant who handed me a small beaker and said, "Pee in this and bring it back to me."
Once again I had made an ass of myself, and I explained to the sergeant that I had already been. "Just a few drops is all we need lad. Why, we're that good that we could test a mosquito's pee, so we won't have any trouble with just a few drops from you."
I was nervously straining away to get my `few drops' when the man in the next cubicle said that if I was uncommonly desperate, he could give me some of his, as he had plenty. I politely refused and managed to get a magical few drops, and handed the beaker over. "That will be fine, son, tons really. I'll just shove this litmus paper in and see how we go. Right lad, it's the right colour so you can go out to the front of this building and someone will look after you."
And so I gladly ran to the front of the Town Hall and was put in a group, and there they were, my mates. We excitedly started gabbling about our adventures when we were told to fall in on the road, which was Swanston Street, and look toward Flinders Street, as we were to catch a train to Caulfield.
We five lined up in the front rank of the second block of men and off we marched, the five of us saying that the war would soon be over, with soldiers like us at the ready.
Then suddenly, to my horror, a lady ran from the footpath and strode alongside us, shouting out, "I see you Georgie Lancaster, Charley Doughney, Darryl Allsop, Billy Opie and Neddy Baron, and I'm going to tell your mothers. Just you see if I don't!"
It was our neighbour, Mrs Paxman. She didn't believe in armies and killing each other, and had said so, ever so forthrightly at our house the previous Monday.
We were terror-stricken, reduced to craven cowards, and we slunk along, heads low, hoping the ground would swallow us up.
Then came jibes from the older men about being `mummy's boys' and "Doesn't she know that you've escaped through the nursery window," and worse still, "Did you bring your teddy bear?" I was beginning to hate the army and I wasn't even in it, at least, not properly.
I remember nothing of the train ride to Caulfield, but vividly recall entering a gate at the side of the race course, and immediately seeing hundreds of men under the bookmaker's umbrellas chanting something, which at the moment, I could not understand properly. Then, as chant after chant roared out, I knew what it was. "You'll be sorry. You'll be sorry." It seemed to go on for hours.
Next time I was in that area, I was yelling it out, just as lustily, to the next new groups as they came in.
We were led to an office building, quite small, where once again our papers were matched to us. I began to think that the papers seemed more important than we were. Of course they were, I found out later on. No papers, and you are the invisible man. It was all so exciting.
The first disappointment was that Darryl Allsop had albumen in his urine and was given a note to take to our family doctor to have the condition remedied. This took a fortnight and resulted in him going into the infantry and serving in the Middle East, Tobruk and the South West Pacific. I didn't see him again until November '45.
Billy Opie was involved in some-mix up and had to start all over again. He finally enlisted in the 2/29 Infantry Battalion, and was murdered by the Japs in Malaya when they bayoneted and burned the wounded in the ambulances at the Muar River crossing.
Neddy Baron got himself involved with a sergeant who was snarling something at him, and when I next saw him, it was after the war and he was still in uniform but I can't remember what colour patches he wore. When we spoke he said very gloomily, "Well, you had a bastard of a war, but it wasn't a patch on mine." To this day, I don't know where he served that made his war a bigger bastard of a war than mine.
When I asked him about the other boys from school, all he would say was that they all survived except Joe Snaddon who, he said, was "eaten by the Japs in New Guinea."
Finally we were about to be sworn in to fight the King's enemies, but the telephone rang, and after a short conversation the officer hung up and said we would all have to come back on Monday.
As nicely as I could I explained that Charley and I couldn't possibly come back until Tuesday. He seemed taken aback and asked why. In superior tones I informed him that Monday was the King's Birthday and a public holiday, and that Charley and I would be celebrating this splendid day as loyal subjects of His Majesty always did.
He went very red in the face, then he went to the window, and pulled the wretched curtain back and looked out. "Come here. What do you see?"
I told him I saw two very large men in uniform with leather leggings and large hats.
"Do you know who they are?"
I thought this was a fairly stupid question as I'd only started this lark in the morning and how could he expect me to know the who or what about anything, at this stage.
"Those men are MPs - Military Policemen, who will come out to your place on Monday, and drag you both back here under arrest."
Now strangely I wasn't too excited about that at all, until I suddenly realised that my mother would know and I'd be in real trouble, so I said, "What time would you like us to come in on Monday then?" - thinking that this would placate him, but it seemed to enrage him more than ever.
"Not a second after 0845," he hissed, "Do you hear? 0845."
I was about to ask him what 0845 meant, when Charlie grabbed my arm and said we had better get out of here, which we did. We spent the weekend trying to find out what 0845 meant.
Of course, when I reached home I was anxiously watching my mother's face for hints as to whether Mrs Paxman had kept her promise to tell on us, but I knew she hadn't, because my mother never brought the subject up, and she was never one to evade what she thought a pressing subject.
When we weren't trying to fathom what time we were due back at camp, I was making up stories to tell my mother for the time when we would inevitably be found out. Wow! what a mess I was in, and it was most likely going to get worse.
Charley and I went back on Monday (the King's Birthday) and I moaned all the way back to the race course about the unpatriotic army which didn't know that it was a public holiday, until Charley asked me to give the theme a rest and I finally lapsed into silence.
When we got to the little office once more, there was the captain with some foreign looking men about 25 years old.
We were ordered to put our hands on a large brown paper covered book, which we were told was a Bible, when one of these people asked whether it contained the Old Testament as well as the New.
On being assured that it did, each of these men draped a handkerchief or scarf over his head and repeated as did we, what the captain said.
I had never seen a jew before and was quite intrigued. There were at least ten of us trying to touch the book, and I wondered idly, if it was legally binding if we missed out touching the book. Could we, at a later time, say that we weren't properly enlisted and go home? My ignorance must have been monumental.
The formality over, we signed our names on the bottom of a form and were handed a slip of paper with our regimental number scrawled on it. Charlie thought that his number was UX 25904 and there was some difficulty with this later on, for they couldn't match it with any State in Australia. However, it turned out to be a `V' and not `U', so that was remedied, but not without some heart-burning.
A corporal came in and was about to take us away, but the captain indicated that Charley and I were to stay. He then gave us a little homily on what we were likely to encounter in the army, and said that if we paid attention, we would be all right. Unfortunately, while he was talking I idly opened the `Bible', which turned out to be an Oxford Dictionary. While I was smiling at the cleverness of these people, the captain saw what I was doing.
"So, Mr Clever Dick, not paying attention to what I'm saying, when I'm trying to set you right, eh? Come with me."
So we followed him outside, where Charley went off with someone, and I was put in a horse-box with five older men.
"Look after this accident-prone boy, and see that he keeps out of trouble," he said to the men and off he went.
The five men were all returned soldiers from the Great War and were bakers or drove bakers' carts in Northcote and Preston. They asked me lots of questions, which I answered as truthfully as I was able. After some time one said that he, meaning me, has a formal education, but is as ignorant as buggery, and we'll have to watch him like a hawk.
I felt quite embarrassed that these men were talking about me as one would a dog - kindly, but with condescension.
One of the men indicated my place in the horse-box and another took me to get what he called `a bag and a donkey's breakfast.' This translated as a palliasse and a ration of straw which was to be my bed for the time I was in Caulfield.
In truth, these men were extremely kind and decent to me, and while I was with them they taught me things that, if left to my own devices, would have taken me months to learn.
"The next thing for you, young fella, is to get your kit from the Q.M." Off I went with them to join a line of men, moving forward, when the man in front of me did.
One of my horse-box friends went inside and had a chat to the man in charge, telling him to let me through today. I was not rostered to get my clothing for another two days, as there was a shortage of everything because of the phenomenal enlistment rate.
Anyway I was favoured to be kitted, and I well remember the flannel singlets, a blue jumper, one uniform and hat and, besides badges and bootlaces, a set of cotton `long johns,' boots and a `giggle dress', so called because it had no buttons, only draw strings, and was reputed to be issued to the inmates of insane asylums - `giggle palaces'.
The Q.M. person said, "22 articles - sign here."
I began to count what I had, when the line of men behind me began to hurl the most unprintable insults about me for holding up the line.
My friend hustled me out of the building and back to the security of the horse-box. "Let's see what you've got here." I glumly told him that nothing appeared to be my size, but he told me to go to the yard where everybody was yelling "You'll be sorry," and swap my misfits with other people's. He then turned to his mates and said that what I had wasn't all that bad, as the towel and bootlaces seemed a good fit.
For most of the afternoon I had `lessons' from these very patient men, even though I was unable to understand much of the slang they used, which was considerable.
I finally confessed that I had to go home and face up to my mother about being in the army.
"That's all right, we can fix up a story that will pass muster, especially to a woman."
"You don't understand, my mother is intelligent and clever, and will know if I'm lying."
With all the confidence in the world, they set about concocting a story and rehearsing me in the details. I must have been a constant source of wonder and amusement for those `old diggers' with my naivety and ignorance. Anyway, the story was that I had enlisted, not in the AIF, but in the Militia, and as this body was not at the time destined for overseas service, my mum would feel better about me being in uniform.
Home I went by train and tram to Moreland in the most ill- fitting of uniforms, and with my new tan boots causing me excruciating agony.
When I entered the house, the family began calling out rude remarks about how I looked. It was still light enough for our old box Brownie camera to operate, so I had my picture taken. Later, when I saw this photo, I was astonished to see how foolish I looked in that heavy woollen uniform.
I spun my parcel of lies and my mother questioned me in a very direct and challenging way, but I was saved by my third eldest brother who remarked that I must be in the Militia, as the army would never let me in to the AIF looking like that.
Leaving home at 2100 (I was really practising hard now), I was back in the camp before 2300 and safely ensconced in the horse - box. The others were not there, and I awoke to find them with some bottled beer and much merriment, talking about me and the amusement I afforded, not in a nasty fashion, you understand, but in a way I could not take exception to.
"Here, have some of this and join in the fun."
Thanking them for the proffered bottle but refusing their kind offer produced a discussion as to whether I was rude, or whether I had the right to refuse. It was decided that refusing was acceptable, but at least I must sit up and talk with them. It is chilly in Melbourne in June, and in 1940 it was (or seemed to be) extra chilly. Talking with people who have been drinking, when you have not, is not my idea of a stimulating time, but they were most kind and I could have been in worse company.
Next morning when I arose with the others and had my ablutions (a new word for me), I began to don my giggle dress but was roughly told to take it off and wear my `proper' uniform. I tried to tell them that the captain had said we must wear our giggle dress so that we could be detailed for kitchen `fatigue' (another new word for me) or other work, without getting our good uniform dirty.
"Yes, yes, we know all about that lark, but you do what we say, and you will be all right."
And so, on went the good uniform. After a few days, it began to dawn on me that only those wearing the giggle dress worked in the camp, at least that was the case while I was there.
The meals we were served seemed to me to be truly awful, very thick porridge and thick slices of bread and an egg, sausage or baked beans for breakfast. There was always plenty of plum jam, and tea with condensed milk and sugar. All meals were served on tin plates and the tea in tin pannikins. I felt revolted by this ugly food, and only ate bread and butter for breakfast and lunch. An orderly officer kindly tried to tell us how nourishing all this was, but I could not be convinced and waited until I went home to eat properly.
Of course, if you wanted other food you had to buy it from the small canteen there. A four-ounce bar of chocolate cost less than five cents in today's money, and a hot pie cost two cents. If you wanted sauce you could help yourself, without being charged for it. Beer was a shilling a bottle, about ten cents, and you could buy soup and a bread roll for five cents from the shops just up the road from the camp.
This form of rationing quickly depleted the small amount of money I had when I enlisted. I was afraid to ask my mother for a loan, which would never have been returned because it would have been seen by both of us as a gift. However, my main reason for not asking mum was that I thought if she came to believe I was being starved, the army hierarchy would have been given a savage blast about the proper way to conduct their responsibilities.
So we just had to get paid, or we would be reduced to eating their lousy rations. The pay was five shillings a day (about 50 cents). I went to the horse-box that Charlie now called home, and we both wanted to know when pay-day was. As we weren't too popular with the captain at the office, we decided to go back to my box and ask my companions. I was convinced by this time that they knew everything about the army.
On the way, we saw this soldier in the best-fitting uniform we had seen so far, and we hazarded a guess that here was a man of authority who was bound to know when pay-day occurred. So up we went to him and said, "Excuse me mate, do you..."
We didn't get time to complete our question when he roared,
"Back, back, five paces and stand to attention. When I call you forward, you will smartly answer, `Sir' and march up to me, standing one pace from me at attention. Is that understood?"
"Yes sir," we chorused and ran back to what we thought was five paces, turned around and stood rigid. "You may approach me now." We yelled `Sir' and hastened toward him, standing rigid as before.
`Sir' then gave us a lecture on approaching and speaking to superior officers, and then asked us what we wanted.
When I said we only wanted to know when pay-day was, he sighed and said, "Don't you know that you should address questions like that to the Orderly Room?" I then made the brilliant assumption that the Orderly Room was the office, and I wasn't going there, though of course I didn't tell this man so.
He released us and marched off, shaking his head as he went, which inclined me to believe that he thought we were none too bright.
Hurrying back to my horse-box mates, I poured out my tale of how this `General' had put us in our place. After being asked to describe the colour of his uniform and the badges on his collar and coat, what sort of headgear was he wearing, and did he have leather jodhpur-type pants; we were told this God-like figure was an AIC warrant officer.
AIC stood for Australian Instructional Corps of the PMF- Permanent Military Forces, which after the war, became the Australian Regular Army. They were truly an elite body, a hand picked group of men with powers and privileges that were truly remarkable. (Six years later, I was to became a member of this august body.)
"Now lads, never run foul of these fellows, for they can make your life miserable, really miserable, if you rub them up the wrong way."
We promised we would look out for them and avoid them like the plague in future.
By this time we had quite forgotten what we wanted to know about pay day.
That evening I was invited to go to the pictures which took place not far from our camp. After we went in and sat upstairs, on came a film that was about very pukka, very brave, very English Spitfire pilots, who were keeping the whole German air force at bay. It was, I vividly recall, a load of tosh, for the newspapers were full of the debacle of Dunkirk, and no matter how it was presented, Dunkirk was a terrible disaster for the empire. We were now on our own, and I had already seen grown men crying at their meals as they hastily read the bad news in the newspapers.
During the film, I began to squirm with the pain of my feet and one of my comrades (cobbers) asked what was the matter, and I told him how much my feet hurt. "Then take off your boots, you bloody fool.There is no need to suffer. It requires no brains at all to suffer, so take them off." So off they came, and the relief was so great that I sighed with pleasure and was promptly told by those around me to shut up.
At interval, two of my cobbers went off to get a soft drink and a chocolate bar for me, they had a flask of whisky. During this time, while the lights were on, `Bill' examined my boots, first asking me whether they were the correct size for me and I assured him they were. "They must have the wrong size stamped on them, as my toes curled towards the soles of my feet."
"They do, do they," said Bill, and with that he rammed his fingers into the boot, probed into the toe and shook his head in a despairing fashion. He then said that I shouldn't be allowed out without my nanny, and produced from the toes of each boot a large wad of paper that had been put there to keep the toes of the boots in the correct shape. "God Almighty, here's half a Sporting Globe in each toe. No wonder you were in agony, you poor bugger."
The incident was good for many a laugh in the next few days, but they told nobody else, so I was spared the humiliation that I would have suffered had the others known.
Once again I had been proved a nincompoop, and I began to despair whether I would ever learn anything in the army. Perhaps I was too stupid to go overseas.
Next morning we paraded and my cobbers and I `fell in' toward the rear of the squad, which was going on a route march. As we neared the front gate, we made what can only be described as a `sideways shuffling arabesque', and went through a small hole in the fence.
Obviously no one in authority saw us and off we went to the nearby pub.
We all had a turn at `shouting' for drinks though my contribution was smaller than theirs, as I only drank sarsaparilla and lemonade in very large glass pots with a handle.
"You can have a beer when you turn 18 and not before. Understand?"
They drank quite a lot, but seemed to me to be quite sober. However my stomach had become so swollen and I feared I might be sick, thereby adding another story to the number they already had about me.
In the afternoon a rather portly shortish man, wearing a `good uniform' and a glengarry type cap, approached me and began to give me orders. Reading from a clip-board he carried, he ordered me to change into my giggle dress, and come back to him for further instructions. I hurried away to the horse-box and began to change my clothes.
My cobbers immediately demanded to know what I was doing, and of course I explained about the authoritative figure and the orders I had received. "Is that so? Where do you have to report?" On being told, two of them left the box and moved quickly off. "Let it be, put your uniform back on. Those orders you received are being taken care of right this minute."
At tea time that same day, I saw the man from whom I had received the orders standing near the serving orderly, and to my surprise, his face was swollen and contused. I asked him what happened, and he said, "As if you didn't know. There was no need to send your mates around to do me over. All you had to do was ignore me, as I hadn't done you any harm. It was really just a joke."
I was really quite confused, a state which seemed to be permanent for me these days, for I had no idea of what he was saying, and so off I went back to my mates who would no doubt tell me what this man meant. They explained to me the man had no authority at all, but had picked on me as a naive lad, and had tried to off-load his duty on to me. My mates were quick to understand this ploy, and went round to him and showed him the error of his ways by thumping him a few times. I was rather shocked at the violence of it all, but could see the justice in this rather rough act.
I went home that night to see my mother and the family. My mother said I was visibly changing from a raw lad in an ill-fitting uniform and becoming more of a soldier. Now she said this in a way that was not meant to be complimentary, but rather suspiciously, and I saw that her former fears were returning. Feeling guilty and rather nervous, I made my escape back to camp, realising that I was not out of the woods yet.
Next morning Bill brought a man into our box and told me his name was Harry and that he had been a pastry-cook with them at their Northcote Bakery. He said since I was a trustworthy lad I was to help Harry, who had a `bit of a problem with his missus.'
Now how could a lad who had not yet turned 18 help with a marriage problem of some obvious magnitude?
It was made clear to me that I was to remain silent about what I was doing for Harry, and was just to advise him on the wording of his daily letters. (In those far-off days, the postman came morning and afternoon and people wrote to each other almost on a daily basis. Alas the telephone has destroyed all that.)
I was to write letters to his wife for him, and interpret into understandable English the daily letters he received from her. Not that she was a Greek-born Australian, as was Harry, but her written expression was sometimes vague, though in some of her letters she made herself abundantly clear.
The system worked like this. Harry would write to her about some matter contained in her last letter. I would take notes of his reply, compose a letter, read it aloud to him, and he would either approve it or ask me to make changes until he was satisfied with it. I would then rewrite it and address the envelope, and he would sign and seal it.
I became a little embarrassed writing some of his love phrases, but it didn't faze him in the slightest that someone else was writing this to his wife.
He offered to pay me but I thought that was not dignified, and refused. Harry thought I was either crazy, or must have a private income.
The letters from her made me sorry for him and angry with her, for she would write that she had sold all the furniture, or other things like the piano, and had gone back to her mother's house in Port Melbourne, and that he should send her some money, over and above her military allotment.
She was always asking for something, and I thought she was a blood sucker, a parasite and a harpy, but when I intimated to Harry that his wife Gwen was less than perfect, he would say, "You do not understand, I love her more than life itself. I cannot live without her."
In my ignorance of these matters, I thought he should box her ears, cut off her allotment, and generally play the strong man, but he refused my youthful counsel, and we persevered with the letters until he was sent to Tatura some time later.
A very decent man was Harry, and I felt that the `bitch' had no right to hurt him in the way she was doing. Of course I never heard her side of the story, and I do not know how this saga of marital mayhem ended, for after he was sent to Tatura I never saw Harry again.
One day after lunch a little conference was held in our horse-box, to which I was not invited. I was told to amuse myself without getting into trouble and to come back at about 1600, for they had something rather serious to show me that evening.
I returned at the appointed time and was told that there was a thief among the men who slept in the public grandstand and a trap had been set for him. Three of my mates were part of the trap, and I was to go with the other two to see what happened when the trap was sprung. In the meantime, I was to stay in the horse-box until about 1730.
Being winter, it was fairly dark by that time, and led by the other two I made my way with them to a good `possy' ( position) where we could see, but not be seen from the grandstand.
There was some movement in the stand for a short while, but gradually all movement ceased and it appeared empty. Quite soon, a man came furtively up the inside stairs and crouching over, began to move along the continuous form seating on which the men slept and underneath, kept their possessions.
"Just look at that bastard ratting all the packs and kit. He's in for a bloody great shock. Just you watch now."
Almost, as though on cue, men began appearing in the exits and moved toward the thief who, on seeing them, moved toward the safety railing at the front of the stand. Without a sound, the posse closed in on the thief, who leapt up on the railing and threatened to jump if they did not go back. To my consternation, not only did they not back off but they remorselessly kept closing in on him. There were some words said that I could not understand, and then a sharp cry and the man fell to the asphalt below.
I thought the drop was about 30 feet (9 metres), and he lay there still. I went to offer assistance, but was told to stay where I was as the `Chief' would look after everything. I was sworn to secrecy, but everybody knew all about it next morning, and I was told that the man had been seriously injured when he `tried to commit suicide' last night, was in hospital in Melbourne, and was not expected to live.
There was a small piece about the `Unfortunate accident at Caulfield Camp last night' in the next morning's newspapers. I have no idea whether the man lived or died, but most thought that he died without regaining consciousness.
I do know that I was greatly shocked and my conscience hurt, for I was brought up to be law-abiding and all the rest of it but here, in the real world, people were committing manslaughter, if not murder, right before my very eyes. It took me some time to get over it. I never told my family.
Two days later my mates were called to the office, where the captain told them that they were to be posted to Tatura as guards at the internment camp there. They were unhappy about this and close to tears, I thought. They packed their kit and waited to be taken away.
When the time came they gave me lots of advice as to how I was to conduct myself, none of which I remembered, shook my hand vigorously and went out of my life forever, leaving me very sad and very alone in my horse-box.
At 1630 hours I was called to the captain's office and he said, "Tomorrow you will go to Balcombe Camp, where a decision will be made as to whether you will remain in the AIF, or be transferred to the Militia at Mount Martha."
When I began to protest, he quickly shut me up by saying that my mother had been to Victoria Barracks and had informed the colonel commandant that he and the other officers were a disgrace to the King, taking young boys away to be killed, and further, that she thought the said officers were a bunch of fat loafers. I could imagine my mother speaking in that convent trained voice, so icy calm, and every word cutting like a whip. I felt rather sorry for the army at that moment, but then I felt more sorry for me. What would happen to me now?
The captain continued, "As I said, you will go tomorrow morning and if you know what's good for you, I'd give your home a miss for tonight."
It was my turn to be close to tears, and as I saluted and turned away he called out, "Your mate Private Doughney is to go with you, so you won't be entirely alone."
He really was a decent fellow, I thought, and I wondered what Balcombe would be like. But more than that, I wondered how I could get up enough courage to face my mother.
I had been in the army a little over four weeks, God help me! Little did I know that I would ultimately join the 4th Anti-Tank Regiment of the 8th Division of the 2nd AIF, and be away from home for nearly five years, three and a half of them as a prisoner of the Imperial Japanese Army and that when I finally came home, the world I had known would be transformed forever.
It may come as a surprise to many that George remained in the army to became a career officer.
Returning home from his internment in Singapore and Thailand, George's health was shot to pieces, and when confronting the discharge officer, arrangements were made for him to see a specialist in tropical diseases.
The specialist predicted that some time in the near future, George would go down with a massive physical reaction to all the things that had happened to him.
The discharge officer then advised George that "though the Army would never love you, it would never abandon you either, and it would always give you the best of medical attention during any and every sickness."
This was enough to convince George to stay put in the army, and when the specialist's prediction turned out to be true, he was so well looked after that it wasn't long before he had joined the British Commonwealth Occupation Forces and was off to Japan. Having overlooked (I imagine, in his youthful innocence), to advise the recruiting officer that he had been a POW. of the Japanese.
With his experience in BCOF, he went on to attain the rank of major, serving as a Company commander in the National Service and as a Technical Staff Officer at Canungra, before retiring in 1976, to a property just outside Horsham.
I have an odd feeling though, that George could have missed his true vocation in life. He would have made a wonderful officer in charge of recruitment and enrolment.
Nevertheless, his story will be encouraging to all those young men who would like to make their career in the army, but who back off because they are not too sure how they might perform in their early endeavours to appear adult.
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