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Tommy Wittingslow's Story
It was 1932, in the depths of the depression years, and I was just seventeen when I fronted up at the local hospital to see my newborn son Des, only to be refused permission, as the sister in charge said, "I'm sorry, sonny; only parents are allowed into the maternity ward."
With family responsibilities, I had to give up my job as grocer boy with Crofts Family Grocers. I had been earning good money, thirty five shillings a week, but after paying twenty five shillings rent, there wasn't enough left for us to live on, so I decided to try my luck on my own.
My first venture into private enterprise was to take post outside the Federal Hotel on the corner of Collins and King Streets, and make a few bob selling Heralds in the afternoons.
In the evenings I took on the job as lolly boy selling "Sweets, ice cream, sweets," during the intervals at the State and Regent Theatres, but I was struggling to make ends meet.
It was as a lolly boy that I first realised, if I was to survive in this harsh world of free enterprise, I would need to keep my wits about me.
During the interval, I would stand in the foyer of the theatre and sell my sweets. As the lights went out, I would quickly move to the entrance door of the theatre, to catch the last sales. Old Gold chocolates sold for two shillings a box and on my first occasion at the door, I had a rush on them. Checking my money afterwards, I found I was short. Taking advantage of the dimly lit aisle, three smart alecs had given me a penny instead of a two-shilling piece for their box of chocolates.
I also sold another line of chocolates which came in three different-coloured boxes: red, green and gold. All sold for four shillings. Sizing up my theatre clientele, I fathomed that I might do better if I varied the prices of these boxes. So I charged four shillings for the red box, six for the green and eight for the gold, specially intended for those young fellows who wanted to make a real impression on their girl friends. I began to do much better.
I had been given a uniform, and was feeling pretty good about it all, until I saw one of my mates who called me over to him.
"Good heavens," I thought, "he's going to have a dig at me for selling lollies."
I went over to him, and he pulled my head down to his and whispered, "Tommy, you got no arse in your pants."
Family demands continued to grow, so I took on a round of door knocking to clean windows at a shilling a time. While there was little outlay and any takings were sheer bunce, I still needed more money to make ends meet.
For those on the dole, doorknocking was a popular means of earning a crust and it was always interesting to see what the other doorknockers were flogging.
One old bloke I came across was selling little novelty animal moulds, which, as he told me, had all sorts of uses. I had an idea that I could fill them with naphthalene and paint powder, and make moth protectors with them, so I bought two moulds, an elephant and a hare from him. I found I could make my little moth protectors for a penny farthing a piece and by doorknocking them, sell them for sixpence each.
"Would you like to buy one of my little elephants, missus? It's made from naphthalene and a secret chemical. Not only does it kill moths and silverfish and other insects, but you can put it on the mantle as an ornament."
Business thrived, I was making as much as twelve shillings a day, and could usually sell all the stock I had before twelve o'clock, as in the afternoons, doorknocking was usually very competitive. However, I very soon found out that I had to be careful not to double-back on my tracks, as after the naphthalene had evaporated, the coloured paint left a stain on the clothing.
I felt I was now ready to branch out into the big-time and tackle the big city stores. I approached Woolworths, and they were prepared to buy my moth protectors on the condition that I didn't sell them to other stores. That was no problem. I sold them a gross at threepence halfpenny each.
Coles were also prepared to take them, providing they too were the only ones selling them. No problem either, so I sold them a gross at threepence halfpenny each.
I went across the street to Myers, they also wanted exclusive rights to sell them, so I assured them that was no problem, and as Myers were a bit more up-market, I sold them their gross at fourpence halfpenny each.
Coles retailed their moth killers for nine pence, Woolworths for a shilling, and Myers for one and threepence apiece.
Having satisfied the demand of the big stores, and seeing my little moth killers were so popular, I decided to venture out and sell them at the Victoria Market. I hired a stall for the day for two and six pence, and set to work. I sold two on my first-and-last day.
The vagaries of people! Those who shopped at the market, weren't the least bit interested in protecting their homes from moths at sixpence a pop. Now I still had the rent to pay.
I went and bought a case of oranges from one of the wholesalers and started to sell them. The bloke in the stall beside me under-cut my price, and that was the end of that.
I was now getting desperate, when the chappie on the other side of me, who was selling cabbages, said to me, "I can see you're not doing too well, kid. I'll sell you all the cabbages I got left for two bob." He had a big bag of them so I bought the lot. They were spring cabbages, soft and loose, and hard as I tried I couldn't sell a one. I'd been conned again.
It made me so mad, I was more determined than ever, to get into the fruit and vegy business and managed to hire a stall in `A' shed, in the more prominent part of the market. Slowly I began to make myself known. Working with the growers and wholesalers, I would sell their fruit and vegies which might not stay fresh until the next market day, for a share of the proceeds.
I got to know the growers and wholesalers quite well, and was now beginning to get into the swing of the marketing business. I was able to buy a truckload of bananas for sixpence a case, so I decided to sell them by doorknocking. At sixpence for eighteen, I made over five shillings a case. Then I found a dealer who would buy my cases for fourpence each. I was on a bonanza and I paid my rent.
I continued to do just fine with my banana sales, until I doorknocked the home of the Inspector of Police. Where was my licence? What was I doing carrying and selling foodstuffs from a private car? At the Police Station the next day, to answer the charges, the Inspector was confronted with a very tearful young man. After giving him a good talking to, he let him off with a stern warning. Yes, while the Victorian Market may have had its fair share of cons and tricksters, trying to make a steady living in the market was full of hazards.
A Fun Parlour started in a vacant allotment in Bourke Street, and I took on the job running the Shooting Gallery for eight shillings a day. After a short time, I began to think I knew enough about show business to branch out on my own.
My chance came with the Melbourne to Geelong yacht race which finished holding a carnival on the grassy shores of Geelong's harbour. I set up an amusement game, rolling balls into numbered holes, with cash prizes for the lucky winners.
Alongside me, an old boy had a chair swinging from some scales, and was guessing people's weight for sixpence a pop. If he was out by more than four pounds, he handed them over a box of chocolates. This was for me, knowing that I could buy a box of chocolates wholesale at five pence halfpenny, I raced home to build a set of scales. Now I really began to feel I was launching into the show business.
I was off on my first venture with the scales, to the country show in Bunyip. I began to do quite well, it gave me a great feeling to find that I could run things like this on my own, and make a reasonable living out of it. It was great fun too.
"Roll up, Roll up, ladies and gentlemen,
Guess your weight within four pounds,
Ladies by observation,
Gentlemen by a little investigation."
I had noticed that when one of my old rivals from the West in the weight-guessing game, found things going a bit against him, he would take hold of the ropes of the scales to steady them, and with a little pressure up or down, it wasn't hard for him to increase or decrease the weight of his customer. It was like an insurance policy for him.
I thought that it was about time that I tried something that offered a bit more security, and applied for a job at the Australian Glassworks in Spotswood. The manager appointed me because, as he said, "You walked smart." I was given the job of oiling and greasing the trucks and became a jack of all trades. One of my jobs was to drive the bosses around and I got to find out quite a bit about them and how they went about their business.
I was just settling in nicely when the war broke out. The boss told me I could continue my job with them, as the Glassworks were a protected industry. When I looked around and saw the blokes who were enlisting, I decided I'd better go myself as I didn't like the idea of them protecting the future for my wife and kid, so I did.
Before going overseas, I was able to rent an apartment house in Carlton. It was large enough to provide an apartment for my wife and son, and had two other apartments which I sub-let to tenants.
I enrolled in the army at Royal Park, and was put into a tent with five quite affluent gents, a couple of bank accountants, and some well-to-do farmers. I found myself amongst the well heeled, and all of them, keen racegoers.
We moved to the camp at Bendigo, where everyone seemed interested in horse racing, but gambling wasn't permitted. What they needed was someone to run a book. "Why not me?" I thought. So I became the camp SP Bookie. I found I had quite a bit to learn, but I soon come to grips with it and the book began to do just fine.
I became the regimental driver, driving the major and other officers around for their social diversions. While waiting for them, I would drive back to camp and pick up some of the boys and drive them into town to enjoy a few refreshments as well.
When driving the CO into town, he would lean over the front seat and ask, "Driver, got today's Sun?"
"Yes Sir," I would reply.
"Give us a look."
"Good, I'll have ten bob each way on Southern John."
There were two camps at Bendigo, the showground accommodated the infantry unit, and the racecourse housed the transport unit. With little to do on Saturday afternoons, the men got bored with themselves. Men from each camp could easily find enough to differ about, tempers would become frayed, fisticuffs would start, and it wasn't long before both camps finished up in a free-for-all. In the end, to provide a distraction, the CO decided it would be better to allow gambling in the camp. Now that the Book was legitimate and open to all the rookies as well as the pro's, the odds in my favour increased nicely.
One day, the CO came over to me and asked, "Know anything about mechanics, driver?"
"Yes sir," I answered spontaneously.
With that, he straight away transferred me to the 15th Battery of the 4th Anti-Tank Regiment at Puckapunyal, as a driver mechanic. As a driver's job was supposed to be full time, I became known as `No-duties Tom'.
A two-up school was already established at Pucka, so I decided to set up in opposition. Being a no-duty driver, I had the advantage of being able to make first claim on the regular site for the ring. Tommy Hallahan and Lennie Childs joined me, and we were able to make a pretty good living. I felt I could support myself all right, by running the gambling games for the troops, so I decided to allot the whole of my army pay to my wife and young son.
Our troop ship, the `Zealandia', which took us to Malaya, was pretty small and pokey, and didn't lend itself too well for our daily exercises. Tommy Hallahan and I had set up a swy game with dice, but we only attracted a mediocre crowd until Clarry Owen, our battery commander, solved both our problems. Come physical training time, Clarry would say to me. "Come on Tom, get the dice out." So out would come the dice, and, with all the boys around ready for their PT, away we'd go. More often than not, when the dice were rolled, two would stop showing a head and a tail, while the third went rolling down the deck. As this was the important dice to get a result; the whole battery would scramble after it, to make sure there was no skulduggery when it ultimately came to rest. This way, everyone got the exercise they needed, and our business began to look up.
On our arrival at Tampin in Malaya, we set up a lucrative little two-up school. As no-duties Tom, I was in the box seat to run the school, until one day I stumbled, injuring my knee, and was off to Malacca Hospital where Colonel Coates relieved me of its cartilage.
From my earliest days in the regiment, I seemed to be destined for the odd fallout with one or other of our officers, and so became beset with problems confining me to barracks and pack drill.
At Pucka, one of our senior officers had tried to stand over me and order me about. I didn't like it, so I told him to get stuffed. Up before Clarry, on charges, I explained to him what had happened and followed up by telling him that, as our battery commander, it was his job to stop these officers from standing over us. "You're in the army now," said Clarry, and with that, let me off with a good talking-to.
Well I hadn't been in Tampin very long before another officer tried to bully me around, and as I didn't like that either, I grabbed him around the neck and told him to nick off. Up before Clarry again, on charges for assaulting an officer, this time I didn't fare so well, and for the next ten days, was confined to barracks with pack drill. So I spent my lunch breaks lumping a haversack of bricks around the padang in the heat of the day, while the boys, enjoying their afternoon siesta in the shade of the trees, egged me on.
By now, I was bronzed off with some of the officers. As our colonel didn't seem to think there was anything wrong with them and so did nothing, I thought it was about time something was done. I took the native newspaper-boy aside and gave him a little personal coaching on how he could use a suitable catchline to help him sell more papers. All of a sudden, he became very popular with the troops and his sales soared. Unfortunately for me, I hadn't counted on his over enthusiasm, and it wasn't long before I was back on CB with another ten days pack drill.
My protege had gone through the officers' lines and our CO's quarters to sell his papers, cheerfully calling out his newfound catch cry, "Herald, Herald. The colonel's a bastard. Herald, Herald. The colonel's a bastard."
Andy Malcolm's brother had arrived in Singapore on our old troopship, the Zealandia, which was now serving as a Red Cross ship. Clarry gave Andy a day's leave to see his brother and asked me to drive him down to Singapore for the day.
Arriving in Singapore I dropped Andy off at the wharf and then happened to meet up with a few of my anti-tank mates. Having the convenience of our battery commander's utility, we decided to do a pub crawl around some of the city's clubs and bars.
We drove slowly down one of the main streets, dodging in and out of the rickshaw drivers. In the steady flow of traffic, many of the drivers kept up with us. I was interested to see how fast they could go so I drew alongside one of the drivers and slowly accelerated. As I gathered speed, the rickshaw kept up beside me. The race was on. There was plenty of excitement in the back of the ute as the boys yelled and banged on the canopy in encouragement. We were enjoying every bit of the race. I was most impressed with the speed of the rickshaw driver, the faster I went, the faster he would go, and, as he kept up with me, his stride increased. We were travelling quite fast, and the boys were becoming ecstatic with excitement and the thumping on the canopy of the truck got louder and louder. The rickshaw driver was still right beside me, and was now taking enormous strides and calling out frantically.
I pulled up to see what he was all about, to find that I had caught the hub of his rickshaw's wheel behind the mudguard of the ute.
We so enjoyed our brief sojourns in Singapore's bars, that we completely lost track of time. I collected Andy and it was well after midnight when we arrived at the Causeway, only to find it was closed to all traffic to the mainland. I told Andy to keep his head down, put my foot hard on the accelerator and went straight through the barricades. We arrived back in camp, just as the battery was called on morning parade. Our battery commander's stocks of one of his most reliable drivers, had been sadly dented.
Fighting had started, and Coop and I were given the task to clear a firing range for the battery, near the Mersing coast. At lunchtime we decided to have a kick of footy and were enjoying ourselves, when suddenly, a Company of Aussie infantrymen burst out of the jungle, and charged past us with fixed bayonets. "The Japs have landed at the back of those hills," they yelled as they charged on, putting an abrupt end to our friendly game of footy.
There was always plenty of rivalry between the Aussie regiments in Malaya and a football match between them was always good fun. The teams were always highly competitive and matches were full of excitement. I kept the book and laid the odds. 15th Battery was matched against the 2/10th Field Engineers who had a strong team and were highly favoured to win. Minus one cartilage, I became one of the goal umpires.
The game was a real cliff-hanger, both teams keeping level with never more than a goal separating them. At three-quarter time we were level pegging, so I left the goals and gave the boys a rousing pep talk. My future depended on the Anti-Tank winning. A few seconds before the final bell, 15th Battery were five points ahead, when the Engineers were given a free kick, right in their goal square. It went straight through the centre of the big sticks. I waved one flag.
Well, I might have done well on the books, but the Engineers had the last say. "Bar that bastard from ever being goal umpire again." They were furious and chased me around the padang, hurling insults and water buffalo dung at me. Had they caught me, they would have killed me.
Fighting the renowned rearguard action down the Malayan Peninsula toward Singapore, our gun crew got as far as Bukit Timah where we took up our position. As soon as we had stopped, I climbed on to the platform of the truck and started to set up the camouflage net over our gun. The Japs were all about us, when suddenly, three Jap Zeros came roaring out of the blue, straight down the road toward us, their machine guns blasting everything along the sides of the road. I took one great flying leap for cover and as I hit the ground, my leg collapsed under me. I sprained the cartilage of my other knee. They got me to hospital and I just laid down, when the Japs gave the hospital one of the greatest bombings of all times and it collapsed all around us.
I was then moved to an Indian hospital, but, with the Japs' respect for our hospitals, it was soon flattened too. Eventually I was evacuated to one of the warehouses near the Singapore wharves, which had been converted into a hospital.
Singapore capitulated and the firing and bombing stopped.
I was stretched out on my bed, when a Jap shell flew straight through the window, over the top of me and out through an open window on the other side without exploding. Rather than unload their gun, the Japs must have decided it was easier to clear by firing it.
I began to think that the odds in favour of my survival weren't looking too bad.
After capitulation the Nips took over the hospital. I was the only Aussie in it and they kept me there for five long weeks, before sending me off to Changi where the rest of our regiment had gathered. Five weeks had been just sufficient time for me to be posted by our scorers, as Missing Presumed Dead, with all the unfortunate effects this had on the home front.
When I ultimately got to Changi, I found it was a proverbial goldmine. Many of the men had collected huge wads of money before the curtain went down. I had my Crown and Anchor set with me, so I got together with Coop and some of the other boys who had a bob or two, and we set out to make our fortune. There was money everywhere, except we didn't have too much of it, but hopefully, we soon would.
One chap had a pile of Singapore dollars and he pitted it all against me.
He tossed the dice. Two crowns came up. He doubled up.
He tossed the dice again. Three crowns came up. He doubled up again.
By now the kitty was worth quite a few hundred dollars. I had a gut feeling he was on a lucky streak, but I covered him, trying to appear outwardly confident, inwardly trying to will up three anchors.
He tossed the third time. Two more crowns.
"There you are mate," I said, "it's all yours," and handed him over the lot, dice and all.
I watched with envy as those who were loaded with money, gambled recklessly and either made bigger and bigger piles, or lost the lot. Millionaires one minute, broke the next.
The strain was too much for me. I started a game of Housie Housie from scratch. Coop and I had one dollar between us. To encourage the mob, I made the first game a free one. The place was full of starters and things looked hopeful. I paid out our only dollar on the free game, and offered the players the next game for 10 cents a card. There wasn't a single taker. I'd done my dough, I was back to base one. I realised that to be successful in these big schools, you had to have money in the bank.
What I now needed again was security, and as I couldn't go back to the Glassworks at Spotswood, I took on a job in the cookhouse in Changi. Then came a ray of hope; the Japs told us that they were going to exchange allied POWs for some of their men. As a result, `A' Force was formed, and lucky Tom was selected as part of it.
We boarded the Toyashi Maru and set sail for Mandalay. At Mandalay we marched to the gaol and on to the airport. My main problem at the time was that my knees wouldn't function properly, and every time we had a rest break on the march, I couldn't get up quickly enough to start off with the rest of the boys. Each time I copped a belting from the Japs for my ineptness.
We soon found ourselves labouring on the Burma end of the Thai railway, filling in bomb craters and levelling the landing strip. When the first big Jap bomber came in to land, I squatted on the edge of the runway chanting,
"Crash, you bastard
Crash, you bastard
Crash, you bastard."
And it did.
Cooks were in short supply, so I took on a job in the kitchen. It wasn't long before I was organising the cooking for the fifteen hundred men in our camp. Brigadier Varley, who was in charge of `A' Force, appointed me as the sergeant of the cookhouse, and recommended me for an award. The rank, the extra pay, and the award, all evaporated into thin air as soon as I left Thailand.
The Japs had gathered their road making-machinery at Tanbusai, and it wasn't long before allied spotter planes flying over the area got on to it. They were very quickly followed by a flight of Flying Fortresses. At first the boys went wild with excitement. "They're going to drop pamphlets," they yelled. Then suddenly, "Wheeeeee," and the bombs came hurtling down, blasting two of the huts into oblivion, and killing many of the men.
I settled down to the work in the kitchen and learnt some of the skills in cooking and acquiring rations in the jungle. Many of our boys passed by our camp on their way up the line, and I always managed to be able to feed them all, if only by adding a few more gallons of water to the rice and stew.
The men unloading rice for the Japs, from the barges down on the river, had to pass our cookhouse to get to the Jap store. Some of them, who were game enough, would make a slight detour around the back of our kitchen, and then, either leave the whole bag there or empty part of it, before moving on to the Jap store. A bag of rice was still a bag of rice to the Japs, whether it was full or half-full; they never checked the bags they stored. I would then reward the gutsy scroungers for their trouble, with extra rations.
I also had the very unpleasant job of taking the last meal to the men who were imprisoned for either attempting to escape, or being caught outside the fence trading with the natives, before they were taken out to be shot. To add to their dread, the Japs had coffins made and always stacked them where they could easily be seen by the men imprisoned in the guardhouse.
I had my fair share of troubles in the cookhouse. Water and wood were always in short supply. There happened to be a well nearby from which we would draw our water. It would make 60 buckets a night, and we agreed to share it with the Dutch kitchen nearby, each drawing 30 buckets a day. The Dutch had planned to have a special celebration for Queen Wilhelmina's birthday, and at about five o'clock in the morning of her birthday, I heard a rattle of tins at the well and went out to investigate. There was a scurry of shadows, and I was left standing there alone, when two Jap guards confronted me. What was I doing at this hour of the morning in the cookhouse? Well! try telling two very irate and toey Jap guards at five o'clock in the morning, that it is Queen Wilhelmina's birthday and you were trying to stop the Dutch cooks from pinching your water. I couldn't. So for the next five minutes I copped it from the guards.
Wood? Well, for a while, I had a good system for collecting wood. We were beside a river, and there was always plenty of old bamboo sticks and logs floating past. The deal was that for an extra ration of rice, I would get the boys to swim out and collect it. It worked well, until one day, one of the logs began to move upstream towards the boys. It was a huge crocodile. We went back to the hard way of collecting what wood we could fossick from the jungle.
One of the Jap cooks, the `Boy Bastard', had quite a lot of influence around the camp, and was renowned for throwing his weight around and belting the boys. He had an odd respect for any one who was a cook, so I got on quite well with him. Sometimes I would trade off some of our rations for some of his. Our daily ration of meat was about 10 pounds, which didn't go far in a stew for 1500 men. The Jap kitchen was issued with a substance like Bonox, which they didn't like, but was strong enough to add a beefy taste to our stew, so we would do a swap. Moreover, whenever the Japs killed a beast, the Boy Bastard would always let me collect the blood.
He was transferred out of the kitchen and sent up to 105 Camp, as one of the guards. There he continued his habit of knocking the men about. When I first moved up to 105 Camp, the Boy Bastard was in the throes of enjoying himself at his favourite pastime. He had worked himself into quite a state and was giving one of the boys a sound bashing. When he saw me coming, he stopped suddenly and raced toward me.
"Oh Hell!" I thought, "what the heck have I done now, and I only just got here."
When he got to me, his expression changed, a huge smile came over his face, and he threw his arms around me, "Number one cook," he said, and greeted me as though we were long-lost brothers. Well, our good relationship helped, and I was able to settle him down somewhat, so that he became a lot less interested in knocking the boys about.
Kenikara, who was now in charge of the Jap kitchen, was a different kettle of fish. His girlfriend had told him, "No Jiggy Jig, if you beat POWs."
My brother Bert, who was with us, was now very thin in hospital with pellagra, a filthy skin disease caused through malnutrition. The doc said that a few eggs would do the trick and fix him, but there wasn't an egg to be found anywhere in the camp.
I thought I'd tackle Kenikara, so I tried to explain to him that I had a brother who was sick in hospital and that he needed some eggs.
"Tomagos - (eggs) for brother," I said to him.
"Me see your brother," Kenikara challenged.
I took him to see Bert, and he produced half a dozen duck eggs, but as he was about to hand them to me, he went over to Bert to take a closer look at him. Then he said, "He not your brother, he got Chinese eyes."
"Get that bastard out of here," said one very indignant brother. With a wry grin, Kenikara handed me the half dozen eggs.
Oh, the woes of being a cook.
We moved to Kinsia, and on to Kamburi, where the Jap camp commander had a pet rooster which had developed quite an affection for him, as he was able to feed it. It sometimes wandered into our kitchen, and scratched around hoping to pick up an odd grain of rice. We regarded it as sacred property.
One morning, working in the cookhouse, I just happened to look up and see one of our guys wringing the rooster's neck. I pounced on him and grabbed the rooster, which was just about to pass into the great beyond, out of his hands. Near panic, I put into practice everything I knew about resuscitating roosters. I plunged it under water and gave it a good shake. I repeated my revival technique several times, dunking it in the trough and giving it a vigorous shake. The rooster slowly opened its eyes, so I held it out in front of me for a few minutes, with its legs just touching the ground, when lo and behold! it stood up erect, gave itself a bit of a shake and tottered off drunkenly back to its master. I had averted yet another major tragedy for the boys.
Then all of a sudden, the war was over.
Five weeks later, the Japs were still armed and we were still surrounded by a huge trench, with machine-gun posts and high bamboo fence, which had been prepared so that they could deal with us easily if and when the allies landed in Thailand.
The Mountbattens visited our camp, and I had the pleasure of providing afternoon tea for them, fried doovers, and rice coffee. "Fit for the Queen," was Lady Mountbatten's verdict.
When I finally arrived at Changi, gambling was prohibited. The craving to get back into business was gnawing at my vitals. I had got hold of another set of two-up dice, and they were burning a hole in my pocket, so prohibition or not, I decided to give it a go. The boys were certain I would be axed. However the Changi authorities turned a blind eye to my game. Brigadier Varley had told me when he first offered me the job as sergeant cook in Burma. "Tom, forget about gambling, you run the kitchen here, and when you get out of this, we'll make it right for you." The brigadier had apparently got his message through to Changi to let me go ahead. I was back in business again, and business was booming.
With a few bob in my pocket, I boarded the `Moreton Bay', bound for good old Aussie and home. I found competition on board was pretty tough going. I started off with my two-up game, using the dice, and my school was just getting warmed up, when one of the ship's crew came to light with the real thing. He started a two-up school with real pennies and took away all my customers.
Wandering below deck, I stumbled across a game I had never seen before, being played by the crew. A big disc was marked into segments, some larger than the others. The larger ones were marked with low odds, two or five to one, and as the segments got smaller, the odds increased from ten, up to seventyfive to one.
The ringmaster had a tin, full of brown beetles. When the game was ready to start, he took out one of the beetles and put it under a cup in the centre of the disc. When all bets had been laid, he lifted the cup up and away the beetle would go. When it got to the edge of the board, and was about to topple off the disc, the game was declared over and the odds paid for the segment the beetle was on. I watched, fascinated by the amount of money laid in bets, and the odd ramblings of the beetle.
I noticed that there was a small wall light in the cabin and, no matter which direction the beetles started, in the end, they waddled off in the direction of the light. The light was covered with a curtain, except for one little corner where a chink of light shone through.
Next day I had a friend lean on the curtain, just enough to open up the chink and make the ray of light a little brighter. I placed a couple of quick bets and made a tidy sum, quitting well before the ringmaster wakened to our little ploy.
Back on deck I went over to the two-up school. There were only two more days to go before we arrived in Australia, and by now most of the money had gravitated into the hands of a few big punters. Many of the men had been paid in English pound notes, and the stakes were running high.
On the night before we were to reach Sydney, there were only six players left in the game. More than half the fellows on the boat had gathered around to watch the excitement. As I had been diddled out of running my own game by this mob, I decided to have a spin.
I took the pennies and gave them a toss. Down they came, two heads, so I doubled up on the next spin.
Up went the pennies. I headed them again and let the kitty ride.
I tossed for the third time, down came the pennies, heads again.
By now kitty had grown to quite a sizeable sum. I had a feeling that this might just be my lucky night. It was worth a try: Sydney or the bush! I decided to give it a go, one more spin, all up.
The crowd was beside itself.
I took the pennies and tossed them up, down they came.
"Heads are right," yelled the excited crowd.
I decided that it was time for me to depart and collect my winnings. I had just won £1500.
While I was in Thailand I contracted amoebic dysentery and malaria and these were among the first things I had to have fixed up, now I was home, so I spent the next nine months in the Heidelberg Military Hospital.
I now had plenty of time now to settle down and think about the life ahead of me. Mulling things over, my POW days had made me aware of the tremendous importance of food and I decided that the only way to go, was to make my future in the food industry. The show business was far too risky, it had too many ups and downs, and was far too insecure, there was nothing in it for me. So I lay back and started to think what I would have to do to make a good living out of the food industry.
Then, as it just so happened, the fellow in the bed alongside me wanted someone to help him run his spinning jenny at the RSL Carnival in Geelong. Reluctantly I agreed to give him a hand. He took so much money, I just couldn't believe it.
Then I heard that the township of Sale was holding a special celebration, and that Apex were looking for someone to run their spinning wheel. I got hold of my old anti-tank mate, George Dixon; we got leave from the army and off we went to Sale. It turned out to be surprisingly rewarding. I was back in the show business. The food industry would just have to do without me.
I still had my old scales, so come the next Royal Melbourne Show, I went back to guessing people's weights. Prices were now a shilling a guess, but I could buy a box chocolates for ten pence and at that, business began to look good.
The mayor of one of our city bayside suburbs was planning to run a carnival and needed someone to provide the amusements. He offered me the job. This was my first attempt at the big time so I put every penny I had into it. I employed a couple of hands for the first time, and set up spinning jennies, dart games, ringalette, throw the penny, and of course, guessing your weight.
I was doing just fine, until I had a barney with the mayor. In my naturally unassuming manner, I told him what he could do with his jolly carnival, and pulled out with all my newly acquired amusements.
I started to work the shows and carnivals and when I had made enough money, I bought my first merry-go-round, a three horse galloper. I kept ploughing the profits back into the business and was able to buy a chair-o-plane and a horsey plane.
For the next eight years we had to battle hard and we worked all the capital city and Victorian agricultural shows and carnivals. In the Wimmera, for instance, we would do as many as six shows a week, covering Murtoa, Warracknabeal, St Arnaud, Donald, Charlton and Ouyen. We would set up all our amusement stalls and rides, merry go rounds, dodgem cars and ferris wheel one day, then dismantle them all at the end of the show, only to set them all up again, for the start of the next one. I was becoming quite a showman, running the boxing tent and even the carnival girl competitions, and loving every minute of it.
We became very skilled at moving our equipment around; we just had to be. Rain, hail or snow, the show had to go on, we could not let our country friends down, and we didn't.
One day in Horsham it was pouring with rain, and we were setting up in the showgrounds, all of us, soaking wet and knee deep in mud. The showground was a quagmire and I said to the shire president, "This weather is shocking, we should give the whole business away. No one will come and put up with all this bloody mud and rain."
"Well Tom," he said, "it might be mud to you, but it's gold to the cockies. The Horsham Show is the Horsham Show. They'll turn up with their families all right and they'll have a great time." And they did, mackintoshes, gumboots, kids, spare two bobs and all.
We worked hard and long hours, but we worked well, and were making a comfortable living. Most of all, I was working in an industry which I really loved, and with people whom I thoroughly enjoyed working with.
In 1965 I successfully tendered for the amusement area in the Alexandra Gardens during Melbourne's Moomba Carnival, and bought my first major ride, the Cha Cha. It was a great success and things began to really take off from there.
Working with son Des, we decided to try to bring in a new ride every two years. Des travelled overseas to look around for rides that were successful, and to get hold of similar rides to send back home. As a result, we now have some of the world's most exciting and thrilling amusements, the Mad Mouse, the Corkscrew, the Pirate Ride, the Matterhorn, the Galaxy, the Orbitor, the Break Dancer and so it goes on.
We grasped the opportunity to set up the amusement park at Darling Harbour in Sydney, which Des's young son Desmond is managing. We have undertaken the contract to revamp Sydney's Luna Park, and have started building the largest Big Dipper in the southern hemisphere. We are planning by the year 2000, when the Olympic Games will be held in Sydney, for Luna Park to be one of the world's best amusement parks.
The business is still basically a family business. Des and his sons, Desmond and Michael, all work as operation managers, and have their own special areas of responsibility. Once a month, we have a get-together to discuss our progress and work out, where-to-from-here.
We employ a permanent staff of 40 and at our peak times, employ as many as 260 casual hands. To manage all the dismantling and transporting and reassembling and handle all the engineering matters, we have a permanent team of four professional engineers and an occupational health and safety engineer.
I have been president of the Victorian Showman's Guild for 22 years and have enjoyed every minute of my life in the show business. It's about two years now since I managed the whole caboose, but I enjoy sitting on the sidelines, giving encouragement and advice to Des and his sons, and musing over what might have happened, had I finished up in the food business.
It always gives me a feeling of great pride and satisfaction to attend the shows and carnivals and see the queues of kids lined up for our whirley gigs, all walking around happily with prizes they have won from our amusement stalls.
My luck in life has held out. I will die wondering, had I settled in the food business instead, whether or not I would still have a seat in my pants.
Tommy was always a fun loving man. He always seemed more worldly than the rest of us, and was forever prepared to help any one of us with problems he would be able to foresee. For instance he would say to me, when I wanted to join in his two-up school at Tampin, "Fink, these boys are seasoned players; give me your pay and I'll look after it for you. Go down to the Oasis and have yourself some fun." Next morning, he would hand me back my pay, with a few extra dollars.
It was only in recent years that I began to understand the reason for his added maturity. He was unique, in that he had to grow up quicker than the rest of us. He was married, and had his first child when he was just seventeen, and he had to provide for his young wife and child during the depression years of 1932 to the beginning of the war.
It was during these years that Tom gained an insight into life the hard way, living on his wits to make a few bob, and learning from those smarter and more cunning than himself who had no compunction in wheedling him out of his last few hard-earned pennies, to leave him hungry, but always a little bit wiser.
His uniqueness lies in the fact that, when war broke out, he was a man while we were but schoolboys. Tommy had qualified for his vocation in life, through the University of Hard Knocks.
He had a remarkable disposition, he was forever smiling, he could always see the funny side of life, no matter how grim things were. He would have been one of the hardest men to ruffle, in fact I don't remember ever seeing him ruffled.
While Tommy would have been one of the happiest scallywags of all time, he was always generous and unpretentious. In his life in show business, it would be impossible to calculate the money he has donated to Apex, the Lions Clubs, Rotary, Legacy and the RSL, Hospitals, and the many other worthy societies and charities, over the last forty years. It would add up to millions of dollars.
For instance, working in conjunction with the Lions Club, he still provides free rides at the Moomba Carnival for 3000 spastic children, as he has done each year for many years. Every year, he provides the Lions Club with four fully-set-up and functioning amusement stalls, all expenses paid, for them to operate and reap the profits.
His ability to manage his business so successfully on a shoestring would make many of the big entrepreneurs green with envy. He could only have achieved this by hard work and by being extremely competent in his business. It's not hard to see why Tommy was destined to become the Sidney Myer or the Fletcher Jones of Australian Show Business.
In all the years I've known Tommy, he hasn't changed much, fun-loving, generous, helpful, and unassuming. Perhaps the only real difference would be, that he would now look eligible enough to be allowed to enter the maternity ward of his local hospital.
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