Hero or Deserter? Page 3
In the Sydney of the 1930s life could be tough and it always helped to get in the first punch in the event of trouble. Originally from Kogarah in Sydney’s south, Joe Byrne had been working on commercial shipping in Darling Harbour and was desperate for a new challenge. The army seemed an appropriate career choice at the time for a young man handy with his fists. ‘I had a short fuse and I’d rather fight than eat,’ he would later say.2
Like Joe, George Daldry knew how to protect himself. ‘I was in the local boys’ club and I soon learned how to throw a straight left and not to leave my head open.’ He was also in the militia so he knew what he was getting into when he turned up at the enlistment office in Paddington. Still only seventeen, he was under-age but the recruiting officer turned a blind eye. ‘I shouldn’t have been accepted because of my age but there were others younger than me,’ he told me.3
Cas Cook had grown up on the land, at Springwood on the lower slopes of the Blue Mountains. After volunteering he ended up in C Company of the 2/20th. Don Alchin, from the state’s rural southwest, was barely sixteen and the army was an attractive option, even though he was also under-age. After finding somewhere to live in Redfern he turned up at the Sydney Showground, where the military didn’t care how old you were. Not to be outdone, his elder brother Merv signed up on the same day. Soon they were in uniform and sent to Walgrove, where they were bashed into shape.
The officers in charge were hard men who brooked no quarter. They included Brigadier Harold Taylor, commander of the 22nd Brigade, who had served with distinction in France during World War I as an infantry officer. Below him as brigade major was Major Clarence Dawkins, from Korong Vale in Victoria, who was in his late thirties. Perhaps understandably he favoured officers who had also served in the last war or were in the militia. He chose men such as Brigadier Arthur Varley, who was put in charge of the 2/18th Battalion, Brigadier Duncan Maxwell from Hobart, who became CO of the 2/19th, and Lieutenant-Colonel Bill Jeater, of Newcastle, who was made commanding officer of the 2/20th. Jeater was an especially hard taskmaster who delighted in putting his men through rigorous procedures, including trench digging and longer and longer marches.4
Walgrove was tough, particularly for those boys who were used to Mum’s home cooking. Army rations were often inedible and, with eight men to a tent, sleeping conditions were cramped. The windswept plains of the western suburbs were uncomfortable in winter and hot and dusty in summer.
At least new facilities were being built at Ingleburn near Liverpool, where the emphasis was on infantry training. The accommodation was better and the camp was much cleaner. There was a noticeable improvement in morale once men had been transferred there.
By November they were off again, this time to Bathurst on the other side of the Blue Mountains, where the training would be even more intense in readiness for their deployment overseas. The 8th Division replaced the camp’s earlier occupants, members of the 7th Division, who were on their way to the Middle East. The 2/18th, 2/19th and 2/20th Battalions had assumed they would be bound for the same part of the world, a view reinforced when their kit arrived and included desert fatigues. Even their training replicated the dry conditions of the Middle East and North Africa, not the clammy tropics where they would eventually end up.
Basking in the early summer sun of the Central Tablelands, the men reckoned Bathurst was a plum posting, albeit of a temporary nature. They were becoming stronger and fitter by the day. Friendships were formed and camp camaraderie bode well for the future.
With Christmas leave approaching, their new divisional commander, Major-General Gordon Bennett, who had by now been in charge for a little over three months, sent them a seasonal greeting reminding them of the challenges ahead: ‘Though we are impatient to set out on the task for which we enlisted, we are fortunate that we are able to spend the festive season among relatives and friends in sunny Australia, rather than among the discomforts of an alien land,’ he wrote. ‘May the year 1941 see the 8 Aus. Div. participating in decisive victories against our enemies so that we may soon return to our homes to enjoy a real peace on earth with goodwill to all men.’5
Precisely who the enemy would be at this stage was a matter of speculation. Japan’s military intentions were unclear, although Australia had good reason to be concerned, given the ten-year pact signed on 27 September 1940 between Germany, Italy and Japan. This committed the signatories to ‘assist one another with all political, economic and military means if one of the high contracting parties should be attacked by a power not at present involved in the European war or in the Sino-Japanese conflict.’ 6
Throughout the latter half of 1940 thousands of Australians continued to heed the call to arms, and by now the army was having difficulty accommodating them. In Victoria, Shepparton Showground was running out of space so training camps were springing up in other parts of the state to train what was a mostly motley crew – unfit, undisciplined and untested in warfare. It would take many months to instil the necessary physical and mental resolve to transform them into soldiers.
Initially the 2/21st Battalion set up shop at Trawool near Seymour, close to rail communications but wet and bitterly cold in winter. Later, the decision to move the men to Bonegilla, near Albury on the Victoria–New South Wales border, provided some relief from the weather but the training was hampered by a lack of suitable weaponry. A lot of the guns were World War I vintage and there was no rifle range.
But for all its faults the camp slowly turned the members of the 2/21st Battalion, now officially part of the 23rd Brigade of the 8th Division of the AIF, into men of war. Among them was Eddie Gilbert, who grew up in St Kilda and went on to get a job with the State Electricity Commission, where his father, Ulric, worked. Enlisting for the army liberated him from life behind a desk and Eddie revelled in it. At Bonegilla he spent every waking hour improving his physical fitness by running, jumping and wading through water. ‘The training was pretty intensive but … it was a great camp and I was happy there,’ he said.7
One of the few who had experience with a rifle was Walter Hicks, who had spent part of his early life in the country and regarded himself as a crack shot. By the late 1930s he was working at the State Savings Bank in Melbourne. The day Australians heard on the radio that Neville Chamberlain had declared war against Germany, a chance meeting with a World War I veteran in a Melbourne street on the way home from work left an indelible impression. The old soldier pulled up his trouser leg to reveal a wartime injury. ‘Are you going to war?’ he asked.
Walter didn’t need any more convincing. Within a year he was on his way with the 2/21st.8
Unlike members of the 2/20th and other battalions within the 8th Division, he would not be bound for Malaya. The military had other plans, which would sideline him and thousands of other Australians to smaller theatres of war in Timor, Ambon and New Guinea. Though each was to be no less exacting in terms of death, injury and sheer brutality.
As 1941 began and the perceived threat from Australia’s north appeared more serious by the week, the 8th Division prepared to set sail for foreign waters, although few knew where.
The 2/20th first got wind of an imminent departure when their CO, Lieutenant-Colonel Jeater, was despatched to Sydney on 1 February 1941 to become officer in charge of training on the Queen Mary, which was being converted into a troopship. The following day the battalion left by train for Darling Harbour, where on 3 February the men boarded ferries for the luxury liner, now anchored off Bradleys Head in Sydney Harbour. The 2/20th was the last of three battalions to climb aboard the vessel. Other units included the 8th Division Signals, 2/10th Field Regiment, 2/4th Machine Gun Battalion, 2/9th Field Ambulance and 2/5th Field Hygiene Section.
By the time the transfer was complete there were nearly 6000 men crammed into the twelve-deck, 1020-feet long liner, which, as a merchant ship, was only built to hold 1957 passengers. With three times that many on board it looked like the men would be sleeping cheek by jowl.
On the morni
ng of 4 February the governor-general, Lord Gowrie, inspected the troops and after mess parade they were allowed on deck. A small armada of pleasure craft carrying relatives and friends of those on board was jostling for position as the Queen Mary prepared to weigh anchor. It was a period of intense emotion as flags and signs were waved and last-minute shouts from well-wishers wafted across the morning breeze. At precisely 1.30 pm the ship slowly headed towards open waters.9
‘It was a glorious day, with hundreds of small craft bobbing about to farewell her,’ remembered Jack Mudie. He was in his early thirties and had been a teacher in Queanbeyan before signing up.10
As Don Wall wrote in Singapore and Beyond, the 2/20th’s official history, ‘There is something symbolic about the Heads of Sydney Harbour – having passed through them there was a feeling of achievement, at last we were on the way to active service. The canteen opened and beer flowed, drinkers borrowed spare dixies from non-drinkers to get their quota while it was available.’11
The party had begun and the voyage was underway. If only they knew where they were going. Given the Cunard liner’s reputation for five-star luxury the men half-hoped they’d enjoy accommodation to match. Mudie, who had been in the militia and had NCO status, was lucky enough to be given a private berth, but other ranks got a hammock and told to make do.
Private Jack Boardman, who was born at Bogan Gate, in the central west of New South Wales, belonged to Brigade Headquarters and thought he’d get a state room. ‘Instead they put us right down in the bowels of the ship. But it didn’t matter, we were so pleased to be there,’ he recalled.12
Once out of the harbour the Queen Mary was joined by two other converted troopships, the New Amsterdam, which was carrying men from New Zealand, and the Aquitania. The voyage would take them to Melbourne, Adelaide and across the Great Australian Bight to Fremantle in Western Australia, where locally raised units would join the flotilla.
Other troopships would follow in the coming months, including the Johan Van Oldenbarnevelt, which set sail in July with the 8th Division’s 27th Brigade and reinforcements for the 22nd. The 2/30th Battalion, under the command of the legendary Senior Lieutenant-Colonel Frederick ‘Black Jack’ Galleghan, was also on board. An officer with a fearsome reputation for discipline who demanded strict compliance from his men, Galleghan assumed full command of the Johan Van Oldenbarnevelt and ruled the ship with an iron fist.
As before, the first few days at sea saw something of a party atmosphere, with the lower ranks drinking and gambling away their money with reckless abandon.
Lance-Corporal Henry Dietz, who had been working on a sheep farm at Quandialla near Young when he enlisted, encountered Galleghan’s formidable presence when he was ordered to keep his men under control.
‘My, did he give us a lecture,’ said Henry. ‘This is wrong, that’s wrong, things are getting out of hand – you’ve got to do something about it.’
On leaving Black Jack’s cabin Henry did just that. Disillusioned with the responsibility of power, he ripped the lance-corporal’s insignia from his shoulder and headed back downstairs to C deck to join a game of two-up. He lost. It was a salutary beginning to a four-year journey that would take him to Malaya and Japan before he was able to return home.13
The voyage along Australia’s southern coast was often hampered by rough seas, especially in the Great Australian Bight, where it was almost impossible to stand straight. Even so daily deck drill continued regardless of the weather. The standards achieved in the training camps at Walgrove, Ingleburn and Bathurst had to be maintained. They might be passengers on a luxury liner, but this was no holiday cruise.
And to remind them of the ever-present threat, RAAF Hudson bombers flew low overhead to guard them. While Australia was not officially at war with Japan, there was good reason to fear that it was only a matter of time. Japan’s unopposed invasion of Indochina the previous year had increased tensions in the region and Australian shipping was deemed at risk, if not from the air, then from a Japanese torpedo.
On troopships packed to the gunwales, the ratio of passengers to lifeboat seats did not instil confidence that a seaborne rescue was achievable if the worst happened.
Don Alchin admitted, ‘We were really frightened about submarines and really worried about what might happen if we were torpedoed.’14
Rumour was one of the greatest threats to morale but sometimes it could work the other way. Jack Boardman overheard a conversation on the Queen Mary as he made his way through the mess room one day. ‘We had to go through a middle section where the British, who ran the ship, would congregate and as I came along they had the BBC on the radio. There was a rumour on it that the Queen Mary had been sunk by the Japs. As quick as a flash one of the old sea dogs observed, “Thank God it’s only a rumour.”’15
What everyone wanted was certainty about their destination. Was it to be the Middle East or Asia? It was Jack Mudie who got the first solid clue about their intended route when a box of papers fell open as they were being loaded during a stopover in Fremantle. The box was marked Elbow Force, and in it was a booklet about Malaya.
‘They contained a little bit about the people and some language tips, so we knew immediately where we were going,’ said Jack.16
The convoy, now joined by the Mauretania, which was carrying reinforcements to the Middle East, set sail from Fremantle on 12 February. Given all the grapevine talk of their destination being Malaya, army chiefs decided to clear the air with an announcement that the Queen Mary was bound for Singapore.
A few days later, at some point south of Sumatra, the British destroyer Durban joined the fleet. By now it included the Australian cruiser Canberra, which had taken over the job of escort duty from the Hobart. What followed was enough to stir the spirit of the entire convoy, which now consisted of roughly 12,000 men. Slowly the Queen Mary swung to port, encircled the other ships and, when they were in formation, accelerated past them full steam ahead at 26 knots. It was a majestic scene: bands played and the massed throng of soldiers and sailors aboard their ships whooped with joy, cheering each other as the 81,000-ton pride of the Cunard Line set course for the tropics. The Queen Mary sounded her horn and the rest of the convoy replied in unison.
The initial contingent of the 8th Division arrived in Singapore on 18 February. It was to be the first time any Australian troops had set foot on Malayan soil.17 As they assembled on the deck of the Queen Mary, the Australians noticed a welcoming party on the quayside, including their commander, Major-General Gordon Bennett, who had flown there by plane earlier in the month. Also dockside to greet them were the Singapore governor, Sir Shenton Thomas, and a group of naval and army officers.
Intrinsically disrespectful of authority, the men of the 8th seized the opportunity to make light of the reception down below by throwing coins on the military and government leaders. Despite being foreign to the ways of his colonial cousins, Thomas took it in good part and went on to say how impressed he was with the athletic build of the young Australians.
When the Johan Van Oldenbarnevelt eventually berthed at Singapore on 15 August, the first two people to climb the gangplank were Bennett and Brigadier Duncan Maxwell, who had recently been appointed brigadier of the 27th Brigade. Maxwell had previously been a medical officer with the rank of captain in the Riverina Regiment and there was bad blood between him and ‘Black Jack’ Galleghan. As the senior lieutenant-colonel in New South Wales when war broke out Galleghan felt, perhaps with good reason, that he should have received the brigadier’s job.
This also soured Galleghan’s relations with Bennett, who’d made the appointment. How could the commander favour a man who was not a soldier but a medical officer, did not have Galleghan’s experience in infantry tactics and had had only brief army service? Galleghan was so furious he’d threatened not to serve under Maxwell and to return to Australia to seek another appointment. Once the news got out the brigade was sent into turmoil, with officers wondering how they would cope without a strong leader s
uch as Galleghan.
Several heated discussions ensued and finally Galleghan, who was nicknamed ‘Black Jack’ because of his West Indian ancestry and swarthy good looks, was persuaded to change his mind. Despite the obvious blow to his pride, he was man enough to offer his full support to Maxwell and Bennett and did not waver from that assurance throughout the war. Maxwell would in fact make a habit of seeking Galleghan’s advice on tactics before issuing orders for the day.18
Galleghan would go on to become a key player in the Malaya campaign and its aftermath in the Changi POW camp. The iron discipline he imposed would instil new pride into 8th Division’s achievements and end up saving many lives.
Of course all this was in the future. As the Johan Van Oldenbarnevelt unloaded its human cargo onto the Singapore dock, the invasion of Malaya was still nearly four months away.
Also there that day were a handful of Japanese civilians, assiduously trying to blend into the crowd while attempting to estimate the number of troops disembarking. It had long been suspected that many Japanese who had supposedly legitimate jobs in Singapore were actually spies who were reporting direct to Tokyo.19 Japanese intelligence chiefs were amassing an encyclopaedic knowledge of the region and, more especially, the island that sat at the bottom of the peninsula.
Not that this worried most Singaporeans, who regarded the so-called Lion Island as an impregnable fortress. The British colony was thought invincible to outside aggression. Hadn’t the government back in Blighty promised to send its military might to the east in the event of threatened invasion? Such guarantees were more than enough to allow the ex-pats to rest easily as they sipped their stengahs and ate and danced the night away at Raffles or Government House.