No Names - No Pack Drill
Ernest Bywater
No Names - No Pack Drill
All rights reserved © 1989 by Ernest Bywater
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This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. All rights are reserved by the author, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
Product names, brands, and other trademarks referred to within this book are the property of their respective trademark holders. Unless otherwise specified, no association between the author and any trademark holder is expressed or implied. Nor does it express any endorsement by them, or of them. Use of a term in this book should not be regarded as affecting the validity of any trademark, service mark, or registered trademark.
Cover Art
The image used is a drawing of the 133 A.G.T. Unit Insignia and is from the cover of the original edition. The trimming, manipulation, and adding of text is by Ernest Bywater. All rights to the cover image are reserved by the copyright owners.
June 2016 Edition
Published by Ernest Bywater
ISBN: 978-1-365-19021-6
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My father Ernest 'Ern' Bywater, wrote this account of some of his experiences during World War 2. It was first published by the Royal Australian Army Resources and Reproduction Unit, Puckapunyal, in 1989. Since then Dad wrote more material I've incorporated in this edition, and so did his mate Kanga. I also adjusted some formatting, and added some notes.
I use a Chapter Title, a Sub-chapter Title, and a section title.
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I wandered from the darkening tent,
My mind steeped in unrest,
And standing 'neath a stately gum,
Gazed, unseeing, to the west.
For my soul was sick and weary,
In my heart was sad regret,
As I pondered o'er the sordid things,
Which made my spirit fret.
I thought of days that used to be,
Of things that might have been,
The condition of the world today,
And the yawning gulf between.
Those happy, carefree, pre-war days,
The days we must restore,
So that others may enjoy them,
As we used to, once before.
by Ern Bywater
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Note: Unless otherwise stated, all the poems included were written by Ern Bywater. All were written during his time in uniform in the Australian Army. Most were written while in the Pacific Islands, and a few were written while in Australia. All are copied from the pocket notebooks and note papers he wrote them on at the time.
The photos and drawings are by his mate Kanga.
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No Names - No Pack Drill
Ern 'Firey' Bywater, NX155023
My children used to ask me about my experience during World War II, and I often heard them say, "Dad only talks about funny happenings during the War," and they probably wonder why. I suppose this is the case in the families of all returned soldiers. When ex-diggers get together on Anzac Day they remember those who died, they remember the horrors and bad times, but they don't talk about those memories. They prefer to talk about the things that made those days bearable, the lighter moments. They weren't in a war because they wanted to be there, but because they had to be. Whatever the role they fulfilled, they tried to make the best of it, and larrikinism and horseplay often helped to preserve sanity.
My son has asked me to write down some of my reminiscences, so I have chronicled here some of the things I like to remember.
The author
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The Big Adventure Begins
1940, in a lot of respects, wasn't such a bad year, but it had its drawbacks. Like when I got that letter in October. It was short and explicit. 'Report to Belmore Drill Hall on such-and-such a day at 8:00 a.m. Bring two cut lunches.'
I duly reported, along with a large crowd of other 19 or 20 year-olds, and were promptly subjected to a complete physical by female medico's - our first taste of Army life's embarrassments. I recall we were handed a small glass jar each and asked for a urine sample. Some of the boys, having just used the toilet, could not comply. When approached the Orderly, he said, 'Well, there's a tap out there.' Anyone not in a wheelchair would have passed that physical.
Later, after consuming our first cut lunch, we were loaded onto a train en-route for Bathurst, where we arrived around tea-time, munching our second cut lunch. We were conveyed by Army trucks to the camp, given two blankets and a paillasse, which looked like an over-long chaff bag. This we filled with straw from a nearby hut, and then we were allotted the huts which we were to occupy. I'm afraid I over-did the straw in my liking for comfort, and kept rolling out onto the bare floorboards. The next morning we were shown how to fold our beds in three with our blankets folded on top. Needless to say, I was one of a long line back to the hay-hut, to empty out half our straw. That morning we were lined up, the roll called, and told that we were no longer men, or even numbers, just bodies with no mind of our own. We were in the Army, and bodies were expendable.
Our first dinner in camp was our introduction to bully-beef stew, and nestled in the middle of one fellow's dixie was a large triantelope spider, boiled bright pink. Thereafter, Driver Allen was known as Spider.
Our Unit was 2 Div. AASC, Amm'n Coy, so as well as basic training in the bull-ring, we were trained to drive and maintain Army trucks. One bloke always regaled us at night with stories of hair-raising tales of his exploits behind the wheel, always at high speed, which earned him the name of Sixty.
It was Sixty who was the first in our Coy. to fire a shot. We had .303 rifles, but no ammo. Somewhere or other, Sixty got hold of a bullet, and that night loaded his rifle and was waving it about in the hut. Another fellow, feeling nervous, tried to disarm him. In the struggle the rifle discharged, the bullet going through the wall, through the hut next door, and away over the bull-ring. I'd never seen a hut empty so fast.
One morning on roll-call parade, the Sergeant called for any motor-cyclists present to step out. We had heard stories about the life-expectancy of dispatch riders being 36 hours in action, so needless to say no one moved. However, standing next to the Sergeant was a cove I knew from Lakemba, and as he spotted me he spoke to the Sergeant whose next command was: "Bywater, fall out!" He then fell out the end ten men and said, "You and Jones draw two motor bikes from Workshops, take these ten to the bull-ring and teach them to ride." For the next week we were untangling bikes and riders from barbed wire, and hauling them out of gun pits. I think we finally passed three of them. Apart from some nasty barbed wire cuts, our only real casualty was one broken leg.
I had started out as a Private, then Driver, and was now Don/R. Bywater, reputedly on a shorter life-line than when I was a mere body.
Army drivers were designated 'DR' then, and I knew a fellow who received letters from a girl he knew who addressed them to 'Dear Doc.' He was apparently well thought of by her parents - until they found out he was only a driver. That ended that romance.
One of our crowd was former jockey, and he had decided he'd seen enough of Army life, so he 'shot through.' Each time he was caught and brought back, he would disappear again as soon as he did his ten days in the lock-up. Finally, the Army gave up and discharged him on medical grounds, saying he had a weak chest, caused by wasting to ride racehorses. We had three other jockeys in our Unit, and when we were in Queensland prior to going overseas they rode at a local race meeting. Some of the boys made a killing backing Billy Patterson's mounts. Bill rode five winners that day.
Sometimes we had a Saturday's leave in Bathurst, with a Saturday night dance in the Mechanic's Institute. I think there were eighteen pubs in the town in those days, so the dance usually became a battlefield. The police were hard put to keep order, until it was our Unit's turn to supply the Town Piquet, under Sergeant S. and Corporal Happy W. They went through the Hall like a pair of steam-rollers knocking down brawlers right and left. The police hauled out the civilians and the piquet dragged out the soldiers, and peace was restored in no time.
One Saturday, Dick H. and I decided to hire a couple of horses and go for a ride. The owner of the horse-yard said he only had two available, a little Tea-gardens pony, and a 14 hand gelding. When we rode off, the owner and his two mates laughed and called: "Don't bring 'em back sweating!" We soon found out why that amused them. The gelding was a jib, and would not go above a jog! A switch cut from a tree had no effect, so Dick rode under a tree and cut a forked stick, which he tied to his heel with a boot-lace as a make-shift spur. When we cantered back into the horse-yard later, with the 'spur' discarded, and the gelding wearing dried sweat, the faces on the horse-yard mob were pictures of puzzlement. Apparently they always inflicted that old 'joey' on soldier customers as a joke, and couldn't understand how the joke had come unstuck for once.
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Note: Don/R is short for Despatch Rider, and Coy is short for a military company. AASC is the Australian Army Supply Corps.
Smartly turned out Don/R Bywater
A Change of Scenery
After completing basic training at Bathurst we were sent to Greta, driving there in convoy, which wasn't without its share of incidents. The day before we left Bathurst one of the boys, who came from nearby Rylstone, had received word that his mother was very ill, and asked for some leave to go home. As we were all under 'movement orders' all leave was cancelled, so his request had to be refused. However, the Major routed our convoy through Sandy Hollow, which took us past Rylstone, where the Major called a stop for an hour's lunch break. Not all COs were the ogres they were painted.
Greta camp was built in two sections, one section with timber huts (Wooden City) and the other of galvanised iron, called Silver City. We were in Wooden City. Here our 'field' training and 'toughening-up' started in earnest. Our CO, Major W., used to tell us that if we made a good job of an exercise we would end up near a small town, where we could have a night off in the town with 'lots of beer and fairies.' This earned him the nickname of Beer and Fairies W.
One such exercise ended up in a town called Paterson. Half of the Coy went by truck, following map references, the other half on foot across country. I, of course, was one of the foot-sloggers. Corporal L. was in charge of our section, and was determined we would be first to arrive in Paterson, so he mapped out a direct line which meant crossing the Hunter River. He assured us there was a shallow ford used by the locals. Due to recent heavy rain, when we arrived the ford was five feet deep and running at about 25 mph. The Corporal was a big man, over 6 feet, and obstinate. He waded into the river up to his hips, and insisted we follow. However, we urged him on, until he reached the middle and was armpit deep.
"Right! Now I'm wet, you're all getting wet!" he yelled, and ordered us to cross, under threats of charge sheets. So, we stripped, bundled our gear and clothing in our ground sheets, and we who could swim took our gear across, then came back for the non-swimmers. Driver H. was short, non-swimmer and slow thinking. He forgot to tie his rifle in his bundle. He held his bundle on his head with one hand, his boots and socks perched on top, and his rifle above his head in the other hand. Half-way across a sock fell into the river, so he let go of the rifle and grabbed at the sock. Though we linked hands and dragged that river with our feet, we never saw that rifle again. I think it cost H. nine-odd pounds out of his pay. The delay saw us lose the race to Paterson in a close finish, just on dark, but the following day was made most enjoyable by the townspeople, with the pubs all open and a dance arranged at short notice.
We had recently had a squad of Provost attached to us, and also acquired an extra WO2, about 21 years old, who was always bragging that he was the youngest Warrant Officer in the whole Army. He was always trying to throw his weight around, and got quite miffed when everyone ignored him. The boys called him Muriel. Anyway, he had a couple of beers in a pub with a couple of Provosts, then told the boys to get out of the pub and leave the drinking to 'their betters.' This, of course, provoked quite a confrontation, so he left, then returned with the other half dozen Provosts, and came in waving his revolver and vowing to clear the bar. However, CPL Happy W. arrived with the 'town piquet,' disarmed and arrested him, took him to the Major in the dance hall. He was ordered to sit in the corner near the Major for the rest of the festivities, charged with inciting a riot. He was transferred to another Unit very soon afterwards.
While at Greta we occasionally got a weekend pass, which we used by jumping on the train at Greta, without tickets, and going home to Sydney. We had no problems about tickets at Strathfield. We would gather together at the top of the ramp and run down 'en masse.' The stamp of thirty or more pairs of army boots approaching at the double always sent the ticket collector diving for cover in his little box. On Sunday the same technique was used back at Greta. This was the reason the Provost squad materialised. They were posted at Greta station one Sunday night to catch us coming back, forgetting the train ran past camp. So, on reaching camp, half a dozen willing hands pulled hard on the emergency cord. When the train stopped, we were off and through the fence, across the bull-ring, and into our huts before the train reached Greta. After that, my mate Dick H and I found it was a short walk down to Allandale Station, and we left the others to battle with the Provost at Greta.
I suppose the train brake system is different now, but in those days the brake-shoes were held in the off position by steam pressure in the lines. By pulling the cord, steam was released through a valve, and springs clamped the brakes on. The regular train crews, knowing what to expect, would start building up extra steam pressure after leaving Allandale in an effort to maintain steam pressure in the brake-lines. It became quite a battle royal, but I think the train crews really thought it fun.
I hopped the train to Sydney one weekend after getting an SOS from my mother, and arrived back to find the camp almost deserted. The Company had gone out on bivouac on the Sunday, camping out in the bush near Belford. I discovered that a ration truck was about to go out to the site, so I climbed in too. Arriving in the early morning, I sneaked in and joined some of my mates who were on duty at the cook tent, preparing breakfast. Soon afterwards a Corporal from HQ came around doing a roll check, and asked where I was on Sunday. Dickie H said, "He was here in the cook-house. You must have forgotten to mark his name off."
"Yeah!," said Ray J. "You go and ask Corporal Hangers". L/Corporal Gordon H. had been called Hangers ever since his first appearance in the showers, but the Duty Corporal didn't know this, and spent an hour or so wandering about looking for CPL Angus. Neither he nor Hangers were very fond of Ray after that.
Somebody discovered that there was a paddock full of ripe watermelons not far away across the railway line, so one night some of the boys practised a bit of infiltration. They returned with their pants around their necks, the legs hanging in front of them with a large melon in each leg, the easiest way to carry them. This made climbing through barbed wire fences a very risky business, but they made it without serious injury. A great feast was had by all, but we had quite a job disposing of all the melon rind, hiding the evidence. We accomplished this by dumping it behind the Field Ambulance Coy lines, who probably had some explaining to do.
We Form the 133 AGT
In July 1942, a group of us were detached from 2 Div, AASC, and sent to Ingleburn, where we found ourselves mixed in with groups from several other units, including Transport, Workshops, Bridge Coys, etc., and formed into five composite companies called Corps Troop Supply, later re-numbered and called General Transport Coys, designed to go anywhere, handle any transport situation, and be self-sufficient where necessary. That's how I came to be a Don/R in the 133 AGT Coy., and first met up with my mate Driver B.K., also known as Kanga, with whom I shared many trials and tribulations, and hilarious incidents, right up until we were finally de-mobbed together in Sydney in June 1946.
Here at Ingleburn we experienced our first 'short arm parade' that had its share of funny moments, which my sense of delicacy prompts me to gloss over.
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Note: AGT is the common abbreviation for Australian General Transport, an Australian Army transport group during World War 2.
Toogoolawah
The latest in Army accommodation
Soon after, in early August, the whole unit, vehicles and all, were moved by train to Queensland. We were off-loaded in Brisbane and proceeded by convoy to a small town called Toogoolawah, and set up camp on a property a few miles out of town. When we were settled in we were given a few hours leave to investigate the town, and our arrival caught the lady publican unprepared, with an almost empty keg on tap. Of course, plenty of help was on hand and a large keg was brought in and lifted onto a cradle behind the bar. Two of the boys were battling to hammer in the spigot while others offered advice across the bar. There was a sudden 'swish,' and I was drenched from head to foot. I had only drunk sarsaparilla, but I smelled like a brewery, which earned me a close scrutiny from the 'town piquet' as I left the pub. Luckily two arch-enemies had met in the other hotel, coming to blows, and the piquet had more urgent duties to attend to.
After we were settled in at Toogoolawah, I had to ride over to Kilcoy one day to deliver a lot of papers, and was riding a side-valve B.S.A., which was not a light motor-bike. The gravel road crossed a creek, and as I came to it, I could see the road disappearing over a drop down to the creek, then continuing on again straight ahead on top of the far bank. However, when I shot over the crest, I found about 6 metres below me, the road took a sharp right turn for 10 metres, then left across the creek, left again on the far side, then right up out of the gully. I don't know why anyone would want to build a road that way; perhaps originally a bridge had gone straight across. I did know I could not make that turn in the loose gravel, so I lay the bike on its side and stepped off.
Unfortunately, as I spun on my left foot, the rear carrier of the bike came down on the back of my heel, spraining my left ankle. The B.S.A., of course, was OK, so I climbed back aboard and went on. When I eventually got back to camp I couldn't walk, and had a hard job getting my boot off. As I surveyed my fat foot, Murphy entered the tent and said, "Lucky you. You are on the leave list!"
You cannot go on leave unless you are fit. Murphy said, "No worry. You'll walk onto that leave parade." He brought in a bucket of water and plunged my foot into it, and I kicked him in the ribs with my other foot. The water was just off the boil!! Three times a day, hot and cold dunking, and in five days I limped into the line and stood beside my kit, which Murphy had carried on for me.
Returning from that leave I had my first sample of Lt 'Izzy's' navigational shortcomings. He and his driver picked us up in Brisbane, loaded us in a truck, and proceeded to lead us out to Toogoolawah. We followed Izzy's utility until we were passing the 'Gabba' for the second time, where-upon our truck driver shot past the utility and took the lead. He said later Izzy had got lost coming in, and he just wanted to get back in time for tea.
Toogoolawah was a nice, friendly little town, but I'm afraid we strained the good relationships a bit one night. While camped there, the Major decided the unit needed a 'trouble-shooter' or 'scout squad,' and about twenty of us were picked to undergo a course in Commando training and unarmed combat. One morning as we lined up the Adjutant decided to inspect us. On seeing Bill P's unshaved jaw he demanded an explanation. Unabashed, Bill felt his face and said, "Gee! You're right Sir! There were so many blokes around my mirror I guess I must have shaved the wrong face!"
Part of our assault course took us through a farm dam around six feet deep in the middle, with a muddy bottom. Shorty E was about 5 feet 6 inches tall, so we could only track his safe passage across the middle by a hand holding a rifle sticking out above the surface.
The final night of the course saw us staging an assault on the town, of which we had to gain control. The town was defended by troops from another unit in the area, who greatly outnumbered us. Five of us approached from the West to create a noisy diversion, another squad then approached from the East, and with the defence deploying troops in both directions, SGT Dave E went in across the railway yards, taking the station, then the Post Office and Police Station. He was exploding small gelignite charges at each point to signify that they were destroyed and demobilised. Having one left over, he decided we may as well take the bank too, and tossed one into the entrance-way. Unfortunately, it had a glass panelled door, which disintegrated. By the time the glass stopped tinkling, we were all disappearing into the night.
Horace
Driver Pat M went to town one night to visit friends he had made, stayed too long, and drank too much. Early in the morning the thought sneaked into his foggy brain that he should be on guard duty at the camp that day. He took off on foot to cover the two miles to camp, and was staggering along the road at a shambling jog when a car came along and he was offered a lift. "No thanks, I'm in a hurry", he said and jogged on. On arrival at camp he told the gate guard he had come to relieve him. Just then the farmer's wife and daughter drove up in a sulky, and Pat stopped them, striking up a conversation that the women didn't appear to relish. The guard intervened to get Pat away. Pat drew himself up to his full height and declared, "Back off, Captain Starlight. Mr Kelly is robbing this coach!" He ended up sleeping it off in the guard tent.
Pat was a member of 'C' Platoon, where they had a seven foot carpet snake as a pet. Coming home one night, Pat was weaving his way to his tent when he encountered Horace, out on his nightly wriggle. With a banshee howl, Pat grabbed a stick and hacked poor Horace to death to the accompaniment of yells that woke the whole platoon. Pat was 'persona non gratis' for some time after that.
The locals must have thought we were a rum lot, and were probably glad when we moved over to Kilcoy.
Kilcoy
Kilcoy was a friendly little town too. Our camp was six or seven miles out of town, so when we were given a night's leave in town we went in by truck. One of my tent-mates was a skinny little bloke by the name of Jim L., who had been a sleeper-cutter in civvy life. We were amazed that he could even lift an axe, in view of his physique - or lack of it. He was made permanent fire piquet, lighting the cook-house fires at dawn, and chopping wood all day to keep them going. Jim had Saturdays off, and always went to town, where he sat in a pub all day drinking rum. Around 8:30 p.m. Jim would head back to camp on foot, and he took the short way across country and the river. He couldn't swim, and we never found out how he made it, but he always arrived at our tent around 10:00 p.m., stone drunk, soaked to the skin, and minus his hat. We would strip him and put him to bed, but next morning he would be up at dawn as usual. He could never recall how he got home - we reckoned he must have walked on the river bed.
Our OC, Major S., was very spick and span, and very regimental, which earned him the sobriquet of the 'The Boy Scout,' but he was a very fair man and mindful of his men's welfare. The Officer's batmen had a tent behind the officers' tents, and when we acquired a padre he was given a tent next to the batmen who liked to sing bawdy songs and parodies in their tent each evening. The more he complained, the louder they sang, so he complained to the Major, who sympathised with the boys' excuse that they had nowhere else to sing. He gave permission for us to build a recreation hut, with a bar, and obtained a second hand piano for us. The night it opened, Kanga and I wandered in during a noisy rendition of a long and bawdy song, to see the padre hanging on to one end of the piano, glass in one hand, singing lustily along with the rest.
The Triumph motor-cycle I had was in the work-shop being rewired, and I was using my spare, a light Royal Enfield. Workshops had just received a half dozen replacement bikes, including two big Nortons. CPL Sid R. and I, being H.Q. Don/Rs got in first and got the two Nortons. The bike mechanic, Les, was a top engine tuner, and we also had him replace the mufflers with megaphones.
The day they were ready I was on a run to Somerset Dam on the Enfield, and the frame broke in half, dropping the engine to scrape on the road. I acquired a piece of fencing wire, tied it to the engine and over the top bar of the frame, lifting the engine enough to clear the road, and went on at a slower pace. I was late getting back and found a whole platoon of trucks lined up near H.Q., with a hive of activity going on as drivers checked over tool-kits and other gear. The Transport Officer told me 'A' Platoon was being sent to Thursday Island, and I had to take the convoy to Brisbane to be put on a train at Exhibition. Sid was away on another job, so a Don/R from 'C' Platoon had been sent for to assist me. Fred F. arrived on a very sick sounding bike, obviously not fit for a long run, so we went over to the workshop, dumped our two casualties, and rumbled out on the two Nortons, much to Fred's delight.