Joe's War

JOE’S WAR

Memoirs of a young farmer who became an Australian soldier on the Western Front during World War 1, including an account of his pioneering family who arrived in Australia in 1840.

Joseph John Pederick Edited by Leon Pederick

Publisher:

Adams Print, Geelong. Victoria.

ISBN:

978-0-646-80621-1

Copyright:

Leon Pederick and Esther Birchall.

Author:

Joseph John Pederick

Title:

Joe’s War

Subject:

Family History and World War 1 Diary

Printed:

2019

Photographs Cover: Sergeants and Warrant Officers Camp, Bouffioulx, Belgium, 1919. A photograph from Joe Pederick’s collection. Note the tear on the right-hand side resulting from the rough conditions in which Joe’s papers had to be kept. A repaired image is shown on page 94.

Frontispiece: Australian Troops at Villers-Bretonneux on April 26th 1918. Photo courtesy of the Australian War Memorial, Canberra, ACT. .

Contents

INTRODUCTION ..............................................................................................................................1 PREAMBLE .......................................................................................................................................3 MY FAMILY ROOTS IN AUSTRALIA .........................................................................................5 William and Mary Pederick, my paternal great-grandparents .........................................................5 John and Mary Pederick, my paternal grandparents ......................................................................12 Joseph and Jane Winnett, my maternal grandparents ....................................................................16 Oliver and Jane Pederick, my parents ............................................................................................19 Life on the farm .............................................................................................................................. 22 I BECOME A SOLDIER IN THE AUSTRALIAN IMPERIAL FORCES................................ 31 Enlistment.......................................................................................................................................31 In army camp near Seymour ..........................................................................................................35 By troopship to England .................................................................................................................40 Training camp in England ..............................................................................................................49 IN ACTION ON THE WESTERN FRONT ..................................................................................57 Arrival in France ............................................................................................................................57 A very cold winter in the trenches .................................................................................................61 Respite in England .........................................................................................................................75 In France again for the final battles ................................................................................................ 80 A time of waiting, in Belgium ........................................................................................................94 HEADING HOME AT LAST! ......................................................................................................107 EPILOGUE .....................................................................................................................................115

Dedication To My Grandchildren Remembering how I loved to hear the stories my parents and grandparents used to tell of their experiences – many of them just common every-day experiences, I have recorded here some of those stories as I remember them and added also some tales of my own experiences.

Now that I have completed the task I realize that much of it has been spoiled in the telling, and much has been omitted. However, I do hope that you will find some interest and enjoyment in these pages.

It has been interesting delving into the family’s past histories, and it has made me feel very proud and grateful, yet humble that that our early pioneering ancestors were such worthy people. They have certainly set us a high standard of courage, service and endeavor. May we ever remember them and gauge our lives in a manner befitting descendants of these good folk.

Your loving Papa J Pederick October 1956.

Children

Grandchildren

Oliver William Pederick

Robert John Pederick Janis Maree Kelly (née Pederick) David James Gale Esther Jane Birchall (née Gale) Bruce Joseph Gale John Brendan Alman Morelle Ruth Coxwell (née Alman) Craig William Alman Scott Phillip Alman

Ailsa May Gale (née Pederick)

Elva June Alman (née Pederick)

Acknowledgements I am indebted to Esther Birchall, one of Joe’s granddaughters, for her encouragement to publish Joe’s story in book form. She also made available some of Joe’s war memorabilia, including his wallet, notebook, photos and postcards as a visual component to support his written words. She suggested a few editorial changes to the text and wrote the Epilogue as a summary of the later years of Joe’s life.

The contribution of my friend Philip Pope, who used his computer skills to assemble the material in this book in a ready form for the printer, is greatly appreciated.

Records of Joe’s army service were obtained from the website naa.gov.au.

Introduction This book contains a remarkable account of Joseph Pederick’s life and war experiences. He was born in Lancaster, near Kyabram, in the Goulburn Valley area of Victoria. He grew up on his parent’s orchard at Lancaster and later at their dairy farm in the small community of Wyuna in the same district. He left school at the age of 13 to work on the family farm. His command of English and ability to write such a lengthy and clear account is commendable.

Throughout his military experiences, he maintained a record of sorts by writing details, mostly just place names, on the inside of his wallet and in a small notebook the wallet held. Our soldiers were not supposed to keep diaries. This enabled him to recall dates and details of events and places, though we do not know in how much detail.

The original account was hand-written by Joe, then typed by his daughter, Ailsa Gale. I was fortunate to have been given a copy. I treasured this record of my uncle’s war experiences, though it remained on my bookshelves, rarely opened, for some years. However, at the time of Anzac Day 2018 I was prompted to re-read the pages and felt motivated to have the story printed in a more permanent condition for wider enjoyment and felt it worthy of addition to the records of the Australian forces in World War 1. On contacting Ailsa’s daughter, Esther Birchall, I learned that her cousin and his wife, Craig and Ann Alman had retyped and compiled it in electronic form for distribution amongst family members. I am extremely grateful that I was permitted to use this and have consulted with Esther on details of this presentation. The text has been maintained as Joe wrote it, except for some minor editing and dividing it into chapters to enable readers to follow the account more easily. Joe had written it as a continuous narrative.

Esther had Joe’s wallet and other items he had with him during the war, as well as a photo album he compiled of his war journey. Some of these objects and images have been scanned and used in this publication.

The “Family Roots” section of the book will give the readers a better understanding of Joseph Pederick’s background before he became an Australian soldier. Also, readers who are aware of the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder among returning servicemen from recent wars will not be surprised to read that on his return Joe could not settle back to his former farming occupation.

On reading and re-reading of the dangers Joe faced in the trenches for so long, it seems incredible that he survived and was able to return home comparatively unscathed, when others were killed or maimed within minutes. For this, Joe’s descendants are particularly grateful. They were able to know him as a kind, loving and devoted “Pa”. I, as a nephew, am particularly proud to have known him as my uncle.

Leon Pederick (son of Alec Pederick, one of Joe’s younger brothers).

Geelong 2019

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PREAMBLE “Were you the goodies or the baddies in the war, Pa?” It was Anzac Night 1956. During the day we had been to town to see the Anzac march, and now we were seated in front of a cosy fire at home, a young seven-year-old and his grandfather.

All was quiet. I was no doubt lost in memories of 1914-1918, memories revived again by the marching men of the day just closing. The ranks were thinning; there were not so many able to march now. In memory all those missing faces were back again with me.

My grandson, David too was thinking - of the stirring spectacle he had witnessed during the day, and so the questions.

“Were you the goodies or the baddies in the war, Pa?” “Hum! eh what?” answered Pa, roused from his reverie, and sparring for time. “Goodies or baddies?

Well, David, I hadn’t thought of it that way before but I suppose we were the goodies. We thought so anyway. And yes we must have been the goodies for we won the war, and the goodies always win, don’t they?”

“Yes, of course Pa. Hoppy 1 always beats the robbers, doesn’t he? And I want to be a soldier too when I’m a big man.”

“Of course you do. Bands and flags and uniforms and medals and cheering crowds. But that is only one side of the picture, boy. There are lots of ugly, nasty, cruel, sad things too in war that I hope will never be necessary for you to see.”

But now he was started and question quickly followed question.

“Did they have big bombers and jet planes in your war, Pa?” 1

Hoppy, or Hop-along Cassidy, was a fictional cowboy hero (played by William Boyd) in 66 films made in the 1940s and 1950s.

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Joe’s War “No, aeroplanes were very new then. In fact I hadn’t seen one before then, and the planes of those days were not very big, or very safe or fast like they are now, and there were no jet planes then.

There wasn’t much bombing from planes, because the planes of those days couldn’t carry very heavy loads.

“Gee, no big planes! That must have been a long time ago. You must be pretty old, Pa. Were there blackfellows and kangaroos here then?”

To a boy of seven, a man, whose head is partly bald and whose hair is snow white, is a veritable Methuselah, and 40 or 50 years ago is indeed ancient history.

I laughed. “No, boy, I’m not quite so old as that. Blacks and kangaroos had gone from here long before that.”

“Well anyway Pa, tell me some stories about the early days, and when you were a boy, and horses and soldiers and people. Lots of things.”

So that’s how it all started, and these are some of the stories that I, an average ‘John Citizen’, could tell David who was just an average boy of seven years.

For much of the early family history, I am indebted to people of an earlier generation who have supplied me with much valuable and interesting records, and to all of them I say a big ‘Thank You’.

Part of Joe’s wartime collection, held by his granddaughter Esther Birchall.

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MY FAMILY ROOTS IN AUSTRALIA William and Mary Pederick, my paternal great-grandparents “Once upon a time”, about 1800 A.D., there lived in Stokenham, a village in Devonshire, England, a man called James Pedrick with his wife and family. He had a small farm and orchard there and I suppose he grew apples and cherries mostly in his orchard, and in the springtime it would be very pretty with all the new leaves on the trees and the apple and cherry blossoms, and everything would be so peaceful and quiet.

But James had seven sons and the farm was not large enough to support all that number and other land could not be bought, so some of the sons, at least, had to go and find some other means of getting a living. William, the third son was apprenticed to a shoemaker and learned that trade thoroughly.

He married and for some years worked in the boot trade. But he was never happy as a shoe maker.

He wanted to be a farmer. But there was no possibility of getting a farm in Devon, so in desperation to get away from the boots and shoes, he bought a Hotel or Inn. Now his wife, Mary was not happy. She didn’t like the idea of bringing up their young family in the environment of the Hotel. I think her abhorrence of that trade has been passed on down through her descendants, and to this day the vast majority of them share with her a distaste for everything connected with the drink trade.

About this time Mary’s parents migrated to California, America, and it was understood that if they reported favourably on conditions there, William and Mary and their family would follow.

However, after some time the family reported that they considered the climate there would not be good for William’s rheumatism, and advised them not to go. Several other relations, however did go to America and I believe became very wealthy. But as there were no direct mails between America and Australia letters lost interest and after a few years all correspondence between the American families and the others ceased.

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Joe’s War All these migrations and talks and thoughts of migration, plus Mary’s reluctance to continue in the hotel tended to make them more and more dissatisfied.

So one day, after William had been down the village street talking with some of his old cronies, where the conversation had probably drifted to the new colonies that were being opened up and the migration of people to those places and to America, he came home and quite suddenly turned to Mary.

“How would you like to go to Australia to live?”

“I’d love it”, she replied.

“Would you really?”

“Yes, with all my heart, William.”

“Well, Mary, I hear there is a boat at Plymouth about to sail for Australia. I’ll go down and see if I can get a passage on her for us.”

Immediately, he set off for his father’s farm to borrow a horse to ride to Plymouth.

“Hello, Mother, is Father at home?” was his greeting when he reached the farmhouse door. No familiar title of Mum or Dad or such like in those days.

“No, Father is up to market, son. But why are you so excited and nervous and happy looking?”

“I’ve come to borrow a horse to ride to Plymouth to try to book passage on a ship for Australia.”

“Then you’ll get no horse from here for such a foolish errand. Fancy anyone leaving all the comforts and beauty of Devon to go out to such a wild rough place as that. Go home and forget about it William.”

William pleaded with his mother, but she would not relent or let him have the horse.

He must have been just as determined as she was, for he set off and walked the thirty miles to Plymouth. You see there were no railways or cars or buses, not even coaches in those days.

He was successful in his errand and was able to book a passage to Australia for the family aboard the sailing ship “Brightman”, then hurried home on foot to break the news.

What a flurry of excitement there must have been then! Disposing of their business and all the things that couldn’t be taken on the journey, and buying of new things for the new life that lay ahead of them.

And then there were the farewells to friends and relatives. What a parting that must have been, well knowing that there was little chance that they would ever meet again in this world. The story has been passed down that at the last family gathering before their departure, at William’s parents’ home, at the table baby John who was only nine months old, wanted the cream. “Let the poor little dear have all the cream he wants”, said his grandmother, “he will never see any more cream out in that wild country.” (For the greater part of his life in Australia, John, who became my grandfather, was a dairy farmer and often used to chuckle to himself over that remark as he drove to town with a 10 gallon can of cream in his buggy.)

But what courage it must have taken to leave all behind and set off on a voyage half way round the world in a tiny sailing boat, with a young family of four, three boys and a girl as well as John, only nine months old.

It is difficult for us today to imagine what a voyage of that magnitude entailed in those days.

Today, in 1956 we can board a plane and after three days comfortable travel arrive in England, and during the whole of the voyage remain in wireless touch with both England and Australia. Or we may do the trip by sea aboard a luxurious fast steamer, fitted with all the conveniences of a first class hotel, in wireless communication with the whole world en route, and the journey accomplished in four weeks.

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My Family Roots in Australia Today whichever way we travel it is a pleasure cruise. Then it was a major adventure. The ships were small and frail, with few comforts or amenities, powered only with sails which placed them at the mercy of the weather. The journey would then take anything from three to nine months, or end in disaster, as it very often did.

William Pederick and Mary Pederick (née Adams).

No, this was no holiday excursion or pleasure cruise that these people faced, yet they faced it bravely and cheerfully, and in August 1840 William and Mary and their family of four boarded the “Brightman” and sailed from Plymouth bound for Australia.

Conditions on the boat were not good. Accommodation was crowded. Food was rough, water not too plentiful or too pure, and consequently sickness was prevalent and the ceremony of burial at sea was all too common on the voyage. At times the storms arose and the little vessel was tossed about and threatened with destruction, and blown miles and miles off course. Then the winds would cease completely and they’d lie becalmed for days just drifting helplessly about with the tide. Or perhaps they’d run aground on some uncharted sand bar or rock and be in danger of shipwreck.

But in spite of all these dangers and discomforts they appeared to complain very little. Of course, there was no other way to do the voyage, and Mary used to say years after that she spent many happy days on board the “Brightman” on the way out.

On October 18th 1840, baby John had his first birthday, at sea, and then one day about two months later, in December 1840 the cry went out, “Land ahead”, and they realised that after four months at sea they had almost reached their destination, which was Adelaide.

You remember when we visited Adelaide early this year, how we drove through the Mt. Lofty Ranges over winding but good smooth roads, and then as we reached the top of the range we saw 7

Joe’s War the beautiful city of Adelaide spread out below us, stretching for miles to right and left and extending from the beach to the very foot of the ranges. You remember the streets packed with cars, so many of them that we couldn’t find space to park ours, the beautiful buildings, the Railway Station, the parks and gardens and zoo. And you remember too that to find a place to park the car while we had a meal we drove out to a suburban seaside resort, Glenelg, a lovely beach with all the amenities of a modern seaside resort, baths and amusement parks and guest houses.

Well, in December 1840 it was at Glenelg that William and Mary Pedrick, who of course were your great, great, great, grandparents, landed. It was not called Glenelg then, but Holdfast Bay. There was no landing jetty there then and the sailors had to carry the women and children ashore from the ship.

But what a different place Adelaide was then. You would never recognise it as the same place you saw this year. South Australia had only been proclaimed a colony four years before and Adelaide was only a little town surrounded by virgin bush. And Glenelg, of course, was only a beach some miles away from the town, where there was a safe landing place.

I wonder what were their thoughts when they were dumped on that almost deserted shore on that hot, dry day in December 1840. I think there would be some curious blacks down watching the arrival of the ship and I can imagine Mary wondering if they were savage and if the children would be safe. The country, what little they could see from the sea shore, would look so dry and barren compared with their beautiful Devon. The whole country would look so wild and rugged and untamed that both William and Mary must have wondered what the future held for them, and I think William thought for a moment that his mother had probably been right after all in trying to persuade him not to venture.

But the youngsters! Can’t you imagine their delight at being ashore again after being so cooped up on that ship for over four months. Wouldn’t they run, and shout and laugh and climb trees. And I wonder if they saw any kangaroos that first day because there were plenty about in those days. If they did I wonder what they thought, especially if they found a mother with her little joey in her pouch. What a funny country this is we’ve come to. This is going to be great fun.

But William and Mary had been dumped on the beach and now they had to find some shelter for the night. After some little searching William found an old hut on the beach and the family moved into that till something better could be found. Next day and for many days after William tramped off to the town of Adelaide (about seven miles away) looking for work for himself and accommodation for the family. He found a house, of sorts, perhaps a rough shelter would be a better name for it. It was situated just about where the Adelaide Railway Station now stands and for a while the family lived there. Afterwards he opened a shoe store in Gouger Street and lived in a small house adjoining. But he still didn’t like the boot trade so after a couple of years bought a small block of land at Plympton, four miles away, and began to mix a bit of agriculture with his boot business.

First he built there a house of palings, then later as business improved he built a stone house. For ten years they lived there and the two older sons by this time helped in the business and with the farming.

Times were hard and William often walked long distances, even as far as Aldinga 30 miles away selling his boots and collecting payment. Payment was often tendered in kind, a cow, a calf or poultry.

It was while they were living at Plympton that another family from Devon arrived and settled near them – the Wheaton family, and the two families became very close friends. This was in 1848 and one of the family, Mary, was then about four years old. But we’ll tell you more about her later.

A few years later, about 1852, gold mining was booming in Victoria so William and his two eldest sons, William and James, set off to try their fortunes, leaving John, then a boy of twelve or thirteen, at home to look after the farm. By the way, John had been rather a weakling as a baby, and perhaps that was just another factor that influenced his parents in their choice of Australia, being they were told, a nice dry warm climate. Well it must have suited John pretty well, for while his father and 8

My Family Roots in Australia older brothers were away gold mining he did the harvesting himself, cutting and binding the crop by hand. Not too bad for a boy of that age. And he lived to the ripe old age of 91, so the climate must have agreed with him. And with William too, for we never hear any more about his rheumatism and he was 83 years old when he died.

So off to the gold diggings they went, by bullock dray. That seemed to be the usual mode of travel in that period. It must have been quite an adventure too, with hostile blacks about, and deserts to cross with long distances between water holes and no roads. It was a very different proposition from today when we can dash across by car in about 10 hours. William and his sons did find some gold. I don’t know just how successful they were, but at any rate, it seemed to end the boot-trade for them, for soon after they returned some Crown land became available in the Port Gawler district and they bought a farm there. It was about 25 miles from Adelaide and in those days was referred to as “Up North.” John in his older days still had vivid recollections of the early days of Adelaide and remembered seeing water being carted from the River Torrens to supply town residents.

The Adelaide property and business was sold and in August 1853 William and his three sons, William, James and John travelled up to take possession of their new property. With them they took ten or twelve cows, a team of bullocks and two horses in another dray. Although the property was only 25 miles from Adelaide it took three days to reach there as they had to go round Gawler to cross the river.

It was springtime, a good year, and the country was at its best and prettiest with a nice cover of green grass underfoot, the wattle all out in flower and a nice scattering of native pines over the area.

So they called the place “Pine Park”. It was situated about four miles east of what is now the township of Two Wells. In those days there was not a house there, but about a quarter of a mile away was a shepherd’s hut with two shallow wells from which the township, when it came, derived its name.

Now, somewhere in those years 1840-1853 a peculiar thing happened. In some legal document, probably the transfer of title to one of the properties, a second ‘e’ crept into the name which then became Pederick, and so it has remained ever since. But the branches of the family who have remained in England are still Pedrick, as we have been told by Captain Pedrick who was in Melbourne this year in charge of a new ship the “Port Melbourne”, also by two young Pedricks who arrived in Western Australia about 1950 and who are descendants of Philip, William’s brother.

It was William’s intention to leave Mary and the younger children (four more had been born since their arrival in Australia) in Adelaide till they had the place at “Pine Park” more settled, but on hearing such glowing reports of the beauty of the place she said she was prepared to rough it, and insisted on moving up at once. So after a few weeks William set off for Adelaide and while there bought several tents at a sale. Thus equipped he picked up his family and took them “Up North” to his new farm.

The tents were erected and for the next three months they were the home while the new house was being built. Mary loved the life and always referred to it as one of the happiest periods of her life.

She revelled in the beauty of the country with its wild flowers everywhere, and wild peaches and apples. Ordinary domestic fruits were non-existent in those days, not having yet been introduced to the colony.

A scrub fire nearly ruined their ‘Garden of Eden’ and their tents were only saved by a miraculous change of wind, in spite of the frenzied efforts of the menfolk in ploughing fire breaks, etc.

Because of the fire scare they moved into their new home before it was quite finished: a five roomed structure of gum slats and plaster, all white washed inside and out. The roof was probably of shingles or perhaps even bark, but in any case it was a home and quite comfortable.

Then, of course, work had to commence in earnest on the farm to get it into production. There was not a fence anywhere for miles around and the stock used to wander away and much time was lost searching for straying cattle. Dingoes were very prevalent and hunted in packs. It was a terrifying experience for those young boys out in the scrub country looking for cattle to hear the weird blood 9

Joe’s War curdling howl of a pack of the brutes on one side, then to hear it answered by another pack on the opposite flank. The packs used to attack the calves and the boys often had to jump out of bed at night to drive away dingoes.

While I’m on the subject of dingoes, I’ll tell you another story which my father used to relate. In the early days of South Australia a little girl about two years old was lost when she wandered away from her home into the scrub. A search party was organised and scoured the country for miles around but found no trace of the little toddler. The search was abandoned and it was thought the little one had been taken by the dingoes.

About two years later a man was riding through the bush when he saw a strange looking animal sitting on a dingo warren. It was very timid and slipped into the burrow before he could get close enough to identify it. However, he was curious and collected a party of men armed with picks and shovels and returned to dig and investigate what this strange animal really was. And after much digging they found her. Yes, it was the little girl. The dingoes had found her and fed her and cared for her in their own way. And now she was as wild as they were. She scratched and fought when they caught her. She howled like a dingo and ran on all fours, hands and feet, like a dingo. They took her to hospital and tried to care for her, but she refused to eat human food and quickly pined away and died.

“And were there wild blacks there too, Pa?” “Yes, in those early days there were blacks about but William and Mary said there were not so many as there were at Plympton and they were not so troublesome. One day while Mary was preparing breakfast in her kitchen, in walked a filthy looking lubra and her little piccaninny. The lubra made signs demanding food and Mary was terrified. She was frying bacon at the fire and handed pan, bacon and all to the black woman. She’d have given anything to get her out of the house. The lubra snatched the pan and I suppose ate the bacon, then she rubbed every bit of fat from the pan all over the little piccaninny and departed. Mary never used that pan again.”

One of the first jobs to be done on the farm was to clear it of the scrub and timber. This was hard work, no bulldozers in those days. All the work had to be done by hand with pick and shovel. A lot of the fallen trees were used to make fences to deep the farm animals in and the wild animals out.

The old chock and log fences were general throughout most of Australia in the early days, and many years later they were a useful source of firewood when replaced by post and wire fences. But in the clearing process thousands of tons of good wood was just burned to get it out of the way of the plough. And today we are paying £7 10/- a ton for it.

Having cleared and fenced a piece of land the next job was to plough it. The ploughs of those days were not the big multiple furrow affairs of today with a seat on top, but a single furrow implement drawn by a couple of horses or bullocks and held in the ground by the poor man who walked behind and struggled with the handles and drove his team at the same time. Then the rough ground was broken down with harrows and the seed sown by hand, another backbreaking job where the man loaded himself with about a bushel of wheat (60 lbs. weight) in a satchel slung around his neck.

With this he walked across the prepared ground and with steady strides and rhythm, dipping first his left hand, then his right into the seed and flinging it with wondrous accuracy and evenness right and left. The seed was then covered by another application of the harrows and seeding was complete.

Then down came the galahs and cockatoos in flocks and dug up much of the grain before it grew.

Then when the seed the birds had missed germinated and showed up nice and green and fresh, the kangaroos thought it had just been put there specially for them, and they descended upon it in force.

However, after all that hard work of planting and in spite of the birds and animals, sometimes there was something left to harvest, if floods or fires didn’t get it first.

Harvesting was difficult in those days. The crop had to be cut by hand either by scythe or sickle and bound into sheaves by hand. The band to tie the sheaf was made from the crop, itself twisted expertly into a strand which securely held the sheaf together. The sheaves were stooked in the paddock to dry, then carted and stacked ready for threshing. In the early days much of it was 10

My Family Roots in Australia threshed by hand using flails to break down the heads and separate the grain from the husk. Later, threshing machines were introduced, then strippers and winnowers, then harvesters which stripped and winnowed the wheat in one operation, and now the great header harvesters drawn by tractors can be driven day and night to get the harvest in quickly.

But in those early days after all the hard work and worry to get the wheat into the bags their troubles were not over even then. It had to be carted by slow moving bullock or horse drays over roads that were only tracks, often to find on arrival at the market that there was little or no sale for it after all.

Still those early settlers battled on, and I suppose William and Mary along with the rest faced all these difficulties but continued to work and improve their property. And they must have had some measure of success for a few years later they left the two older sons on that property and moved to another they had bought at Gawler River, about five miles nearer Gawler than “Pine Park” was.

This property, known as “Woodburn”, had previously been the home of the Wilkinson family, so it was more or less settled and improved. This was in the year 1860 and soon after they bought another property adjoining “Woodburn”. It was close to by the Gawler River church, in fact the previous owner a Mr Woods had donated the land for the church in 1854.

The Pedericks had been God-fearing folk of the Anglican faith, but the nearest Church of England was at Gawler, twelve miles away, and in those days of slow travel it was not possible for them to attend there very regularly, so when it was learned that the Methodists, or Wesleyans as they were called then, were proposing to build at Gawler River, William and Mary and their family gladly donated to the fund, even while they were still living at “Pine Park.”

This little church later became the focal point of their lives. It became their centre of recreation and inspiration and played a very important part in the moulding of their lives. From its inception it became the spiritual home of the Pedericks and for many years members of the family held office there, and a large proportion of the congregation were descendants of William and Mary.

It became a stronghold of the Band of Hope, a temperance organisation that I’m afraid has now been almost forgotten. Perhaps it was Mary’s aversion to the drink trade, still living in her descendants, that inspired them to enter whole heartedly into this force, and most of them have been staunch temperance advocates since.

But I am allowing my narrative to run ahead of the years so had better return to the early 1860s.

With the family now settled at “Woodburn” the two sons at home were John and Robert. The latter was one of the Australia-born members of the family.

In the year 1863, when John was about 23, there was another gold rush, this time in New Zealand.

The lure of gold in the early days of Australia seemed to be very strong and time and time again we find men rushing off in search of the elusive metal. A few found wealth, but most reaped only disappointment. Well again the talk was of gold and John and five of his friends decided to go and try their luck. I’m not sure where the field was but I believe it was somewhere down in the South Island, where it was very cold and the country was very rough.

The snow at first was a delight as it is to everyone I think when they see it for the first time, but later it became a menace and for one period they were snow bound for two or three weeks.

Provisions ran out, or at least they had to introduce very meagre rations to eke them out, down to one meal a day of only bread and sugar or, for a change, sugar and bread, as he used to say as he told the story later.

And just as I started to tell this story to my grandson David so I remember John telling me (who was his grandson) the following story of this period, when I was a boy. He told me that about once a month they used to make the trip on foot to some place where they could get provisions and then carry home on their backs sufficient for their needs for the next month. Apparently it was a considerable distance through very wild, rough country, and the journey each way was more than could be accomplished in one day.

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Joe’s War

On one of these trips, towards evening they came to a river, which was in flood and was a roaring torrent. Considering it too dangerous to cross and hoping it would be abated somewhat by morning they decided to camp for the night. I suppose the talk round the campfire that night centred largely on that flooded river in front of them that had to be crossed next day.

So perhaps it was not very surprising that during the night John dreamed of the party crossing the river in the little boat. As they reached the centre of the stream, battling with the raging current, their boat was caught in a whirlpool and spun round out of control. John was thrown out and he was sucked down into the swirling water; of course he woke up. But the dream had been so realistic that he was rather shaken and next morning he was very quiet, but said nothing to his mates about it.

However, matters were not improved at breakfast when one of his mates turned to him and said “My word John you were in trouble last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I dreamed that as we were crossing the river the boat was caught in a whirlpool and you were thrown out and drowned.”

“And I dreamed exactly the same thing”, spoke up another member of the party.

Three of them had all had the same dream and John was the victim in every case.

Imagine his feelings as they got into the little boat to make the crossing that morning. Imagine, too, how he felt when the boat did get out of control for a few moments in a whirlpool. But he didn’t drown, for after all I am his grandson, and they all got across safely.

They found some gold there, perhaps enough to pay their way, but they certainly made no fortunes and after a few months, the snow lost its interest and the sunny skies of South Australia started calling. And I think that perhaps there was a little lass back near home whose face used to appear before John as he lay in his rough tent bed at night and seemed to be beckoning him to return.

Perhaps each of the party had some other lass who became dearer to them as the months slipped by.

In any case, after eight months of it they’d had enough and returned home.

John and Mary Pederick, my paternal grandparents Early in the story, I mentioned the arrival of the Wheaton family at Plympton from Devon.

Through all the intervening years they had remained friends and the families frequently visited one another.

I feel pretty sure that very soon after his return from New Zealand, John thought he must revisit the Wheatons or at least one particular member of the Wheaton family, Mary, the girl whose face had drawn him back from New Zealand. Mary now must have been about twenty years of age and a very pretty little maid too. I know she must have been because at sixty-five when I knew her, she was still a very attractive little woman.

John and Mary were married a couple of years later and went to live in that second property his father had bought at Gawler River, the property known as “Stonehill.”

But before going on with the story of John and Mary, let me tell another story connected with gold and dreams. The man who told it to me was a grandson of the old pioneer concerned in the story and I feel sure that I can vouch for the truth of the story. In the early days a young couple migrated from the old country and took a position as “married couple” on one of the large stations in Australia. Gold fever was in the air. One night the man dreamed that as he was going through the bush he saw in the earth clinging to the roots of a tree that had been uprooted, a large nugget of gold. The dream was very clear, he got a good picture of the locality, but could not recognise it as any place he had ever seen.

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My Family Roots in Australia

Mary Pederick (née Wheaton).

John Pederick.

Of course he thought of it as he went about his work next day, and the next night he had the same dream again exact in every detail. And the third night he dreamed it again. Naturally by this time he had become obsessed with the idea that there must be something in it. He discussed it with his wife and with another young couple on the station. As a result they decided to pool their resources, buy a bullock dray and equipment and go in search of this nugget of gold. So off they drove into the bush, looking for this uprooted tree, which might have been any one of millions spread over millions of square miles in Australia for they had no idea of the whereabouts of the locality they sought. They hadn’t gone very far when one evening they reached a spot where they decided to camp for the night. Something about the place seemed strangely familiar to the man who’d had the dream, so he asked his mate to make camp while he went for a stroll. He hadn’t gone far when he saw the uprooted tree with every detail round it just as he’d seen it in his dream. With his heart beating wildly with excitement, he ran to it and there sure enough held between the roots was a real nugget of gold.

What excitement there must have been in camp that night. They pegged their claim and in a few weeks found a fortune worth many thousands of pounds. Faith such as theirs deserved to win.

To return to John and his bride. In that home they lived for many years, in fact Mary lived there for the rest of her life and died there in 1915, aged 71. The property was sold in 1920 and John moved to Gawler and lived in retirement till he died in his 92nd year in 1931. At “Stonehill” they reared their large family of seven sons and four daughters. The older sons had left home before the youngest member of the family was born, so they never all lived together at one time. Even so, although the house was fairly roomy, I think it must have been very snugly filled at times. Yet it was always a home where hearty hospitality was extended to visitors. It was a memorable occasion when about the year 1904 there was a family reunion and all the family gathered at the home, for the first and only time they were all together.

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Joe’s War

Pederick Family Reunion, October 1904 .

STANDING: Walter John, Norman Joseph, Elsie Ellen, Henry James, Philip Wheaton , Emily Rose.

SEATED: William Thomas, Robert Oliver, John, Mildred Irene, Mary, Ada Annie , Edwin Albert.

As I have mentioned John had a family of eleven. The other brothers also had large families, so it would be hopeless and monotonous to try to trace the history of all the branches of the family from here, so suffice it if I confine myself to the limb or twig of the family tree to which I belong.

William, the pioneer lived at “Woodburn” till his death in 1887 aged 83. Mary his brave little wife had died twelve years earlier. What a brave old couple they were, having faced so many dangers and privations and hardships together so cheerfully. And what a debt of gratitude we owe to them and all those early pioneers. What a lot they accomplished in so few years. If they could only see the transformation that has taken place in the country since they first saw it in 1840. But perhaps they can.

John lived on at “Stonehill”, and as a boy of fourteen, I went there and lived with my grandparents for nine months. It was 1910, the year of the coronation of George V, and I remember watching the illumination in the sky, in the distance over Adelaide, caused by the fireworks display to celebrate the event. Another interesting feature of my sojourn over there was the fact that I made the trip by Cobb & Co. coach from Adelaide to Two Wells.

It was my first and only ride in one of those famous coaches and I was fascinated by the quick change of horses, it was a four in hand, at the half way post.

I remember John as a tall straight man with a grey beard. He loved to dress well. Top hat, long black cloth coat, starched shirt, grey striped trousers, but no tie. What would be the use of a tie anyway behind a long beard. Some years later when he was being eulogised, one of the speakers referred to his straightness. He said words to this effect. “John Pederick was straight in stature. As a young man, he could plough a straight furrow. And these were typical traits of his character. He was straight and he ploughed a straight furrow through life.”

As the family grew up there was not sufficient room or opportunity for them on the home farm, so one by one they moved out and most of them first went to Victoria.

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My Family Roots in Australia From the original pair of Pedericks who migrated to Australia in 1840, the clan has increased to fairly large dimensions. William had four sons and four daughters. I couldn’t follow the offspring of the others but John had seven sons and four daughters some of whom are now great grandparents. They are scattered over the Commonwealth and follow varied vocations. Although I think a majority of them are on the land, there are doctors and teachers, ministers, missionaries and nurses, tradesmen, shop keepers and industrialists, public servants and labourers, but so far as I know, no lawyers or politicians. We have remained a fairly honest crowd.

Not many have made fortunes, but most have been honest respectable, good citizens.

“Of him to whom much has been given, much shall be required.” We have been given much, good parents and good ancestors, pioneering this wonderful country for us. Yes we have indeed a goodly heritage and it’s up to us to carry on as worthy descendants of worthy stock.

Three generations of Pedericks .

Joseph, Oliver, John. Photo taken about 1900.

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Joe’s War

Joseph and Jane Winnett, my maternal grandparents The scene now shifts to Victoria and to the other side of our family — the Winnetts.

Many, many years ago there was a time of religious persecution in France when the Huguenots, a Protestant sect, were being persecuted by the stronger Catholics, back in the sixteenth century, I think. As the persecution became more and more acute, finally culminating in the great massacre of St. Bartholomew’s Day, a number of the people fled from the country and were given refuge by the King of England in Southern Ireland. I understand he gave them a grant of land there. Among those people were our early ancestors of the Winnett family.

It may seem strange today that Protestants fleeing from Catholic persecution in France should migrate to Southern Ireland of all places but the explanation of course is that they were granted asylum by the King of England, and a strong Protestant colony was founded there in Ireland. So it was that the Winnett family, staunch Protestants and Orangemen, lived in Ireland till the middle of the 19th century. They were successful business people and land holders and it seems hard to understand what prompted them to leave comparative security and comfort to start life in a new raw land like Australia. The explanation is a curious one. Grandma Winnett had a sister who was widowed very early in life. She later married her deceased husband’s brother. In so doing she violated a law of the church and created such a scandal that life became intolerable for them and they migrated to Australia. Apparently they liked the new country and soon she persuaded her three sisters, Mrs. Miles, Mrs. Winnett and Miss Bowles to come out too.

Joseph Winnett.

Jane Winnett, (née Bowles).

So it was that about 1850 Grandpa and Grandma Winnett (Joseph and Jane) came to Australia, facing dangers and discomforts on the voyage similar to those experienced by the Pedericks.

They arrived in Melbourne about the time the gold fever struck the colony. There was a rush to a new gold field at Clunes and there they went with their two young children. What an experience for those new people in a new land. Today, over good roads the hundred miles to Clunes can be 16

My Family Roots in Australia covered in comfort in a couple of hours, but in the 1850s it was an entirely different proposition.

Bullock drays or horse wagons were the only means of transport. Roads were non-existent, only rough bush tracks through heavy timber country, over steep mountain ranges and across deep gullies. They were wild lawless days too with all kinds of adventurers drawn by the lure of gold, infesting the country. Bushrangers and highway men lurked in the bush on the roadsides ready to pounce on any unsuspecting travellers.

Yes, Grandma Winnett must have been a brave, little woman to have faced a trip such as that, yet I never heard of her complaining. I guess she often felt like singing “It’s a long way to Tipperary, but my heart’s right there”, even if the song hadn’t been composed then. Yes, she was from Tipperary, and Grandpa from Killaloe, not far away.

And on arrival at Clunes what a mad scene they must have come into. Thousands of people flocked there from all over the world and feverishly set to work to seek the elusive metal. A visit to the district today still shows evidence of their industry. The countryside is dotted with loosened gravel and small mounds of earth where the early prospectors had been at work. Clunes became a boom town. Grandpa Winnett went there not as a miner but as a business man in the boot trade, but in the early days conditions must have been pretty rough. Later the town settled down to become a solid gold mining town. Prospecting gave way to large mining companies operating deeper mines and employing much labour. Business flourished and many substantial buildings were erected, churches of all denominations, a Town Hall, several large hotels.

The Winnetts lived there for about twenty years and I think were reasonably successful in business.

During that time five more children, including my mother were added to their family.

A story is told that one day soon after their arrival on Clunes (yes, people never live in Clunes or at Clunes, they always live on Clunes, which I suppose is a relic of the days when people were on the goldfields of Clunes), Richard and Lizzie, the two children, were out playing some little distance from home, when they came upon an old Irish woman gathering sticks. The old woman stared at them, then demanded in her rough Irish way for them to “Come here.” They were shy, and she did have a handful of sticks so they turned and ran. She called to them to stop and as they looked over their shoulders they saw she was running after them still with the sticks in her hand. They screamed and rushed home as fast as they could run. Their mother came out to see what was the matter and they pointed in terror to the old woman whom they said chased them. The old woman followed them to the house and when she had recovered her breath, explained she had seen the children playing and when she saw their blue eyes she said to herself “No one but Joseph Winnett’s children could have eyes like that”, and so she followed them home and sure enough she found they were Joseph Winnett’s children. She had known him years before in Ireland.

But Clunes went the way of most mining towns. One by one the mines ceased working and people left the town, until it deteriorated to just a sleepy little village surrounded by huge mullock heaps, and the big buildings of its golden past fell into disrepair.

But Joseph Winnett didn’t stay to go into decline with the town. He had been reasonably successful in business and now decided that, as the colony was growing so rapidly, agriculture must come into its own, so he resolved to go on to the land.

About this time 1873-74, a vast stretch of country in the Goulburn valley between Shepparton and Echuca, which prior to this date had been a vast sheep run owned or leased by Sir James M cBain, was thrown open for selection in half-mile, 320 acre, allotments and it was here that Grandpa Winnett came for his land. He selected a block of land about seven miles north of where Merrigum now stands.

This entailed another long and hazardous trip. The nearest railway was Avenel, about forty miles away, but whether they came to there by rail, or did the cross country journey by dray, I cannot say.

In any case, it must have been a nightmare of a trip for the country was heavily timbered and with no roads, the progress must have been painfully slow. Upon arrival at the selection (which I think

17

Joe’s War was bought for £1 an acre on very easy terms), the first thing was to provide some shelter for the family. I believe it was of hessian, probably bags, stretched over a frame of sapling timber.

But what a task then faced those early selectors. The land was very heavily timbered with giant green trees, grey box and yellow box mostly. So dense was the timber that there was practically no grass and any stock that were not urgently needed had to be sent down south for feed. To drive through the Kyabram district now, it is difficult to believe that such conditions prevailed there only about eighty years ago. The trees grew so thickly that it was difficult to travel anywhere in a vehicle of any kind and the usual mode of travel was horseback. I remember my mother, who was one of the Australian-born Winnetts, born on Clunes, saying that on one occasion when she was a girl she was sent on horseback to find Kyabram, which was about six miles across country to the southwest. She did find the town, which then consisted solely of one hawker’s van, situated on a site about a mile northwest of where the town now is and known then as “Pine Grove”.

Another story she used to tell was that on another occasion she and a young schoolmistress rode across to Tongala South to the residence of Mr and Mrs W. H. Day. It was dusk when they commenced the return journey. In the thick timber it soon became very dark. There were no roads or fences, the original sheep run had been only subdivided by rough brush fences into paddocks of thirty or forty square miles each. After about two hours riding the girls thought they should be near home, yet had a feeling they were off course somehow. Then they were greatly relieved to see a light in the distance. They rode across to the light and found it was from the hut occupied by young John Allen, later Premier of Victoria. They were still six or seven miles from home but he directed them how they should go and they rode off into the dark again. After nearly two hours again they saw a light and then found they were back at John Allen’s. This time he saddled a horse and took them home. Today between the sites of the Winnett and Day homesteads, a distance of perhaps ten miles, all the native trees could probably be counted on one’s fingers.

The trees had to be ringbarked before grass would grow, and cleared before the land could be cultivated. Fences had to be erected. There was no shortage of good timber so most of the first fences were of chock and log.

But when the land was cleared the true fertility of the ground was revealed and miraculously lush green grass appeared. Water was a problem. The country was very flat and level and in summertime the natural water holes dried up. The squatters’ dams were miles apart and quite inadequate, so water had to be carted in barrels from the river. This was sufficient only for household requirements, so stock had to be driven down on alternate days for a drink. Of course the poor brutes would be thirsty again by the time they did the nine miles return trip home, but would have to wait a couple of days before their next trip to the river.

About the third or fourth year there was a severe drought and things went very hard for the new settlers. It must have been about this time that the Bishop of Melbourne visited the district to open a new church. Someone suggested that he should pray for rain. “Dam the rain” replied the Bishop.

Already people were thinking of irrigation and as the Bishop was also a great advocate of irrigation, everyone understood what he meant and I think none were shocked at his apparent lapse.

Perhaps his outburst did encourage public opinion in its fight for an adequate water supply, but it was still a few years before they were given even a limited supply for stock and domestic purposes only. And it was not until 1888, when the Goulburn weir at Nagambie was completed that the fuller irrigation scheme came into operation and the real development of the district began. Many of the settlers were against irrigation, claiming that it was unnatural and would ruin the soil and turn it all back to swamp land. But the majority welcomed it and irrigation soon proved to be beneficial to the district.

But before irrigation did come the pioneer settlers had a very hard struggle. As before mentioned, the land had first to be cleared, then ploughed with very primitive implements; a single furrow plough drawn by two horses, and one acre per day was considered good going. Then the seed had to be sown by hand and without superphosphate the results were very uncertain. The strain of wheat itself was really not the best for the climate and soil.

18

My Family Roots in Australia Research later introduced much superior bearing strains more suited to the district. When the crop came up the birds and kangaroos descended upon it. Then later in its growth, that which had survived was ruined by rust and smut. The preventive measure of “pickling” the seed in a solution of copper sulphate before sowing had not then been discovered. Even when the wheat was harvested by the very primitive and back-breaking methods and was sown up in the bags, the troubles were not all over. It still had to be hauled either to Avenel or Rochester to the railway, each not less than thirty miles away, over rough country tracks, by horse or bullock transport. It was common practice to back load with barrels of water on the return journey.

Joseph Winnett was not a young man when he came to the district and farming was new to him.

Soon his health deteriorated and he died, I think, about the time that the irrigation came to the district.

Oliver and Jane Pederick, my parents It must have been just about this time too that the two eldest sons of John Pederick of Gawler River decided to come to Victoria and they, Walter and Oliver, came to the Kyabram district to live.

During the next few years, younger brothers also came across (Phil, Harry, Will and Norm), and all lived in the Kyabram district for a time. Oliver (my father) and Walter bought blocks of land at Lancaster, planted them with fruit trees and were among the pioneer fruit growers in a district which now is world renowned for its fruit. Walter sold out to Phil and then all but Oliver and Phil left the district and moved to West Australia.

Being good Methodists, they had on arrival in the district joined the Methodist Church at Lancaster, and it was probably there that Oliver met Jane Winnett. They were married there in 1895, thus uniting two pioneer families.

Jane Pederick (née Winnett).

Robert Oliver Pederick (called Oliver).

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Joe’s War After Grandpa Winnett died his property was sold and Grandma and her three younger daughters went to live in Kyabram. The old property was bought by Baron Von Swayne, a German baron who had come to the district some years earlier and established his homestead just opposite the Lancaster school on the Merrigum Road. At the homestead he had planted about 150 acres of orchard, then about 1904 he built a beautiful home on it, laid out extensive gardens and hedges, then went home to Germany and returned with a bride. But the bride didn’t like Australia so they returned again to Germany and thereafter visited Australia for a brief period every two years.

Grandpa Winnett’s farm and one adjoining were used by the Baron for dairying for a number of years and then about 1910 or 1912 he planted a large area of it with fruit trees. But early in 1914 he sold all his Australian property and was safely home in Germany when war was declared.

Apparently he had been forewarned.

Just a few interesting points in passing. The house the Baron built and named “Karlsruhe” was built of timber with a red tiled roof. It must have been the first tiled roof in the district for there was great discussion about it. Many local authorities considered the roof would be too heavy for the walls to support and predicted that the whole place would soon collapse. Today, over fifty years later it still stands, of course. The tiles and much of the other building material and all the furniture was specially imported from Germany, but to his credit he placed all his orders through local business houses. The tiles came packed in straw, and somewhere in transit the straw became infested with rats, great big, blue-grey, European rats, which soon multiplied and spread through the district. For many years, perhaps still, these rats were known as Baron’s rats.

When we were at school at Lancaster we used to be amused when the Baron’s carriage drove by. In the front seat rode the groom and the nurse, in the back seat rode the Baron and Baroness. The Baroness nursed a poodle, while her baby was left to the nurse to look after.

Some strange parallels between the two families may be noted here. Both the original pioneers were boot makers by trade. Both practised their trade here before going onto the land. Both had considered going to America before deciding to come to Australia and other members of both families did migrate to America. And both families were originally Church of England but became loyal Methodists here when they found there was no church of their own near enough to attend.

I remember the old church at Lancaster. It was a wooden building with a shingle roof and was situated about a mile east of where the present brick church now stands. One of my earliest memories is of the time when it was moved intact by traction engine to its present position in the farm yard of Samuel Lancaster’s homestead where it serves as stable and barn. It was in that old church, where as a very young child, I saw and heard the first phonograph. I was scared stiff at the queer machine with the great long, trumpet-shaped amplifier, which talked and sang so weirdly and I had to be taken screaming from the building. I can still picture that old machine and perhaps that is why, to this day, I detest recorded music.

The new church was opened and sometime later an addition was made to it, a vestry. The new building was in course of construction when there was a special celebration held to commemorate the diamond jubilee of Queen Victoria’s reign. All the children were decked out in new Sunday best and of course we were all more interested in the new building. Lull, my sister, had a new red dress and red shoes, and she fell into the lime slaking pit. It was about three feet deep so you can imagine how she and the new dress looked when she was hauled out.

But I’m digressing again; it’s hard to keep this in chronological order. In any case I started out to tell David some stories, not to write a history.

The early orchardists had a hard battle. There were no local canneries, marketing was not well organised and growers were very much at the mercy of unscrupulous dealers. It was not uncommon to get, instead of a cheque for a consignment of fruit, a bill for dumping of the fruit because the dealer stated the fruit had arrived at the market in an unsaleable condition, or perhaps the market was over supplied and the fruit could not be sold.

20

My Family Roots in Australia It was while we were living on that property that Grandma Winnett died. She died in Kyabram and as there was, at that time, no cemetery at Kyabram, the burial was at Mooroopna about twenty miles away. I remember watching the funeral procession as it passed along the road in front. Black horses drawing a black hearse decked with about eight large plumes, perhaps two feet high. A black coffin, everyone dressed in black, no flowers or colour and those horses walking at about three miles an hour for that twenty mile journey. Funerals were very sombre in those days.

It was here, too, that I started school. I started on the first day the new school at Lancaster was opened. It was on the corner diagonally opposite to where the present school stands and is used as a residence now, I think. The school had been moved from a site a mile or two east and the first teacher was Miss Crawford, who for a while boarded at our home.

Arbour Day was a great day at school, the day on which we planted trees. We each planted a tree and it was our tree and we took great pride in tending it. One of the big old trees today in front of the old building was my tree, also others planted in succeeding years on nearly roads.

Just one word about the old home. Dad built it for his bride, of sun dried mud bricks which he made and built himself. Now over sixty years later it still stands in good order. Strangely enough twenty-one years after he sold it, I took my family there to live for a couple of years. And it was while we were there that Elva (my youngest child) was born from the same house where I was born.

There was no labour shortage in those days. There were several camping grounds in the district where the unemployed or swaggies congregated. If you wanted an extra man or an extra six men you just went to the nearest camp and made your selection. The usual wage was £1 a week, enough to keep oneself.

Joseph Pederick.

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Joe’s War

When I was about eight years old, Dad sold the orchard and for a couple of years managed another larger orchard for J. S. Maclean.

Kyabram was growing. More and more fruit trees were being planted. More and more lucerne was being sown. Superphosphate was being used and the fertility and productivity of the land was greatly increased. Dairying was coming into favour. Better strains of wheat had been produced giving better yields than before. Better machines had been invented for tilling the ground and harvesting the crops.

Roads were still a problem. There was no stone in the district and with the increased traffic, all roads were a quagmire in winter and a dust bath in summer. But it was many, many years before any of the present fine macadamised roads materialised. They would hardly have been possible without the motor car or the motor truck and of course the motor car and motor truck would have been pretty useless without the roads.

Talking of motor cars reminds me that the first motor car I saw was while I was at school at Lancaster, probably about 1904. It was the first in the district and owned by a doctor at Shepparton.

He kindly stopped in front of the school so that all the children could see the wonderful machine. It was a single seater, no windscreen, tiller steerage and the engine under the seat. It was a mighty contraption but we thought it was wonderful. I think I was about fifteen or sixteen years of age, before I ever had an opportunity to actually ride in a car. I suppose it was a Model T Ford or an early Overlander, but what a thrill. I’m sure I’ve never travelled so fast since. We fairly flew at about thirty miles per hour.

But Dad wanted to be on his own again and was tired of the uncertainty of fruit growing, so began to look about for a farming property and after much searching decided on a property at Wyuna.

Life on the farm Among my earliest recollections are picnic trips to the Goulburn River at McCoy’s Bridge from Lancaster. It was about twelve miles and with a slow horse in the buggy was quite a journey. For miles on the way we had to pass through Wyuna station, a property owned by Finley Bros. It was virgin land, some consisting of heavily timbered country, ring-barked many years earlier, and for some miles a bare treeless plain. Wyuna Station was approximately forty square miles in extent and was the last section remaining of the great Station which at one time extended from Shepparton to Echuca and from about Rushworth to Goulburn River. Sheep and cattle were being run on it but its real production potential had hardly been touched.

In 1904 Wyuna Station was bought by the Closer Settlement Board and next year on one of our picnic trips to the river, there was evidence of great activity. Horse teams were busy everywhere excavating irrigation channels. The property had been subdivided into blocks varying in size from five acres to about three hundred acres, and over the whole area men could be seen erecting fences.

Over-night almost, dozens of huts and tents had sprung up as the new settlers came to take up their new blocks of land. The whole area was a hive of industry as men tackled the task of converting a sheep station into a Closer Settlement, irrigation, mixed farming district.

Good early rains came and a large area, particularly on the plains, where no clearing was necessary, was ploughed and sown with wheat. It was roughly sown that first year, but the season was good and the virgin soil produced good crops. With superphosphate, those plains with only about two inches of topsoil over the clay grew good wheat year after year for several years. Before the days of super-phosphate, wheat had been tried without any success.

But 1907 was not such a happy year for the new settlers. Larger areas had been cultivated. Timber country had been cleared and sown. Following the success of the first year the settlers had brought more stock and, in fact, greatly overstocked. However, that year the rains did not come. That was the year my father bought a farm at Wyuna. The previous settler had built a house on it and a few rough sheds, fenced the boundary, stocked the place with dairy cattle and after one year sold out.

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My Family Roots in Australia

The day we moved in, April Fool’s Day 1907, the cattle were fat and there was good native grass feed and everything looked lovely. I was the oldest of the family, 10 years old, and for a few days thought it was great fun going for the cows and then learning to milk and all the other things about the farm were of great interest for a while. The place was infested with rabbits and what boy doesn’t like rabbiting, but being so plentiful even that soon lost its novelty.

One method we used was to dig a drain into one of the large burrows and run the irrigation water in.

As the water rose the rabbits were driven out and we were waiting for them as they emerged out of the water. One day we were doing this, myself and the three younger brothers, the youngest being less than three years old, and our old dog. The dog was too keen and would pounce on the rabbits before they were clear of the burrow. Bunny preferred drowning to being torn to pieces by a dog, so would dive back in and not return. So to keep the dog back, we chained him on to the baby! A while after, a rabbit bolted from the burrow and away went the dog and the baby, right through a big dry clump of scotch thistles. My, was that baby in a mess. I think we spent the rest of the day, not rabbiting, but extracting splinters out of the baby Bick, my youngest brother.

Our land was heavily timbered but Dad managed to get a few acres cleared and sown that first year.

I remember he sowed lucerne with the crop. It came up nicely but then the rains ceased. The grass in the paddock withered and died, and the rabbits descended on the lucerne patch and ate it right out of the ground. Fodder was scarce, the price prohibitive and money scarce. The cattle grew thinner and thinner and, one by one, they died. For a first year it was a calamity. Of course, we youngsters were too young to realise just how serious it must have been but I don’t remember Mum or Dad complaining about it or becoming discouraged. I do remember, though, their concern for the suffering of the poor cattle. Some we saved, but some others we nursed for weeks before they died.

Those early settlers at Wyuna were perhaps not pioneers but they were a hardy lot. They had many discomforts to contend with, much hard work, many disappointments, in spite of which they battled on and won through.

So just let us have a look at these people. They were good people. I have great respect for them, so I do not wish to criticise or belittle or convey any spirit of malice in any way by any of the stories I tell of them. But in any community of people drawn from every walk and strata of life and suddenly thrown together in a common venture, such as they were, certain incidents must arise, some humorous, some serious, some tragic, some gay. In any such community there must be some ordinary people, and some extraordinary people. At any rate that was the case at Wyuna, but it says much for their good sense and citizenship that those people, so far apart in so many ways were able to get together, and work together, and plan together for the common good.

Not many of them were over forty years of age, I suppose, but with their flowing beards, I think they looked much older. Beards were the order of the day then and Wyuna had some beauties.

There were some memorable characters among those early settlers. George Day, with a particularly flourishing beard, had a very large family. I’ve forgotten just how many, but I remember him giving a recitation at a church concert. The recitation was about a Mr Day who married a Miss Week. I’ve forgotten the rest of the poem, but I do remember he nearly brought the house down when he came to the last line “There’ll soon be enough of little Days to make another Week.”

He had an impediment in his speech and always got mixed up with his aspirants. He put in H’s where they shouldn’t have been and left them out where they should have been. He was a local preacher and also fancied himself as a bit of a singer. Some of his favourite hymns were “We hare hout hon the hocean sailing to hour ‘ome beyond the sky” and “When hall my labours hand trials hare ho’er.” He would really let his head go on those.

Then there was the humour of old Frank Fox when he named his place “Den Ho Farm” and had a neat name plate made for his gate.

23

Joe’s War

Also, there was the poet and humourist Larry Argus who used to write lengthy and amusing articles in prose and verse telling of the petty squabbles and incidents that occurred on the new settlement.

He was a self-educated man, very well read, and worked hard for better conditions, but unfortunately, he died when still a young man and was one of the first settlers to go.

The family of five Pederick children .

STANDING: Alec Wheaton , Joseph John, Paul Bickford (Bick), Wilfred Oliver.

FRONT: Ella Neva (Lull).

George Stratton was his next door neighbour. He had never gone to school and could neither read nor write and signed his name with his mark X. But you’d have to get up very early in the morning to take him down for a penny in a deal. He could drive a bargain with anyone and could reckon money better than many better educated people. But as youngsters we used to like to look over his 24

My Family Roots in Australia shoulder in church and often find that he was singing away with his hymn book upside down and opened at the wrong page. He was one of the stewards in the church and as he went from pew to pew with the collection plate, you’d hear him, “Milking many, Mr. Pederick?” “How’s the ploughing going, George?” or “Sown any yet, Bob?” or “Looks like rain, Jim.” Or Bob Keating, that great old Northern Irishman with all his unconscious Irish wit. I wish I could write, I’d write a book about him. We’ve laughed for hours over some of his stories and sayings.

He liked his little drop of the “craythur,” my father didn’t. Both knew each other perfectly. One hot day they met in the street in Tongala. Dad invited him to come into a shop and have a soft drink. Bob liked soft drinks just about as well as Dad liked hard drinks, so with a merry twinkle in his eye he replied “No thanks Mr Pederick, I’ve just been round the blacksmiths and had a great belly full of water.” The blacksmiths shop was at the rear of the pub.

We used to love to go over to his place to listen to his yarns. One night my brother, Alec, had gone there on one such visit. Alec was a very shy youth in those days (he’s changed since), and Bob had a very shy daughter, but I really believe Alec had gone to see Bob, not Nellie. After they’d been talking for some time, Bob the old rascal, suddenly turned to Alec. “You’ve been coming here a lot Alec. What are your intentions?” Nellie bolted from the room and was Eck’s face red!

Alec was helping Bob with the cropping one year. As they were having morning lunch in the paddock they noticed young Bick coming up the road in the old buggy but they couldn’t at that distance recognise the passenger on the seat beside him. They were both wondering who it was, when, suddenly, enlightenment dawned on Bob’s face and “It’s your father, Alec, I can tell by the shape of his face.” When Bick arrived it was the big old black and tan dog on the seat beside him.

Bob was a staunch Orangeman. His friend, Jack, was married to a Catholic. One day Bob went across to visit Jack and found him entertaining the priest with a “drop of the doings”, so invited Bob to join in and have a drink with them.

“Of course, you know it was really aginst me principles to drink with the praist. I didn’t like doing it at all, but I couldn’t offend Jack so what could I do. But I didn’t like doing it and that’s the truth.”

He was a keen fisherman and so was Len Dewar (who later married Lull). Len had cray pots set in the river. He went down early one morning to see if he’d had any luck. He found none in his pots but quite a few in some other pots he discovered and suspected belonged to Bob. He put the crays in his bag and on the way home met Bob on his way down to the river.

“Have some crays, Bob”, said Len. “No thanks, Len, I got them out of yours yesterday morning.” And with that same wicked grin, turned his horse for home again.

Flies were very bad in the early days of Wyuna, and not many of the houses ran to wire doors in those days. One day Lull took a girl friend from Melbourne round to visit Mrs. Keating. She was a very generous, kindly woman but she had very poor eye sight. For afternoon tea among other things, she had some passion fruit jam on the table. The town lass was enjoying some of this, when Mrs. Keating peered across the table and said most politely, “Excuse me Myrtle, but are they flies or mouse dirt in that jam you’re eating?” Exit Myrtle.

Bob was having a stack of wheat threshed. The agreement was that Bob must supply labour to keep the straw clear, all other labour to be supplied by the contractor. But it was a very windy day and Bob’s men were unable to cope with the straw. Henry the contractor was an excitable man.

Fortunately, Bob was calm and placid. Bob was across the paddock irrigating and having a quiet yarn with Ted his neighbour, when Harry came dashing over to them. A channel was between them but Henry shouted across into the wind, “You’ll have to get an extra man to keep the straw clear.”

“Can’t hear you”, Bob replied. “An extra man”, Henry shouted louder. “Can’t hear you”, pretending to cup his ear. Henry took in air and fairly yelled, “I want an extra man.” “It’s no use Harry. I cain’t hear you”, and Bob quietly walked away while Henry, in disgust, rushed back to his 25

Joe’s War thresher. Ted turned back to Bob. “No doubt, Bob, you’re a marvel. If he’d spoken to me like that I’d have hit him in the nose.” “Oh I don’t know”, said Bob. “I think if he’d said another word, I’d have sloiced him down with the shovel.”

Now just one more. Across the road from Bob lived old Parky. Parky was a blacksmith turned farmer. But he still did a bit of work as a blacksmith. In fact when he was in his shop he was thinking of what he should be doing on his farm. And when he was working in the paddock he would be thinking how much more profitably he could be employed in his shop. Consequently he was not very successful in either venture. He was a short thick set man and fairly corpulent. One day Bob went across to the smithy. It was a hot day and the soot from the blacksmith’s fire adhered to the perspiration and Parky was as black as night. At this time, Parky was an enthusiastic pig breeder and had recently bought a new pedigreed boar of which he was very proud. So as soon as Bob arrived, “You haven’t seen my new pig yet Bob. He’s a champion; you must come down to see him.” So off they went down to the farm yard.

At first the pig couldn’t be found. Then Parky remembered the straw stack. The pigs had burrowed tunnels through it so Parky reckoned that was where the new pig was hiding.

“You wait on the other side, Bob” he said, “while I crawl in here and drive him out.”

Years after Bob was telling me the story and tears ran down his face even then as he recalled the amusing incident. He said that after a few minutes there was a scuffle inside the stack then out of the tunnel shot two figures.

“Honest to God, Joe, for a moment I couldn’t tell which was Parky and which was the pig.” They were both black and about the same build.

Parky was one of the most jovial, optimistic, carefree people I’ve ever known, with a laugh once heard, never forgotten. It seemed to come right from the inner recesses of his anatomy. I remember how we used to laugh at the convulsions that took place in that large corporation when he laughed.

If it was a drought this year, “By jove, we’ll have a good year next year.”

That was his philosophy. One day he’d bought a wagon load of pigs in the market and on the way home the door of the wagon came open and out jumped about two thirds of his pigs and he never saw them again, But, he said “By jove, I’ll do well out of the ones that are left.”

He had a large family and times were often tough, but tough times could never break his spirit and he’d always have a laugh and faith in the future. One of his daughters was being married. His wife was a wonderful cook and had prepared a great spread, with a beautiful wedding cake decorated as well as any professional could have done it. The night before the wedding they decided it would be nice to taste the cake to be sure it was quite all right. It was so good that they ate it all and had to get up very early next morning and make another.

Then there was John Joyce, a bewhiskered bachelor of forty years or more. I think he was the most placid, even tempered man I’ve ever known. Nothing ever seemed to ruffle or bustle him. At the commencement of hay harvest one year, he yoked his team into the reaper-binder and went out to cut his crop. But the horses just refused to budge. He coaxed and persuaded all that day and never once raised his voice or lost his temper with them, but they refused to move. Next morning he was out early again but with same result. During the morning, Dad suggested that perhaps if he put one of our reliable horses in the team the others might go. This was tried but our horse proved to be a worse jib than his, so we bought him home again and John persevered again all day with his own, but still couldn’t get a move out of them. Now if there’s one thing more annoying than another, or more conducive to frayed nerves and rising tempers, it is a jibbing horse, and I never knew any other man who could remain cool after two days of it. The third morning he came out again as usual and the team walked off and gave no more trouble for the rest of the season. Then one day John started to build a house and he bought a nice pair of ponies, which he drove tandem and before long he won himself a wife and eventually they, too, had a large family.

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My Family Roots in Australia One day, Dad and Alec were driving along the road when they noticed John’s team of six horses galloping round the paddock trailing a plough behind them in a great cloud of red dust. Fearing John was unaware that his team was bolting, they whipped up their horse and drove into his yard to tell him. Imagine their surprise when they arrived there to find him standing on his door step with his hands in his pockets watching the bolting team.

“They’ll stop soon”, he said, and sure enough after a few minutes they galloped up to the stable yard still trailing the plough and there they stopped. He walked across to them seated himself on the plough and drove off back to work again. Another man would probably have run out and tried to stop them, and most likely got himself knocked over by them and killed.

Early in 1920, he moved from the district and years later I called to see him, when he was well over eighty years of age. He told me of one time in the old Wyuna days when he took a load of pigs to the Echuca market and was offered nine shillings a dozen for them. He said, “I went and sat on the fence rail and I considered this way. If it’s a bad seller’s market it must be a good buyer’s market, so I went to an agent and asked him if he could get some oats for me. He could, so I ordered two rail truck loads from him. It came a drought that year and I sold those oats at a profit of £260, so I really did pretty well out of my pigs after all.”

Yes, there were some characters among those early settlers, but most of them were no fools. I think perhaps I was the biggest fool, as you’ll learn from this story. We had been grazing some poddies in a neighbour’s stubble paddock for a month or two, so one day dad told me to go over and bring them home again.

“Of course,” Dad said, “if Mr. Archibald offers you a pound a head for them, you can tell him he can have them. I was about eleven or twelve then and felt very important as I rode over to get the calves. As I was driving them out, old Mr. Archibald came out.

“Do you think your father would sell the calves?” he asked.

“Oh yes I think he would.”

“Well, tell him I’ll give him 25/- a head for them.”

“You can have them then,” I replied.

“But you’d better ask your father first,” he said.

“No, it’ll be all right, you can have them.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Dad said you could have them for a pound.”

So he sent along his cheque for £1 a head. Now do you see what I mean?

Just one more character study. Soon after we settled at Wyuna, one neighbour called. After he had gone, Dad said, “I hope I never have much to do with that man.”

A few months later, the river flooded and that particular neighbour was flooded out. He had to move his cattle out in a hurry and Dad told him to run them in our paddock. They were there for several weeks and of course no fees were charged for their grazing. That man never forgot that little kindness. He did not see eye to eye with Dad in many things, but they were always the best of friends and he was always anxious to help in any way. I’ve heard him speak up in defence of Dad on a number of occasions.

He’d say, “Well, I don’t agree with Mr Pederick, but I won’t oppose his wishes, for I’ll never forget he was the man who helped me when I was flooded out, and things were looking bad for me.”

And in the years since, I have proved that you cannot judge a book by its cover, and you cannot judge a man on first acquaintance, and there is often a pearl hidden in a rough looking old oyster.

And in most men there is a spark of goodness. And the “rough diamond” often has a heart of gold.

I’ve got the metaphors mixed there but you know what I mean.

27

Joe’s War Well, now that we’ve met a few of our neighbours, let’s get back to life on the farm. I mentioned that for a while we boys thought life on the farm was great. But after a while we ceased to enjoy the fun of rising early to trudge round a 140 acre paddock in the dark looking for the cows, then having to sit down and milk up to half a dozen each before 8.30 am, the time we had to start walking the three miles to school. Then after our three mile tramp home there’d be another mile tramp after the cows, and the same old monotonous job of milking again. No wonder we soon grew to hate the very sight of cows.

That first school was funny. For the first year of the settlement there had been no schools and the youngsters had just run wild. When a school was opened, quite a few who had been about fourteen or a little more when their families came to Wyuna, now came back to school, and were they a wild lot. Boys, some of them near sixteen years old were far more interested in the girls of that age than they were in school lessons. Quite a few of the school courtships later blossomed into life partnerships. One of the favourite games was “Kelly Gangs”. The police parties would chase the “Kellys” for miles at lunch time and quite forgot about returning to school.

One day the teacher caught some of the boys smoking gum roots. Mr Cecil was a good teacher and a heavy smoker. He assembled the offenders and told them smoking was no good but if they really wanted to smoke they should get a pipe and tobacco, and not smoke roots. Next day about a dozen of the boys marched into school smoking tobacco in clay pipes they’d bought in the store next door.

That three mile walk to school was no fun either. In summer it was hot and dusty, not a tree for over two miles of it, and in winter it was just three miles of sticky red mud.

Sometimes in wet weather we used to drive. I was the eldest so I was the driver. I was about eleven. Into the cart we’d load all the neighbours’ youngsters, they all seemed to have plenty, and off we’d go. I often had thirteen or fourteen youngsters in the cart. One interesting pastime on the journey, and of course to show the others what a good driver I was, was to drive the old horse as fast as he’d go and then see how close I could drive to the fence posts. I was pretty good, very good, so good that one day when I drove so close to the fence I hit it. What a scatter of passengers, some out the right side and over the fence, some out the left side into the mud, others nose first into the floor boards. None were seriously hurt so we all got aboard again and off to school. I had to do quite a bit of threatening and bribing so that none would tell on me, and not one of them let me down.

Each year a few more acres would be cleared and fenced and eventually sown down in lucerne.

The trees were huge and numerous and clearing was hard work.

I left school just after my thirteenth birthday and from then on took on more and more of the farm work. I’d learned to plough before then and because I disliked the cows so much, I was given most of the team work and Dad attended to the cows.

But those first years at Wyuna were hard. I often wondered now how the people kept on going. I think of my mother with five growing children. She had to take her place in the cow yard helping with the milking. For several years we churned all the cream and she made up the butter. She had to cut lunches and get us off to school. She made all our clothes. I never had a bought suit until I was in my teens. She fed calves and pigs, raised poultry, always had a nice flower garden, baked bread, did all the washing (no machines in those days), yet found time to do a bit of fancy work and some sewing for charities and missions and was never too tired to go to help or to visit anyone who was in need.

Those people were busy, they had none of the amenities or time saving devices we have today, yet, miraculously, they seemed to have more time than we. Life wasn’t all work. We did have recreations and we did have fun. We had to make our own amusements. They were not readymade as they are today, but I think we got more real enjoyment than the young people do today, and it didn’t cost so much. There were no picture theatres round the corner and in any case if there had been we’d have had no money to go.

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My Family Roots in Australia But a picnic at the river! What fun we could get out of that, even though the fish weren’t biting and the mosquitoes were. And the local concerts, and the evenings round the piano at home. And for those who danced, what was wrong with a hop in the old barn at the Homestead. And the moon shone just as sweetly in those days as it does today, and it was much safer and slower driving a horse one hand, than a high powered motor car.

So things drifted along till 1914. By that time the farms were reasonably improved and subdivided, and the original huts had been replaced by reasonable houses. There had been several good years and the farmers had begun to reap the rewards from their labours.

Then the rains ceased and again a drought was on the land. But worse than that, in early August war clouds gathered. For years there had been talk of war with Germany, but it had gone on for so long that people consoled themselves by saying that “war between the two countries would be impossible now, as both sides are so involved financially and industrially, they just couldn’t afford to go to war.” And then again we had such faith in the Power and Might of the British Empire that we felt no other power would dare to assail us.

So it came as a shock, when we read our papers on August 4th 1914 and found that war had been declared and Australia had volunteered her help. More than that, the first shot had been fired, and the first shot of the war was fired here in Victoria. A German boat in Melbourne had evidently received secret instructions to get out of the port at once. She attempted to sail without her clearances and as she neared Queenscliff was challenged by the garrison fort there. She ignored the challenge and attempted to pass but a shot across her bows from the fort convinced her the game was up and she was taken back to port and interned for the rest of the war. And that was the first shot.

The members of the Light Horse and the Citizen Forces were alerted and told to stand by in readiness. But Australia was to send a volunteer Army, and many from the Light Horse and the Citizen Forces volunteered and some stayed at home. And many others who had never done any training at all volunteered too.

In August 1914, I was glad that I was only seventeen and too young to enlist. The thought of war and soldiering terrified me, but I was consoled by the fact that I wouldn’t be eighteen till November and by that time the Germans would be well and truly beaten.

Yes that was the general feeling in 1914. Most people thought that the boys who enlisted in Australia could never get there in time. By the time they had completed their training here and then been shipped half way round the world, the war would be over. But in any case they would have a nice, trip out of it, so they were dubbed “five bob a day tourists”.

But while the boys were training the drought was developing. This time though the position of Wyuna was brighter. We now had lucerne well established and plenty of water. And the hot dry weather was good lucerne weather. It grew as never before and the market for it was good, up to £15 a ton for baled lucerne hay. We cut three crops off it before Xmas, and sold the lot. There was still time for three more cuts and that would be more than sufficient for our own requirements. But then the water ran out and there was no more lucerne and we were trapped.

We had some ambercane and sorghum and this kept the cattle going for a while, and we were hoping for early autumn rains to save the situation.

One day in February, we were loading sorghum on to the dray to cart it out to the hungry cows.

Dad was on the dray stacking it, and I was throwing the cane up to him. Suddenly something frightened the horse and she jumped. Dad over-balanced and fell off the back of the dray. He really slid down the long lengths of cane and didn’t fall so very far, but he landed on the back of his neck in such a twisted way that he got up and laughed at himself. Then of course I had to laugh too.

But after a moment or two he stopped laughing and caught hold of his neck with his two hands and said, “By Daddy, I gave it a nasty twist, I think I must have ricked my neck.”

29

Joe’s War He wouldn’t get up into the dray, but told me to lead the horse and he steadied himself with one hand on the back of the dray, while with the other hand he steadied his neck. So he walked about a quarter of a mile and I got him home and into bed. It was painful all night and as he expected, more painful and stiff next day. On about the third day, he was worse so we sent for the doctor. The doctor pronounced it a broken neck. He said to move him would probably be fatal, so we packed him up in sand bags to keep him rigid and arranged for a trained nurse to come to look after him.

He had a very close call, but after several weeks the doctor moved him to hospital where the neck was x-rayed and the doctor’s diagnosis confirmed. It was while he was in hospital that the first Anzac Day was born. Australian soldiers went into action at Gallipoli with such drastic and well known results. The war then became a personal matter for Australians, and for me.

In the meantime I was only eighteen, in charge of the farm in the throes of a drought. The ambercane went and the rains didn’t come. The cows grew thinner and thinner, and prices were falling steadily. We didn’t want to bother Dad too much about these things, so Mum and I talked it over and decided we couldn’t bear to have cattle dying of starvation again. And so it was that on the next cattle sale day I cut out all the young cattle and all the least valuable ones, about thirty head of them, and drove them off to market. I sold the lot at an average of about £2 pound each, and six weeks later would have had to pay £12 to buy them back.

Yes, soon after we sold the cattle the drought broke. But Dad was an invalid for about six months and I had to carry on. Cropping time came round. It was a busy time for me. Up at about 4.45 am to feed the horses. While they were feeding I’d spend an hour or so grubbing out roots and filling in holes where stumps had been turned out and generally getting the ground ready for the day’s ploughing (for this was the last section of the farm to be cleared for cultivation). Then a bite of breakfast and out on the plough about sunrise. At lunch time, while I was resting, it was my job to spend half an hour or so on the handle of the separator to extract the cream from the morning’s milking, which had been done by Mum and the younger boys. At the end of the day after the ploughing there were logs to be loaded on to the dray and carted off, fires to be stoked up round stumps being burned out, horses to be fed, more milk to be separated, then after tea another trip round the fires. Altogether quite a day.

But during those long days I thought a lot about the war which at that time was not going as we had expected or would have liked. I read every bit of war news and cut out pictures and posted them in a scrap book. And it was then I decided I’d have to enlist too.

So soon after Dad returned home from hospital, I told him what was on my mind and though he didn’t encourage me much, he certainly didn’t oppose the idea. He was still having a good deal of trouble with his neck, so I promised to see the harvest in before I left. And what a bumper harvest that was. The rains were late in coming but continued on till early summer and the growth was terrific. Crops went three or four tons and more per acre and we stacked several hundred tons of it that year. The day after the last sheaf was stacked, I enlisted.

30

I BECOME A SOLDIER IN THE AUSTRALIAN IMPERIAL FORCES Enlistment Dad drove me in to Echuca. I was nervous and apprehensive. First I went to the Recruiting Office and signed some papers and was then given a memo to take to a local doctor for a medical inspection. I was quite prepared to accept the doctor’s verdict. I told myself I’d be just as well pleased if he said I was unfit for service, but as soon as he said “Fit”, I was all keen and ready to go.

So that was how I got into the Army.

At the beginning of the story, you remember David asked for some stories about soldiers. Of course David has gone to sleep hours ago, and you, dear reader, must be bored stiff, but his request for stories has started me reminiscing and like Tennyson’s brook I go on and on.

So my stories about soldiering will not be a diary of my experiences, but rather a collection of stories of my impressions and experiences, perhaps not exactly in chronological order, but all true or based on fact.

Well the doctor had said “Fit”, so now I wanted to get on with the job. There was just time to catch the evening train to Melbourne and I decided to be on that train to present myself for final medical check and swearing in at the Melbourne Town Hall next morning.

At about ten o’clock next morning, I duly found myself in a queue at the Central Enlisting Depot at the Town Hall and got my first glimpse of the Army in the making, and didn’t like it. Waiting there with me were tall men, short men, good men, bad men, drunk men and sober men, intelligent and ignorant men, clean and dirty men. What a collection. I revolted at the thought of being thrown into the company of this polyglot assembly.

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Joe’s War

But eventually I found myself at a desk giving name, age, address, next of kin, etc., then being directed through into another room where we were instructed to strip for medical examination. Not too pleasant here either with all the great unwashed crowded into a small, poorly ventilated room in hot summer weather. Already I was wishing I’d stayed at home.

Then before the medical officer. Height O.K. Sight and hearing O.K. Weight 120lb. Chest 20½inches, half an inch under the minimum. Chest expansion 5½inches, about three inches above average. “You’ll do,” said the M.O. So that was that. Clothed again and shepherded into another room to take the oath of allegiance, sign on the dotted line, and we were enlisted men.

This reminds me of Clarrie Hill’s enlistment experience in the second world war. He said they were addressed as “Gentlemen” and requested to do this and that. “Mr. Hill will you please step on the scales.” “Mr. Hill will you please come this way.” But the moment he had signed on the dotted line it was, “Hill stand over there”, “Hill report for duty next week.” In twenty odd years the old system hadn’t changed much.

We were instructed to report to Sturt Street Barracks in one month’s time, on February 21st 1916, at 9 am to commence our training.

By the time all this was completed, I had just time to catch my train back for home. And was I excited and pleased with myself. I was fairly walking on air for the next month. People had been whipped up to a state of great patriotic fervour and the volunteers were the heroes of the day. It was one continuous round of parties, leave takings and farewells.

That month soon slipped round and on February 21st, the time appointed,. I found myself along with hundreds of others at the old Sturt Street Barracks, just a nervous country boy suddenly thrown into the maelstrom of war. I didn’t know a soul there, and for the first time — there were many other times later on — I experienced that feeling of utter loneliness in a crowd.

For some time we were left standing or sitting about in the big old Drill Hall with nothing to do.

After a while I became conscious of another fellow sitting not far away and looking just about as lonely and bewildered as I felt. He was a few years older than I was and was a decent looking chap, so after some moments of hesitation I went across and spoke to him. His name was Stan Laugher and though we’d never met before we decided there and then to be mates. And now over forty years later I realise that I made a good choice and we have been mates ever since.

Then the great Army muddle came into action. We were lined up and answered a Roll Call. Next order was — Country Boys to the right, City Boys to the left. Then we were divided again, Married and Single. Then it was Infantry, Artillery, Army Medical and Light Horse. After each division we were all mixed up again, no records taken and it made no difference anyway, for after all we were herded on to the same train and all taken to the same camp and all found ourselves in the Infantry.

But it did keep an army of staff sergeants and staff sergeant-majors in a nice safe comfortable job for several years of the war.

All this shuffling and sorting and reshuffling took time and at twelve o’clock we were told to go down town and get ourselves a meal and report back at two o’clock. Stan and I went off together.

Two o’clock found us back at the barracks. A few had decided the Army was no good, or that the beer was too good, and didn’t return. But the majority were there on time prepared for the worst.

Now again the army of staff men got to work on us. For a couple of hours, we were lined up, broken up, formed fours and marched round the Drill Hall. Then a gorgeous one with much red ribbon and gold braid on his uniform took charge. Not knowing anything about badges of rank at that time I was sure he must be at least a general, perhaps a Field Marshall. Later I remember he was only another Staff Sergeant. But again he lined us up, stood us at “Attention”, then delivered himself to us this way.

32

I become a soldier in the Australian Imperial Forces

Joe’s attestation paper recording his enlistment in the A.I.F.

1.

2.

3.

The date of enlistment at the top of the form is incorrect. It should read 22/1/1916.

The enlistment officer’s poor writing has seen Joe’s father’s name transcribed as ‘Miner’ instead of ‘Oliver’ on some records.

Joe’s postal address is given as ‘P.O. Pederick via Kyabram.’ Oliver’s wife Jane was the postmistress. She conducted the postal business from a back room of the farmhouse from 1912 until her death in 1937. It is strange that Joe did not mention this.

33

Joe’s War “You are about to march through the city of Melbourne. No smoking or talking will be allowed.

Try to keep in step and to look like soldiers. Remembah, you are membahs of the Australian Imperial Forces. Hold your head up, look as if you’re prepared to look the whole world in the face.

Form fours, Right turn, Quick March, Left, Right, Left, Right.” The gates were opened and out we poured on to the street. I wouldn’t say we marched, but the little Rosella in all the gold braid and red ribbon had a very busy time and looked very important as he urged and guided and left, righted us across Princes Bridge, along Swanston Street, then up to Spencer St Station. The crowds were sympathetic and cheered as we plodded along, sweating and puffing on that hot afternoon.

We were all speculating and anxious to know which camp we were being sent to. No one would tell us. “You’ll find out all in good time” seemed to be the stock reply to any enquiry. For some reason we all had the idea that we were going to Royal Park Camp, but as we headed to Spencer Street Railway, we reckoned that must be out, so it must be Broadmeadows. Not until we were on the platform with the train in front of us and the gates locked behind us, did they spill the great Military Secret that we were going to Seymour. Most were disappointed. Then word was passed round that we would be camped in tents, six to a tent, and we were told to select our tent parties.

Stan and I started to look around and soon became aware that we were being watched by two other young men, Don Johnson and Lubin Robertson. That made four of us and soon we had roped in two more, Viv Nicholls and Alec McLaren. I’ve always felt there was a guiding Providence over me that day, for I don’t think I could possibly have fallen into better company. At nineteen, I was the baby of the party. Lubin was a bank clerk, Don a school teacher, Stan a commercial traveller, Viv a tailor and Alec a grocer while I, of course, was a farmer’s boy. What an assortment. Yet we soon formed a strong bond of friendship and strangely enough we all found something in common one with the other. Two found they were distantly related, and others found they had a mutual friend or acquaintance, and we were not strangers any more.

But before we get away from the boys in bright array, let me tell a few stories that they have brought to mind. The fellow who marched us up to Spencer Street. Some weeks later he was our instructor at Seymour in the noble art of grenade making and throwing. It was a very ancient and useless art he taught us too. But about two years later those staff men were told to enlist for active service or else get out. He was one who enlisted and found his way over to England where at that time for a short period I was an instructor in grenades and demolitions. He remembered me and said, “Of course you know I’ve been instructing this for years and there’s nothing here for me to learn.” I’m afraid I got some pleasure out of telling him to forget all he had learned and taught in Australia and to start learning all over again.

We had an old miner in our mob. He would always be a miner, never a soldier. He had no idea of ranks and always greeted everyone with “Hullo mate.” When we went into camp in England we were watched over by the British Military Police, or Red Caps as we called them, because they wore a cap with a wide red band. One day Steve was strolling through the camp when he met a fellow with a red band round his cap.

“Hullo Mate”, greeted Steve. “Hey my man”, returned the other, “Why don’t you salute? Don’t you know who I am?” Quite unimpressed Steve replied, “Oh I suppose you’re one of the Red Caps.”

The General (for it was a real General this time) nearly had a heart attack on the spot, and for a week after we had lectures on badges of rank and saluting exercises. Our colonel was not at all pleased that one of his men mistook a General for an M.P. Just one more. It was a church parade. The only alternative to church parade that morning was cookhouse fatigue, and Bluey didn’t feel like peeling spuds that morning, so he went to church parade. On his return one of his mates asked him what the Padre had been preaching about.

“I’m not quite sure”, replied Bluey. “I was asleep most of the time, but I think it must have been about Quarter Masters.” “Quarter Masters! Oh surely not. What makes you think that was his subject?” asked Curly. “Well you see it was like this. I just woke up in time to hear the Padre say.

“They reap not, they toil not, neither do they spin. Yet I say unto you that Solomon in all his glory 34

I become a soldier in the Australian Imperial Forces was not arrayed like one of these.” Now who else could he have been talking about but Quarter Masters?”

In army camp near Seymour At last we were aboard the train and on our way to Seymour, our first trip in a troop train. Now years later after another war I’m fully convinced boys haven’t changed much over the years. I’ve seen many troop trains in recent years and they’re still the same, always the same. Singing and shouting and yelling and scuffling and whistling at every girl within sight. And on this our first trip we did just all those things, yet we were still a bunch of civvies, still in civvy clothes. It was late afternoon when we arrived at Seymour and we de-trained and by the time we marched or trudged the three miles out to the Camp on the Trawool road it was just about dusk. On the top rail of the fences, on either side of the road for the last few hundred yards before we reached the gate into the camp, were perched hundreds of Diggers, of perhaps twenty four hours longer service than ourselves and the welcome we got from every one of them was, “You’ll be sorry.”

We were sorry, we were tired, we were hungry, even then. As we entered the camp there was spread out before us row after row of round white Bell tents.

Our Army training camp near Seymour, Victoria.

First we were allotted a tent, six to a tent, and told to leave our suitcases, etc. there. Then down to the stores — just a large canvas marquee where we were each given a mess tin, knife, fork and spoon, two blankets and an empty paliasse (in civilian language a paliasse would be a mattress).

Then down to the straw shed for straw to put in the paliasse. By this time we were really sorry, tired and hungry and asking, “When do we eat?”

Each tent then had to send one man to the store for rations. There he was given one small loaf of bread and a tin of jam. That plus a mess tin of tea for which we had to trudge a quarter of a mile to the cook house at the extreme end of the lines, comprised our first meal in camp. But by this time we were past caring so in the dark made up our bunks and off to bed. To bed but not to sleep.

Those floor boards were hard and rough and the thin paliasse didn’t do much to relieve the hardness 35

Joe’s War or roughness. After an hour or so, we turned and tossed and prayed for morning. Our hip bones felt as though they were protruding through the skin. After a few nights, however, we learned how to pack our hips away and hard floors were the least of our worries.

Early in the morning, about 5.45 I think, there was a noise on outside. I knew it must mean “Get up”, and was glad of it. But I was told it was the Buglers sounding the “Reveille” and it meant just the same thing as the old alarm clock at home. The last notes had hardly died when down the lines strode the sergeant-major telling us very loudly and not at all politely, to “Get up.”

We were then directed to the “Ablutions” — bathroom to you. The ablutions consisted of a long low bench on which stood dozens of small tin dishes and pieces of velvet soap. Behind the benches a few yards stood a row of cold water taps. There was no cover or shelter whatsoever, not so bad in summertime but as winter came on we found it none too comfortable. After our wash we carried a mess tin or a jam tin full of cold water back to the tent for our daily shave and then we were ready for breakfast.

There was no dining room or mess room so again it was a case of taking our mess tins up to the cook house, where in the larger part of the tin we’d be given our ration of stew and in the lid our ration of tea. This with a slice of bread was our breakfast and we carried it back to eat it in the tent.

And millions of flies followed us in to share our meal with us.

After a few weeks working bees were formed and we erected a rough mess hut made of rough-sawn timber, no walls, roof of thatched reeds from the river, and tables made of packing case boards tacked on to rough sapling frames and logs for seats along each side of the long tables. Pretty crude but a big improvement and it did keep a lot of the flies away from the tents.

I mentioned cook house a while ago. The name was a gross exaggeration for there was no house. It was merely a long trench perhaps two feet wide and nearly as deep. The fire of wood was made in the trench and the cooking vessels stood on steel bars placed across the top of the trench. The smoke was neatly collected in the cooking vessels and added that distinctive flavour so dear to the hearts of boy scouts and campers in general. Beside the cook house ran a busy camp road along which horse drawn carts brought in the camp supplies. In addition around the cook house each day milled thousands of hob nailed soldiers’ boots. Together they succeeded in making dust ankle deep all round the cookhouse and whenever the wind blew much of that dust too found its way into the cooking vessels. Other things also found their way into the pots too. The cooks couldn’t be expected to stay up all night and sometimes the wind might blow a lid off, or a stray dog knock it off, and then the flies would have a real birthday, and die happily in the stew. On one occasion I was orderly Corporal for the day and one of my duties was to inspect the food and supervise its issue to the troops. Accordingly a few minutes before mealtime, I went to the cookhouse and instructed the cook to lift the lids and turn over the stew with his long wooden ladle for my inspection. As he turned over the contents of one pot something suspicious looking flopped off his ladle.

“What’s that”, I asked. “Oh just a hunk of meat I suppose.” “Well turn it over again just for luck.”

He did and produced a full sized rat, which he immediately threw into the fire.

“Well what are you going to do now”, I asked. “Oh, she’ll be O.K. now”, he replied in such a way that I felt sure that wasn’t the first rat he’d fished out of camp stew.

But it wasn’t O.K. with me and before next meal we had another cook on the job.

Under such conditions cooks couldn’t be expected to work miracles. It was stew for breakfast, stew for dinner and bread and jam for tea seven days a week and every week. Until the meningitis scare set in, then we had curried stew for breakfast, curried stew for dinner and curried rice for tea, because that was our Colonel’s interpretation of what the doctor meant when he recommended plenty of hot meals as a preventative against the dread disease.

However, in spite of all these, or because of them, we thrived on our rough uninteresting fare and every one of us put on weight. I put on nearly three stone weight in the three months I was there.

36

I become a soldier in the Australian Imperial Forces Perhaps essence of rat is not so bad after all, provided you think it’s mutton. Same goes for horse flesh. We had it in France and found it good, while we thought it was beef. But when we suspected horse or someone started to chant a pedigree, or conjectured whether the victim had been a Cup winner, or broken its neck in a steeplechase, interest in the meat ration waned.

On our first day in camp the greater part of our time was spent in being “mucked about” as the troops of the next war called it. We went on parade and divided into squads which later became platoons and sections. Then we were marched off to the Quarter Masters Stores where we were issued with razor, soap, shaving brush, tooth brush, hair brush, housewife (a calico folder containing needles, buttons, cotton and wool) and then a couple of suits of grey cotton denim complete with white washing hat and a pair of heavy hob-nailed boots. The whole outfit was known as a giggle suit which aptly describes it. In addition we were issued with grey flannel underpants, cotton singlets and grey flannel shirts, also a navy blue woollen jumper and woollen socks.

The method of issue of suits seemed to be that the longest suits were given to the shortest men and the shortest suits to the longest men. The slimmest suits to the stoutest men and the broadest suits to the skinniest men. But it seemed to work out quite O.K. for men couldn’t be made to look any more ridiculous anyway. We were then instructed to change into these clothes at once and arrange for all our private gear to be sent to our homes immediately. So at once, sartorially at any rate, we were all reduced to the same level. We were told our uniforms would be ready in about a fortnight but six weeks later when we got our first weekend leave we were still without uniforms and had to go off on leave in our “giggle suits” plus only a khaki hat. But who cared? Certainly we didn’t by this time, and the folks at home didn’t seem to worry what we wore so long as we were home for a few hours.

On our second day on parade we were told that a new Battalion was being formed — to be known as the 37th and the best of us would be in it as foundation members. But the naughty boys would be transferred to reinforcement camps. So we tried to be good. It was also announced that N.C.O.’s (Non Commissioned Officers) would be required for the new battalion and they called for volunteers for an N.C.O. training school.

C Company, 37 t h Battalion at Seymour. Joe is second back row, 10 t h from right.

37

Joe’s War

The six from our tent and about twenty others volunteered. It meant harder work, more intensive training and evening classes and lectures, but we didn’t mind and there was nothing much else to do anyway. And then there was the promise that all who passed would be made corporals in the new battalion. So we worked hard for it and about twenty of us passed creditably, and were made Corporals, a year later to replace those who had been killed in action. Of course some didn’t live that long and never got the promised promotion. Yes, those who passed the exam were not made Corporals, but Lance Corporals, an unpaid rank that may be expected to accept the responsibility of any rank from Private to sergeant-major, but without pay. It was a bitter disappointment to us but it taught us never to place much reliance on anything we were told.

Life at Seymour was fairly hard. Hours were long and training was vigorous. Physical culture, bayonet fighting, charging across open ground to drive a bayonet through a bag of straw or jumping into trenches to pinion another bag of straw on the ends of our bayonets (try it sometime if you think it’s not hard work). Trench digging, Field manoeuvres, assaults by night and by day upon the mountain ridges behind Trawool. Route marches over long dusty roads. Rifle drill, musketry, Ceremonial Parades, marching exercises, Squad drill, Company drill, Battalion Drill. And all on curried stew and hard floor boards. But it certainly toughened us up and made us fit. There was not much in the way of recreational facilities. Y.M.C.A. had a hut and occasionally put on a concert for the boys. Our nearest town, Seymour, was three miles away, three miles of knee deep dust in summer, and the same depth of wet dust in winter. And there was nothing in Seymour anyway so we only went there to catch a train.

Apart from the dust and heat and flies, conditions were not too bad at first but as the winter came in it was very bleak on that bare hillside. Rain would find its way into the tent. Wet clothing couldn’t be dried and the wind whistled up under our floor boards. The mud was terrible. Perhaps it was all good training for what lay ahead of us.

Weekend leave, noon Saturday to 9 am Monday was granted about once a month. We didn’t eat curried stew on those weekends! They were happy times.

Then one day in May 1916 after several days of intensive training in marching and rifle drill we were taken to town for a march through the city. I think the whole Brigade marched, the 37th, 38th, 39th and 40th Battalions. The purpose of the march we were told was to let the people of Melbourne see the first units of the A.I.F. to be completely trained in Australia. The night before the march we were given our colour patches to sew on and those of us who had passed the N.C.O. exam were also given our Lance Corporal chevron to sew on. I can assure you we liked ourselves a bit, particularly the Lance Corporals. We were the best trained Brigade ever to leave Australia and we of the 37th were the very cream of the Brigade. And so we marched through Melbourne. But what a different march it was from the one a few weeks earlier to Spencer Street. What a miraculous change those few weeks of training and discipline had wrought in us, and we were proud of the show we put up that day.

A few days later we were given four days leave and were told that probably this would be our last opportunity for leave so we’d better make the best of it, which we did.

The people of Wyuna gave me a farewell social and during the evening presented me with a nice little wristlet watch. For three years and three months I wore that watch in all kinds of weather and under all sorts of conditions and it always kept good time and gave no trouble. But on the night of my welcome home by the same people who had given me the watch and in the same building it stopped, and despite repairs was never much use again.

38

I become a soldier in the Australian Imperial Forces

Account of the farewell social function for Wyuna volunteers, held on April 22 n d probably on their last leave before embarkation .

The Kyabram Guardian , April 28 t h 1916.

39

Joe’s War

On our arrival back in camp we were soon made very aware of the fact that we’d soon be on the move. First there were inoculations, vaccinations, medical and dental examinations, then the endless checking of rolls and muster parades, issuing of overseas kit and new rifles. Then exercises in striking camp. This was interesting. A man was posted at each guy rope of the tent and another held the centre pole. On the blast of a whistle every tent in the camp went down in the same direction and was folded as it fell. Every man had his own job to do, everything was done to the blasts of the whistle and in about two minutes every tent would be down, folded and packed at the end of the lines and the camp would be bare. At any time of the day the order might come to strike camp. But when we were pulled out of bed at night to strike camp and were marched off in the direction of Seymour as if we were off for embarkation, and then marched back again to pitch camp and so to bed, we thought it was a bit over the odds.

Rumours were rife — the name of the boat, her destination, the date of sailing. Some proved to be right, most were very wrong. One thing only seemed certain, it wouldn’t be long. And so the endless muster parades and checking of equipment continued until we were all heartily fed up.

And then about 2 am, on the dark cold morning of June 3rd 1916, when the rain was falling steadily on our tents, we were roused by the bugles and ordered on parade with full equipment, then marched off towards Seymour. Was this just another stunt or was this really it. Because it was so informal we thought it must be the real thing. I don’t think we even “Struck camp”, perhaps that was because of the rain. In any case we thought it best to take our little mascot along with us, a little ring-tailed possum, which one of the boys reckoned he could smuggle out inside his shirt. So out of camp in the dark we marched. But not along the road. Oh no, that would be giving information away to the enemy, so for the first half mile we were taken cross country through the bush. It was still pitch dark and raining and with full kit, rifles and blankets plus an overseas kit bag (a calico bag the size of a large pillow case and tied at the top with tape, and filled to capacity with spare uniform and odds and ends). This bag was an altogether impossible thing to carry, we stumbled over logs, ran into trees and stumps and floundered in the mud. What a trip. We hadn’t gone far when the man carrying the mascot tripped and fell across a low stump, winding himself, and killing the little mascot. So our mascot became our first fatality. When it was considered safe for security reasons we were led back on to the road and on to Seymour. The road was even worse than the bush. It was only an unmade bush road and the heavy camp traffic had cut it to pieces.

The mud was knee deep in places and near impassable. But we did get to the station and this was really it. We were served a hurried breakfast on the station, not curried stew, I think, and then aboard the train and away, and the big adventure had started.

By troopship to England At 2 am we hadn’t known when we would be sailing and until our train drew alongside we didn’t know the name of our ship, but as we approached the wharf it seemed as though everyone in Melbourne knew for there were thousands of people there waiting to see us go. The rain had just ceased and a weak winter sun was trying to show through when we arrived at Port Melbourne.

There was no confusion here. The organisation was good. We were simply marched from the train to the places allotted to us on the boat, the Persic, and in a very short time the embarkation was completed with about 1700 troops aboard. Once we were aboard the gangways were lifted, the dock gates were opened and the crowds who had been waiting were allowed to come on to the wharf alongside.

What a scene that was, everyone in the crowd looking for one soldier they knew. Every soldier looking for perhaps one person they might know. The very air seemed to be charged with nervous tension. There were tears shining through the smiles and laughter both on and off the boat. I felt lonely. There was no one I knew to see me off. Yet in some ways I was glad there was no one.

After watching those half hysterical crowds for a while a lump rose in my throat which threatened to choke me, and I crossed the deck and looked out the other way. And I was not alone there either.

40

I become a soldier in the Australian Imperial Forces

Boarding the Persic, June 1916. Courtesy State Library of Victoria.

On September 7th 1918 the Persic was torpedoed near Sicily. The ship narrowly avoided being sunk and after repairs would remain in use until 1926.

Our band on board was doing its best to keep spirits high by playing lively popular tunes. Also a civilian band further along the wharf. Then there was a hush. Bands stopped playing. People stopped shouting and calling. The distance between ship and wharf was widening. The band on the wharf played “God be with you till we meet again”. And everyone stood silent. “Till we meet again”, we wondered. For many the meeting was never to be again in this world.

But snap out of it, we are soldiers. Soon we were swarming over every vantage point of the ship, shouting and yelling and singing, until the sea of faces on the wharf were just a blur. Then we realised we were hungry and went down to dinner, the last meal many of us enjoyed for quite a few days.

Our troopship, the Persic of about 12,000 tons, had a maximum speed of twelve or thirteen knots.

Ordinarily she was a cargo boat with accommodation for just a few passengers. On our trip the passengers were the main cargo and we occupied most of the holds usually reserved for merchandise. There were three troop decks, the upper one just above sea level, ours the second about two-thirds below sea level (in port the water was just below the portholes, which therefore had to be kept closed all the time we were at sea) and the third troop deck was under ours and well below sea level.

Take a peep into the hold which accommodated us, about 360 of us. During daytime it had the appearance of a mess room. Long mess tables across the full width of the ship with just an aisle down the centre leading to the foot of the gangway, our only means of exit. But if you looked at the low ceiling you’d notice it was studded with hundreds of stout steel hooks. And if you visited the same place at night you’d have learned what the hooks were for. At night the mess room was 41

Joe’s War converted into a dormitory for about 360. On those hooks we hung our hammocks and slept suspended from the ceiling a few inches clear of the tables. We were packed in on the same principle as sardines in a tin and not an inch of space was wasted. In rough weather when the ship rolled, the hammocks creaked and rubbed against one another and nearly drove us to distraction.

One favourite pastime used to be undoing of hammock ropes and spilling the sleeper out in the middle of the night.

The Persic.

Food was pretty good, much better and of greater variety than we’d had at Seymour, but all seemed to have a strange ship’s taste. However for the first few days not many of us were interested in food. We had an early tea that first day, before we reached the Heads of Port Phillip Bay, and it was surprising how many put up their hammocks and went straight to bed after. Of course we told ourselves that we’d had a long and trying day and we were tired, but truthfully I think that was not the real reason why so many retired so early that evening.

When we woke next morning we must have been a hundred miles or so out and the ship was feeling the big ocean rollers, so most of us stowed our hammocks away early and went on deck for some fresh air. I selected a position as near dead centre of the ship as I could estimate and lay there all day. Food didn’t interest me. I wasn’t really sick but I felt wretched. Robbie was one of the few who proved to be a good sailor. He came round to see me several times and offered me help and then towards evening he came again and told me he had fixed my hammock and perhaps I’d like to go to bed. I thought it was a good idea so let him help me down to our deck. But the sight of all those swaying hammocks, the close atmosphere and the smell from all those sick people was just too much, and I became one of the sick people.

And for nearly a week that was the routine. Jump out of bed as soon as you woke and rush up to your favourite spot up top. Stay there till night then dash down and into the hammock as quickly as possible. The few who were not sick proved to be good pals and looked after the hammocks for the rest of us.

42

I become a soldier in the Australian Imperial Forces We had left Melbourne on Saturday, June 3rd 1916, and on the following Friday morning we woke early to find we were in perfectly calm water and I think the engines had stopped.

Enquiries produced the information that we had arrived off Albany and later we would be going ashore. There was a rush for the top deck to get a glimpse of land, and my word didn’t it look good.

Albany still remains in my memory as one of the prettiest places I’ve ever seen, but I’ve often wondered since if it really is as beautiful as it appeared to us after five or six days of sea sickness.

A postcard kept by Joe. On the back he wrote: “This sketch is very good. I’ve seen accidents of this sort happen many a time on the boat when it was a bit rocky. It was a common thing for the mess orderly to slip and upset all the stew over himself or someone else.

One of the joys of sailoring. JJP .”

After that first glimpse of land we felt better already, and immediately there was a rush for razors and the showers and clean clothes. Till then we had ceased to worry about such things. We had come to appreciate fully what some other seasick traveller had said: “For the first couple of days we were afraid we were going to die, and after that we were afraid we wouldn’t.”

43

Joe’s War We were given two hours leave in Albany. I think we must have been paid before we went ashore, for I distinctly remember I had only a penny in my pocket when I embarked at Melbourne. As soon as our feet struck Mother Earth at Albany our first thoughts were for food. Every eating house was crowded in no time, and did we eat. Food never tasted better. We then filled our pockets with fresh fruit and sweets and tasties and reported back to the wharf as new men. Here we were lined up and taken for a leisurely march into the country two or three miles and back. The weather was good, the scenery was good, the road was good and we felt good inside. We marched back on to the ship and very soon we were on our way again. But from there on all of our sickness had left us and we began to take an interest in ourselves and our surroundings. Next morning life really began on the troopship. Parades were held. Games and exercises were organised. Recreation was provided.

Concerts and boxing and wrestling contests arranged. Our band also rendered excellent service providing good music. There was never a dull moment. The weather too was good and we had a very pleasant trip across the Indian Ocean. It was a lonely trip though for we didn’t sight another vessel of any kind or even a speck of land.

So it was with great excitement we greeted the news on the evening of June 27th 1916 that there was a light on the horizon straight ahead. Soon after we noticed that the tempo of the engines was reduced to idling speed, and we knew we were approaching land. All night we idled round in circles and before dawn we had hammocks packed away and we were up to deck to see all that was to be seen. Shortly before sunrise we headed for the beacon light at the entrance to the harbour and there before us lay Cape Town huddled round the beach and backed up behind was the almost sheer wall of Table Mountain. It was a beautiful sight in the early morning with the white houses in fine contrast to the green foliage of the trees and the great mountain background. The table cloth was on the mountain the morning we arrived, a thin layer of white cloud that sometimes rests on the mountain tip, which on the table flat summit really justifies the name, and we felt it was a good omen. We reckoned the table was all set for a good time for us in Cape Town.

Cape Town was a busy place in those days, being a kind of half-way house between troubled Europe and Australia. The harbour was choked full of ships of all nations, except German. But yes there were some German ships there too, interned for the rest of the war. As we berthed at the wharf we were very interested in the swarms of black people. A ship nearby was being coaled, as Cape Town was a coaling station. The work was being done by negroes. Hundreds of them, each carrying on his head or shoulder a basket of coal weighing perhaps 60 lbs., formed a human bucket elevator as they followed closely behind one another across the gang plank on to the deck and without stopping tipping their coal into the chute that led to the bunkers of the ship, then round and down another plank to pick up another basket of coal. Round and round they went without a stop, singing and laughing as they went. They were clad in all sorts of clothing or rags or bags or very little covering at all, but without exception they were all adorned with gold necklets, wristlets, anklets and ear rings. I’ve been rather allergic to jewellery ever since. It was said at that time that ships were coaled faster at Cape Town by that method, than anywhere else in the world where elaborate mechanical devices were used.

We were all looking forward to an interesting time in Cape Town for it was expected that we would be there for three days. Imagine our disappointment when we were told that no leave would be granted, in fact we were not to be allowed ashore. Dame Rumour of course soon gave us the reason; an epidemic was raging in the town. Dame Scandal also gave an explanation which was that the last contingent of Aussies nearly wrecked the place and the people wanted no more of us.

Anyway, leave was barred but I don’t believe either Dame Rumour or Dame Scandal had the correct explanation, for at last after much parleying by the authorities we were permitted to go ashore each day for a route march and at least we were thankful to stretch our legs again on terra firma. The people of Cape Town gave us a great reception as we marched through the city, giving the lie to Dame Scandal and there were no cordons or barricades to prevent them coming near us, giving the lie to Dame Rumour.

Cape Town was our first contact with a populace of mixed colour, black and white, and we didn’t like it. At least we didn’t like the treatment meted out to the blacks by the whites. The blacks 44

I become a soldier in the Australian Imperial Forces outnumbered the whites by three or five to one, yet they were subservient to the whites. They were compelled to walk along in the gutters, while the whites had the foot walks reserved for them.

About the only exception to this rule was when the black maid was pushing the white baby in the pram she was permitted to use the footpath but keep a respectable distance behind the mother of the baby. We saw white ladies shopping. As they emerged from a shop they would hand their purchases to the black servant to carry, then proceed on up the street with the native following about ten paces behind and watching like a faithful dog. They were not allowed to enter the white man’s shops or eating houses or amusement halls.

Three years later on our return trip five of us hired a taxi and went for quite a long run into the country round behind Table Mountain. Our driver was a very nice, well spoken, young fellow and made the trip very interesting for us with his guide talk. At the point where we decided we had better return, our finances wouldn’t run to an extended trip through benighted Africa, we decided to have a cup of tea at a Road House which looked very inviting. Of course we invited our driver to join us and after a while began to wonder what was detaining him at the car. On investigation he told us that we didn’t understand Cape Town custom. If he had attempted to enter with us he would have been kicked out and we would have been requested to leave. Yet he had so little black blood in him that we hadn’t noticed it till then. Of course even if he had been jet black it wouldn’t have made any difference to us, we’d still have invited him in. So as I said before we didn’t like the white-black problem. And the white people of Cape Town didn’t altogether approve of our attitude to the blacks.

Still the people of Cape Town gave us a good reception as we marched through their city and showered us with gifts of food and smokes as we marched. But as we passed out of the city proper through the native quarter at the foot of the Mountain the real interest began. Music is an irresistible attraction for the coloured peoples. We had three bands, a brass band, a bagpipe band, and a bugle band, and as we marched we could see the people streaming down from the hills, men women and children, all drawn by the magic of the music. They crowded the roads so densely we couldn’t get through and we had to send out piquets to keep a lane open for us. All those jolly black faces, yet to us they didn’t seem to have much in life to be happy about. And the little children and babies were the cutest, loveliest, happiest, little kids I’ve ever seen. It was not uncommon for a digger to snatch one of the little imps from the arms of a mother or sister and carry it along on his shoulders or in his arms to the great amusement of the natives and the other diggers. We marched for miles yet the people followed us crowding round the bands and some of those who followed were only children themselves yet they carried younger brothers or sisters with them.

At times when we halted for a rest the fun really began. We’d throw coins to the youngsters and would they fight for them! To make it more interesting we’d sometimes throw the coin into a muddy pool and in they’d go. But mud on their skins didn’t look half so bad as on white children.

And as for clothing, well they didn’t wear much anyway.

And then the merchants among them asserted themselves. From somewhere they produced oranges and bananas and mandarins and souvenir silver leaves from Table Mountain. The prices to us at first seemed reasonable and we bought freely, but then we heard that they never expected to get anything like what they first asked, and after that they were quite happy to sell at only a mere fraction of the original price. For instance, at first they were selling silver leaves in little bunches of three for about nine pence. Later they were quite content to sell a whole branch of them for sixpence. But one has to pay for experience.

On each of the three days we were at Cape Town, we went for a few hours march. On two of the days we went to beaches a mile or so out of the town. It was so nice to see the sea after seeing little else all the month. One day we marched out to Groote Schuure, Cecil Rhodes property, which I think he gave to the nation as a memorial. It was a National Park in which roved at large quite a number of African native animals. The whole surroundings were beautiful. Cecil Rhodes’ house is there, which I believe is a Rhodes Museum and kept just as it was when occupied by him. It was locked up when we were there. Perhaps it was locked because we were there; our reputation had probably gone ahead of us. We peered in through several windows and remember seeing several 45

Joe’s War grey hats in the rooms. You know it is said that the old Cecil could never remember where he had left his hat so the servants had to ensure that there was always a hat in every room and he always wore the same style of grey hat.

Cape Town was also the first time we had come up against strange languages too. All public notices and most newspapers were printed in three languages, English, Dutch and Afrikaans, and many of the blacks spoke other languages. It sounded quite a Babel of tongues to us who had scarcely ever heard anything but English.

On the evening of the third day we moved on again. As we pulled out from the wharf we yelled and cheered and pelted the blacks with oranges and potatoes just for fun and then as we moved out into the Harbour we stood and watched beautiful Cape Town slip by until it was quite lost to sight.

Then we went down to tea. Even though we were not granted any leave we had enjoyed ourselves there and Cape Town has always held a warm spot in our hearts ever since.

Now, we were entering more dangerous waters infested with enemy raiders and submarines. This was brought home to us when we noticed on returning to our ship just before sailing from Cape Town, that during our absence that day a submarine gun and crew had been installed on the poop deck. It was not a very heavy gun but the gun crew used to demonstrate to us that they were pretty good marksmen with it. They used to practice quite a lot, probably to instil confidence in us, for we had no naval escort and this little gun was our only defence against attack. They’d throw a drum overboard and when it had drifted a few hundred yards astern they’d open fire and blow it to smithereens. It was good entertainment for us. Submarine drill and alarms became the order of the day. In case of attack or emergency every man knew what he had to do and where he had to go.

All were in a state of preparedness. Sentries were posted round the ship on submarine guard day and night.

Tension was mounting but we still didn’t know our destination, whether it was to Egypt, South of France or England.

A couple of days out of Cape Town we ran into rough weather. I hate to think how we would have fared if we’d struck such weather two days out from Melbourne, but we now had our sea legs and the rough weather didn’t affect us, even though it did rather awe us. It was worst during the night and we woke to find things on deck rather messed about. One lifeboat had been smashed, and a number of rafts and all loose gear on deck had been smashed to pieces.

But again we ran into fine weather and beautiful sunshine and soon we saw our first flying fish.

They were always interesting and frequently landed up on deck. It was about this time, too, that we sighted our first whale, a big beauty spouting the water up ten or twelve feet ever and anon.

One day the engines stopped and we learned we had an appendicitis case on board and the doctor had decided to operate. The sick bay or hospital had a sky light in it and you’d be surprised how many heads were jammed into that skylight to watch the operation. Not many saw it through. Most had a little peep and rushed for the rail. I didn’t peep. But the engines didn’t stop for long. By that we knew how long the operation had taken.

Another day the engines stopped too. We’d had a death on board, not the appendix case, so we had a burial at sea. We were lined up on deck for the service and just before the body was committed to the sea we were all faced inboard, then the engines stopped, to prevent the body being fouled by the propeller. We were standing strictly to attention, but when the solemn silence was broken by that ominous splash as the weighted body struck the water, I’m afraid every head snapped round to seaward. But it was a very impressive service.

The journey was becoming more interesting now. We passed close to several islands, of the Cape Verde group, I think. The weather was becoming more tropical and the islands had that tropical appearance, they looked very attractive and we wished we could stop and go ashore. But we were also getting into more and more dangerous waters. It was emphasised that we must have our life belts with us day and night in case at any moment an enemy torpedo should find a target in our ship.

46

I become a soldier in the Australian Imperial Forces We had an alarm one day. A strange looking craft was sighted. It was like a small fishing vessel with the sails flapping down the mast. But it was a long way from land for such a vessel, and it may have been a disguise for an enemy submarine. Our Captain treated it with great caution and suspicion. Our gun was kept trained on it and we were on the “Alert” for any contingency. We kept a close watch on it till it was lost to sight astern and no harm came to us, so perhaps it was just a fishing boat after all.

Then on the evening of July 14th 1916, we sighted the island of St. Vincent ahead, but did not enter the Bay till daylight next morning. It was a most uninteresting looking place, a few flat roofed, white buildings, with no trees or vegetation in sight anywhere, so we were not very disappointed when we learned that no shore leave would be granted. I understand it was a Portuguese Naval Base. Only a few whites lived there, the population was black. There must have been more fertile country inland for there seemed to be endless numbers of blacks. We anchored in the Bay some distance off shore but soon we were surrounded by scores of little boats laden with natives as black as coal. They came to sell or to cadge or just to see. They provided us with much entertainment.

They called for coins. We’d throw a penny overboard and they’d dive into the water after it and never miss. For threepence or sixpence they’d wait until the coin was well down in the water then two or three would dive for it and fight for it down under, but never lose it. For a shilling they’d invite us to throw it over the other side of the ship and they’d dive right under the ship to retrieve it.

They were good and relieved us of quite a few spare coins. Not ten minutes after they’d left the water a great shark appeared beside the boat. We never learned whether they had seen his approach, or just sensed it, or whether the shark was scared away by their noise and splashing and only ventured nearer after they had departed.

We were interested too in the native fishermen. The water was crystal clear and infested with myriads of fish of all colours; the most common seemed to be a brilliant red colour. The fishermen worked about four to a boat, two on either side. Each man had two lines which consisted of a short handle about two feet in length to which was attached a line of not much greater length. I don’t think there was any bait on the hook, there was probably a lure on it. One man would bite a mouthful of flesh from a fish he had caught, chew it up well then blow it on to the water round the boat. The fish would come to it in shoals and they’d drop their lines in among them and pull them into the boat as quickly as they could work. I’ve often dreamed of such fishing but never experienced it.

The Bay itself was interesting. A long row of rusty interned German ships occupied one side of the Bay. That was a very good sight for us. Behind them there was a huge rock bluff called Napoleon’s Head. It was in the shape of a man’s head as if he were lying on his back and perhaps the features did resemble Napoleon.

It was reported later that we were detained several hours longer than anticipated in St. Vincent because a submarine had been sighted lurking near the entrance to the Bay, perhaps in wait for us.

However we slipped out that evening without incident. We were told that we had called there for instructions where next to proceed. The captain sailed from there under sealed orders. Not even the Captain knew our destination till the appointed time to read those orders. Would it be Egypt or England? We watched the direction of sailing closely, north for England, east for Egypt. After a day or two we were still northward bound so we concluded it must be England and our spirits rose.

England seemed of much greater interest to all of us than Egypt. And many among us were Englishmen and were they on top of the world!

Not a light was visible on deck at night now, not even a cigarette was permitted on deck. German submarines were very busy at this time and in these waters.

One day just after midday lunch we were all relaxing on deck enjoying our little siesta in all sorts of dress and undress and no dress. There were no women on board and when the weather was fine at times we looked like a nudist colony on tour. And so it was at this moment. The alarm sounded “Boat Stations”. It seemed as though every man on deck had left his life belt down below and every man below had left his upstairs. What a mess! What a scramble! There was no panic but it’s a 47

Joe’s War wonder some were not killed in the crushes in the gangways. And the alarm continued to blare.

What a bloodcurdling sound! I’ll never forget it. In spite of the confusion in a very short time every man was in his appointed position ready to take to the boats if necessary. Then as we looked up to the bridge for the Captain’s instructions the tension was suddenly broken as we beheld him bent nearly double with laughter at the appearance of the Colonel as he came up the stairs clad only in a bath towel. The wily old fox of a Captain had timed it perfectly, caught the Colonel in his shower and blew the Alarm. The colonel was the biggest man I saw in uniform and was his face red at that moment. But later I saw him in more unsoldierly attitudes than that. However that alarm did impress on us the necessity of wearing our life belts at all times, although I must say I’m glad I never had to use one as a life belt. And they did make quite a good pillow in the hammock or on the hard deck.

Hullo, what’s this? A smudge of smoke on the horizon dead ahead. The Captain on the bridge seemed apprehensive as he studied it closely through his telescope. Soon, from its speed and shape we discerned it was a warship. But ours or theirs? That was the question we were all asking ourselves. We were in the zone of radio silence. Wireless could not be used in case the signals were picked up by the enemy. On came the warship at terrific speed. Soon three or four funnels could be seen. Then guns and every one of them trained dead on to us. When within visual signalling distance she asked our name and destination. When satisfied we were friends she continued on her way, the H.M.S. Kent, and a lovely picture she made as she passed quite close, and very soon she was only a smudge of smoke again on the horizon astern of us. But it did make us feel good that our Navy was on the job in power in the area. A few minutes later we met a big mail steamer. Kent was guarding her too and those two ships were the only ones (bar the mysterious fishing boat) we saw at sea on the whole voyage.

And now we were nearing the end of our sea trip. On July 24th 1916 we were told that we would be landing in England on the following day. At 8 pm we would rendezvous with a navy escort of destroyers and they would guide and guard us through the most hazardous last few miles of voyage.

Before 8 pm, however, a very heavy fog set in and it was about midnight before we made contact with the destroyers. The position was made the more difficult by the fact that none of the ships could make such use of signals or fog warnings because of the ever present submarine menace. It was not till about 10 am next day that the fog did lift and then to our surprise we found ourselves right in close to the Eddystone Lighthouse, perhaps too close. (I recognised it at once from a picture I remembered in an old story book I had at home.) Then all round us we could see our little torpedo boat destroyers, our escort, dashing about round and round us and giving us a sense of security.

Soon we were told to pack away our life belts and prepare for disembarkation at Devonport. By the time we had attended to all the little chores connected with packing up and were able to get up on deck again we found we were close in shore. And what a wonderful first impression we got of old England as we steamed past Plymouth Hoe. I remembered vaguely the story in our history books of some old Admiral who was playing bowls on Plymouth Hoe when he received word of the Spanish Armada, and I wished then and there, and many times more in the next few years, that I had taken greater interest in my history and geography lessons.

As we headed into port we noticed a number of very interesting ships at anchor in the bay. One we reckoned was Nelson’s old flagship. It was certainly of that era and type, and I think it was the old “Victory”. England looked good and we all secretly hoped we’d be held up in Devonport for a day or two and given leave to explore the place. But no such luck for us. As our ship drew into the wharf there were troop trains standing waiting for us. So that was that.

So on July 25th 1916 we landed in England after, I suppose, quite an uneventful voyage of fifty-two days. Altogether we had enjoyed ourselves on the trip. Conditions were not good, but we realised we were at war, and we didn’t expect luxuries. Now that we were leaving the old Persic we did so with certain pangs of regret for she had brought us safely, though slowly, half way round the world without incident.

48

I become a soldier in the Australian Imperial Forces

Training camp in England Now all aboard the train for the last leg of our journey from camp in Seymour to camp somewhere in England. It was evening by the time our train departed, a glorious summer evening with England at its best, and soon we found ourselves out in the English countryside. How true it all was to the old picture postcard views of England we had been accustomed to from childhood. The beautiful green, the small fields separated and divided by the neat hedges, the quaint old white cottages with thatched roofs, the narrow winding roads with hedges and ditches on either side, the farmers at work with their small teams, the cattle barns, and the gentle undulating country. How beautiful, how quaint, how different from our rugged scenery and wide open spaces.

It was summertime and harvest time and we were amazed at 10 pm to see the folk still at work carting in the hay. Of course it was still quite light, they had two hours adjustment to their clocks as a daylight saving scheme. I don’t know what time they started work in the morning.

As our train took us up through Devon that evening, we couldn’t help but think of the old song “Devon, Glorious Devon,” and we agreed with its author, it was glorious Devon. But we were very crowded in those third class carriages and it was not till 2.30 next morning that we stopped at the little station of Amesbury and there detrained.

I thought I had seen some dark nights at home but I’d never seen anything to equal the blackness of those country lanes that night as we trudged out from the railway station to our camp two or three miles away at Larkhill. By the time we had marched or fumbled our way out to Larkhill Camp and got settled into our huts it was breaking day, but they were not too hard on us with the Reveille that first morning and it was near midday when we woke. And then we had an opportunity to look about us and take our bearings.

Larkhill army training camp , Salisbury Plain, UK. .

After Seymour this was a camp indeed. As far as the eye could see in every direction there appeared to be rows and rows of huts. The huts, to accommodate thirty men, were solidly built of corrugated iron and lined with three ply, and each hut was fitted with a heating stove for warmth.

Concrete footpaths and well-made roads ran through the camp. Each block of huts, probably designed to accommodate a battalion, or about 1200 men, was equipped with its own Mess and Recreation rooms and ample toilet blocks. Then there were central Shopping centres and 49

Joe’s War Amusements, Cinemas and theatres, Y.M.C.A., Salvation Army and Church Army Huts.

Everything was well laid out and kept spotlessly clean and tidy. The Mess Rooms and kitchens were well fitted and equipped. Crockery and cutlery was provided and good cooking facilities.

Therefore we had little to complain of regarding quality, quantity or variety of food. Those camps stretched for miles across Salisbury Plain and we were told that at one time about two million men were stationed there.

Next day our training began, the main object of which seemed to be to toughen us up. Marching and drills, physical training and bayonet fighting were main items on the programme with some mock battles and trench digging and grenade throwing added for sauce, plus rifle shooting and a little gas drill with antiquated gas helmets.

But it was not all work and no play. We were granted a fair amount of leave, in addition to open camp on evenings and weekends, which was all that we had money for at any rate. About a week after we arrived there, we got four days leave and of course most of us headed for London. One of my mates though was an Englishman. His home town was Exeter and of course he headed for home. He had been away in Australia for a good many years and this was his first trip back. He had told me he was sure he had heard the name Pederick and promised to look out for any of the clan when he was on leave. When he returned he reported that he had found a shop, a newsagency with the name Pedrick on it, so he entered and saw the proprietor. He was a Pedrick and seemed interested to hear of me and said he’d like to meet me if ever I was in Exeter. I never went to Exeter, could have, it was not so far away, but at nineteen years of age these things don’t seem important. How often since though have I wished that I had accepted the open invitation.

I went to London and had a great time there. I saw quite a lot but also missed a lot through my ignorance of history again. The magnitude of the place impressed us, and its age, but its dingy buildings and filthy back streets didn’t. Its magnificent churches, cathedrals and public buildings were eye openers to us. And of course its underground railways were entirely new to us.

Altogether we didn’t do badly in the short time we were there. We visited Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s, Parliament House or more correctly “The Houses of Parliament”, the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, the Zoo, Whitehall and all the principal streets and thoroughfares. We saw the “Changing of the Guard” at the Palace, but it was war time and minus much of its peace time splendour and pageantry. And of course Madame Tussauds Wax Works. We spent many hours in St. Paul’s and Westminster and the Tower of London but could, with interest, have spent as many days. Here were glimpses back into England’s past history, some glorious, some disgusting and not so glorious.

We didn’t see any streets or roads to compare with the beauty of St. Kilda Road.

Sometimes we’d jump on a bus and just ride to its terminus and back. It was cheap travelling and in that way we saw quite a lot of London, even though we had little idea of where we were going or where we had been. One such jaunt landed us out into one of the roughest parts of the East End. When we alighted we were quickly surrounded by about the roughest, toughest bunch of cut-throats we had ever seen, and we were only too glad to jump back on the bus and return as quickly as we could.

We tried the same idea on the suburban railways, paid the maximum fare and expected to land somewhere, but after a time found we were back at the starting point again. They run in circles.

We’d got on an Inner Circle or Outer Circle railway and had just run round the circle, could have gone on doing so all day, so far as I could see.

Had one extraordinary experience in London. A mate and I were in Fleet Street, buying picture postcards to send home. Prior to our visit not many Australian soldiers in uniform had been in London, so we were somewhat of a novelty with our turned up slouch hats, and our puttees, and we created quite a lot of interest and people were anxious to talk to us (if they could find some excuse to break down their English natural aloofness). There had been Australians in London before us, but mostly hospital cases, and in England all hospital cases were dressed alike in a special ridiculous looking hospital uniform.

50

I become a soldier in the Australian Imperial Forces So it was under these conditions that my mate and I emerged this day from a shop in Fleet Street to plunge into the dense crowd that flocked the footpath and formed part of London’s eight million population. As we did so we collided with an elderly gentleman who thought that was good enough excuse to allow him to say “Good day.” We turned in the same direction as he was going and entered into conversation with him. It went something like this.

“I see you boys are Australians.”

“Yes.” “Do you come from Victoria?”

“Yes.” “From Melbourne or the country?”

“From Melbourne”, said my mate.

“From the country”, said I. “Do you know Williamstown?”

“Yes, that’s where I lived,” said my mate.

“I know Williamstown, it’s a big place, but do you happen to know a man by the name of Harry Christian there?”

“Well I should, he’s my father.”

“Well you’re young Harry then. Don’t you remember me?”

He was an old seaman and on his visits to Melbourne stayed at their home in Williamstown. And on our first visit to London we met him by chance. One in eight million.

Harry Christian was killed in France about a year later, but about twenty years later I was telling this story and one of the men to whom I was speaking replied, “What a coincidence, but I’ll go one further with it. That same Harry Christian was my best school mate.”

On another leave in London, one day I found myself in a lift in one of the city buildings with a couple of Australian nurses as fellow passengers. We spoke and I learned they were sisters, one from an Army hospital in Egypt, the other from France and both enjoying a few days in London together. They told me they had a brother in the Army in France and when I asked his name I found he was in our Battalion and I knew him well. They were nice girls and very lost in London and I was sorry it was my last day of leave and I was returning to France that evening. However, after four very interesting days in London we returned to camp and hard work.

A few days later I was rushed off to hospital with a high temperature and a terrific pain in the ear.

Of course I was sent to an English hospital. All Australians went to English hospitals and English Tommies filled the Australian Hospitals, just another little way they had in the Army. For a week I lay in that hospital. The doctor came through the ward each morning but was always so drunk that he could only negotiate the length of the ward by holding on to the ends of the beds. So he was no help to us and I think I’d have died or gone mad with the pain only for the kindness and attention of the nurses. Then one day, our luck was in. The doctor was either too drunk to do the rounds or it was his day off duty. Anyway we had a different doctor. One look at me and he ordered me away to another hospital where I could get Specialist attention. I had a severe abscess in the inner ear and spent another five weeks in the other hospital before I was well enough to leave. In the second hospital I got the very best of attention and was attended by one the leading ear specialists in England, and no more drunken doctors. In English hospitals even when we were sick we were never allowed to forget we were still in the Army. Before the doctor’s regular morning round of the wards, the quilts were pulled down tight and square with not a wrinkle in them, the Red Cross in the centre of the quilts lined up in a perfectly straight line from one end of the ward to the other, and we were warned not to move to disturb the quilt. The doctor was preceded into the ward by the sergeant-major, who shouted us all to “Attention”, and we were expected to lie at Attention till the 51

Joe’s War doctor left the ward. The matron followed the doctor and her sole aim seemed to be to find some fault with the way the beds were made or that there was a crease in the quilt of bed No. 23, and always gave the poor little ward sister a “dressing down” in front of us before she left. Her exit was usually followed by a volley of choice “raspberries” from any or all Australians present. But the ward nurses and sisters were wonderful and really true descendants of the “Lady with the Lamp”.

For instance, one little Scotch nurse (she was old enough to be my mother so don’t get any wrong ideas) was transferred to another ward but volunteered to come back each night, in her own time off, to dress our ears, because we felt and she felt too that she understood us better and could do the job better than a strange nurse. And that’s what she did do until we persuaded the doctor to ask for her transfer back to us again. And when I was leaving she gave me her people’s address in Scotland and an invitation to go up there and spend the time with them if I was given convalescent leave.

But I never went.

When I arrived back in camp all was excitement. In a few days’ time there was to be a big review of Australian Troops on Bulford Plain by the King, George V. After six weeks in hospital I was very weak but I didn’t intend to miss that review, so although I was supposed to be on Light Duties, I ignored that and attended all parades.

First there was a full dress rehearsal. It was a long march and the equipment we had to carry was heavy and nearly killed me but I stuck it out. Nearly passed out the way back but the Captain noticed me and insisted that I ride his horse the last mile or so. Can’t you imagine the remarks of the ranks then.

However, I did go to the review and did see the King for the first time. It was a never to be forgotten sight to see those 45,000 fully trained men on parade, saluting at one man and marching in perfect formation and rhythm. The King walked down through the ranks to inspect us, passing within three feet of me, and I thought I had never seen a more care worn face on any man. Things were not going too well with his armies in France and elsewhere and he looked as though he carried the cares of the world on his shoulders.

King George V inspecting the Infantry, Septe mber 27 t h 1916.

Joe wrote on the back of this postcard : “We don’t use our caps over here at all. The hats are the recognized Au stralian Dress. I’m told that the girls won’t have anything to do with you if you wear a cap. They run after the hats. They won’t get much encouragement when they run after mine. Australian girls are better than any I’ve seen over here yet. J.P. ”

52

I become a soldier in the Australian Imperial Forces

Round about our camp were a number of interesting places which we visited occasionally.

Stonehenge, that remarkable old circle of monoliths was only about a mile away. Its origin and purpose are veiled in antiquity and just how those mighty stones, each perhaps thirty feet in length, five or six feet in width and two or three feet thick, were transported to the site, and from where, is a mystery. There is no such stone anywhere in the vicinity. In fact some authorities say there is no such stone in England, it must have been transported from Ireland, then hauled across country from the sea. How did people 6000 years ago do that with the primitive equipment they had? Then there are the avenues of barrows and earth mounds radiating from the circle of stones. Were they burial mounds? Or what? All very interesting for the five shilling a day tourist.

Then there was the “Spreading Chestnut Tree” at Figheldean a little village within walking distance.

“The Village Blacksmith” still operates under the tree and in the local churchyard are the graves of the old smith and his wife. A policeman is always on guard to protect the tree against the vandalism of tourists who had a nasty habit of cutting a piece off the tree to take home as a souvenir. I managed to pick up a few autumn leaves from the old tree. Of course every shop in the village sells souvenirs and photos of the tree and copies of the famous poem. But of course, one becomes a little doubtful afterwards when it is learned that several other villages in England claim to have the authentic “Spreading Chestnut Tree” as well as several others in America. But when you’re at Figheldean you’re thoroughly convinced that this is the real one.

Joe added the following on the back of this postcard: “You all know the story of this photo as well as I do. It is only about a mile and a half from our camp – No. 5 Larkhill.”

Amesbury and several other little villages round about were always interesting for their very quaintness. Narrow winding streets with thatch covered little cottages, and ancient churches. The old church at Amesbury was built about the year 1100 AD and the local legend says part of the door was built from timber from a tree planted by the Apostle Paul. And so it goes on.

53

Joe’s War Then Salisbury, only a few miles away, with its lovely Cathedral with the highest spire in England, a beautiful example of Gothic architecture, and filled inside with interesting historical relics dating back for hundreds of years. It was a new experience for us from Australia where anything over fifty years old was historic.

Some things we didn’t like, the squalor and poverty of the tenant farmers and the workers compared with the magnificent mansions and affluence of the squires and gentry. We didn’t like that. And we didn’t like the servility of the poorer people to the squires. Yes Sir, No Sir, lift you cap and pull your forelock to the squire. No wonder the more daring spirits craved for freedom and were prepared to migrate to unknown Australia in search of it.

At last on the 23rd November 1916 we left Larkhill Camp and marched back to Amesbury railway station with much heavier packs than we did the same trip in reverse a month or two earlier. But what a difference, the march this time was just a holiday. Of course it was done in daylight this time, but that didn’t make all the difference. We were now tougher and fitter men and had been trained to carry heavy loads over long distances, so a mere two or three miles was nothing to us.

Now we were off to France to face the big venture for which we had enlisted.

A few of the 37 t h Battalion boys, November 1916.

Joe is second from left in the second front row.

Joe wrote on the back of this postcard: “Mac just gave me this card a few minutes ago. It is the sam e photo as the little clipping I sent you last week but much clearer. X is Mac, 0 is Miss (Will) Ridgway, 1 is Harvey Jagoe . Of course you know the fellow on his right – a fine looking chap isn’t he? 2 is a little fellow we call ‘the mascot’ – the hero of pillow fights on board. 3 is Joe Wright, the sketch artist – a real character. 4 Dad Clarke. 5 Young Clarke. 6 Steve Hosking – an old friend of Rev Thomas. ”

We caught the boat train at Amesbury and went down to Southampton to embark. The country was not so beautiful now. The trees were all bare. Most English trees are deciduous. There was a light covering of snow in place of the beautiful green of summer and the bare trees plus the biting cold all tended to add to the desolate appearance. We were aboard quite early in the afternoon but as 54

I become a soldier in the Australian Imperial Forces there appeared to be no sign of sailing, and from the fact that we were not allowed on deck, as soon as we’d had tea we curled up and went to sleep for the night. No sleeping facilities were provided, the boat was overcrowded in any case, so it was just a matter of picking your position on the floor.

Anyway we slept and when we woke next morning we were still berthed at a wharf, but this time at Le Havre, France. The cross channel boats used to wait for darkness and the all clear signal from the protecting screen of destroyers, then dash across before morning light. The system worked so well that although German submarines and mines were a constant menace not one troopship was sunk during the war and millions of men were transported back and forth.

Of the crossing, we knew nothing, soldiers sleep soundly, but when we heard next morning that we had arrived in France, we were all eager to get a first glimpse of the place. I must say that we didn’t get a very good first impression. What a miserable dirty, dingy looking old place it was that we looked out upon from our little cross channel boat. The tide must have been out and the centre of our picture was the wet slimy old piers of the wharf towering above us. It was November too, a grey, miserable, misty, sunless, winter’s day, which did not help to enhance the beauty of the scene.

Yes it was November 24th 1916 and my 20th birthday.

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Joe’s War

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IN ACTION ON THE WESTERN FRONT Arrival in France On the wharf there appeared to be only two people, and why they were there I’ve never been able to understand. They were two Australian soldiers, the two most miserable specimens of Australian soldiers that I have ever seen. In fact I’ve often wondered since if they were Australians. They were dirty and untidy, skinny and dejected looking, and they immediately began to regale us with the most fearsome tales of the hardships and dangers we would find in the front line. Having seen a good many Aussies since, I would say that those two, if they were Australians at all, were the type that would only be seen malingering round the base camps miles from danger and had never been up in the forward areas. In any case it was not a very pleasant Committee of Welcome to us on our first visit to France.

Soon we were marched off the boat and through the streets of Le Havre to a camp some four or five miles out. The streets were mostly rough paved with cobble stones and covered with a half inch layer of black slush. The houses looked poor and squalid and the people themselves looked dejected and worried and careless. Of course it was 1916 and the Germans were still winning and the French people still had much reason to be anxious. But it didn’t help us any to get such a first impression.

Our march to the “Rest Camp,” as it was called, was mostly uphill with quite a steep gradient for the last half mile. It must have been called a “Rest Camp” for the reason that when you arrived there you certainly needed a rest, particularly after an uncomfortable night on a crowded channel boat, followed by that uphill march with heavy packs. Many men just couldn’t make it and had to fall out of the ranks for a rest before we reached there. On arrival those of us who had seen it through, were told to “stand easy”. That was the signal for everyone to drop over backwards and rest on our packs. When we were called to attention it was a struggle to get to our feet again loaded down as we were with equipment. I remember one little fellow, a lad of only eighteen, just couldn’t 57

Joe’s War get up and we had to assist him to his feet and then he was able to stagger on the remaining few yards to his hut. Out of curiosity we weighed him and his pack. He weighed 108 lbs and his pack 120 lbs, and he had carried it five miles up hill. That was about the average weight of our full equipment, which of course, included rifle, 250 rounds of ammunition, hand grenades, blankets, winter clothing, etc., but did not include the pounds of mud and water that usually filled all our clothing to absorption point.

I reckon little Tich did a man-sized job that day. He was a man, though he was only eighteen. A few months later he and his mate, Stumpy also eighteen, were acting as runners for a trench officer, when the Germans opened a terrific bombardment on our front line. After the storm we, the survivors, were doing a tour surveying the wreckage the bombardment had caused, when we heard a weak voice calling out. We hurried to the spot and here we found Tich half buried in the ruins of the trench and with his one free hand he could just feel the face of his mate Stumpy, and he was calling “Stumpy, are you all right, Stumpy? Stumpy, speak to me. Are you all right?”

We pulled him out. He had some nasty wounds and was badly shaken, but as he was being carried out with one leg badly shattered, his two chief concerns were for his mate Stumpy, and that he was too heavy for the fellow who was carrying him. He was invalided home and was one of the first to welcome us as we stepped off the boat on our arrival back after the war. But poor little Stumpy and the officer were dead and filled soldiers’ graves that day in Flanders soil.

I think we spent one night in the Rest Camp at Le Havre and next day entrained for the Front. Of course, we were never told where we were going, the front was about 400 miles long, and rumours had us posted to points along its entire length. But the most persistent rumour, perhaps because it sounded best, was that the northern winter would be too severe for Australians, so we were to be sent to the South of France, and probably Italy till after the winter.

But we didn’t have to buy our tickets so we just got into the train as ordered and trusted someone else to take us to our planned destination. I didn’t know much of French geography, but I remembered names of most of the principal towns we passed through and a glance at a map revealed that in the next thirty-six hours we were taken back and forth, round and round over most of Northern France, before finally being detrained at a place called Bailleul, from where we were taken by bus to billets at Strazeel.

Just a word in passing about French troop trains. They consisted of a few carriages, 1st, 2nd and 3rd Class, reserved for the officers, and the remainder were cattle trucks, on the sides of which was painted in large white letters “8 Chevaux 40 Hommes,” or “8 Horses 40 Men”. So forty of us were crowded into each of these trucks with all our equipment and it didn’t matter much if the trucks hadn’t been cleaned out since the last consignment of “Chevaux.”

To say it was crowded was a vast understatement of fact. Fortunately the speed was pretty slow and in daylight most of us used to get out and run alongside for a while to stretch our legs. But the long winter night seemed interminable. One would curl up and try to sleep when the old train would lurch and someone else who was standing would over-balance and stand on your face or someone else’s tummy, and provoke such language that would turn a bogged bullocky green with envy.

Our first billets. We had heard stories of soldiers billeted in France in picturesque farm houses, and with pretty mademoiselles to wait upon them and prepare wondrous meals that only French people are supposed to be able to contrive. Well, yes we were billeted in a French farmhouse. Perhaps it was picturesque, but I think Bruce Bairn’s father aptly described it when he said, “A French farmyard consisted of a rectangular courtyard with a triangular smell in the centre.”

The house formed one side of the rectangle and the other three sides were enclosed by the barns, stables, pig sties, etc. The entire centre of the courtyard to within three feet of the front door of the house was a huge cesspit into which was thrown all the garbage and straw bedding and manure from the stables, and as can be imagined produced that triangular smell referred to. Yet when you stepped into the kitchen, living room, you entered another world. Everything was spotlessly clean

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In action on the Western Front and tidy and even though furnishings may have been cheap or crude and plain, they were tastefully arranged and homelike.

And the dainty mademoiselle was a buxom farm lass in rough farm clothes, thick woollen stockings and wooden clogs for shoes. But she was quite an interesting girl. She was greatly amused and surprised when I took the bucket from her and showed her I could milk faster than she could. Then later as I was watching her cutting up field turnips for cow feed, she told me how in 1914 she had seen the British soldiers drive the Germans back. “They fought just there, in that field”, she said, “and many were killed. I was very frightened and my face was as white as that.” She pointed to the white flesh of the turnips.

Yes, and the fabled billets. We were billeted at a farm house, to be more exact, in the loft above the cow stable with the poultry on the next floor above us and the pigs just through the wall beside us.

The houses were reserved for the officers, who of course, were definitely according to Army Regulations, a class apart.

Pages from Joe’s notebook recording his movements, November 1916 – January 1917, from Larkhill Training Camp, England, to his arrival in France and his times in action on the Western Front.

Here for the first time we could hear the rumble of gunfire from the front and at night could see the flashes in the eastern sky from the guns. We were still about twelve miles behind the line in a quiet sector too, but we were forbidden to remove our boots or clothing at night, in case of sudden attack.

We were very new and green still.

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Joe’s War When we left Australia we thought we were trained. When we arrived in England they said, “Forget all you’ve learned and start again.”

And when we arrived in France, they said, “Now forget all you’ve learned in Aussie and England and use your block and fight.”

From our first billet we saw our first aerial dog fight and anti-aircraft fire, but up to this time the Germans had air superiority and could generally chase our planes out of the sky.

After a couple of days, we marched to Armentiéres — a distance of about eighteen miles. It was quite a busy city with a normal population of over 20,000 people. It was only about one and a half miles from the front line but had not suffered greatly from shell fire, and there were still about 10,000 people living there, many of them not the original citizens, but refugees from other areas where the Germans were still in occupation. These people seemed to be living fairly normal lives and making money from the soldiers in the area. It surprised us that the town was not subjected to more shelling till we found that many of the people were very half hearted about the war. They intended to be with the winners whoever they may be. The sympathies of many were definitely pro-German and among them there were many informers and actual spies. Altogether it was a bad set up. Later, civilians were cleared out of the area. The Germans then concentrated on the town and soon reduced it almost to rubble. To illustrate my point. Just north of Armentiéres there was a farmer carrying out his pursuits on the land right amongst our guns. His team consisted of two horses, one black and one white. Sometimes he’d have the black horse on the off side, sometimes on the near side. Sometimes he’d have a rug on one horse, sometimes on both horses, sometimes on either. Sometimes he appeared to do some very crazy patterns with his ploughing. But all the time he was in full view of German observation balloons and he and his horses were never hurt by shell fire, but our guns in his paddock came in for some very heavy and accurate shelling. One day he was arrested as a spy. With his coloured horses and plough he was directing enemy artillery.

One day in the same district, one of our chaps was looking at one of the old Flemish type wind mills, when he noticed the great vanes move backward. He thought this strange, so went to investigate and caught two spies dressed in New Zealand uniforms directing enemy gunfire with the old wind mill.

Many a man just disappeared in Armentiéres. Complete uniforms and papers were always in demand by spies and collaborators, and they thought nothing of killing a man to get his uniform.

We once moved back to a rest camp a few miles behind the line. Our tents were situated near a nice farm house well hidden from view among large leafy trees. No shell had ever landed near the place.

It was summertime and just about dusk the farmer and his family went for a little stroll in the cool of the evening. They had only gone a few minutes when all hell seemed to break loose. We were shelled with heavy calibre German guns and the farm house was reduced to rubble. Of course the farmer never showed up again.

And it was not uncommon to arrive at our billets, tired and dirty and miserable after a term in the front line, only to find that the handle had been removed from the water pump (and not because of a water shortage) and we might have to walk a half mile for water to wash and drink. I assure you we often wondered why we were there, and if it was all worthwhile.

But all the people were not like that. Some were very good to us and you’d find their kitchens filled with soldiers trying to find some warmth round their fires.

At most of the cafes, the only items on the menu were eggs and chips. One day we asked a Belgian cafe proprietress if she’d cook us a real dinner. She agreed for the next night. There were six of us and when we arrived she took us to a private room upstairs where she had the table already set. We nearly cried with joy when we saw the spotless white table cloth, the first we had seen for many months. And what a spread she had prepared for us, our first experience of French cooking. After the meal she asked us to try some French salad. Heroically we ate it and said it was lovely even though it had nearly choked us, for it was swimming in olive oil. We were beginning to wonder if we would be able to finance the meal, but when we asked for the bill she was at first offended and 60

In action on the Western Front assured us it had been a pleasure. However, we persuaded her to at least let us pay what it had cost her. She made a pretence at costing it item by item and finally it cost us two francs each (about1/8d). It was worth that just to see that emblem of civilisation, the white tablecloth.

Later, I was billeted with two different Belgian families and they were kindness itself to me, and even embarrassed me at times with their consideration and attention. They were very fine people indeed. But perhaps more of them later.

A very cold winter in the trenches

Joe’s wallet, opened out, on the left of which he recorded the places and dates of places where he served from June 1916 to February 1917. Note that for December 1 s t he recorded “trenches”. The line above this reads Armentiéres Nov 28th.

On December 1st 1916 we moved up into the front line trenches at Houplines, a suburb of Armentiéres, and at last after months of training we had arrived and this was it. It was regarded as a quiet sector of the front and it was one of the very few sectors we ever found which could be occupied from daylight. Approach was along a street of more or less shattered houses which offered some cover from observation, then through a shell shocked ruin directly into a trench, which wound and twisted about for about an hour until finally we found ourselves in the front line. All seemed nice and peaceful and quiet, not a shot had been fired so far, but a lot of freshly torn up earth round about seemed rather ominous. We didn’t know how far away the German line was, so after a while I decided to have a peep over the top. I’d hardly had time to adjust my sight to the tangle of wires in front and the litter of jam tins etc., when ping, and I thought the bullet had gone through the top of my steel helmet. Perhaps it was not so close after all, but the first sniper’s bullet puts a nasty taste in one’s mouth, if one is fortunate enough to be able to taste.

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Joe’s War

Then came our first meal. And with it came our first bombardment. It always seemed to happen just at meal times, and cause our stew to grow cold. But in this sector it was our own people who were first to blame. They started the bombardment and of course the Germans had to retaliate. We had Saxons opposing us and they wouldn’t fire unless we did, and they’d always let us have the last shot too. Bavarians were about fifty-fifty with us. Sometimes they’d start the fight, sometimes we would. But the Prussians, they made the fight all the way. They were the toughest ones to be up against.

Our first bombardment didn’t do a great deal of damage. I don’t think anyone was hit, but it made us realise that this war business could very easily be dangerous, and we regarded our tin hats with greater respect.

Just before we moved up to the line we were issued with a new type of gas mask. We’d never seen them before. Six months later after we had been forced to use them on a number of occasions in gas attacks, we were given our first instruction on how to put them on and wear them. The Army had some priceless ideas.

About twice daily both sides indulged in a little “strafing”, i.e. shelling of one another. Apart from that things were very quiet. The opposing front lines were from 200 — 400 yards apart so we didn’t see much of our enemies.

Those strafings didn’t do much damage to us, but they did rattle us badly. We hoped ours did more damage to the German lines. In amongst the high explosive shells they used to aim at us, were also some very terrifying, large trench mortar bombs. The Germans call them Minewerfers. We called them Minnies, or worse. Men were known to be crushed to pulp by the concussion of their explosion alone at twenty yards distance. They were fired very high into the air and we could watch them coming if it was daylight, and if we were lucky we could dodge them. If we didn’t sight them until they were directly overhead and descending, they appeared to be coming down in spirals and we were petrified and just crouched in the trench and hoped for the best. We hated those Minnies.

We were in the front line for ten days and although we didn’t suffer any casualties from enemy fire, the weather took heavy toll of us. At the end of the ten days, practically without sleep, we were all pretty much the worse for wear and a roll call revealed that forty-six out of our Company of about two hundred men had been sent to Hospital with influenza and pneumonia. A lot of those men never came back to us. Some died, some were invalided home.

The conditions were terrible. Winter had set in. The ground was covered with snow, but the big freeze had not yet set in and it was mud and slush everywhere. We had duckboards under our feet in the trenches but water was feet deep under the boards and stagnant. Where the boards were smashed by shell fire, we often had to wade through water waist deep, and couldn’t dry or change our clothes afterwards either. We could scarcely move for the amount of clothing we wore and still we were cold. Our normal clothing consisted of woollen singlet, flannel shirt, woollen jumper, uniform, fleecy-lined leather jacket, army overcoat and oilskin raincoat, plus full length rubber gum boots and fleecy-lined gloves. And the whole lot of it wet all the time.

Our sleeping quarters were crude little niches built into the walls of the trenches. They were so shallow that you could only wriggle into them on your back and once there you couldn’t turn over.

They were only about four feet long so that the last foot or so of your legs remained out in the trench in the rain and cold. After about an hour in there, the water dripping through on to you and rats squeaking and scratching under the boards beneath you, you were so freezing cold that you had to get up and stamp about for the rest of the night to thaw out. We did several tours of front line duty in that area and the general pattern was much the same, only that the severity of fighting and shelling gradually increased.

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In action on the Western Front

The Western Front in Belgium and Northern France where Joe Pederick served . = = = The Western Front Line in late 1916 when Joe first arrived in France. ……. The furthermost German advance during the final offensive in March-April 1918. _ _ _ Approximate position of the line at the time of the Armistice, November 1918.

The locations where Joe fought were;  From December 1916 to August 1917 (including a very cold winter), around and to the north of Armentiéres.  From May 1918 (after 6 months as a training instructor in England) around and to the northeast of Villers-Bretonneaux.  From October 1918 (after 6 weeks in hospital with trench fever) much further east finishing beyond Le Cateau at the time of the Armistice.

The position of the front lines has been taken approximately from maps in the book by Les Carlyon entitled “The Great War (2006).

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Joe’s War

A drawing found in the blank pages of Joe’s papers .

Joe Wrote on the back of this page: “This beats your drawings, Bick. A fellow in our hut in camp drew this. He is very good. He has sketched nearly all of us — got a beauty of my handle! His name is Joe Wright – a real hard case. ”

The usual routine was ten days front line, ten days support, then ten days reserve, then back to the front again. Even when we were in support or reserve lines we still spent all our night up in the front line repairing broken trenches, etc. It was rather a monotonous routine and very unpleasant, but the men didn’t complain. They were a cheery crowd and made jokes even of their suffering.

Like the Digger standing in the trench, wet and half frozen, with mud and slush everywhere and saying - “Well, thank God, we haven’t any dust and flies anyway.”

Or the other Digger I heard one day, when his daily tea ration had been brought up in a petrol tin which hadn’t been washed out. The tea smelt like petrol and as I came along he was holding his mess tin of tea in one hand and scratching his head as if in deep thought.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“I was just trying to work out whether it would be best to warm the tea on the Tommy Cooker, or warm the Tommy Cooker on the tea”, was his reply. You see we were issued with Tommy Cookers, a small tin filled with solidified spirit. Of course they smelt like petrol and on them we heated up our meals which were usually issued to us once a day.

But we all also had our dull moments, when we wondered what it was all about and whether it was all worthwhile. I remember sitting wet and cold and miserable in a trench one day and reasoning this way. “What are the alternatives?”

64

In action on the Western Front (1) Stay on here for perhaps years and years in this misery, for the war looks as if it may never end.

(2) Get wounded — probably badly and be maimed for life.

(3) Get killed outright.

Not a very pleasant prospect, but then a few days later we were out of the line and in a cafe stoking up on “eggs and chips” and the sun was shining and life felt good again.

On one occasion when we were leaving the trenches for a period on “reserve” we were taken back to billets in Armentiéres. It was 2 am when we arrived there and after a rather hectic ten days in the front line we were more dead than alive. When we were safely billeted (in an empty, draughty, old factory building with concrete floors) I was instructed to report to Battalion Headquarters that we were O.K. I’ve already mentioned about the spies in Armentiéres. Well, Battalion Headquarters were about a mile away along streets I’d never seen before and in pitch darkness. My only directions were that it was situated at a building with big white double doors. I hurried up the centre of the street, keeping a firm grip on my rifle and imagining a spy or group of spies in every shadow waiting to pot me off. And those large double doors, every place in the street seemed to have them. At last I came to a place which I thought best suited the description I’d been given. I knocked and a small wicket gate was opened by a vile looking foreigner. I asked if this was Headquarters but he couldn’t speak English and just pointed down a long dark passage at the end of which a chink of light was showing under a door. He beckoned me in and as soon as I was through the door, he slammed it shut and I thought of spies and felt like a rat in a trap. I took a firmer grip of the rifle and made my way down a passage way. As I knocked on the door, I nearly collapsed with relief when I heard Australian voices inside. I had picked the right place. I delivered my message and wasted no time getting back to the billet and to sleep. But it was a hair-raising experience and really a ridiculous errand for anyone to be sent on.

We spent all the winter in that area in and out of the line and it was reported as being the most severe winter for about fifty years. January 1917 was the worst month and I don’t think the temperature ever got above freezing point for the whole month.

About the nastiest ten days of front line duty in that area was done in a place where the front lines, ours and German, were only from fifty to seventy-five yards apart. (In one other sector we were only twenty-five to thirty yards apart). Our line was very thinly held, just machine gun and bombing posts held by about half a dozen men, spaced about 400 yards apart. In between the posts was just a low breastwork of sand bags with duck boards behind to walk on. I had eight men and from 4 pm each evening till 8 am next morning I had to patrol between four or five of those posts across the gaps. I used to take four men with me each trip and we had to do a complete round each hour, so you see the men did only half the number of trips per night that I did. Also when we were in the centre of one of the gaps, we were 200 yards from any of our men, but only 50 to 75 yards from the German line. Sometimes on a quiet night we used to stop and listen to the Germans talking in their front line. But the night before I took over, the Germans lay in wait for the patrol and they were not heard of again. The last couple of hundred yards to the last post on my beat was across an open stretch with no breastwork for protection and I’m sure the Germans could hear our patrol for every time we had to cross that stretch we had to run the gauntlet of machine gun fire. I thought it was better to risk one life than five, so usually left the others in a protected spot and made the dash across alone. One night, as I was doing this I came under exceptionally heavy machine gun fire and the bullets were coming uncomfortably close. It was moonlight and the boys were anxiously watching me. A few yards ahead was a sandbagged dugout in which the men from the post took it in turns to rest. I rushed to this for shelter, but just as I arrived there a German trench mortar bomb also arrived. It went through the roof of the dugout, exploded inside, completely wrecked it and sent me sprawling in the mud. Almost before I could get to my feet again my four men were beside me. They fully expected to find me in pieces. We were afraid to look into the dugout for we knew no one could have survived in there, so we hurried across to the post, and were relieved to hear there that the man who had been resting there got too cold and returned to the post

65

Joe’s War only a minute or two before the bomb arrived. “His number was not on that bomb” as we used to say. Neither was mine.

That reminds me of Jack Watson. He was sitting in the trench one day, when a shell burst overhead. A fragment of shell landed with a thud within inches of him. He picked it up and on it he found his own regimental number, 1312. He reckoned the shell “with his number on it had missed.” But it must have been a twin, for a few months later he was wounded and died of injuries.

It was in this sector, too on this occasion that the incident of Tich and Stumpy, referred to earlier, occurred. There is also an interesting feature about that particular bombardment. It was about midnight. I was on my patrol as usual. A messenger came to me telling me to get the patrol in from the gap (the unprotected, unmanned section of front line between two strong posts) immediately and shelter in the nearest piece of trench we could find, because in a few minutes our artillery and trench mortars were going to strafe the German front line and the Germans would probably retaliate. We had just reached the trench when the bombardment started. We were so stunned by its severity that for a few moments we didn’t realise that it was not our artillery that was bombarding, but we were being bombarded by the Germans. It was terrific. We just huddled in the trench expecting each moment to be our last. Then a sergeant-major came running in to advise us to get out on to the gap again, as the fire seemed to be concentrated on to the spot where we were.

He lead the way and as I was to bring up the rear, I was the last of the party to get out of the trench.

As I was leaving a huge shell came in and burst right where we had been sheltering. (This was probably the shell which hit Tich and Stumpy. We hadn’t known they were there till after). It sent me sprawling and half the trench fell in on me and pinned me down half buried. After it seemed an eternity, I wriggled clear but then I found I was paralysed from the hips down, either from the concussion or the flying sandbags. I couldn’t get to my feet, but crawled along dragging my legs behind me for a couple of hundred yards in record time till I found the rest of the patrol. It was certainly quieter here and after about an hour, the firing ceased and we were able to resume an ordinary night’s patrols. By that time I’d got the use of my legs again and it was then we found Tich and Stumpy. We expected a German raid after the bombardment, but thank goodness it didn’t come. I think our artillery retaliation may have discouraged any ideas they had in that direction.

The general opinion about that message we got before the bombardment started was that our Intelligence Section had learned of the German plan and this was their way of warning us. It was reported later that one of our spies made trips nightly into the German line and back again, and gained much valuable information in that way. Probably he heard of this proposed bombardment and possible raid on us and just got back in time to warn our authorities.

Two or three days before we were to be relieved, the English troops who were to take over from us sent up scouts to find the way in and a sergeant came with me on patrols for a couple of nights to learn the job. They were to take over on a certain night at eight o’clock. It was midnight before they arrived. After ten days and nights we were not feeling too amiable and when the sergeant wanted me to do the first patrol with him, that was the last straw and I flatly refused and took my men out as quickly as I could. We learned later that the Germans took them prisoner before morning.

I’m afraid I didn’t get a very good impression of the English Tommy as a soldier. On another occasion, we were going into a new sector on a pitch black night. Somehow in the dark, part of our party got separated from our guide. I was at the end of the line and found myself with about six men, with no idea where we were to go except that we had to go up a communication trench called Quality Street to the front line. We continued on for some time till we came to a heavy machine gun post occupied by Tommies. We asked them if they could direct us to Quality Street.

“No, chum, we’ve only bin ‘ere a month”, was the reply.

“How far is it to the front line?” we asked.

“Don’t know, chum.”

“In which direction is the front line?”

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In action on the Western Front “Haven’t any idea, chum.”

With all this useful information we moved along up the trench and not thirty yards on we found a large sign in the trench, with letters a foot high “QUALITY STREET”. So we found our way up.

Most observant types those Tommies.

We spent the whole of that dreadful 1916 winter in the Armentiéres area, in and out of the front line, but seldom occupying the same sector twice. In one sector, we were so close to the German line that they could bombard us with their small hand grenades, but we couldn’t reach them with our heavier but more effective Mills grenades.

The big freeze set in, the ground was frozen for feet in depth. The rivers were frozen over so that to get water for our tea, working parties had to go out with pick and shovel and bring the water in, in solid form — ice.

Men on sentry duty in the front line had to be relieved very frequently to avoid being frozen. Men lying out in listening posts in no-man’s land (the strip of land between our front line and the Germans) had to be relieved every half hour and even then they frequently had to be carried in frozen stiff. Frost bite was common, also trench feet, a condition brought about by the feet being continually wet and cold.

During a raid one night, one of our men was killed out in no-man’s land. His mates put his body on a stretcher and started to carry him back to our lines, but because of heavy machine gun fire, they had to leave him in a shell hole. During the night, the shell hole filled with water, then froze. Next night when another attempt was made to recover the body, it was found to be completely embedded in ice. Picks were brought up, but their noise soon brought a hail of machine gun bullets. It was a month before the body could be released from the ice and brought in.

Our first Christmas was celebrated in this area too. During the day there was a kind of unofficial truce, both sides refrained from firing for an hour or two to allow the troops to have Christmas dinner in peace. But in the evening both sides indulged in an extra heavy strafing to make up for it.

We were in the reserve line that day. Someone at headquarters had had the great brainwave that all letters and parcels for the troops for months past were to be saved as a pleasant Christmas surprise.

The trouble was that many didn’t live till Christmas to receive them. I got over forty letters and I think nine parcels, and half an hour after receiving them we were ordered up the line, so many letters had to wait till later to be read, and parcels had to be distributed around among the crowd.

About March 1917 we were taken back some forty odd miles to a place near St. Omer for a rest, we were told, but from the nature of the “rest” we sensed that there was something more to it than that.

We were fed well and then with large rations of physical exercises we were built up to a degree of our original physical fitness. Then the training began. Open attack manoeuvres. Trench assaults.

Hand grenade practice. Lectures on tactics and map reading. And of course Dame Rumour was busy again with the latest and most reliable information on the reasons for it all. However, it was generally accepted that it was to equip us for the inevitable Spring offensive, but some said it was to be up north, while others said down south.

After about three weeks, we were quite suddenly ordered out on a forced march back to Armentiéres. Snow was about a foot thick on the ground, the roads were rough, our boots were worn and thin and our packs were as heavy as ever. The first day we covered sixteen miles under those conditions, finished up tired, but otherwise in pretty good shape. To keep up morale a fair degree of laxity was encouraged. Snowballing was a good diversion and everything and everybody within range was pelted with snow. Some French civilians, and some English staff officers, thus treated didn’t seem to appreciate it much, but that was just too bad. One English officer got out of his car and protested very forcibly to our officer in charge. He so far forgot himself that he omitted to salute a V.C. holder, our Captain Symons V.C. And for his trouble his car was just about buried under the snow that was thrown at and into it.

Next morning we were on the march early and learned that we had to reach Armentiéres that night, a distance of twenty-six miles. Our feet were sore and every bone in our bodies was aching when 67

Joe’s War we started out. A competition was started between companies as to which would get through losing the least number of men. Our bandsmen did a great job lifting our feet with rousing marching tunes but by mid-afternoon they just had no more wind to blow. Feet became raw and blood oozed out on the snow. Many removed their worn out boots and marched barefoot. But they kept going.

Toward evening we were in a sorry plight when we entered a village, about five or six miles from Armentiéres, occupied by New Zealand troops. Kiwi and Aussie troops were always good cobbers and these Kiwis were dinkum cobbers. They saw our condition. They brought out hot soup and passed it into our ranks, some took packs or rifles from men who were about done and joined in our ranks and marched along with us the rest of the way. Their band too came to our aid and played us all the way to Armentiéres. It was a wonderful gesture of good will. It was dark when we finally staggered in to Armentiéres and we were absolutely flat, but not one man had fallen out from our Company.

The most annoying part of the whole affair though, was that after all this agony to get back to Armentiéres quickly, on arrival there we were put into billets which were being continually shelled, day and night and kept there with nothing to do for eight days. Perhaps the High Command had some reason for it but it didn’t make sense to us.

The Messines Ridge Operation We did one more tour of front line duty in that area, then we were moved up to Ploegsteert, or Plug Street as it was generally called in English.

By this time spring was in the air. Plug Street wood looked beautiful in all its new fresh green foliage, but we realised that we had not been brought there as tourists to admire the scenery. A stroll through the woods revealed that already huge dumps of ammunition were being stored there and gun emplacements were being prepared and carefully camouflaged everywhere. We were billeted in the Catacombs, the largest and most pretentious dugout the Allies ever made, I think. It was dug into the Hill, known as Hill 60 at Hyde Park Corner, and as its tunnels and passages were about forty feet underground it was pretty secure against enemy shell fire. But, of course, there was always the hazard of reaching the entrance, for Hyde Park Corner was a very unhealthy spot and seemed to be almost continually under a shower of enemy shrapnel. The Catacombs were large enough to provide sleeping accommodation in two tier bunks for about 2,000 men. Electric lighting was provided and air shafts and fans for Entrance to the Catacombs. Photo courtesy of the Australian War Memorial (E04486) . ventilation, but still it was a very damp, musty, eerie place to live in.

Just across the valley and under the opposite hill we knew the Germans had similar but more elaborate dugouts and in between the tunnellers of both sides were at work underground, digging tunnels for land mines under the opposing positions.

One night, some of our men reported a tapping sound under the floor where they were sleeping. Of course, we thought of enemy tunnellers as it certainly sounded like the noise of a pick. I reported the matter and for my trouble was put in charge of a picquet to listen all night for any further noises.

In the morning it was officially announced that the noise we had heard was merely the thud of the 68

In action on the Western Front howitzers firing nearby. But we were not deceived. To this day we are confident that it was tunnellers at work, but whether friend or foe it will never be known.

About 100 yards from the entrance to the Catacombs, and quite unprotected from shell fire except for the hill, which did give some protection against low trajectory shells, but none against shrapnel or howitzer shells, there was a Y.M.C.A. Hut. It was constructed of Ruberoid over a light wooden frame, and the number of holes in walls and roof bore testimony of the amount of shrapnel it had stopped. Yet all day long it was filled with Diggers, writing letters, playing games or making purchases at the Canteen. And almost every night the place was crowded to capacity for a concert or an entertainment of some sort. The show always went on in spite of the shrapnel and strangely enough not many injuries occurred there.

Our period in the Catacombs was not by any means a rest period. Much of our time both by day and night was spent up in the trenches on working parties, repairing old trenches or making new ones, in preparation for a big offensive, which we knew was not far ahead of us. These working parties were no fun, for in daytime we were in full view of the enemy entrenched on Messines Ridge opposite us.

A Digger, once when asked about Belgium said, “That place! Blimey, one half of it was blown up by shell fire and the other half, I put into sand bags.” We certainly put a lot of it into sand bags.

On one occasion I was in charge of a party sent up to repair a broken trench. I was warned that we would be working in an exposed position, and if shelling became too troublesome, we were not to take unnecessary risks, but to shelter in a dugout nearby. On arrival at the spot, I inspected this dugout and found it was only a light structure which would be only splinter proof, but we put our equipment in it, hoped for the best and went to work. We had hardly started when the first shrapnel shells arrived overhead, so we sheltered in the dugout. The shelling continued for about an hour.

Apparently only one gun was firing at us, a heavy 5.9” howitzer, using shrapnel. It had our range perfectly and every shot showered our position with shrapnel pellets. It was nasty but while the Germans continued to use shrapnel we felt comparatively safe in the dugout. These howitzer shells were low velocity projectiles and we could hear them coming for a few seconds before they burst, not a very nice sensation waiting for it I can assure you. After about an hour the shelling ceased, and we were standing about outside the dugout, discussing whether to resume work or to return to our billets, when we heard the gun fire again, followed by the whine of the shell coming our way.

The entrance to the dugout was by a narrow doorway through a four feet thick sand bagged wall.

The dugout itself was about twelve feet square and six feet high, roofed over with heavy galvanised iron and covered with a couple of layers of sand bags. When we heard that gun fire we rushed for the dugout. I was the last to enter and as I entered so did the shell. This was not a shrapnel one, but a high explosive shell. It came through the roof inches above my head and lodged in the sand bagged wall before it exploded. That saved our lives. For the first thing I knew I was on my back in the far corner about fifteen feet from the doorway and when I opened my eyes there was no dugout above me, only smoke and dust. I’ve often laughed since at my first reaction. I was numbed and rattled from the concussion and the first thing I did was to feel all my arms and legs and was really surprised to find they were all there. Then I called to the other men and my second surprise was that they too were all intact. Not one of us was wounded although the dugout in which we sheltered was completely wrecked. We climbed out through the wreckage and ran for about a mile before we stopped. But when we did stop, we couldn’t start again. We were bruised black and blue all over and I don’t know how we got back the other two or three miles to our camp, whether we walked or were carried, I haven’t the slightest idea. The doctor’s verdict was that I had slight concussion but my verdict was that I had a very narrow escape and a horrible fright.

We remained in the Plug Street area for some time, doing tours of duty in the front line and support and reserve lines. In support we camped either in the Catacombs or in trenches in Plug Street Wood and in reserve we were in camps three or four miles behind the line, but every night we were up in the front line trenches and supports hard at work building and consolidating. During those months we watched the town of Messines on the hill occupied by the Germans being gradually reduced to a heap of rubble by our artillery fire.

69

Joe’s War One night just at dusk, the Germans subjected us to a very heavy bombardment, but lucky for us they just missed our trenches by a yard or two and we suffered no casualties. Then when the Germans thought we were all dead, they sent over a raiding party of about twenty men. We were waiting for them and gave them a very warm reception with machine guns. We got one prisoner and none of the others got back to their trenches either. The prisoner told us they intended to attack at the same time each night till they took the Wood. Sure enough at the same time next night, the bombardment started again, heavier this time, but again just missed our trench. Then over came another raiding party, very confident this time and led by a big, fat German carrying an armful of stick grenades, like a load of firewood. We were unable to get a prisoner this time, but again none got back to their trenches and after that they gave up the idea of taking the Plug Street Wood.

It wasn’t much fun back in the reserve camps either. They were still under observation from German observation balloons, and we came in for quite a lot of shelling. I remember one Church Parade there one Sunday held in a Y.M.C.A. Hut. The Catholics had their service first. It had only just started when a big shell burst overhead and put a few more holes in the church. The service was abandoned. Immediately the Protestants were assembled and marched into the same building.

Our Padre, Rev A. I. Davidson, a Presbyterian, was the preacher. Shells burst overhead but the service went on. In the middle of the sermon, a big one burst overhead. More holes in the hut and one in the preacher’s tunic, but he continued on and finished the service. I’m afraid I was not the only one whose mind was not entirely on the good words of the preacher that day.

During those periods in reserve camps we were taken to study huge relief maps of the Messines Ridge and beyond. On these maps were shown every hedge and tree, dugout trench and gun behind the German line. We were lectured on the big attack, which was soon to be launched and the part we were to play in it. It was up to us to acquaint ourselves with every detail of what we might expect to find when we got into enemy territory. Every detail was explained to us. We knew to the minute when every new move would be made.

Everything was timed from Zero hour. All we were not told was what day would be Zero Day or which hour of Zero Day would be Zero hour. On June 6th 1917 we were in a Reserve Camp again.

Work was going on as usual. Some men were up the line on working parties, some were attending lectures, and some were resting after a strenuous shift up in the trenches. Early in the afternoon, all were recalled to camp and then we were told that Zero Day was next day and Zero Hour, 3 am.

There was a buzz of excitement and industry. There were so many things to be done. Rolls to be called. Special equipment and ammunition to be issued. Duties to be allocated. Last orders and instructions to be given. We knew it was to be a major operation, to attack and occupy Messines Ridge, which was a formidable stronghold of the Germans, dominating the northern end of the Front and the Ypres salient. We knew it was a big and dangerous undertaking and I think most were wondering just what the next few days had in store for them. Most men, as soon as they had a few moments to spare stole away to write letters home. And most gave home addresses to mates, just in case they didn’t come out alive. I had quite a number of these addresses given to me and afterwards it was my sad duty to write letters as requested.

At the last minute, my old tent mate, Lubin Robertson, now a Lieutenant was withdrawn, because his brother Will, also a Lieutenant, was going with us. He was a very disappointed man I can assure you. His brother was killed before we had gone a mile on our way up the road to the line, before the stunt began.

Another very disappointed boy was a lad named Clarke, who had only just turned seventeen a few days earlier. Someone had informed the authorities of his real age at the last moment and he, too, was withdrawn. He cried like a boy missing a birthday party.

The camp cooks excelled themselves in preparing a good meal for us, extra rations must have been made available. It was the last meal we had for several days, and for many it was their last meal.

Artillery fire for several weeks had been pretty heavy on both sides, but this evening there seemed to develop an eerie calm, a calm before the storm. I don’t know how or why it so happened.

70

In action on the Western Front It was summertime with the long European twilight, and as all roads were under enemy observation, all exceptional movement had to wait till after dark. Guns had to be rushed up to their prepared positions in the forward area and ammunition for them had to be brought up. All roads were crammed with traffic moving up in the dark.

Our camp was three or four miles from the front line. We had to be in position for the opening of the attack at 3.00 o’clock in the morning, so didn’t leave camp till about midnight. Hardly had we started on the road when the calm was broken and we came under quite heavy enemy shell fire, some shrapnel but mostly gas shells. This meant donning gas masks, which with the black darkness of the night, the heavy traffic on the road and our heavy equipment made it very heavy going indeed.

When we entered Ploegsteert Wood (or Bois de Ploegsteert to be correct, or Plug Street Wood to be better understood), the gas was very heavy and lay about like a ground fog amongst the trees and undergrowth. We were nearly exhausted and men began to be sick in their gas masks and it was hard to keep them going. Some gave up and threw themselves on the ground moaning. Harsh measures had to be used to get them on their feet again, to leave them there would have meant certain death. A few escaped us in the dark and died there of gas poisoning.

One horrible sight, I saw there in the wood that night, I’ll never forget. An incendiary shell landed among us. Three or four men were splashed with phosphorous and became human torches, their faces, hands and equipment alight with an unquenchable fire. Blinded and in agony they were running about in frenzy pleading for someone to shoot them. Whether they survived or not we never knew.

We reached our position with about two minutes to spare. Fortunately there was no gas here and we were able to remove our gas masks. Exhausted we dropped into the bottom of the trench to snatch a few moments rest. Thirsty after the gas ordeal, we drained our water bottles.

We knew that the signal for the attack to start was to be the setting off of the mines under the hill in front of us. An officer came along and warned us to stand up in case the trench collapsed on us when the mines went up. We ridiculed the idea and said we’d chance that and rest while we could.

But didn’t those last few moments drag out, every second seemed an hour. Then deep down underground there was first a weird rumble, then a roar. The trench swayed, we didn’t ridicule then.

We jumped to our feet and as the earth rocked we were bumped from one side of the trench to the other. To the east over Messines, looking toward the pink glow of approaching day, there appeared a dense red cloud, like a Mallee dust storm. We had scarcely recovered from the shock of the exploding mines, when a deafening roar broke out behind us as our guns came into action with one of the most intense bombardments in history. Two thousand guns of artillery and two hundred heavy machine guns opened fire together, each one firing on pre-selected targets. Every German gun in the forward area had been spotted and in that first salvo there was a British shell for every one of them. Other guns were trained on enemy trenches and a terrific barrage was laid down on the German front line. After three minutes that barrage moved on and immediately the troops who were to do the first wave of the attack, jumped over our trench and dashed across no man’s land for the German lines. Hardly a shell came back from the German Line and that first wave met no opposition and reached their objective without any trouble. Soon a few wounded and badly shocked prisoners began to come back, but not many. Very few survived that terrific pounding.

The mines had been laid deep under the hill and under the German fortifications. Nineteen of them went up with one mighty bang, with several hundreds of tons of High Explosive in each. No wonder the earth rocked. We were only 500 yards from the largest one. Chimneys were knocked down and brick walls cracked, twelve miles away. No wonder if we have been a bit cracked too, ever since.

Our part in the plan didn’t start till 10 o’clock when we moved forward and pushed on beyond the point reached by the first wave. Our job was not so easy, for the Germans had now had seven hours to reorganise and now had heavy long range guns firing on us. Also he had rushed up reserve troops to meet us. However we gained our objective on time without many casualties and then 71

Joe’s War according to plan had to wait about three hours for the next move. Hours of waiting lying in pungent, newly made shell holes.

And then our troubles really began. Hardly had we begun to move, when we came under heavy artillery and machine gun fire. We had gone, perhaps twenty yards, when we found one of our men dead in a shell hole. I recognised him at once, not by his face for most of his head was gone but by his clothing. He had been one of our cooks and his clothes were greasy and smoke stained. It was some moments before the nearest man to me recognised him as his own brother. I’m afraid any German he met just then would have received little mercy, but a few minutes later he, too, was wounded and saw no more of the war.

At one stage machine gun fire was so intense that we were forced to shelter in shell holes for a few minutes. I shared a shell hole with one of my mates. When we went to move on again, no sooner had he got to his feet, than down he went with a bullet through the chest. I turned him over and left him for dead. Some months later he walked into my hut in England looking for me. He said the shot completely paralysed him with pain. He was quite conscious and saw me turn him over and look at him but he was unable to move a muscle or an eyelid to let me know he was alive. An hour earlier, I was in charge of ten men. Harry was the last of them to fall and now I was alone. I attached myself to A company on our left and that was how I came to be with Captain Robert Grieve when he won his V.C. And when he, too, was shot through the chest I bandaged him up and a little later he was able to get up and walk back to the Casualty Clearing Station, refusing to be carried, saying there were others in greater need than he was. He was a brave and good man.

Ahead of us was a trench behind a hedge and this trench was manned by Germans all running their rifles hot firing at us. We were only about twenty in number and when about fifty or seventy yards from the trench were given the order to charge with the bayonet. What a mad rush that was. The Germans continued to fire till we were about fifteen yards away, then decided they didn’t like the look of us and jumped out with hands above their heads crying “Mercy Kamerad.” They outnumbered us by about four to one and I think we were about as nervous as they were as they swarmed around us. However, we pointed to the rear and they didn’t need telling twice to go and be imprisoned for the rest of the war. A couple of walking wounded were sent back with them but had difficulty in keeping up with them. We had now reached our final objective and prepared to dig in and consolidate.

Later, owing to someone’s blunder our artillery opened up a terrific barrage behind us instead of in front of us. We were now in front of our own shells and completely exposed to the German counter attacks which threatened. Word was passed round that we were to get back to the next line through our own shell fire as best we could. There was an old metalled road down which we ran, and did we run! Shells were bursting and crashing round us everywhere. One landed almost between my feet and exploded without hurting me but tore a man’s arm off a hundred yards behind me.

Strangely not many were injured in that run and most reached the trench in safety. Here we stayed all night and what a night it was, with wounded calling for help everywhere, and shattered and torn bodies, both friend and foe lying about. Toward morning we heard a faint cry in front of the trench and after a while a poor badly wounded German crawled in pleading for mercy. He was in a bad way and he was treated with just as much consideration as if he’d been one of our own. He craved for water. So did we all, for it was hot weather and few of us had tasted food or water for about thirty hours. Yet one chap had just a few drops left in his water bottle and he willingly gave it all to the man who perhaps an hour or two earlier had been firing at him. But such is war.

It was Wednesday when we started out from our camp for the offensive. By 3.00 am on Thursday when the mines blew up we had drained our water bottles and it was not till Saturday morning that we got any more water or food. By that time and with all the nervous strain we had been through, our lips were cracked and tongues swollen and we were in a sorry state.

Soon after the food arrived we were relieved by fresh troops and told to find our way back to camp as best we could. Of our company of about 170 men only 22 were left. I led half of the company

72

In action on the Western Front (11 men) back and a sergeant led the other half. We two were the only N.C.O.s left out of 19 who went out.

What a sorry looking lot we must have been as we staggered back. Eyes bloodshot and eyes, nose and mouth ringed with grime. Clothes torn and bloodstained and our minds filled with the carnage we had witnessed and memories of good mates we had lost.

Messines Ridge, total devastation.

I’ll never forget our arrival back in camp. Those who had remained behind were there to welcome us, in fact they came up the road to meet us and help us along. They didn’t have to help us carry our gear. We had been too tired to carry that and once clear of the forward area had just thrown everything away, rifles, equipment, ammunition, everything except our gas masks.

Back in camp, we found showers ready for us, clean clothing, a mighty dinner ready and even our beds made for us, and the fellows fussed over us like our own mothers might. It was a heartwarming experience though, I can assure you. We enjoyed the shower and clean clothes, but were too tired and exhausted to do full justice to the dinner, and too tired physically and mentally to sleep for some hours after turning in to bed. Sleep came at last and most of us slept for about twenty hours.

It was Sunday and the Padre suggested a church parade. As a rule church parades were shunned by most, but this day I think every man went to church and it was a voluntary parade. As one fellow put it, “Well chaps I think it’s up to us to go to church today, we all have a lot to be thankful for.”

Then there was a muster roll call. When a man failed to answer when his name was called, we were asked if we had seen him and what we knew about him. When my name was called, someone said I had been killed, he had seen me and recognised me. He was very surprised when I spoke up and 73

Joe’s War assured him I was still alive. When Harry’s name was called I testified that I had seen him killed, but someone else said he’d seen him go out wounded. So it went on, revealing a long list of casualties and death.

But although the casualties ran into many thousands and the expense into many millions of pounds and the gains into only a few hundred yards of ground, the High-Up Authorities back in their lavish headquarters, miles away in safety, assured the world that the whole enterprise had been a great success.

And a week or so later the British General in charge of the Army of which we formed a part, congratulated us on the marvellous job we had done, and assured us that next time he had a difficult job to be done, he would not hesitate to give it to us. How jolly fine! Eh what? And he kept his word too.

After such a gruelling time we had hoped for and really expected a little rest but before night we were detailed for various duties. I was sent with a party of men to the artillery and our job rolling eight inch shells up to the guns from the dump three or four hundred yards away. Each shell weighed about 400 pounds and we had to balance them on a four inch track of timber and roll them, a back breaking job in the dark. For six nights we did that from sunset to sunrise, an ideal way of resting.

Apparently I was beginning to look just how I felt, about done, for on July 1st 1917, I was sent back to a Rest Camp at the seaside near Boulogne. It was summertime, the weather was good and we had a good time there with plenty of swimming and leave to visit the city of Boulogne. The swimming was a queer turn. Of course none of us had bathers, so the civilian population was notified that the beach would be closed at certain specified hours, so the troops could go swimming.

I think almost the entire civilian population, men, women and children therefore, turned out at that time every day to watch the nudists go bathing. They seemed to enjoy it immensely.

All good things come to an end and about 10.30 pm on July 14th 1917, we found ourselves back at the railhead at Bailleul, where we were met by a guide to lead us back to the Battalion, which was then in trenches on Messines Ridge about twelve miles away. The guide took a wrong road and by 2 am next morning we were only at Neuve Eglise and still three or four miles from our objective.

We’d had enough for one night, so curled up on the side of the road and rested for a few hours. The driest spot I could find was a heap of road metal and on that bed I slept soundly for about three hours in spite of a severe frost. We re-joined our unit just in time for breakfast.

I found our company right on the crest of the ridge where the mines had exploded five or six weeks earlier. The ground was so pulverised and loose from the effects of that, that it was impossible to dig a trench so we used the German concrete pill boxes or machine gun posts which still remained intact, though blown right out of the ground and now resting at all angles on the surface. In every one of them were dead Germans who had been there since June 7th 1917. It was not a pleasant task removing and burying them and it wasn’t pleasant living in the pill boxes after they had gone, but we had no alternative and here we lived for a fortnight. This was bad enough but some of the other conditions under which we were forced to live were too gruesome to be recorded.

After several weeks of this, crouching in those filthy, foul smelling concrete boxes by day and floundering about over rough broken ground on working parties all night, we were at last taken back to a Rest Camp about forty miles behind the line, right away from the war, to prepare us for the next big job as promised by the old General.

Then on September 1st 1917 I got a very pleasant surprise. Two N.C.O.’s from each company were to be sent back to England as Instructors in the Training Battalion. I was now a Sergeant and as only two of us had survived the Messines battle, we two were chosen to go. Six months in England! That would take us over the winter months and surely the war would be over then.

Anyway six months was a life time when for months we had been living just moment by moment.

74

In action on the Western Front

Respite in England I still remember what a thrill it was to hear English voices in the streets, to have meals in a civilised fashion at a table with a crisp, clean, white tablecloth and at night to have a nice soft, warm, dry, clean bed with clean white sheets to sleep between. It was just too good to be back in London again. For months in France, we had been vermin-infested, our bodies were raw where the wretched things gnawed at us. We waged a continuous war on them but could not rid ourselves of them, even when we were back in rest areas and could wash ourselves and our clothes regularly.

Yet strangely enough, on arrival in London, we were first taken and given a bath and fresh clothing, and after that we saw no sign of our persistent little boarders.

Then back to the old Larkhill Camp and first of all plenty of good food and exercise to restore our physical fitness. Next we did some special schools to equip us as instructors. I did a bombing and explosives course and became a Bombing Instructor.

In November I got ten days leave and went up to Scotland, and had a very interesting time up there.

We found the people up there more friendly than the English people we had met round Salisbury and in London. I stayed at a guest house right in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle and spent several days exploring the city and surroundings. Edinburgh Castle, Holyrood Castle and Forth Bridge were only some of the places we visited. I say we for I had gone up to Scotland alone. And on my first day in Edinburgh I realised again just how lonely one can be in a crowd in a strange city. I was strolling down Princess Street when suddenly I sighted an Australian uniform, then as we drew closer I noticed the other Digger was also a sergeant and wearing the 37th Battalion colours. He was from another Company in the same Battalion but we had never met before. We were both alone in a strange city so we decided to stick together. He was a decent chap and we had quite a good time. After a day or two in Edinburgh we went to Glasgow for a few days. Although it had some excellent buildings, we found the busy old ship building city rather drab after Edinburgh. One day we went for a trip out to see Loch Lomond. It was wintertime so I suppose the Bonny Banks of Loch Lomond were not at their bonniest, but still we enjoyed our visit there.

On the way out to Loch Lomond on the train, we ran out a mile or two into the country. In the seat behind us were two young men in civilian clothes and as we passed a little roadside Inn I overheard one of them say to his friend, “That’s a dinky little boozer there.”

I immediately turned round and said to him, “What part of Aussie are you from, mate?”

“How do you know I’m an Australian?” he replied.

“Well,” I said, “I never heard a Scotchman refer to an Inn as a Dinky little boozer.”

It turned out they were brothers, crew members of the hospital ship “Karoola”. They came from Brunswick and knew some people we knew. And so the party had now grown to four and we stayed together for the remainder of our visit in Glasgow. Before parting company with them, they offered to bring back home to our people any little things we might care to send. They did that and better still, they wrote to our people, very nice letters when they arrived back in Melbourne a month or two later, telling how they had met us so recently in Scotland and assuring them that we were well etc.

One other little incident always comes to mind when I think of our stay in Scotland. In a restaurant one day my soldier pal was greatly attracted by one of the waitresses. It was marvellous how often he needed a cup of tea during the next couple of days and he’d always lead us back to the same table in that same cafe each time. We returned to Edinburgh and next day my leave was up and I had to go on to London. He still had a day or two left and as I was leaving I asked him what he intended to do.

“Oh, I think I’ll go back to Glasgow to see Blondie again”, he replied.

I didn’t see him again for about eighteen months.

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Joe’s War

I enquired about Blondie and all smiles, he told me he was going up again in a few days to marry her. Nearly thirty years later, I met his brother and asked him about the little Scotch bride.

“Scotch bride”, he said in surprise. “He didn’t marry a Scotch girl; he came home and soon after married an Australian girl.” So that was that.

Soon after our return from France to Larkhill Camp I met the other Joe Pederick, a cousin of Dad’s, whom I knew as a boy, when I stayed with Grandpa Pederick in South Australia. He was just about to go across to France for his first time, and he told me about some very fine people he had met in a little English village near where he was camped. It was about twenty-five miles from where we were camped and I thought it was hardly likely I’d get to see them. But Joe assured me that he was sure they’d make me very welcome, so I kept the address, just in case.

Sergeant’s Mess, 10 t h Training Battalion, Larkhill, England. Joe, (second back row, second from right).

Strangely enough, about a week later, we were shifted to the camp nearest to this little village of Broadchalke. On the first Saturday, therefore, I set out to meet these good people, for at this time I was very homesick and up till then I had never been invited into an English home.

Broadchalke was just a typical little, old English county village with winding, narrow streets and quaint little thatch-roofed houses with the usual few little shops and an old church or two. At the first grocery store, I called in to seek direction to the Webb’s home and the girl who answered my enquiry happened to be one of the Webb girls. As soon as I mentioned my name, she called to her sister who also worked there and at once I was made to feel that I’d be welcome. They directed me to their home and assured me they would soon be home too. At the door of the cottage I was received by one of the dearest, kindliest, little women I’ve ever known. When I told her I was another Joe Pederick, that was enough for her and from that moment her home became a real home away from home for me. They were really wonderful people and they were just what I needed at that time. There were three daughters and a son at home and two other sons over in the Army at 76

In action on the Western Front War. It was late when I got away from there that night, but I didn’t mind a scrap that lonely three mile walk back to camp.

I was invited back next afternoon for tea. After tea we went to church. After church, a good old sing song round the organ, then supper and back to camp. Mr and Mrs Webb always introduced me to their friends as “their Aussie son” and they were indeed a wonderful father and mother to me.

Every Sunday and several nights during the week for the rest of the time I was in England, I spent in their home. It was not until some years later that I realised that on all those visits, I was eating up some of their precious food rations, while our camp rations were about double theirs. They were only poor people, but they had hearts of gold and I’ll never cease to be grateful for what they did for me and meant to me.

On November 24th 1917, I turned twenty one, and these good people made a birthday cake and gave a little party to celebrate it for me.

Now nearly forty years later, I still keep up a regular correspondence with the family, although the old people died many years ago, also one of the girls. I always regard them as some of my dearest friends, some of the finest people I’ve ever met.

Christmas 1917 came. We must have a special celebration in the camp for Christmas. Mess levies were raised to buy special food, and home parcels provided many a Christmas cake, and a great feast was promised. But we needed some pork. There were farms round about the camp with pigs in the sties, but the farmers wouldn’t sell although we offered good prices. Still the cook insisted that we must have roast pork, and sure enough we had roast pork and it was delicious. Next day, an irate farmer was round looking for a missing porker, but not a bristle could be traced. I wonder if it was merely a coincidence. I don’t think it was really, but it was nice pork.

Talking about coincidence reminds me, too, of the other Joe Pederick. He went over to France and a few months later, a number of wounded men were lying in a Casualty Clearing Station waiting to be sent back to Hospital. An orderly came in and called the name Pederick. A chap with his face swathed in bandages because of a bullet wound in the nose answered the call. The man on the next stretcher, who was wounded in the leg turned to him.

“Did you say your name was Pederick?”

“Yes.” “Not Joe Pederick?”

“Yes.” “Well, don’t you know me?”

“No.” “I’m Hiram Outram, your cousin.”

“Never heard of you.”

“Well, aren’t you Joe Pederick from Kyabram?”

“No, I’m Joe Pederick from Gawler River.”

Hiram was my cousin on the Winnett side of the family, and of course, they had never heard of one another, but here they met on adjoining stretchers, both wounded.

But that sort of thing was always happening.

Another South Australian cousin of Dad’s, Harry Manning, went overseas as a Y.M.C.A. Representative. Auntie Rene sent me his address, so while I was in England, I wrote to him. He replied and invited me down to Bournemouth where he was stationed. We wrote several letters and then in one of them, he said something that made me wonder if he was thinking I was the other Joe Pederick, so as a footnote to my reply I wrote, “I wonder if you think I’m Joe Pederick from Gawler River. Because I am not.”

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Joe’s War

Back came the reply, “Of course I thought I’d been writing to Joe from Gawler River. Who are you?” I told him and soon after I spent a very happy weekend with him at Bournemouth.

Bournemouth is a seaside resort in the south of England and is recognised as a very pretty place, but the weekend I was there a howling blizzard was raging and it was about the only place I visited over there where I didn’t buy picture postcards as a memento.

Then I had a letter from Mum. She had received a letter from a Mr Winnett, who lived in Gippsland. Somehow he had heard that mum’s maiden name was Winnett. They corresponded for a time. She told him she had a son overseas and he said he had a son in camp who would shortly be going overseas. As a result, mum sent me Bertie Winnett’s address and Bertie Winnett was given mine. His address was with a general reinforcement company, which might have been sent anywhere, so I thought it most unlikely that I’d ever see anything of him. One night I was in charge of the Camp Guard and as part of my duty had to get the names of all the men in my charge. As I passed down the line taking down the names, one gave his name as Winnett. I told him I wanted to see him when the parade was dismissed. Yes, he had my address in his pocket and I had his in mine. He had been transferred to 37th Battalion reinforcements. We went our separate ways and I’ve never seen him since.

Talking about guard duty reminds me of something else. My! Don’t we ramble on.

During our tour of duty with the training Battalions in England, I came in for a lot of guard work.

About twice a week, I was detailed Sergeant of the Guard. Not only did we have to guard the Camp entrances, the Stores and food supply and the Headquarters, but we also had to look after the bad boys, who were for various crimes, detained in Regimental detention, better known as “The Boob” or “The Clink”. Some of the characters, we had there awaiting court martial were very bad boys indeed and our job was not an enviable one. For instance, one fellow’s punishment included several hours a day when he had to be handcuffed. We had to call him up to the cell door to put the “bracelets” on him but before we could close the door he would have them off and pass them back to us. He was a nasty piece or work and we always kept well round the corner of the door in case he swung them at us. It was not a rare occurrence for these prisoners to escape and there was generally a sergeant in camp waiting a Court Martial for allowing a prisoner to escape.

One day, a sergeant came and asked me if I’d do him a favour. His latest “heart throb” was coming across to England from Ireland, and would I take his turn on Guard. How could one resist. I took his guard for him.

It was a wild windy night. We had several very restless customers in, so I was particularly careful, or so I thought. It had been the rule for some time that the prisoners’ boots and coats were to be taken from them at 9 pm. At 9 pm, therefore, I instructed that this should be done and then it was found that one cell, where there should have been four men, was empty. And in the back of the cell was cut a neat hole. With assistance from outside they had cut their way out and we hadn’t heard them because of the gale.

So I was the next Sergeant to be up for a Court Martial. For several weeks I was under open arrest, which meant I was not supposed to leave the Camp. I was not allowed in the sergeant’s Mess nor the Men’s Mess and I was exempt from all parades and duties. Actually it worked out very nicely.

I led a gentleman’s life really. I couldn’t go into the Mess Room for meals but there was nothing to prevent me going to the Mess Kitchen and there I was given all the choicest cuts and biggest rations. The days were nice and it was pleasant lazing in the sun. One day while thus employed I met the Adjutant. He asked what I was doing and when I told him, he said, “Why don’t you get a leave pass and go out and enjoy yourself?”

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In action on the Western Front

Case dismissed.

I didn’t need telling twice. He signed the pass and off I went, over to Webb’s at Broadchalke.

After a day or two he tired of writing passes for me and told me to go out as much as I liked. So that was that. I liked going out a lot.

At the Court Martial my case was dismissed. I was free and was given four days leave to compensate for my period under arrest. But the old Colonel was very peeved. He wanted a conviction. He didn’t like those of us who had been in France, for we knew too much about his war record, and I knew that my days in England were numbered and I’d soon be back in France again.

As a matter of fact I did get a trip across to France within a few days. I was sent over with a detachment of new reinforcements, but I had a return ticket and was only a few days away.

On the return trip, the boat was crowded and I’m sure I didn’t get any sleep but when we stepped ashore, I found that the railway warrant for myself and my two corporals had been stolen from my wallet and in its place was a little ebony crucifix. The crucifix didn’t seem to impress the railway people and my story didn’t impress the Transport Officer, so we had to pay our own fares back to camp, and between us we had just about the correct amount with not a penny to spare. But I’d like to have found the practical joker and pick-pocket who planted the crucifix there.

Things were going badly in France. The Germans were attacking everywhere and breaking through in many places. They had retaken Armentiéres and Messines and were advancing on the Somme too. Casualties were heavy and all available troops were being rushed across to France. We’d say goodbye to them one day, then within a week we’d hear that they were back in England in hospital wounded.

So on April 1st 1918, I found myself an April fool on my way back to France, with the good wishes of many cobbers who cheered me off with “See you in hospital at the end of the week.”

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Joe’s War

In France again for the final battles I joined the Battalion at a place called Allonville. They had been used as shock troops to stop the German advance and had been rushed up and down the line to wherever the fighting was fiercest, and now they were a sorry looking party indeed. They were dirty, bedraggled, hollow eyed and dead tired, only about sixty men remained from a battalion of about 900. At Allonville, reinforcements and men returning from hospital brought it back to somewhere near fighting strength and after a few days rest, the men’s spirits rose again to normal too. We were camped in a huge hay shed and were really very comfortable in the hay. We were there for ten days and then we moved up to the line and other tired troops took our place. During our stay there not a single shell had fallen within miles of us, yet an hour after we left a huge German shell landed right in the hay shed, killing and wounding 150 men. Such were the fortunes of war.

I should have told you about an incident that occurred the first night we were back in France. We stayed the night in a base camp. During the night enemy aircraft came over and dropped some bombs in a camp occupied by a Chinese labour battalion causing a good many casualties. In revenge the Chinese decided to raid a German Prisoner of War Camp. From somewhere they got a number of hand grenades and marched off toward the prisoners’ camp. Of course they knew nothing of the mechanism of the grenades and on the way decided to pull the pins out, to have the grenades ready when they arrived. Four seconds after the pins were withdrawn the grenades exploded, and more Chinese went to their ancestors.

The next few weeks we spent in the trenches near Villers-Bretonneux, where the Australians had stopped the German advance on Amiens on Anzac Day about a fortnight previously. During our period of duty there we saw the town of Villers-Bretonneux reduced from a town to a vast heap of rubble by German shell fire. Just in front of the town our battalion held the extreme right flank of the British Armies where they joined up with the French Armies. I, for a time, was in charge of “International Post” where the two Armies met. The post was occupied jointly by Australian and French troops. The French troops were Zouvies, black troops from Africa commanded by French officers and N.C.O.s. They understood no Australian and we certainly understood no Arabic but we got along quite well together.

Just behind International Post were the ruins of the town school, and in and around about the trenches was scattered children’s toys and school books. I remember finding a little doll one day in the trench and I was nearly overcome with emotion as I thought how sadly out of place was an innocent little toy amid all the horror and filth of war. In one of the school books, I read a composition written by one of the scholars and dated the day the Germans entered the town. The civilians including the school children had to flee for their lives at very short notice and had no time to take any of their belongings with them. After the war Victorian school children raised the funds to build a new school in Villers-Bretonneux, in memory of Australians who fought and died there in defending the town.

On one occasion after we had been in the line here for some time, we were taken back into reserve trenches in a wood, some little distance behind the line. We were told that next day we would be moving further back. Nearby in the wood the 6th Battalion was also camped, so when we had got settled in, I wandered across to enquire about an old friend of mine, who used to be in the 6 th. I was away only about an hour, but when I returned I was told that soon after I left it was decided to send a raiding party over into the German lines and I had been detailed to lead the raid. Of course I couldn’t be found so another Sergeant, a friend of mine, was sent in my place, and they had already gone. The raid was a failure. Owing to some mistake the artillery put down a barrage at the wrong place and I think every man of the raiding party was either killed or wounded by our own artillery.

The sergeant who took my place was one of those who was killed.

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Villers-Bretonneux destroyed.

Joe wrote on the back of this postcard : “Just a glimpse of poor old Villers -Bretonneux with the church in the foreground. When we first went there the work of destruction had just begun; for about two months while we were in that sector we watched it daily being blown to pieces, by that time there were only pieces left to blow away. When I saw it last, four days before the Armistice, this is just a sample of what was left of it – a great heap of broken bricks and r ubbish.”

Our next move was a few miles down south into reserve behind the town of Hamel. Here the advance parties of the American Army joined up with us and small parties of the Yanks were attached to us for experience. They were very keen to get into “this darned shootin’ gallery.” On July 4th 1918 we invited some of their sergeants to come over and have dinner and a social evening with us in our mess to celebrate Independence Day. That night Australians attacked and retook Hamel from the Germans and a good many Americans joined in the fight, although officially they had been forbidden to. They acquitted themselves so well that the Australians declared them “Dinkum Diggers”, about the highest honour an Australian could confer on anyone. From a hill top, we watched the battle and it was a terrible and awe inspiring sight. The gunfire was deafening, and the smoke and fire and flashes of light from bursting shells, some incendiary, was terrific.

81

Joe’s War A few days later we took over the newly captured line after a nightmarish dash across a valley known as “Toot Suite” Valley by Australians. “Toot Suite” was the Aussie version of a French term meaning “to hurry up” or “go quickly.” No one loitered in Toot Suite Valley. Everyone crossed it “Toot suite” for there was no shelter and German artillery raked it with shrapnel almost incessantly. Only one man loitered there and I’ll tell you about him later.

It was night when we moved up to the front line and as there were no communication trenches, we had to move up across open ground. At one point just behind the front line we got tangled up in some old German barbed wire entanglements, and while struggling to get clear came under heavy machine gun fire. It was nasty for a while but disregarding how much clothing we tore we got through the wire and dashed into the trench.

Then when I counted my men, I found I was one short. Our first thought was that perhaps he’d been wounded when we were struggling through the wire, so we went back and searched there for him, without success. We looked for him for hours and then concluded that he had missed our trench in the dark and wandered across the line into the German trenches. He was posted missing.

Then six weeks later the Military Police found him back in a village forty miles behind the lines.

Years after he told me the story. When we came under fire in the barbed wire, he said his nerves just cracked and he knew nothing till he found himself, dead tired, but still running about seven or eight miles behind the line. Then for the next few weeks he wandered from village to village until the Police caught him. Such men were not cowards. Human nerves were never intended to stand up to such stresses and strains, nor human bodies to stand up to high explosive shells. The miracle is that more men didn’t crack up.

An eye witness told me the following story. It occurred when we were at Villers-Bretonneux. In those desperate days men who were serving terms of detention in military prisons were offered their freedom if they’d return to the trenches. Two of these fellows were marched up to our position under escort one day, just a pair of boys about eighteen years old. Next day they’d had enough of war so one said to the other, “How about putting a bullet through my leg to get me out of here?”

“Right Oh. Stand over there.”

He stood over there — a few yards away and the other took aim and fired, and missed.

The other took to his heels and ran but the one with the rifle aimed and fired again and shattered the other’s leg between the ankle and the knee. I don’t know how he explained away a bullet wound in the leg when he was in a six foot deep trench, but we saw no more of him.

But back to the trenches at Hamel. To consolidate our position it was decided to dig a line of outposts in no-man’s land about halfway between our lines and the Germans. Of course it was a job to be done under cover of darkness. An officer and I were in charge of the party detailed to do the work. We moved out as quietly as possible and allotted the men their tasks. While the men were at work the officer and I patrolled out in front to keep an eye open for any prowling German raiding party.

When we returned to the line of working men we found most of them were getting on well with the job but one was missing. We found it was Norman, and we feared the worst. The officer and I went on the prowl in search of him. Of course we couldn’t use a light or call out and after about an hour of tumbling into shell holes and stumbling over this or that we had about decided that the silly dope must have wandered away and been taken prisoner. Then we stumbled into another shell hole right against the German barbed wire and here we found Norman fast asleep. I’m afraid we woke him up rather emphatically.

Of course it was the same Norman, the bloke who loitered up “Toot Suite” Valley. Yes, one day we were sitting in our little funk holes looking down across the Valley, when we saw this fellow loitering along as if he were out mushrooming. As one man, we all asked, “Who is that silly dope down there? Why doesn’t he get a move on?”

82

In action on the Western Front But no, he just sauntered along until he entered the first street in the village of Hamel. He had just disappeared behind a brick building when, Bang!, a huge shell landed in the building and reduced it to a cloud of brick dust and smoke. Stretcher bearers immediately picked up a stretcher and prepared to go down to bring up the body. But out of the dust and smoke at the same leisurely pace strode Norman and eventually found his way up to where we were. When he arrived someone said, “That one was pretty close wasn’t it Norman?”

“Oh no, it was about five yards away” he drawled.

Anyone else would have been rattled if it had landed fifty yards away. He wasn’t brave, but just too dull to realise the danger.

On another occasion he nearly got me Court Martialled. At about 2 am one morning, we arrived back at a reserve trench after a strenuous ten days in the front line. Hot rations were waiting for us and after I had issued it out to my men and closed down the lid of the thermos tank, we turned in for some rest.

About 9 am I was awakened by a pompous voice calling for the Sergeant. I dragged myself out to find the Colonel and the Medical Officer standing beside the thermos tank, which was now full of flies, because the lid was no longer on. Of course the Colonel and the Medical Officer hadn’t been up in the trenches and were all spick and span. I had, and I wasn’t. They scowled at me and wanted to know why the lid had been left off. I explained I had put it on, but someone must have been to it since. It was empty anyway. Norman was a terrible glutton and had a habit of coming back to wipe out the last trace of food from the tank.

The Colonel looked down at me as if I was as dirty as I looked and said, “A sergeant who hasn’t sufficient influence over his men, that they will not do such things even when he is asleep is no good to me. You will appear before me tomorrow morning on a charge — etc. etc.”

But that night the Colonel was killed, so I didn’t have to face the charge.

Thirty years later, I was at a P.S.A. (Pleasant Sunday Afternoon service) at Wesley Church, Melbourne. As the stewards were walking up the aisle with the offering, I thought the gait of one was familiar and immediately there flashed before my mind the picture of that man sauntering across “Toot Suite” Valley. Sure enough it was old Norman. I spoke to him after, he was still half asleep and he didn’t remember me but I certainly remembered him.

Several nights while we were in the front line at Hamel I was detailed to lead a patrol of four men out in no-man’s land. One morning just as we were thinking of returning to the line after having been out all night, a runner came out to me with a message from the Colonel, which was to this effect, “It has been reported that the enemy is withdrawing along several sectors of the front. You are to push out with your patrol and endeavour to contact the enemy, to ascertain if he is withdrawing here also. Do not run unnecessary risks, but if possible bring in a prisoner for interrogation. I will be in the front line waiting for your report.”

It was bright moonlight and would soon be breaking day. Immediately in front of us was a steep bank overlooking a wide valley in which the enemy was somewhere entrenched. This bank was perhaps thirty feet deep and overgrown with blackberries. I realised that once we had descended that bank we would be entirely at the mercy of the enemy if they were close at hand, because we could not get up the bank again in a hurry. I considered the position for a few moments, then posted my four men along the lip of the bank with instructions to give me what assistance they could if I got into difficulties, for I decided to go down alone and reconnoitre the position rather than risk the lives of the whole party.

I, therefore, slid down the bank as quietly as possible and crept along the base to the right about twenty yards, then returned to do the same to the left, to ensure that there would be no Germans behind me when I went forward. Soon I heard a scuffle on the bank and then spotted a couple of my men coming down to me. I waited for them and when I asked them what they were doing, their reply was another question, “Do you think we’d stay up there and let you do this job on your own?”

83

Joe’s War I assure you that warmed my heart and I was really glad of their company. They were both only boys of eighteen, and of course I was the great age of twenty-one myself. We crawled along the bank for twenty or thirty yards, till we came to a German lying there. He had been there for a month and it was summertime and he was now very dead. From this we knew that there could be no live Germans very close, so we then headed out toward Germany. The valley was studded with small bushes and as we crept out in the moonlight, we imagined a German behind every bush. We had gone perhaps 100 yards, when someone in front barked an order in German and as we flattened ourselves out on the ground, a hail of machine gun bullets swept over us. We had nearly walked into a German machine gun post.

We lay there for a while listening to the chatter of German voices. Evidently we had been heard but not seen and after a while we wriggled back, then ran for our lives up to the bank and returned to the trench, where sure enough the Colonel was waiting for us. He was well pleased with the report I gave him and thanked me for the job I had done. The Germans were certainly still holding a line in front of us.

About this time we were all withdrawn from the front line for an hour or so one day, while a new method of gas attack was tried out. About 200 cylinders of gas were fitted into small mortars and all fired simultaneously by an electric battery. We watched them as they soared up into the air, sometimes knocking together in flight before landing in the German lines. We fully expected artillery retaliation but not one shell came back at us. For an hour or so all was quiet except for occasional sounds of men coughing in the German lines, and the peculiar creak creak of stretcher parties at work.

For the past few days there had been great activity behind our lines. At night we could hear transports on the move along the roads and gun teams would gallop up and leave a gun in a new position. The team would gallop off and the guns would be covered with camouflage nets. Tanks, too, would be heard rumbling up in the distance. Rumours were spread that a big offensive was about to begin, and all was in a state of great expectancy.

Then on the night of August 7th 1918 we were all withdrawn from the frontline to the support line only about 150 yards behind. There we found hundreds of new troops all ready to move up to attack just before dawn. The tanks rumbled up almost over us and we were afraid the Germans would hear them and suspect something. To hide the noise from the enemy, several old Handley Page bombers cruised back and forth along the line at low altitude.

Then down came the barrage with a deafening roar and immediately the attack troops jumped up and rushed forward. The Germans were taken completely by surprise and the attacking troops met with little opposition and swept on for about six miles in that first rush. As daylight broke we had a wonderful view. Gun teams were dashing up and across, what a couple of hours before had been the German front line. Several tanks had been hit and were burning where they stopped. Across to the right along the Peronne Road was a string of transports a mile long, bumper to bumper, moving forward. And here and there were groups of German prisoners in fifties or hundreds coming back.

There were also a few stretcher cases of our wounded men coming back too, but casualties were not heavy in those first few hours.

Early in the morning we were sent across to salvage anything of military value in the old German front line trenches. What we found there was not a pretty sight. Our gunfire in that first barrage had been deadly effective and German bodies lay thick in the trenches. We collected rifles, revolvers, trench mortars and ammunition of all sorts and sent them back to our salvage dumps.

Also we found a food store well stocked with rations. We filled our haversacks with as much of the tinned food as we could carry and for several days found it quite a welcome addition and change to our own rations. But their bread was terrible stuff, dark and heavy and sour, quite unpalatable for us. The German prisoners were always amazed when we offered them good fresh white bread.

They hadn’t seen such bread for years.

German prisoners said they had been told that Australians always tortured and killed their prisoners, but when they found we treated them decently, then gave them hot tea or coffee with plenty of 84

In action on the Western Front sugar in it, and good white bread to eat, they were astounded and so grateful that they talked and their talk yielded quite a lot of useful information.

That evening we moved up nearly three miles and even here the field guns were firing at the disorganised enemy at extreme range. Two days later we were told that as soon as it was dark we were to take part in what proved to be one of the craziest stunts of the war. The name of the author or organiser of it was never revealed so he must have been pretty “high up”. The town of Proyart in the bend of the river Somme was still occupied by the Germans. We were to take the town, not by frontal attack but by encirclement. The whole Brigade was to be engaged with our Battalion leading. It was to be a silent attack, that is, without artillery support. We were marched up to the main road to the right of the town and the plan was that at a certain cross roads beyond the town we would turn left and march to the river, thus enclosing all the Germans in the town in our net. Of course, they would immediately surrender and the town would be ours. But on this silent attack we were marched in column of fours over the cobblestoned road preceded by three tanks, which could be heard miles away as they clanked along. But ours not to reason why, those were our instructions, and that was what we had to do. Apparently the bright boy who hatched the idea never thought of what the Germans might do. However, just after dark we marched along behind our tanks across our front line, across no-man’s land, over the German front line trench and still no sign of a German and not a shot fired our way. We had almost reached the cross roads where we were to turn left, when up went German Verey lights in front and on both sides and even behind us. And with the lights came machine gun fire on to us. Worse still the Germans had heard the tanks coming and had prepared a welcome committee for them at the cross roads, in the form of a road block armed with anti-tank guns. The shells that missed the tanks tore down through the closely packed ranks of men behind, and the carnage was something never to be forgotten. I escaped the worst of it for I had been put in charge of a party of men to cover the flank of the column and we were spread out in single file advancing parallel with the column but twenty or thirty yards from the road.

Proyart. Photo courtesy Australian War Memorial (7268465).

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Joe’s War On the road men were mowed down like grass. The tanks were quickly put out of action and the advance stopped. We just had no hope of success. The next plan was to retreat till we located some trenches where we could defend ourselves. My party was then thrown across the head of the column and it became our duty to cover the retirement by keeping up a constant fire at every point where an enemy gun flashed. The dead and wounded were picked up and taken back. As they went back my party would jump up and run back a few yards then throw ourselves to the ground and reopen fire.

After several nightmarish hours, we did consolidate in a new position. We had failed to encircle the town but we had advanced the line several hundred yards and were now in command of a position outflanking the town, making it untenable for the Germans and next night they evacuated it and Australians occupied it.

The Germans had retreated from the town but still held strongly a position on the railway line a few hundred yards east of the town. Several unsuccessful attempts had been made during the day to drive him from this position, then late in the afternoon my platoon was ordered to attempt to take it.

The platoon, by this time consisted of an officer, myself and nine men, normal strength would have been sixty men.

Just before dusk we moved up to the edge of the town and surveyed the task that lay ahead of us, and didn’t like it. Between us and the railway there was not even a thistle to provide cover, the ground was as smooth as a mowed lawn. We decided then that it was suicidal to attempt anything in daylight so waited for darkness. Next we realised we’d have to crawl the whole distance and we had Norman with us and he wouldn’t crawl. As he would be a menace to us as well as to himself we wanted to leave him behind, but the Company Commander insisted that we’d need every man we could get and he’d have to go. But as we lay there waiting for dark, the men came to me expressing their fears about Norman. There was a chalk pit nearby and before we moved off we told Norman to go into that and wait for our return, and there we found him next morning fast asleep.

We had two Lewis machine guns with us, but we soon found they were too heavy to negotiate the long crawl with, so we posted them with three men in a position where they could give us support if we needed it. And then the big crawl began. Machine gun bullets were coming over uncomfortably close but as we were as flat as snakes on the ground they went over us. Half way to the line was a small wooden hut and as we approached it we saw half a dozen men run from it back to the German position. We were sure they must have seen us and expected every moment to be our last. But apparently they had only been waiting for darkness to make the break back and we were permitted to continue our crawl.

The railway was on a low embankment not two feet high, I would say, but of course alongside it was the usual ditch from which the bank had been made. We climbed into this ditch, there were only six of us, and immediately got the men to work quietly digging in. While they dug, I lay up on the line with my eyes about half an inch above the rails. The bullets here were uncomfortably close as they spattered and clanged on the rails right and left of me. While lying there, I counted no less than thirteen machine gun posts just over the line, and felt glad that they didn’t suspect we were so few in number and so close. I could clearly hear the gun crews talking and once a patrol crept along on the other side of the line, not twelve feet from where I was lying. I scarcely breathed.

However, we had reached our objective and had dug some good fox holes from which to defend it and were glad to hear before morning that English troops would relieve us before morning. Before daylight they arrived and I assure you we wasted no time getting out.

We collected Norman from the chalk pit, then as we reached the centre of the town, got caught in a heavy burst of shelling. We were beside the church when it started and the church seemed as usual to be the target. We crouched there against the strongest looking wall, while bricks and masonry and shells crashed round us. After half an hour it ceased and we jumped up and ran for our lives, surprised that not one of us had been hit.

86

In action on the Western Front We found the battalion had moved back several miles to a place near Cerisy, and were scattered about in shell holes over a wide area. Those shell holes were new and unique. They had been made by high explosive shells apparently fitted with a delayed action fuse. The ground was of a clayey nature. The shells had penetrated several feet before exploding and had then blown out a spherical chamber about seven feet in diameter and leaving only a hole about two feet in diameter on the surface, a perfect and cosy funk hole. A few salvaged German overcoats thrown in, a waterproof sheet drawn over the top and we had a reasonably safe and snug dugout ready-made for us.

Of course we were not permitted to stay long in such luxurious comfort. We had been given to understand that, after a few days’ rest, we were moving back for a complete rest and reorganisation.

Sure enough on August 23rd 1918, we got orders to move, but in the wrong direction. At 9 am we were told that at midnight we were to attack the town of Bray, nine miles away. Of course it was nearly midnight when we reached there and still we had no instructions or details of the attack.

I was in charge of a platoon and received a message from the Company Commander that the attack had been postponed to 12.30. He would inform me with particulars as soon as he received them and in the meantime we were to await his instructions.

At 12.30, I had received no word from him and a few moments later the bombardment opened. It was pitch dark and as I had no idea of what was doing, I just stayed where we were, and awaited instructions. Soon a few wounded started coming back and we learned the attack was going well and not meeting much resistance, so we realised we had been forgotten and left behind. All day we busied ourselves helping the wounded and carting rations and ammunition.

I remember one wounded fellow whom I knew, coming back holding his neck with both hands through which blood trickled. I asked him what was the matter. He had received two machine gun bullets through the neck — one on either side of his throat. Miraculously, they had missed arteries, etc. and he was able to walk out not seriously affected.

Next night we were into it again, to advance beyond Bray. In the early hours of the morning we had to be in position in a street in Bray to attack at the appointed time. A heavy fog came down, then the Germans poured in gas shells, a rather nasty combination. In our gas masks it was most uncomfortable in the darkness and fog. However, all went well and we had no trouble otherwise in taking our objective with very few casualties. We took only one prisoner. He was only a boy, didn’t look more than sixteen years of age. He was a very scared boy at first, but when he found we were not quite the barbarians we were reputed to be, he thawed out and began to talk. He told us that before leaving home, his mother told him to try to be taken prisoner and then to ask if he could be sent to work on the docks at Le Havre so that he could be with his father who was also a prisoner of war. Before sending him back, someone wrote across the back of his grey tunic with chalk: “DON’T KILL — TOO YOUNG.” A man of the battalion on our flank that night had a strange experience. During the advance, he had been sent back with a message. He delivered the message, then hurried forward to catch up with the attacking troops again. The fog was very dense but he thought he could judge his distance and direction fairly well. After some time he thought he should soon be up to his own party again, when in the dark, he stumbled into a shell hole and five Germans with a machine gun. He was scared but they were more scared, thinking he was only one of many, so they immediately put up their hands and surrendered. He therefore decided to take them prisoner. He had gone back perhaps 200 yards when he met our own troops advancing. He had gone right through them in the fog without seeing them and had been fighting a little war all on his own.

Now the Germans were really on the run and we were kept on the run hurrying them along, so later that morning we advanced again to a village called Suzanne. After a few skirmishes we cleared the village but then came under heavy fire from a position on the top of a low hill overlooking the town.

When it was found that no artillery was available to support an attack on the hill, it was suggested that a patrol be sent forward to reconnoitre the position and to try to ascertain the strength of the enemy there, in preparation for an attack to be launched later. Our company which now consisted 87

Joe’s War of about forty men, instead of 200, was detailed for the patrol. Robbie, Lieut. Robertson, led the patrol which was divided into four parties. He led the one on the right flank. I had the centre party.

The third party was on my left and fourth left in reserve to be called up if and where need. The hillside was terraced and by using these terraced banks we gradually weaved our way nearer and nearer to the top without exposing ourselves too much. After a while, there was a violent bit of rifle and machine gun fire on my right, then a messenger came to me from Robbie asking me to bring my party to his assistance quickly. To reach where he was, we had to make a dash across open ground under heavy machine gun fire for about 100 yards and I reckon we did it in record time.

Strange things pass through one’s mind under such circumstances. It seemed impossible that we could survive under that hail of lead and I remember thinking to myself as I raced along, “My word at this pace I’ll come a terrible cropper when I do get hit.” But I didn’t get hit and only one of my party did, he had a little finger shattered by a bullet, but didn’t let that stop him. At the end of our run Robbie had another man posted to direct us where to go. This man also warned us to keep low as we were under observation and a sniper was busy. I noticed he himself was standing up nearly straight and in passing I told him he had better keep a bit lower himself. I’d hardly spoken the words and he was about to say O.K., when I heard a bullet thud and he crumpled at my feet dead, with a bullet in his head.

We arrived in time to help Robbie who was having a very lively time with a nest of German machine gunners he had surprised. We took ten machine guns and their crew and we had won the position. Now with those extra machine guns and plenty of ammunition we were able to hold the position pretty strongly.

However, it was not a health resort by any means. Behind a stone wall just in front of us the Germans had some field guns which they trained on to us at point blank range, and as our trench was only a very shallow one we had some very nasty moments.

It was here that I witnessed one of the coolest acts of real bravery that I ever saw. A man had been seriously wounded. He would soon die from loss of blood if we didn’t get him back to the First Aid Station. But how could we move with those guns trained on to us. Someone suggested trying the Red Cross flag. A flag was improvised by pinning two German red cap bands on to a white cloth and holding that up. The Germans stopped firing at us. The wounded man was put on a stretcher and was about to be lifted out, when Joe Curran jumped up with the flag.

“No, let me first try if those Germans are dinkum before we lift the stretcher out.”

And with the flag he marched up and down in front of the trench in full view of those Germans behind their guns.

The stretcher was lifted out and the wounded man was carried out, and to the credit of the Germans not a shot was fired over them as they went.

Not only were those Germans chivalrous, they were also brave. At one place the stone wall behind which they were in position was broken down for five or six yards. During the afternoon we saw a gun team of four horses dash to get the guns out. So in preparation for their return trip we trained several machine guns on to the break. Sure enough, soon they returned and as soon as the leading horses appeared the machine guns opened fire. Down went the horses and we thought that was the end. But to our surprise, after a few minutes, some of the horses at least got to their feet and urged by their drivers dragged the gun across the gap again into the shelter of the wall. We cheered the drivers for their bravery and were almost glad when later under cover of darkness we took the wall and found the guns had all been taken out.

But to return to Joe Curran. He was a real fighting Irishman. In camp, or away from the front line, he was the despair of their lives to sergeants, drill instructors and authority generally. In the line, no man could wish for a better pal and no Sergeant ever had a better soldier.

It so happened that when he was in camp in England, he had several encounters with a certain sergeant who was there, had been there over a year, and hoped to stay there for the rest of the war.

He charged Joe, justly or unjustly I don’t know, with some trivial offence, for which Joe was fined 88

In action on the Western Front about fourteen days’ pay. After Joe had been out in France some time and had proved himself a good soldier, the sergeant was also sent out to France, and proved himself a very poor soldier, in fact a coward. We were in reserve trenches when the sergeant joined us. He and I were supposed to lead working parties up to the front line on alternate nights. Each night when it was his turn, he’d feign sick and I’d have to go, so both men and officers soon summed up his worth.

During the day time, the men were allowed to go back to a village about three miles back to have a bath, and so long as they were back before dark, no one bothered. Joe always found time to have a few drinks as well as a bath when he went out.

After one such bath, external and internal, he was rather late returning to the line. On arrival he came to the cook house looking for something to eat, I suppose. The cook house was always the warmest spot, and the sergeant-major, sergeant R. and I were in there having a warm up when Joe walked in. As soon as he saw R. he opened up a tirade on him. He reminded him of the time in England when he had got him into trouble, and told him very plainly and colourfully just what he thought of him as a soldier. He then pulled out a string of Rosary beads and swore by everything holy and unholy, that he’d shoot him if he ever saw him up in the front line, which he very much doubted. Several times he made a lunge at the sergeant but each time, the sergeant-major and I intercepted and prevented him from striking. After some time, sergeant R. said, “Just you wait till the morning, Curran.”

That was enough. Joe jumped at him and a dozen men couldn’t have stopped him. He hit him and sent him sprawling over the fire and the pots of hot stew and tea. We pulled him off and sent him back to his dugout.

Next morning the captain sent for the sergeant-major and I and with a very understanding look on his face said, “I don’t suppose either of you saw any untoward incident last night in the cook house between Curran and Sergeant R., did you?”

“No sir”, we both lied.

“I didn’t think you would” he replied, then in very plain language he told us what he thought of Sergeant R. and said he had decided to send him away to a school to get rid of him. When he returned from that school, he was sent to another, an officer’s training school. Just before the end of the war, he got a commission and came home as a Lieutenant, just because he was useless as a front line soldier.

Next morning we moved forward for a mile or two in daylight without seeing a German. Then as we came over a rise, at last we came under heavy machine gun and artillery fire. During that day, we saw the Light Horse in action for the first and only time. But horses were never intended to contend with trenches and barbed wire entanglements and they didn’t make a very impressive display. After floundering over some old German Trenches, they got tangled up in barbed wire and could go no further and the old infantry had to carry on with the job.

That night we found a large deep dugout, which had only recently been vacated by the retreating Germans and we were told to get as much rest as we could for we would be attacking again before morning. At about 2 am we were roused out of our sleep and given about twenty minutes to be on our way. Instructions were very meagre. About all we could be told was that we were to advance about two miles due east, where our objective would be the second line of main trenches.

It was pitch dark with a cloudy sky and no stars so we wondered how we could keep a due easterly course. One of the boys lent me a German compass he had taken from a prisoner a day or two before. With it I was much more confident. We were formed into five patrol parties and our instructions were to try to keep about 100 yards between parties. Captain Cox was in charge, Lieut.

Willis led the right patrol, I led the next, and the other parties were led by sergeants whose names I have now forgotten.

89

Joe’s War Right from the start, we stumbled into old trenches and shell holes and got tangled up in barbed wire. Altogether it was very hard to keep in touch with the patrols on either side, so we just kept on going as best we could due east.

We had just reached a point which we calculated must have been about two miles from where we started, when from the darkness in front of us a command was barked in German. We immediately jumped into the nearest shell hole and just in time too, for up went a Verey Light which made the place as bright as day and a machine gun rattled bullets over us from a position only a few yards in front. Next, to our dismay, other German lights went up from positions all round us, some of them several hundred yards behind us. In the dark, we had walked through the German line between his forward outposts. We lay there for a while considering what we could do. We sent scouts crawling to right and left, but they couldn’t locate the other patrols. Next we noticed a rosy glow in the sky to the east heralding another day. To stay where we were in daylight would be suicidal. So we made a mental note of where all the German positions behind us were, then dashed back between them and tumbled into a trench about 150 yards back. It later transpired that this was the position we were appointed to take, so we had really judged things well. In the trench were three stairways leading down perhaps thirty feet underground, apparently into a large dugout. Whether this was occupied by the enemy or not we didn’t know, but of course, we had to find out. I posted a man at each entrance and told them not to come down while I went below to explore. At the base of the stairs was a passage perhaps thirty yards long, connecting the three entrances. From this passage ran corridors with rooms on either side. All was lined with timber and the rooms were littered with fresh straw. And through all was that smell peculiar to all German soldiers. It was nervy work groping my way through those rooms in the dark. Once I heard a noise like someone walking. I immediately dashed back to the main passage and there silhouetted against the faint light from one of the entrances, I could see a man moving. My first thought was to shoot first and ask questions after, but decided to take a risk and challenge first. It was one of my own men, who had become anxious for my safety when I had been down there so long, and had come to help if necessary.

Although I warned him of the risk he had run in disobeying my instructions, I was really glad of his company. We found no Germans there but the smell told us they had only vacated the place very recently.

Soon after daylight, the patrol on my left joined us and we now had about twenty men to man the place. And we needed them too, for there were still Germans firing at us from the rear, as well as from the front, while off to the right front we could see large numbers of them assembling as if to attack.

Several times during the day, we had to beat off attacks, but although they got very close several times, not one German got into our position.

During the morning, a man from the patrol on the right dashed into the trench slightly wounded. He told us the patrol was surrounded with little chance of escape. And such later proved to be the case.

All of them except one were wounded, two fatally, and were taken prisoner. Captain Cox had just joined them before they were surrounded and he was taken prisoner with the rest. So was the man who lent me the compass, which I still have as a memento of that night.

During the day, I collapsed several times and toward evening was evacuated sick to hospital from sheer exhaustion, I thought, but afterwards learned I had trench fever. 2 Perhaps it was no wonder I collapsed, it’s a greater wonder that we didn’t all collapse after the pace we had been kept at, and the nervous tensions we had been under for weeks.

Captain Cox had been with us since Seymour days, had always been a very precise and conscientious officer and won the admiration and esteem of all who knew him. In our early days in France in the old trenches in the Armentiéres sector, he became known to all of us in the front line by his quick walk. We could hear him coming and knew who to expect long before he actually

2

Trench fever. A moderately serious disease transmitted by body lice.

90

In action on the Western Front arrived. When he did arrive the first thing to appear round the corner of the trench would be his revolver. It was a standing joke with the boys.

One day he came round and told us of a new instruction. It was to the effect that in future, we were not to challenge anyone with the old “Halt! Who goes there?”, but the challenge was to be in the nature of a double code word, which would be changed each day. The challenge would use the first word, which would be answered by the second word. Some of the codes used were Dinkum Digger, Murray Cod, Wattle Blossom, etc. The sentry would call out “Dinkum” and if the other didn’t answer “Digger” pretty quickly he was liable to be shot. Captain Cox explained all this and insisted that it must be carried out forthwith.

That night the boys were waiting for him. Sure enough at last they heard him coming. The sentry got all ready to challenge him. As soon as the revolver appeared round the corner, the sentry brought his rifle up with a rattle and the bayonet a few inches from the Captain’s throat.

“Wattle”, he challenged.

Splutter, splutter, splutter. The Captain in his surprise and fright, clean forgot the pass code.

“Wattle!” again roared the sentry, rattling the bayonet nearer the Captain’s throat.

“Oh, it’s all right”, stammered the Captain. “You know who I am.”

“Wattle!” Another rattle of the bayonet.

“I’m Cox, Captain Cox, better known as the sox king. Let me pass.”

“I don’t care who you are, you can’t get past here without the pass word. Wattle!”

The embarrassed Captain had to retreat the way he had come and find out from someone else the pass word. When he returned, he complimented the sentry on the good job, he had done, but with a twinkle in his eye, added, “But you needn’t have taken me up, quite so literally.”

He got the nickname “Cox the sox king” from his habit, in the trenches, of collecting the wet socks the men discarded and by some means or other, having them washed and dried. Consequently he always had a haversack of dry socks with him, which he distributed amongst the men who needed them most. A good old scout was Captain Cox. And the chap who lent me the compass. He was an Australian of German extraction and had a German name. Perhaps if he’d been taken prisoner with a German Army compass in his possession it may have gone badly with him. So his good deed may possibly have saved his life.

I was kept in hospital at Rouen for six weeks. Soon after I left the line our troops were relieved by troops of another Australian Division and taken back for a rest.

Owing to the depleted number of the various battalions it was decided to make up three battalions out of four and to carry this out it was proposed to break up the old 37th and transfer its members to other battalions of the Brigade.

This, the troops strongly resented and appealed to have the order withdrawn, but couldn’t get a hearing in the “High Places”. They approached the Colonel, who gave them a very sympathetic hearing and promised to pass on their appeal. Because he passed over the heads of several of his superior officers and sent his appeal to the highest authorities, he was relieved of his command.

The men agreed they’d obey every instruction other than to transfer to another battalion.

The General came down and addressed them on parade. He told them that they would have to do as directed, then instructed the officers to march the men off to their new stations. They did their drill perfectly till the command “Quick March” was given. Not a man moved. They refused to march.

After a time the General called out the officers and senior N.C.O.s and left the parade ground.

A Corporal then took charge and for several days carried out all the duties of Camp Commander.

He enforced strict discipline and saw that all camp duties and parades were strictly carried out.

Eventually the officers and N.C.O.s were sent back to the battalion and for a while they remained as 91

Joe’s War the 37th. But no reinforcements were sent to them and many men were sent out sick so that soon there were very few left and they offered no resistance when they were permitted to go as entire companies in two sister battalions and were allowed to keep their own beloved colour patches. So ended one of the most amazing episodes in the Battalion history.

When I was ready to leave hospital I found myself transferred to the 8th Battalion. This was in midOctober 1918 and the war was in its final stages. The battalion was out resting when I joined them and the Germans had been pushed back many miles nearer to their home.

Then on November 7th 1918, we were told that for political reasons, we were to again join the attack, which it was hoped would finish the war, so next morning we found ourselves aboard a train heading eastward. We went through Amiens with its battered railway station and shattered houses and buildings, but were glad to see that the wonderful old Cathedral was not badly damaged although several shells had scored direct hits on it. Already the civilian population was flocking back to repossess it.

We detrained that night at a place called Tincourt. Next morning we were taken by buses through Cambrai and the Hindenburg Line with its miles and miles of barbed wire entanglements and strong trenches, Le Cateau where the Yanks had suffered so heavily just recently, and stopped that night at Bazuel. During the day, at one of our halts we went exploring the desolation.

There were many gruesome sights to be seen, for the fighting there had been very heavy.

At one place, we noticed three German rifles driven into the ground, bayonet first and each surmounted with a German helmet. This was a common marking of a field burial and the helmet denoted the nationality. But beside those three rifles was a wooden stake with a piece of cardboard attached to it on which we read this inscription, “Three Huns met a Digger. Had there been more Huns the grave would have been bigger.”

There were still some French civilians in Le Cateau and they had some terrible tales to tell of German brutality. The Germans last act there as they were leaving was to advise the people to take refuge in the Church, where they were assured they would be safe. But as soon as the Germans were out of the town they turned heavy guns on to the church and the havoc can be imagined. Hundreds were killed or wounded.

Rumours of an armistice were now rife and there was a spirit of expectancy in the air. We were marching up to take part in the biggest attack of the war, on November 12th if the Armistice was not signed before then.

A postcard showing a captured “Big Bertha”, the Germans largest artillery.

On the back of this postcard Joe wrote: “Another view of the “Bertha”. As usual the English papers gave very little credit to the Aussies for the capture of this gun. It was exhibited as being captured by the 4 t h British Ar my. A man can easily crawl through the barrel. Billy Hughes they say has carved his name on the muzzle of it with a file. ”

Just after sundown, cheering broke out somewhere. Others heard it and they joined in the cheering.

Lights and rockets were fired in the air. Everyone concluded the armistice had been signed and bedlam broke out, cheering and shouting and singing etc. After a while the real cause of all the excitement leaked out. The cooks of one of the other battalions were late with the evening meal.

92

In action on the Western Front When it did appear, the troops gave a cheer which was carried on till at least twenty thousand men were cheering.

Next morning just as we were about to move out on the next stage of our journey to the forward area, we received official notice that the Armistice was to come into effect at eleven o’clock. When the real news did come, it was received very quietly. Perhaps it seemed too good to be true. This was what we had been hoping for, praying for, fighting for, for four years. Calmly one man said to another, “Well it looks as if we’ll soon be out of a job now, Digger.” And that was that.

Our orders for the day had not been cancelled, so that day we marched forward again as planned, about twelve miles to a little town called Le Favril. The fighting continued as usual during the morning. Artillery of both sides were busy and there were just as many planes in the sky as any other day. We saw several dog fights in the air during the morning.

Then on the tick of eleven o’clock, there was a strange hush, the guns ceased firing and as we watched, the aircraft in the sky parted, ours turned west and the Germans turned east, fighting was finished.

It was near evening when we reached Le Favril and what a sorry place it was. It was here that the fighting had ceased at eleven o’clock. The people were still huddled in cellars and couldn’t believe that the war was finished. The Germans had told them that they were still winning and that they’d be back again. At first the people were terrified and it was some time before they could be persuaded to come out and rejoice with us.

At one house, we found a German dead on the doorstep, while several scared women and children still crouched in the cellar. They told us that the German was killed just at eleven o’clock. I still have his regimental epaulettes from his tunic.

We had to find billets. At one little house, an old woman came to the door and when she told us she had only one bedroom, she was surprised that we wouldn’t take that. She said the Germans always took her bed and she was forced to sleep on the cold floor.

In another house we found an old grandmother living in one room with two little grandchildren, while in the adjoining room were four very dead horses, which had been killed there by a direct hit from a shell several days before.

The weather was cold now, but several of us found quite a snug little spot, in a pig sty. Yes, Armistice night we slept in a pig sty. It was reasonably clean and there was plenty of clean straw.

Hope the pigs didn’t object to our use of their quarters when they returned. We had often slept in worse places.

We really shouldn’t have marched up to Le Favril, for under the terms of the Armistice there was to be no forward moving of troops on either side, so after a couple of days, we had to march back to the point we were at on the receipt of Armistice news, Bazuel.

The Germans must have been glad that the fighting was over for, although we were at the place where fighting ceased, within a few hours we didn’t see one live German, not even in the distance.

They must have wasted no time in getting away in their home direction.

However, for several days after the Armistice, there were quite a number of explosions round about.

The Germans had left behind hundreds of time bombs under roads, bridges and ammunition dumps and quite a few of our men had narrow escapes from these.

Next it was decided that Australia must be represented in the occupation force to go into Germany.

Railway communication had not yet been restored, so it was decided that we should march up. The trek was to be done in easy stages, only about fifteen miles a day carrying all our worldly possessions.

We had gone as far as Bouffioulx, a little town near Charleroi in Belgium, when word was received that Australians would not be used as occupation troops, but would prepare at once for return to 93

Joe’s War Australia. Of course there were millions of troops scattered round the world and many miles away from their homelands. There was, therefore, great demand for ships to transport them, but owing to four years of submarine warfare, ships were not too plentiful. It can, therefore, be seen that it took some time to move this mighty aggregation of men and we just had to wait our turn.

A time of waiting, in Belgium I was sent forward to Bouffioulx to arrange billets for the officers and sergeants. The people had not been too well treated by the Germans, although they all said the German soldiers were all right, it was the Officers who caused all the trouble. Anyway the people didn’t want to have more soldiers dumped on to them. Australian soldiers! Few of the people had ever heard of Australia and I think they feared Australians might be as bad or perhaps worse than Germans.

Sergeants and Warrant Officers, 8 t h Battalion. A I F., Bouffioulx, 1919. See Book Cover.

Joe is in the second back row, second from the right.

We could have commandeered billets, but wisely, it was decided not to do this. We were to be billeted where the people were willing to have us. My French was very limited. In this part of Belgium the people speak French, while further north they speak Flemish. As I went from house to house seeking accommodation, I repeatedly got the same sort of reception. With much shrugging of shoulders, they’d say most pathetically, “I’m very sorry, Monsieur. I’d gladly let you have a room, but my aunt or uncle or grandfather or some other relative lives with us and is at present very sick. Very sorry, Monsieur.”

But eventually I did get billets for everyone. As I went along, I also learned, and answered them back just as pathetically, “But Monsieur, I have been instructed to find so many rooms for the Officers and Sergeants. Soon the regiment will be here and very tired after a long day’s march.

There will be great trouble for me if I haven’t found accommodation for them.” And so on.

Eventually I prevailed. At one place, a very young couple answered my knock. They were very sorry but although they would like to help, they didn’t have a room good enough to offer me. I 94

In action on the Western Front repeated my pathetic little tale. Monsieur and Madame Lerot had a little whispered conversation, then, “We have one spare bedroom, it is not very grand, but if you think it is good enough for you, you are welcome.”

It was a very nice room with a lovely springy bed which looked comfortable. They were short of blankets, but I had my own so that didn’t worry me. I liked the look of these people and I immediately left all my gear there. For about three months I lived with them and never regretted it.

They were a fine young couple, both a little younger than I was and I really enjoyed my stay with them. They were kindness itself to me and used to really embarrass me with their attention.

Monsieur insisted on cleaning my boots for me every night and when I’d wake in the morning, there was always hot water ready for my wash and shave. They insisted that I had most of my meals with them although we had a good mess established only a few doors down the street. In return I was able to get some foods from our canteen that they hadn’t seen for years. For instance, they’d only tasted meat twice in four years and it was pitiful to see how excited they were when I got some meat for them, even bully beef. Soap was another item which had been unprocurable and I could get them all they wanted of that. They were short of clothing. I got some material for them and with ingenuity born of necessity they made a good job of turning it into clothes for themselves. They took me to visit friends and relations and made me almost one of the family.

Renée.

Monsieur and Madame Lerot.

Madame had a little sister, Renée, aged five. She was a dear little kiddie and used to come round almost daily. We became great friends. Another sister, Josephine, was married while I was there.

Renée asked me to come to the wedding. Gustav didn’t like Josephine and persuaded me to go out with him instead of going to the wedding. I’ve always been sorry since. Next day, Josephine’s mother asked me why I hadn’t come. I explained that I had only been asked by Renée, but the old lady told me that in future I was to do whatever Renée asked.

We celebrated Christmas there and what a Christmas it was, our first Christmas in peace, 1918. We had a good cook and he was assisted by several Belgian women who were also good cooks. We bought a lot of food, but there was a lot of other food which may have been hard to account for.

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Joe’s War People lent us crockery, cutlery and linen, and got some of our Christmas fare in return. I’m afraid many dined and wined less wisely than well and there were many nursing sore heads next day.

We were civilian soldiers and now the war was over all military training ceased. Parades were very few and so long as we behaved ourselves, there was very little restraint upon us and we were able to live practically as civilians.

Leave was granted on a very liberal scale, and as well as many local day trips to surrounding towns I had two trips to Brussels and one to England during those five months of waiting.

During our stay at Bouffioulx, the Prince of Wales, later Edward 8th and Duke of Windsor, spent a few weeks with the Australians. He was very popular with the boys and used to come into their billets and sit on their bunks and talk to them.

Which reminds me of a couple of other incidents. One morning we were told that we were to march out to a certain place about five miles out to line a road to see King George V pass. After breakfast we marched out and expected to be back for midday lunch. We lined the road and were instructed how we were to stand and cheer when the Royal party arrived. But when the Royal party hadn’t arrived an hour after the appointed time the boys grew restless and started to cheer everyone who came along, even Military Police, and there were scores of them, but when we had done that for an hour or so we tired of that too. So when the King and his three sons at last did arrive, about three hours late, we just didn’t have a cheer left. They got out of their car and walked up the centre of the road while we looked on, then we wasted no time in marching back, very tired and hungry though we were. It was about four o’clock when we got back and had had nothing to eat since breakfast.

Some wag expressed our feeling very precisely. As we marched out in the morning, he wrote on a white washed wall on the roadside in large letters with charcoal, GOD SAVE THE KING. As we passed the same building on our return we noticed he’d added another line, WHAT ABOUT THE KING NOW? Another time we were on the march and we were told that at a certain place, the Prince of Wales would be on the roadside to take the salute. It was a dreadful day – cold, and the rain was fairly pouring down. We trudged along feeling very wet and miserable and then ahead of us we saw a man standing on the roadside also in the rain. We soon recognised who it was and as we drew near our Commanding Officer commenced to give the order for us to march to attention for the salute, but the Prince said, “No sir, let them march easy.”

And we thought a lot more of him for it as we tramped past. But he stood to attention and at the salute as we passed, and I suppose he was just as wet as we were. He was like that though. On one occasion just as he was about to inspect some troops a sudden heavy shower of rain developed.

One of his aides approached and offered a raincoat. He was ignored. On his second attempt he was again ignored. A few moments later he was again approached with the coat. This time the Prince of Wales turned on him not too politely and said, “Take it away. Can’t you see the men are not wearing great coats?”

While we’re on the subject of “Important People” here’s one about the Hon. W. M. Hughes - Billy Hughes - then Prime Minister of Australia. Yes, we were marched out several miles, we always had to march miles, to be addressed by “Billy”. Again we waited for hours and then a despatch rider arrived with the news that Mr. Hughes was unable to keep the appointment. In his absence the Hon. William Morris Hughes was well and truly counted out by the boys. But that day we had our field cookers with us so it was not so bad.

I mentioned leave in Brussels. We liked Brussels. I think it was the best continental city we visited. The first time I went there was only a few weeks after the Armistice and the people were just beginning to appreciate the fact that they were free again after over four years of German tyranny. Even so, Brussels was quite a gay city and we enjoyed ourselves there. They have some beautiful buildings: Opera House, Cathedrals, Law Courts, (claimed then to be the finest building in the world). We stayed for a while in one of the courts where a murder trial was in session.

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In action on the Western Front

A postcard sent home by Joe Pederick .

In the centre of the city the people have erected a monument in memory of Nurse Edith Cavell, a British nurse who did sterling work among wounded soldiers, both British and German, and whom the Germans shot as a spy. We visited her grave and the place where she was shot.

The old battlefield of Waterloo is only a few miles away and we spent some interesting hours out there. Many interesting relics of the old battle have been preserved and again I wished I’d paid more attention to my history lessons. I did find this though, that our story of Waterloo and of the life of Napoleon generally differs widely from the French version. I suppose that will always be the case for as one writer had ably put it: “In war the first casualty is truth.”

Nurse Edith Cavell’s grave (centre, back row), in Brussels.

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Joe’s War I was offered leave to go to Paris and would have gone too, but I knew I was about due for English leave and I didn’t have enough money for both. We were always short of money, you remember I left Australia with a half penny in my pocket, and there were many times later, when I was not as financial as that.

As it was, I was stoney broke when I finished my English leave. On my last evening I was sitting in a Y.M.C.A. in London with nothing to do because I had no money to go anywhere. Perhaps the Y.M. manager guessed my predicament, for after a while, he came across to me and asked if I’d like to accept an invitation to dinner with Lady Wolsley, who had just rung up inviting him to send someone along. At least it offered prospects of a better meal than I could buy with my very limited means, so I accepted. Her address was in Knightsbridge, where the very upper strata of society live, but when I arrived there, she at once made me very much at my ease. She declared she was delighted I was an Australian for she said she had a very warm spot for Australians and she said, “I call them D.D.s – not Dirty Dogs, but Darling Devils. Her other guest was an old retired English Captain and they both proved to be very interesting people and I had a thoroughly enjoyable evening. Her husband was a Lord Wolsley, a general somewhere in the Middle East. She invited me to write to her when I went back to France, and to call and see her any time I was in London, but of course I never did either. I found later that for several years, she gave two or three days each week, serving in the Australian War Chest Canteen in London. She was really a good old soul.

Although she hobknobbed with Royalty she was still a very homely unaffected woman.

After about three months at Bouffioulx, we were moved to Couillet a town only four or five miles away. We were sorry to leave and the people were sorry we were going, they even petitioned to have us kept there. But we had to go.

Again I was sent ahead to arrange billets, and again met with the same excuses, sick aunts, grandmas etc., but three months living with the people had increased my vocabulary of their language and I was able to plead my cause more effectively.

At one house the people were very apologetic as they didn’t have a spare room. But after more pleading on my part, they said they had a room if I would care to take it. Understandably I suppose, they wanted to see who was coming to live with them, and I must have met with their approval. I was invited to inspect the room. It was very nice and comfortable looking and I reckoned I’d be very cosy there. It did look a bit effeminate, and they explained it was Georgette’s room. Georgette was Madame’s eighteen year old sister. She was a school teacher stationed near Brussels and only came home for holidays. In the meantime I was welcome to have the room. They were fine people, perhaps in their mid-thirties and they had two boys aged about eight and ten years old.

Madame’s mother also lived with them, a dear little old lady with snow white hair and an infectious smile. She was a brave little woman too. She told me that she had a son, a farmer, who lived several miles out of the town. During the German occupation, food was very scarce, and the farmers were not allowed to use or sell lady who defied the Germans for years their own crops, it was all commandeered by the The old by smuggling wheat in her undershirt.

Germans.

Well this little old lady showed me how she had made an underskirt with long seams the full length of it. Three times a week she used to walk out to her son’s farm, fill those seams with several pounds of wheat, which in this way she took home and crushed for food. For over three years she 98

In action on the Western Front did this and was only caught by the Germans a few days before the Armistice. No doubt the Armistice saved her life, for undoubtedly she would have been shot.

By this time men were being drafted for return to Australia. Those with longest service went first.

Then my turn came. I was told that I would be one of a party leaving for England on April 14 th 1919. Snow was still heavy on the ground and the weather was bitterly cold but of course we didn’t feel it so badly as we had in the previous years spent under trench conditions. However, what a thrill it was to know that we would soon be leaving for sunny Australia. From that distance we couldn’t remember any cold days or bad days in Australia. Australia seemed just the ultimate in all that was good and desirable.

Sergeant Joseph Pederick, February 1919.

For most of the war he served in the 37 t h Battalion A.I.F., but later, October 1918, he was transferred into the 8 t h Battalion. Service Number 972.

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Joe’s War One evening, about a week before our date of departure, I returned to my billet and as I entered I heard my name mentioned, they always called me Monsieur Joseph, and I realised I was the centre of some discussion. Having lived with Belgian people for several months, I had learned quite a lot of their language and could understand it even better than I could speak it, and even better than they thought I could. Thinking I might hear something interesting, I pretended to be absorbed in some book or paper I had. I learned that the problem before the family was the fact that Georgette was coming home for the Easter school holidays and I was occupying her room. There was a double bed in the room and Madame thought I wouldn’t mind sharing it with Georgette. Her husband was not so sure, he thought I might object to sharing my room, but Madame argued that she didn’t think I would for she pointed out that I had shared it one weekend with Monsieur Len (Len Dewar).

Georgette was coming home on the 12th April 1919 and we were leaving on the 14th April 1919.

Joseph Pederick, Leonard Dew ar.

Joe wrote on the back of this photo: “A pair of wandering Wyuna Diggers. Just a little souvenir of Charleroi Belgium where we had this taken, March 1919.” (In 1923 Len Dewar married Joe’s sister Lull .)

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In action on the Western Front However, our date of departure was advanced and eventually we left at 9.30 on April 12 th 1919 and Georgette was due to arrive at 10.30, so I didn’t even see her.

There was quite a round of farewells during those last few days. I went across to Bouffioulx and said my goodbyes to my good friends Gustave and Hortense Lerot and to dear little Renée and to Grandma and quite a number of their other friends and relatives. The Belgian and French are great ones on kissing. At that age, I had no serious objections to kissing the young lady friends, but when it came to kissing bewhiskered grandpas and uncles it just didn’t appeal. Still they were fine people and I found the parting was not easy. For several years I kept up a correspondence but then the language problem became too difficult and we ceased writing. Since then there has been another war, and once again those people have been overrun by the Germans, and I often wonder how they have fared. The boys of Monsieur and Madame Lerot of Couillet, and perhaps the family of Gustave and Hortense of Bouffioulx, all would have been of military age in 1936–1945.

At last came the day of our departure and to have seen the crowds on the station platform, one would have thought these people were farewelling their own sons and brothers. It was really a pathetic but heart-warming scene. Again in the old troop train with its trucks marked “8 CHEVAUX, 40 HOMMES”, we faced the long and tedious trip back to our port of embarkation, Le Havre.

The lines were blocked with trains and progress was painfully slow. With only a couple of hundred yards between trains the pace just had to be slow. Then for hours at a time we’d be shunted on to a loop line and left standing while train after train passed by, no doubt on more urgent business, but still most annoying to us. At one such stop a number of other trains, were also held up. One of these trains looked particularly interesting to our boys, because it was guarded by English soldiers armed with rifles and bayonets. The boys decided to investigate. The guard fired a shot. He was immediately seized and relieved of his rifle and bayonet, and the others decided that “Discretion was the better part of valour.” The boys then investigated the train thoroughly. They found it was a ration train and one truck was loaded with liquid rations. Soon barrels of wine were being transferred to our train. They reckoned it was pretty good, till someone else found crates of Champagne and those were transferred to our train too. Then authority woke up and our train hurriedly left the yards and stopped again a mile or two further on in a lonely part of the country, and proceeded to wait there for several more hours.

At Mons, one lad from our party was put off the train with acute appendicitis. He died before morning. Yes, on the first day of the first stage of our trip home this young fellow died.

For miles and miles our train took us over a route of utter desolation, wrecked towns and houses, deserted farms and all the ravages of war. A thick carpet of snow covered the ground as we passed through some of our old battlefields around Armentiéres, and the old trenches looked just as cheerless as they did in 1916. Close by the line, we noticed a little white cross rising out of the snow, with a rifle driven muzzle down into the ground beside it, and surmounted by an Australian hat. Someone in our truck murmured, “The poor old Digger looks pretty lonely out there”, and all was quiet, as we thought of all the poor old Diggers, our good old Cobbers, who we were leaving behind in France, under the snow, while we were going back to the land of sunshine.

As we were approaching our destination, a lad in the truck next to us, who had been asleep for a while, woke up and stretched himself, allowing his legs to protrude out through the open door. Just then a train coming in the other direction on the next set of rails, hit his legs and he died just as we arrived at the station, the second death on our train before we left France.

And now we were seeing France for the last time. The uninteresting streets in the dock area of Le Havre, cobblestoned and covered in muddy slush, the people in their wooden clogs and huddled up in drab but warm clothes, the old smoke and age-grimed houses. And in the mind’s eye, we also saw the mud and blood, the filth and snow and ice and cold of the trenches, the bitter fighting, the stench, the broken towns and homes and bodies, the little white crosses. We also remembered good pals we had made and some we had lost. We remembered many brave and courageous deeds, and 101

Joe’s War some not so heroic. We remembered people who had been kind to us and befriended us, and some not so kind and friendly.

In France I had been through practically the whole gamut of human experience. I had seen life and I had seen death, swift, stark and ghastly. I had experienced days of gladness and days of sadness, days of joy and days of sorrow. I had met the best friends on earth, and the bitterest enemies. Even the enemies ceased to be regarded as such, when they became prisoners or corpses.

Backbone of the British Army. A postcard that took Joe’s fancy.

Joe wrote on the back: “Some Guy, eh! I know a bit about it – I’ve had some acting private one day, acting sergeant -major the next – pay 6/- per day. Some job I can tell you. JP 1919. ”

I had seen courage of the highest order, deeds that made one feel proud to be a man, and I had seen some things that aroused the deepest revulsions of feeling against one’s fellow man. I had been blown up, and fed up. I had been half buried. I had been near frozen in the trenches, and near sweltered in the heat of battle. I had been aimed at with snowballs and with Minewerfers and with every type and calibre of missile in between. I had been bruised black and blue with shrapnel pellets. My clothes had been torn to ribbons with shell splinters, and with barbed wire. I’d found bullet holes through my tunic and my tin hat and shrapnel pellets in my pockets, but my skin had never been punctured.

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In action on the Western Front I had fired at and been fired at, and felt glad that we both missed. I had been hungry many times and nearly died of thirst once. I had endured the agony of being infested and half eaten alive with vermin. Rats and filth were common companions. I had shivered in the intense cold, but I had shivered more violently in abject terror as high explosive shells crashed round about.

I had been reported killed, missing and wounded. But I assure you I was seldom missing at meal times. I was never wounded and now nearly forty years later, I’m still alive, so really I think with Mark Twain that the report of my death was “grossly exaggerated”.

And now we were saying goodbye to France. We were glad, yet our gladness was not untinged with sadness, for somehow we felt that we were saying goodbye to a very vital part of our life’s experience.

The crossing of the channel to Southampton was uneventful, no worries about submarines now, and the day we landed back in England the thaw set in, quickly turning the snow into slush then into water. For a day or two, it was very wet underfoot but in no time spring was on the land. The bare trees suddenly burst into fresh green leaf and in a few days, the fields, which had been white with snow, became a beautiful carpet of green. The advent of spring always amazed me there. After the drab cold winter, the growth was amazing and the transformation miraculous.

Back into camp again, this time at a place near Warminster, a very pretty little camp on the edge of a wood through which wound miles of road lined with rhododendrons, a truly beautiful spot.

Soon after our arrival there we were granted fourteen days leave, and this time I went up to Yorkshire. Uncle Hiram Outram had come from there and I had received an invitation from his people there to pay them a visit. Uncle Hiram had come out to Australia as a young man and had married my mother’s youngest sister. He had never been back to England. He was arranging to take his family back for a trip when war broke out. After I returned he asked scores of questions about people and places over there and was very interested in everything I could tell him, but he said afterwards that now he had heard first hand news of the place, he felt he didn’t want to go back again, and he never did.

I spent one night in Leeds then went on to Cleckheaton, about mid-way between Leeds and Bradford. I found my way to the home of Mrs. Ben Outram where I was made very welcome.

They did everything possible to make my stay there enjoyable and interesting. Their daughter had recently become engaged to a young fellow just discharged from the army. But she had a cousin whose boyfriend was still in France, so she introduced me to her, and we four had many good times together, in fact such a good time, that I think the cousin was beginning to think Australia would be a nice place to live in. Perhaps therefore, it was well that I didn’t stay there too long.

Anyway, I hadn’t worn my welcome out at Webb’s and they wanted me to have a few days with them. They had now moved from Broadchalke to a place called Ford, nearer Salisbury, so after about eight days in Yorkshire I returned there for the rest of my leave. Of course I had a good time there, whether it was helping Mr. Webb round the farm yard or Mrs. Webb in the kitchen or taking the girls for a night out. I remember going out shooting with Mr. Webb one day. We were walking along a bank between ploughed fields, a hare jumped up just to our right. I raised my gun to fire, but Mr. Webb called to me not to shoot. Then he explained that the bank along which we were walking was the boundary between the property he was managing and the property owned by Squire Smith or Jones. If I’d shot that hare I’d have been poaching or something. There would have been trouble with Squire Smith or Jones or whoever he was. Thank goodness we were going back to Australia soon. Soon after, some quail rose on the left side of the boundary. I had a shot and brought down four. Mr Webb thought I was a great shot, so I didn’t try for anything else, in case I lost my reputation.

Talking about shooting, before enlisting I used to be very keen on hare shooting. Soon after my return home a hare shoot was organised chiefly for my benefit, but I found that it didn’t appeal to me as it used to do. Perhaps having had to run the gauntlet of bullets so many times myself, I had a lot of sympathy for the poor old hares, and I have never done any shooting for sport since.

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Joe’s War Back to camp and the tiresome, weary wait began, waiting for a boat to take us home. There was little to do and time hung very heavily on our hands as we listened to rumours as to when we were sailing and on which boat and by which route. There wasn’t much to do. Leave was far more liberal than our pay envelopes could cope with, we were always short of money.

Victory March through London, May 3 r d 1919. Overseas troops passing Australia House.

We used to go into Warminster quite a lot. One of my mates, Fred, fell madly in love with a girl there. He did that many times every year, but he assured us this was really it. She was a wonderful girl. He invited me to go with him one evening to meet her and her family. She certainly was a very nice girl, much too good for Freddie I thought. Her father was a retired police superintendent, a very genial old chap and her mother was also a very fine woman. She also had a younger sister, a school girl of about fourteen. Her name was Winsome, but she was better known as Puggles. She was just about the happiest kid I’ve ever met, a born comedian and real good company. For the rest of our time in England, Fred and I spent quite a lot of time at that home in Warminster.

Fred assured me that he was going to return to England to marry Dot, but as soon as he arrived in Australia he fell in love again and within a few months he was married. I wrote to Dot and Puggles for years after, and just recently in 1956 I have again had a letter from Puggles after a lapse of about thirty years.

At last we heard officially that we would be embarking on a ship called Port Darwin and again we went through all the old formalities of muster parades, kit inspections, medical examinations, pay adjustments and checking and rechecking of rolls. Then we had to hand our rifles in, the old rifles we had lived with and slept with and regarded as one of our three best friends, the other two being our gas helmet and our tin hat.

Our last weekend in England I spent with the Webbs, and found the parting there like the parting from my own people. What grand people they had been to me. Such great friends, just when I most needed friends. Just what their company meant to me neither they nor I will ever really fully know, but I do know that I will forever be very much indebted to them. Poor old Mrs. Webb hung on to me with tears streaming down her dear old face and told me she would always think of me as 104

In action on the Western Front her Aussie son. She was a dear old soul. And Mr. Webb walked a long way up the road with me as if he didn’t want to say goodbye. I think we all realised it was unlikely we would ever meet again.

Now both Mr. and Mrs. Webb have gone and the eldest daughter too, but I still correspond regularly with Nell, and I’m always glad to know I still have that link with those good old days.

A “Thank You” from the King. The Queen, George V’s wife, was Queen Mary.

Our date of departure was fixed for June 13th 1919. The countryside, as we sped through on our boat train for Devonport, was not quite so green and beautiful as it was the first time we saw it, for a drought was on the land, there had been little rain for a whole month. The crops and grass were beginning to brown off a little but the country was still lovely, and the brown cliffs of Torquay will not soon be forgotten.

On arrival at Devonport, we got our first glimpse of that ship that was to be our home for the next few weeks, the Port Darwin. She was a comparatively new ship of about 10,000 tons. Like the Persic, she was a cargo boat with only very limited accommodation for passengers. We were soon aboard and found that conditions too, were much the same as on the Persic, the same arrangement of hammocks swung about the mess tables. However, everything was nice and new and clean, so we didn’t worry overmuch, we were glad to be on our way home anyway. We were rather disappointed when we learned that we would be returning via the same route as we went over. We had hoped it would have been either Suez or Panama.

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Joe’s War

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HEADING HOME AT LAST! It was June 13th 1919 and a Friday, too. Some of the sailors didn’t want to sail on such a “jinx” day, but it was a lovely day with the sea as smooth as glass and we were soon underway. We stood on deck and watched the shores of old England fade from sight and wondered if we’d ever see them again. I’m still wondering.

We were hungry and enjoyed a good tea. We were all in good spirits, the sea was calm and no one was in a hurry to go to bed this time. Next morning we awoke and could hardly believe we were still at sea, the ship was as steady as if it had been alongside a pier. The weather was still fine and all felt fit and hungry again.

Everyone was in his place for breakfast. Then the mess orderly came along and called out, “Who’ll have some tripe?” There was a mad rush for the deck – only two of us out of twenty at our table remained for breakfast and although the sea remained calm for the next week we two had twenty rations to choose from.

The Bay of Biscay was as calm as a mill pond and all the way to Cape Town we had good weather.

For this we were very thankful too, for our ship was very lightly laden and was very high out of the water and we realised that if we struck bad weather we’d take a bad tossing about.

Our trip to Cape Town was uneventful and time passed very pleasantly with games and concerts and sports, or just idling lazily in the sunshine or gazing overboard at the changing scene of sky and sea. This always held a fascination for me both by day and by night.

One day we saw a dark patch on the horizon straight ahead, like a low flat island covering it seemed several square miles. As we approached nearer several small black objects detached themselves from it and headed straight for our boat and we soon realised they were porpoises. Then as we reached what we had thought was the flat island, we were astounded to find it was a huge shoal of porpoises, there must have been millions of them, packed in so tightly that the sea was black with them.

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Joe’s War We went right through them and they put on a great show for us, jumping out of the water and playing and gambolling in the calm water like children at the seaside on a hot summer’s eve. At Cape Town, we found that another transport, the Themistocles, which had also left England on the same day as we did, Friday the 13th, had beaten us by three days, and had sailed again just before we reached there. The troops aboard her had left word for us that they’d be waiting for our arrival in Melbourne, after they had spent their deferred pay.

We had two or three days in Cape Town, and then just before we sailed, we heard that the “Themistocles” had collided with a sailing ship in the dark. The sailor was sunk and Themistocles was returning to Cape Town for repairs. As we steamed up the Bay, we passed quite close to her, and shouted across to the lads aboard that “we’d meet them when they arrived in Melbourne after we had spent our deferred pay.” Back came the reply, “Don’t be too sure about it. You sailed on Friday the 13th too. You’ll soon be back.”

Port Darwin in Cape Town, July 3 r d 1919.

And we hadn’t been long at sea before we began to wonder if their prophecy was going to be fulfilled. We ran into very heavy weather and our lightly laden boat was tossed about like a cork.

Movement about was only possible by holding like grim death to stout ropes that had been fixed for that purpose and even so there were a good many broken bones and cracked heads. The waves were really terrifying and we were blown hundreds of miles off course, down almost on to the fringe of the southern iceberg area. The Captain, good old Captain Craven, a fine old fellow who endeared himself to everyone on board, allayed our fears somewhat by explaining that being so light, we were practically unsinkable. He said that like a cork, we might get badly tossed about and conditions might be very uncomfortable, but he said, “Unless you see the tips of the funnels dipping into the drink, you needn’t be afraid, she’s quite safe.” But on several occasions, the roll was so bad that we thought the funnels were going to do just that, and it was about time to start getting afraid.

We had about a week of that and then the weather gradually cleared and the seas abated.

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Home, at last!

Then our first thrill of homecoming, the first wireless messages from Australia, from Perth, and next from Adelaide. Then we were in the Bight and again tossed about badly by the great swell that seems to be always running there. By this time, most of our fuel had been used and this had been about all the cargo we had aboard, so we were now drawing only about 13 ft. of water, instead of a normal 24 to 27 ft. In this swell the engineers were having difficulty keeping the propeller under water, and reduced to snail’s pace, lest they snap a propeller shaft.

Then Melbourne came in on the wireless and we felt we were nearly there, our route having been Cape Town to Melbourne direct. At last, one morning there was a shout. Land was sighted on the port bow, our first glimpse of Australia. The skipper drew in closer than usual to give the boys a look at their old homeland and we followed close in shore past Portland, Warrnambool and Apollo Bay. Drought was on the land again, not a one-month drought like the one we had left in England, but a real good (or bad) Australian one, and the country looked very dry and brown and barren and uninviting. But we were not very critical at that stage and excitement was mounting. It was dark when we passed through the Heads, and soon after we dropped anchor for the night offshore from the Portsea Quarantine Station.

Before daylight, every man was shaven and packed and up on deck to miss nothing of the homecoming. Quarantine officers came aboard and quickly gave us a clear bill of health. Customs officers also came, searched the ship for contraband but found nothing. Diggers were pretty good at hiding things.

The old Captain told us of an amusing incident on the previous trip. He had brought some Aussies home from Egypt. All the way he had been on the lookout for anything that may be regarded as contraband for he knew the Diggers weakness for souvenirs. But he had seen nothing of a suspicious nature so had no hesitation in signing a Custom’s declaration, knowing that any infringement would mean a fine of £100 for him. The Customs officials were just preparing to leave the ship when he saw, and they too saw, something move under one of the tarpaulins covering a lifeboat, hanging in its davits over the ship’s side. It looked suspiciously like a monkey’s tail, so they investigated, he, thinking all the while of that lovely £100. Sure enough it was a monkey. It had been hidden all through the voyage and its owner had only got reckless when he was about to disembark. Of course it had to be destroyed. He called for a hammer to despatch it. It was only a tiny little monkey and he wanted only a little hammer, but to his amazement he was brought a 7lb. sledge hammer, to kill a little monkey. However he said wryly, “When he had wiped the monkey off the face of the hammer, we were allowed to proceed and I didn’t lose my £100.”

As we moved up the Bay, the chaps excitedly pointed out the places they knew, Rosebud, Mornington, Frankston, Mordialloc, etc. Then off St. Kilda, one of my mates nearly lost control of himself in his excitement, he could see his own home. He was married shortly before he left Australia and now had a daughter, three years old, whom he had never seen. I thought he was going to jump over board and swim home.

Soon we were alongside at Port Melbourne and what a crowd awaited us there, a much happier crowd this time, than the last crowd I’d seen there. I had been half way round the world and back, and I stepped ashore twice as rich as I had left, which was pretty good I think. I left Australia with a halfpenny in my pocket and returned with a penny.

The first one in the crowd on the pier, whom I recognised was “Little Tich” who you remember was wounded in the early days in France. He was still a little Tich but seemed quite well and it was good to see him again.

We were hurried into waiting cars to be driven to Sturt Street Barracks, where our near relatives had been invited to meet us. As our car passed through the dock gates, a young man jumped on to the running board and called me by name. I had no idea who he was, but shook his proffered hand, then realised it was my own brother Wilfred. Only by his broken hand did I recognise him. Nearly four years had changed him from a school boy to a strapping young man, and so it was with the other brothers too, when I met them.

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Joe’s War On arrival at the barracks, there was another excited crowd to meet us, fathers, mothers, wives, sweethearts and children of the returning men. We were not permitted to meet them till we had gone through the formalities of collecting pay, getting leave passes and discharge certificates and signing various documents on the dotted line. No one bothered to read what they had signed for, we’d have signed anything there, but later we wished we had not been in such a hurry for we had signed some documents which should not have been signed and which, in later years backfired against us. For instance, we signed that we were in perfect health and had no claim against the Department for compensation or pension.

As we passed from the car to the office through the crowd, I didn’t see my people, but I did see Mr. and Mrs. McLeod from Kyabram and I heard Mr. McLeod shout “There’s wee Alec.” Wee Alec was the biggest and strongest man on our boat. He was a good natured, happy fellow and used to challenge to wrestle any six men on the ship. The only hold he barred was pulling of his hair and he was very rarely pinned down. About two years ago I saw him. He was no longer the big strong man for he was a complete invalid, but he was still bright and cheerful and joked over our times on the Port Darwin, even though he was in the last stages of cancer. He died a week later.

At last all papers were signed and our service was completed in the same old Drill Hall, where it had started. We were then free to go out and meet our people. What a thrill that was. Mum and Dad were there to meet me and how good it was to be with them again.

Joe’s war service record, including the date of discharge from the A.I.F.

Next day we returned to Kyabram and home and after a series of reunions and welcome homes, I began to settle down to life as a civilian again. But it was not easy. After the noise and bustle and excitement of the past four years, the quiet, the silence was deafening, and we began to realise there was a lot of truth in the silly words of the song that was popular in those days, “How’re we goin’ to keep ‘em down on the farm after they’ve seen Paree.”

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Home, at last!

Reverse side.

“Presented to SGT, J J PEDERICK by his Wyuna Friends on his return from THE WORLDS WAR. 15/8/19”

Obverse side.

“JJP”

Medallion given to Joe by the Wyuna community on his return from the war.

I was restless as only those who went through it knew. I just couldn’t settle down. I’d decide to go to Melbourne, on arrival I’d hate it and catch the next train back. Mum used to say I was like the bears in the zoo, never resting a minute, always on the move. Perhaps it was no wonder. From a diary which I kept, and from which I have taken the facts of these stories, I once reckoned up that while I was away, I had slept at least one night in over 300 separate places. I think all returned soldiers went through this same period of restlessness.

Someone at the time said that all the boys either bought a motor bike or got married. I didn’t buy a motor bike. In January 1921 about eighteen months after I got home, I married Jessie Perkins, but before then I had decided to try my hand at fruit growing and had spent a good deal of time working on orchards to gain experience, and had then bought a block of land near Tongala.

Before leaving France we were told what wonderful benefits a grateful country was going to bestow upon us when we returned. Instead we found that prices had soared and the land we had to buy was sold to us at exorbitant prices.

To this block of land, I took my bride and while our house was being built, we lived in a house on an adjoining property. I worked hard and long and built quite a nice house of mud bricks which I made on the property and built myself. Then I fenced the place and bought some cows to tide us over the period of waiting for the fruit trees, which I planted, to come into bearing.

Prices for dairy cattle had rocketed to an unknown high level, but butter fat was 2/9d a pound weight, so it was not so bad. But then suddenly the price fell to 7d a pound. Mastitis got into the cattle and a year later cows I had bought for over £20 had to be sold for £2.

Again we had been advised to plant a certain variety of peach. But the second year a new canning process was introduced and the growers were given three years to graft over all their trees to a new variety to suit the new process. I had worked hard and all for nothing. I couldn’t bear the thought of going into debt and couldn’t see how I could carry on for another three years without doing so.

So I got out owing nothing, but with nothing.

For the next few years, I continued to work hard, often doing two jobs, in an attempt to get enough money to make another start. Then the old war experiences began to take toll of my health and the doctor told me I had better get away and try something else.

Soon after I was offered a position in Melbourne and with a wife and three young children we moved to town and here I am still. Last year (1955) after many years of ill health, Jessie died. My family are all married and I have seven grandchildren. All are good to me and give me much pleasure.

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Joe’s War

Joseph and Jessie May Pederick ( née Perkins), January 12 t h 1921.

As for the future, I’m prepared to leave that with Him who has watched over me and brought me through so many varied experiences.

And if any of these grandchildren get any pleasure or interest out of these rambling stories, which were first prompted by David’s questioning, I shall feel well repaid.

[Signed]

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Home, at last!

Joe shortly after his return to Australia.

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Epilogue At the end of his story Joe mentioned that he was offered a position in Melbourne and that he and Jesse and their three young children, William, Ailsa and Elva moved there. The job he obtained was with one of the Defence Factories and presumably his training with explosives during the war helped him to gain the position. Joe and Jessie found a house to buy at Footscray. However, during the depression the builder, who held their mortgage, became bankrupt and they lost their home.

The family then moved to Fairfield, into a rented property where they stayed for a number of years.

Although he worked throughout the depression at the Factory his salary was reduced periodically and times were very tough.

Meanwhile Jessie began to suffer from an illness that turned out to be quite serious and debilitating.

In her later years she required much care from her husband and her children. While Joe and Jessie were living at Pascoe Vale with their daughter Ailsa and her family, Ailsa cared for her through the day, and Joe cared for her through the night.

After Jessie’s death in May 1955, Joe continued to live with Ailsa until January 1957 when he married his cousin, Phyllis Pederick, and moved to live with her and her mother, his Aunt Mabel, at McKinnon. Phyllis, who the grandchildren always called Aunty Phyllis, became an important and much-loved member of the family.

At the age of 60, Joseph Pederick married his cous in Phyllis Rosa Pederick, on January 12 t h 1957.

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Joe’s War After he retired from work Joe became heavily involved in sponsoring and settling new citizens to Australia on behalf of the Methodist Church. He helped several hundreds of families to negotiate the trauma of migration and integration, in an incredibly active retirement. As a Church man, he was a Superintendent of two Sunday Schools, he was an active local preacher for over forty years, and delighted to participate in the fellowship meetings and other activities of his church.

Joe enjoyed touring around Victoria and Australia visiting his relatives, including long trips up to Mackay to see his daughter, Elva. Joe delighted in his family and they treasured him with his daughter Ailsa writing to him, “Always we are aware of your steadfastness in adversity, your ingenuity when faced with the impossible task, and your undeviating integrity.”

All sorts of people would come to see Joe, then come again and again, including many of the migrants he had helped settle.

Only failing health caused predominantly by the onset of Parkinson’s Disease deprived Joe of two valued capacities – those of speech and writing, and reduced him to inactivity, yet he remained mentally alert. Phyllis cared for him throughout his last years, graciously and with loving care.

Joe Pederick was a selfless man whose goodness lay in a whole life given to helping others. As a father and devoted husband, he raised a family through difficult times, and cared for his invalid first wife, Jessie, for over twenty years.

Joe passed away at age 78 in September 1975. grandchildren.

He was by then the grandfather of nine Esther Birchall Yarragon, Victoria.

2019

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Joe before embarkation in May 1916.

Kitted out to “…look like soldiers ,

me mbahs of the Australian Imperial Forces.”