August – December 1915
“I suppose you have seen that there are one or two Meningitis cases in this camp, nothing to worry about though – we go about our daily routine as usual – if you saw one or two of the specimens in camp, you can guess the reason of the diseases.
I saw one weakly fellow down in the market I believe he had one wash while he was there, how they (few & far between I’m glad to say) pass the test is a mystery – they are drafted out & discharged in time.”
I AM ONE of six hundred men who board a train at Spencer Street Station in the second week of August 1915 and head off to Castlemaine. Due to the flood of men enlisting into the AIF the existing camps cannot support the additional numbers therefore several other camps are being set up around Victoria to accommodate us.
We are advised that we are the first troops being sent into Castlemaine and will be required to establish a new training camp in the area. This all sounds very exciting to us but when we arrive there it’s pouring rain and there is no camp. While there are two dedicated rifle ranges, one close to the railway station and the other about a mile and a half out of town, a camp ground hasn’t yet been agreed upon. The term “establish a new training camp” is a rather large understatement looking out over the rolling hills as there hasn’t been a single tent pitched.
The Castlemaine community, like those around the rest of Australia, jump in to assist. We are split up into two groups, three hundred of us are billeted at the Town Hall and the other three hundred men are put up in one of the Market buildings at the North end of town. The locals arrange reading rooms and provide stationary for those wishing to write home. Some community entertainment programs are scheduled, and the AIF are quick to ensure six hundred men are not sitting around idle all day, implementing a series of squad drills that commence the very next day.
A fair bit of procrastination takes place over the next two weeks before the camp site is finally selected. When the order was given, we went from being under roof to being under canvas within a few hours. Every day there had been site visits and inspections of both the potential camp sites and our existing quarters by AIF officers and officials from the Department of Defence. While we had plenty to do during the day with multiple drills, classes, marches, rifle and gun handling, the question was thrown around by our chaps, “How can we expect to win a war if it takes two weeks to set up a camp?”
Three carpenters had been brought up from Melbourne to floor the tents but because of the delays setting up, only a handful of tents had floors in them by the first day. A lot of men slept on the damp, cold ground for a while until their floors were installed. There was considerable frustration and aggravation amongst our chaps who complained bitterly and requested to be allowed to sleep back at the Town Hall, but this was denied. You can imagine the adjectives being thrown out freely! I fluked a tent first up that had a dry floor and a rickety writing table in it.
There were other teething problems in setting up the camp, like waking up one morning with water from a burst water pipe flowing through the tents. Morning cuppa made with muddy water was a hard start to the day.
A “blue” erupted between the Melbourne carpenters and the Castlemaine Amalgamated Society of Carpenters who believed that unemployed local tradesmen should be doing the work. The Department of Defence got involved before a riot started and a day later there were fifteen carpenters working on flooring the tents.
When we were under roof in town there was a general order that all men were to be in bed by 9:30pm or 21:30 in the Army’s way of telling the time, but there was no control to enforce this. With six hundred men in one camp there was always going to be a percentage of larrikins who push the boundaries a bit and our mob was no different. Quite a few chaps could be found wandering the streets after dark seeking out sly liquor or dubious company.
The new camp came with far greater military control and curfews were put in place. Leave into Castlemaine was now only permitted about once a week. You were given a card which must be handed to the guard on duty when you returned. There is a very real threat of loss of pay or even lock-up for anyone breaching these orders, it pulled a few chaps into line.
Very quickly the quality and quantity of training drills is increased. Trench work becomes a primary activity. They need to be dug between six and eight feet deep, four feet wide and as long as the Officer in charge wishes to make them. The emphasis is on speed and accuracy, each man starts off with his own hole to dig but it then must join in with the next man’s efforts and so on down the line till a length of trench is formed.
Using sand bags to a height of two or three feet on the side facing the enemy, a parapet is erected. The opposite side or rear of the trench, another row of sandbags is built up, this is called the parados. The parados should be higher than the parapet. The rationale is that it protects those in the trench from anyone firing from behind and acts as a backdrop so enemy snipers cannot see troops standing up in the trench silhouetted against the skyline.
The exercise is conducted under pressure with officers yelling instructions from above, doing their best to simulate genuine front-line conditions. A couple of recruits have mining experience and they offer up practical advice on different ground conditions and shoring up trench walls when the ground is unstable.
When dismissed from trench preparation, another company of men will then jump in and prepare dugouts. They will be followed by yet another company who conduct drills in charging from the trench and negotiating barbed wire entanglements. The next day the trench is filled in and the process is recommenced a couple of yards away.
The primary weapon of choice of the AIF is the trusty Lee-Enfield .303 rifle. I enjoy the rifle practice and we drill on it two or three times a week.
I had handled the .303 a few times when I was with the 20th Light Horse and there were a couple of them available at the Beech Forest Rifle Club. Some of my home-grown skills kick in and I am considered a decent shot, consistently scoring well in practice. It’s a much heavier rifle than I am used to on the farm, but I get the feel of it quickly. The heavier bullet kicks like a mule and you need to spend a second or two refocusing before pulling the trigger again if your intention is accuracy. The ten-round magazine is a massive advancement in modern armoury, the infantry chaps must love it.
The carpenters are kept busy and build a stadium (platform). To christen it a fight is organized to take place late one afternoon. Because it is considered a camp activity, we get off from drill a little earlier to get a few spars off. The main fight is between two middleweights who claim some previous boxing experience but there are a lot of chaps walking around here claiming that anyway. A couple of impromptu SP bookmakers are doing a trade down the back of the paddock, the officers pretending they don’t see what’s going on. Everyone has picked their favourite and there is a lot of yahooing and carry-on amongst the spectators.
It turns out to be quite a brutal affair, with a bit of blood being spilt. The referee is fair and does his best to keep it clean however the fighters must have a pound or two wagered on the result and they slug it out with an aggressive street-fighting style. Not much foot or guard work is in play, just wild swinging, head down, hoping to connect. The longer it goes, the slower the reaction time to defend is and when there is a connect it does a fair bit of damage.
Towards the end of the third round they can hardly stand up, clinging to each other, more for support than to get in close and deliver a punch. The troops and the corner supporters are yelling encouragement and egging them on but it’s about over. Blood is running from the nose and nicks over the eyes of both men. The bell rings and one fighter remains in the middle, bending over with both hands on his knees trying to suck in some air, I’m thinking he’ll pass out. He eventually makes it back to his stool for a bit of a rinse and a wet towel but when the bell rings again he doesn’t move. In the other corner the fighter is on his feet but there is no confidence in his stance. A towel is turfed into the ring and the man standing is awarded the contest.
You can tell who had a few shillings on the winner, they bolt down to the SP bookies to collect their winnings.
The referee sings out, asking if anybody else wishes for a fight. As there is a chap in our tent who has been talking fight lately, him & yours truly toed the line. We had a very willing two rounds, (friendly enough mind), but no damage done, ended up fairly even, the referee would not award a decision.
The next morning, I wake up quite well, but my ears had taken a bit of a pounding and are a bit sore. The same morning, we attend Military Church and the Minister gave his address from the stadium after the blood from the night before had been cleaned up.
I don’t know if I’ll be able to get leave to get home from Castlemaine camp, there is some talk about letting seven percent go out every weekend as soon as the current isolation is taken off but there is also the burden of having to pay half-fare on the train. I don’t know if that will suit me very well as it would take me a day and a half to get home, I’d have to leave Friday to get to Cloverdale by late Saturday. I am quite satisfied with Castlemaine camp, but Geelong camp is a lot closer to home, so I apply for a transfer. It gets declined.
There is a call for reinforcements, they are seeking one hundred and fifty men. I stepped forward but am rejected on account of being short, they are taking the biggest men first. Eventually, fifty men are selected from each company (A, B, C), nearly one hundred had volunteered from my company (C) alone which was very encouraging. We will all go in time, no chance of getting drafted into a Brigade though.
We have a band here, made up of recruits picked out of the companies, some nights they practice in our tent, they are quite good. On Sunday afternoons they play for an hour or two on the stadium which adds a bit of entertainment in camp and makes a pleasant change from the rigors of drill.
In mid-September we receive a second issue of clothing which is most welcomed. We joke that we have so much that we don’t know where to store it! I even scored a “house-wife” containing needles and a few cast-off buttons with a little cotton. All will come in very handy as the first issue of clothing needs some repair.
In the last week of September there is another call for reinforcements, two hundred men are required and this time I am selected. We are given short notice to pack up our personnel effects and be ready to move out. I ride my bike around to Mr Thompson’s place and ask him to look after it till I can arrange for it to be picked up or sent to Wal who is currently staying with relatives in South Melbourne. Mr Thompson is a friend of my parents and I had many a meal at his house while in Castlemaine.
We catch the train down to Williamstown, but no one is told what the plans for us are. Speculation is that we will board the next troopship leaving from Port Melbourne within a week but in the meantime we will continue with musketry training in this camp. Things are obviously getting pretty solid as on arrival we are issued our own rifles and bayonets, quite a hint that departure will be soon.
As soon as I have settled in to my tent I write to Wal, letting him know about the bike and suggesting to him that he might take a run out here and catch up. I give him accurate instructions where to find me, the tent I’m in is the forth row from the west and the seventh tent down from the road. He should work that out okay. I haven’t seen Mum, Dad, Frank or Wal since I was posted to Castlemaine, leave was never granted. I miss them all and hope that I am here long enough for Wal to come out.
We are in Williamstown camp for 10 days when we are told that the HMAT Nestor, leaving next day from the new Railway Pier in Port Melbourne, is full. They are unable to take another two hundred troops so to coin a phrase, we missed the boat. Within a couple of days, we pack up and are transferred to Broadmeadows camp. It would be a fair assumption that we must travel soon, if we only missed the Nestor by the skin of our teeth, surely, we must be on the next ship.
I managed to catch up with Wal for a couple of hours, he caught the train out on a Sunday, it was great to see my youngest brother. He is very keen to sign up with the AIF and follow me, but at 16 years of age he’s too young. He tells me that Frank applied to join but was knocked back because of his missing hand.
It was only a short walk from Broadmeadows railway station to the camp and the first thing I notice is the size of it. Over three thousand men are here when my company moves in. The land is flat, and a bit wind swept, it would be good farming soil under different circumstances. At the arrival briefing we learn that the land has been donated to the AIF by a very patriotic local farmer. Another example of everyone pulling their weight for the war effort.
The training in musketry, trench work and bayonet drills has all stepped up to another level, we rise at 05:30 and each day is very well laid out for us. No need to apply for a leave pass, there aren’t any.
The rumour train has my head spinning. I struggle to keep up with what we are told officially, which is very little, and what version of that story is exaggerated and twisted one hundred times during the day makes it difficult to separate truth from rubbish. The common thread is that “we are on the next boat” but three thousand men are getting the same story. There continues to be regular recruitment and selection processes taking place which appear to be governed by height, size, previous trade experience, military competence etc. Our company is approached a few times and I offer myself at every opportunity, but I guess there is more important trades required in war than that of a dairy farmer.
Days turn into weeks and the training is relentless, there is no slacking off just because a thousand men move out one day and two days later another thousand more move in. Those that are shipped out leave the front gate with a very clear understanding that their next stop is Port Melbourne pier.
As Christmas 1915 approaches I start to feel a little confident that I might not travel for a while yet. Seven ships have sailed out of Port Melbourne for the war since my mob was first given notice back at Williamstown Camp in September. I even suggest to Mum and Dad that leave for Christmas could be on, I certainly have my fingers crossed for that to happen as I haven’t seen Cloverdale since late July. There are hundreds of men in camp sharing the same thought, while leave hasn’t been on the table, many of us apply anyway.
Four days before Christmas a camp notice is pinned up stating there is no leave to be granted, the war does not take into account what day of the year it is. End of story.
Nothing could be closer to the truth when on Christmas Day we get the nod, next boat it is, schedule departure is set for Wednesday 29th December on a tub known as HMAT 64 – Demosthenes. I get letters away immediately to Cloverdale but am doubtful they will arrive in time, highly unlikely anyone I know will be at the wharf.