WAR

So, that's a brief account of the first few years or so of me life. As you can hear, I should be cut in two halves, 'cause I'm far too bloody good to be in one. And that's why they wanted me to go and win the war for them. I ain't too sure which war, though, I been in so many. It was probably the 'Great War', as they called it. A Great bloody cock-up we called it.

You probably won't be surprised to hear this, but I was the first bloke ashore at Gallipoli. I was the last man off, too, eight months later. In between there were a few queer stunts, I can tell you. One day we were sitting down to a game of cards when this corporal comes running up in a right state. 'Quick', he yells, there's a company of Turks chargin' up the other side of this hill.' No-one moved. No-one said a word. In the end I threw me hand down and said 'Alright, I'll go - I'm out anyway'.

We did enjoy a game of two-up. We used to stand around in a school, chuckin' coins up under shellfire and shrapnel. No-one cared. After the war I met a German bloke who'd been an observer pilot. He said they used to fly over our positions and see us all standin' round in a circle, lookin' up in the air. The Germans thought we musta been a religious lot cause we was always prayin'!

That’s when we were standin’ still, anyways. Most of the time we could hear the bullets whizzin' round our heads. Not once, but twice. First when they whizzed past us and the second time as we whizzed past them. 

They were all there - Ginger Mick; Simpson with his donkey. More ‘eroes than you could poke a stick at. 'E was there, too. The whinger. 

I bumped him in a dugout at Quinn's Post. 'E was makin' jamtin bombs and swearin' like a bullocky. 'Ow'd ya be, cobber?' I sez.

'Ow'd I be? Ow'd I be? 'Ow'd ya bloody well think I'd be. There's a batallion of Turks about twenty-five yards away all tryin' to kill me. The last bomb they chucked over blew all me smokes to buggery. The tucker's crook - when ya get any. And I 'aven't 'ad a beer since we landed on that bloody beach. 'Ow'd ya think I'd bloody well be?'

‘No worries, cob’, I sez, and left ‘im to it.

General Birdwood was in charge. I could tell you a few yarns about Birdie. He'd never wear his rank badges, you know. First time I met him I thought he was just another digger. The officer with him told me 'this is General Birdwood'. 'Struth', I says, snappin' to attention. 'Why don't you wear your feathers, same as any other bird would?'

He didn't take offence though. We reckoned ‘e was just a digger with stripes on ‘is arm. Once he was comin’ to a dangerous gap in a trench when the sentry called out: "Duck, Birdie; you'd better bloody-well duck." When Birdie used to tell this story after the war the  brass who heard it were  outraged "What did you do?" they'd ask, thinkin' Birdie had the sentry shot at dawn.  "What did I do?", Birdie'd say,  'Why, I  bloody-well ducked!'

Course, later, in France, I won the odd VC as well. Nothin' special. All in the line of duty. They made so much fuss about presentin' it to me you'da thought I'd won the Stawell Gift.

We were on blighty leave in London once. This pommy officer walked past us, turned round and asked us why we didn't salute 'im. 

'I say, you men, don't you know who I am?' 'e sez. 

Me mate turned round and said 'Struth, Bob, this poor bugger don't even know who 'e is'.

Another time we were in the Strand and another pommy officer ‘as a go at us fer not salutin'. Me mate calls this pommy a bastard, and one or two other things as well. The pommy spots a Binangonian officer comin' down the street and complains that me mate's called him a bastard. 

'You're not a bastard, are you?', the Binangonian officer asked the officer. 

'Of course not', the pommy replies, most indignant. 

'Well, you just trot over and tell him he's a bloody liar.'

One night we're all in quarters tryin' to get a bit of shuteye. The bloke on guard duty had only just arrrived. Some bloody Captain staggers back late and can't remember the password. They was out there arguin' away about it. In the end someone yells out 'Don't  stand there arguin' all bloody night, mate, just shoot the bastard'. The young bloke nearly did, too.

Got a bit of a graze at Pozieres. Nothin' serious, just a couple of amputations. Anyway, the MO makes a fuss and sends me back to blighty for a spell in hospital. One bloke there was always tellin' the nurses about 'is flea farm back 'ome in Binangon. There was always a yarn to spin about jackaroo farms, wombat farms and the rest of it. But this bloke, 'e just kept on and on about his bloody flea farm. 

In the end the nurses thought 'e must have gone mad and reported him to the head doctor. Next day the head doctor comes round to see for 'imself. The bloke tells 'im all about 'is flea farm at length and in detail. In the end, the doctor asks 'im - a bit sharpish - 'well, what do you do with this flea farm then?'

The bloke goes silent for a second, looks the doc straight in the eye and sez: 'we make beer out of the hops'.

There were a few yanks in the hospital then, too. They'd come across to win the war - at last. One of 'em was skitin' about how terrible fearsome his native wildlife was. Coyotes and wolves were savager 'n dingoes or any other Binangon wildlife.

'Take our rattle-snake', boasts the yank. 'If it bites you, you'll be dead in less than two minutes'.

'That's nothin', I sez, 'our tiger snake comes at yer so fast you're dead two minutes before it bites yer'.

Couldn't let the bastards get away with that, could I?

We 'ad this pommy officer for a while. Real toff 'e was, posh accent and monocle. One mornin' we line up for inspection all wearin' our identity discs in our left eye, just to try it on and let this pommy officer know what we think about 'is airs and graces. 

'E comes out and looks at us, long and slow. 'E takes 'is monocle out and throws it up in the air. Then 'e catches it in 'is eye as it comes down! 'Try that, you bastards', e sez. We all broke up laughin'. All the diggers wanted to buy 'im a beer. Not a bad bloke - for a pommy.