The Diggers 10

The Diggers 10

Wherever the Diggers go they seem to win the universal affection of

women and children. An officer told me how these big men, rough in

many ways, fiery in language and frank to the point of brutality at

times, when they came to the ruined homes near Villers-Bretonneux,

set themselves during lulls in the fighting to the kindly job of

repairing the houses, salving the property, setting the religious

pictures at correct angles on the walls and mending the broken

shrines. They placed cradles and children's toys in the safety of

the cellars so that these might be ready to hand when the little

ones returned to their homes again. Having done this they took up

the fighting again, so that the country might be made ready for the

home-coming of the refugees.

 

Among the soldiers in the café were many of those who had fought at

Villers-Bretonneux and made history in defence of Amiens. But at

present a distance removed from the scene of war they were absorbed

in amusements and games that caused them to forget all about the

life of the firing line.

 

At one corner of the room half a dozen men were playing "Two up,"

winning and losing much money, others were talking of past operations

on the field, tracing with beer-wetted fingers the lines held by

themselves and the enemy. A tall dark man sat by the stove, his

half-empty glass on the floor at his feet and a big bowled pipe in

his mouth.

 

"What's your battalion?" he suddenly inquired, fixing his eye on

a man near him, one whom he had never met before. This Digger, a

youngster with a slight fringe of down on his upper lip, was leaning

both elbows on the table and gazing contemplatively at the empty

glass which stood in front of him.

 

"I'm fifth----" was the answer.

 

"Know old Harry C----?" inquired the tall man.

 

"Should think I do," said the other. "Knew him in Brighton. Played

football against his team. Fine fellow, old Harry."

 

"Killed?"

 

"Ay. On the Peninsula. Met him there one day," said the youngster.

"God's truth! You could have knocked me down dead. 'Harry!' I said.

'Where have I struck you?' he asked me. 'I've kicked some goals

against your team,' said I. 'And to meet you here. But wait till we

go back again and have another game of football. I'll kick your head

off.' 'Not much chance of a boose here,' said Harry, 'might as well

be cinder humping in hell.' That was all at the time. He was going up

to the front line, but he promised to call round and see me when he

came out that night. We were supports. And I waited for old Harry.

'Twas dark when his platoon came out. I went to meet him. 'Where's

Harry C----?' I called to the fellows. 'The footballer?' some one

asked me. 'Yes, old Harry C----' I told the man. 'He's killed,' said

the man, 'blown to pieces.'"

 

"It's hard when you look back on it," said the tall dark soldier by

the stove. "So many...."

 

At this moment a man rose from a table near the door and commenced to

recite a poem. All stopped their various pursuits to listen, for the

Australians love poetry, especially when it recalls memories of the

land they have left. The game of "Two up" was discontinued and the

French soldiers stopped their draughts and dominoes to listen.

 

The man who stood on the floor spoke his lines in a manner exalted

and serious, his hat thrust back on his head and the movement of arms

and hands accompanying the recital adding to its force and passion.

In the utterance it was impossible to discover anything beyond the

deep feeling which he had called up to interpret the spirit of the

poem. The verses written long ago had in them a gift of prophecy.

They told of a war to be, the war in which the Australian soldier was

now taking part.

 

 

"All creeds and trades will have soldiers there--

give every class its due,

And there'll be many a clerk to spare for the pride of the jackeroo,

They'll fight for honour and fight for love and a few will

fight for gold,

For the devil below and for God above as our fathers fought of old,

And some half blind with exultant tears and some stiff-lipped,

stern-eyed

For the pride of a thousand after years and the old eternal pride--

The soul of the world they will feel and see in the chase and the

grim retreat,

They'll know the glory of victory--and the grandeur of defeat."

 

 

This was but a beginning. Other men rose and declaimed verses that

told of life in the homeland. One poem after another was recited.

"The Old Whim Horse," "Out Back," "Sheedy Was Dying," poems dealing

with the swagman, shearer and sundowner and telling of the Paroo

parched with long drouths or blooming with the wattle blossoms. For

the moment all the company were back there, and the patronne, with

bottles red and blue gleaming on the shelves over her head, viewed

the big boys with eyes that from time to time were moist with tears.

 

For did she not know them, those who were now for a moment under

the roof of her café, who would leave to-morrow night, go up to the

trenches, and come back again in a week or a fortnight. But not all.

In that was the tragedy: some would come back again. But not all.

Some would remain up there resting for ever near the lip of the

trench. She knew of the grim tragedy of the trenches and felt for

the boys. Her own husband dead and buried at Verdun! But it was war.

 

And at that moment the tall, dark man by the stove rose, squared his

shoulders, gave a preliminary cough and started a poem.

 

 

"East and backward pale faces turning--

That's how the dead men lie,

Gaunt arms stretched with a voiceless yearning--

That's how the dead men lie.

Oft in the fragrant hush of nooning,

Hearing again their mother's crooning,

Wrapt for aye in a dreadful swooning,

That's how the dead men lie...."

 

 

It was now on the verge of closing time and military policemen were

already standing at the door, listening to the poems and loth to put

a stop to the performance in the café. A young giant, in the making

of whom the gods forgot none of their ancient craft, was standing in

the centre of the room telling the story of "Clancy of the Overflow."

 

 

"In my wild erratic fancy visions came to me of Clancy

Gone a-droning down the Cooper where the Western drovers go.

As the stock are slowly stringing Clancy rides behind them singing,

For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never

know...."

 

 

The poem told of an incident of years far back and the young reciter,

if he had once wrought as a clerk, was living a life now such as

Clancy of the Overflow had never known and never would know unless,

as perhaps was the case, he had given up shearing and taken to the

life of soldiering.

 

But away here in a café of the back area, where the patronne sold

weak red wine and weaker beer, the Diggers' thoughts were of home, of

the land they left and for which they were fighting.

 

These men who dwell in France are creating for Australia a national

sentiment, and gaining for themselves a wide outlook in their

travels and accomplishments afield. At present the war waged ten

thousand miles away from the Southern Continent is welding together

the people's outlook, aspiration and sympathy. Men from all parts

of the continent, from out back and from the sea-coast are grouped

together in one great brotherhood, fighting for a common cause,

and the ground over which they fight is the one central point on

which all eyes of Australia are directed. Back home many voices are

raised in declamation or praise of this or that political move or

industrial policy, but on one point there is complete and unanimous

acquiescence, and that one point is the prosecution of the war

towards a successful conclusion. It must be waged till the end, until

Germany is beaten and the wrong done to the world, to France and

Belgium, righted.

 

And so the Australians make great battle in the mud of France and

Flanders, fighting with heroic persistence, carving the way to

victory. As we remember what the Diggers have done at Gallipoli,

Polygon, Pozieres and Peronne, we may quote the famous couplet from

the prologue to "The Revenge," played by a company of convicts in

Sydney, 1796, and thereto add two lines of our own making:

 

 

True patriots all, for be it understood

We left our country for our country's good.

Their children we and back again, we feel

That we've returned for that country's weal.

 

 

L' ENVOI

 

(_Written on the day the British Fleet entered the Dardanelles_)

 

From Suvla Cove to Sed-el-Bahr

In gullies, clefts and dells,

Beneath the shade of Sari Bair

They watch the Dardanelles.

 

To other lands their mates have fled

Fresh fields of war to find,

They sleep, but sleep uneasily

The men who stay behind.

 

What drums upon the narrow seas

That run by Sed-el-Bahr

Come, Digger, up! Come, Tommy, up!

A British man-of-war!

 

A sailor singing on the deck

The tale of conquest tells....

Lie down again! Sleep easily!

Beside the Dardanelles.