Over There with the Australians | Page 2

XXXIII. The Forcing-House of
Bestiality XXXIV. The Psychology of Fear XXXV. The Splendor of
the Present Opportunity XXXVI. Not a Fight for "Race" but for "Right"
XXXVII. "Keeping Faith with the Dead"
Poem, "But a Short Time to Live"

ILLUSTRATIONS
R. Hugh Knyvett . . . . . . Frontispiece From inland towns . . . men
without the means of paying their transportation . . . started out to walk
the three or four hundred miles . . . to the nearest camp
"On Show" Before Leaving Home
Anzac Cove, Gallipoli
An Australian Camel Corps
"Us--Going In"
My Own Comrades Waiting for Buses
Ammunition Going Through a Somme City

AN INTRODUCTION MAINLY ABOUT SCOUTS
I am a scout; nature, inclination, and fate put me into that branch of
army service. In trying to tell Australia's story I have of necessity
enlarged on the work of the scouts, not because theirs is more
important than other branches of the service, nor they braver than their
comrades of other units. Nor do I want it to be thought that we undergo
greater danger than machine-gunners, grenadiers, light trench-mortar
men, or other specialists. But, frankly, I don't know much about any
other man's job but my own, and less than I ought to about that. To
introduce you to the spirit, action, and ideals of the Australian army I
have to intrude my own personality, and if in the following pages "what
I did" comes out rather strongly, please remember I am but "one of the
boys," and have done not nearly as good work as ten thousand more.
I rejoice though that I was a scout, and would not exchange my
experiences with any, not even with an adventurer from the pages of B.
O. P. [1] Romance bathes the very name, the finger-tips tingle as they
write it, and there was not infrequently enough interesting work to
make one even forget to be afraid. Very happy were those days when I
lived just across the road from Fritz, for we held dominion over No
Man's Land, and I was given complete freedom in planning and
executing my tiny stunts. The general said: "It is not much use training
specialists if you interfere with them," so as long as we did our job we
were given a free hand.
The deepest lines are graven on my memory from those days, not by
the thrilling experiences--"th' hairbreadth 'scapes"--but by the
fellowship of the men I knew. An American general said to me recently
that scouts were born, not made. It may be so, but it is surprising what
opposite types of men became our best scouts. There were two without
equal: one, city-bred, a college graduate; the other a "bushie," writing
his name with difficulty.
Ray Wilson was a nervous, highly strung sort of fellow, almost a girl in
his sensitiveness. In fact, at the first there were several who called him

Rachel, but they soon dropped it, for he was a lovable chap, and
disarmed his enemies with his good nature. He had taken his arts
course, but was studying music when he enlisted, and he must have
been the true artist, for though the boys were prejudiced against the
mandolin as being a sissy instrument, when he played they would sit
around in silence for hours. What makes real friendship between men?
You may know and like and respect a fellow for years, and that is as far
as it goes, when, suddenly, one day something happens--a curtain is
pulled aside and you go "ben" [2] with him for a second--afterward you
are "friends," before you were merely friendly acquaintances.
Ray and I became friends in this wise. We were out together scouting
preparatory to a raid, and were seeking a supposed new "listening post"
of the enemy. There had been a very heavy bombardment of the
German trenches all day, and it was only held up for three-quarters of
an hour to let us do our job. The new-stale earth turned up by the shells
extended fifty yards in No Man's Land. (Only earth that has been blown
on by the wind is fresh "over there." Don't, if you have a weak stomach,
ever turn up any earth; though there may not be rotting flesh, other
gases are imprisoned in the soil.) This night the wind was strong, and
the smell of warm blood mingled with the phosphorous odor of high
explosive, and there was that other sweet-sticky-sickly smell that is the
strongest scent of a recent battle-field. It was a vile, unwholesome job,
and we were glad that our time was limited to three-quarters of an hour,
when our artillery would re-open fire. I got a fearful start on looking at
my companion's face in the light of a