1.—WALLABY JOE
His real name matters little; suffice it that he was known among his comrades as “Wallaby Joe.”
He came to Gallipoli via Egypt with the Light Horse. Incidentally, he had ridden nearly a thousand miles over sun-scorched, drought-stricken plains to join them.
Age about 38. In appearance the typical bushman. Tall and lean, but strong as a piece of hickory. A horseman from head to toe, and a dead shot. He possessed the usual bushy beard of the lonely prospector of the extreme backblocks. Out of deference to a delicate hint from his squadron commander he shaved it off, but resolved to let it grow again when the exigencies of active service should discount such finicking niceties.
His conversation was laconic in the extreme. When the occasion demanded it he could swear profusely, and in a most picturesque vein. When a bursting shell from a “75” on one occasion blew away a chunk of prime Berkshire which he was cooking for breakfast, his remarks were intensely original and illuminative.
He could also drink beer for indefinite periods, but seldom committed the vulgar error of becoming “tanked.” Not even that locality “east of Suez,” where, as the song tells us, “There ain’t no Ten Commandments and a man can raise a thirst,” could make his steps erratic.
He was very shy in the presence of the softer sex. On one occasion his unwary footsteps caused him some embarrassment. Feeling thirsty he turned into one of those establishments, fairly common in Cairo, where the southern proprietors try to hide the villainous quality of their beer by bribing sundry young ladies of various nationalities and colours to give more high-class vaudeville turns. The aforementioned young ladies are aided and abetted by a coloured orchestra, one member of which manipulates the bagpipes.
A portly damsel had just concluded, amidst uproarious applause, the haunting strains of “Ta-ra-ra boom-de-ay.” She sidled up to Joe with a large-sized grin on her olive features.
“Gib it kiss,” she murmured, trying to look ravishing.
But Joe had fled.
Henceforth during his stay in Egypt he took his beer in a little Russian bar, the proprietor of which could speak English, and had been through the Russo-Japanese War.
When the Light Horse were ordered at last to the front, Joe took a sad farewell of his old bay mare. He was, as a rule, about as sentimental as a steamroller, but “leaving the old nag behind hurt some.”
On the Peninsula and under fire his sterling qualities were not long in coming to the surface. Living all his life in an environment in which the pick and shovel plays an important part he proved himself an adept at sapping and mining. At this game he was worth four ordinary men. No matter how circuitous the maze of trenches, he could find his way with ease. He could turn out all sorts of dishes from his daily rations of flour, bacon, jam, and of course the inevitable “bully” and biscuits. An endless amount of initiative showed itself in everything he did. His mates learned quite a lot of things just by watching him potter about the trenches and bivouacs. His training at the military camps of Australia and, later, in Egypt, combined with the knowledge he had been imbibing from Nature all his life, made him an ideal soldier.
He was used extensively by his officers as a scout. As the Turkish trenches were often not more than twenty yards from our own, needless to say the scouting was done at night, the Turks’ favourite time to attack being just before dawn. Often during these nocturnal excursions a slight rustle in the thick scrub would cause his mate to grasp his rifle with fixed bayonet and peer into the darkness, with strained eyes and ears and quickened pulse.
“A hare,” Joe would whisper, and probably advise him to take things easy while he himself watched.
This went on for some time until one night his mate came in alone, pale-faced and wild-eyed. Interrogated by the officer on duty, he informed him that Joe had been shot.
We brought the body in. He had been shot through the heart—a typical affair of outposts.
Tucked away in one of the innumerable gullies, a little grave, one among hundreds, contains the body of one of Nature’s grand men. On the wooden cross surmounting it is the following:
| No. 008 Trooper J. Redgum, | ||
| 20th Australian Light Horse. | ||
| Killed in Action. | ||
W. R. C.,
8th A.L.H.