And this I know: a finer lot of fellows to be with, either in light-hearted frolic or the grim struggle in which they were destined to take part, I never ran across in my natural.
CHAPTER II
OFF
We sailed from Southampton on December 12, 1914, the name of our transport being the Dunera, an old British India Company steamer, I believe. The Canadians were no end sorry that they weren't going with us, and our fellows would have liked nothing better, for both contingents had grown to like and respect each other. However, it wasn't to be, and being debarred from accompanying us the men of the Western Dominion did the next best thing and gave us a rousing send-off. They turned out about two battalions as a guard of honour, and, headed by a couple of bands, we marched the two miles to Bulford Siding between a double line of cheering and hat-waving "Kanucks." They may have been a bit lively, those Canadians, but their hearts were where they belonged, and they were all white.
She was a rare old hooker, was the ss. Dunera. Besides our little lot of 250 she carried over 1400 "Terriers," many of whom looked as if they hadn't forgotten the taste of their mothers' milk. They were a poor lot as regards height and build, and our fellows could have given them a couple of inches and a deal of weight all round. However, they may have done all right in the scrapping, like many another Territorial regiment: one often gets left when one starts in to judge by appearances, and a weed many a time carries a bigger heart than a score of six-footers.
We slept in hammocks, and were packed in like sheep in a pen. The tucker wasn't much to write home about; still there was enough of it, and sea air is one of the best sauces I know of—when there isn't too much of it! Our deck space was a bit limited, of course, and after dark it almost vanished, so that a chap was never quite sure whether he was walking on it or on Territorial. Then there were other things which made the going even more treacherous—and we carried broken weather right down through the Bay!
Our lot were quartered in the 'tween decks. At the best of times the atmosphere there couldn't have been much catch, so the reader can imagine what it was like when every inch was taken up by living, breathing (and sweating) humans. I don't like rubbing it in where men who have rolled up to do their bit are concerned, but the habits of those Terrier shipmates of ours were enough to set you thinking. They brought homeliness to a fine art. Spittoons (had we possessed such) would have been scorned by them as savouring of artificiality. Socks were made to wear, not to be hung up at night and looked at. Feet were intended to be walked on—and soap cost money. As for toothbrushes, well, they were all right for polishing buttons. The spectacle of a big, husky bushman cleaning his teeth night and morning was a thing they couldn't understand at any price, much less appreciate. "If I did that," observed one in my hearing, "I'd have toothache bad"; which seemed to be the general opinion.
They were great trenchermen, those shipmates of ours. Lord, how they did eat! I am beginning to think that we rough-and-ready Colonials from the back of beyond have girlish appetites as compared with some of the Old Country boys. And we like our tucker clean: we can chew hard tack with the next one, but we take all sorts of fine care that the cook washes both himself and his utensils. But those Terriers of ours didn't seem to care a cent whether the stuff was clean or filthy. Trifles like that didn't worry them. And the way they used their knives! Still, they were wonderfully expert: I didn't see a single cut mouth all the time I was on board the Dunera. Funning apart, however, they just ate like pigs and lived ditto. I don't like to have to record this, but necessity compels me. Tommy Atkins can fight; we admit it, and we take off our hats to him, but compared with the Australasian bushman—the man who fears neither God, man, nor devil—he is in many respects an uncivilised animal. True, we may have run across him at his worst. I hope so, anyway.
After leaving the Bay the weather took a change for the better; the sea calmed down and the atmosphere grew much more balmy. We were a little fleet of some five or six transports, escorted by a couple of small cruisers. Our ships were by no means ocean greyhounds, so we made slow, if steady, progress.
We killed time in the usual way—concerts, boxing, etc. on weekdays, and Church Parade on Sundays. Life on a trooper is about the last thing God made. I've had my share of it, and I don't want any more. I'm not greedy.