On the Anzac trail: Being extracts from the diary of a New Zealand sapper

by Anzac

The climate of Egypt was rather a surprise to us. True, it was winter when we arrived, but we had an idea that such a season existed in name only in the Land of the Pharaohs. The first night, however, made us sit up and think things, it was bitterly cold. Even packed nine in a tent with two blankets and a greatcoat over us we could hardly get to sleep; the tent felt like a refrigerator. Indeed, until we hit on the plan of donning our greatcoats, and pulling on a pair of woollen socks, we were anything but comfortably warm. The days were hot enough, it is true, even in mid-winter, but it was not till towards the end of February that the nights lost their bite. Before we left for Gallipoli, however, we found a single blanket quite all right; as for the days, they were something to remember in your prayers, the sun seemed to get right down clear to your backbone, and stew the stiffening out of your spine.

I saw rain only twice during the three months and a half we put in in Egypt; it wasn't more than an anæmic Scotch mist on both occasions. I reckon the average annual rainfall for those parts would figure out at about point ten noughts and a one. We were told, however, that once in every three years or so, the rain came down good-oh, and washed half the houses away, at the same time cleaning things up generally. But the natives take such things as a matter of course; being highly religious, they observe that Allah wills it so, and set about rebuilding their happy homes. I expect it's really a blessing in disguise, and the overflow from these villages of theirs should certainly fertilise the soil that receives it.

We were told by the local residenters that February was the month noted for sandstorms. Well, we ran across two—or, rather, they ran across us. We didn't like them a little bit. There was only one thing to do—get under cover straight away and stay there till the beggars blew themselves out. You would see them coming, for all the world like a big yellow smoke-cloud stretched right across the desert. Then it was a case of hop into your tent, fasten up the flap, and pray that some one else had driven the pegs home. If even a single one should draw—ugh! it gives me the shivers even now! Once I saw a pole go clean through the top of a tent, the canvas, of course, sliding down like a parachute and "bonneting" the inmates: I reckon it says something for the power of their language when we heard it rising high above the storm.

I have mentioned that we came out from England as an infantry company. Well, naturally we hoped to be attached to some battalion of the N.Z.R.'s (which stands for New Zealand Rifles). Failing that we reckoned on being split up and spread over the various infantry battalions. So it came rather as a bit of a facer, when we were paraded, told that a Field Company of Engineers and an Army Service Corps Company was required straight away, and given our choice as to which crowd we should care to take on. At first we were inclined to think it was a bit of a bluff; but no, there was no get out about it. Boiled down, it meant service with the Engineers, the A.S.C.—or our discharge and passage back to New Zealand. We didn't like this stunt at all, and at first some of the boys felt like shaking things up some; but, of course, no one held for going home, so they made the best of a bad deal and took their choice. I plumped for the Engineers; I had no hankering after the A.S.C.—or "'Aunty' Sprocket's Cavalry," as it was promptly dubbed, from the name of one of our officers who took on with it. ("Sprocket," I may say here, is not what he calls himself.)

We had already been through the mill as infantrymen: we had now to start in to train as engineers. It meant hustling some, for the time at our disposal, we were told, didn't amount to much. Well, we had made our choice, and although we felt a bit sore over being rushed, we knew it was up to us to see the thing through to rights. So we got into the collar straight away, consigned the war, the Army, and the New Zealand Government to an even warmer location than Egypt—and put in overtime imbibing engineering knowledge.

We had our work cut out, for we had to learn in the space of a few weeks a course that, in the ordinary run, would have been spread over more than the same number of months. But most of our fellows had done work of a similar kind, so it was fairly well into their hands. I reckon we had just about every trade and occupation that ever was in our crowd, from civil engineers, miners, surveyors, marine and electrical engineers, master mariners and mates, right down to shearers, boundary riders, roustabouts and bushmen generally. Even a few "cockies" were not missing. ("Cockie," by the way, is short for "cockatoo," meaning, in the language of Australasia, a small farmer.) Hence we made progress like a house on fire, and the officers congratulated themselves on the kind of chaps the Lord had sent them. Indeed, some of the sappers could have turned the commissioned officers down had they chosen when it came to getting about a ticklish job—and I guess the officers knew it. So we simply took the course on the run, as it were, building bridges and blowing up same, digging trenches, fixing up and fortifying positions, and so on.

I think, taking all in all, the lectures were the most popular items on the list. Sometimes we had one every day, generally after dinner—which is about the sleepiest time of the day in a hot country. Snorers weren't liked; they disturbed both lecturer and audience. Apart from the value of the lecture itself one was always sure of a quiet, after-dinner smoke. Yes, I fancy those pow-wows ranked first in popularity.

Then there was bomb making and throwing. There is a lot of excitement to be got out of that racket—especially when you go in for experimental work. Some of our home-made bombs were fearsome contraptions. Most of us had quite a number of narrow shaves, and even the niggers, keen as they were to sell their oranges, wouldn't come within coo-ee of our mob when engaged in bomb-throwing operations. They knew a thing or two, did those niggers.

I almost forgot to mention field geometry. I fancy it about divided favour with bomb-work as an occupation. For one thing, it was more restful and distinctly quieter; for another, it was a jolly sight safer. You could sit down on the sand, when it wasn't too hot, and get right into field geometry without having to keep your ears open for a constantly recurring yell of: "Look out, boys! Here she goes!" or—"Duck, damn you! I've got a whole slab in her!"

Once or twice during our training we had a written examination covering the work, both practical and theoretical, we had done; and the examining officer smiled on us like a tabby with new kittens when he came to read our papers. Joking apart, he was more than pleased, and he didn't forget to tell us so. This sort of thing may strike the reader as a bit far-fetched—sort of blowing one's own trumpet; but if the said reader will pause to consider the class of men that composed our company he will be bound in common fairness to admit that I am not straining things too much. Colonial training, I reckon, isn't the worst preparation for most branches of the service; it turns out men anyway. And you don't run across illiterates in the colonies—even way back in the Never-Never.