It was not more than five or six weeks since most of the soldiers in these disciplined, perfectly ordered ranks had gone out of the city, pallid, weedy, slack, slouching, from sedentary, cramping shop or office or factory life: now they came back into it, from the training grounds, bronzed, hardened, alertly alive. They went out straggling regiments of raw recruits, shouting to passers-by, singing and laughing carelessly as they went: they came back silent, steady men-at-arms, erect, soldierly, and with the look and bearing of men who had dedicated themselves to a great purpose, and meant to fulfil it.
At the word of command, the Light Horse moved forward, and, preceded by their field ambulances and service wagons, company after company of the smartest, keenest infantry that ever stepped in khaki followed them.
At intervals the rain stopped, the clouds blew apart, and the sun shone, and under sun or rain, with swords and bayonets gleaming and regimental bands crashing out lively marching tunes, these warrior sons of Australia advanced into the city whose streets and shops and houses were all a-flutter with flags and handkerchiefs and endlessly a-roar with friendly voices of welcome. It was a day of high and great emotions; a day to be remembered by all who shared in its stirring pageantry until their last of days; and if there were tears in the eyes of hundreds who were cheering in the dense-packed throng that lined the way, they were tears of pride in these sons and brothers and sweethearts who had given themselves so wholly and so gallantly to the service of their country. I spoke of them just now as raw recruits, and most of them were; but 700 of that 5,000 had war ribbons on their breasts, for they had fought in the South African Campaign. One such was Colonel Elliott, who led the 7th Battalion; fifteen years before he had marched through these same streets as a private in the contingent that was then leaving for South Africa.
The waiting mass of spectators ahead in Russell Street could look up the long perspective of Collins Street and see the sinuous khaki line flowing in from the hills beyond, between the dark banks of cheering people, and they took up the cheering and passed it on to thousands gathered farther in the city. As the troops came forward the multitude closed in behind and followed, an ever-swelling, tumultuous, joyous sea of humanity. Two flags marked the saluting base in front of the steps of Parliament House, in Bourke Street, and in readiness on the steps were the Prime Minister, Mr. Fisher, Senator Pearce, the Minister of Defence, and Major-General Bridges, in command of the whole Australian contingent, and they were presently joined by Colonel J. W. McCay, who had led the march through the streets to this spot. Shortly before the soldiers came in sight, the Governor-General and Lady Helen Ferguson drove up; and standing at the foot of the steps under the united flags of Great Britain and Australia the Governor took the salute as the long procession of horse and foot went streaming past.
"The immensely significant and important thing about yesterday's demonstration," continues the reporter, "was that every man who took part in it was a volunteer. No military despotism had driven them to war. From many parts of Victoria, from the public schools, and the State schools, from the cities and the back blocks, from homes of comparative luxury, and from homes of poverty these men had volunteered. In the march past yesterday all social distinctions were blotted out. They were all Australians–Britons by blood and descent, by temperament and tradition–and yet essentially Australians–the biggest contingent for the biggest war ever taken part in by Australia"–or, indeed, by any nation on the face of the earth since the beginning of time.
Once well past the saluting point, the ceremonial march was practically finished, and it came to an actual end at the top of Elizabeth Street. Here, as everywhere, there were countless crowds to give the khakied ranks a rousing reception; some swarmed after the cavalrymen, who rode aside into the Hay Market and there dismounted to feed and water their horses and take an interval of rest and refreshment. The infantry, however, wheeled into Flemington Road and continued its march until it arrived in Royal Park, where a halt was called, and directly the word to "stand at ease" was given, arms were grounded, bayonets sheathed, the ranks broke up, and the men drifted this way and that to find among the thousands of civilians who were overflowing the Park the friends or relatives who were there in search of them.
There was an hour of impromptu picnicking, soldiers and civilians clustering in little groups; for the sky had cleared by now, and the wet grass was a matter of no account on such a day as this; then the bugles sounded the "fall in," and in a few minutes the men had lined up in ranks again, and in a few more minutes, with mounted officers before and beside them and to the music of drums and brasses, the four battalions swept out into Royal Park Road at the quick march and set forth on the return journey to their camp at Broadmeadows.
When the principal part of the town was left behind "march at ease" was the order of the hour, and rifles were slung over shoulders, cigarettes or pipes lighted, and presently the last of the following crowd, that had thinned out and dropped away and was going back home, could scarcely hear the playing of the band above the gay uproar of the hundreds of voices singing "Who'll go a-fighting with the Kaiser and me?" and, when they had had enough of that, joining as heartily in "It's a long way to Tipperary"–the song that none of us can ever hear again unmoved, so many thousands of our own people have gone singing it to death or glory on the stricken fields of Flanders.
In this wise Melbourne welcomed and said good-bye to that 2nd Brigade of hers; and in similar fashion Sydney, Adelaide, Brisbane honoured their soldier sons; then, for certain weeks they continued their preparations and waited impatiently in their camps for the signal from oversea that should summon them into the battle-line; and it was hailed everywhere with exultant enthusiasm when it came at last and they could strike their tents and go.
By this date, the third week in November of 1914, the effective Army of Australia had grown to nearly 40,000 troops of all arms, and there were not far short of 2,000 men in the Navy. In addition there was now a Citizen Army of 56,298, fully armed and equipped; 51,153 members of rifle clubs, and 67,153 reservists, making a grand total of 164,633. But even these figures look small when compared with what they have risen to in the year that has passed since then.