S.M. Bradfield was another splendid fellow who lost his life—the result of frost bite—on Gallipoli. Corporal “One ’wo” was a physical instructor in civil life, and no one could twist one better at “jerks” than he could.
Then there was the one and only Jock Lumsden. Regularly once a week at morning stables he turned the whole troop out to water, while he and “Dinkum” swept the entire garage out—a sure sign that the previous night had been pay night. He always was a hard worker, but a perfect demon for work the morning after the night before. A squadron leader was showing a man how to use a pick, cutting trenches in the sandstone at Sherika. Up strolled Jock—hands deep in his pockets. “Here, Sergeant-major—this man hasn’t the foggiest notion how to use a pick. I’ve just been showing him.” “I’ve been watching ye, sir. I’m thinking it wad need tae be war time for you to earn ten shillings a day in the pits.”
“How many men in this bay for rum, Sergeant Lumsden?” “Four men and myself, sir. That will be nine.” When handed his tot, he looked at the bottom of the mug, and handed it back to the orderly sergeant, “Hoots, Gorrie, dinna mak a fule o’ my stamach.”
An inveterate gambler, but a great sportsman, no one could have been more loyal to his Company than Jock.
When a man on manœuvres crawls up to a ditch within twenty yards of a very wide awake post, leaves his cap just showing above the bank, and then proceeds up the ditch so as to get within five yards of the sentry, and could only be dislodged from there by stones, one spots him at once as a keen, hard-working fellow. Such was Private Gall, who eventually became R.S.M. He taught us to bayonet fight with “dash, vigour, and determination,” and gave us Irish songs and recitations at our smokers.
Another star performer was Craig of the Machine Gun Battery, with his whistling and patter. He eventually got a commission (and the D.S.O.) in the Grenadier Guards.
Then there was Sergeant Renton—who, though badly frost-bitten, refused to leave the front line, and always showed his other foot to the Doctor. He could only hobble with the help of spades as crutches. Young Roger who “saw red” in the Dere and nearly bayonetted the Doctor. Hastie Young, an “old soldier,” the regimental barber: he cut the Brig.’s hair, until the Brig. unfortunately ran into Hastie holiday-making in Jerusalem.
Lowson who snored quite happily within a few yards of the Turkish machine gunner at “Amulree”[15] and finally got lost, and “fetched up among the ‘Duffs,’ I think ye ca’ them” (it is as the “Buffs” that they are generally known)!
S.-M. Elder, an old Black Watch man, who when asked if he were dead stoutly denied it.
Little Batchelor, the runner, never flurried and always so polite, however nasty the Bosche might be, was nearly kidnapped by the Australians as a mascot.