Never Forget

Flame'n Pies- George Campbell 2/13th Battalion

GEORGE CAMPBELL 2/13th Battalion

The afternoon is hectic with men running frantically after the train. Thirty-two... thirty-three...thirty-four, I count as yet another man flies unceremoniously through the carriage door and out the adjacent side. Watching this sight, of would be clowns, is providing me with a high level of amusement as I await my wave to be called. It is October 11 and the 2/13th Battalion are soon to be shipped overseas. Our destination is unknown but with Italian army now in Northern Africa I am pretty sure that is where we are headed.

In response to the public and railway employees being injured during the past entraining of troops, the army has imposed this last practice on the battalion. Although the day is unseasonably cool, my skin is moist under the heavy, winter fabric that weighs my body down, hampering my movements. The first couple of sprints towards the carriage lugging my pack over my shoulder weren't too bad but now my tired body strains and groans in protest. I stretch out to grab the rail beside the open entrance and sling my pack onto the floor of the moving carriage. There is a horde of men all vying for a similar position. In the jostling, I lose my grip on the canvas handle and look on in frustration as it disappears like a snake down a hole out the opposing door. Taking an unruly dive forward I climb over the successfully, boarded bodies and cursing their success torpedo myself after my pack. I know that every minute on the moving train, is another yard that I will have to back track. There is a painful jolt as my body lands on the ground; I wipe my blooded hands on my trousers and hunt for my pack.

When the sun dips in the sky and with exhaustion almost too overwhelming to tolerate, bumped, cut and bruised, we walk towards the camp. It has been a hell of a day leaving me wanting peace and quiet. Listening to grown men whine like children and cuss the Army for its training stunts forces me to bite my tongue. For Christ's sake they are about to go to another country and fight, in comparison the trials of today will be nothing more than an outing to the Sunday races.

*********

The human wave surges and the line breaks. Soldiers clamber on top of each other as they fight for the best positions. So much for a day of entraining exercises I think, rubbing the blue twinge that is rapidly developing into a good-sized bruise. I sit on the slatted wooded bench and find myself the fifth player in a game of poker. The tunes of mouth organs start to float their way through the carriage, each tune portraying the personal profile of its maestro. My foot taps along to the up-beat polka music being played by Irish. I doubt that there is anyone on the train that knows the man's real name, to them he has and probably always will be known as Irish. After all, what else could you call a bloke with a broad Irish accent and ginger hair?

At the far end of the carriage sits Ol' Digger. Having survived the murderous slopes of Gallipoli this is his second innings. From what I can piece together, Ol' Digger hasn't signed up out of a sense of duty and any romantic thoughts of war were lost on 25 April 1915. A would be hero, Ol' Digger had returned to Australia from the battlefield to find out – in his words that 'the Misses pissed off with some other fella' and for a period of time he had hit the bottle hard. His reason for being on the train is simply that he has no reason to be anywhere else. Ol' Digger has his eyes closed as the comb sides across his lips to the slowest most haunting rendition of 'Waltzing Matilda' that I have ever heard.

My nostrils catch a glimpse of the sweet smell of alcohol and I strain my neck to see where it is coming from. The unmarked bottle, entertains the lips of at least ten soldiers before it reaches me. I take a large swig, swishing it around my mouth. The liquid burns at the inside before slowing heating my throat as it makes its way to settle in my stomach. It bears the potent flavour of an unknown concoction of moonshine. As I pass the bottle on, I look at my cards again, hold or fold, I debate. The gambling gods have deserted me and looking at the cards fanned in my hand, I don't think anything will change soon. Having wagered most of the coin in my pocket I wonder if it is worth betting my lunch. After all there is a slim chance that the others are bluffing. As if on cue, my stomach rumbles loudly reminding me what is at stake. Eying the sharks in group I decide to listen to my belly and not risking my meat pie and coffee. Like many of the men, before boarding I paid nine pence towards this feast and it is one luxury that I am not willing to wager. I place my cards face down on the box and fold.

Through the scratched glass window the sign flashing 'Mount Victoria' flies past. My stomach hadn't been lying when it rumbled the closeness of a late lunch hour. The carriage rises as the men put away their cards and start to organise their packs. I know that the scheduled pie stop will be brief and with saliva already filling my mouth in anticipation, poise myself alongside the others ready to pounce. A whistle signals the trains approach to the station but there is a notable absence of metal on metal and the squealing of brakes.

"What about my flame'n pie?" shouts a voice from the rear of the train.

I watch in disbelief as the fence posts that run parallel to the tracks continue to slide past the window at an accelerating pace.

"Hey, what about our pie and dead 'orse?" cries another voice.

"Is this a flame'n joke?"

"Where's our bloody nine pence, you robbers? ..." chime in the rest of the men.

The train doesn't stop at Mount Victoria and the exclamations and disgruntle behaviour of infuriated men along continues as Katoomba and Penrith pass by as well. I watch hungrily as each station strobes in and out of sight and the growl in my stomach is a persistent reminder that I have skipped a meal. Finally, it becomes obvious that there will be no pie or coffee and I settle back into the wooden seat scolding myself for not playing that hand.

NOTES

George Campbell was posted to the 8th Battalion but was later transferred to the 2/13 Battalion (also known as the Devil's Own) He joined the 2/13 Battalion at Bathurst. He did not take part in the march from Ingleburn, Liverpool to Bathurst. https://www.awm.gov.au/collection/U56056

The stories about the entraining, and payment for undelivered pie and coffee were inspired by recounts from the following source

The Devil's Own Despatch - 2/13th Association 1961

We had some bother: Tales from the Infantry, Gillan, Hugh.; 2/13th Battalion Association, 1985

The cries "What about our bloody pies?" and "Where's our bloody nine pence, you robbers!" became catch cries while the men were overseas and always got a good laugh.