The Supply Train

Christmas 1917 found our Fifteenth Australian Infantry Brigade out of the “line” for a period of rest and training.

The billeting area covered a wide tract of country in the vicinity of Boulogne, the usual allotment to a village being a Company, or perhaps a Battalion Headquarters unit.

Our own Battalion (the 59th) had its Headquarters at Parenty, with the Companies in separate villages.

The Divisional Commander (General Hobbs) had expressed the wish to Commanding Officers that the men should be given what amount- ed to a holiday for three days over Christmas, and that, as far as possible, they should be able to celebrate Christmas Day as much like one at home in Australia as circumstances would permit; in particular, it was hoped that the majority would be seated at Christ- mas Dinner.

Much was done to keep faith with this arrangement, even to taking doors from barns and stables to provide tables for the Dinner.

The menu was certainly a special effort, comprising Roast Pork and Vegetables, with Plum Pudding and Custard.

The whole of the surrounding country at the time was deep in snow, adding beautiful surroundings to the enjoyment of our Christmas festivities.

But we were soon busy again after the three days’ “holiday”, preparing a programme of training – knowing full well that our break would not be for long.

However, for me personally, there were other plans afoot.

We had just returned from a route march across the snowbound terrain when a message from Battalion Headquarters announced my post- ing to the First Anzac Corps Gas School at Bailleul. I was to leave on the following day.

This involved reporting, in the first instance, to the 60th Battalion Headquarters at Buissont, thence travelling by motor wagon to Boulogne – a very cold trip, through falling snow most of the way, over heavy roads deep in snow.

At Boulogne, where we arrived at 3.00 p.m., I learned that the train for Bailleul did not leave until well after midnight, necessitating a long wait – for the most part at the Officers’ Rest House.

We arrived at Bailleul at 8 o’clock on the following morning, and after a much-needed clean-up – again at the Officers’ Rest House in the town – we reported to the Gas School and were allotted bunks in an old loft.

The duration of the School was six days, during which we made an intensive study of Gas Warfare in its various forms.

It was an extremely interesting course, but the quarters and conditions left much to be desired. It was fortunate, therefore, that we were within easy reach of the Rest House, where we could enjoy a hot bath and a good meal at any time.

The continuous bombardment along the front, especially at night, reminded us that we were not far from the operational zone, and this was further picturesquely illustrated by a crack British Artillery unit passing through the town at the gallop, on the way in. It was a stirring spectacle.

On the morning of the seventh day we packed up after breakfast and moved off.

Our first thought was for rail transport, and, unfortunately, we discovered that a supply train was due to leave for Boulogne at 3 o’clock in the afternoon, several hours earlier than the departure time of the next troop train.

Moreover, we were assured that the supply train “would run straight through.”

Alas! we decided in favour of the 3 p.m. departure, and on our reporting to the R.T.O. (Railway Transport Officer), we were allotted an iron truck – bare and cold – without a blade of straw.

Even at 3 o’clock in the afternoon we could tell that a very heavy frost was imminent.

During the first few miles of travel this fact became increasingly evident, and we were all agreed that something would have to be done.

Our opportunity came when we stopped at a rail siding for some shunting.

We managed to find an old steel drum suitable as a brazier, complete with wire handle.

But then came the question of fuel; solved, however, with the appearance of a picket fence, from which, I frankly admit, we pulled several pickets. It was a case of “when needs must”.

Thus equipped, we returned to the truck and were soon busy preparing for the fire so essential in view of what lay ahead.

Eventually there was a blaze. This was heartening, but it turned to a dense black smoke that quickly filled the truck and started an outburst of coughing and spluttering.

We were moving again, and it was not long before we were crossing a bridge spanning a deep valley.

By this time the smoke became unbearable, whereupon one of the boys seized a picket and, putting it through the wire handle of the brazier, held the fire outside the door, where the smoke would have a chance to clear.

Relief from the smoke was welcome – at what cost we were soon to learn, for when we had reached the centre of the bridge, immediate- ly above the water-course, the train stopped suddenly with a bump. This was too much for our brazier. Off the picket it slid, hurtling down – down into the ravine.

We regarded this as a calamity, realising that we had no escape from the “freezing chamber” for the whole long night.

There were several further stops, one of three hours, but there was no opportunity to replace our lost fire.

The cold that night was something that could not be adequately described. There we were, standing on the bare iron of the floor with nothing but the sides of the truck between us and the freezing snow in which we were enveloped.

True, we had our valises on the floor, but it was quite impossible to use them for sitting for more than a few seconds at a time.

We decided that movement was our only hope, and we combined movement with singing, by trotting around the truck in a circle, at the same time making as much movement with our arms and hands as possible and singing all our wartime songs.

Looking back, it is difficult to realise that the singing and the jog-trotting continued hour after hour, with a break of just a few minutes for each of us in turn to take a rest.

One of the boys, whose surname I have forgotten, but whom we Imew as “Curly”, had a good singing voice and took the lead in the choice of songs. He was a cheery soul.

I clearly remember he was especially keen on “Roses Of Picardy” and “When You Come Home”.

But, as dawn approached, we found it increasingly difficult to continue singing, owing to the freezing of our mouths, so intense was the cold.

Eventually the long night ended and we arrived at Boulogne at 7.30 a.m., having taken 162 hours to cover 60 miles – without food or a drink of any kind.

Following vigorous massage of our faces we were able to speak again, and our first thoughts were for the Officers’ Rest House, which, fortunately for us, was not far from the rail head.

We were soon enjoying plentiful supplies of hot water in a general clean-up, and, after this, we burst into the dining-room.

There we were greeted by a bevy of smartly-dressed waitresses, members of the Women’s Auxiliary Army Corps, who served us a delight- ful breakfast.

It was indeed an anti-climax to our night of misery.

After spending the day in Boulogne we boarded motor lorries for return to our respective units.

EPILOGUE:

It was not long after returning to the Battalion that the sad news reached me of the death of “Curly” – our companion of the Supply Train – announced in a Casualty List as “killed in action”.

To know him for even such a brief period was to admire him as a grand fellow and to hold him in one’s memory with deep affection.

Always the strains of “When You Come Home” will immediately bring back the vision of our non-stop singing roundabout in the iron truck with “Curly” in the lead.

Irrepressibly come back the words –

“Birds in the garden sing no more, Twilight is closing roof and door, Softly the bells at evening call, Shadowed the sun for one and all.”