The Kangaroo Marines Part 1

The Kangaroo Marines.

by R. W. Campbell.

PREFACE

I am not an Australasian, I am a Scot. Therefore, I hold no special brief for the folks down under. But I am an Imperialist--one filled with admiration for our overseas Dominions and the self-sacrifice of our colonial cousins. They have played the game. They have astonished the world. They have even exceeded our own expectations. Let us not stint our praise. Let us write deep in the annals of our literature and military history this supreme devotion, this n.o.ble heroism. And in the greater Councils of Empire let us see to it that these sons of the Motherland have a say in settling affairs.

And I can claim at least the right to write about our gallant Australasians. I have lived in Australia and New Zealand. I have served on a Sydney paper and with the New Zealand _Herald_. I have met every Premier (Federal and otherwise), from "Andrew" Fisher to "Bill"

Ma.s.sey. And, during my stay, I made it my duty to study the Citizen Army--a National Service organisation.

This was before the war. And this army was founded by "K" and the Governments of Australia and New Zealand. Did they see ahead? One is almost tempted to think so. In any case, the possession of a General Staff and the framework of a National Army ensured the rapid mobilisation of a voluntary force to a.s.sist the Motherland. This force was armed, clothed, equipped and staffed from the existing military organisations in Australia and New Zealand. You have heard of their courage at Anzac; you have read of how many have died.

Anzac is the cope-stone of Imperialism. It is the grim expression of a faith that is everlasting, of a love that shall endure the shocks of years, and all the cunning devilry of such as the Barbarous Huns.

Hence this little book. It is an inspiration of the Dardanelles, where I met many of our Australasian friends. It is not an official history.

I have, in my own way, endeavoured to picture what like these warring Bohemians are. The cloak of fiction has here and there been wound round temperamental things as well as around some glorious facts.

I hope I shall please all and offend none.

R. W. CAMPBELL, _Capt.

_October_, 1915.

THE KANGAROO MARINES

CHAPTER I

A NOTABLE QUARTETTE

WANTED.--One Thousand cheerful toughs to enlist for the period of the war in the Kangaroo Marines. Boosers, scrimshankers and loonies barred. Gents with big waists and little hearts are warned off.

Sharpshooters on the wallaby, able to live on condensed air and boiled snakes, are cordially invited. No parson's references are required.

Jackaroos, cattlemen, rouseabouts, shearers--every sort of handy-man welcome. Pay, 6s. per day, and all the "jewels" in the Sultan's harem.

This is to be the crack corps of the Australian Force.

Hurry up and join.

(_Signed_) SAM KILLEM, _Lt. Col. Commanding_.

This alluring advertis.e.m.e.nt appeared on the front page of _The Bushmen's Weekly_, a Sydney production, renowned for its wit and originality. It was designed to tickle the sides of the h.o.r.n.y-handed men of the Bush, and to rope in the best of them. For these men of the Never-Never Land are soldiers born and heroes in the toughest job.

They think deep and know the way of things. If they appear wild and uncouth, they carry beneath that scrubby exterior the will of men and the open heart of the child.

Moreover, they love the Motherland. This was specially true of the four who tenanted a little shanty on the sheep station of "Old Graham,"

one of the wealthiest men in Australia. The quartette consisted of Bill Buster, a typical Cornstalk with a nut-brown face, twinkling eyes and a spice of the devil and the Lord in his soul. Next came Claud Dufair, a handsome remittance man with an eye-gla.s.s and a drawl. This fellow had personality. He insisted on wearing a white collar and using kid gloves when doing anything, from dung lifting to sheep shearing. Paddy Doolan was the third member. He was an Irishman by birth, but Australian by adoption. He had been in the Bush since he was a kid. A kind soul was Paddy, with the usual weakness--the craving for the "cratur." Fourth, and by no means least, was Sandy Brown, a Glasgow stoker, who had skipped away in a tramp from the Broomielaw because of another fellow's wife.

A mixed bunch, these four, you will agree. All with a history, part of it bad, but the main part certainly good. It takes a good heart to be a Bushman. Work is hard, the heat is trying, pleasures few, and the chances of wealth are only meagre. But the Australian Bush has a lure of its own. It calls the bravest and the best. It calls and holds the men primed for adventure, unafraid of death, and full of that innate charm and gallantry which is always the particular prerogative of the wanderer. No questions are asked in this land. A man's soul is never probed, nor is he expected to reveal his birth, or the cause of his being there. It is the place to hide a broken heart or mend an erring past. But it is only a place for men. And this quartette was full of the war. They were itching to fight. This advertis.e.m.e.nt, therefore, cheered their hearts and clinched their hopes.

"Well, boys," said Bill, "this is our call. We'd better join."

"Hear, hear!" remarked the others. That was all. They immediately packed their swag for the road. That afternoon they received their pay from the squatter. While Buster, Brown, and Doolan said good-bye to the master and mistress on the veranda, Claud was kissing Sybil, the charming daughter of the house, a tender farewell. For Sybil Graham loved the "English Johnny," as her friends called Claud. Her love was returned--not in the way he had treated some women in England, but with that reverence which is born out of true affection. This Englishman, despite his faults, had a veneration for the straightforward type which can be found in the Australian squatter's home.

"Come on, Claud--here's the coach," yelled Bill from the veranda. They embraced once more, then stepped out of doors.

"Good-bye, boys--G.o.d bless you!" said old Graham with a husky throat.

"Good-bye--Good-bye!" said his wife, with tears in her eyes, while Sybil had only strength to wave her arm to the fast disappearing figure of Claud as he drove with his friends to the railway station twenty miles beyond.

"You're queer lookin', Claud," said Sandy, as they went down the road.

"Shut up!" interjected Bill, who, like all Bushmen, had a true respect for the sentiment inspired by the dangers of war. However, the sadness of parting was soon forgotten. They were, also, cheered to see, coming over the plains, little groups of cookies, shearers and others, bent on their own errand.

"Sakes alive! where's all you mad fellows goin'?" inquired the wizened old stationmaster.

"Berlin," said Bill.

"Ach sure, stationmaster, we're goin' to kiss the little darlints in the Sultan's harem."

"Well, hurry up, boys; the train's ready."

With a wild whoop fifty of them dashed for tickets, some "tucker," and a bottle or two of Scotch. Into the train they jumped, and in a jiffy were rolling over the line to Sydney. Song and story helped to cheer the long and somewhat tiring journey. During a sort of lull in the proceedings Claud looked up and said: "Here, Bill, can't you recite us some of that impromptu sort of doggerel that you get into the Sydney weeklies now and then."

"Well--yes," said Bill, rising and clearing his throat.

"Order, order! ye sheep-eatin' blackguards," shouted Paddy, hitting a table with his riding-whip. The gathering ceased their chatter, and Bill rhymed out:

"We're the Kangaroo Marines, We're not Lager-fed machines, But Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains.

We can ride, and we can cook, Ay, in shooting know our book, We're out to wipe off Kaiser Billy's stains.

"We're not trim--and not polite, And, perchance, get on the skite-- We're Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains.

Yet though we can't salute, We can bayonet and can boot The wily, wily Turk from our domains.

"So when we ride away, Off hats and shout 'Hooray'

For Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains.

And, parsons, say your prayers That we may pa.s.s "Upstairs"

Should a nasty little bullet hit our veins.

"Now, boys, stand up and sing G.o.d save our good old King, And Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains."

"Good, Bill, good!" shouted Claud, gripping the rough rhymster by the hand.

"Hear, hear!" shouted the crowd.

"Rot! D---- rotten jingo slush! What the hades has the King done for you and me?" roared a red-faced pa.s.senger at the other end of the car.

This was none other than Bill Neverwork, secretary of the Weary w.i.l.l.i.e.s' Union and Socialist M.P. for the town of Wearyville.