Gallipoli by Peter Fitzsimons Page B

and the recklessness of their spirits. There were men in good boots and bad boots, in brown and tan boots, in hardly any boots at all; in sack suits and old clothes, and smart-cut suits just from the well-lined drawers of a fashionable home; there were workers and loafers, students and idlers, men of professions and men just workers, who formed that force. But – they were all fighters, stickers, men with some grit (they got more as they went on), and men with a love of adventure.’ 7
    Finally, at 5 pm, they arrive at their ‘camp’, if that is what you can call row after row of tents hastily thrown up in dusty paddocks that stretch two miles wide by a mile and a half deep. ‘Bedding,’ one trooper records, ‘was 2 blankets and a waterproof sheet – later came palliasses [mattresses] and straw.’ 8
    Their first port of call, even before heading to the ‘Mess’, is the quarter-master’s store, where they are issued with khakis, webbing belts, packs, heavy brown boots and their first slouch hats – which they try on, oh so self-consciously. And then straight to the barbers to have their locks shorn.
    Though you’re not yet soldiers, not by a long shot, at least you bastards can start to look like soldiers.
    From as soon as reveille the following morning, the grass in those paddocks starts to grow greener for the blood, sweat and tears those men expend in training … before inevitably being killed off altogether and being ground into either dust or mud by the ceaseless tramp of feet. For now the men, in their newly issued kit, begin with – ‘by the right, quiiiick march … left, left, left, right, left’ – marching practice in their individual companies, and they soon progress to lessons in firing rifles for those few who don’t already know how to do it. And then there are endless bayonet drills: how to sharpen it, attach it to your rifle and, most importantly, kill your enemy with it. The tummy is your best go, men – it’s a big target, unshielded by any bones that will prevent you driving the blade right through your enemy, and a good strike will almost always prove fatal.
    While that is the general thrust, the specifics are a lot more complex, and the man who is the Chief Bayonet Instructor at Broadmeadows, Captain Leopold McLaglen, is so expert on it he would later write a book so his expertise could be preserved. ‘When at close quarters with opponent, his equilibrium may be readily upset, thus placing you in position to deliver “Point”. From the cross rifle position force opponent’s rifle to his left, dropping your bayonet on side of opponent’s neck, your opponent naturally flinches to the right, his rifle being locked by your movement and your own body being guarded. At this moment place left foot at the side of the opponent’s left foot, trip his left foot smartly to the left, at the same time forcing your bayonet downwards on opponent’s neck …’ 9
    One of McLaglen’s best students would prove to be a young fellow from down Geelong way by the name of Albert Jacka. Young and tough, he has been born and raised chopping wood, and though not a huge man, there is nothing of him that is not muscle, gristle and bone. While others soon tire at bayonet practice – all that shouting and stabbing at bags of straw – Jacka never does. He is ‘greased lightning’! 10 Light and lithe, Jacka can put four holes in the bag in the time it takes other men to put in one, and already be onto the next bag and the one after that. As a little boy, he had been, his brother would later say, ‘very, very bashful, though always ready to fight if anyone picked a quarrel’. 11 Though quite reserved, he intends to be ready to fight.
    All of the new recruits now belong to the body of an entirely new order. You see, men, the base unit is a ‘section’, made up of a non-commissioned