Although this is private, these memories are dying off so I thought some of you may be interested.
These are some notes taken from a buddie's Grandad's computer (yes, he had a computer for a few years before he passed away). A lot of this was lost and/or never saved but some was recovered, so apologies if it doesn't really go anywhere in the end. It is told in that classic, slightly rambling way, that these stories are best told.
When I asked the grandson if he minded if I on-posted these he was gad to see it spread.
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MY history Pt.2 John.P.D
Somewhere I recall writing up until the time I went into the Army. Arrived at Essendon Drill Hall August 1940, Denis and myself, we tried to explain that Gary, Our youngest Brother, was a Downs Syndrome child, probably then we did not know that this was the name of the condition. Mother received forms, and had to take Gary to the Doctor and have the forms filled out, there were others who, though of low mental standard, were accepted, and many months were to pass before they were withdrawn from service. I recall one chap, who, when released from service perhaps eighteen months later in Queensland, arrived back in civilian clothes to join us.
I was next to Dave McCullough at the interview table at the Essendon Drill hall, we had gone through school together and had been mates for many years and had gone out at night to Pictures or Dances together. When asked what Branch of the Army I wished to be in, I said I did not know and did not care. Dave was driving a Truck in Civvy life and said he wanted to be in transport, as he was a driver. I was placed in the AASC as a recruit Driver, and Dave was placed in the Infantry I never saw Dave again, as he went into the 39th Battalion. The reason for this was that the Army in their wisdom, thought it was better to train new drivers than to break an old driver out of perhaps bad habits. If I had gone to the 39th Battalion, I would most likely have died on the Kokoda trail.
We were at this point of time only in camp for three months, out for three and then in again for three. This was because there was such a large call-up that the camp could not cope, so we were divided into two echelons. One of these camps I was refused permission to go as I was in a protected service I was a Mail Sorter at Spencer St
When we were finally called up for Active Service, Jan 1942, immediately after the Japs bombed Pearl Harbour, I was approached to transfer to a Postal Unit being formed. I was offered three stripes as an inducement to assist the training of recruits; I had been in the PMG for four years and was in the Mail Branch as a Grade.1. Mail Officer. I had been in camp with Denis, and had made some good mates, and looking hindwards, was foolish enough to refuse this offer. How many times in life I was to look back and regret past decisions, but I really cannot regret, or would even think of changing my past life and the best of the best, wonderful girl whom I had courted and married, Maureen. Why in Gods name would I change that, and the happy times we have had, in amongst the bad ones, and the wonderful eight children we had reared, perhaps even as much the great mates with whom I went through some good and some bad times. Enough sentimentality, on with the tale.
We had some great times at Seymour, just as well, as the camp would have driven some people mad. Living in rows of tents on floorboards, six men to a tent. When we arrived we were issued a chaff bag and told to go to a hut filled with straw and fill the Bag, this, called a Palliasse, was to be our mattress while at Seymour, Camp.17. We never had a mattress for the rest of our time in the Army; we had blankets, either on a wooden floor or on the ground. If we were in a place long enough we placed poles through a chaff bag, or other bags, and strung them from forked or crossed sticks. If we could get the timber we made a timber frame and nailed the bags to it
At Seymour, At six PM every evening the sanitary crew placed a lavatory can at the end of each row of tents, these were used to urinate in, no matter if some of the visitors on Sunday, which was an open day, had not left. Many soldiers probably got a thrill out of flashing, though such a thing was not known in those times
The Cookhouse was in a long shed with large open serving windows, we filed past these windows, with three or four kitchen fatigue workers ladling out food. We had tin plates. First on this was the meat, Mutton mainly, from which we had to brush the maggots if we wanted to eat it, then vegetables. At the end was Desert, mainly rice studded with currants, it was impossible to separate the weevils, but at least they were cooked. These mess huts had open doors and windows through which the flies and red dust swept. There was no cutting the meat off the Bone for a stew, it was chopped up, bones and all and the stew was full of pieces of bone chips.
The toilets and showers were also in long tin huts, [I forgot to mention that the cookhouse and Mess huts were also uninsulated,] What? Tin sheds insulated. These were left over from WW 1
There were of course no cubicles, and we sat in a row like cockatoos on a fence, opposite those who were showering. Now this was a part of Army life. In those days there was absolutely no Privacy in any form, dressing, undressing, sleeping, eating, showering, and the other, we lived in tents together, in my case for about four and a half years, so is it any wonder that our friendships were closer even than family life, or blood ties. Closer than Brothers many of us were, and this is what Anzac Day and reunions mean for us, We do not, as some people say, Glorify War, we meet and talk of the good times we have had, sometimes of the amusing or bad times, and at other times we grow solemn and pensive as we recall those great and friendly fellows, who had shared so much with us, times good and bad, and whom we would never meet again. We think “He was a wonderful chap, happy, strong, in great health, would give you the shirt off his back, why did he have to die, He was a great strapping fellow, I thought he would last forever”. Cancer, no doubt, has been the lot of most of them. Which brings me back to, [How did I ever forget him] my old best mate Tom Brazil. Tom went through Army life without touching a drop of the demon drink. Tom was my co-driver in Queensland, and many times when I was over, perhaps, 15, Tom drove me back to camp. I went to see Tom just before he died of Cancer in 1995, and he remarked that he had had a drink of sarsaparilla in all 27 pubs in Maryborough, keeping me and others company while we sampled the beer. “Many the time I got you out of a hot spot Jack” he said. I often wonder whether he meant a fight or trouble with our CO back at camp. It wouldn’t have been the CO as he was shit frightened of me, truly. I might mention here that I saw the CO one night and said,” If we go up forward you better not get in front of me as you will get a bullet up the arse” From then I was his pet. I never went on a route march and always had a cushy job at camp. Most likely if we had either Ken Jenkins, or “Spud” Myers with us, it would have been a fight. It is well to mention here that, when I met Tom again at my first reunion, I had stopped drinking and, for Pete's sake, Tom had started drinking. You bloody so-and-so, “Jack” He said, “I have been saying for years, that one thing I most wanted to do, was to enjoy having a beer with you, and now, Bugger it all, you have gone on the water wagon”
These are some notes taken from a buddie's Grandad's computer (yes, he had a computer for a few years before he passed away). A lot of this was lost and/or never saved but some was recovered, so apologies if it doesn't really go anywhere in the end. It is told in that classic, slightly rambling way, that these stories are best told.
When I asked the grandson if he minded if I on-posted these he was gad to see it spread.
---------------------------------------
MY history Pt.2 John.P.D
Somewhere I recall writing up until the time I went into the Army. Arrived at Essendon Drill Hall August 1940, Denis and myself, we tried to explain that Gary, Our youngest Brother, was a Downs Syndrome child, probably then we did not know that this was the name of the condition. Mother received forms, and had to take Gary to the Doctor and have the forms filled out, there were others who, though of low mental standard, were accepted, and many months were to pass before they were withdrawn from service. I recall one chap, who, when released from service perhaps eighteen months later in Queensland, arrived back in civilian clothes to join us.
I was next to Dave McCullough at the interview table at the Essendon Drill hall, we had gone through school together and had been mates for many years and had gone out at night to Pictures or Dances together. When asked what Branch of the Army I wished to be in, I said I did not know and did not care. Dave was driving a Truck in Civvy life and said he wanted to be in transport, as he was a driver. I was placed in the AASC as a recruit Driver, and Dave was placed in the Infantry I never saw Dave again, as he went into the 39th Battalion. The reason for this was that the Army in their wisdom, thought it was better to train new drivers than to break an old driver out of perhaps bad habits. If I had gone to the 39th Battalion, I would most likely have died on the Kokoda trail.
We were at this point of time only in camp for three months, out for three and then in again for three. This was because there was such a large call-up that the camp could not cope, so we were divided into two echelons. One of these camps I was refused permission to go as I was in a protected service I was a Mail Sorter at Spencer St
When we were finally called up for Active Service, Jan 1942, immediately after the Japs bombed Pearl Harbour, I was approached to transfer to a Postal Unit being formed. I was offered three stripes as an inducement to assist the training of recruits; I had been in the PMG for four years and was in the Mail Branch as a Grade.1. Mail Officer. I had been in camp with Denis, and had made some good mates, and looking hindwards, was foolish enough to refuse this offer. How many times in life I was to look back and regret past decisions, but I really cannot regret, or would even think of changing my past life and the best of the best, wonderful girl whom I had courted and married, Maureen. Why in Gods name would I change that, and the happy times we have had, in amongst the bad ones, and the wonderful eight children we had reared, perhaps even as much the great mates with whom I went through some good and some bad times. Enough sentimentality, on with the tale.
We had some great times at Seymour, just as well, as the camp would have driven some people mad. Living in rows of tents on floorboards, six men to a tent. When we arrived we were issued a chaff bag and told to go to a hut filled with straw and fill the Bag, this, called a Palliasse, was to be our mattress while at Seymour, Camp.17. We never had a mattress for the rest of our time in the Army; we had blankets, either on a wooden floor or on the ground. If we were in a place long enough we placed poles through a chaff bag, or other bags, and strung them from forked or crossed sticks. If we could get the timber we made a timber frame and nailed the bags to it
At Seymour, At six PM every evening the sanitary crew placed a lavatory can at the end of each row of tents, these were used to urinate in, no matter if some of the visitors on Sunday, which was an open day, had not left. Many soldiers probably got a thrill out of flashing, though such a thing was not known in those times
The Cookhouse was in a long shed with large open serving windows, we filed past these windows, with three or four kitchen fatigue workers ladling out food. We had tin plates. First on this was the meat, Mutton mainly, from which we had to brush the maggots if we wanted to eat it, then vegetables. At the end was Desert, mainly rice studded with currants, it was impossible to separate the weevils, but at least they were cooked. These mess huts had open doors and windows through which the flies and red dust swept. There was no cutting the meat off the Bone for a stew, it was chopped up, bones and all and the stew was full of pieces of bone chips.
The toilets and showers were also in long tin huts, [I forgot to mention that the cookhouse and Mess huts were also uninsulated,] What? Tin sheds insulated. These were left over from WW 1
There were of course no cubicles, and we sat in a row like cockatoos on a fence, opposite those who were showering. Now this was a part of Army life. In those days there was absolutely no Privacy in any form, dressing, undressing, sleeping, eating, showering, and the other, we lived in tents together, in my case for about four and a half years, so is it any wonder that our friendships were closer even than family life, or blood ties. Closer than Brothers many of us were, and this is what Anzac Day and reunions mean for us, We do not, as some people say, Glorify War, we meet and talk of the good times we have had, sometimes of the amusing or bad times, and at other times we grow solemn and pensive as we recall those great and friendly fellows, who had shared so much with us, times good and bad, and whom we would never meet again. We think “He was a wonderful chap, happy, strong, in great health, would give you the shirt off his back, why did he have to die, He was a great strapping fellow, I thought he would last forever”. Cancer, no doubt, has been the lot of most of them. Which brings me back to, [How did I ever forget him] my old best mate Tom Brazil. Tom went through Army life without touching a drop of the demon drink. Tom was my co-driver in Queensland, and many times when I was over, perhaps, 15, Tom drove me back to camp. I went to see Tom just before he died of Cancer in 1995, and he remarked that he had had a drink of sarsaparilla in all 27 pubs in Maryborough, keeping me and others company while we sampled the beer. “Many the time I got you out of a hot spot Jack” he said. I often wonder whether he meant a fight or trouble with our CO back at camp. It wouldn’t have been the CO as he was shit frightened of me, truly. I might mention here that I saw the CO one night and said,” If we go up forward you better not get in front of me as you will get a bullet up the arse” From then I was his pet. I never went on a route march and always had a cushy job at camp. Most likely if we had either Ken Jenkins, or “Spud” Myers with us, it would have been a fight. It is well to mention here that, when I met Tom again at my first reunion, I had stopped drinking and, for Pete's sake, Tom had started drinking. You bloody so-and-so, “Jack” He said, “I have been saying for years, that one thing I most wanted to do, was to enjoy having a beer with you, and now, Bugger it all, you have gone on the water wagon”
