Parade

The company was camped on a bit of flat land outside Port Moresby. Until a few days earlier it had been a swamp, inhabited only by malaria mosquitoes and stubby little Death Adders. Now though, the infectious insects and deadly snakes had one hundred and thirty men of D Company, 2/8th Infantry battalion for company.

It was an uneasy time for the men. They had served with the battalion since 1940, and there was no doubting that these men were veterans, battle hardened and confident. They had destroyed the Italian 10th Army in a foxhunt of a campaign across Egypt and Libya. They had fought at bayonet point against the German SS in the mountains of Greece during that disastrous campaign, only giving way when their ammunition ran out. In Lebanon and Syria, they faced down the Vichy French, including legionnaires of the much vaunted French Foreign Legion.

After a week’s leave at home in Australia, the entire brigade had travelled to Queensland by train. They then travelled by boat to Papua, where they wound up sitting in a swamp, waiting for orders to go up and relieve the militia battalions who had fought the Japanese to a standstill on the infamous Kokoda Track. To a man they were yellow skinned as a result of the Atabrine tablets they had been ordered to take in order keep Malaria away and the quality of the water was poor enough that half the men were down with dysentery.

Unlike the desert, which produced a good dry heat that a man could deal with, this swampy expanse exuded a stinking humidity which worked its way into the body like tiny diseased parasites, sapping a man’s strength and will to live. Just when a man on fatigues would think he had reached the end of his endurance, it rained. Every afternoon, about 1500hrs, it pelted down in rivers. The men could set their watches by it, if most of their watches hadn’t already been ruined by the damp.

The nights offered little relief. In the desert they came down cold and clear. The troops wore greatcoats and woollen toques under their tin hats to keep warm and their breath clouded when they spoke. A deep breath could leave a man breathless. Not in this fetid bog. The only mist they saw at night was the steam rising out of their sodden clothes as they languished in the muggy twilight.

This was just no way to fight a war and the men weren’t happy. They needed to have an enemy nearby. The snap of Japanese bullets was rapidly becoming much more appealing than the constant buzzing of mosquitoes. The morale of the men was slipping and drastic action might be required to arrest it.

Just after breakfast on a steamy morning in august, 1942 Company Sergeant Major Pullen called the company to parade. This was an uncommon event, the company normally paraded before breakfast for roll call. As usual almost half the men went on sick call, to spend their day shivering and lingering miserably near the latrine, afraid to move too far. The rest of the company, sixty men and non commissioned officers were assigned their fatigues for the day, standing sentry, repairing drains or slashing the razor sharp kunai grass surrounding the camp.

While the sergeants and corporals assembled the remnants of the company, CSM Pullen stood stock still next to the whitewashed flag pole. In contrast to the threadbare and weakened appearance of the men, he stood ramrod straight in full kit, webbing and holstered pistol over his immaculately pressed fatigues. His tin hat angled forward exposing the steel grey hair on his nape, its rim narrow brim shading his grey eyes from the struggling sunlight.

Though he stood as still as a moss covered rock, betraying no emotion to the slowly assembling troops, the handful of men who had served with him since Libya knew what was coming. Lance Corporal Jim Page certainly did, he had seen that look many times before.

He had been Corporal Page only weeks earlier until an altercation with a couple of military policemen in Brisbane left him minus a tooth and a chevron. CSM Pullen had torn strips off him that morning. That had hurt him more than any red cap’s night stick ever could.

“We’re in for a bollockin’ Len,” he whispered from the side of his mouth.

“So long as it doesn’t bloody rain,” answered his offsider Len Carlton, “I’ve got me goin’ out shirt on.”

“Some poor bugger is going to be prayin’ for rain before long,” muttered the little Lance Corporal as he took his place in the rear rank, “Somebody is gonna wind up on dunny detail.”

CSM Pullen waited, hands clenched behind his back, feet planted as though he expected an ambush from the shuffling ranks before him.

“Alright,” he growled while stalking along the front rank and shooting the evil eye at each man as he passed, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you lot.”

Turning smartly at the end of the rank he snarled, “I’ve put up with a lot of nonsense from you lot lately. Thus far, your officers have indulged you. They seem to think you’re something special. God knows why.”

When he came to the centre of the rank he stopped and his dead eyed gaze focused on the company cook. He slouched under the sagging canvas roof of his cookhouse, his stringy hair and drooping cigarette matched the hangdog expression on his long face.

With a surreptitious shake of his head, he turned his stare back on the assembled men, “This morning, one of you lot insulted a vital member of the company’s support staff by calling him a bastard,” he paused to let the news of this heinous crime sink in, “I want to know who it was.”

With the exception of a muffled cough or two from the sick men, the troops remained silently at attention. The grey eyed CSM scanned the ranks, searching like a bloodhound for a guilty looking face.

“I want to know who called the cook a bastard,” he said again his voice carrying a raised edge this time. He paced along the front rank now, like a predator scenting blood. The men all stared forward, focusing on a point somewhere in the distant jungle. Here and there the old non commissioned officer could see the corners of the mouths on some of the men were sneaking upwards, though their jaws remained clamped shut. A few squeezed their eyes shut, he even heard a nasal snort somewhere in the ranks.

Furious, CSM Pullen puffed up like a jungle creature looking for a fight,“That’s it,” he roared, “Who called the cook a slimy bastard?”

The men shuffled uncomfortably, a few made feeble attempts to cover snickers with coughs, but no one uttered a single word of confession.

Then, from the back of the formation came a voice, “Who called the slimy bastard a cook?”

The last bund that contains military discipline, gave way in a burst of braying laughter. Not even the daggered stare of the Company Sergeant Major could prevent the men from falling about laughing like lunatics. A few fell into coughing fits, punctuated by amused howls.

With a panicked look, the First Platoon Sergeant looked at the rapidly disintegrating company, and then to the CSM, who stood fuming but silent.

“That bastard,” uttered a voice from the throng, “Wants to know which of you bastards called that bastard a bastard.” There were renewed gales of laughter from the group and CSM Pullen knew he was beaten. He signalled the first platoon sergeant, whose bark of “PARADE DIMISSED,” was lost in the noise.

CSM Pullen executed a perfect left face and paced smartly from the parade ground to the Company Headquarters tent, “That went well,” he said to a startled first Lieutenant who had been fumbling with a stack of carboned uniforms requisitions, “I wouldn’t fancy being a jap in the next few weeks.”

“What, wha…” stammered the shocked subaltern.

“They’ve still got their sense of humour. Any man who can sit in this cesspit for a couple of weeks and still laugh is bloody dangerous.” He grinned, which scared the young officer even more.

CSM Pullen strolled out of the headquarters tent happier than he had been in weeks, in only five minutes he had restored company morale and terrified a young officer.

“This isn’t such a bad war after all” he muttered to himself and began to whistle a happy tuneless song.