Chapter Eight (Partial)  



	Mum and Dad, being Londoners, had raised their children to believe England
	was the head of a mighty empire and anything 'not British' was inferior. Always
	there were photos of St Paul's Cathedral, The Marble Arch, Westminster Abbey
	and Buckingham Palace hanging on the lounge-room walls. They were there from
	as far back as I can remember; certainly before I commenced school.
	
	A pile of yellow-covered copies of "The Daily Mirror. (Overseas Edition)" as well 
	as numerous editions of "The Illustrated London Gazette" were on bookshelves 
	beneath the photos. They were avidly read, time and time again, by us children. 
	The Daily Mirror kept us informed of the most gruesome murders and we gazed 
	with awe at photos of King George the Fifth and Queen Mary attending the flower 
	show at The Crystal Palace in The London Illustrated Gazette. Thus we kept in touch
	with our Motherland England, Head of The British Empire, shown in red on an insurance
	company's calendar hanging on just about every kitchen throughout the land.
	
	Our education system, too, was "England and The Empire" orientated. The birthday 
	of Her Late Most Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria was called Empire Day. The British
	Empire was a great empire because our sailors ruled the seas and our soldiers had 
	gone out and conquered these countries (shown in red) and set them free. England and
	The Empire had shown we loved freedom when we crushed the wicked Kaiser in the 
	1914-18 War called "The Great War" and, because of this victory, there would be no 
	more wars and Australia had shown we were a nation on England's side whenever 
	she needed us.
	
	All this before I was ten years old!
	
	The influence of this segment of my education was still with me when the newspapers 
	announced the formation of The 16th Battalion (Cameron Highlanders of Western 
	Australia). What could be more British than a Highland Regiment?

	When recruits were being enlisted I was at Francis Street Barracks on the first night. 
	My military knowledge was somewhat limited. I simply knew if I joined "They" would 
	tell me what to do. The medical examination proved rather embarrassing as I was 
	required to pee into a milk bottle and discreetly cough while the same doctor held 
	my testicles. I was then told to follow the man ahead of me; a routine gradually developing 	
	into a tour of the adjoining tin sheds. We came out of the first shed carrying a fatigue 
	uniform and a pair of boots. I had trouble getting a pair of size six boots. We came out 
	of the next hut carrying an oily, grease-covered Lee Enfield 303 Rifle with instructions
	to proceed into the third hut and clean the rifle before leaving the premises. I squatted 
	on a bare floor amidst a group of chaps and commenced rifle-cleaning; a routine with 
	which I was to remain familiar for the next eleven years.
	
	A softly-spoken chap nearby asked, "What section did you join?"
	
	"Eh?"
	
	"What section did you tell them you wanted to be in?"
	
	"I told them I wanted to be in The Cameron Highlanders. They'll tell me what section 
	to be in."
	
	"They'll put you in a rifle company."
	
	"So?"
	
	"They're just getting organised. You can join any section. Why don't you get into Headquarters 
	Wing? Get into The Intelligence Section, The Mortars, The Signals, The Transport - anything 
	but a rifle company. Can you ride a horse?"

	"Sure. I worked on a farm for ten months."
	
	"Then join The Transport Section. I did. They have horses in transport. They ride everywhere. 
	It's better than marching."
	
	I got up, went back to the Orderly Room and told the agitated Adjutant I wanted to join The 
	Transport Section because I could ride a horse.
	
	Returning to my rifle-cleaning I announced, "I got them to put me in The Transport Section."
	
	"Good-oh," said this bloke as he prepared to leave, "Then I'll see you next Monday night."
	
	"O.K. By the way, what's your name?"
	
	"Benson," he said, "Geoff Benson."
	
	Our friendship lasted right up until the time of his death some forty years later.
	
	I came in contact with many magnificent men during the growing years between 18 and 21. 
	Men like The Commanding Officer Major Louch, the 2 I/C Major Lloyd, and Captain Sandover, 
	the officer commanding A Company - all of whom eventually became Brigadiers.

	Sergeant Majors Dowling and Lowden of The Permanent Military Forces, whose task was 
	to train us in squad drill and gunnery, were men of precision and bearing. I greatly admired and
	respected all these men. I did my best to conduct myself according to their example and I know 
	they had a tremendous uplifting influence on my personal development.
	
	Some men have that influence on others; especially upon young, maturing men who are 
	unconsciously seeking icons.
	
	Monday nights were parade nights.
	
	I hurried home on my pushbike after work, showered as quickly as possible, (I didn't have to 	
	shave) gulped down my meal and dressed for the evening parade. I virtually marched down 
	the street to the tram. Not only was I soldier of The Australian Forces like my Dad had been 
	but I was also a member of a Highland Regiment which had a couple of hundred years of 
	tradition behind it.
	
	Burgeoning manhood has to have something to believe in or the man is living without purpose 
	and, so far, my life had been without a sense of direction.
	
	The Transport Section, in addition to a weekly night parade, had horse drill every fourth 
	Sunday. Most of the men travelled by train to Guildford Station and walked the mile or so to 
	South Guildford Remount Depot where we carried out horse training exercises through scrub 
	country now occupied by Rosemount Golf Course.
	
	There were several militia units in Perth but The Defence Department's finances could only 
	support a limited number of horses and they were ridden every week-end by different riders 
	from various units. They were "Army" horses and knew the drill routine better than we did.
	Invariably my mount for the day was a massive, shrewd gelding standing fifteen hands high. 
	My eyes were roughly twelve inches lower than his backbone when standing beside him and 
	he was so broad across the back that my hip joints ached when sitting in the saddle.
	
	You don't just get on your horse in the army. There is a drill for it. The horses are stood with 
	fore hooves in a straight line - riders toes in line with the hooves - right arm extended holding 
	the rein close to the bit to ensure the horse kept its head up,
	
	"Prepare to mount!"
	
	The rider turns right about - holds a shortened rein in the left hand and grasps the pommel - 
	he also grasps the rear of the saddle with his right hand - places his left foot in the stirrup - 
	and awaits the order to mount.
	
	This was a pain-wracked position for me. I could barely reach the pommel and the rear of 
	the saddle at the same time, the stirrup was so high from the ground that my foot was in line 
	with my chest whilst my knee was in the vicinity of ear-hole and my foot kept tickling the horse's 
	flank - much to his annoyance.
	
	"Mount!"
	
	The rider throws his right leg over the saddle, automatically finding the stirrup, lowers himself 
	gently into the saddle, drops his right arm to his side at the same time holding the tightened 
	rein in his left hand at waist height.
	
	Nine times out of ten my right foot wouldn't make the distance and thud into the horse's flank 
	causing it to snort, arch its back, and shy away to the off side and give the horse beside it a 
	solid bump. The bump was transmitted all the way along the line causing chaos and consternation 
	within the ranks.
	
	The problem was solved by putting me on the extreme right end of the line allowing my horse 
	and I to fight out this business of mounting in the wide, open spaces beyond.
	
	We had, on another parade, some fifteen horses standing in line with me in the centre. I had 
	successfully mounted this monster which promptly snorted, pig-rooted out to the front of the 
	line, pelted me off, walked around to the rear, took up its position back in the line and stood 
	there looking at me sitting in the dirt.
	
	This beautiful animal and I must have provided quite a bit of comic relief in our battle of wills 	
	and it wasn't until our annual camp on Rottnest Island that we became better acquainted and 
	settled down to a period of tolerant co-existence.
	
	Rottnest Island could best be described as "a barren island off the mainland" but that was 
	where the battalion assembled for its annual camp in that magical year of 1938. The only 
	buildings were at The Settlement around the foreshore of Thompsons Bay; there were no roads,
	the big naval guns had not yet been commissioned and their installation supplies were transported
	on a light-gauge railway running from a foreshore jetty into the distant sand hills.
	
	The army had carried out considerable preparatory work prior to our arrival. Tents were on site 
	but not erected; equipment and stores were already in sheds on the area now occupied by the 
	aerodrome. The horses, harness, limbers and feed had come across by barge during the previous 
	week. The light-gauge railway ran around the edge of the low sand hills forming the perimeter of the 
	campsite.
	
	Our horse-lines were some distance away behind low sand hills hiding from the sight of the 
	camp; a situation we used to our advantage; besides, it was rumoured that horse manure, 
	horses and horse drivers bred flies. We had 25 horses of varied quality and doubtful lineage 
	which had to be cared for 24 hours a day and this, during the night, required a night patrol of
	two hours on and four hours off.
	
	The drivers teamed up in pairs and were allocated two horses that became their prime 
	responsibility for the duration of the camp although we, as a group, were responsible for the 
	welfare of all the horses.
	
	Benno and I promptly paired and, needless to say, the team we drew consisted of that great, 	
	big, four-legged, passive resistor to military good order and discipline accompanied by a mean, 
	cranky mare with grandiose visions of one day winning The Melbourne Cup.
	
	The horses, after a few days in camp, began to know who was in charge and the irksome horse 
	picket was not without its moments of oneness with the environment and creatures other than
	human. Often, when awoken around 2am, I'd stroll across to where a dixie of coffee was hanging 
	over a fire and, sitting on a bag of chaff, I drank slowly and listened to the sound of waves folding 
	on to the beach on the edge of the bay, their sound magnified by the stillness of the night, whilst 
	the stars shone brightly in a limitless sky stretching away into infinity. Several quokkas slowly 
	hopped out of the surrounding scrub to sit in a semi-circle within the firelight. I held out a piece 
	of biscuit to each. They demurely took it and the group of us sat munching around the fire.
	
	Eventually I stirred myself, stepped through the ring of quokkas to stroll down the horse-lines 
	checking the tethering ropes and generally ensuring there were no problems. From the far end 
	of the line, despite the hour of the night, there came a deep-throated chuckle from that mountain 
	of a horse which knew I had oats in a mess tin. He snuffled his way through these then, having 
	finished munching, he nudged me several times with his nose. I put my arms around his muscular 
	neck, scratched him between the ears - and we knew each other.
	
	Much of this sense of companionship vanished the next day as I shovelled heaps of manure into 
	a limber and carted it away to bury in a valley among the sand hills. ….




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