Section 10 of the Anzac Book, CEW Bean (editor)

THE RAID ON LONDON

A Modern Chronicle by Private PAT RIOT

ENGLAND has been conquered by Julius Caesar, William of Normandy, nearly (but not quite) by William of Germany, and, lastly, by plain Bill of Australia. And of the three it is clear that the conquest of Australian Bill was the most successful of all, when it is remembered that at the time of his triumphant entry into London he was not the man he is; he was sick and wounded. He did not invade the city with his shield in front of him. He was carried on it; he came a conqueror on crutches.

Private Bill Kangaroo was a lanky, sawny bushman who, when a certain foreign militarism went mad and the band began to play the concert of Europe, read between the lines of his newspaper, thought a bit, saddled his brumby, and rode for the nearest town that ran a railway, staying there just long enough for a final shout. He passed the doctor easily, took a quite insanguinary oath (for once) to do his job as a soldier, and went into camp.

How Private Bill made his kangaroo like leap up the ridges of Gallipoli has been told by a war correspondent to a public which had, up till then, been vaguely aware of his existence as a poor relation from a South Sea Island. It is fairly certain that future historians will teach that Australia was discovered not by Captain Cook, explorer, but by Mr. Ashmead Bartlett, war correspondent.

Anyhow, the finding and exploration of the territory is not in the same continent as the discovery and exploration of its people, and Bill has seen the correspondent in the trenches, and regards him with much more curiosity than ever he regarded the quondam explorer. But he was unconcerned with these things, and was acting co-respondent in the case of Crescent v. Southern Cross when a sniper's bullet hit him in the neck and put him out of court. A hospital ship brought him to the City of London.

London first came to know him through the medium of its most useful person, the policeman. Bill had no love for a policeman as a reader of Riot Acts, but he developed quite an affection for him as a Pointer of the Way. "I'm bushed" became a familiar greeting between them, and the Kangaroo was never disappointed when he strolled across the street to ask P.C. 49 the way he should go. A London motor-bus might have done what a Turkish bullet failed to do if the man in blue had not stopped the traffic and played the part of pilot to him. The raised hand that held up the stream only for royal persons was lifted for the strolling soldier from the South, and the busmen laughed at the bushman.

To be " bushed " in the heart of London became a common experience with him, and one had a suspicion that nefarious taxicab drivers often took advantage of his innocence of locality to drive him in circles before dropping him at his destination, perhaps five minutes from the starting place. It was the shortness of city distances that puzzled him, and he was amazed to find names that were historical and household words 12,000 miles away borne by quite unpretentious streets and lanes. When English people learned that he had travelled 1,000 miles to pass a doctor and join the Army, they gasped and said he must be joking.

What a class war failed to do, a race war has done. The poor and their patrons, noblemen gentle and simple, vied with each other in dealing hospitably by the private soldier who had climbed the heights that commanded a view of the Past and the Future. In the stately homes of England, Bill (in the servant's phrase) met the " big guns " as " one of themselves," and was astonished at the surprise thus caused. But he was amazed, in turn, when the servants told him they bad been in the house ten years. With many embellishments, he assured them that a girl in service in Sydney would think she owned the house if she stopped so long in one place.

To Bill, going into the Carlton or the Hotel Cecil wasn't sitting in the seats of the mighty, but just the same as entering the pub at Yungaburra, and he wandered in these places without any desire to "cut a dash". He approved of the costly surroundings, but when he saw the smallness of the glasses put before him, Bill sat in the seats of the scornful. He really enjoyed himself better in that inn where he found a group of Cockney cronies. The landlord had to respond repeatedly to his "Fill 'em up again," and Bill afterwards declared it to be the cheapest night's fun in the town.

Parsimonious people would say that Bill Kangaroo didn't know the value of money, for it took him some time to appreciate the small coins of the realm at their face value. He thought it looked mean to keep on asking, " How much?" and when seeing the sights of the city he always pulled out silver more than sufficient to cover expenses. The pennies he received in change soon filled his pocket, and at first he gave them away; but as he saw that he would soon be penniless, he would go into one of those places described as being " strictly within the meaning of the Act," and surreptitiously, ask the barman if he could do with change.

His dislike of the base metal and a habit of tipping in silver bade fair to earn for him the nickname of the " Silver King." Tipping he reckoned a curse, but, knowing that many men lived by tips alone, he passed the coin quite as cordially as he disliked the practice. Bill never bought in the cheapest market to sell in the dearest; he didn't think it " on the square."

His greatest adventure was the Zeppelins. Seated in a theatre one evening, he heard a woof! And just after that a second one, closer a third, a fourth, and then a fifth just outside. Woof! Crash! Men and women began to rush for the doors, until the man who rose to the occasion on that memorable 25th rose to this one, and shouted above the tumult of falling glass and tramping feet that it was safer in than out, and that if they kept their seats all would be well. The actresses on the stage, though quaking with fright, stuck pluckily to their parts until the final act. Bill himself wanted dearly to go out and see the infernal machines and their effect, but, for example's sake, he stayed till order was restored, when he slipped out of the building.

What be saw outside filled him with thankfulness that he was a soldier, helping to smash the raiders and their kind. Wandering down the street, past great gaping holes in the roadway, an overturned motor-bus and some wrecked buildings, he found himself on the Embankment, and then on the bridge, where he saw a damaged arch of masonry. He sat down to think, little dreaming that be was fulfilling Macaulay's prophecy concerning the man from " down under sitting on the ruins of London Bridge. "

Bill's furlough was finished shortly after this; his raid terminated with that of the Zeppelins. He was glad to return to the front; and he knows now that, in assisting in the pruning of Prussia, he is fighting for more things than ever he thought of when he took the oath of allegiance.

But he swears that when the job is done he will again visit the land of his father's fathers, and toast it in a big, big toast.

SING !

Trooper Sing, of the 2nd Light Horse Brigade, on the right, was said to have sniped his two hundredth Turk. But his name and fame bad not spread all around the lines, for a Staff Officer, in visiting the snipers of Quinn's Post, came upon a Light Horseman who, very justifiably, was priding himself upon having definitely hit twelve of the enemy.

" Did you hear that fellow Sing on the right of the line-" began the Staff Officer.

" Well, sir, they don't sing in front of me," put in the Quinn's Post man promptly. "They're too b- well frightened.

ANOTHER ATTEMPT AT AN ANZAC ALPHABET
A	was the Anguish that spread o'er my face When I saw the remarkable look of the place.
B's	Beachy Bill," who fired at my ship - punctured the funnel and gave me the pip.
C	was the " Crump " that went by with a screech As I jumped from a lighter and fell on the beach.
D	was the Daring I failed to display When fragments of shrapnel came whizzing my way.
E	was Earth which I found in my hair As I woke in the morning and crawled from my lair.
F	were the Fleas, and also the Flies, Who feed on a fellow wherever he lies.
G	were the Gripes that gripped me within- The result of commodities packed in a tin.
H	was the Hole that a howitzer made; It would take me an hour to fill in with a spade.
I	was the Idiot who stuck up my head Before I was taught to take cover instead.
J	was the Jam with our rations and rum- We found it was almost invariably " Plum."
K	was the Knowledge I quickly acquired Of hiding whenever the enemy fired.
L	was the Louse that lurked in my vest, reconnoitred my person, and tickled my chest.
M	was the Monitor, firing at night, Which kept me awake when " above " didn't bite.
N	was the "Night stunt, " with trembling heart, Expecting each moment the Maxims would start.
O's	the 0.0.*; let's give him a cheer- It isn't his fault that nothing comes here.
P	are the Piers-see them shiver and shake Whenever a launch makes a wash with her wake.
Q	stands for " Quick," to the tunnel we dash When a horrible missile explodes with a crash.
R	are the Rumours we bear every day That the Turkish moral has quite faded away.
S	is the gilded Staff Officer-who Censors my letters and tears them in two.
T	is the Taube that drones in the sky (Thank goodness, I haven't been ordered to fly!)
U	is the Underground sap we expand There's a two-penny tube to the Narrows in hand.
V	is for Victory. How we shall sing Rule, 0 Britannia, and God Save the King!
W	the Wire we put round our works- We generally find that it's pinched by the Turks.
X	the " X-periments " made with a bomb- A neat little cross on a nice little tomb.
Y	in the world have I ever been placed In a trench of cold water right up to my waist?
Z	is the mule corps recruited from Zion, Bearers of water and rations of iron.

WHEN IT'S ALL OVER.

WE were finished with the fightin', we were finished with the war,
- And the dove of peace looked healthier than e'er she did before;
- For the Allies put the acid on the Hohenzollern crowd,
- And they piled the costs on William when they knew they had him cowed.
- But we didn't care a cussword if his soul were saved or sold;
- We were bound for home and beauty, and the wanderlust was cold.
Yes, we dream of home and Mother, and of Dad and Sister May,
- And the girls who used to know us, waitin' half a world away;
- And we're wantin' but to find them just the same and nothin' more
- Just the same old dear old home-folks that we knew before the war.
- And I'm hoping they'll be looking for the boy that used to be,
- Not a hero with a halo for the crowd to come and see.
Oh! I've snarled to read the phrases that the writers coined for us"
- Deathless heroes - lasting glory," and the other foolish fuss;
- For we're simple sinful soldiers, and we're often wide and rough,
- And our characters ain't altered since we donned the khaki stuff.
- (" Smithy " terms this " the outpourin's of an overburdened soul,'!
- But I'd like to stuff a blanket in that long-offendin' hole.)
As I gaze on Bill, me cobber,* sure I smile a little smile,
- For his happy, careless nature doesn't fit the poet's style;
- No, he don't resemble Caesar in his looks or in his speech,
- Nor Napoleon nor Cromwell - why, they ain't within his reach.
- He's a decent sort of cobber, but he doesn't push a claim
- To be classed " a gallant guardian of Britain's honoured name.'!
I've a grouch on jingo writers and the poets and them all,
- Who have placed us common persons on a public pedestal;
- Will they dust our coats and speak to us and help us when we fall,
- Or paste a different label on us-something very small?
- It's their fault I'm entertaining just a tiny little dread
- That me friends may want a hero with a halo round his head.

Cobber - Australian for a well tried and tested pal.

HARRY MCCANN, 4th A.L.H.