Invasion Rabaul (2 page)

By day Gullidge worked as a printer, but he was far better known throughout Australia for his superb band compositions. For several years running he had captured top prizes at Australian and international music competitions, and some people went so far as to compare him with Glenn Miller, the famed American big-band composer. Thirty years old, Gullidge had a lot to live for. He shared an idyllic life with his wife and young daughter in Coburn, a suburb of Melbourne, and also served as the bandleader of the Salvation Army’s Melbourne Central Division and the Brunswick Citadel Band, which together fulfilled both his love of music and his strong faith.

As the war progressed and thousands of Australians went off to fight in the North African desert, Gullidge and his friends in the Salvation Army realized that conscription might come at any time. Disturbed by the prospect of fighting and killing, they engaged in lengthy discussions about
their future. None wanted to serve as infantrymen. Gullidge, who had some knowledge of military history, thought they might be able to volunteer as musicians. In European armies, bandsmen traditionally served as stretcher bearers during battle, a duty that would circumvent the moral dilemma.

And, thanks to his renown, Gullidge had connections. One of his good friends was Major Harry R. Shugg, the officer in charge of recruitment for army bands and a top musician in his own right. Recognizing the obvious benefits of obtaining several excellent musicians for the army, Shugg arranged for Gullidge and his fellow bandsmen to volunteer together as soon as the next brigade was formed.

In mid-1940, recruitment opened for the 23rd Infantry Brigade, 8th Division, 2nd Australian Imperial Forces (AIF). On July 15, a gloomy winter’s day along the southern coast of Australia, Gullidge and sixteen other Salvation Army musicians stepped forward to enlist en masse at the Victoria Street Drill Hall. Only one hopeful, a thirty-eight-year-old euphonium player with poor eyesight, was rejected. The rest, in accordance with Shugg’s arrangement, were inducted as bandsmen and posted to the newly formed 2/22nd Infantry Battalion. All were sworn in as privates except Gullidge, who as bandmaster was given the rank of sergeant.

The new volunteers received a week’s leave to spend with their families before reporting to Royal Park, Victoria, for medical examinations and formal induction. During those last days at home, many sat for portraits in their new uniforms. Gullidge looked confident and dashing in his distinctive slouch hat, worn at a carefree angle with the right brim curled down, the left side turned up, and the leather strap tucked firmly under his broad chin. The other bandsmen looked much the same in their portraits, the anticipation of grand adventure showing clearly in their faces. A handsomer group would be hard to imagine.

In late July, the bandsmen reported to the encampment of the 2/22nd (pronounced “second twenty-second”) at
Trawool, fifty miles north of Melbourne. Their new home was a neatly arranged cluster of white canvas tents and temporary shelters along the western fringe of the Australian Alps. There was a wild beauty to the rugged, open countryside, but the days were cold and damp from the frequent winter rains, and at night the recruits shivered in their tents because there weren’t enough woolen
blankets to go around. To make matters worse, the primitive shower building, known as the “ablution block,” lacked hot water.

T
HE 2/22ND
I
NFANTRY
B
ATTALION, LIKE MOST BATTALIONS IN THE 2ND
AIF, consisted of approximately one thousand volunteers. What made it unique was that the vast majority of its members hailed from Melbourne or the southern regions of Victoria, the second most populous state in Australia. Assignments were generally based on abilities and past experience, with most of the men ending up in one of the battalion’s rifle companies. Others reported to the Headquarters Company, the Mortar Platoon, Pioneer Platoon, Anti-Aircraft Light Machine Gun Platoon, Reinforcement Company, or Carrier Platoon. Only thirty-three individuals—just over 3 percent of the battalion—held rank as commissioned officers, including chaplains and medical personnel.

From its inception, the 2/22nd was commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Howard H. Carr, who had volunteered for the 2nd AIF at the age of forty-one. He joined the army only four days before the battalion was formed, having attained his rank as a “Saturday afternoon soldier” in the Citizen Military Forces (CMF), the Australian equivalent to the National Guard. His regular job had been with the Victoria Telephone Department, and it was rumored that his ambitious wife had more to do with his promotions in the CMF than any ability on his part. Carr was the spit-and-polish type who stomped loudly to attention and rendered salutes with a quivering snap. However, beneath the façade he had a benign personality, and was regarded as a considerate soul rather than hard-boiled.

Carr also happened to be an avid gambler. His affinity for poker led to a popular nickname for the new battalion. Standing before the assembled troops at the first official parade, he announced that he was calling the battalion “Little Hell.” The card players among them could appreciate the humor: a poker hand containing three twos (as in 2/22) was the lowest possible three of a kind. Often it was enough for a winning hand, but three deuces could also create a devilish dilemma, especially when the stakes were high.

The battalion’s second in command, Major William W. Leggatt, was four years older than
Carr and had considerably more military experience. A veteran of World War
I,
he had served with distinction in France, earning
a Military Cross for combat valor. Born on Malekula Island in the New Hebrides in 1894, he became a lawyer following the “Great War” and built a successful practice in Mornington, Victoria.

Several other members of the battalion had also served during World War I. Warrant Officer-11 Henry E. “Mac” McLellan, born in London in 1900, had earned a commission in the 1st AIF but did not deploy overseas. Charles R. Benson, also a warrant officer, was born the same year and did serve with the British Expeditionary Force. But neither man had anything on Lance Corporal Bernard E. L. Cox, who was born in London in 1897 and fought in France with the 2nd Pioneers. In all, three warrant officers and thirteen enlisted men had served during World War I, and many others in the battalion had close relatives who were part of that unforgettable conflict. All across Australia, people spoke with solemn reverence of strange-sounding places like Gallipoli, the Somme, and Ypres.

E
XCEPT FOR THEIR SLOUCH HATS, THE SOLDIERS OF THE
AIF
WORE
B
RITISH-
style uniforms; they also carried British weapons and followed British Army manuals. But to say that the AIF was modeled after the British Army would be to grossly understate the relationship.
“We
were
British,” explained historian Ted Harris. “We followed them slavishly. We called England ‘The Mother Country.’ People talked of ‘going home,’ meaning the UK, even though they had been born in Australia. The British supplied many of our senior training officers, we purchased our arms from them, we sang their songs, we watched their movies, we ate their style of food, and we looked to them for fashion.”

Statistics support Harris’ statement. One out of every ten soldiers in the 2/22nd was a native of Great Britain, with more than sixty from London alone. And yet, for all their British heritage, the Australian soldiers reveled in their own special qualities. If the most visible difference was their slouch hat, the most intrinsic was their cheerful nickname for themselves: “Diggers.” It had originated sometime during World War I, but historians still can’t agree whether it sprang from the trench warfare that defined much of that conflict, or was born of the fact that many troops were former prospectors and farmers. What mattered most was that Aussie soldiers everywhere were proud to be known as Diggers. They cherished mateship as much as courage, if not more, which made them unique among the world’s armies.

At Trawool, the men of the 2/22nd spent much of their day “square-bashing,” their jargon for marching in formation around the muddy parade ground in the center of the encampment. Infantrymen first, they were taught how to handle, shoot, and care for their .303-caliber Lee-Enfield rifles. With each passing day, soldiering became more natural. In addition to marching and weapons drills, they had regular physical training, including long hikes to build stamina. When not involved in company-strength drills, individuals trained at specialties such as marksmanship, communications, or intelligence gathering. Sergeant Gullidge and the other bandsmen did double duty, performing martial and ceremonial music as well as learning first-aid techniques.

Gullidge requested additional training time to spend with the band, which by late August had grown beyond its original nucleus of “Salvos.” Battalion-wide, new recruits arrived periodically and original members departed—usually because of training injuries or other fitness concerns—and the band was no exception. Only a few musicians had departed, but ten more arrived as replacements. Two of the new bandsmen were non-Salvationists, including Private James R. Thurst II, who had been born in the United States and was technically an American citizen.

The journey that brought him to Trawool was a convoluted one. Thurst’s father, the elder James, was born in England and raised in a Catholic home for boys until the tender age of nine, when he emigrated to America with his brother Bill. When they got a bit older, the two began working their way across the country, eventually reaching the Pacific Northwest. James took on jobs that were increasingly hazardous, working on trains as a railroader, riding logjams as a lumberjack, and later sailing around the world aboard square-rigged ships. He settled down long enough to marry Florence Burroughs, a schoolteacher from Wisconsin, and she gave birth to three children: Kathleen, James II, and Mildred, all born in Washington.

Soon after “Millie” was born, James and Bill
Thurst headed for Australia to seek new fortunes. James promised to send for his family as soon as he was settled, and in due time Florence received steamship tickets to Sydney. She felt obligated to use them, but later admitted that if James had simply sent her money instead of tickets, she would not have gone. As it was, she and the children boarded the MV
Tahiti
and sailed to Australia in 1914.

The Thursts raised their family on a farm near Skenes Creek, four miles from Apollo Bay on the south coast of Victoria. Music was their main entertainment. James had a fine singing voice, Florence played the violin, and young Jim inherited musical talent from both of them. “He could pick up an instrument,” said his younger brother Bruce, born on the farm in 1916, “and within half an hour he could get a tune out of it. He could play anything at all.”

But when Jim was nine, tragedy struck. His father, invited to perform in a concert at Apollo Bay, was driving Florence and little Bruce to town in the family gig when they saw a man struggling to lift a trunk onto the back of a horse. The man was inebriated, so James got down from the gig to help. First he boosted the drunk into the saddle, then bent down to pick up the trunk. The horse kicked out, hitting James squarely in the forehead. He died from a massive concussion without ever regaining consciousness.

Unable to keep the farm, Florence moved the family to Colac, an inland town along the Princes Highway. She took odd jobs as a cleaning woman, but her family was constantly on the threshold of poverty. Jim earned money as a gardener, and developed into a quiet, methodical man. As an adult he remained near his mother, dedicating his free time to music and the Methodist church. “James played the cornet,” recalled Bruce. “He was the number one cornet player in the Colac Brass Band; he was a scoutmaster; he was an elder in the church; he was everything that he was supposed to be, everything I wasn’t.”

Florence and Jim had moved back to Skenes Creek by the time the war began. Although none of the American-born Thursts had ever changed their citizenship, James felt a strong obligation toward his adopted country and enlisted in the 2nd AIF on his twenty-eighth birthday. Private Thurst was assigned to the 2/22nd and arrived in late August at Trawool, where Gullidge accepted him as a cornet player. Thurst proved to be unique: the only Methodist in the band and the only Yank in the entire battalion.

A
FTER LESS THAN TWO MONTHS IN THE CROWDED TENT CITY, ORDERS CAME
for the 2/22nd to relocate to a new training base farther north, near the border of New South Wales. The news frustrated the battalion’s tennis players, who had just put the finishing touches on a brand-new court. They would have to leave it to the next batch of trainees.

The battalion’s sister unit from Victoria, the 2/21st, was ordered to move from Trawool at the same time. The whole evolution was carefully planned as a march, which would spare the army the expense of transporting some two thousand men over a distance of 150 miles. The army would also benefit from the publicity generated by showing off the troops along the route.

After breaking camp, the 2/22nd began the long march on September 24. At the town of Seymour the battalion swung onto the Melbourne-Sydney highway, and for the next ten days they marched through small towns with lyrical names like Euroa, Benalla, Glenrovan, and Wangaratta. At each town, the bandsmen offloaded their instruments from a truck and formed at the head of the line, then led a brassy parade down the main street. At night the battalion bivouacked in fairgrounds and pastures. The final bivouac came on a chilly, crystal-clear night outside the small town of Tarrawingee. Giant bonfires were lighted and the men spent several memorable hours singing their favorite songs under a brilliant canopy of stars.

The tenth day’s march brought the battalion to
Bonegilla, a hamlet on the western shores of Lake Hume in the foothills of the Australian Alps. Training resumed immediately in the newly constructed camp of corrugated huts. The troops skirmished, performed maneuvers, and sharpened their fighting skills six days a week, the weather turning increasingly hot as the Australian summer approached. Weeks blended into months, and the soldiers endured “an endless round of drills, weapons training, parades and inspections.”