The Signal Service

Scattered throughout Egypt and Palestine and Syria, in the community of war-worn Australians, is a certain section known to the initiated as the Engineer Signal Service of the Australian Imperial Force in Egypt. To the casual Light Horseman they are “Sigs”—a vague and most inadequate designation. Little is known of the Engineer Signaller and his work by his brother of the Light Horse, whose one idea of signalling begins and ends with the Regimental signaller, a being who shares with him the pleasures and hardships of all stunts, but who is on a plane above, because no piquets and fatigues are his. At home, the popular conception of signalling is of a soldier standing on the last, lone, bullet-swept ridge, coolly flag-wagging a message which turns a forlorn hope into a brilliant victory, and earns for him Oblivion. Signalling, as the Signal Service know it, is far from being a flag-wagging occupation; they find themselves part of a well-planned business, which is based on efficiency, and conducted with that thoroughness for detail only to be found in an army.

“Sapper Smith, get your horse saddled up right away and report at the Signal office. You need not worry about your tea—I’ll see it is kept for you. You are only going to Romani.”

The Squadron horses, after their first stunt on the desert of Sinai in April, ’16, had been off-saddled and fed at Hill 40, so the order came as a surprise.

“Right-o! Corporal!”

The horse was soon saddled, and Smith reported at the Signal office at five o’clock.

“What’s doing, Mac?”

“Light Horse Brigade, Romani.” The signal-master read out the address as he handed over the despatch to Smith.

“Where’s Romani, Mac?”

Mac, the signal-master, came outside and pointed across an unbroken stretch of desert to the east.

“About five miles in that direction, I think,” he replied. “Keep near the railway line and you’ll be pretty right.”

Smith departed, and rode out into the gathering dusk of the East. He had never heard of Romani before, nor did he know how many miles he had to travel across this desert, where the Turk had been but a few hours ago, to reach the place; so he spurred his horse on over the heavy sand and covered four miles in quick time.

“We ought to be there before dark.” He spoke to the horse rather than to himself. “We’ve covered a good four miles now.”

He rode on over the level places, climbed the loose sand of the steep, razor-backed dunes, and slid down their opposite slopes to the level again, until another four miles had been crossed; yet he had not reached Romani. The darkness found him still pushing east over the toilsome, never-ending sand, with a set of new northern stars for guides.

A desert dog started up at his horse’s feet, yelped away into the night, and threw the horse into a panic of fear; a stunted bush loomed in the darkness ahead and took on the shape of a crouching figure, sinister in the gloom. Here was a dilemma!

“Shall I let the horse bolt while I try to loosen my rifle? or is it better to hang on to the horse and chance—ah! It is only a bush. Am I near Romani yet?”

Eight more weary miles slipped slowly by, the sandhills pressed in on all sides, and ever the horse stumbled on gamely over loose sand and steep ridges.

“Yes, it’s a light.”

Smith swayed in the saddle and spoke again.

“Hooray! I’ve arrived,” he said.

Some time after ten o’clock a wearied despatch-rider came out of the night, handed in a despatch at its Romani address, obtained a receipt and departed. Next morning Smith reported to the signal-master and handed him the receipted slip for his despatch.

“How far is it to Romani, Mac?” was all he remarked.

At Ed Dhaberiye, and at Tel Khuweilfeh, in the hills to the north-east of Bir el Saba, the fight waged hot during the first week of November, ’17. That week is one to be remembered by the cable troop of the squadron; in it they knew no rest, for they worked night and day on the communications, and laid miles of cable to and from the Brigades.

A SIGNAL OFFICE IN THE FIELDBy T. H. Ivers

“Corporal Dawk!”

“Here, sir,” responded Dawk from behind one of the cable-wagons where he had been trying to dispose of a hasty meal.

“Hook in your team and get away to the 2nd Brigade with that line.”

“Very good, sir.”

Dawk turns to the drivers.

“Get your horses in, Charlie; we’ve got another job. Hey! Gunner.”

“What, again?” says Gunner, as he looks at his half-finished meal.

“Come over, Baldy! Back, Ginger!”

The polers are hooked up, and in a short space the wagon moves off to the Signal office for final instructions. Gunner jumps down from the body of the wagon, drags the end of the wire into the Signal office, and then mounts and pulls out over the hill.

The wagon rolls steadily over the rocky hills, reeling out the cable as it proceeds. Darkness settles down, but this does not deter the cable detachment.

“Whoa!” roars the lead driver as a wady-bed opens up below him in the darkness. “Steady with those horses behind—who’s in the pole?”

“What’s the matter?” inquires Dawk, riding up to the leaders.

“Oh, another wady; it looks pretty solid, too.”

Dawk looks ahead, rides off to the right, and after a few minutes calls out directions to the drivers.

“This way with that wagon; you can get across here.”

Charlie swings his leaders round and heads for the spot where Dawk’s voice is heard. The wagon jolts over a rock, and lurches toward the wady so closely that a huge lump of earth detaches itself from the steep bank and rattles down on to the boulders beneath.

“Get over to the right!” yells Gunner from the back of the wagon. “What the blazes are you drivers doing? You’ll have the whole box and dice in the wady in a minute!”

“Get up, Tiger! Up, Ginger!”

“Come over Baldy! Come over, you——!”

The wagon draws away from the dangerous edge, swings round, and, with rattling and bumping, descends into the wady-bed in a cloud of dust. The horses bend their backs to the opposite bank and are urged up by the drivers, who have risen in the stirrups and are leaning over their necks.With a last effort the team pulls forward, the wagon jolts over the top, and then stops.

Harry, who was thrown from his seat at the back of the cable-wagon as it bumped the wady-bed, comes limping up the slope. As he climbs into his seat he makes a remark to Gunner.

“That was a snifter!” he says.

“My oath! a beaut.”

More wady-beds open up, more detours are made, more dizzy descents and stiff ascents are negotiated, until, at last, the wagon draws in to Brigade Headquarters. The line is through, and everything is in readiness for the attack at dawn.

“When you’ve done with that pack-saddle, I want to ‘inergate’ a scheme with you.”

“Yes, sir?”

“This stunt is going to be a tough one, so I want you to see that all your pack-sets are in good-going order, and that those pack-saddles are fitted properly. Where are you putting the aerial load, Hook?”

“Everything is ready now; I’m fixing this saddle for the masts.”

“Right-o! And see that the farrier gets to work on those mules straight away.”

“Yes, sir. Have you any idea when we move out?”

“I’ve no idea; in about a week, possibly.”

Hook busied himself with the pack-saddle, fixing gadgets here and knocking bits off there, until he had it to his satisfaction. All the technical equipment—wireless sets, cable gear, etc.—had to be converted for use on pack-saddles in this Amman business during March, ’18.

Six days later the Squadron moved out in the rain, wound its way through the Judean Hills, travelled over the Jordan Valley, crossed the river, and passed up into the hills of Moab.

No wagons or wheeled transport of any kind could possibly traverse those tremendous hills, where the narrow track clung to the steep sides of the hills and threatened to fall away over precipices into rock-fanged valleys beneath. The rain poured down, and along the slippery track the column wended its way, toiling in single file up steep hills and down into precipitous valleys. The path became a river; water poured over the rocky sides of the hills and rushed into the valleys below. Everybody was wet through and greatcoats flapped soggily about weary legs; dripping horsemen ledtheir horses and stumbled and splashed along the track; pack-horses and mules struggled and scrambled as their loads slipped; but the column pushed on and reached a position at Amman after two days and two nights of rain.

“We cannot use the helios, and the cable is ‘dis’ somewhere back in the hills. Is the wireless set up yet?”

Rip-p-p-p-p-p. Rip-p-p-p-rip-p-p-p-rip-p-p-p-rip-p-p-p-p-p-p.

The crash of the transmitting sent echoes through the rain-sodden air and the singing spark sent its message through space, and then whined away into silence. The engine had “karked”—communication had ceased.

No. A basket crate was brought from one of the packs, a message was written on a special form, of thin paper, and placed in a small aluminium tube; a carrier pigeon was taken from the crate, and released with the small tube containing the message attached to one of its legs. The bird circled round uncertainly for a few moments and then flew off in a straight line toward the leaden clouds in the West.

Communication was still maintained.

These are but three incidents—three of many—which have happened in the Signal Service. The Service calls for initiative, coolness, and devotion; all these it has in its ranks. In the desert of Sinai, on the dusty stretches of Southern Palestine, on the plains of Philistia, in the hills of Judea—everywhere “east of the Canal”—the Signal Service has always maintained a high standard which has brought credit to itself, and to the Australian Imperial Force in Egypt.

“ACK-VIC-ACK.”

THE END

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