I TRIED TO GET OUT OF THE ARMY

BY SHAWN O’LEARY

Sydney Morning Herald 9 Feb, 1946, page 7

It is Morotai and October.  There are five and tuppenies by the hundred in the Details Depot beyond Pitoe airstrip.  Men who just sit around and wait for ships that never come in. Men whose servce includes the Middle East, New Guinea and Borneo, and who got the “five and tuppeny” tag for having been five years in the AIF and spending at least two years overseas.

We have priority on all transport: the transport rarely comes.  There is nothing to do in the waiting hours but listen to the public address system over which Crosby intones daily “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” and “Don’t Fence Me In”

We are getting a little sick of Mr Crosby; we are getting a lot sick of being fenced in; we are getting sickest of all when we realize that being home for Christmas may be only a bitter dream.

A few hitch-hike their way to Australia by plane.  Stories drift back of their being shown the inside of a bastille on arrival.  They too, are fenced in.

Then one day it happens.  An orderly room sergeant, long nominal rolls in his hand, bellows our names and gives us embarkation  numbers.  After weeks of waiting the camp is to be cleared of long-service men.

A ship has arrived.  We’ll all be home for Christmas.

They are happy days on board ship.  The food is good, the sea calm, and there is no Mr Crosby.  Beathing through the china Straits, sliding down the  Queensland coast, we lean on the rails, watch the flying fish and reflect on what’s to come.  In a few days we’ll be on shore….in a week at most we’ll be out of the Army…..civilians again….free, unfettered, never again to be fenced in.

When the ship decants us in Brisbane I am one of those held in the Details Dept for a while.  I don’t mind.  I joined the AIF in this city and I haven’t had much chance to see it since I did.  Besides, it’s only for a few days.  QX6095, Lieut. S. H. O’Leary, is going home to Sydney to be S.H. O’Leary, Citizen, for Christmas.

One morning I am told to board a troop train going south in the afternoon.  I catch it and next day I am in the L.T.D. at Marrickville.  I’ve made it!  The date?  November 15, 1945.

In the morning I am X-rayed, given clothing and food coupons, given a leave pass for 14 days.  I’m not too enthusiastic about the leave pass.  I want to rush into my demobilization process at once.  Think of all that freedom going to waste out there!  I want to get my hands on some of it.

But, I reflect, after all, I am from Queensland.  Naturally there must be a breathing spell while my records are collated in Sydney.  I don’t mind, really.  While the Army is doing the right thing by me I’ll go out and look at some of this freedom…..

On November 30 I am back.  I present my pass and myself at the appropriate time and place.

“O’Leary?  O’Leary’s papers!” I hear somebody call across the room.

“never heard of him!”

There is a slight and chilly sweat prickling me, but I manage a reasonably intelligent and certainly attentive grin as I am questioned about my service.

“Ah, a five and tuppeny, huh?  I’m afraid, whether you like it or not, you’ll have to take another month’s leave.”

“But __”

“No but.  All long-service men have to have it.  Besides, your records have to come down from Queensland.”

The officer is firm, but he’s courteous, too.  He fills out a card with what is known about me and tells me everything should be right soon.  If anything turns up he’ll send me a telegram.

Once more, but faintly tottering this time.  I go out to look at freedom…

You’ll be right if you guessed that I didn’t miss my time of reporting back.  December 28 saw me champing on the doorstep again.

“Any papers for O’Leary?  Look up his file card, sergeant.”  The file card is produced; I notice that entries on it have grown; I also notice that there are no papers.

“Nope.  You’ll have to take a few more days’ leave Mr. O’Leary.”  I shudder, I haven’t it in me to utter a word.

“You’re sure being fumbled and fooled by experts, aren’t you?”

I find my tongue then and utter a few words of fervent agreement.  Mind you, I don’t revile the L.T.D.  I know its function is merely to hold me in transit.  But I do want to be passed over to the A.M.F. Discharge Depot.

There is a phone call to Records and the leave pass for a couple of days is given to me.  L.T.D. has been assured by Records that if I report back at the beginning of next week there will be papers waiting at the Showground …

And I do report back.  Bright, smiling, punctual, and expectant.  I am there on the dot.  Another phone call, another delay:___

“Records say it will take another week.  We’ll have to give you a leave pass until January 9.”

But on January 9 things take a new turn.  I am told I may act as a Draft Conducting Officer in charge of myself, sign for receipt of my body; may put me on a tram and take me to the Showground.

I find on arrival that all is well.  At last there are papers.  At last I swim without effort through the first process of demobilization.  I am given coupons and tobacco, I see men who ask me would I like a job, would I like to build a house?  I am told about my repatriation rights; I am told that I may apply for a post-war training; I am also told to report back in the morning ….

At 7.55 a.m. I am on parade again.  So are many others.  I hear the long rolls read and men told as they answer their names:

“Report back tomorrow.  Your medical records aren’t ready yet.”

Behind my back my fingers are twisting as I still maintain the intelligent and attentive grin.  If this happens to me I’m sunk.  My sanity can’t stand up to the strain.  Sanity survives.  I am told I am for discharge.

There begins the long hegira through Commemoration Hall, with bundles of papers, cards, and books in my hands and Mecca at the door.  I am given a Returned From Active Service badge.  I am told I have 101 days’ accrued leave, that I am to be given £11 to buy myself some clothes.  Finally I am given ___________my discharge!

It is crackling, imposing.  It is the most impressive thing I have seen in six years.  Over 2,000 days’ service has gone that I may now clutch this as tightly as I do.

One last thing and I am done.  I shall draw the money for the days of leave due me and collect my £11.  It all amounts to £123, and my hands tremble as I tuck it away.  Now, now, at last .. I am S.H. O’Leary, Citizen, again.

At Moore Park I catch a tram for the city.  I keep my hand clasped tight over the money until I can get to a bank.

“Fares, please,” says a voice on the footboard.  Only then do I realize what I have done.  As I move my left hand to draw out some change I realize that it is free, grasping nothing.  My discharge!  I’ve left it with the pay sergeant!

“Pull the bell …. Stop the horses,” I scream to the tram conductor.  “Don’t fence me in.”

Silence swirls thickly though the tram as with frantic steps and low quavering cries I stumble back to the Showground.