The young trooper lay there, grimacing in pain. The doctors
had done their best but now nothing could be done. As the padre
sat alongside the bed, he held the lad's hand.
Suddenly the soldier squeezed tightly and dragged the padre closer.
"You make sure they get it right on the headstone . . . Please
- make sure." Then there was silence as the soldier's hand
went limp and fell to his side. The padre was puzzled and didn't
understand the young trooper's request.
Harry was a boy of the land. Lean and wiry he stood 5ft 4 in and
weighed a scant 8 stone. He worked hard on the family property in
the tiny town of Walpeup, in northwest Victoria. School didn't interest
him much but the adventure of the outdoors did.
Level headed, a capable bushman, handy with a rifle and a natural
with horses, Harry displayed all the attributes of the cream of
Australia's youth.
He admired the older blokes, the ones he saw at the local dances,
courting the girls and those lounging against the verandah rails
near the pub. He bubbled with youthful exuberance.
He had followed the progress of the war in the papers.
Many of the local men had joined the Light Horse and they strutted
around town before their deployment overseas.
The cut of their tunics, the shining leather of the bandoliers,
boots and leggings, the emu plumes ruffling in the breeze and a
girl on each arm.
"This is for me!" Harry thought to himself.
By the light of the kero lamp, he would read the exploits of the
diggers in Gallipoli.
The hair-raising adventures, the madcap charges against machine-guns,
the hand-to-hand battles against incredible odds. It was everything
he'd ever dreamed of.
Following the evacuation, he read of the desert war. Jifjafa, Romani,
El Arish and Rafa. Horses and men working as one, charging across
the dunes and getting stuck into the enemy.
He noticed too when blokes he knew came home, some minus arms, others
legs, some blind.
Some didn't make it home and their mothers, sisters or wives went
about the town dressed in black, their eyes red through constant
tears.
"Oh well, they are the risks you take," the young lad
throught to himself.
Harry knew his father wouldn't let him go to war, so no use asking.
One night he packed his bag and placed a letter against the vase
on the side table.
In it he said that he was off to do a bit of Jackarooing in Queensland
and he'd write when he could.
He crept towards the back door, ever mindful that a creaking floorboard
could give away his plan at any moment. At the door he paused, looked
back one last time and then he was gone.
When his father awoke, he found the letter. Reading through the
page he said to himself - "bloody little idiot".
Harry presented himself at the Light Horse recruiting centre on
March 17, 1917.
As he filled out the paperwork, he wrote in his name, Harold Thomal
Wickham, age 21 and his next of kin - uncle, Thomas Bell - Walpeup,
Victoria.
The recruiting officer scanned the lad carefully.
"You look a bit young, got a birth certificate?"
"No sir, it was lost in a fire a few years ago," Harry
replied.
"And your parents?"
"No sir, died in the fire. Got an uncle but we don't talk much."
"Alright, we'll see how you go," the officer said.
For Harry the test was a breeze. Ride a horse bareback jump a fence
and a bit of dodging and weaving.
The other recruits cheered as they watched Harry put the horse through
its paces.
Galloping to the finish, he brought the horse to a sliding halt
and jumped off running, all in one fluid motion.
He was allocated first to the 13th Light Horse Regiment but this
was later changed to the 4th Light Horse. Young Harry relished the
closeness of military life. The men around him treated him as nothing
but an equal.
Musketry, bayonet drills, navigation and drill. He thrived in the
training and displayed the natural attributes of a born soldier.
He even had a grin when it came to mucking out the stables - just
part of the job.
The only sad time came at mail call, for his name was never called
out.
Harry embarked for Egypt on June 22, 1917, arriving in Suez six
weeks later.
A further period of orientation and training was undertaken. But,
most importantly, he was issued with his horse.
The pair soon got to know and trust each other, they enjoyed long
rides in the surrounding desert and on returning to the lines, the
trooper would take particular care in grooming his mount.
The lad was fair but firm and his trusty steed responded to his
every command without hesitation.
They knew they were a team and they knew that they'd be a good one.
On September 19, Trooper Harry Wickham was taken on strength of
the 4th Light Horse Regiment AIF.
Harry was assigned to a Hotchkiss machine gun section and also tasked
with the care of one of the packhorses. He worked hard to master
the new weapon and with another horse to care for, it just meant
twice the fun.
The British and Anzac forces were preparing for action. They had
attacked Gaza twice and twice they had failed. The Light Horse patrols
seemed to be ranging further and further into the desert along the
Wadi Gaza towards the fortified town of Beersheba.
Morning of October 28, 1917, Harry was tending to his horses. His
corporal approached him.
"Harry, we move out late this afternoon, full marching orders,
three days rations for man and horse, make sure the horses are fully
watered before we go, don't know when we'll hit water again."
The NCO's less than normal jovial mood told all.
"No problems corp, we'll be ready," the young trooper
replied.
As the corporal walked away, Harry nuzzled into his two charges.
"Looks like this is it, eh. The real thing!"
At 4pm the Regiment was ready to move. The men waited with anticipation
and then it came - the hand signal from the CO and they were off.
They rode through the night to conceal the dust. It was to be a
silent march, no smoking, no talking. Aircraft buzzed around in
the distance to conceal the noise.
The Fourth was only one Regiment among many. Thousands were being
thrown into this battle, aimed to capture the abundant wells nestled
within the heavily defended perimeter of Beersheba. They tried to
get what rest they could during the day and were in the saddle again
that night. The men had their water bottles but there was nothing
for the horses. It was the same next day. The morning of the 31st
they found themselves overlooking the town.
The Fourth and its sister regiment, the 12th, were held in reserve.
The third regiment of the Brigade, the 11th, was off on another
task.
As the battle raged, the Fourth and 12th lay in a sheltered wash
out. Even though it was the end of summer, the sun still bore down
fiercely on both man and horse alike. The men still had only the
remnants of water in their bottles, as for the horses, their water
lay either in Beersheba or the unthinkable, a 12 hour forced march
to the rear.
The diggers watched as the shadows lengthened. "If they don't
take the town soon, we're well and truly stuffed," one said.
The words stuck into Harry like a knife.
Then the order came down along the lines of the Fourth and 12th.
"Regiments . . . form squadron line extended . . . form squadron
line extended."
"Shit, what's going on here?" one trooper said.
They shook out, covering off the pennants that marked their forming
up place. Harry looked around, he could see the buildings in the
distance and the broken, undulating ground between them and the
town.
The squadron sergeant major galloped along the front of the troops.
"What's going on, sir?" the corporal asked.
"We're gonna charge Beersheba mate!" the warrant officer
replied.
The regiments now straddled a road. The Fourth on the right, the
12th on the left. The 11th were trying to get back to them and if
the soldiers arrived in time, they would be in depth.
The CO of the Fourth would lead both regiments. He pulled his hat
down tightly on his head and raised hi shand. Harry looked at his
corporall, who turned towards the lad and winked. A smile broke
across the boy's face. Then they were off at a slow walk.
As his horse became skittish, Harry rubbed its neck to let him know
everything ws all right. He glanced over his shoulder where his
pack horse, laden down with the weight of the machine gun and ammunition,
followed obediently.
The pace now quickened to a trot, then increased to a canter. All
the time the Turkish and German defenders adjusted the range of
their guns in preparation to engage the horsemen when they stopped
to dismount - then it came . . . one curt command. "Charge!"
and they were off.
The enemy was taken aback. This wasn't supposed to happen. They
hurriedly twirled the handwheels in a vain attempt to depress the
barrels of the guns. Then they gave their order. "Fire!"
The high explosive and shrapnel rounds blasted into the ranks of
horsemen. Some were hit but most simply laid down further on their
horse's neck to gain whatever protection they could.
Harry readied himself as he approached the curtain of fire. Blam,
Blam, Blam. Red-hot splinters whizzed around him. A strange mixture
of fear, excitement, panic and glee overcame him. He laughed out
loud as he spurred his mount to produce more and more speed. Suddenly
there was silence they were under the guns.
He could see little orange flashes and could hear whistling overhead.
"I wonder what that is?" Harry thought. His answer came
all too soon, as a machine gun round smashed into his leg. He never
thought such pain existed - the force of the round threw him from
the horse. He bounced along the ground and came to a halt in the
dirty, broken soil. The sound of thundering hooves warned him to
cover his head as another wave of horsemen galloped over him.
He glanced down at his leg, it lay at a grotesque angle, the result
of the bullet shattering his femur. Then things started to blur
as he succumbed to the pain, which lapsed him into unconsciousness.
As he strugled to regain consciousness, he felt the warmth of morphine,
interrupted intermittently by the sharpness of excruciating pain.
As the padre sat next to him, Harry asked how the regiment had fared.
"We took the town Harry, and the blokes and horses are enjoying
a good drink."
Harry lapsed in and out of consciousness throughout the night. In
the morning he was still alive but only just. The padre again called
on him. "Make sure they get the headstone right," Harry
screamed, and with that the young trooper went limp.
The next day, Harry was buried in a temporary cemetery on the outskirts
of the town.
Back home, Thomas Bell received a telegram from Army Headquarters.
It informed him of the death of his 'nephew' Harry.
Bell wrote back to the Army to highlight their error. "I don't
have a nephew named Harry. I do have a son by that name but he couldn't
be in the Army, he's only 16."
WO1 DARRYL KELLY.
I FOUND THE GRAVE OF TROOPER HARRY THOMAS BELL ALIAS HARRY WICKHAM
WHEN SERVING IN THE MIDDLE EAST. WHILE I CAN ONLY SURMISE THE EVENTS
LEADING UP TO HARRY'S DEATH, I BELIEVE IT TO BE CHARACTERISTIC OF
MANY UNDER-AGED AUSTRALIANS WHO FOUGHT IN BOTH WARS UNDER ASSUMED
NAMES, MORE OFTEN THAN NOT WITHOUT THE PARENTS KNOWLEDGE OR CONSENT.
AND YES, THEY DID GET IT RIGHT ON THE HEADSTONE.
