Walk a War in My Shoes Read online

  Walk a War in My Shoes

  By

  Murray Ernest Hall

  PREFACE

  CHAPTER 1

  THE EARLY YEARS

  CHAPTER 2

  CLOVERDALE

  CHAPTER 3

  20TH LIGHT HORSE

  CHAPTER 4

  CASTLEMAINE – WILLIAMSTOWN – BROADMEADOWS

  CHAPTER 5

  HMAT 64 – DEMOSTHENES

  CHAPTER 6

  EGYPT

  CHAPTER 7

  ALEXANDRIA TO THE FRONT LINE

  CHAPTER 8

  THE FRONT DOOR OF HELL

  CHAPTER 9

  2ND AUSTRALIAN TUNNELLING COMPANY

  CHAPTER 10

  THE RIVER SOMME

  CHAPTER 11

  LUCKILY IT WAS A DUD

  CHAPTER 12

  TWELVE MONTHS IN – THE HARD YARDS

  CHAPTER 13

  YOU WIN SOME, YOU LOSE SOME

  CHAPTER 14

  YPRES – ZILLEBEKE – HOOGE – POLYGON WOOD

  CHAPTER 15

  THE BATTLE OF BROODSEINDE

  CHAPTER 16

  THE ONE HUNDRED YEAR TIDY UP

  CHAPTER 17

  AND THE OTHERS…

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

  Copyright & Footnotes

  My biggest heartache in writing this book is that my mother will never read it.

  Without her interest and passion in family history it is unlikely that this story would ever have been told.

  On behalf of Ernest Alfred Hall and myself, we dedicate this book to the memory of

  Dorothy (Dot) Olive Maud Hall.

  A short walk South-West of the Ypres

  town centre on the Omloopstraat sits the

  Belgium Battery Corner Cemetery.

  In Section 2, Row D, Plot 12 rests a soldier.

  My soldier.

  PREFACE

  THERE HAVE BEEN hundreds of magnificent books written around Australia’s involvement in World War 1. The legend of the ANZAC’s, specific battle grounds like Gallipoli and the Somme, personnel diaries, collections of individual stories, photograph collections and paintings. They collectively make up an historical record of an era that left this country battered and bruised.

  For good or bad, and as heart wrenching as some of them are to read, they will forever remain a part of Australia’s history. In every one of those pieces of work is a story or multiple stories. Each and every one of them deserve their day in the sun.

  As a young adult, I had a loose understanding, mainly through family folk lore, of my great uncle’s demise in World War 1. The story was old, it didn’t have much bearing on me and I was simply too young to understand the importance of such an historical connection. It wasn’t until 1974 when, as a 21-year-old living in the Belgian city of Ghent, I started to connect the dots a bit better. Ernest Alfred Hall was at rest in a war cemetery 100km away in the town of Ypres. Armed with the knowledge that no family member had ever stood at the foot of his memorial stone, I made the effort to do so.

  Along with a mate, we borrowed a car from the Kazzematten Straat that someone had kindly left the keys in the ignition of and drove down to Ypres. The outing is one that has stuck in my mind my entire life since. At the time though, I had no idea or understanding of the conflict that had taken place in and around this town 60 years earlier. We later realized we had been walking the Western Front, or certainly part of it.

  As neither the World Wide Web nor Google Maps had been invented in 1974 we drove around from war grave to war grave, asking farmers along the way for directions to the “Belgium Battery Corner Cemetery”. I struggled to comprehend the dozens of manicured, immaculately kept cemeteries in the middle of open farmer’s fields filled to the brim with white military headstones. The quantity of cemeteries and the sheer volume of row upon row of headstones was staggering. Added to the reality check of what we were learning was the heart-breaking knowledge that not every head stone represented one soldier. The inscription on numerous headstones read “3 men – known unto God” or 4 or 5, or worse. Soldiers blown to bits and bundled into mass graves.

  If they are lucky, those lost souls will have their name recorded on the Menin Gate Memorial to the Missing in Ypres where 54,395 names of Commonwealth soldiers with “no known grave” are engraved into the marble. Or a few kilometres away at Tyne Cot Cemetery where another 34,991 names are recorded.

  Our day in Ypres was unsuccessful in that we failed to find the Belgium Battery Corner Cemetery. We returned to Ghent and parked the car back where we had found it, leaving the keys in the ignition. A few phone calls later and a little more research, we had an address.

  The next day we borrowed the same vehicle and drove back to Ypres, locating the Cemetery within walking distance of the town centre, Grote Markt.

  Like the other cemeteries we had been to the day before, this one also lay in a large open field. About an acre in size, surrounded by farmer’s green crops. Five Hundred and sixty-eight soldiers are buried there.

  Over the following years my interest would fire up occasionally, maybe inspired from reading another book on WW1 or more likely through my mother’s drive. She was considered the family historian and occasionally she would share updates with me of her research into great Uncle Ern.

  When she passed away in 2013 she bequeathed to me a filing cabinet full of family archives, magnificently researched and documented. In the cabinet was a large folder marked EAH containing a treasure trove of original letters, artefacts, postcards, photographs and documents.

  What literally fell into my lap was a breathtaking life story of a brave young Australian that had gathered dust and remained untold for almost a hundred years.

  Over the next five years, I read, researched, and studied every document in the file and travelled to France and Belgium twice. A passing interest ballooned into an obsession to get my hands on anything that would satisfy my desire to walk a few steps in Ernest’s shoes.

  At some stage, and encouraged by family and friends, the obvious conclusion was reached. Ernest Alfred Hall deserves his day in the sun and my role would be to glue his magnificent story together.

  I sought assistance from a wide range of agencies and individuals who shared the passion. Not only Australian based but in Belgium, France and Britain. The reader can be assured the ANZAC spirit is alive and well in all those countries. Maybe I was lucky, but on every occasion those contacts bent over backwards to supply information to me or they would redirect me to someone who would do so. Their willingness to freely share historical knowledge has been overwhelming.

  Wherever possible, I have transcribed his letters word for word as they help to reflect the era they were written in. Some of the language he has used would not be politically correct today, however for the purpose of accuracy I have left phrases and derogatory comments exactly as they were written. Please do not be offended. I have also left the units of measurement as they were at the time, British Imperial.

  This is Ernest Alfred Hall’s story.

  CHAPTER 1

  THE EARLY YEARS

  AUSTRALIA WAS VERY much a raw but rapidly developing country at the time of my birth, Sunday 25th August 1895.

  It’s been a mere one hundred and seven years since Captain Phillip came ashore in Sydney Harbour with one thousand and thirty people in tow to establish British rule in Captain Cook’s discovered “New South Wales”. The colony grew very quickly in the early years, spreading its wings up and down the East coast, across the Tasman and then progressively westwards, trickling into South Australia. Western Australia grew out from Fremantle and moved eastwards.

  Ou
r population growth over that time has resembled that of a rabbit plague, growing to around 4.2 million persons by 1895. It was accelerated firstly by the one hundred and sixty-two thousand convicts sent out by the British establishment. Later, a surge of free-settlers, brought on by the gold rush era of the mid 1800’s when tens of thousands of immigrants, mainly from America where the Californian gold rush had slowed, and many thousands from China, flooded into Australia. All were seeking a new life and instant wealth.

  While the growth rate might appear outstanding, the population in 1895 only equates to around 1.5 person per square mile of this vast continent, so there remained plenty of room for expansion.

  We are a massive continent, with extremes from top to bottom that make it a mini-world of its own. Bitterly cold, snow, ice and massive seas. Spectacular roaming hills and magnificent forests, pristine beaches and potential farming land as far as the eye can see. And all that is just around the coast line. Move into the centre and the territory changes, it becomes barren, harsh, the heat and lack of water is life threatening. Desert and sand hills, not a decent tree for two hundred miles.

  Many men were commissioned to explore and survey the continent, most will report back to their governors with their findings of outstanding landscapes and potential for the colony to grow. Several will have their skeletons found under sun drenched trees years later, having failed to respect the harshness of the country.

  The gold rush era is credited with giving us our own identity, a mateship mentality developed, a sense of comradeship, lend a hand, help each other out, look out for each other. We developed our own accent which deviates greatly from the King’s English, a rogue Cockney twang that will become very easy to pick outside of our shores.

  The Colony is blessed in that we have inherited British law and order, so we are not generally a lawless mob roaming the outback holding up stage coaches. Some have tried it as a profession, but they inevitably get caught and are jailed or hung like Ned Kelly was at Pentridge prison, fifteen years before my birth. We are in most cases, respectful, hardworking pioneers. A large percentage of us are living rough, clearing land, laying down crops, surveying and exploring this great land as it opens out beyond the horizon. We are builders, road layers and farmers, not afraid of getting our hands dirty or working from sun up to sun set so that our families have a roof over their heads and some food on the table.

  The summer heat is relentless and brutal for those working out in it. The winter is not quite so savage to deal with, there is plenty of fire wood available to keep us warm.

  Our heritage has also given us a respectable system of governance. We are considered British subjects (if born in Australia) and our six self-governing colonies are all operating well. There is talk of Federation, but it won’t come into play for a few years yet, the colonies will need to mutually agree to form the Commonwealth of Australia. Britain is the Motherland and our respect for ‘King and Country’ is rock solid.

  The major towns of the colonies are modern and well planned, infrastructure is being built, railways, tram cars, bridges and of course roads. Heavy industries, making machinery and components that would previously have been sent out by ship from Britain, are starting to open. We are becoming self-sufficient and independent.

  My birth town of Melbourne is a spectacular place to see. Well designed, wide-open boulevards in the town centre, Flinders, Swanston, Collins and Bourke streets bustling with activity, the rail trams running up through the centre delivering people to their business or shopping venues. Three and four-story buildings line both sides of these main streets with our British architectural heritage proudly on display as facades and entrances to the major buildings.

  Magnificent displays of red brick, limestone, bluestone, and granite are in abundance, carved out and laid by local tradesmen.

  The Melbourne Town Hall is a sight to behold. Stunning Victorian architecture, predominately Bluestone with the clock tower that can be seen from as far away as Richmond. A hundred yards or so further down Swanston Street you will find the beautiful Gothic style structure of St Pauls Cathedral constructed from locally mined Limestone and Sandstone. Proud buildings built by superb craftsmen.

  A short walk to the east is the Melbourne Cricket Ground. The new wooden grandstand can comfortably seat five thousand patrons. If you are one of the well-to-do people around Melbourne, and hold a member’s ticket, there are four hundred and fifty seats reserved for you.

  The Yarra River meanders around the southern side of Flinders street. River boats can be seen trading their wares along the river’s edge, coming and going from the custom houses and storage sheds on the south bank. Melbourne is a vibrant and energetic town in 1895.

  Surrounding us are the native peoples, the Aborigines. We have little to do with them and they us, but occasionally tensions become high when rumours of violence filter through the colony grapevine. I realise they have been here for a million years, but I am not sure what the future will hold for them now we have expanded so rapidly.

  My Grandfather, George Hall was born in Dinapore, India in 1809. Born into a British military family of Irish descent, his father, Major Thomas Hall was employed by the military arm of the British East India Company. He was Commander of the Bareilly Province Battalion in Bengal.

  George would grow up under the military umbrella. As a teenager, and no doubt with some influence from his father, he joined His Majesty’s 67th Foot Guards while in India. George returned to Britain (South Hampshire) when the unit moved out of India in 1826 and stayed on with the 67th.

  In 1832 he was offered the choice of being sent to Gibraltar or accept a commission to travel to Van Diemen’s Land (with 20 other family members) with instructions to “develop the colony”. He chose the latter and arrived in Hobart as a 23-year-old.

  Initially, George was assigned to the Port Arthur penal settlement and later promoted to Superintendent of a Hulk Chain Gang based at Battery Point. The chain gang was made up of convicts whose sentence had not yet expired or more likely had not met the Governors pleasure for release. The miscreants were of the worst kind, most of them were murderers and George carried a pistol for self-preservation. They were primary road construction crews working around the town of Hobart however, George and his gang also oversaw the preparation for a new wharf at Sullivan’s Cove.

  In late 1835, after being denied a pay rise from the Governor, George and his new wife Elizabeth Fenton, (sister of his best mate James Fenton) moved north and leased land at Middle Plains near Dunorlan.

  A couple of years later he was granted a selection of three hundred and twenty acres (equivalent to half a square mile) of light forest fronting the beach at Port Sorell. Spectacular countryside.

  George and Elizabeth set about clearing the land which was mostly light scrub anyway, planting potatoes, running a few sheep and producing a family. They named the property “Spring Lawn” after a relative’s land holding back in Athlone, Ireland. The sloping, self-draining marsh land proved magnificent for their purposes.

  It wasn’t long before the property was returning ten tonnes per acre in potatoes. The produce was either exported from Port Sorel direct to the Melbourne markets or to Launceston for local consumption. At twenty pounds a ton for potatoes and sheep selling for five pounds each, Grandfather was in the right place at the right time and made a fortune.

  Late in 1841 George believed he had found a better opportunity in an area a few miles south, known as New Ground (north of Latrobe). He sold Spring Lawn and leased a 640-acre property known as “The Hermitage”.

  Grandfather supplemented his income at New Ground by negotiating a contract to act as Post Master of the area. He was compensated the worldly sum of twenty-five pounds per year for this service. Operating from the front room of his cottage, the mail would arrive and be despatched via horseback that would pass once a week. The rider would also drop off supplies for the household while on his postal run.

  In 1844, George selected another 500-acre pr
operty adjacent to The Hermitage and leased it out.

  He was clearly an intelligent man with considerable moral standing in the community, however it must have proven very difficult for him to operate at the level of society he was in without having the basic skills of being able to read or write. He signed his name with a simple “X”.

  He took his military commitment to “develop the colony” very seriously and eight children were born into the family between 1836 and 1852. Dear Elizabeth, died in December 1852, three months after the birth of her last child (Charles Edward Hall) of “Consumption” (tuberculosis) aged 42.

  In the early years of colonisation, the British establishment encouraged the development of the Church of England into Australia. They were concerned that the large number of Irish convicts being sent to Australia would bring Roman Catholicism in as the dominant religion, so they countered with a pro-active approach and promoted the British church of choice.

  The owner of The Hermitage property, like George, was a product of the establishment (ex-Military) and permitted an Anglican church to be built in the corner of that property, a few hundred yards from the Hall family cottage.

  Elizabeth was buried in that sacred ground.

  What then followed must have been an extremely stressful period for George. Being left with seven children, 16, 12, 10, 8, 6, a 4-year-old and the new born to care for plus the day to day running of the farm. My grandfather would have been under considerable pressure.

  A couple of difficult years followed. Several bad storms washed the top soil and potatoes into the creek. Compounded by a glut in the wholesale potatoes market, it made that produce almost unsaleable for five years.

  On a personal front, George’s luck improved when he took up with the carer/house help he had hired and he would marry 22-year-old Selina Sarah Stocks on 21st Feb 1855. She gave birth to nine children between 1856 and 1874, the second child born was my father, Ernest Fortescue Hall, on 23rd February 1858. Three of his siblings that followed wouldn’t survive past their second birthday. Tough conditions, tough times.