Anzac armour
Created | Updated Apr 25, 2012
My father only just made it into the Australian Army as the
Second World War was coming to a horrible conclusion. He fought in
the last Pacific War campaign involving Anzac troops. A trained
anti-tank gunner, my father went with his division to North Borneo.
Here he encounted all the horrors of warfare up close and personal.
He told me that his mates were so terrified at night, in those jungles of Borneo, that they did not sleep. And he said that every man had his gun by his side twenty four hours a day. The saddest thing he saw was the death of an Aussie sergeant. This man had already fought in three campaigns. He was the oldest veteran of the division. All he had to do was last another couple of months and he would have made it through the war unscathed. Then it happened! Without any warning of impending doom, this man was shot dead. As the whole division went into a state of shock, details of his death filtered out from GHQ. He had apparently being leading a sniper patrol. This late in the war, my dad's division was filled up with raw recruits. The patrol in question had no veterans except for this sergeant. As the patrol approached the site of the last reported sniper shooting, one of the young soliders looked up from his prone position. Observing this, the veteran sergeant raised his head slightly to tell this idiot to hug the ground. The next second a single shot was heard. But it was the sergeant who slumped to the ground. As the patrol returned fire to drive out the sniper, the sergeant bleed to death.
The patrol recovered the body and returned to camp. Experts examined the incident reports from eye witnesses. They worked out that the easier shot would have been the young solider. He had lifted his head high to have a good look. The veteran sergeant was seen to lift his head just a fraction above the horizontal. It would take a great shot even to graze him. Yet the sniper had got him right between the eyes. The experts reckoned that the bullet would have had to travel through some undergrowth, just to reach the sergeant. Not a very likely path for any sniper unless he had been a dead shot. The fact remained that the sergeant was dead and had been killed by a single shot.
My Dad reckoned that the other few veterans, who heard these details, were not surprised. Some had seen mates killed by bullets that should not have been able to reach their positions, let alone kill anyone. They had seen one man killed and another, right next to him, left untouched. This was the deadly paradox of the bullet. They said that if it had your name on it, then a bullet could go around corners to kill you.
Arriving back in Australia, my Dad had to wait to be demobbed. He was given raw recruits to train in the Realities of jungle warfare. One lesson he drummed into them, again and again, was to keep their heads down. And he had a sobbering yarn to back him up on this vital survival tip.
Second World War was coming to a horrible conclusion. He fought in
the last Pacific War campaign involving Anzac troops. A trained
anti-tank gunner, my father went with his division to North Borneo.
Here he encounted all the horrors of warfare up close and personal.
He told me that his mates were so terrified at night, in those jungles of Borneo, that they did not sleep. And he said that every man had his gun by his side twenty four hours a day. The saddest thing he saw was the death of an Aussie sergeant. This man had already fought in three campaigns. He was the oldest veteran of the division. All he had to do was last another couple of months and he would have made it through the war unscathed. Then it happened! Without any warning of impending doom, this man was shot dead. As the whole division went into a state of shock, details of his death filtered out from GHQ. He had apparently being leading a sniper patrol. This late in the war, my dad's division was filled up with raw recruits. The patrol in question had no veterans except for this sergeant. As the patrol approached the site of the last reported sniper shooting, one of the young soliders looked up from his prone position. Observing this, the veteran sergeant raised his head slightly to tell this idiot to hug the ground. The next second a single shot was heard. But it was the sergeant who slumped to the ground. As the patrol returned fire to drive out the sniper, the sergeant bleed to death.
The patrol recovered the body and returned to camp. Experts examined the incident reports from eye witnesses. They worked out that the easier shot would have been the young solider. He had lifted his head high to have a good look. The veteran sergeant was seen to lift his head just a fraction above the horizontal. It would take a great shot even to graze him. Yet the sniper had got him right between the eyes. The experts reckoned that the bullet would have had to travel through some undergrowth, just to reach the sergeant. Not a very likely path for any sniper unless he had been a dead shot. The fact remained that the sergeant was dead and had been killed by a single shot.
My Dad reckoned that the other few veterans, who heard these details, were not surprised. Some had seen mates killed by bullets that should not have been able to reach their positions, let alone kill anyone. They had seen one man killed and another, right next to him, left untouched. This was the deadly paradox of the bullet. They said that if it had your name on it, then a bullet could go around corners to kill you.
Arriving back in Australia, my Dad had to wait to be demobbed. He was given raw recruits to train in the Realities of jungle warfare. One lesson he drummed into them, again and again, was to keep their heads down. And he had a sobbering yarn to back him up on this vital survival tip.
