Harry’s big adventure

The boy who denied his father for his country

Trooper Harold Thomas Wickham
— The Boy —

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 5 ft 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 at 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 thought 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 Thomas 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.

• Next issue – Harry’s battle

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