Talk given by Jean Verso at the ANZAC Day Service at Kangaroo Ground War Memorial Park on 25 April 2024.

My talk today is about three local servicemen who served in WW1. My great uncles STANLEY BRUNKER VERSO and ALLAN JOSEPH JOHN VERSO from Hurstbridge, and their mate CHARLES JAMES CALLAN from Queenstown, present day St Andrews.

Events that affected them during their service are described in two letters sent home by Allan Verso. They give firsthand details of those events and help to bring home their impact on those involved.

I am sure similar stories were told many times during that terrible conflict and rather than concentrating on the military aspect of their experiences, I hope this story helps us to understand the human and personal impacts such a conflict can have.

Stanley Verso, known as Stan or Dick to his family and mates, enlisted in February 1916. He joined his friend Charles Callan in the 38 Battalion. Charles had enlisted six months earlier and was in camp in England. Stan saw service in France from early 1917 until he returned to England for training in July 1916.

Allan Verso enlisted in October 1916. He waited for his friend Gordon Murphy from Arthurs Creek to turn 21 then enlisted they enlisted together. Allan would eventually also join the 38th Battalion and he served in France during much of 1918 through to the armistice. Gordon’s service took a different path after their voyage to England on the H.M.A.T Ballarat.

The first letter sent by Allan to his family was from England in May 1917. It describes what happened when they were off the coast of Cornwall and close to arriving in port. It was published in the local paper at the time.

I suppose by the time you get this letter you will have heard of the experience we have just gone through. I have not had much time at present to give a full account of the voyage and all about the torpedoing, but will write further at the earliest opportunity. Gordon and I sent a cablegram between us, which I hope you received all right, for I know how anxious you will all have been, especially if it leaked out that we were torpedoed, for, I suppose, it would be some time before it was officially announced. We had a beautiful trip right up to the time the torpedo got us. We had five days to ourselves at Capetown and had a great time. We next called at Sierra Leone, and arrived there on Good Friday morning and put in altogether another five days. We were not allowed ashore. Sierra Leone is a port well up on the west coast of Africa, right in the tropics. After leaving there, we had rather an anxious time, for we were well in the danger zone all the time, and made to wear our life belts all the time, only allowed to take them off during meals and while sleeping, and then they had to be kept where we could lay our hands upon them. Everything went well until the last day, when we were torpedoed. We had been busy cleaning and packing up and doing different little jobs aboard all the morning getting ready for going ashore next morning, for we expected to arrive at Plymouth some time during the night. On 25th April (Anzac Day) it happened, just when we thought we were safely through. At seven minutes past two the torpedo struck us. The submarine was not seen; the first thing seen was the torpedo after it was fired, and the officer at the bridge seeing it coming just had time to turn the old “Ballarat” off a little, otherwise the torpedo would have struck her amidships, among the boilers. As it was he turned enough to just get it on the back at the propeller shaft. If it had struck amidships nothing would have saved any of us. As it happened all got safely away before she sunk. Two shots were fired altogether, the first one missing altogether. At the time it happened I was down below, but most on deck saw it coming and they knew as soon as they saw the white track through the water what it was. It was a funny sensation when the torpedo hit, the concussion lifting everyone right off the floor. I was sitting watching a few playing cards as it happened. I wanted to get into my corner to get cleaned up, for they were getting ready for Anzac Day memorial service at 3 o’clock. I had only a pair of the yellow trousers and shirt and cardigan jacket on at the time. As soon as it struck I grabbed my life-belt and went out to the stairway where we all had to fall in and wait for the advance to go up to our boats. The advance had not sounded, so I went back to my deck and got a few things, but being below and not knowing where or how badly we were struck, could not waste many moments. The only things I saved was what clothing I had on, and they were a pair of socks, the light boots, a pair of yellow trousers, a cardigan jacket and flannel, along with a tunic I grabbed off the peg, and the overcoat. The overcoat I afterwards lost while out on the water. Apart from these the only things I saved were my safety razor, pipes, wristlet watch, fountain pen, and scarf. Out company was among the first to get away from the old Ballarat, for we were allotted the first line of boats — a good half on board only having rafts if it came to the worst. We had to lower the boats and get down from the deck on ropes. Gordon was in the next boat to me, and as each boat filled up it pulled away. We both got off well and about 10 minutes after the torpedo struck. I suppose a dozen boats were filled up away from the ship’s side. We rowed about 100 yards and stopped waiting results and ready to pick up a few if the boat went under, for we might have got another one or two in at a pinch. At first look at the old Ballarat from out in the little boats it looked as though she would sink quickly, for she went well down at the back to a certain mark very quickly. But as soon as the torpedo got us all the water tight doors were closed, which stopped the water getting through all the decks. We happened to have a destroyer escorting us for the last two days. She kept just dodging about in front of us, and when we were struck it was great to see her dashing about and looking for the submarine. It was well for us she was there, for the Germans would have given us another shot for certain, and would then have come up and fired on the boats. We sighted the submarine as we were all out on the water in the boats — could see her going right among our boats, and she was seen by the men on the destroyer. As the submarine was amongst our boats they turned the guns on her from the destroyer but couldn’t get a shot for all us on the water. The submarine dived while amongst us and that was the last seen of her, although it was reported next morning that a seaplane had got her. Just an hour after we launched the boats the first destroyer came dashing up to our assistance, followed shortly after by two more and a couple of trawlers, so we were just an hour out in the boats before being picked up, and, as luck would have it, the sea was fairly calm. As soon as the first destroyer got filled up she started racing about and left the escort pull in for a load, and the second destroyer to arrive pulled right alongside and took off any that were still on the “Ballarat.” The first things to arrive was a seaplane; it was flying overhead just a little over half-an-hour after the S.O.S. was sent out. We hung around the old “Ballarat” until just on six o’clock, when two more destroyers came up and kept a look out, and we made off for Plymouth. It was great, dashing about on the destroyer all the afternoon around the old “Ballarat,” and we travelled into Plymouth at 30 miles an hour; arrived there at 10 o’clock at night and put up for the night at the Marine Barrack; didn’t get to bed until 2 o’clock. We were well treated by the navy boys, giving everybody tobacco and anything at all they could to make us comfortable. We poked about the barracks until 3 in the afternoon and had a very interesting day. But you would laugh to see the lot of us in the rig out we all had on. It was a very rag-time army that hung about there that day. Gordon saved nothing at all, not even a tunic; was dressed in his old yellows, and lost all else. I forgot to mention that I saved my diary and pockett wallet, so we were all right for the addresses of all the lads over here as I happened to get what lot of addresses we wanted out of Gordon’s book earlier on the voyage. It all looked very nice coming along the Salisbury. Place looks nice and green. On arriving here we were taken straight in for tea, and, to my surprise, the first one I struck was Charlie Callan, who was in charge of getting our tea ready; it was just on midnight. He is a lieutenant now. He was rather surprised at meeting us, although he expected we would be landing here shortly. He left France three months ago, and he said Dick is doing splendid; he hears from him nearly every week. He wishes to be remembered to all over there. Well, I haven’t time to write more now, and want to get these few lines away, so will write everything later. Gordon and I both doing splendid, and enjoyed ourselves very much since leaving Melbourne, but we are very lucky indeed to be where we are now, for things might have been very much different; but it has been a marvellous experience, and it is just like my luck to be upon the first Australian troopship coming direct from Australia to be torpedoed; and now it has turned out all right I wouldn’t like to have missed it. And it was splendid to see the boys on the “Ballarat,” the way they behaved; no one was much excited, and you could hardly credit the way we all took it; they were cheering and singing and joking all the while; you would think they were just going ashore. I had to laugh at myself as soon as I got into the little boat, for the first thing I did was to take out my pipe and fill it and then light up; and to wee the seaplanes and destroyers racing about a little later was a scene I will never forget. I suppose a lot are expecting letters from me, so just tell anyone the reason of not getting any for a while. Both Gordon and I had about 20 letters written. I think we wrote to nearly every one about the place, so they all went to the bottom. You can send a few pairs of socks as soon as you can, for what we are getting here are no good, and they are only giving us a couple of pair. Don’t send too much in the one parcel, for they may not come to hand. It is better to send them a little at a time. I will have to close now.

Charles Callan, Charlie to his mates, left Australia in June 1916 after training and promotion to sergeant. He requested to revert to corporal before sailing, and was again promoted to sergeant while in camp in England. By November he was in the trenches of France. Promoted to 2nd Lieutenant in early 1917 he returned to England and spent most of the year on a number of training courses before returning to the front in September, taking part in battles in France and Belgium. He was wounded in the leg in November and evacuated for treatment and recuperation to England where he remained on secondment and training until he was sent back to France in September 1918.

Charlie met Nellie Lucas, who was working with the Voluntary Aid Detachment near Fovant Camp on Salisbury Plain, possibly when he was recuperating from his wounds.

They married on the 29th August 1918 at Wilton, a village near the camp. Charlie’s mate Stanley Verso was his witness.

Two weeks later Charlie returned to France and rejoined his unit and Allan Verso where they fought together in the 38th Battalion’s last major action of the war – the Australian-American operation that breached the formidable defenses of the Hindenburg Line along the St Quentin Canal. The success of this battle lead to the armistice.

Charlie was killed on the 29th September and two weeks later Allan sent a letter to Charlie’s family in Australia. It was printed in the local newspaper at Charlie’s parents’ request.

I am writing these few lines to give you what news I can of the death of your son Charlie, and also to convey to you my deepest sympathy for the loss you have sustained. Charlie has been a very great pal and friend both of Dick (my brother) and myself, so its needless for me to say what a blow it is to us and of how much we feel his loss. Being in the same Battalion, Charlie and I had many yarns together since he returned to France again, and I was close by at the time he was killed. The place at which he was killed was between the villages of Ronssoy and Bony, on the outer defence of the Great Hindenburg Line and about half-way between the towns of Cambrai and St. Quentin. He was killed instantly being shot through the heart and also an inch below the ear–both by machine-gun bullets. Charlie joined us upon getting back from England. At the time we were having a rest after being so long in heavy fighting. On the 27th September we again got word to move forward prior to attaching with the object of breaking through the Great Hindenburg Line. Everyone knew we had a hard job to face and knew it was going to be severe fighting, as the position was one of the strongest held along the line. On the Friday evening we had a march of six hours to a position about a couple of thousand yards behind where we were to attack from. Arriving there overnight we camped over Saturday; the attack to open early Sunday morning, 29th Sept. Rain fell during the night, and by morning it had turned to a white frost. At dawn the attack started, the Americans going over first, and we were supposed to carry on from them 4 hours later. From the start it was heavy fighting, and we had to go in to help the Americans sooner than we was supposed to, so by 8 o’clock we were in the thick of it, then our Battalion took on from the Yanks. The Germans poured in a terrible heavy fire from machine guns as well as heavy shelling, and through this we had to fight. Charlie’s Company, along with another, was leading and going down a slope of the hill facing a strongly held trench and close to a strong barricade of barbed wire–where he was killed. It was a case of moving slowly, the machine-gun fire being so heavy it meant taking cover in one shell hole then out quickly and into another before the guns could be turned on to you. At the time of being shot Charlie had got out of a shell hole to get into safety a wounded man who was close-by. It was an awful day’s fighting and though I have been through everything with the Battalion since the advance started on August 8th there was nothing worse than that Sunday’s fighting. It was not for some time later that I could manage to get time or to out to Charlie, but when I got the first chance, along with another mate we carried him back off the field, and that evening he was taken back on our ration limber to a village well behind where we were fighting. That was the last I saw of Charlie, for we were for some days fighting on before being relieved as meanwhile Charlie was buried. He was buried at a little village named Sainte Emelie, about a mile from Ronssoy. Perhaps sometime later I may get a chance to get back to see his grave. I have written to his wife and told her what there was to tell. There is not much more I can tell. As a friend and comrade one couldn’t find a better than Charlie. He was a very popular officer, and he lost his life leading his men in one of the worst fights the Battalion has been in.”

Charlie was reinterred in the Templeux-le-Guerard British Cemetery close to the village where he was first buried.

I will finish with a few lines about events in the years following the armistice.

Charlie’s widow Nellie was living in London with their son, the son he never knew.

A family diary at the time tells us that Nellie and her infant sone Charles visited Stan and Allan at Hurstbridge in June 1920.

Stan married local girl Edie Durham in April 1921.

Nellie and her son returned to England in April 1921.

And in December 1925 Allan married Lena Murphy from Arthurs Creek, his mate Gordon’s sister.