Many Australians enlisted in the Australian Imperial Force during World War One, seeking excitement and adventure, and they found it in lots of different places.
At the time, overseas travel was a novelty to most, and the experience of different cultures in the Middle East and Europe also had its attractions, and for many, the thrill came from facing the enemy, but many other remarkable stories also came out.
John Matheson from St Helens Plains, south-east of Horsham, enlisted as a 27-year-old in April 1916, and during two years of overseas service, he experienced the loss of his brother in battle, was commended for his bravery during the fierce fighting at Paschendale, and survived the sinking of his transport ship on his way home.
He enlisted with his younger brother Ritchie, and they both were allocated to the 38th Battalion, but due to a severe outbreak of cerebrospinal meningitis in their training camp, they were separated when the healthy troops were transferred to a different camp. This group, including John, departed Australia in June, while Ritchie was in the latter group, which set off in September.
Their Battalion saw their first significant action at Messines in Belgium in June 1917, and it was during the fierce fighting four months later during the Battle of Passchendaele that John was awarded the Military Medal.On 12th October 1917, East of Ypres, he displayed conspicuous devotion to duty in action. When in an advanced position, and his Unit had suffered very severe casualties, he took charge of the situation round his Post, rallied those who were left and by his coolness and courage, inspired confidence in all around him and so organised the position that it was held in the face of strong enemy opposition. The position at this point was serious, owing to the heavy casualties amongst leaders, and Private Matheson’s prompt and courageous action at a critical time saved the situation.
- Source: ‘Commonwealth Gazette’ No. 95 - 27 June 1918 On 10 June 1918, when the Battalion was back in France engaged in holding off the big German offensive, Ritchie was killed in action and is buried in the Adelaide Cemetery at Villers Bretonneux in France.
During his time in the AIF, John had been hospitalised several times with bronchitis and asthma and was convalescing in England when his brother was killed and a month later, he was invalided back to Australia, departing England on board the troopship Barunga on 14 July.
At around 4.30 p.m. the day after they set sail for home when they were off the Bay of Biscay, this ship was hit by a torpedo from a German submarine. Ironically, Barunga was formerly the German liner Sumatra, which had been requisitioned at Sydney at the outbreak of war and converted to a troopship.
The ship was carrying around 800 people, mostly sick and wounded troops, plus packages containing the personal effects of soldiers who had died in service in France and Belgium to be returned to their families back in Australia.
At the time of the attack, three nearby naval ships rushed to the scene and dropped depth charges in an attempt to sink the offending submarine, with some reports indicating that they were successful.
All of those onboard successfully left the ship on the lifeboats or were rescued soon after jumping into the water, but the cargo of personal effects of the fallen soldiers was lost.
It was reported that there was no panic following the attack, with the Australian soldiers displaying the utmost coolness, singing patriotic songs, and arranged impromptu races to the lifeboats.
After being rescued, the troops were returned to England, and Matheson successfully returned to Australia on his second attempt on board the Carpentaria.
Upon his return home, he resumed working land at St Helen’s Plain, and in 1919, he married Phyllis Worthy, and they had two young daughters.
On Monday, 9 October 1922, he was admitted to the Horsham Hospital with appendicitis and was operated on the next morning, but he passed away a day later.
His passing was attributed to complications arising from his War service, which allowed his widow to collect a pension.
He was buried in the Green Lake Cemetery overlooking Dock Lake, south-east of Horsham, and his grave is marked with a headstone of a similar design to those found in many Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemeteries in Europe.
Although not written by Matheson, the following description of the sinking was included in a letter to his parents by another survivor of the incident, Private C.T. Harris of Kangaroo Ground, that was published in the Eltham and Whittlesea Shires Advertiser and Diamond Creek Valley Advocate on Friday 20, September 1918
TORPEDOING OF THE BARUNGA
That evening we embarked on D16 - that ill-fated old German tub. She was captured in Australian waters at the outbreak of war - she was then on her maiden voyage, I believe. We soon heard a weird tale how she was missed by a torpedo by a mere miracle whilst coming around from London.
Then another rumour was afloat how she got into a minefield, and only for some destroyers coming along, she was a goner. Well, we were towed out that same evening into the harbour where she endeavoured to cast anchor; she slipped the first anchor, so it is somewhere down in Davy Jones’ locker.
She then cast the other - made a failure of this one also; it got caught somehow, and in the endeavours to right it, we nearly drifted ashore. Eventually, they cut the chain and let the second anchor go as well. We then were tied up to a buoy. On the 14th, the cruiser H.M.S. Kent came to light, she was bound for China waters. Soon after, three destroyers came in - Midge, Victor, and Lance.
Signals were soon going strong, and about noon we were informed that we were leaving for Australia - (and we cheered). At 4.30 we were off, the old Kent (of Falkland Island fame) leading. It was Sunday evening; the lads had a piano going on deck, also two violins and a cornet, playing mostly sacred music. The destroyers were on both sides of us - it was a nice sight, and one could not help feeling safe. Twice I picked up the signal from one of the destroyers, “Try to keep up eleven knots.” I never thought of submarines that night when I pitched my hammock; I slept well and roused when some of the lads started getting up at 3 a.m., disturbing me - they were like a lot of school kids going on a picnic. It was dull and showery on the 15th; though not rough, there was a fair swell on. After dinner, I was having a bit of a snooze down below and woke up about 4 o’clock. The tables were all set, and the troops were all coming down to tea. I was standing talking to two chaps when there occurred a terrific crash, nearly pitching me “head over kick.” The ship seemed to quiver and then lay motionless. In a second, there was a mad rush for the hatchway - this panic only lasted about half a minute, and after that, the behaviour was excellent.
This little panic was quelled by someone shouting from above, “It is only the gun fired.” They took it steady then - myself, I tied an extra knot in my life belt; I knew what had happened. A moment or two had elapsed when there was another explosion - it was our 7.4 speaking this time. While yet below, there followed other explosions - depth charges from the destroyers, which shook the ship a treat. When I got on deck, the first thing noticeable was the destroyers tearing around dropping depth charges.
The crew were busy launching boats “doing their nuts” over it, too. There were scores of men already in the water. The H.M.S. Kent full-steam ahead. The ship was hit well towards the bows on the starboard side, and she had a bit of a dip forward. Seeing how things were, I went below again, opened my kit bag and filled my pockets with some of my souvenirs, had a drink of water, and went on deck again. The boats were filling up now, and several rafts had been put over, some of them drifting away with no one on them.
The destroyers were hunting wide now, but a few minutes later, two of them came in to within a few hundred yards of the vessel and began to launch their boats. I forgot to mention that when they rushed by us, dropping the depth charges, the boys cheered for all they were worth. About this time, the old D16 started to let her steam go and to dip at the bows, and she rolled a treat - honestly, I thought she was going to turn turtle, so without delaying any longer, off came my boots. Three of
us let down a raft, and down we climbed. The swell had risen somewhat, and the raft was washed yards from the rope I climbed down on. You know I can’t swim, but I swam to that raft - toute suite, one could not get on these rafts, they were only to hang on by. Well, four or five of us grabbed onto it, and it was instantly washed back up against the vessel’s side. Someone then tried to climb onto the raft, but the next wave turned it over, bumping me down - it seemed to me fathoms. When I came up, my head was somewhere under the raft, but I got clear somehow. Well, by a bit of struggling, we managed by holding on with one hand and striking out with the other to get the raft clear of the vessel, which was pitching a treat.
Getting about 100 yards away, we got quite happy and started to sing and joke, though one poor devil was leaning over the corner of the raft sick as a pig. All this while the ship’s boats and those of the destroyers were fast being filled, and crowds of troops already on the decks of the destroyers Midge and Lance. Our raft had drifted slightly astern; we were still paddling as the vessel was pitching some, and we had no inclination to keep too near her. Not long after this, we were picked up by a boat from the destroyer Midge. We had been about one hour in the water - quite long enough, as I found out when trying to climb into the boat, for my legs were numbed. The boat then pulled to the old “Barunga” and took more on board, very few were left then, and a few minutes later, we were hoisted on board the destroyer. Then was the time to shiver. I had felt all right in the water, but was too cold now. All the boys who had taken to the water were soon ordered below, leaving the decks to the dry lads. There were nearly 500 on the Midge, and you know there is not too much room on a destroyer. Though soaked, I was pretty comfortable for the night - it was warm below, and one of the Jacks who was on night duty gave me his hammock - they couldn’t do enough for us, and gave freely of their cigarettes and all their tucker. Shortly after being taken on board, the Midge and Lance started back to Plymouth at over 20 knots an hour, leaving the Victor to stand by the sinking ship.
The H.M.S. Kent resumed her journey, she did not wait for anything - orders to cruisers these times I believe.
To return to the ill-fated D16. She was only doing 9½ knots when struck. The U-boat came up quite close to her. Some say 50 yards, others 200 yards away - anyway, either distance is very short. No one appears to have seen her before the vessel was struck, and then only for an instant afterwards - the periscope and top of the conning tower were visible, and then her stern as she submerged. We were struck well forward, which shows she [did] the job hurriedly; if hit amidship or under the troop deck, she would have sunk like a stone. The Victor claimed having destroyed the U boat in two acts, and I have little doubt but that she did; it was then that the Midge and Lance came to our rescue and put down their boats. In the early hours of the morning, a wireless message told us that D16 had gone down shortly after one o’clock; later we even knew the number of the U-boat - they had got her all right. The trip back was great, though an accident nearly occurred about 10 o’clock when a dense fog came on. The destroyers were doing 23 knots at the time. The Lance made to cross our bows and was near as a toucher rammed by the Midge - just the matter of a few feet.
It caused excitement amongst the Jacks. We then slowed down to 12 knots while the fog lasted. However, it did not last long, so the Midge was soon doing 27 knots. It was glorious cutting through the water. On deck, one had to hang on by his eyebrows. We pulled into the harbour shortly after 8 in the morning and were loudly cheered, especially by the men on the American crafts. On stepping on shore, we did not forget to cheer the destroyers - the best cheers I have heard yet, and they were from the bottom of our hearts. They were returned equally as hearty - and then we gave them another. We marched to the Naval barracks and loitered about there till 2 p.m. in our wet clothes, most of us without boots or hats, and it was a cold, squally day. Then we got some Tommy clobber and entrained for Weymouth. The tars were very good at the barracks, giving away some of their own clothes and doing all they could for our comfort. Needless to say, we got cheered all the way up the line, and when we finally arrived at Upwey, where we detrained for Littlemore Camp, I think the whole population was there to see us come in. The torpedoing of D16 is still the chief topic here, and many weird, exciting tales are told - especially in the wet canteen.
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