Non-commissioned officers are the backbone of the British army!

This is high praise, of course, yet it is well merited; and I think the same tribute can be paid to the non-coms. of the Australian Imperial Force.

For our non-coms. hold their office by virtue of their merit. It is simply a case of the survival of the fittest. We all started off scratch. There was keen competition for stripes when our regiment was first formed. The best men were selected. There was no favouritism. Some old soldiers had an initial advantage, but all the appointments were provisional at first, and they were all tried in the crucible. Only the pure gold was retained; the baser metal was rejected.

The result was that when the 6th Light Horse Regiment left Sydney it had a body of non-commissioned officers who would compare favourably with any in the world. It was a great pity that the people of Sydney never saw the "Fighting Sixth" ride through the metropolis. In Egypt they were reckoned the best mounted regiment that ever left Australia. The limelight has been turned right on to subsequent volunteers. Other contingents—months and months and months after we left—bathed in the smiles of the multitude. Special trains were run in order that the country folk should see them. But our brigade, the 2nd Light Horse Brigade, comprising the 5th, 6th and 7th L.H. Regiments, were hunted off like thieves in the night. In deadly secrecy we struck camp. In the dawn hush we stealthily slunk through the city streets. We were all on board the transports before Sydney was well awake. The papers were not allowed to publish a line about our departure. So the country folk came to see their sons and brothers off—too late. The whole city knew it—too late. Every German spy in Australia knew it—early. When we arrived at Aden a nigger on the gangway of the transport told us to a man the constitution of the force, the number of ships, and our destination. So cleverly had our censors concealed our movements!

So it is a pity the brigade never rode with clinking snaffles and clanking stirrups through the city—more for the sake of the city than the soldiers themselves. Also because many of our soldiers will never again see George Street, or Pitt Street, or Martin Place, or Macquarie Street. The wastage of war has had its effect. We have been under fire day and night. Snipers have taken their toll. Machine-guns have added to the casualties. Shrapnel shells and high explosives have torn gaps in our ranks. In killed and wounded we have lost over half our original strength.

There were three sergeants of the 6th Light Horse Regiment, who now are resting in little shallow graves in Gallipoli. Never again will they watch the sun go down in splendour into the Ægean Sea. When we go marching into Berlin they will be with us—but only in spirit; and when the war is over and the boys from the bush ride home again, there will be three sergeants missing. But their names will be emblazoned on Australia's roll of honour. And we of the Sixth won't forget Sergeant Sid Parkes, Sergeant F. R. Tresilian, and Sergeant Fred Ellis.

Sid Parkes was small and slight, so small that he was almost rejected by the medical examiner. He had to show his South African record, and remind the doctor that giants were not wanted in the Light Horse, but light, active, wiry horsemen. So he just scraped through and went into camp. I remember him at Rosebery Park. Not much over five feet three, only about nine stone, but active and strong. He knew his mounted drill like a book, and he knew how to handle men; so he soon got his three stripes—and stuck to them. The men liked him. The officers appreciated him. We saw several other sergeants made and unmade, but Parkes of B Squadron was a fixture.

Already he had seen four years' peace service, and eighteen months' active service in South Africa with the New South Wales Mounted Rifles. So he brought the lessons of his previous experience to bear on his new job. On parade he did his duty well. Off duty he was a humorist, and as care-free as a schoolboy. On the transport he entered into all the fun going. In Egypt he played the game. Somehow, I always thought Parkes would come safely through the war. We joked together the night we first went into the trenches, never anticipating ill. Yet he was the first man of the regiment killed in the trenches. A sniper's bullet came through a loophole and killed him on the spot.

Frederick George Ellis, sergeant in C Squadron, was an Englishman from Hants. He had spent five years in the Royal Navy, some of the time on the China station. He was one of the few survivors of H.M.S. Tiger, which was rammed and sunk during the naval manoeuvres off Spithead. Three years ago he came to Australia to get colonial experience, prior to settling on the land. A few years in the nor'-west, at Bogamildi and Terala stations, transformed the sailor into a bushman. So he came to Sydney when war broke out, and joined the 6th Light Horse. He rose to be lance-sergeant. On July 12 he was killed by a shrapnel shell on Holly Ridge. Several of our fellows were killed and wounded that day, for the Turks dropped 200 shells on the Light Horse lines, and for an hour or two it was terrific.

A strong, dominant personality was Tresilian, one of the very best troop sergeants that ever joined the Light Horse. He seemed to love the firing-line like home. He was quite fearless. Somehow he seemed to revel in the roar of battle. On one occasion the Turks sent a dozen shells at our little section of the trenches, smashing down the parapets, making the place a wreck, wounding two men, and half blinding, half deafening, half choking, half burying six of us. When I could see and hear and breathe again I saw Tresilian laughing merrily. "Hello, Bluegum," he said, "not killed yet?"

He came from Humula, near Wagga, where his people were well-known farmers. Till a young man he remained on the farm, and was known throughout the district as a good "sport"—a good cricketer and footballer, and a fine rider and shot, just the typical Australian Light Horseman, though more sturdily built than the average. He tired, however, of the farm, and yearned for the freer life of the Western plains. So he tackled station life, became a station manager, rode over the whole of the north-west, went to the Northern Territory in search of pastoral lands, and when the war broke out was managing a station in the Boggabri district. He had seen service in South Africa, and he once more volunteered to serve the King.

On Gallipoli his scouting and patrol work were excellent. He seemed to have a charmed life, for he had many narrow escapes in the open and in the trenches. On the day he was killed a bullet whizzed past his head, just wounding his cheek slightly. Later on he and Sergeant Paddy Ryan were putting barbed wire entanglements in front of our trenches. A sniper's rifle cracked. Ryan escaped. Tresilian fell dead.