The dispatch riders: The Don R.

By "SX710659" Via: digger history

"WHEN your ruminating is rudely interrupted by the roar of a motor cycle starting, think before you abuse the rider. He may take what appears to be an interminable time to shut up and clear off. Set your teeth, and think of the usefulness of motor cycle dispatch riders.

These, the "Don R's," have at times given greater service to the Allied cause than wireless and telegraphy. When it is too dangerous to use wireless because the enemy is tuning in and listening, or when he is flooding your receiving sets with bogus reports, and when the telegraph lines are down, it is these riders who get the messages through.
When things were toughest in Greece, the Don R had still to keep going-forward. Along bullet-swept roads-roads that were covered with slimy mud and snow-these lads rode with as much speed as their machines would give without cracking. Dodging between trucks moving in the opposite direction, they kept plugging away, oblivious to all that was happening around them except the task that lay ahead.

To some of them, the work is still just a sport with a spice of danger. In Australia, these Don R's used to ride up steep hillsides, in country scrambles, compete in trials or on speed tracks-with many a buster and many a laceration or bruise. That was real sport. They have been doing the same thing over here-with the difference that they are also playing a game of hide and seek with enemy aircraft, artillery and mortar shells.

Don't be surprised if the lads tell you that "they've the best job in the army. Wouldn't swap it for a couple of crowns." Some of the older Don R's used to make their living by convincing others that motor cycling is the best sport in the world. The novices have come to take more than a passing interest in motor bikes. Their exploits in Greece and on other fronts have been just as praiseworthy as those of the veterans.


These boys acquitted themselves admirably in Greece. There, it was often not a matter of "take this to 'A' Company," but rather "find 'A' Company and deliver this." In a swiftly changing situation, only vague directions could be given. Important messages had to be delivered. And so all that the Don R's had learned in their initial training - plus a bit extra - had to be called on.

They travelled along roads that were frequently being machine-gunned. They became experts at hopping off their machines while still on the move, and dashing for the nearest cover. Disconsolately, they had sometimes to watch their bikes go up in a blaze in the wake of enemy planes.

One rider who ran into a bullet-storm dived into the first convenient hole near the road. In the hole were four small snakes. He elected to remain in the hole, and was not bitten. The versatility of another Don R earned for him high praise from his colleagues. He was sent out to take a message to a unit that was being surrounded and forced to retreat. On finding the unit he discovered that, at the time, it was more important to evacuate the wounded than to go back with a return message. For three-quarters of an hour he drove a truck up and down a line of vehicles, conveying wounded to the nearest casualty station. Although his truck was full of shrapnel and bullet holes, the Don R was not hit.

If they were absent for longer than three days, it was the practice in some areas to post the Don R's as missing. One rider away longer than a three-day span was duly posted as missing. He returned the next day, riding a different machine from the one on which he had set out with his message. His story was that the unit he was seeking had moved the night before. He had been attacked from the air, and his cycle wrecked. He had been picked up, had located and repaired another machine left on the side of the road, and had completed his mission.

As the number of bikes dwindled, the riders had to commandeer all types of transport. Trucks, staff cars, and even mules and push bikes were used until something a little swifter could be found. But urgent messages to the front line had always to be carried by Don R's astride motor cycles. They had more chance of getting through.

Very few riders escaped crashing on the slippery roads, but luckily only a small percentage became casualties this way. Anyhow, to many it was not a new experience. They had more thought for possible damage to the bike than to bruised bones and broken skin.

Given a message that had to get through at all costs, one rider unknowingly went five miles past our front line troops. He was stopped by a patrol. A few more hundred 'yards and he would have barged straight into the enemy's hands. A few did make this unfortunate mistake. From one tight corner two Don R's fought their way out with "Tommy" guns. Not all their training was in the art of motor cycling.

A great deal had to be left to the discretion of dispatch riders. No hard and fast rules could be laid down. Fear of paratroops dressed in our uniforms made unit commanders distrustful, even of dispatch riders. Unaware of pass-words, riders had first to convince sentries of their bona fides and then prove their identity before commanders would accept and act upon their messages. It was a necessary precaution, but it made the tasks of the riders more difficult.

Members of the Provost Corps were of the greatest assistance to the riders -who were guided accurately through towns and to the localities of newly arrived units. The provost traffic controllers pointed out road blocks and shell holes. But for this excellent co-operation many more accidents would have occurred.

Eye strain and insufficient sleep made the lot of the riders worse, particularly as they had to go without food for long periods. Another inevitable hardship was that once a rider had come to know a particular area well, he was called upon whenever vital messages had to be taken there.

Australian Don R's pay the highest tribute to the work of their British comrades' whose sterling performances when things were blackest were carried out with tenacity. The British rider, they say, really can ride and ride fast. Whizzing bullets and whining shells did not overawe these crouched figures on motor cycles.

In Syria, dispatch riders had a gruelling time over rough, steep roads and. tracks. Near Jezzine, hostile mortars would open up as soon as the Don R appeared. The rider had to travel under fire for a mile, sometimes two and three times daily. It was remarkable that so few became casualties.

Uncertain about conditions on one important road where enemy tanks were reported to be operating, a commanding officer ordered two riders to travel 200 yards apart. If one got hit the other was to seek cover until it was safe to proceed. The message had to get through. It did, and so did the two Don R's, unperturbed after a nightmare ride. Another rider mistook Vichy infantry for our own troops. Bullets whistled round him. To show his identity he sat more upright and touched his tin hat. The next volley skittled his bike. He subsequently escaped from the hut in which he was held prisoner.

Of course, when we settle down quietly again in good old Australia, some of these lads may become rowdy road hogs - and in greater numbers, too! But perhaps by then most of the Don R's will have had enough of explosions, excitements, detonations, and roaring engines."

It's kick, kick, and a sudden roar;
I'm set for a flying start:
The clutch is in, I give her some more,
She takes the road like a singing dart.
The road winds in beneath the wheel,
The wind rushes by like a rising storm;
I keep her straight on an even keel
And round the turn with a toot of the horn.

My steed comes alive and throbs with power
As I change from three up to four;
The speedo swings ... more miles to the hour;
Like a train ... like a plane ... with the roar.
Like a flash I pass through the countryside
While the pace I urgently force;
On a spirited steed I gaily ride
Leaving time behind in my course.

The hiker jumps for the nearest hedge,
The fowls they take to the air;
Old cars swerve to the road's near edge,
And women faint with the scare.
In hideous terms I'm vainly cursed;
I come.... I'm gone.... But a moment there;
As I leave them behind to eat my dust,
I'm a dog ... I'm a cow, a devil-may-care.

But in the day when the battle reels,
And lives depend on the message I carry.
Then they'll say I'm a hero on wheels,
And pray not a moment I'll tarry.
Through wood and marsh, through ford and cutting
Where nothing can pass but the devil-me-care,
With bombers above and machine guns spluttering
I'll ride like the devil and sure I'll get there.