by Judy Nunn
The eight companies that would form the 12th Battalion were to comprise four from Tasmania, two from South Australia and two from Western Australia, and with the exception of the companies from WA all were to be trained at Brighton Army Camp. Of the four companies from Tasmania, ‘A’ Company had been recruited from the Hobart and Huon areas.
‘Well, blow me down,’ David said with his larrikin grin as the new recruits milled about on the parade ground awaiting instructions, ‘looks like the Hutchins School boys are off to war.’ David Powell, his cousin Gordon and young Max Müller, as it turned out, were also members of ‘A’ Company.
‘It’s Miller now though,’ Max explained after they’d clapped each other on the back and shaken hands all round. ‘Don’t you blokes go giving me away – I’ve been told it’s illegal to change your name on the registration form. “Müller” looked a bit German though, and I was buggered if I was going to risk being knocked back when Gordie and David were all signed up.’
‘It’s illegal to give a false date of birth too.’ Harry Balfour winked and pointed an accusatory finger at Hugh. ‘He won’t be eighteen for another two weeks.’ Harry himself had crept in by barely a month.
‘We’ll keep each other’s secrets, Max, don’t you worry,’ Hugh said.
As they looked around at the others, they noticed quite a number of familiar faces in ‘A’ Company, but for Wes Balfour one face was particularly conspicuous.
‘If we get up a footie team, I know who I want on my side,’ he said and he wended his way through the crowd to renew acquaintance with Oscar O’Callaghan.
The training at Brighton Army Camp proved arduous; to the disappointment of all they weren’t even supplied with uniforms. ‘You’ll stay in civvies until you’ve earned the right to a uniform,’ the sergeant barked, although in truth the uniforms hadn’t arrived yet.
The day started with parade drill, then a breakfast that most described as ‘pretty rough tucker’, then more drill and musketry instruction, then an hour’s break to learn the King’s Regulations, more drill, more weaponry instruction, then lessons on general soldiering, hygiene, map reading and the like, more drill, more musketry, and on it went, tiring and relentless. Then there was the interminably boring twenty-four-hour sentry duty where men were rostered in turn to stand watch for two hours at the main gates and at various perimeter points around the camp. But worst of all, they agreed, were the night marches, which entailed hikes anywhere between five and fifteen miles in the dark with full battle pack and rifle.
‘War’s got to be better than this,’ David grumbled as he dumped his pack on the ground and lit up a smoke. His mates all heartily agreed: they couldn’t wait to get into uniform, get over to England, and get stuck into the real fighting.
The only one among the already tight-knit group who made no complaint was Hugh Stanford. Hugh was too busy working hard to keep up. He’d discovered that he had quite a deal more to learn than his country cousins and friends, all of whom were experienced in bush skills, knew how to handle a rifle and were physically tough young men. It didn’t help when his mates borrowed horses and went for a wild ride around the countryside on a Sunday afternoon either. The Powells and the Balfours and Max Miller had palled up with the men of ‘C’ Squadron 3rd Light Horse, country boys like themselves, who were also in training at the camp. Horse riding was not a skill required of ‘A’ Company’s infantrymen, but for Hugh his mates’ proficiency only served to further feed a general sense of his own inadequacy. He wondered if others from the city felt as inferior as he did.
‘How do you do it, Oscar?’
He sought advice from Oscar O’Callaghan who, like himself, was a creature of the city. Oscar didn’t seem to be having the same trouble keeping up.
‘I cheat,’ Oscar said with one of his lazy smiles. It was true, he did cheat during any form of written test: he couldn’t be bothered studying. He had an uncanny ability too to dodge some of the more tedious duties – no-one knew quite how he did it. But it was also true that, as a natural athlete, the physical aspects of training presented no hardship to Oscar. ‘You’re too honourable, Hugh, that’s your trouble,’ he said. ‘You have to learn to bend the rules a bit now and then. You’ll find it makes life a whole lot easier.’
Hugh decided that Oscar probably wasn’t the right person from whom to seek advice, and he just kept ploughing away, doing the best he could, feeling the results pay off as his body toughened up. So determined was he not to be found wanting that Hugh Stanford quite possibly worked harder than any other member in the whole of ‘A’ Company.
Then, on the twentieth of September, they got their uniforms. Things changed after that. The drill wasn’t as tedious, the sentry duty wasn’t as boring, and even the night marches didn’t seem as tough as they once had.
The uniform and the pride they took in it had a psychological effect on the recruits – no-one would have denied it, but the simple truth of the matter was they were turning into soldiers.
A parade was organised for the fourth of October.
The men of the 12th Battalion and the men of ‘C’ Squadron 3rd Light Horse were accompanied by a military band as they marched through the jam-packed streets of Hobart. It was a proud day for all. The troops in their khaki and slouch hats were proud and the thousands who’d gathered to watch them were proud. There was no screaming or raucous cheering, none of the general hysteria that might have been expected, just respectful applause as the men passed by. Thousands were paying tribute to their fellow countrymen, who would shortly be off to fight for the motherland. And the troops themselves couldn’t wait for the day. They were ready to do battle now and craving adventure.
A ball was to be held at the Hobart Town Hall the following weekend, organised by the Hobart Ladies’ Auxiliary Committee, a group of wealthy men’s wives raising funds for the war effort.
With the backing of Hobart’s most influential businessmen, the ‘Friends of the AIF Fundraising Gala Ball’ promised to be quite an event. The military hierarchy would be there, and those troops who wished to apply for Saturday night leave in order to attend were invited to do so. The presence of uniforms was considered essential in order to encourage donations and inspire enlistment.
Gordie and David Powell, together with Max Miller, opted out of the ball with some relief, but also with good reason. The three had applied for and been granted extended weekend leave and were going home to the Huon. Wes and Harry Balfour also opted out, but with no reason other than the fact that they, like many others, thought it would be a boring, official affair with the top brass around and too much hassle catching the late-night train back to camp. Hugh Stanford and Oscar O’Callaghan, however, were more than happy to oblige their superiors. Hugh knew that his attendance would please his father, who was bound to be involved with the ball as he was with every major fundraising event, and Oscar welcomed the chance to mingle with women, even if they were of the stuffy variety: at least he’d be able to dance. Both had been granted twenty-four-hour leave, and would stay with their families in the city.
Leave was now being granted with far greater leniency than it had been in the past. Indeed, company commanders were recommending that men take rostered weekend leave in order to say farewell to their families. Embarkation orders would not be announced publicly owing to the military censorship that had been invoked by the Australian government shortly after the outbreak of war. Even the troops themselves would not be told of their movements until the very last minute. There would be no time then for farewells.
The ballroom of the Hobart Town Hall, grand at the best of times, was particularly spectacular this evening, the Ladies’ Auxiliary Committee having done themselves proud. The motif of course was patriotism. A grand portrait of King George V adorned the wall to the left of the arch where the organ stood, while on the wall to the right hung the Union Jack and the Australian flag. Silk streamers of red, white and blue fluttered overhead and the stage was decorated with magnificent floral displa
ys of red roses, white lilies and blue hyacinths, courtesy of the floristry department of Dimbleby’s.
‘A triumph, my dear,’ Archie said to his wife, raising his voice above the sound of the military band that was playing up on the stage. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job, my congratulations.’ Mara Dimbleby was one of the leading lights of the Ladies’ Auxiliary Committee.
‘Yes, things have come together very well, I must say,’ Mara agreed, ‘and there’s an excellent turn-out even this early in the proceedings.’ She looked at the dance floor where couples glided past in a military two-step. ‘It’s good to see so many uniforms – they will certainly assist in the recruitment drive. And people already seem bent on enjoying themselves, which is marvellous.’
‘Not exactly surprising though,’ Archie said, ‘can’t be long before orders come through. In a way it’s a bit of a farewell to the boys.’
‘Well yes, I suppose it is, I hadn’t thought about that.’ Mara looked once again at the young men in their uniforms. She believed very strongly in the war effort and the need to answer Britain’s call, but she felt a little hypocritical urging young men to volunteer when, in her heart, she was glad her son was not one of them. Malcolm was twenty-eight now and he had longed to enlist, but with two small children of his own he had chosen not to do so for his family’s sake.
As she gazed across the dance floor, she spied Reginald Stanford and Nigel Lyttleton, who had just arrived with their wives. Reginald’s son was with them, Mara noted, looking particularly handsome in his uniform: there’s a young man who knows how to carry himself, she thought.
‘Make sure your friends post massive pledges, Archie,’ she said, getting back to business. ‘Go and chat to Reginald and Nigel,’ she waved an imperious hand in their direction, ‘while I hunt out Henry Jones. Henry’s proving one of our staunchest allies, I must say.’
Archie watched his wife sail off. When Mara decided to take on a cause she did so with a passion that was typical. He had no intention of nagging his friends about posting their pledges in the donation boxes that were placed so conspicuously around the ballroom. There would be constant reminders throughout the night from the master of ceremonies, and Reginald and Nigel ranked among the most generous of Hobart’s benefactors at any fundraising event without encouragement from him. He wandered off to join them anyway. His wife was bound to be keeping her eye on him.
‘You really should have asked Mary,’ Caitlin said as she and Oscar walked up the steps of the town hall’s grand staircase; on the landing above them stood another spectacular red, white and blue floral arrangement courtesy of Dimbleby’s. They were just one couple of several ascending the grand staircase, the women resplendent in their ballgowns. ‘Mary would have loved all this pomp and ceremony.’
Oscar gave a careless ‘so what’ shrug and didn’t bother to reply. Caitie was only reiterating the conversation they’d had at home.
‘Why didn’t you invite Mary Reilly?’ she’d said that very afternoon when he’d asked her if she wanted to go with him to the ball.
‘Why would I invite Mary Reilly?’
‘Because . . . well, I don’t know . . . because she’s special to you. She is, isn’t she?’
‘No, she’s not special at all. She just thinks she is.’
‘Oh Oscar, that’s terrible.’ Caitie had laughed – she hadn’t been able to help herself. She’d always had the feeling that Mary Reilly clung to their old school friendship simply to maintain a ready link with her brother. She’d even felt a bit sorry for Mary, although admittedly Mary Reilly could be pushy at times. ‘You’re an arrogant pig, you know, you really you are.’
‘It’s not my fault Mary’s got a crush on me.’ The insult had bounced off Oscar. He didn’t actually mind Mary at all; in fact, he’d always found her rather attractive. But he had made the mistake of kissing her at a party six months previously, and he’d been regretting it ever since. Mary’s expectations were of the most serious kind and Oscar was bent on avoiding involvement with girls who wanted anything more than a good time. ‘Besides, if I asked Mary to the ball I’d be stuck with her,’ he’d said, ‘whereas if I ask my sister I can dance with whoever I like. Do you want to come or not? I’m more than happy to go on my own.’
‘Of course I want to come! Don’t you dare go on your own. You might have given me a bit more notice though,’ and Caitie had headed off to seek her grandmother’s advice on what she should wear, advice that Eileen was eminently qualified to offer.
Hugh, having detached himself from his parents and their friends, went off in search of some younger company. He helped himself to a glass of punch from the refreshment table and, after chatting with a couple of the boys he knew from camp, stood on the sidelines watching the dancers. Oscar O’Callaghan had arrived, he noticed. Oscar was dancing with an attractive older woman, a brunette of around forty or so in a bright yellow gown that stood out among the more conservative pastels worn by her contemporaries. He was holding her extremely close, but the woman didn’t seem to mind in the least, and Hugh smiled to himself as he remembered Oscar’s comment on the train coming into town.
‘You know it might not be the stuffy affair the others reckon it’ll be at all,’ Oscar, the perennial optimist, had said. ‘We might even find ourselves a bit of fun. One lives in hope, Hugh,’ he’d added with a suggestive smile and a wink, ‘one always lives in hope.’
Oscar was a rogue, there was no doubt about that, but somehow you just couldn’t help liking him.
The band finished its bracket and the master of ceremonies stepped out on stage to drum up some fundraising enthusiasm.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, as we all know we are here to assist the most worthy of causes . . .’
While the MC enthused about the posting of pledges, unnecessarily pointing out the locations of the highly conspicuous contribution boxes, Hugh watched Oscar return the brunette in the canary-yellow dress to the company of a man who was obviously her husband. The man, tall, grey-haired and around fifty, clapped Oscar on the shoulder and shook his hand, clearly congratulating the lad on being in uniform. He has no idea, Hugh thought, that if the slightest opportunity were to present itself, that lad would seduce his wife.
‘My aunt thinks you have excellent carriage,’ a voice said behind him.
He turned, his heart starting to pound ridiculously at the sight of her.
‘Caitie,’ he said, doing his best to sound casual. God, she was more beautiful than ever. ‘Hello.’
He’d bumped into Caitie O’Callaghan in the street on the odd occasion over the past several years, and each time she’d treated him like an old friend. She would ask how Rupert was and they would chat briefly, but after only a minute or so he would make his excuses and go on his way. He wasn’t sure why he felt so self-conscious in her presence – perhaps it was her beauty.
‘My aunt is of the opinion that excellent carriage is the sign of a true gentleman,’ Caitie said.
‘And who would your aunt be?’ he asked.
‘Mara Dimbleby.’
‘Ah. Well, a lady of her stature would be bound to know.’
‘Exactly.’
They shared a smile, and Hugh felt suddenly relaxed in her company, as if indeed they were old friends. ‘I’ve become good mates with your brother at camp,’ he said.
‘Yes, so Oscar tells me. I hope you’ll be able to teach him a few manners.’ Hugh Stanford has grown up, Caitie thought. The shy, tongue-tied boy she’d encountered in the street was gone. But then he’d always been such an intriguing mixture. She remembered the compassion he’d shown towards his brother at the football match and how he’d handled the situation with such maturity. He’d been more like a parent than a younger brother really. He’d impressed her that day. The combination of boy and man had been attractive even then.
Up on stage the MC had finished his spiel and the band had struck up again, this time with a waltz, ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling’.
‘Aren’t you going to
ask me to dance?’ she said.
‘Of course I am.’ He offered her his arm and they stepped onto the floor.
They remained there for quite some time. After the waltz there was a quick-step, and then a series of foxtrots, which they danced to bouncy ragtime rhythms – ‘Oh, You Beautiful Doll’, ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’, ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’ – Hugh and Caitie were indefatigable.
From the other side of the ballroom, Reginald watched them. He’d been unable to take his eyes off the girl from the moment he’d seen her. She was Shauna all over again, her flame-red hair swept high, her neck and shoulders flawless. Even the satin ballgown she wore, although simpler in line, was a deep emerald green, just as Shauna’s had been that night when they’d first met, right here in this ballroom. The evening was taking on an eerie quality for Reginald as he watched the spectre of his dead mistress dancing with his son.
It was the bandmaster who called a halt. The bracket was over, the band was to take a break, and Hugh and Caitie were finally forced from the dance floor.
‘I think a glass of punch is in order,’ he panted, ‘what do you say?’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t have breath enough left to say anything more.
‘Come on then.’ He took her hand and they made their way to the refreshment table. He loved that her hair was coming down and she didn’t seem to care.
They gulped their punch back thirstily and he refilled their glasses. Then they found themselves some space at the far end of the ballroom where they stood and talked.
From afar, Reginald followed the couple’s every move. He watched the intimacy of their body language, the way Hugh had taken her hand instead of offering his arm, the way they stood close together as they talked. The haunting image of Shauna had ceased to be of any interest, his only concern now was his son. The girl was clearly an O’Callaghan and not at all the right choice for Hugh.
