by Judy Nunn
Caitie had written back as truthfully as she’d dared.
I do not know how deeply Rupert is suffering. I am told he cries himself to sleep at night, so he is clearly still grieving. But I can tell you this, Hugh: upon my visits, which as you know are regular, I believe I have become something of a mother figure to him. He loves me dearly, just as I love him. I have written of how we laugh and play games and go for walks together. Well I can tell you now that we also cuddle a great deal and that I sing to him. I believe that Rupert is gaining strength, Hugh. I do not believe he will break under the pressure as you fear. I promise you, I shall make sure he does not.
That was as far as Caitie had dared go. She never lied, but the subterfuge continued. Hugh still believed she visited his brother at Stanford House. She could not allow him to believe otherwise. He would be tormented by the truth.
August found the 52nd Battalion moved south and held in reserve at the rear of the Somme Offensive Line. Rigorous training continued, but the previously boring manoeuvres now had a different meaning. With the constant sound of artillery and gunfire echoing from the front, their drills now had a clear and deadly purpose, and the reports of battle that reached the troops’ ears were chilling. The men had learned of the disastrous attack by the AIF’s 5th Division several weeks previously upon the town of Fromelle fifty miles from the Somme. Another deployment intended by the British as a ‘diversionary tactic’, this time to draw German attention from the Somme offensive, the attack had proved an ill-planned fiasco which had served no purpose at all. Two thousand Australians had been killed in twenty-four hours, and for nothing. To the seasoned Gallipoli campaigners it sounded all too familiar.
Now, nearly a month later, Australian forces continued to fight in and around the town of Pozières. Thousands more had been killed or wounded with little or no sign of progress and certainly no hint of victory. To many it seemed that the incompetence displayed by High Command in Turkey was repeating itself on the Western Front, and the old hands whinged to one other. ‘Bloody Pommie commanders,’ they said, ‘ratbags every one – can’t they get it right?’ But they didn’t bellyache in front of the new lads. They didn’t want to rattle them.
In late August, the troops of the 52nd Battalion were ordered into the reserve trenches, where they awaited command. The object of their attack would be the trenches surrounding Mouquet Farm just north of Pozières, where the battle had been raging for the past three weeks.
A huge, once fine property with a homestead and outbuildings constructed in a rectangular shape like an old castle or fort, Mouquet Farm, aptly nicknamed ‘Mucky Farm’ by the Australians, had been reduced to mud and rubble by the artillery barrages that had preceded the initial attack. Despite fierce fighting around the farm a stalemate had been reached. There seemed no particular front line for either side as trenches were won and lost and won again, and fresh connecting trenches dug. The fact that the Germans had built a series of tunnels underground from the farm’s original cellars didn’t help either. The battlefield had become a veritable labyrinth. Indeed, in the aerial photographs taken from observation balloons the intricate trench system of Mouquet Farm looked for all the world like a spider’s web. It was an unnerving way to do battle for both sides. No-one knew who was going to pop up from where, or from around which corner the enemy might appear.
The 52nd Battalion was called into the line on the 3rd of September. The troops were ordered to attack at 0510 and, following their initial assault, the fighting continued non-stop for nearly thirty-six hours.
It was late afternoon on the second day, and Hugh Stanford’s and David Powell’s platoon had been badly depleted. With barely a dozen men left, they had maintained possession of the section of trench they were in, but for how long they could keep it was anyone’s guess. Their situation was mirrored down the line and in other Australian-occupied trenches. The assault of the 52nd Battalion had proved successful, but they had paid in numbers and their position was tenuous.
A bomb exploded nearby, showering the men with debris as they crouched together in the filth. The stink of blood and excrement was overwhelming, but they no longer noticed it. They’d stacked the dead, their own along with the enemy’s, against the trench walls to make room; amongst the bodies Hugh could see young Gibbo from Launceston sandwiched between two Germans. Gibbo had copped it neatly and quickly, a bullet through the brain, which was the way they’d all like to go if they had a choice.
At least the old gang’s still here, he thought as he looked about distractedly, for the moment anyway. David, Gordie, Oscar and Harry were all mad-eyed like himself, crazed from lack of sleep and, whether or not they’d admit it, shell-shock.
It was difficult to tell who was injured and who was not as the recent summer rainfall had turned the trenches into quagmires and everyone was covered in muck and mud and blood. But there were moans from the seriously wounded, poor lads, some of whom wouldn’t make it through until nightfall, when the stretcher bearers would come in under the cover of darkness. Perhaps, we might get some fresh supplies then too, Hugh thought. They’d run out of food and water and tobacco.
There was a lull in the shelling, as there quite often was, a sudden hush both merciful and eerie. Even as the brain welcomed the silence, it questioned where the next shell would land.
‘Crikey, what I’d give for a smoke,’ David said.
‘Shh,’ Gordie held up a warning finger, ‘what’s that?’
They listened intently and in the silence they all heard it. Up ahead to the right came the guttural mutter of a language foreign to them and the rattle of military accoutrements. German troops were creeping through the maze of nearby trenches.
Seconds later, from not far away, a German machine gun opened fire. It was a concerted attack. The Germans were closing in, and if the Australians attempted to flee the trenches they would be mowed down.
Hugh remained momentarily frozen. His instinct was to retreat. They should back down the line and try to link up with others from the battalion. Their platoon had been so sorely depleted they were sure to be outnumbered.
In that split second, even as his brain sought a valid reason, Hugh actually just wanted to run away. Then, as in past times, David Powell proved inspirational.
‘Come on, mate, let’s stick it to them!’ David yelled and, as the German troops appeared in the trench system up ahead, he charged at them, screaming like a banshee.
Galvanised into action, Hugh charged along with him and the rest of the troops followed, all of them screaming at the top of their lungs.
Despite their fatigue and shell-shock, or perhaps because of it, they fought like madmen, thrusting with rifles and bayonets in a fearsome frenzy of killing.
Outnumbered though they were, their sheer ferocity was paying off. Several enemy lay dead, others lay wounded and the German troops were starting to fall back along the trench.
Moments later the Australians halted their attack: they had repelled the Germans, who were now in full retreat.
Then, in a rearguard action, an enemy pistol was fired.
Hugh felt the bullet tear through the upper right side of his chest and he staggered under the impact before dropping to his knees. He started to struggle to his feet once again, but five yards away one of the retreating Germans had turned.
‘Look out, Hugh!’
David flung himself at the German soldier whose rifle’s sights were trained upon Hugh and, as he did so, the weapon went off.
It was a freak shot. David had not intended to throw himself directly into the line of fire, nor had the German purposefully altered his aim, but the cry of warning had proved a distraction. The bullet hit David directly between the eyes, killing him instantly.
Something happened to Hugh then. He went insane. In a mindless rage, he rushed the German soldier, thrusting his bayonet into the man’s guts, ripping it upwards, disembowelling him. He picked up the man’s Mauser and turned it on the last of the retreating German troops. There w
ere only four of them. He shot the first.
‘Kamerad! Kamerad!’ the other three yelled, holding up their hands in surrender.
He shot all three. Then he stared wildly about. There was no more enemy, but in his madness he couldn’t stop. In his madness he no longer sought just to avenge David’s death, he sought to pay for it with his own. He would not stop until he had, and he would take along with him as many enemy as he could.
The German machine gun was still firing from nearby. There was the yell from an officer for someone to silence it. Hugh needed no more than that. In only seconds he was up and over the parapet, defying them to kill him as he charged the German machine-gun nest.
From the trenches, men watched in amazement, expecting any moment that amongst the hail of bullets he would fall. But miraculously he didn’t.
There were three enemy troops manning the Maxim. Come on, kill me, kill me, his mind dared them. He shot the first two and the third man turned to run, but he didn’t get far. Five paces and he fell to the ground, shot in the back.
The machine gun was silenced. The tide of battle had changed.
Returning to the trench in full view of the enemy, Hugh automatically started to run, but with no specific target in sight there seemed little purpose so he slowed down to a walk, his mind still saying kill me, kill me as he waited for the bullet.
The entire episode had been watched in open-mouthed awe by Oscar and Gordie and Harry and other members of the battalion. Now they continued to watch as Hugh ambled across the open field of fire. He’s asking to be killed, they thought, why the hell doesn’t he run?
He was barely ten yards away when rifle fire sounded from the German trenches.
‘Jesus,’ Harry muttered as Hugh fell to the ground and, without giving it a second thought, he too was up and over the parapet. He raced to Hugh, and slung him over his shoulders like a sack of grain. He turned and dodged his way back through the enemy’s fire while Oscar and Gordie shot wildly at the German trenches in an effort to cover him.
Harry made it back safely with Hugh still alive.
Later that night when the stretcher bearers arrived, Hugh was evacuated with the wounded. He was conscious, but appeared to have no memory of the events that had taken place.
The exhausted Australians remained fighting in their trenches until the morning of the sixth, when they were relieved by Canadian troops. The 52nd Battalion had captured and held the German trenches; in doing so they would prove to be the only troops to take and hold their initial objective during the entire allied assault in the Pozières Sector of the Somme Offensive.
Australian Prime Minister William Morris Hughes was faced with a serious dilemma. The massive casualties at Fromelle and the ongoing losses at the Somme had led to a severe decline in enlistment. Australia had agreed to the delivery of a regular quota of troops to the British, and something must be done to ensure that the quota was met.
Hughes embarked upon an aggressive recruitment campaign. Businesses were encouraged not to employ single men of recruitment age; those considered ‘shirkers’ were openly harassed; and in the press eligible young men were urged to do their duty for their country. Finally, the federal government announced that on the twenty-eighth of October a national vote would be held on the issue of conscription.
Hughes’s personal and passionate drive to introduce conscription had been dividing the nation for some time. Across the country, supporters and opponents alike vigorously campaigned, each side convinced of its own moral ground. Now, as the referendum drew closer, the arguments grew ever more bitter and divisive.
In Hobart, with only several days to go, the Queens Domain had become a gathering place for campaigners vying to be heard. They were women for the most part.
‘Enough is enough,’ one woman screamed, while her supporters waved placards emblazoned with the words VOTE NO! ‘Do not send any more of our boys to their deaths!’ she yelled. ‘Vote no to conscription!’
Nearby, an opposing crowd brandished campaign posters depicting a woman standing behind a soldier. Both were bearing arms, and the butt of the woman’s rifle was emblazoned with the word YES. The slogan beneath said STAND BY YOUR OWN!
‘Mothers of Australia, do not desert your country,’ Marge Henderson of the Women’s Protestant League urged, ‘Britain needs your sons: do your patriotic duty and vote yes to conscription!’
Norman Balfour was among those at the Domain, watching and listening to the spruikers as they preached from their soap boxes. He’d driven the Tin Lizzie into Hobart to collect some equipment for his father, grateful for the excuse to get away on his own. Norm felt restless these days – restless and useless. He had ever since Wes’s death. Jeez, who’d believe it? he thought. That was over a year ago now.
It was a lovely spring morning and he’d decided to take a walk to the Domain, perhaps to watch the kids playing footie or perhaps to look at the view across the bay, but most likely to buy a bit more time on his own. He rather wished he hadn’t. He found the women and their ranting unsettling. He hated the war. It hadn’t proved the adventure all the lads had thought it would be – ‘kill a few Huns and home by Christmas’ – it was wholesale slaughter.
‘And all you able-bodied men,’ Marge Henderson continued, her eyes seeking out eligible volunteers, although there didn’t appear to be many, ‘enlist today!’ Then her gaze alighted upon Norman. ‘You, young man,’ she yelled, ‘why are you not in uniform?! Shame upon you, I say! Sign up and fight alongside your brothers!’
‘Shame, shame,’ several other members of the Women’s Protestant League started to chant, and Norm felt himself flush with the guilt that had been secretly gnawing away at him. The woman could not possibly know how the literal truth of her slogan applied to him. Of course he should be fighting alongside his brothers. As the eldest he should have been leading them into battle. Now Wes was dead, young Harry was fighting on, and he was living a safe and cosy life back at home.
He turned and started to walk away, but one of Marge’s supporters followed him, still carrying her placard with the campaign poster. She grabbed him by the arm and he was forced to turn back and face her, a hardened little woman with bitterness in her eyes.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ she spat the words at him. ‘How dare you stand there, a strong, healthy lad like you, while others are dying for their country?’ Prudence Farmer did not need the urging of Marge Henderson to ignite her passion. Prudence had lost both her boys at Gallipoli.
Norm could have said he had a son who would turn two the next month. He could have told her his wife was pregnant. He could have pleaded baby Stephen and his unborn child as an excuse, but he didn’t. He sensed that would make no difference to the woman – just as it didn’t to him. The love and loyalty he felt towards his wife and son did nothing to assuage his sense of guilt.
Dipping a hand into the top pocket of her blouse, Prudence produced a white feather, which she thrust at him and which he automatically took. ‘That’s what we think of men like you,’ she said venomously. Prudence Farmer carried white feathers about her person at all times, not only to rallies but wherever she went, because you just never knew when you might need one. ‘Shirkers, the lot of you,’ she loudly declaimed, ‘shirkers and cowards, every one!’
Norm closed his fingers around the shameful symbol and walked off, cries of ‘hear, hear’ echoing behind him as Prudence rejoined Marge’s group of supporters.
The national outcome of the referendum proved to be a narrow victory for the No vote. The federal government’s drive for conscription had failed, this time around anyway: ‘Billy’ Hughes, a tough aggressive little man, was not one to readily throw in the towel.
The outcome of the vote had little bearing in the case of Norman Balfour, however. Prudence Farmer’s action had been enough. The white feather had tipped the balance. Norm had gone straight to the nearest recruitment centre that day. He’d signed up, knowing how deeply it would distress his wife, but knowing also
that he had no option.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hugh Stanford was hospitalised in England to have his wounds tended. His chest injury healed well – the bullet had passed through the right side of his upper body without causing significant damage – but it took several operations to repair the shattered bone of his upper left arm, which the doctors had at first considered amputating.
In March 1917, after months of convalescence, he was finally declared fit for duty, but before returning to France he attended an investiture ceremony at Buckingham Palace, where he was awarded the Victoria Cross by King George V.
Hugh did not inform his father of the date of his investiture. Indeed, in an uncharacteristic and outright lie, he wrote to his father at Christmas saying that it was unlikely he would be presented with his award for at least another six months. He feared that, even with the difficulty of wartime travel, his father would find a way to attend the ceremony. Reginald Stanford would certainly wish to attend, and when Reginald Stanford wished for something he usually got it. Hugh did not want his father to be there. Hugh did not want anyone to be there.
The entire ceremony registered as something of a blur to Hugh. There were a number of them lined up to receive their medals, two English soldiers also receiving the VC, and to Hugh the military pomp and splendour of the ritual, together with the grandeur of Buckingham Palace and even King George himself seemed somehow unreal. As his citation was read out, all he could think was: ‘Did I really do that?’ He had no memory of his actions. The death of David Powell remained crystal clear in his mind. Everything after that was a blank.
Following the investiture, Hugh Stanford was promoted to the rank of sergeant and returned directly to the frontline. His left arm did not function particularly well, but this was not considered an overly serious incapacitation: he was right-handed after all, and a VC winner was bound to prove inspirational to the troops.
