by Di Morrissey
‘Who is to say. We pray so. This offensive in Europe seems to be holding the Germans at bay, but at such cost . . . such a waste of endeavour and life.’
They tried to put such bleak thoughts to one side as they carried the bulging picnic basket down to the lawn at the edge of the river. There they spread out a tablecloth and tucked into the cakes and sandwiches of home-corned beef and pickles.
Later, knotting her straw hat firmly in place, Kate wandered to the sandstone swimming pool. In the boathouse she kept one of her favourite childhood toys — a beautifully carved wooden sailing boat Harold had made for her.
She smiled to herself in delight as the boat skimmed gracefully across the still water of the pool.
‘Take care, don’t lean too close to the edge and fall in,’ came a gentle voice behind her.
Kate turned around to find Ben Johnson smiling at her. ‘Hello, Ben. How are you? What have you been doing?’
Ben was dressed in a clean working shirt, tucked into woollen slacks held up by a thick leather belt. His boots were polished and his hair neatly combed. ‘I’ve been loading tomatoes into Hock Lee’s wagon. We’ve had a fine crop. Now I was about to go for a bit of a wander up the river.’
Kate, kneeling at the edge of the pool, picked the dripping sailboat out of the water and, holding up her long skirt, smiled at Ben. ‘I have a wonderful idea. I was just in the boathouse and saw the punt . . . Would you take me for a punt along the river?’
They returned to find Mrs Butterworth chatting to Hock Lee, who was reclining comfortably on the lawn, his blazer on the grass beside him, his hat over his face.
‘Ben is going to take me for a punt down the river a little way,’ said Kate.
‘My goodness, that old punt hasn’t been out for a long time. Better make sure it doesn’t leak,’ warned Mrs Butterworth.
‘The wagon is all loaded, Hock Lee.’
‘Thanks, Ben. I’ll send the driver on his way. But first, shall I help you get the punt down?’
Mrs Butterworth dropped her crochet work into her lap as she watched Hock Lee, Ben and Kate manoeuvre the punt into the water and take it to the end of the jetty for Kate to get into it.
Hock Lee gave Kate a hug. ‘Take care; enjoy yourself. I’ll see you soon.’
‘Goodbye, Hock Lee. Would you take my letters to post in Sydney, please? I’m sending Dad a watercolour I did of the garden.’
‘He’ll treasure that, I’m sure — a reminder of home. It will mean a lot to him.’
Kate bit her lip and Hock Lee patted her hand. ‘Have faith. Laughter will come to Zanana again, you’ll see.’
In the stillness of the summer’s afternoon the punt slid easily along the glassy river. Ben kept close to the bank where overhanging tree branches cast occasional shadows across Kate’s white blouse. The ribbons from her hat fluttered in the slight breeze and with the sun behind her head, stray strands of hair glittered like threads of pure gold. Her eyes were as blue as the sky above, but they were faintly clouded as she thoughtfully trailed her fingertips in the water.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Ben.
‘How different it must be where our men are fighting.’
Ben was silent for a moment. ‘Yes . . . but we have to be there — they need men. Don’t worry, we’ll all come back safely to Zanana.’
Kate looked up into Ben’s gentle brown eyes, a curl of light brown hair falling onto his forehead as it always did, his friendly open face slightly bronzed by the sun. He was smiling shyly at her and it took a moment for his remark to register.
‘We will come back . . . ? We?’
‘Yes. I’ve signed up. I haven’t told Mum or Dad yet.’
‘Ben! Why?’ Kate sat upright in consternation, causing the punt to rock.
Ben sat down and gripped the sides of the boat as it steadied itself. ‘Do you need to ask? I must do my bit too, Kate.’
Kate looked at his muscular arms and realised how tall he’d become. Ben was now a man. And on the threshold of adulthood he was prepared to give up his life before he’d lived it.
‘It’s not fair that Zanana should lose all its men.’
‘My father is still here.’
‘Yes, but only because he didn’t pass the medical, otherwise he’d be gone too. And he feels so badly not being over there too. Oh, Ben, I wish I could go, do something, instead of small things like helping with food and writing letters.’
‘Will you write to me?’
‘Of course I will!’ Kate looked away, tears blurring her eyes.
Ben stood and resumed pulling the punt through the water. After a minute he said softly, ‘When I’m over there, this is what I’ll remember’.
Kate looked up into his steady gaze and knew there was more than just friendship in the look that passed between them. She was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to know everything about him now that there seemed so little time — what he thought about, his likes and dislikes, his dreams and plans. She had led a sheltered life at the big house and she and Ben had only just begun to know each other as adults rather than children who’d played together about the estate. The war had drawn them closer together, dissolving any barriers of class which previously may have separated them. Kate regarded Ben as a part of Zanana’s family. It seemed impossible he was going away — to war.
The next time she saw Ben he looked like a stranger. Proud in his uniform, he presented himself at the front door of Zanana to say goodbye. Sid and Nettie Johnson waited in the sulky to take him to the railway station.
Kate came forward slowly and looked at Ben in the coarse ill-fitting khaki uniform, the belted tunic loose on his slim frame. Awkwardly Ben loosened the strap of his slouch hat and took it off. His hair flopped forward and Kate had to resist the urge to smooth it back into place.
Mrs Butterworth gave him a tearful hug. ‘If you see my Harold . . . or Wally over there . . . give them our love and tell them we are managing all right.’
‘I will. And you keep an eye on my parents for me. Thanks for everything, Mrs B.’
‘No thanks are needed, lad. It’s all of us who should be thanking the likes of you. God bless you.’
Ben turned his attention to Kate. ‘This is it then. I’m off. Training camp first, and then in a couple of months we sail.’
Kate nodded.
‘A big trip for a bloke who’s hardly ever left Zanana,’ grinned Ben. ‘You won’t forget your promise?’
Kate found her voice. ‘No. I’ll write to you, Ben. Come back safe.’
Ben grasped the softness of her small hand and held it briefly. For a moment his head moved towards her heart-shaped face, but then he straightened, throwing back his shoulders and giving her a swift smile. He put his hat on and turned away.
‘Don’t worry about your mother and father. I’ll be here with them,’ called Kate.
He looked back over his shoulder and gave her a nod of thanks. Her heart lurched at the sadness of his face and she knew he was fighting back tears.
Kate turned indoors and did not wait to see the sulky drive away with a family willingly giving up their only child to fight a war on the other side of the world. That other side of the world was a nightmare terrain which burned into men’s minds, never to be forgotten.
A pall of black stinking smoke hung over the remains of the tiny French village as the truckloads of Australians headed for the front. The once pretty country lane was crowded. The lorries, carrying twenty soldiers each, had to drive slowly to one side as the sad stream of villagers left their farms and cottages. They left meals half eaten on the table, fowls and rabbits unattended in yards, doors wide open. What few possessions had been hurriedly scraped together were dragged, strapped on bicycles or pushed in carts. One young man pushed a wheelbarrow carrying his elderly father.
Harold and Wally exchanged a look. ‘Bloody pitiful, eh, Wal?’
Nightfall was approaching and the tired men wondered where they would snatch a few hours sleep and marching ratio
ns before facing the German advance.
By now the trucks were edging through the narrow cobblestone streets which led to the town square. Small cottages opened onto the street and families were still dragging possessions through narrow doorways.
The soldiers gave them a friendly wave and one man who spoke a little English called out to the lorryload of men as Wal and Harold passed by. ‘Who are you soldiers? From where do you come?’
‘We’re Aussies, mate,’ called Wally.
‘Australians,’ clarified Harold.
The old man dropped the bundle of clothes at his feet and clasped his hands in prayer, eyes to heaven, then saluted the men as he called to friends and neighbours. The lorry slowed as people gathered around, listening to the man talk of les Australiens. Then smiling and waving to the soldiers, they began dragging their possessions back indoors.
‘What’s going on?’ called Wally.
‘Pas nécessaire maintenant — vous les tiendrez,’ called the man over his shoulder.
One of the men translated. ‘He says it’s not necessary now — we’ll hold them.’
‘Cripes, I hope we don’t let the old bloke down,’ exclaimed Harold as the lorry moved off.
Two miles from the village a halt was called and the word was passed they would spend the night camped in the barns of a nearby farm and country schoolhouse.
While settling in for the night the cooks set up a field kitchen and soon had a lamb stew bubbling in huge pots. Within an hour several villagers arrived in a cart and unloaded a crate of home-made wine, a sack of potatoes and several fowls.
Harold later wrote about it to Gladys.
. . . we all enjoyed that night and it cheered us before we set off at dawn. It was jolly close to a picnic of sorts. We even managed a bit of a singsong. The two farmers stayed with us and before returning homewards, stood to attention and together sang the Marseillaise. It was a stirring sight and quite choked me up. There wasn’t a sound when they’d finished and our regimental sergeant major stood and began singing ‘Waltzing Matilda’ in his booming voice. We all heartily joined in and it was a cheerful note on which to end a memorable evening. We were all very touched at the farmers’ generosity as we knew food was scarce . . .
In the cold, misty dawn, the men set out again, the lorries churning through the boggy rutted road. Silence fell over the group huddled in the back as they passed the burned-out shell of a huge German tank. In a field devastated by shell craters they could smell death in the crisp morning air.
A vehicle passed them going in the opposite direction and a sleepy Australian soldier, eyeing the British staff car and its officer occupants, cheekily hollered, ‘Hey, mate, you’re going the wrong way, the war’s up ahead!’
Soon the men were ordered to get out of the lorries and, in long rigid files on both sides of the road, began marching to the front. The bleak countryside became a scene of unimaginable devastation. A biting wind seared across the barren landscape of thick yellow mud where blackened skeletons of once grand trees were the only standing sentinels. Twisted wire, a burned vehicle, and remains of shell holes pitted the earth. All around was eerily silent and ghostlike. But in the distance there was an insistent rumble of artillery and the men could feel the earth trembling.
They reached the support lines and spent the freezing night huddled in trenches, teeth chattering, and talking in whispers. Some men had a premonition of their death and talked about it openly. Often their pals knew it too and were not surprised to find their comrade had fallen.
An issue of rum was handed out which helped warm the men who waited for zero hour and the order to advance. Shortly before dawn they quietly moved into the front-line trenches. The order to advance came at dawn as a mist wavered across the bog dividing the two forces. No one hesitated. With rifles and bayonets ready, they climbed from the trenches and walked steadily into the swirling mist of no-man’s-land.
Most of the ground was a mire of grey mud. The enemy machine-gun fire cracked like stockwhips, striking patches of frozen ground like bolts of lightning. The sound was deafening, the smell of explosives suffocating.
Harold and Wally’s battalion lost a lot of men. The push never reached the German trenches. It was a bloody disaster. The Australians were ordered to pull back.
Harold was relieved to see Wally back in the trench crouched in a dugout. They exchanged a nod, too exhausted to speak. The gunfire stopped.
The silence which now descended on the battlefield was, to Harold, more horrific than the shelling. Everyone listened and for a while no one talked.
‘Listen to those poor blighters out there,’ Harold finally whispered to Wally. In no-man’s-land the wounded called to their mates. They were left till night fell when stretcher parties went over the top to bring back the survivors.
In the morning light, Ben Johnson sat huddled in a corner of a trench, his chin sunk on his chest, his arms wrapped about himself attempting to keep warm. His bones felt frozen and brittle as he tried to sleep. Around him other men dozed, or sat hunched in silence, lost in a world of forgetting. The only way they found to endure this miserable world was by existing in the moment, blotting out past joys and happiness in order to survive the pain of the present.
Ben lifted his head and listened. A moan echoed across the grey mud of no-man’s-land, followed by a distant faint call, ‘Is there a mate out there?’
Peering over the parapet, Ben could make out the bulk of a wounded man sheltering in a shell hole in no-man’s-land. He was struggling to move and had either been overlooked by the stretcher-bearers the night before, or been presumed dead. Without thinking, Ben dropped his rifle and sprang over the parapet and, crouching low, ran in a zigzag towards the man.
Reaching the shell hole safely, he rolled into it, discovering there were two men in it. The wounded man had a head injury and one leg had been partially shot away. The other man lay still and motionless.
‘G’day,’ said Ben with mock brightness. ‘Call for a cuppa?’
‘You must be mad,’ gasped the wounded solider gratefully as Ben handed him his water bottle. ‘Ta.’
To both their shock, the man beside them lifted his head.
‘Jeez, I thought you were dead,’ spluttered the wounded man.
For a moment Ben was speechless as he found himself staring into the frightened eyes of Hector Dashford. ‘Hector! Are you hurt?’
‘Get me out of here!’ screamed Hector, his eyes wild and unfocused.
‘Take it easy, mate, you can walk out. You haven’t got a mark on you!’ Ben offered the water bottle to Hector, but he ignored it, pillowing his head in his arms and starting to cry.
‘God,’ thought Ben, ‘he’s suffering shell shock.’ He turned to the wounded soldier. ‘What’s your name? Mine’s Ben.’
‘Stan . . . Stan Jackson.’
‘Right, Stan, do you want to make a try at getting back now, or stay here till nightfall? Though frankly, I don’t like the look of your leg — you’ve lost a lot of blood, I reckon.’
‘I’ll take me chances if you’ll give a hand.’ He looked at Hector. ‘What about him?’
Ben looked at the trembling curled figure of Hector, then pushed his boot into his ribs and spoke harshly. ‘Come on, get up, Hector. You’re letting us all down, especially yourself.’
Hector shook his head and huddled down further, hugging himself.
‘I’m not waiting for him.’ The wounded man dragged himself from the hole and began wriggling forward only to collapse, falling face down in the mud with a groan.
‘Here, hang onto me,’ said Ben. ‘We’re going to have to make a bit of a run for it. Hope the Huns are all at breakfast.’
With the wounded man hanging onto him, hobbling on one leg and dragging what remained of the other, Ben set off. He was bent nearly double and, with his boots sinking into the sodden mush up to his puttees, their progress was painfully slow.
They had barely covered twenty yards when the first bullet rang out.
They stumbled on, zigzagging slightly, but more bullets whizzed close to them and they threw themselves into a shell hole. As they landed in the mud Stan screamed in agony. The scream gave way to another, then to laboured breathing. Ben looked at the man’s ashen face.
‘Ready for another sprint, mate?’
‘Yeah. I’ll be right, Ben.’
They rose and struggled on towards the Allied trench, and again the German marksmen began looking for their target. By now, anxious faces were peering from the trenches, shouting encouragement. Some of the men began firing at the German lines in the hope of keeping the Germans down while Ben made his heroic faltering run, half dragging, half carrying the wounded Stan.
Ben was aware of the voices, but unaware that behind, Hector had risen to his feet and had begun a wild run, heedless of anything about him. He ran upright in a straight line, blindly following Ben and the wounded man.
‘You’re nearly there, keep coming,’ called a voice from the trench as Ben sank to his knees. He was now crawling, pulling along Stan, who had passed out, the blood gushing from his leg.
Hector caught up with them as they neared the trenches, and willing hands reached out to drag them over. Ben lifted the unconscious soldier to the parapet of the trench just as Hector sprang to safety. Ben rose to fling himself over, but was suddenly aware of nothing but a burning sensation. Then everything went black.
He came to in a covered bay further up the trench where several other wounded men lay. Ben thought he must be delirious, for as his vision cleared he saw the concerned face of Harold Butterworth watching him.
‘Take it easy, Ben. You’ve been hit, but you’re all right. Flesh wound. Took the wind out of you though.’
Ben struggled to speak. ‘Where’d you spring from?’
‘56th Battalion. Just up ahead. Saw your mad move and when I heard it was you, got permission to come back.’
‘How’s the other bloke?’
‘He’s bad, but will be all right the medico thinks.’
‘Hector?’
‘He’s bloody all right. Don’t know why he didn’t come in last night. Your wounded mate says he pulled Hector into the hole with him; he was just lying on the ground. Gave up.’
