Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  The grey eyes met again and held for a moment. Then Prindy turned away, as if it were the proper thing to mind one’s own business about other people’s dealings with the occult. He said, ‘We have ’nother-one go, eh? I reckon better let him turn right round himself first-time. He pigheaded bugger. Spone we let him do what he want first-time, might-be he do what we want after.’

  ‘Might be good idea.’

  II

  Thus, despite what was going on out in what would be called the Great World — the murder and mayhem, the ruthless destruction of Man’s kindlier creativeness throughout the centuries of his apparent rise above brutality, all in the cause of the urge of individuals and groups to prove themselves Second to-None — there again was the old familiar scene of Beatrice River township en fête, if so pretty a term might be applied to so mean a little show, really — the camps on the river, mostly built of dying boughs, the brawling dogs and swarming flies, the blowzy bushwomen, the hipless, toothless, lean, lanky, bandy bushmen — the dispossessed denizens of the region watching from safe distance, cockatoos, wallabies, goannas, goats, the cockies giving voice to what the others might be feeling, what all non-human animate creation might be feeling with them: The bloody business is on again! Oh, when will Mankind die out and leave the world in peace, but, please, Creator, not in pieces?

  The people from the camps and the township were waiting by the Station for the train, for the arrival of the uproarious mob that would signal true beginning of the festival. As usual, they were talking of who would be on the train, or rather, of who they supposed would be, according to Col Collings who was supposed to know everything about a train once it left the Caroline. This had never been a place for secrets. Still, it was wartime, a time for secrecy, as Col Collings himself more or less stated in a notice stuck up outside his office door: HOLD YOUR TONGUE, THE ENEMY HAS LONG EARS. But every public office throughout the land had a notice like that, just as every sizeable bridge had an armed guard on it. Rather were these things reminders of the fact that We Are At War, which a lot of people found exciting. Thus the waiting crowd were able quite openly to discuss the reason why the Military Band would not be coming this time. The information came from that advocate of the Held Tongue, Col Collings himself. Port Palmeston Garrison was alert because an enemy raider, a so-called Pocket Battleship, was believed to be prowling adjacent seas. Some asked: What the hell’s wrong with the Navy? Others wanted to know didn’t Britannia still Rule the Waves? Others again said it was bloody silly to involve the Band, when what use would they be with guns blazing, even playing the new hit which made rather a fool of the enemy. We’re going to hang out etc. Hang out our washing on the Siegfried Line, have you any dirty washing, Mother dear? So it would be the Coloured Boys’ Band again, as of old, augmented, so it was being said, by that Creamy Kid with his clarinet, who’d been entertaining the campers these last couple of nights. And could that kid play! Where’d he got it from — Delacy or Cahoon? Old Dinny had been musical.

  Speaking of Dinny, meant talk of the Cahoon Sisters, who were also aboard the Race Train, bringing down the bronze Crucifix to be erected to Dinny’s memory. There was to be a Memorial Service conducted by Monsignor Maryzic on Sunday morning. Some said it would be a fitting way for the festival to end, seeing that Our Boys would be departing immediately afterwards, perhaps to pay the Supreme Sacrifice themselves, as the elder Knowleses, here to greet and farewell their hero, Knobby, tearfully had said with a drop in. However, others, who may have had reason to remember Dinny Cahoon without the aid of a monument, declared it a damn nuisance, since it must cruel the binge with which the turn-out always ended and which they believed would be more to the liking of Our Boys.

  Formerly it was always That Creamy Kid who heard the train first. But here was the war intruding again. The sentry on the bridge, being a good half-mile nearer and with a view up-line three times that distance, beat Prindy to it, as was evident from his coming out of his canvas shelter, and with bayonet flashing in the sunlight, taking a quick look round for lurking Huns. Then he stood himself in appropriate military style beside the track to show the driver that all was well. However, there could be no doubt but that the soldier, as the train came up to him and past, was surprised to see that this civilian train was being driven by one of his own kind. Still, since he was not a local man, the sentry could have been nothing like as much surprised as were the locals when they discovered not simply that the driver was a uniformed soldier but his identity. Naturally, it was those sharpest eyed though least considered ones amongst the waiting crowd who made the discovery, which they announced in sharp indrawn chorus — ‘Patannaford!’

  Sure enough, it was Pat Hannaford hanging out grinning under a slouch hat bearing the badge of the Imperial Force. Jeremy, standing with his household, stared as hard as any, but remarked, ‘Surely wonders will never cease!’

  As the engine came up it could be seen that actually it was in charge of that old warhorse, too old for warring now, Jack Tinball, who was letting one who formerely had mocked him for his militarism pull her tail for the auspicious occasion, while keeping a grimy hand on the khaki shoulder to show the world how things had changed. Pat waved vigorously to Rifkah beside Jeremy, and shouted that he would be along to see her. Then as he passed the gaping Collings, instead of giving him one of his old-time insulting salutes, he only winked. Thus had been kept the first secret ever to be brought down by train, no doubt because Pat had insisted on it to begin with, but surely also because of the sheer incredibility of it.

  The boozy mob poured from the train, amongst them the other rookie warriors. Three of these latter were denied the heroes’ welcome they would have got from the waiting crowd, except for a bit of cheering and slapping on the back, through being snatched immediately to maternal bosoms and whisked away. One of the bosoms was that still-trim one of Lady Rhoda, suddenly here as from nowhere in her big car, into which, with remarkable dexterity, she bundled her flushed, glassy-eyed, hoarse, unsure-footed Clancy, even while he was having his back pounded. No one had ever seen Her Ladyship expose herself to the common herd like that before. Mum Knowles did similarly but with much less finesse, not having it to start with and then a less broken colt to deal with. She fairly had to drag Knobby away, with the help of his brother, Nugget, also just off the train, down towards the Knowleses’ camp. Behind them came old Ned, also somewhat the worse for grog, with the brand-new addition to the family, nee Philly Lilyponds, who by the look of her was not that proud of the family she’d joined, even if she might now claim to belong to the squattocracy. Tom Toohey had his trolley at hand to help his Possum whisk away their roaring soldier-boy.

  There were the Cahoon Sisters, still wearing the blackest black, being helped from the rear coach by fellow-travellers of the staider kind, like Kitty Wyndeyer, Monsignor Maryzic, and Superintendent Bullco. Most of the congregated policemen were also there to help, and Shamus Finnucane, whose concern was for His Very Reverence, as usual. There was another to help down, too — not animate, yet hardly to be called inanimate by what Shamus, doffing his hat when he saw it, would dub a Daycent Christian, and certainly not handled as such by the four policemen who took charge of it. The Crucifix, for sure, by the shape of it under its shroud, about half life-size. The Sisters went, supported, to another car from the Big House, waiting to pick them up, along with the Monsignor and the Superintendent. However, His Very Reverence, spotting the Lily Lagoons group, or perhaps more truly Prindy in his colourful Indian trappings, headed that way. Finnucane was coming with him, and Eddy McCusky, too.

  The attention of the Lagoons people themselves was drawn by the precipitous arrival amongst them of Pat Hannaford. Although Pat took in the group with a wave and a wink, there was but one he was interested in. He grabbed Rifkah, kissed her, held her off to look at her and exclaim, ‘You got thin . . . ain’t they feedin’ you?’ He gave her no time to answer, telling her that he’d arrived back from the South only on Sunday’s mail plane, that he’
d enlisted while down there: ‘To get even with them Nazi bastards for what they done to you and your mob. Heard you’s here. So here I am. Got sumpin terribly important to tell you.’ When she asked what it was, he answered, ‘Strictly private.’ He tried to draw her away. But she wouldn’t go, telling him to come down to the camp with them. By that time the others were up to them. Pat scowled, and growled, ‘See you later, then. Come to the dance with me.’ He headed for the pub.

  The others shook hands amiably with Jeremy and Rifkah and Nan. Monsignor concentrated on Prindy. ‘So, it is a Hindu ve are on the eve of our First Communion, is it?’ Eddy gave scant attention to Prindy, as if repudiating him, concentrating that official paternalism of his, hat over eye, on Savitra, even more brilliantly Hindu than her young husband. She clung to Rifkah to show how much she trusted her official Daddy-o. Kitty quite gushed over Rifkah, saying how wonderful it must be to work at the Mission, and how soon she hoped to be out there with her. Old Shame-on-us clearly was more concerned with what was going on up at his gold mine without himself there at this richest moment of its yielding, trying to work the double by getting the company to come along and Have a Drap wid Me.

  The little interlude was interrupted by the arrival of an aeroplane — not the Junkers nor Flying Fox’s Moth, but a smart-looking thing wearing camouflage paint and the bull’s-eyes of the Royal Australian Air Force, or rather of the Royal Air Force of Britain, since the former existed in name only. The aircraft, of light bomber type, circled the township at roof-top level, roared over the railway to reveal in banking the face of General Esk at a window.

  The party broke up at that. Finnucane went rushing to his pub with Eddy, the Monsignor with Kitty headed towards the waiting car, the Lily Lagoons people down to their camp.

  So the festival was on.

  The dance that night was more than the poor little affair previously left to the humbler of the lower castes as their part in initiating the festival. It started as usual in that mean little way, but in no time, through what seemed to be sheer spontaneity, into a generally attended entertainment for Our Boys. Although the farewelling of the Boys had been well considered, no one concerned with organisation had understood what was involved in their homecoming. Ostensibly they had come home to say Goodbye to home, while in effect they already had done that in going off to become soldiers. General Esk understood it, and perhaps had something to do with getting it going. He showed up at the Hall with the rest of the gentry, and shook hands with the Boys. It was really a great moment for the whole gathering. After all, was he not General Sir Marcus Esk, Bt, KCMG, DSO etc., etc., Commander-in-Chief of the Australian Army?

  When Old Whiskers got the chance he sneaked away, to go down to the Lily Lagoons camp, where Rifkah told him Jeremy was, alone. By that time the old Hall was rocking to unrestrained dancing and singing of the music danced to, which was all of the war-variety, the newest with the oldest: We’re going to hang out our Washing on the Siefried Line, Kiss Me Goodnight, Sergeant-Major, Run, Adolf, Run, Keep the Home Fires Burning, Australia Will Be There, Tipperary.

  Whiskers, sipping brandy with Jeremy, said, ‘In wartime, a soldier alone with civilians is lost. With even one other soldier he finds himself again. Young Clancy was a perfect example of it over there with his family. He would have clung to us . . . only, he’s already intimidated by rank, and, of course, our being Regulars makes a difference. Naturally his mother wanted to cling to him. I explained to her. She’s over there at the Hall now . . . seeing a very different boy from what she thought she had. You’d remember that sort of thing from the old days, dear boy?’

  Jeremy answered shortly, ‘I prefer not to recall those days.’ When Esk responded with a slight cough of evident embarrassment, he added, ‘You know how I feel about all this lunacy, Mark.’

  Whiskers took a swig, drew a deep breath, said in a tone so short for him that Jeremy’s eyes opened in inquiry, ‘However you feel about it, Jeremy, you’re involved . . . and rather more than you realise.’

  The grey eyes grew wider. Esk coughed again, this time without the note of embarrassment, but rather with a hint of a forthright pronouncement: ‘Just now when I arrived, you expressed surprise at my returning for such a seemingly frivolous purpose at such a time. You missed the point in my reply that I was here to see you. I meant that it’s solely on your account I made the journey.’

  Jeremy frowned slightly, was about to say something, when the General interrupted, saying quickly, ‘I have to inform you, Colonel, that you’re on active service.’

  The frown turned to a gape. Then the mouth shut tight, to open again, snapping, ‘What the hell’s this?’

  ‘According to the records, your resigning your commission was never ratified. Evidently things were rather anyhow at GHQ for some time after the war. Anyway, finding you on the Reserve of Officers, I promoted you . . . and posted you . . .’

  Flaming, Jeremy burst out, ‘Well . . . of all the bloody cheek!’

  Whiskers’s lean handsome face could be seen in the bright electric light to flush. He answered somewhat curtly, ‘Apart from the great good use I myself can make of you, but which only you can agree to co-operate in, there’s the fact that your country is at war . . .’

  Glaring, Jeremy grated, ‘My country has made no war with anyone . . . or, as far as I know, has had anyone declared war on it.’

  Esk sighed as he said, ‘Nevertheless, according to the constitution of this country of yours, you are involved in a war . . . and are liable under law to be declared a traitor to it if you refuse to acknowledge the fact . . .’ Esk’s shoulders heaved with a sigh: ‘Please Jeremy . . . regard me first as your friend. Even without military involvement, you’re still bound to serve the War Effort, as they’re calling it, under the new Manpower Regulations . . . or suffer the consequences. Do you imagine that your enemies aren’t going to take advantage of the National Security Act to harass you, if they get the chance? Aren’t you much better off as a ranking officer under the wing of the Commander-in-Chief?’

  Jeremy growled, ‘I don’t want to be under anyone’s wing, thanks.’

  ‘Notwithstanding your independence, you’re under the shadow of war . . . with all the drastic things that can be done in the name of it. Won’t you take my word for it that much of what I’ve done’s been with genuine desire to benefit you rather than myself?’

  Jeremy drew a deep breath. ‘What is it you’ve done?’

  ‘I found that the gang at GHQ had already put into operation their plan for regional commands, and that the GOC Northern had been appointed. There was no gainsaying it, without a first-class political row, because the new Prime Minister’s behind them. The man picked for the job’s an exceptional soldier . . . but of that war-anywhere-with-anyone type we’ve talked of as typically Australian . . . and hence in my opinion useless for the job. All he’s doing is filling in time till he can get a division to take overseas. However, I could veto their machinations in respect to appointment of actual OC Troops for the region, because I had the very man, and their man’s not so well in yet as for them to risk a row over him. So, with the substantive rank of full Colonel, you are 2-IC Northern. As soon as possible, you’ll be raised to Brigadier, so that no one can out-rank you here. The force deployed into the region will be of brigade strength, nominally if not numerically to start with. How you handle things is a matter between you and your GOC. You won’t have any trouble with him. He’s pleased with the appointment . . . yours, I mean . . . to get it off his hands. There’re two factions fighting it out to see who’s goin’ to be king of the castle. He’s leading one, and daren’t turn his back on the other. Guess who the chappy was whom I threw out for you?’

  Jeremy, looking deflated by now, only staring and gulping the brandy he had twice replenished, muttered, ‘I’m in no mood for guessing.’

  ‘Our old friend Fabian Cootes. To all appearances he’s a civilian, working as an expert on Japanese Affairs in the Department of Defence. Seems that during
his academic career he did a short course in Oriental Studies, in the hope of landing a cushy job the Government was offering at the time for better relations with Japan. He missed out . . . well, for the time. I find, also, that he holds the rank of Subaltern with the CMF, evidently without even having attended a parade . . . another card up that sleeve of his to play when real rank is offering. He’ll be the only one annoyed. The others are concerned only with mustering their precious AIF, and, as you would say, heading for the brothels of Alexandria at the earliest possible opportunity. They’re not even bothering about anything but basic training before embarkation, saying that it’s useless to train men in Australian conditions, when they might be required to fight anywhere from the African deserts to the Russian Arctic. They’ve already got tentative plans for embarkation of a contingent in the New Year . . . and this in spite of the Imperial High Command’s telling me and my telling them that Australians will only be an embarrassment if sent over before called for. The Canadians will be supporting the BEF for a start.’

  Esk paused to drink, then went on while Jeremy, haggard now, sat and stared at him: ‘At the same time High Command tells me to be careful not to antagonise anyone with heavy objections. Thus they’ve been able to take things out of my hands rather, by forming this infernal Imperial Force of theirs. It’s as if it were a private army. I’m only C-in-C Australian Military Forces . . . a completely different thing from a legal standpoint. While the AIF is composed entirely of volunteers and can go anywhere its C-in-C, whoever that’s going to be, chooses, with Divisional Commanders responsible only to British High Command, the AMF is a conscripted army that can’t be sent beyond Australian shores. Your men will be AMF. At least that should please you.’

  They stared at each other. After a while Esk spoke again: ‘If you don’t want to do it, Jeremy, you’ve only to present yourself before the Military Board at GHQ and ask to be exempted on some ground that won’t prejudice you as a civilian. You’re not over age . . . because they’ve advanced the age-limit for service in field rank to secure their own jobs. But you could say you feel too old for the responsibility. They’d gladly grant it to you, as a man of mine . . . if you don’t mind that description.’