Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Such was the defeat of our soldiery in Greece that nothing exact was known about the fate of most of the men for a very long while. This was not to be blamed entirely on the utter breakdown of command and general ineptitude of Australian official administration, but to a degree on Australian character. Many of Our Boys, with the tradition of bush-ranging behind them and that individualism and resourcefulness therefrom (which is perhaps the only Australian characteristic Worth a Dump), instead of surrendering to the Hun, joined up with bands of brigands and the like or took refuge with Greek peasantry. Astonishing that an Aussie could come to rub shoulders so intimately with the alien he probably most despised, his utter contempt expressed in the appellative Ox! Imagine one of Our Boys, when the Huns were hunting for them, hiding beneath a frowsy bed in which a Greek had slept with his garlic and salami sausage, nose all but in the Greek’s piss-pot! Yet all but beyond credence though it was, rumours of this sort of thing sustained a lot of fearful hearts at home, even for years. No such luck, however, for those waiting back at Beatrice. Within a few months they had the grim facts concerning their heroes from the sole survivor of them, Pat Hannaford, back home with one arm, one leg, one eye, and as he put it himself, One Arse’ole. As people said, with bitterness or pride, according to how they were disposed to him, it just had to be Hannaford of all the others who would get out of it.

  Later there were people bitter enough to say that it was a pity Pat hadn’t lost his tongue as well, when he began to wag it to the detriment of their pet illusions. Apart from reporting how some of the heroes died in circumstances hardly heroic, he claimed to have seen General Tubs go off in the seaplane with his officer son and his pet poodle, while the Aegean waters were staining with the blood of his dying men. Fortunately for his own prospects, he hadn’t begun to talk out like that from the beginning. He came home as a hero, and acted it, and was taken to the community’s bosom. They even all but gave him his old job back. He was now unfit for engine-driving officially. However, so that he might still have authority to ride the foot-plate, as soon as he was discharged from the Army, they appointed him an Engine Inspector. This even gave him the right to run the length of the road, because the stationary engines used for pumping came under his inspection. Curiously enough he owed this chiefly to his old enemy, Col Collings, now Acting Railways Superintendent, in the absence of Superintendent Broadbeam, now a Colonel of HAD handling the maintenance of war-tanks in North Africa. It was a time of advancement for everyone smart enough to take advantage of it.

  People said it was nice of Col to do what he had for Pat. However, when Pat came to speaking out, he suggested that it was less out of regard for himself as for the fact that the political climate lately had changed drastically. The Prime Minister, he of the Silver Tongue (who so rashly had committed Our Boys to a war in fighting which they were likely to fall, as their fathers had, into the doubtful hands of Old Jack the Ripper, had outlawed the Communist Party without thought that the notorious fortunes of war might land us with Russia as Our Gallant Ally, in fact had been so unheeding of reality in a working-class country as to declare all things working-class subversive except sheer unprotesting hard work), was tottering out of office, to give way to the Labor Party, which was pledged to reinstate their comrades of the Class Struggle. It was utterly silly of Silver Tongue to have maintained the ban on the Commos, when since Russia switched from the other side to ours, they had become the greatest Soolers in the land. Pat who had gone away all but spat on by his former Comrades for a Capitalists’ Stooge, returned a Hero of Democracy.

  Pat returned home in August, just before Silver Tongue was brought down. A lot had happened since May and the Hess Escapade. Eastern Europe was ablaze with the Russian War, North Africa with Churchill’s latest game of tin soldiers. The Japanese had seized Indo-China from the Hun-humbled French.

  Anybody could have had French Indo-China. Anybody was entitled to it, seeing that the rightful owners had long ago surrendered to imperial mastery. Yet the British, Americans, and Dutch, who had their own imperial possessions round about, told the Japanese to get out at once, at the same time imposing economic sanctions with which they must comply to survive even at home — or go to war. More than that, the Americans, who were supposed to be keeping the peace by supplying everybody with the means to make war, told the Japs to get out of China — pronto! The Japs had been in China since 1933. Upstarts! The Yanks had been in there since the Boxer Rebellion, which they put down, in 1900. The Japanese made no move to do what their betters told them. As Jeremy said when he met Pat and talked over the war with him: ‘We’ll be at war with the Japs before the bloody year’s out.’

  Pat reappeared at the Beatrice in the old style, leaning grinning out of the cab of the engine of the mail train, winking a glass eye, waving an artificial arm, but with his good hand on the brake. At his shoulder was the official driver, Porky Jones. He was given a hero’s welcome. All took his hand — from the lowest, who also stroked his good arm shyly, proudly calling him Rotten Sodjer, to the aristocrats of the Big House, who had him over to tea. It wasn’t all that pleasant for him, just the same. He had those unpleasant reports to make to bereaved relatives. Of the three mothers he had to tell the sad news to, only one had not made it hard for him. He had gone also to Toohey’s for tea. Possum had suddenly smashed a cup and cut her head and howled like a lubra. Unfortunately, he had told Tom the truth about Brumby’s death, believing that it would anger rather than grieve him and likewise his missus when told. He had seen Brumby die in AG Hospital, Jerusalem, as a result of having been beaten up by a particularly vicious type of AIF military police, unofficially known as Jerusalem Screws. Mrs Knowles, stopping at the pub, at first was only stunned by what he told her of Knobby’s end on a beach in Crete. Then apparently she got on the bottle, and came at him in the bar, screaming about the like of him, a Mongrel Commo, getting away, while a decent law-abiding clean-living boy like hers must die. Of the third he said, ‘You know I don’t go for them Squatters, male or female . . . but old Rhoda certainly took it like a real lady. She made me give her more details than I cared to. Poor old Clancy was shot to bits by a low-flying Jerry while climbing into a fishing boat he’d swum out to. She only went white and bit her lip, and muttered, “It’s what we had to expect, of course.” Then, bugger me, as I’m leaving, she takes me in her arms and kisses me, thanks me for my kindness, and gives me a silk scarf she made herself for Clancy.’ Pat had to bite his own lip relating that.

  Pat was proud enough of himself as a Rotten Sodjer, and ever ready to talk of his campaigning, even though frank in his contempt of what he had fought for. However, he would not comply with what was demanded of him to win that greatest of Australian martial honours, and in fact the only indigenous one, since the others are Imperial, namely, membership of the RSL. The local branch of the League was always presided over by the Administrator, always a man with a military background, officer caste, of course. The present Administrator was but newly appointed, but an old acquaintance. He was Major Bullco, formerly Superintendent of Police. As stated: everybody was getting ahead these days. Major Bullco had served in the Last Turn-out as a Military Policeman. He was no less incensed than other members of the Branch by what he heard of Pat’s damning contribution to that slander against the Command, but more so against Pat personally for what he was saying about Brumby Toohey’s fate at the hands of the Jerusalem Screws. When Pat applied for membership there was a special conference. Then he was hailed before the Committee and requested to recant. According to Pat, he replied simply by making an indecent gesture and walking out. That there was truth in it was surely borne out by the fact that that old iron-warhorse, Jack Tinball, subsequently refused to have him on his engine. Of course, Pat and old Jack had never been friends. Still, there had been that moment of comradeship between them, when Jack had given Pat, as a soldier, the pride of bringing the Race Train into Beatrice in 1939 — what turned out to be the last of those famous trains.

  A sp
ecial train came down in this year ’41 about the time the Races normally would have been held. However, this one ran for a very different purpose. It came bringing people to the Memorial Service for Our Boys who would not be coming home, or as the RSL, which organised it, described it, For Our Glorious Dead.

  Because Jack Tinball, wearing his medals, was driving, Pat Hannaford had to ride with the common herd. As medals for general service in this Turn-out had not yet been struck and Pat was not entitled to the For King & Country badge of the RSL or even to ride in the coach reserved for old soldiers, he had only the glass eye and aluminium arm and leg to show for his warring. Nevertheless, his tales of it were so much more interesting than the mouldy ones being told in the veterans’ coach, that even some of those worthies sneaked along to listen: ‘Them bloody Hun paratroopers . . . suddenly-like the sky . . . and they got clear sky in them parts like here . . . was filled with clouds . . . bringin’ everything with ’em . . . guns, light tanks . . . yes, and be jees, even the bloody kitchen stoves! They reckon they was drugged . . . our MO’s . . . but ’ow they found out I don’t know . . . them bloody Chocko Commandos were well in the lead in the evacuation . . . that’s why so many poor bastards died.’ He had a wondrous tale to tell about how, loaded with Sulphanilamide and entirely treated by himself, he had made his way to the coast of Asia Minor aboard Greek fishing boats, sometimes hidden under fish when German patrols assailed them. ‘Don’t let me hear anyone runnin’ down the Oxes again,’ he declared. ‘They’re filthy bastards . . . they’re only half civilised . . . but, be jees, they got guts, and fought bloody Jerry like none of us did.’ When someone reminded him that the Greeks had been fighting on their own soil, he said, ‘Yeah . . . but if we can put up half as good a show if ever we’re invaded, I’ll join the friggin’ RSL.’

  The Memorial Service was held on what would have been Cup Day. Despite the precedent set last year in the Battle of Britain Watch and the fact that the Races were mentioned in the Panagyric as an Imperishable Bond between this community and its dead heroes, it was not held on the Racecourse. There was some talk of it in view of the Bond and last year’s immortal gathering there. However, the chosen venue was the Anzac Memorial in the Cemetery. Some said that to have held it elsewhere would be a slight to the memory of the heroes already honoured there. Nevertheless, it was whispered that the choice was really made because the officiating clergyman objected to breaking a lifetime’s vow that he would never set foot on a racecourse. The cleric was another old acquaintance in a new guise, Captain-Chaplain Tasker.

  It was a properly solemn affair. Naturally, considering the place, there were small hitches that might have made it ludicrous elsewhere. Here they went properly unnoticed.

  There was no band, because the Palmeston Garrison was on stand-to again because of something Admiral Tojo had said about Japan’s being strangled by the Oil Embargo. But there was always Andy McDodds, quite famous now for his pibroch renderings. So that he might perform to best effect, a complete Scotty’s outfit was brought down for him. Unfortunately, his bunions could not take the fancy brogues, so that he had to wear his usual sandshoes. Still, having the show to himself, except for Jack Tinball’s bit of bugling, he excelled himself with his piping:

  But aye the tear comes in me ee,

  Tae think on him tha’s far awee . . .

  The procession formed up at the Hall, according to rank. The McDodds had the lead, of course. Behind him came His Honour the Administrator. Then Lady Rhoda, in white Red Cross uniform with official black arm-band, leaning on the arm of her surviving son, Martin. As Rhoda stepped up to take her place, passing close to the Lily Lagoons people, she happened to meet Jeremy’s eye. As it was her ancient habit not to see him if they happened to be thrown into proximity, it might have been that her glance had been caught unwittingly by the sudden gleam of Rifkah’s hair as she came out into the sun. Rifkah was there with Prindy, brought over from the Mission by Fergus, as was now customary at this time of year. Holding her eyes, Jeremy removed his wide-awake and bowed. She replied stiffly, turned away, went on.

  Next in line was Mrs Knowles, in black splashed with purple, as had been the fashion in hero-mourning in the Last Turn-out, leaning heavily on the arm of her frail old man. Then came Nugget Knowles and his bride, who was pregnant, but looked no less the squatter’s lady. The veterans followed, the leader carrying a Union Jack, behind him Jack Tinball with tasselled corded bugle slung over his shoulder, his mass of medals swinging to his proud stride. Old Jack had more medals than anyone else. As everybody knew, one time he had driven Field Marshals Haig and Foch on special tours of the rear lines of the Western Front, and let both of them drive the engine. Pat Hannaford was not with the veterans. It wasn’t that they weren’t prepared to forego principles in concession to the solemn moment. They asked him to join them nicely enough. He replied as he had at that committee meeting, and marched with the people of Lily Lagoons, near the tail. The actual tail was the goats.

  The ceremony followed almost exactly the time-honoured pattern of Anzac Day. Indeed the only difference was the placing of a temporary list of the names of the newly fallen, printed on white asbestos sheeting trimmed with artificial poppy leaves, alongside the marble plaque to which eventually they would be added. The usual poppy wreaths were laid upon the plinth. Originally the poppy was the symbol of the warrior dead left behind to fertilise the Fields of Flanders where the flower grew naturally. It was said to have fairly blazed with the flowers in the first Spring following the Last Turn-out, come as it were to symbolise bloodshed anywhere in the Glorious Cause of War.

  They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

  Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

  At the going down of the sun, and in the morning,

  We will remember them.

  The Last Post rang out, the last sad notes to be taken up in mournful chorus by the dogs.

  It was over. Adjourn to the pub.

  Now, according to Anzac Day tradition, with the matter of the Glorious Dead settled, those who’d had the misfortune to grow old, should have been fighting their battles over as they boozed. However, it was not so on this occasion, and not because it was not really Anzac Day. The fact was that the very Tradition of Anzac appeared to be in jeopardy. The old soldiers were saying that this might even be the last time they would be able to foregather, at least lawfully, in the happy comradeship of the RSL. The reason for this was that Prime Minister Silver Tongue at last had been ousted, had been replaced by the Leader of the Labor Party, who was not only frankly Anti-Imperialist, but during the Last Turn-out had been jailed for so being by that darling of the AIF (they’d even given him their wondrous hat to wear) the Rt Hon. Taffy the Cockney-Welshman. The new man at once had restored legality to the Communist Party. Was it not reasonable to suppose that he would transfer the ban to the Commos’ opposite number, the RSL, especially when he was at loggerheads with its top men over his demanding recall of the Second AIF from abroad and the presence of General Tubs to see to the defence of Australia? Thank God he had that grand old friend of the Digger, Winny, to deal with. Churchill was saying flatly, No. Likewise was good old Tubby digging in his toes in Sister Street. As Jack Tinball roared, ‘Dishloyal bashtard! Anyone’d think the British was our enemies and not our kith’n’kin. The bastard’s a Bolshevik . . . a Rev’lutionary. You only got ’o lisen way he blows his bags . . . ev’thing he says like Storm the barricades, Comrades! Be a rev’lution all right, he tries bannin’ us an’ bringin’ home Our Boys jus’n ol’ Winny needs ’em . . . eh, Diggers, eh, me ol’ sodjers?’

  ‘My bloody oath!’

  It was a fact that the new Prime Minister’s every utterance (and he made a lot these days, new as he was to having control of the National Broadcasting System) did sound rather like Storm the Barricades! But it could have been due less to intensity of feeling than to training in some Labor Debating School that still clung to the traditions of William Morris and the Tolpud
dle Martyrs of the 19th Century. In fact, a prominent British Minister and outspoken critic of the man in his demand for the return of Australian troops, had said that Australian Labor Politics were a century behind the times, and also that the new Leader had the Mind of a Schoolboy. This was brought up in the angry discussion in Finnucane’s pub. It was countered by Pat Hannaford, who quoted another noted Englishman as having said that the Prime Minister just ousted had the outlook of a Seventeenth Century English Tory. He also dragged up the ever delicate matter of Silver Tongue’s having squibbed the Last Turn-out, for all his imperialistic sooling.

  Pat couldn’t be kept out of it, since the place was a public house. Naturally he supported Storm-the-barricades. On one point he needled them mercilessly was the fact that while a fundamental part of RSL policy was what they called Upholding the Constitution, here they were slandering and threatening the very constitutional head of the Nation. At last he went too far, countering their endless eulogy of Jack the Ripper by bringing up the old furphy of his being suspected of having connived, as First Lord of the Admiralty, in the sinking of the liner Lusitania, in order to get America into the Last Turn-out. That was too much for Jack Tinball. Declaring that he didn’t care whether Pat had only one arm, one leg, one eye, and one arse’ole or not, he was not going to stand for that kind of desecration, and would have laid hands on Pat if not restrained. Actually it was Finnucane put an end to it, coming out of his lethargy to roar, ‘I won’t be havin’ the arguin’ of religion in my house . . . out t’ big mout’ Protestant lot o’ ye!’