1917

by Kelly Gardiner

  ‘They probably think the same about us,’ I said.

  ‘At least we have a bath every week,’ said Charlie. ‘Imagine how bad a submarine smells!’

  We stood about for a while, waiting, but there was a rotten wind, and sleet coming down sideways, so Charlie badgered the ticket bloke into calling a taxi. We bundled into it, luggage and all, and off we went. We thought it’d be like driving to Point Cook from Flinders Street, and settled in for a long haul. Instead it took about five minutes and we only seemed to drive a few streets away. We could have walked it. But the cabbie charged us an arm and a leg for making him come out in the cold and tried to talk Charlie into letting him keep the change.

  ‘Bloomin’ colonials,’ said the cabbie under his breath.

  ‘What was that?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Didn’t say a word.’

  He dumped our bags in a puddle and drove off.

  ‘Charming,’ said Charlie. ‘Welcome to England, chaps.’

  ‘You sure this is the right place?’ said Banjo.

  ‘King’s College.’ I read out the words on a brass plaque beside the gate. ‘That’s what it says on our orders.’

  ‘Fancy.’ Banjo gazed up at the stone walls and let out a whistle. ‘Looks like a medieval castle.’

  ‘Bloomin’ colonials,’ Charlie teased. ‘Haven’t you ever seen an old building before?’

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s find a nice warm fire and a cup of tea.’

  I yanked on the bell pull. No answer. Tried again. Someone on the other side turned a key in the ancient lock. Slowly the gate opened and a face appeared in the crack. Whoever it was wore three different scarves wrapped around his head. He looked like an Antarctic explorer.

  Charlie saluted. ‘Lieutenants Boyd and Driscoll and Air Mechanic Robinson reporting for duty.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said the bundle of scarves.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Banjo. ‘This is King’s College?’

  ‘Oh, you’re in the right place, sure enough,’ said the bundle. ‘But you’re wrong about who you are.’

  ‘Can you just let us in, please?’ I said. ‘It’s too cold for riddles.’

  ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘But you have to leave your ranks at the door. Once you enter, you are all cadets. No more, no less.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said, and shouldered my bag.

  ‘Hold up,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Don’t argue,’ I whispered. ‘It’s freezing.’

  But of course Charlie wouldn’t listen. ‘What are you on about, old chap? We are officers of the Australian Flying Corps. And one about-to-be officer.’

  ‘That may well be, but not here,’ said the gatekeeper. ‘While you’re in training, you’re all cadets and you’ll be treated as such.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Same for everyone?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. Australian, Canadian, Irish, English. All sorts.’

  ‘In that case …’ said Charlie.

  At last the door opened properly and we stepped through onto a perfect quadrangle of lawn and into our new lives.

  An hour later, in dry clothes and sipping on strong tea, Charlie was still sore about being demoted.

  ‘I already know how to fly,’ he said. ‘Why would they make me start all over again?’

  ‘Maybe there’s some mistake,’ said Banjo, hopefully.

  But he was wrong.

  At six-thirty the next morning, the bugler sounded reveille.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ said Charlie. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

  Banjo groaned in his bunk and rolled over. But there was no escape. Someone pounded on the door.

  ‘Fall in at seven for roll call!’

  ‘Those poet fellows are right,’ Charlie said. ‘War is hell.’

  Somehow we got ourselves into uniform and downstairs by seven, and there we saw our fellow trainees for the first time. Mostly pale chaps—British, by the looks. There were a few sunburned faces, perhaps Australians either straight off the ship or back from the fighting in Palestine. Standing steadfastly to attention at one end was a tall Indian man with a fantastical set of whiskers.

  A party of three officers and a sergeant marched smartly into the room and turned as one to face us. I drew myself up into the best imitation of a soldier I could manage. Everyone else did the same.

  ‘Welcome, Cadets.’ One of the officers drew a clipboard out from under his arm and shouted out our surnames in alphabetical order. Then he turned and marched off.

  ‘Right then, you lot,’ shouted the sergeant. ‘Time for drill.’

  Drills before breakfast? Or maybe we weren’t getting breakfast. Someone moaned. I had to agree. But that’s how it was, every morning, all through that terrible winter. Some mornings we’d wake up to find the water in the wash basin frozen solid. At times like those, we looked forward to the morning’s drill, because at least it warmed us up. Sergeant Jones had us jumping and bending and squatting and running on the spot. It was just like being back at footy training with the Coburg under-sixteens. I quite liked that part, but Charlie hated every moment. He’d never been much of a footballer either.

  ‘What is the point of all this?’ he said, a little too loudly, one morning.

  ‘The point,’ said Sergeant Jones, coming so close that we could smell his hair cream, ‘is to help you survive, Cadet.’

  ‘I don’t see how push-ups are going to make us better flyers,’ said Charlie.

  ‘You ever had to drag a plane out of three feet of mud for an emergency take-off, Cadet?’

  ‘No, Sergeant.’

  ‘Ever tried flying for four hours straight without so much as a canteen of water?’

  ‘No, Sergeant.’

  ‘Had to crawl back across No Man’s Land to evade capture?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then you can do fifty more push-ups this morning, Cadet. And be thankful you’re not sitting in a frozen trench on the Somme like all the other poor blighters.’

  Charlie was still doing push-ups when we headed off to breakfast.

  He wasn’t having the best time of it. He hated that his previous training didn’t count. He’d flown solo for ten hours, but none of that mattered. At King’s College, we were mere cadets, just beginners. For all of us, it felt like being back at school—a graceful, centuries-old sandstone school with stained glass windows, mind you, with pudding every night, and servants called scouts to light the fires and wash our clothes. There were rooms filled with nothing but books, and one lined with maps, and an even bigger library around the corner if we wanted to read anything that wasn’t about planes. I poked my head in there one day but all the books looked so old I got shy and ran straight out again. I suppose some of the fellows were used to things like that. But not me.

  We had to parade in our best uniforms every mealtime, keep our boots so shiny we could see our faces in them, and behave at all times like gentlemen.

  Ha!

  Me, a gentleman? If only Ma could’ve seen me.

  Not just a gentleman, but a pilot and a scholar. I couldn’t believe it. But we really did have to study hard, all day and most evenings. They taught us how to read maps and send messages in Morse code, how to take photographs from a moving aeroplane with these fancy new cameras, and all about the weather and the wind and the different kinds of artillery each army used. There were endless classes about planes, of course, and how they work, how to repair them, and all the little technical details you need to know to fly. I knew most of it already, but I’d never seen some of the planes that were now in action over the Front, and new models came out all the time.

  If I’d been a bit obsessed with planes before, I was almost crazy now. I spent hours poring over specifications for all the newer aircraft, reading about their weaknesses and weaponry. Designs had changed radically in just a few months, since the Dutch inventor Fokker had figured out how to get a machine gun to fire through the propeller without shooting the blades o
ff.

  The air war had changed too. All along the Western Front, the Germans reigned supreme. Everyone called it ‘the Fokker scourge’, but it wasn’t just because the Germans had one genius inventor of fast, lethal planes. They also had great pilots, skilled ground crew, and brilliant engineers. That was why we were in Oxford. That was why we were being trained so carefully. In a few months, we’d face the most daunting air force in the world. We had to be smart. We had to be ready.

  But we didn’t fly. Not once. That was to come later. It was all books and lectures and drills, over and over. At night, Banjo and I argued endlessly about whether the Sopwith Pup or the DH2 was a better plane, and the best tactics to try to defeat the brilliant German aces in their fast fighters.

  ‘Will you two shut up?’ Charlie said one evening. ‘Or I’ll shoot you down myself.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Banjo. We were lying about in our room, Charlie slumped in an armchair and Banjo and I sprawled on the carpet near the fireplace. Banjo spread his notebooks out in front of him.

  Charlie flung his head back and sighed.

  Banjo looked at his notes and then up at me. ‘What’s your opinion on the Immelmann Turn?’ he asked. ‘You climb quickly, then reverse back, and take another pass at your target before he knows what’s happening.’

  ‘Possible but tricky,’ I said. ‘Unless you’re flying an Eindecker, as Immelmann did. In a Pup you can climb much higher, so you’d be more likely to—’

  Charlie threw a pillow at me.

  ‘I can’t stand it another moment,’ he said. ‘All this talk. I just want to get over there and do something.’

  ‘You’ll get your chance soon enough,’ I said. ‘Sergeant Jones says—’

  ‘Don’t tell me—fifty extra push-ups for you, Cadet,’ said Charlie, in a fine impersonation of Jonesy’s Welsh accent. ‘And you’ll never be able to carry a plane in one hand across No Man’s Land if you don’t eat your porridge.’

  I laughed.

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ he said. ‘You love all this aeronautical thingummyjiggery.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know how—’

  ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘I don’t. Just give me a plane and a Vickers gun and stand clear.’

  ‘Ooh, tetchy,’ said Banjo.

  Charlie threw a whole encyclopaedia at him. Banjo didn’t duck in time.

  February, 1917

  King’s College,

  Oxford, England (Yes! England!)

  Sis,

  You should see me. Flat out on a leather sofa in front of the fire. Banjo’s making toast—burning it really, but if you slather enough butter on, it’s delicious. It’s like really being at university, or at least this is how I imagine it would be, except all we ever have to think about is aircraft. What fun.

  So you don’t need to worry about me at all. The only danger I face at present is choking on burnt toast. Or failing my exams.

  I feel a bit guilty thinking about cousin Ralphie and all the other infantry over there in the trenches in all this cold weather. It’s even worse in France, apparently. Here’s me living the high life, with an extra blanket if I feel a bit chilly, while Ralphie’s probably up to his knees in snow. Poor fellows.

  We’re off to start practical training in a few weeks, and not a moment too soon. They reckon all this training will take eight months. Eight! Charlie’s going to punch someone if they don’t let him fly soon. I’m getting impatient to try my hand at it too. Soon I’ll have wings.

  Your loving brother,

  A

  I’d always imagined, when I was Flossie’s age, that when I grew up I’d be a famous adventurer like Gertrude Bell, riding through the desert on my camel and digging up ancient cities lost in the sand. Or a writer like Miles Franklin, living in Paris or London and going to art galleries and fancy restaurants.

  But no. This is what my days were like. Up early to help Ma with the little ones. I do love them, but they never slept in. Nor did she. I chopped the kindling and got the cooker going, then fed the chooks.

  While Ma made breakfast, I helped Flossie get ready for school and dressed myself for work. Then I’d convince Bertie to eat his egg yolk instead of painting the tablecloth with it. Dad spent ages reading the newspapers, sipping at his tea, wondering aloud if the Americans would finally join in the war.

  ‘The Germans have sunk another American ship,’ he said. ‘Hundreds of people on board.’

  ‘What happened to them?’ asked Bertie.

  ‘I’m sure they were all rescued,’ said Ma quickly. ‘Isn’t that right, dear?’

  ‘No, it says here …’ Dad glanced up into Bertie’s face. ‘Um, yes. They’re all safe and well.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bertie, and resumed the attack on his boiled egg. ‘They probably didn’t like getting wet though.’

  Dad jumped to his feet, buttoning up his waistcoat, kissed each of us on our foreheads, and rushed out of the kitchen.

  ‘I have to meet the eight-twenty-seven from town.’

  Every morning he sounded surprised by that, even though his whole life ran according to the train timetable. And then off he’d go.

  All day Dad got to blow his whistle and wave flags and shout ‘All aboard!’ Even when there were no trains due, he could order the signalmen about, help ladies with their parcels, sell tickets and meet all kinds of people. The train platform was always lively. Bertie spent untold hours sitting on our front veranda waving to the train drivers as they pulled into the station and watching all our neighbours come and go. If Dad wasn’t looking, he’d run across the tracks to talk to old Mr Grant who was in charge of the railway crossing and sometimes let him stand on the gates as they swung shut. Or he’d sit up in the signal box with Fred, munching on sandwiches and pretending to be in charge of the entire train system. Which is a scary thought.

  But me … in fact, my days were so dull I can’t stand even thinking about it.

  Instead of going to fascinating parties full of charming people, it was washing day on Saturday and a roast on Sunday, or lining up at the butcher’s shop for whatever sad fatty chops were left, since all the decent food was sent over to the soldiers, even though it must’ve tasted perfectly horrible by the time it got there.

  I’d also thought—silly me—that going to work would be more interesting than going to school. Far from it. Instead of reading wonderful novels like Seven Little Australians and Anne of Green Gables and trying to remember the date of the Battle of Hastings, I had to measure linen and pin up hems and help old women decide between tan or beige gloves.

  Life wasn’t how I thought it would be—like the lives I’d read about in books.

  How I wished that I could be in England like Alex, learning fascinating things and flying through the air and seeing the sights.

  Women had won the right to vote. At least some women had. But we still weren’t allowed to have adventures.

  March, 1917

  Station Street,

  Coburg

  Dear Dunderhead,

  I do wish I was in Oxford with you. Is it just as you imagined?

  I’ve always dreamed of going to university. Have you? I suppose so. You could’ve studied engineering, like General Monash, and I could be a famous philosopher. Everything might have been different if there wasn’t a war, and we weren’t as poor as church mice. But I don’t suppose it was ever likely, not for us.

  I enclose a scarf I knitted for you, and one mitten from Flossie. She insisted.

  You may never get the other half of the pair. She seems to have lost interest in knitting now, having accomplished such a triumph so early in her career. It’s a little bit lumpy, but please don’t let on. Also, she couldn’t quite manage the thumb. So you might be better off using it as a tea cosy. But it’s a lovely blue, and it made her happy.

  Dad sends a tub of his special boot polish and Ma sends her love.

  Bertie has nothing to say on the subject at all, but he does miss you.

  As do I.

&n
bsp; Your sister,

  Mags

  The week before we left Oxford, the instructors called us in, one by one, to give us our orders. The cadets who ranked highest in the exams were sent through to fighter pilot training. The next group would learn how to fly slower two-seater observation planes on reconnaissance missions over the frontline, looking out for flashes from the big guns or photographing troop movements. Cadets who got a low pass mark might be sent straight to gunnery school. They’d never be pilots, but observers in a two-seater, manning a Lewis gun while the pilot did all the flying. Blokes who failed their exams completely would be posted to ground crew or even sent into the Army.

  ‘They could have told us that earlier,’ said Charlie. ‘I might have tried harder.’ He’d just scraped through the exams—lucky to pass at all, Jonesy said.

  ‘Too late now,’ said Banjo, in a mournful voice.

  We waited in a cold, dark-panelled hallway for our names to be called. Charlie was first, and flashed us a grin before vanishing through the door.

  ‘There’ll be hell to pay if he doesn’t get through,’ said Banjo.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t care what happens to me,’ he said. ‘If they reckon I’m not up to it, I’d rather be an observer. We can’t all be aces.’

  I nudged his shoulder with mine. ‘You’re a good bloke, Banjo.’

  ‘Just realistic.’

  ‘But you’re dead wrong about the Sopwith Pup.’

  He chuckled. ‘That’s what you’ll be flying soon,’ he said. ‘You’ve got the best marks of all of us.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  ‘Don’t you do anything stupid,’ he said.

  Good thing they called my name just then.

  ‘Cadet Robinson.’

  ‘Sir.’

  A panel of three officers sat behind a long wooden table, like judges ready to pronounce a death sentence. Major O’Brien, the Squadron Commander, sat in the middle, with Flight Instructor Gibson on his right. He winked at me. I’d never seen the chap on the left before. He wore an eye patch which only partly hid a ragged red scar, and the crutches propped against the wall behind him told a familiar story. Flying was a dangerous business. He’d lived to tell the tale, and to train more pilots to take his place. Not every flyer’s story ended like that.