1917

by Kelly Gardiner

  Burke fired fast, swivelling from one side to the other, up and down, trying to keep the Germans in his gunsight.

  I glanced around. Charlie’s plane was below us, and he stood firing his gun and shouting his head off. I couldn’t hear what he said, but it was fierce.

  Two planes behind us now. Where was the third? I banked hard left, and hauled the stick back until we climbed into the clouds above. In an instant, raindrops drenched my face and splattered my goggles. I prayed the other Hun wasn’t waiting for us there. We circled back. Nothing. I twisted my head round as far as it would go, both ways. No sign of any planes.

  ‘We lost them,’ Burke shouted. ‘Good work.’

  Good for us. But not for Charlie. He was still down there.

  I signalled to Burke. Going down. He nodded.

  We zoomed out of the clouds to find the world on fire.

  A dozen planes now swooped and flashed, hurtling in all directions. Scouts from our side attacked the Germans, all of them rolling and diving and dodging. Bullets screamed everywhere. Charlie’s plane circled low and he sent up sprays of gunfire whenever there was a clear shot.

  ‘Get us out of here,’ said Burke. He was right. This was no place for a slow two-seater. He motioned to Grady, and both our planes turned west, into the setting sun. A British fighter hurtled past into the fight, and I waved my thanks. He grinned. Thumbs up. Then he vanished from sight.

  Behind us, the sky blistered with machine-gun fire and black smoke as one machine—ours or theirs, I couldn’t tell—spun out of control and burst into flames.

  June, 1917

  7 Squadron,

  Royal Flying Corps

  Proven, Belgium

  Dear Mags,

  Here I am in Flanders. There is a lot of cheese. I’ve flown all over the place and it’s very pretty, except where the fighting happens. That’s not pretty at all. Just muddy and wrecked. I can’t imagine how the farms will ever recover. You might need to come over and lend them a hand.

  In the villages, there are houses several storeys high, with sweet little attic windows. I can just imagine you sitting at one, gazing at the sky. I’ll ask Dad if we can install one in our roof when I get home. Some of the fancier houses have stepped facades, as if you could run up to the top of the brickwork and down the other side. Or sometimes the roof starts off on one angle, then plummets off on another. I wonder why? Snow, maybe.

  It’s funny the things you notice. There aren’t many fences around the farms, for example. I guess they don’t have to keep out the roos. But you’d think they’d want to keep the cattle in. They must have smarter cows than we do. Sometimes there’s a line of wooden palings around an orchard, or to keep the geese out of the cabbage patch, but otherwise the livestock wanders everywhere. I like that. In England, there were old fences made of stones all piled up. We used to fly low over them—hedge-hopping, we call it—in formation. Devilishly tricky flying, but such fun.

  All around the trenches are lines and lines of barbed wire. I’m sick of the sight of it. Maybe that’s why I like the open fields.

  That reminds me, what are you doing at that orchard?

  I sent you a present a few weeks ago, so fingers crossed it arrives in one piece. I hope you like it. There’s one for Bertie too, for his birthday. Give him a squeeze from me. I don’t suppose he even remembers me. Funny to think he starts school next year. Hope I’m home by then, but it doesn’t look likely at this rate.

  Happy birthday, Sis.

  Love always,

  A

  Mr Cartwright drove the harvest to market every Friday, and I rode along to help him. It was all terribly interesting. There were lots of girls and women working there, buying vegetables for their greengrocer shops or market stalls, unloading wagons and trucks, and even running livestock auctions.

  Most of them had worked on farms their whole lives. I thought of Ma and Miss Goldstein, trying to change the world, and all the time these other women were just going about their business as if women’s votes and men’s wars didn’t affect them. But everyone was affected really, and there were plenty of girls like me, helping out because the men were away.

  One wintry morning, we unloaded the truck at the market and then Mr Cartwright wandered off to look at a block and tackle that was on sale.

  I bought a cup of tea at a stall and sat on a crate nearby, my fingers wrapped around the warm mug. Steam circled up into my face as I sipped.

  ‘You work at Appletree?’

  A young woman about my age stood over me. She wore cut-off overalls and a man’s tatty coat, so big that the shoulder seams hung down near her elbows. Her golden hair was tied up in a grubby scarf, and her boots were nearly as muddy as mine.

  ‘With Mr Cartwright,’ I said. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘When’d he get the Ford?’

  ‘A few weeks ago,’ I said.

  ‘Wish we had one. Way of the future. Old Cartwright knows what he’s doing.’ She plonked herself down beside me on the bench. I noticed her bootlaces were just bits of string off a hay bale.

  ‘I’m Lizzie,’ she said.

  We shook hands as if we were blokes. Her fingers were icy.

  ‘You been there long?’

  I shook my head. ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘Schwerkholt’s,’ she said. ‘In Mitcham. Apples and pears.’

  ‘No truck?’

  ‘Nope. Takes us three hours to get here, an hour to unload, then three hours home again. Hardly worth it nowadays. Not like anyone’s buying much.’

  ‘He is.’ I pointed out a man in a grey flannel suit and dark coat who strode among the fruit crates. Another man, older and in a cloth cap and frayed jacket, ran behind him taking notes.

  ‘Maybe he’s buying for the Army?’ I suggested. ‘My brother says the strawberry jam is almost completely apple.’

  ‘Not him,’ said Lizzie. ‘He’s stockpiling.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Buys up the good stuff,’ she said. ‘Keeps it in storage till the prices go up. Then sells it for whatever he can get.’

  ‘To the Army? Or shops?’

  ‘Whoever wants it,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose he cares.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ I said.

  ‘Way of the world, isn’t it?’

  I finished my tea. ‘It shouldn’t be.’

  ‘Radical, are ya?’

  ‘Little bit.’ I blushed.

  Lizzie laughed. ‘Good on ya. Someone has to be.’ She rubbed her hands together and blew on them. ‘Could it get any colder?’

  ‘Probably will.’

  ‘We must be mad.’

  I grinned. ‘Better than being stuck at home doing the laundry,’ I said.

  ‘True enough,’ said Lizzie.

  After that, Lizzie and I met every market day and shared a cup of tea and one of Mrs Cartwright’s ham and pickle sandwiches while Mr Cartwright fossicked around in the rag and bone stalls. We talked about apple trees and farming and our families and, of course, the war. Lizzie had one brother in the infantry somewhere in Flanders and another one in the Navy, on a ship in the Mediterranean Sea. We both pretended not to be worried about them, because that’s what everyone always did, when really most of the time we were sick inside with fear.

  I told Lizzie stories that I’d read, just like Alex used to tell me—all about lady adventurers and explorers— and about my bicycle, and the Women’s Peace Army and anything else I could think of. She told me about movies she’d seen, and the costumes people wore in them and everything that happened. I was never allowed to go to the cinema, because Ma reckoned it wasn’t dignified, but it sounded awfully interesting.

  Lizzie’s mum was mad about Douglas Fairbanks, so they went to the Saturday matinee whenever they could afford it. Lizzie said there was always somebody playing the piano, starting with ‘God Save the King’, then other songs at interval so everyone could sing along, but during the movie the music was sometimes scary or funny or dramatic or sad, so
the person playing it must be terribly clever. She promised that one day she’d take me into Hoyts in town to see a Charlie Chaplin film.

  ‘Honestly,’ she promised, ‘you’ll laugh yourself silly. He’s the funniest chap you ever saw.’

  ‘It’s amazing, when you think about it,’ I said. ‘All these new inventions all the time. Trucks and movies and aeroplanes and what-have-you.’

  ‘World’s changing,’ Lizzie said. ‘Especially with the war. Everything’s different and only some of it good.’

  ‘I don’t want to go back to how things were before the war,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll want to, either.’

  ‘No fear,’ said Lizzie. ‘Ten-hour shifts at the boot factory, stuck inside all day, staring at the inside of a machine.’

  ‘At least you had a job,’ I said. ‘I had to go to school.’

  ‘Easy enough to say,’ she said. ‘You had a choice. I never did. Had to find a job to help pay the rent. I’d rather be at school than in the bleeding factory, and rather be on a farm than anything.’

  ‘Funny, isn’t it? My grandparents were farmers. All anybody in my family ever wanted to do was get off the land and live in the city.’

  ‘And now look at you,’ she teased. ‘Australia’s a different place.’

  ‘Better or worse?’

  ‘Dunno,’ she said, with a loud sniff. ‘I really dunno.’

  I snuggled deeper down into my coat. ‘When the war is finally over, I might get my own farm.’

  ‘You reckon you could?’

  ‘Small orchard, maybe. With a market garden to keep it going between harvests, and to feed yourself. Dairy cow. Maybe some pigs. Mr Cartwright’s got the right idea.’

  ‘How would you pay for it?’ she said.

  ‘Haven’t worked out that part yet,’ I admitted.

  ‘By yourself?’ she asked. ‘I expect you’ll have a husband by then.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But when you think about it, given all the boys who aren’t coming back from the war, we girls will probably have to make our own way in the world.’

  We were both silent for a moment.

  ‘Lot of work for one person,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘Sure.’

  I nudged her with my elbow. ‘Good thing you’ll be there to help.’

  She looked up. ‘Could I?’

  ‘Who better?’

  She beamed. ‘Imagine. No more rotten old factory, ever.’

  Mr Cartwright appeared in front of us. In his arms was a fat white goose, honking its head off.

  ‘It was on sale,’ he said.

  July, 1917

  Appletree Farm,

  Box Hill

  Dear Alex,

  You might be able to fly a plane. But I can drive a truck. Who’s envious now?

  Mr Cartwright taught me last week, and I haven’t hit anything yet, so he’s quite happy with my progress. He didn’t think a girl could do it. I wasn’t so sure myself. But once I found a sack of grain to sit on so I could see over the bonnet, there was no stopping me.

  The truck was on sale at the general store. It makes life much easier for all of us, because I can roll it along very slowly while he shovels the manure off the back. He’s very elderly, you see, nearly fifty, and it saves him an awful lot of time. Of course, he could drive, and I could shovel, but that hasn’t occurred to him yet. Let’s hope he doesn’t figure it out for a while.

  Apart from that, I do everything a farm labourer does, but possibly a little more slowly. I am in charge of the chickens, although they don’t take orders from me or anyone else, and I work in the fields. At present we are harvesting cabbages. Very Belgian of us, isn’t it? I have my own pair of overalls, and most excellent boots.

  Thank you ever so for the present. My own copy of Jane Eyre. I feel very spoiled. You know how I love that book, and Jane, and her strong will. I feel just like her so much of the time. Funny how you can feel like that about someone who doesn’t really exist. I shall treasure it, knowing that you bought it for me in Oxford, and that, most especially, it’s from you.

  Do look after yourself.

  Mags

  We flew every moment that the sky was clear. But good flying weather for us was good flying weather for the other side. Our job was to notice artillery placement or troop trains or places on the line where soldiers assembled to attack. The German scouts’ job was to stop us.

  They were very good at it. They patrolled in packs called Jagdgeschwader—hunting squads—though the Brits dubbed them ‘flying circuses’. They sure put on a good show, I’ll give them that. Colour, gamesmanship, daring, skill—they had it all. They flew fast fighting craft like the latest model Albatros or Fokker, streaking across the sky in tight formation, and then darting out of the sunset or clouds to pounce on unsuspecting mice like me. Some of their aircraft were even painted bright yellow or blue, with pink and grey camouflage spattered under each wing. If I hadn’t been desperately trying to avoid them, I could have watched them fly for hours.

  The greatest of them was the Red Baron, Von Richtofen, the deadliest ace on the Front, and famous all over the world. Just before Charlie and I arrived, he’d shot down twenty-one of our planes in a single month. And now we were right in his firing line.

  ‘Just let me get him in my sights,’ said Charlie. ‘He won’t know what’s hit him.’

  ‘If you’re lucky,’ said Burke, ‘you’ll never even catch a glimpse of one of those red planes.’

  Charlie mimed firing his Lewis gun at an imaginary Fokker.

  ‘It’s no game,’ Burke said.

  ‘Tell that to Richtofen,’ said Charlie. ‘I read in the newspaper that he gets a little silver trophy made up for each plane he shoots down.’

  The idea made my stomach curdle. ‘That’s horrible,’ I said. ‘Those are men he shot down. Human beings. Not machines.’

  ‘It’s easier to think of them as machines,’ said Burke. Sorrow rippled across his face. ‘Believe me.’

  I clenched my hands into tight fists. My fingers trembled all the time since that first fight, and I hadn’t even fired my gun. It was all I could do to keep the plane in the air and out of trouble. Part of me never wanted to go through that again, and the rest of me knew that I had to, every day, for the rest of the war or until someone like the Red Baron notched me up as another trophy.

  ‘Richtofen doesn’t scare me,’ Charlie said.

  ‘He should,’ said Burke.

  Richtofen scared the hell out of me. But I kept flying. I learned how to scan the sky in every direction, take photographs of the ground, look out for the flash of an artillery battery, send Morse code signals back to base, and fly the machine, all at the same time. I grew to trust that Burke was always watchful, keeping me safe while I went about the real work of the squadron. It was meticulous, urgent, heart-stoppingly dangerous work. There’s no way months of training could really prepare you for the feeling of it. Or the speed of it.

  The ground troops were slugging it out in another desperate push out along the Menin Road in front of Ypres. Our orders were clear. Fly low and spy on the Germans. Report anything and everything. Keep out of trouble. Shoot anyone that tries to stop you. And then do it all again the next day.

  But if it was misty, or raining, or too windy, we didn’t go up. Low cloud or rain meant we couldn’t take clear photos, and fuzzy pictures were no use to anyone, so we were grounded. I shouldn’t admit this, but sometimes I’d peek out the window of the hut in the morning and sigh with relief.

  ‘Sorry, Lieutenant,’ said the Flight Sergeant. ‘No flying today.’

  ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘There’s always tomorrow.’

  There was plenty to do on the ground. Some of the other pilots drove to town for lunch or a game of tennis, as if they weren’t in the middle of a war. Charlie sat about fidgeting.

  ‘I hate being stuck on the ground,’ he said. ‘Let’s get up there.’

  ‘Not today, mate,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t
come all this way to play cards.’

  ‘It might clear up later.’ I pointed to the low grey clouds, threatening summer squalls at any moment. Even weather was different in Flanders. I remembered the hot dry summers back home—nights waiting for a cool change, trying to sleep with mosquitoes buzzing around the fly netting, sunburn and lemonade and playing cricket in bare feet. Bushfire smoke and eucalyptus oil in the air, instead of the smell of damp uniforms and fumes from distant high explosives.

  ‘Why didn’t I get posted to Palestine?’ Charlie said. ‘It never rains there. Those chaps in 1 Squadron probably fly every day.’

  Then they’re probably half-dead with exhaustion, I thought to myself. Or actually dead.

  ‘It’s hot as Hades there,’ I said. ‘Imagine. My cousin Tom’s in the Light Horse over there and he reckons every day on patrol is like being some old time explorer, lost in the inland.’

  ‘No rain, no clouds,’ said Charlie. ‘Sounds like bliss to me.’

  ‘Sounds like hard work,’ I said. ‘Tom’s only written once or twice but he’s always grumbling about the heat and the dust.’

  ‘Anywhere would be better than here.’ Charlie turned his face away and sighed.

  A few chaps were like Charlie: always looking for trouble in the skies, like restless dogs barking at every noise. His pilot, Grady, was the same. They were well matched. I couldn’t tell if they were very brave or very frightened. They snapped at each other, paced up and down, argued with the Flight Sergeant about the weather, and checked their watches every half hour.

  Not me. I spent the slow days in the workshop, patching up my own aircraft (now known to everyone as Matilda) or helping out with one of the others. Some of the ground crew were like us, Australians or New Zealanders loaned out to give the Brits a hand. We banded together, shared a cuppa or two, sat around the brazier swapping stories. One of the armourers, Len, was an Aboriginal bloke from up Healesville way. He told me that he and his brother had to pretend to be Maori to enlist.