1917

by Kelly Gardiner

  ‘Is that us?’ asked Flossie.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Dad.

  ‘I’m very distinguished,’ she said.

  ‘You are,’ said Ma. ‘Now hush. Here comes the Prime Minister.’

  Mr Hughes was tiny, and wrinkled like a sultana. But he had a very big voice. And a very big moustache.

  He stood up at the podium as soon as the Lord Mayor introduced him and began speaking as if he was at a funeral.

  ‘I speak to you tonight in the greatest crisis in the history of the Australian Commonwealth—the gravest in the history of the world,’ Mr Hughes said.

  He paused and glared around the room. ‘It needs no words of mine—or it should need none—to bring home to every man and woman what this means to the world, to democracy, and to us.’

  He slammed his fist down on the lectern. Flossie jumped in fright.

  ‘This is our struggle—our war,’ he shouted. ‘And we must win it, or lose everything that we value dearer than life. Victory must be ours.’

  ‘Hoorah!’ A whole lot of people in the room leaped to their feet, applauding. But he shouted over the top of the noise.

  ‘Australians! This is no time for party strife,’ he said. ‘The nation is in peril and it calls for her citizens to defend her. Our duty is clear. Let us rise up like men!’

  ‘Yes!’ The man sitting behind me roared his approval.

  Dad sat quietly, with Bertie on one knee.

  ‘He’s very good, really,’ he said. ‘I do admire his passion. It’s just a pity he’s so wrong.’

  The Lord Mayor clapped the Prime Minister very heartily indeed. Then he introduced the new Archbishop of Melbourne, Dr Mannix. He seemed twice as tall as Mr Hughes and much more distinguished, in his long robe and little black hat. I knew a few ladies who’d have killed for that amount of silk, or for the silver buckles on his shoes. The half of the crowd that hadn’t applauded Mr Hughes stood and clapped Dr Mannix. So did Ma and Dad. And Bertie. Then when the noise died down, Dr Mannix sighed deeply.

  ‘Oh dear, dear, dear,’ he said, gazing at the Prime Minister sadly. ‘The greatest crisis in history, is it?’

  He turned to face the audience.

  ‘We always get the news that fits the occasion,’ he said. ‘At other times, all our battles are victorious and our losses very light.’ Quite a few people laughed at this, and he smiled. The Prime Minister looked cross. ‘But now the Allies will suffer one defeat after another—and all for the lack of conscription in Australia and of a few more Australians in the trenches.’

  More laughter. ‘Do not take my word for this,’ said Dr Mannix. ‘Just watch the papers.’

  At that, Dad cackled.

  ‘He’s very good as well,’ he said. ‘And a great deal funnier.’

  Dr Mannix’s speech was all about how the Prime Minister was making things out to be worse than they were, and how the war was costing too much. Mr Hughes sat behind him, fuming almost fit to burst.

  When the Archbishop had finished, half the audience stood and cheered him.

  The Lord Mayor started to say something else, but Miss Goldstein stood in the aisle in the centre of the hall and raised her hand.

  ‘I will not answer questions from that woman,’ said Mr Hughes.

  ‘Will you not allow discussion on your proposal?’ she asked him.

  Mr Hughes waved his arms at the Lord Mayor. ‘She is dangerous.’

  ‘Why do you ban newspapers that question your policies?’ asked Miss Goldstein, loudly.

  ‘Get her out of here!’

  ‘We are a democracy,’ said Miss Goldstein, as three men moved towards her to usher her back to her seat. ‘And we will not give up our rights of free speech to a tyrant.’

  ‘Take her out!’ The Lord Mayor motioned to the policemen standing ready at the front.

  Adela stood up and moved next to Miss Goldstein.

  Mr Hughes snorted loudly enough for everyone to hear. ‘And there’s another one. Shouldn’t she be in prison?’

  ‘Prime Minister.’ Adela’s voice rang around the room. ‘When will you stop your attacks on the women and children of this country by stealing food from their mouths?’

  ‘How dare you?’ The Prime Minister leaped to his feet.

  I turned to say something to Ma but she’d vanished. On the ground floor, all the men in the audience stood up, and things looked nasty. A few fellows in the corner started pushing one another, and everybody was shouting.

  In the middle of the mayhem, both still calling out questions to the Prime Minister, stood Miss Goldstein and Adela. They were surrounded by men, some in police uniforms, who linked arms and tried to circle them.

  Another woman appeared at Miss Goldstein’s side. Ma.

  ‘Look!’ shouted Bertie. ‘Ma’s getting arrested.’

  ‘How exciting,’ said Flossie.

  At that moment, Miss John walked up the steps and onto the stage.

  ‘Hey! What is she doing?’ said Mr Hughes.

  Miss John faced the audience and started singing.

  I didn’t raise my son to be a soldier,

  I brought him up to be my pride and joy:

  Who dares to put a musket on his shoulder

  To kill some other mother’s darling boy?

  Half the crowd sang with her. The other half shouted to try to drown her out. An ex-soldier in the front row threw a punch. Two men jumped on him and pinned him to the floor. Mr Hughes flung his arms up in rage and stormed off the stage, still yelling. Dr Mannix sat in his chair, tapping his toe along with the music and smiling serenely. Bertie and Flossie hung over the balcony, singing along with Miss John, as loyal soldiers in her Children’s Peace Army. Dad laughed and laughed.

  ‘Bedlam,’ he said. ‘This is as good as the Christmas pantomime at the Tivoli.’

  October, 1917

  Women’s Farm,

  Mordialloc

  Dear Ace,

  You see? I’ve decided to call you Ace after all, just like your friends in the Flying Corps do, because even though you aren’t the kind of ace that shoots down dozens of enemy pilots (thank goodness), you are the kind of ace that everyone needs to have around. While I’m sure you’re very good at taking photographs and whatever else it is that you do up there in the air, I’ve a feeling you’re even better at looking after people, as well as looking after planes.

  So although Ma and Dad didn’t raise you to be a soldier, as we say in our song, they did raise you to be just like that. And they are proud of you. We all are.

  But I do think it’s about time you came home. Surely at some point those generals will stop trying to out-bomb each other. What will it take for them to realise they’ve made a horrible mistake, and that nobody can win? I say let’s call it a draw and send everyone home.

  Especially you, Ace.

  Do hurry.

  Love Mags

  ‘Remember,’ said Major Ferguson, ‘no heroics.’ ‘Not likely, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Good lad. Get down as close as you can, spot that gun for us, and then get yourself back here.’

  ‘Will do.’

  I climbed up the ladder, dropped into the cockpit and fastened my goggles firmly. I pulled a long spidery scarf out of my pocket and wrapped it around my throat, then buttoned my flying suit right up to my chin. It was horribly cold on the ground, let alone up in the air. Winter was on its way.

  I slipped on my gloves and wrapped another scarf around my collar—this one hung loose, so I could use it to clean my goggles in mid-air.

  Len stood in the shadow of the hangar, a Vickers gun hoisted across his shoulders and a box of ammunition at his feet. He gave me a wave.

  ‘Hear what the man said, Ace?’ he shouted. ‘No heroics.’

  ‘Be back in time for tea,’ I said. ‘Put the billy on.’ I gave him a thumbs up sign and he grinned.

  I twisted round, and Charlie nodded at me. Ready for action.

  Matilda roared into life.

  We climbed steadi
ly, circling up, to fly over the trenches well out of range of any ground fire. The plan was to start a circuit just south of the spot where Owen thought the artillery battery was hidden, swoop down to take a gander and stay down as long as possible, so the Germans didn’t realise we were on to them and move the cannon. Then we’d head back quickly to get the photographs developed and delivered to Owen before dark.

  There wasn’t much time. The attack was due before dawn the next day.

  For once the sky was clear, although filthy clouds crouched on the horizon. Looked like bad weather on the way. But in the meantime, it was a good day for spying.

  From the sky it was so obvious that we were preparing for a big Push. So much for secrecy. The German pilots must have seen it all, just like we could see everything going on behind their trenches. I watched dozens of trucks running along the roads behind the lines, and ammunition wagons slowly shuttling shells to the artillery units. Columns of troops slogged through the mud towards the front lines, getting into position for the advance. I shivered, not sure if it was the cold, or the knowledge that those preparations were sending thousands more Australians and New Zealanders, and many others, to their deaths.

  We had a smooth run across No Man’s Land, dropped lower over Messines, and made our way towards Passchendaele, flying along the German trenches just as we did every other day, but lower than usual. Usually we had another RE8 and a couple of scouts with us. Not this time. There was just me and Charlie in Matilda, alone in the sky. A few puffs of smoke around the sky told us the German anti-aircraft gunners were awake and open for business. I tried to ignore them and held the course, wondering—as I always did—when our luck would run out. If we bumped into an enemy pack today, we had no hope.

  We were getting close. Charlie thumped on the fuselage and pointed down. There! Behind the hill, just as Owen predicted, a strange smudge in the landscape. A huge gun, or perhaps even two, dug into the slope. No wonder we hadn’t seen it before. It was almost perfectly camouflaged. Those Germans knew what they were doing.

  I slowed right down, took a photograph, and then let the plane nose down even lower. Into the real danger zone. One thousand feet. Five hundred. Three hundred. Even a well-aimed rifle shot could knock us out from here.

  My hands trembled on the joystick. I held my breath.

  Triggered the camera again and again. And then we were past. Sweat trickled down my scalp. I let out a huge sigh. I veered slightly inland to make the climb well away from the lines, and pulled the nose up. Ground gunners cranked up, peppering away at us. Shrapnel pinged against the engine.

  We needed to get higher. Fast.

  And then they were on us.

  Two Fokkers, screaming in from above with sprays of bullets that ripped into the canvas. Holes gashed open in the top wing, and one of the struts splintered. Charlie hammered the Germans, firing in all directions. I banked hard left and headed towards home. We were too low for stunts and too slow to escape.

  But everything—thousands of men’s lives, perhaps— depended on the photographs we had on board.

  A bullet slammed into the engine. Oil splattered my face. Couldn’t see a thing—just black. I ripped off my goggles. Looked down. Below was No Man’s Land. Ahead … but we wouldn’t get there. Matilda spluttered oil and smoke. More bullets smashed into the undercarriage. I heard an ugly tear as the landing gear ripped off.

  There was only one way out.

  Down.

  ‘Hang on tight, Charlie!’

  I tipped us over on one wing and let us fall out of the sky.

  Over and over we tumbled. Down and down.

  We were clear? No idea. When we couldn’t fall another second without crashing I grabbed the joystick and wrenched it back. Hard. The engine spluttered out. The plane screamed—all the struts and wires ready to snap.

  But she held. I knew she would.

  I straightened her up. Looked around. The Huns were high in the sky. They’d given up, sure they’d beaten us.

  Charlie let out a whoop.

  ‘That’s flying!’

  Now all I had to do was get us onto the ground on our side of the lines, without breaking our necks.

  No engine. No choice but to glide, look for an empty field and hope for the best. We missed a row of poplars by about five feet and shocked a passing villager into next year. Over a low fence, we skimmed a few yards from the ground—thudded once, twice, and then again into the earth. I closed my eyes. The world tipped upside down and then back again. Something hit me hard on the head. Soil sprayed everywhere. Pain tore through my arm.

  Matilda screeched and shook and finally came to rest, nose deep in a Flanders haystack.

  It was so quiet.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Charlie. ‘I haven’t been on a ride like that since the Royal Show.’

  And then everything went dark.

  October, 1917

  1st Australian Casualty Clearing Station,

  Bailleul

  Dear Sis,

  You won’t recognise the handwriting, because a young lady is writing this for me. I had a bit of a bingle in poor old Matilda and came off second best. So I’m here for a few days then off to some nice quiet hospital for a week or so, but I’ll be back on my feet in no time. The same, I fear, cannot be said of Matilda.

  They shunted me to Bailleul and guess what? The boys from 3 Squadron, my old lads, are at an airfield just near the hospital, so I can hear them taking off and landing.

  When I get out of hospital, me and Charlie will ask to be posted here. It’d be good to fly with an Australian squadron again. Not that there’s anything wrong with Major Ferguson and the chaps. They’re excellent. But we belong in the 3rd. Len too, if they’ll let him.

  Funny thing is, Major Ferguson reckons he’s put me up for a medal for that last jaunt. If I’d known you got medals for it, I’d have crash-landed months ago.

  Must close.

  Love,

  A

  PS Am all right. Did I say that? Don’t worry. Busted arm is all.

  ‘This,’ said Dad, ‘has been the most horrible year of the war.’ He spread his newspaper down on the kitchen table.

  ‘Thank goodness Alex has got through it in one piece,’ said Ma.

  ‘Some better news, at last,’ said Dad. ‘The British Army has taken Jerusalem. General Allenby refused to ride in at the head of his troops. Listen to this. He entered on foot, as a sign of respect for the Holy City and the three faiths that hold the city sacred.’

  ‘I like him,’ said Ma.

  ‘Why didn’t he ride?’ Bertie said. ‘He should have charged like they did at …’

  Dad raised he eyebrows. ‘Beersheba?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Dad leaned down close to Bertie’s face. ‘I know you like the sound of the cavalry charge at Beersheba, young man—all those horses racing across the sand. But a general can’t go doing that in the middle of a city.’

  ‘Like the knights in the olden days,’ said Bertie. ‘Thousands of gollomping hooves.’

  ‘Galloping,’ said Flossie.

  ‘That’s what I said. Gollomping.’

  ‘I don’t know where he gets this bloodthirsty streak,’ said Ma, with a sigh. ‘Must be your side of the family.’

  Dad grinned. ‘I’m sure they were very brave, horses and men alike,’ he said. ‘But think of all those others who have to spend all their days sitting in cold trenches.’

  ‘They don’t get to go gollomping,’ said Bertie.

  ‘Sadly, no gollomping on the Western Front, no. But General Haig—’

  ‘I don’t like him,’ Ma said.

  ‘Haig says we have achieved good progress around Ypres.’

  ‘That’s where Alex is!’ said Bertie.

  ‘It is. The Age reports the Australians have gone into action at …’ He picked up the paper and tried to pronounce the name. ‘Passchendaele.’

  He sighed. ‘Hopefully it will bring the war closer to an end.’

  ‘Haig won
’t,’ said Ma. ‘But we will.’

  The great peace procession began at Guild Hall. There were thousands and thousands of people, all in our very best clothes, and everyone wore coloured ribbons, even the men: purple, green and white, the colours of the suffragettes. People held all kinds of painted banners, mostly saying No to Conscription or Peace Now. There were carts filled with people and festooned with flags, and a pipe band from Yarraville. Someone in a truck waved to me across the crowd.

  ‘Maggie!’

  ‘Mrs Bennett,’ I called. ‘How wonderful to see you.’ The back of her truck held flags and four palm trees in pots. ‘I’ll come and find you at the end.’

  She grinned and nodded. Her boys scrambled to the window and waved hello. I blew them a kiss and they giggled.

  It was terribly hot standing in the sun, and we milled around for ages waiting for the signal to march. At last a trumpet sounded and the crowd began to shuffle into a column, ready to move down the hill.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Ma.

  I nodded, too nervous to speak.

  She kissed my cheek and then Flossie’s. ‘I’m very proud of you both. We all are.’

  I tried to smile. ‘How did you ever talk me into this?’

  ‘You’ll be wonderful,’ she said. ‘Just don’t trip over your hem with everyone watching.’

  ‘Ma!’

  ‘You’ll be fine.’ She kissed me again and went to join Dad and Bertie.

  I glanced around. Miss John and Miss Goldstein sat on two pale grey horses, just behind us. They both wore their suffragette sashes and Miss John carried a long frond from a palm tree as a sign of peace.

  ‘Is that the Queen?’ asked Bertie.

  Miss Goldstein smiled down at me from her saddle.

  ‘You look glorious,’ she said. ‘Chin up.’

  The trumpet sounded again. Somewhere in the crowd, a bagpiper started playing. I gripped Flossie’s hand in mine. And then we started walking.

  It felt as if every single person in the whole of Melbourne was watching me as I held my little sister’s hand and the two of us led 4,000 people on a peace procession through the city.