My Brother's War

by Hill, David

  The food here isn’t as good as your cooking, dear Ma. The clothes are a bit strange, too – I wear a suit all the time! It’s nothing like the suits that men in town wear. It’s too big for me, and it’s brown, with black arrows painted all over it. I almost burst out laughing when I saw other chaps wearing them. They looked as if they were going to some strange fancy-dress party.

  The other prisoners include all sorts of blokes. I’ve made friends with a thief and had a few laughs with a drunk! No, Ma, I’m not getting into bad habits. Not any new bad habits, anyway. Seriously, though, there are some fine chaps here, although life has treated them badly.

  Dearest Ma, I don’t know what the future holds for me. I don’t know how often I’ll be able to write to you. If any parts of this letter have been blacked out, it’s because the prison censors feel some details should be kept secret. (Serve me right if this paragraph gets blacked out.)

  It was wonderful to receive your letter. I read it every night before they turn our lights out – at 8.00 p.m.; I live very healthy hours here! I’m so pleased Jessie is enjoying the hat shop. And congratulations to her on almost winning the tennis club singles.

  I’m so pleased to hear that Mr Yee is bringing you vegetables. He is a good, kind man. I believe most people are kind, if you treat them the right way. I feel more and more that I have made the right decision about not fighting.

  Do tell me any news of William. We’ve made very different choices, but it saddens me that there has been bad feeling between us. If he ever asks about me, please tell him that.

  All my love to you and my little (but not for much longer, it sounds) sister.

  Your Loving Son

  Edmund

  Edmund

  In Mr Darney’s office, Captain McGregor spoke again. ‘I’ll ask you one more time, Hayes.’ (The ‘Mr’ had vanished.) ‘Will you put on that uniform?’

  Once more, Edmund shook his head. ‘No.’

  The officer turned to Mr Darney. ‘The prisoner has refused a lawful order. Under the authority vested in me by the Military Service Act, he is sentenced to three days’ solitary confinement, with bread and water.’

  The solicitor nodded. ‘Take him away!’ snapped Captain McGregor. The corporal saluted, shouted ‘Escort, form up!’, and the other two soldiers, still with rifles and bayonets, stamped into position on either side of Edmund. ‘Quick march!’ the NCO ordered.

  The moment they were out in the street, a voice began screaming at Edmund. A woman, thin and haggard, in a long black dress. ‘Coward! Conchie coward! My son was killed, while you sneak around at home, you filthy little coward!’

  She began rushing towards Edmund, hands lifted as though she was going to tear his face, but the corporal seized her. ‘Come on, Mrs Fitzgerald. You know you can’t behave like this. People are starting to complain. Calm down.’

  Two other women came hurrying up. They put their arms around the figure in black, who dropped her hands and began to wail. ‘Come along, Rose,’ one of them murmured. ‘Come along with us, love.’

  The escort and Edmund watched as the woman was led away, still weeping and moaning. Other people had come into the street to see what was happening. Some glared at Edmund. Some shook their heads. He realised his back was prickling and his heart thumping.

  ‘Son shot at Gallipoli,’ the NCO said. He stared at Edmund for a second. ‘You can’t blame her for hating people like you, lad. Right – quick march!’ They moved on, Edmund walking at his own pace, keeping his head up as he had done before, wondering what would happen to him.

  Back at the Drill Hall, a different NCO waited, a sergeant with a droopy grey moustache. He scowled at Edmund. ‘This the conchie?’

  The corporal answered stiffly. ‘The prisoner Hayes has been sentenced to three days’ solitary confinement with bread and water. I’m delivering him into your custody.’

  ‘What a pleasure,’ sneered the sergeant. ‘Bring him through.’ He led them down a corridor to the end, where a steel door with a tiny barred grille faced them. ‘Your hotel is ready, conchie,’ he sneered again. ‘In you go.’ Edmund stepped inside. The door clashed shut behind him, a key turned, and he was alone in his cell.

  A grey, square space, half the size of his boardinghouse bedroom. No bed. No chair or table. Nothing except the concrete floor and walls, an electric light bulb glowing feebly behind another grille in the ceiling, and a chipped metal bucket in one corner. Edmund moved forward to look into it, then stepped back, face twisted in disgust. Whoever had been there before him had used the bucket as a toilet, and it was still half-full.

  He stood against the far wall, trying to breathe steadily. After a few minutes, he went to the door and yelled through the bars. ‘Hey! Hey!’

  It was nearly five minutes before the grey-moustached sergeant appeared, still scowling. ‘Stop your noise!’

  ‘The toilet bucket hasn’t been emptied,’ Edmund told him. ‘It stinks.’

  The sergeant sneered once more. ‘Smells like a conchie smells. You can live with it.’

  ‘Nobody should have to live like this!’ Edmund felt surprise at his own anger. ‘Take it away, please, or I’ll tip it through the grille.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the kind!’ the NCO’s voice rose to a yell. ‘You’ll stay there and keep your mouth—’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Another voice spoke from along the corridor. ‘Sergeant Greene?’

  The sergeant snapped to attention. ‘Prisoner refuses to obey an order, sir.’

  ‘I haven’t been given an order.’ Edmund raised his voice. ‘The toilet bucket in the cell hasn’t been emptied. It smells utterly foul.’

  He couldn’t see the officer – as he guessed it was – but the reply came quickly. ‘That should have been done when the previous prisoner was released. See to it, please, Sergeant Greene.’

  ‘Sir!’ As the NCO turned away, his eyes met Edmund’s through the grille. Edmund knew he’d made an enemy.

  For the rest of the day, there was nothing to do but sit on the concrete floor, or pace up and down. Three steps across the cell; three steps back. Edmund thought of all that had happened since he had arrived at the market garden that morning. Only that morning? It felt as though days had passed. Mr Yee calling him to the shed. Tim and the other policeman. The handcuffs. The walk to the Drill Hall, and then the escort to where Mr Darney and Captain McGregor waited. The people jeering at him. The man who’d called out ‘Well done, lad’ – who was he? The march back to this cell, and poor grieving Mrs Fitzgerald.

  Well, he reminded himself, now it’s all begun. Now you’ll see how brave you are … or aren’t. Ma, Edmund thought suddenly. Has she heard what’s happening? One son willing to fight and be killed; one son willing to go to prison. Big brother and I haven’t made it easy for you.

  At 6 p.m., he heard footsteps down the corridor. A voice shouted: ‘Prisoner, stand against the wall!’ The door opened. One soldier stood holding a battered tin tray, while a second pointed a rifle at Edmund. The tray was thrust into his hands, the door clanged shut, a key turned, and he was alone again.

  Edmund gazed at the jug of water and four thick slices of bread. ‘Oh, Ma,’ he sighed. ‘This doesn’t look much like your home cooking.’ He placed the tray on the ground, sat down on the chilly concrete and began to eat.

  At 7 p.m., the two soldiers appeared again. The tray was taken away. A thin mattress and one grey blanket were tossed into the cell. Fifteen minutes later, the bulb in the ceiling went dark.

  Edmund didn’t sleep much. He was cold. He could feel the hard floor through the worn mattress. But mostly, his mind churned with more pictures from the day. The policeman’s meaty hand on his shoulder; the tramp of boots and the glitter of bayonets beside him. When would he be free to walk where he wanted again?

  Voices called and feet clomped in the corridor at 5.30 a.m. Two different soldiers ordered him to put his blanket, mattress and toilet bucket outside the door. One passed him another tray with bread a
nd water, and said, ‘There you are, chum. Two-course meal.’

  ‘Of course,’ Edmund managed to joke. The soldiers grinned, and Edmund felt better. He was going to meet friendly faces and unfriendly ones, he knew that now. ‘Sorry for the trouble,’ he added.

  The soldier who had handed him the tray shrugged. ‘No trouble, pal. As long as you behave yourself.’

  The tray was taken away half an hour later. I must exercise, Edmund told himself. He began pacing across his cell again. Three steps – turn. Three steps – turn. He could hear voices from somewhere in the Drill Hall. Wouldn’t it be strange if William were there? If his brother knew he was here in the cells, what would he do? Ignore me, Edmund supposed.

  Boots marched down the corridor. A key screeched in the lock. ‘Prisoner outside!’ It was Sergeant Greene.

  When Edmund stepped out of his cell, the sergeant pushed a bucket and stiff brush at him. ‘Scrub the corridor floor!’ An armed soldier stood nearby, looking uncomfortable.

  Edmund gazed at the brush and bucket. ‘Is this a military order?’

  ‘Don’t get smart with me, conchie!’ The NCO’s face went tight. ‘Scrub the floor!’

  Edmund shook his head. ‘I won’t obey any army orders.’

  The NCO stepped forward, lifted his fist. He glared into Edmund’s face. Then – ‘Into your cell!’ he shouted.

  The next two days were much the same. Bread and water, pacing the cell floor, the thin mattress and blanket brought at night-time, then taken away in the morning. The orders which he refused to obey. On the third morning, when Sergeant Greene appeared, Edmund said, ‘I’d like to write to my mother.’

  ‘Wait ’til they lead you out to face the firing squad,’ Sergeant Greene grunted. ‘Maybe they’ll give you time to send a postcard then.’

  Although he didn’t believe the NCO, Edmund’s back went cold. ‘Will the Army pay for the stamp?’ he made himself say. The sergeant glared and stomped away.

  Later that day – Thursday; it was hard to keep track of the days with no calendar or newspaper – he was handed a sliver of yellow soap and a rough towel. ‘Smarten yourself up. You’re going before an officer.’

  Captain McGregor again? No, the man seated at the table when two soldiers led Edmund into the room was not much older than himself and wore the two shoulder pips of a lieutenant. ‘Prisoner Hayes, sir!’ rapped the sergeant. The lieutenant nodded. ‘At ease.’ Edmund knew that voice; it had told the sergeant to empty the toilet bucket.

  The two young men gazed at each other. ‘Do you have any complaints about your treatment in the cells, Hayes?’ Edmund thought of the bread and water, and half-smiled. ‘No.’

  The officer seemed to read his mind. His own lips curved for a second. ‘Are you now willing to obey military orders?’

  This time, Edmund didn’t even have to think. ‘No.’

  The young lieutenant didn’t seem surprised. ‘In that case, you will be handed over to the civil authorities. Their standard sentence for refusal to comply with the Military Service Act is twelve weeks’ hard labour.’ He paused, then spoke to Sergeant Greene. ‘There is no need to take the prisoner away from here until it is dark. See that he is given proper food before then.’ Another pause, then to Edmund: ‘Good luck.’

  An escort took Edmund to the Auckland train after his evening meal. The streets were almost empty, and Edmund felt grateful to the lieutenant. A middle-aged corporal and another soldier boarded the train with him. ‘Now,’ said the corporal. ‘You promise us you’ll be good, and we won’t need any nonsense with handcuffs.’

  Edmund remembered the steel rings biting into his wrists as they left Mr Yee’s and nodded. ‘I’ll behave.’

  They reached Auckland just after dawn. Another escort was waiting on the platform and marched Edmund for half an hour past still-closed shops and businesses to Mt Eden Prison. A few people stopped to watch, but there were no jeers or yells.

  Down a short street of houses, and the dark stone walls rose in front of them. Edmund had heard of the prison, even made jokes with friends about it. Now a small steel door set in a larger one opened, clanged behind him, and he was inside.

  In a cold room with a long wooden table, he took off his clothes and was given a brown prison uniform two sizes too large, patterned with black arrows. Scratchy underwear and socks, a pair of badly fitting boots, and that was all. A guard led him along concrete-floored corridors and stopped in front of a door made from metal bars. ‘Hooper?’ he called. ‘You’ve got company.’

  A man rose from the bottom bunk as Edmund stepped in. He was in his forties, short and round, with hair starting to turn grey. He looked at Edmund, looked again and smiled. ‘I know you.’

  Edmund stared at him. He’d never seen the man before. But he’d heard him. He’d heard him call encouragement on Monday, as Edmund was marched through the streets of his town to the Drill Hall.

  ‘Half of the people in the church I belonged to – once – they said I was right,’ Archie Hooper explained later that day, when Edmund asked about his sermon. ‘The second half wanted me thrown in jail, or hanged as a traitor. When I kept writing letters against the war to the newspaper, the second half got their wish. Well, not the hanging – so far.’

  Edmund grinned. ‘I haven’t written any letters. I wouldn’t know what to say. I just remember how when war was declared, my Ma said “Heaven help the young men – all the young men.” And that made me decide I’m not going to hurt or kill someone just because our government says we have to.’

  Archie put a hand on his cellmate’s shoulder. ‘None of my letters said it as well as that.’

  On the first night, Archie showed Edmund how to lay out his blankets – two of them this time – to be most comfortable. ‘Give them a good shake. They’re always stiff; they bake them in big ovens to get rid of lice and suchlike beasties.’ He told him about the other prisoners. ‘Burglars, forgers, swindlers, horse-stealers. And there’s half a dozen other COs here at least. You’re among friends, young Edmund.’

  ‘You mean the crooks or the COs?’ Edmund asked.

  As his twelve weeks began to pass, Edmund met the other prisoners and made friends with many. Jimmy the old alcoholic, who got drunk and stole a police horse, spent a month in prison promising he’d never touch the grog again, was released, got drunk again and stole the same police horse. Ned, who lit fires in rubbish tins because he liked watching things burn. Roland, who pretended to be a Russian prince and fooled people into giving him money.

  He worked with them in the prison quarry, breaking up rocks with a sledgehammer until they were small enough to spread on new roads, then loading them onto big, horse-drawn carts. As he watched the horses plod patiently out through the prison gates, Edmund sometimes yearned to be back in the market garden, under the sky, away from cold stone walls.

  He told Archie about his former job. ‘A Chinaman?’ Archie asked. ‘How do people treat him?’

  Edmund thought of the store owner who refused to buy Mr Yee’s vegetables. ‘No yellow man’s stuff here!’ The children who sometimes yelled ‘Ching-Chong-Chinaman!’ as they passed. ‘Some are good. Some aren’t,’ he told Archie.

  His new friend nodded. ‘War isn’t the only time people behave badly.’

  More days passed. Edmund’s hands blistered, then grew hard. His back ached, then grew strong. The prison food was boring and greasy and often lukewarm. The tea was weak, with watered-down milk. He ate and drank, and longed for his mother’s meals.

  There were other COs in the prison, as Archie had said. Three of them were from the same family and the same church, thin silent men who never smiled and who ignored Edmund when he spoke to them. ‘Don’t go thinking that all conchies are nice blokes,’ Archie laughed, when he heard about it. ‘Some of them agree with us about not fighting, but ones like that still think we’re going to Hell.’

  One CO was a blacksmith; one was a farmer; one was a steeplejack. ‘A bloke told me I was a coward, so I invited him to c
limb a hundred-foot-high chimney with me,’ Cedric the steeplejack grinned.

  When they could, they talked together about their refusal to fight. Doug the farmer and Basil the blacksmith thought they might agree to serve as stretcher-bearers, but they were worried about obeying military orders.

  Archie looked thoughtful. ‘You do what you believe is right. That’s why we’re here. But be careful. The Army has clever ways of getting you on their side.’

  Sometimes the prison wardens let them talk together. Sometimes they kept them apart. ‘The government doesn’t want us finding out how many others think like us,’ Archie said. ‘They’re afraid it might be catching.’ He was in the cell after dinner (pale stew, a hunk of stale bread, a mug of weak tea), lying on the bottom bunk and talking to Edmund, who was stretched out on the top one. ‘Don’t know why they’ve left us two together. Maybe they think I’m too old for anyone to listen to me – and you’re too young.’

  Edmund pretended to be indignant. ‘Young? I’m eighteen, remember … just.’

  Some prisoners wouldn’t talk to Edmund or the other COs. When one heard why Archie was in prison, he spat in the older man’s face. Archie wiped his cheek calmly. ‘Would you like me better if I killed people?’ he asked the prisoner.

  Edmund didn’t tell Archie about William. The anger between him and his brother was still too raw in his mind. But they talked about what might lie ahead. ‘The Army haven’t finished with us yet, lad. They’ve hardly started.’ The older man gave Edmund arguments to use against people who believed in war, taught him to write letters in his head so he could still ‘talk’ to family and friends. Edmund was allowed to write and receive just one letter a month.