Soldier Boy

by Anthony Hill

  Jim Martin entered the world on 3 January 1901, only three days after people celebrated the birth of the new Commonwealth of Australia.

  The people of Tocumwal were all for Federation. There were dances and speeches. People drank the health of old Queen Victoria (though she died that same month). They toasted the local boys who were away with the Light Horse in South Africa, fighting the Boers.

  Lying in bed at home, awaiting the birth of her own new child, Amelia Martin could hear the river boats still tooting their Federation whistles down at the wharf.

  Mrs Moorfield was the midwife. Amelia always remembered the relief when she heard her baby cry with life, and the joy when she held him to her breast for the first time.

  ‘That’s a fine, healthy boy you have, Mrs Martin.’

  It was a joyful time all round, with Amelia’s family there: her mother, Frances, and her sister, Mary – the children’s Aunt Mary – looking after the two little daughters. Charlie came in from work at the general store. He beamed with pride when they showed him his newborn son, and the family drank several bottles of good hop beer to ‘wet the baby’s head’. They called him James, after Amelia’s brother, and Charles, after the father himself.

  Charlie Martin was not a Tocumwal man. He’d been born in Auckland, New Zealand. Nor, as they found out much later, was his real name Martin. His father was Samuel Marks, a fruiterer by trade; but Charlie changed his surname to Martin when he came to Australia as a young man, after his parents died. It was easier to do so. There was much prejudice against Jewish people in those days, and names were often changed. So Charlie Marks became Charlie Martin, odd-jobbing his way around before ending up in Tocumwal, as a grocer and handyman at the stores and livery stables. Amelia laughed when she remembered the handsome fellow who swept her off her feet. They married in August 1895, a month before her eighteenth birthday.

  Well, life could be short. Amelia’s mother, Frances, was only fifteen when she married Thomas Park, a well-to-do young carpenter. They migrated from England during the gold rushes of the 1850s. In the boom years a good builder was in demand. Frances and Thomas travelled the colonies, producing twelve children - Amelia was the youngest, born at Bendigo. Two boys and five girls survived, some of whom settled with their own families in the Riverina district of New South Wales. After Thomas died when Amelia was still a girl, Frances wanted to be close to them. She moved to the town of Deniliquin with her younger children – Amelia, James and Mary.

  It was there that Mary met and later married Arthur Pigot, a pub-keeper’s son, working as a rabbiter at Howlong Station. Even then, the rabbit plague was destroying much good grazing land. It was also in Deniliquin that Frances, still a handsome, spirited woman at the age of fifty-five, married in 1891 for a second time. Her new husband was George Smith, himself a widower. Not long afterwards, with young Amelia, they moved down the track to the river port of Tocumwal, where Frances opened a boarding house in Murray Street. George took on duties as the cook with Amelia as his teenage apprentice.

  Trade was brisk. Frances kept a good table, with meals available at all hours for one shilling, and Tocumwal was a bustling town. When the water was high, paddle-steamers were always pulling into the wharf to pick up and off-load cargoes, wool bales and wheat bags, towed in barges up and down river to Echuca. An astute businesswoman, Frances well knew that Tocumwal was an important border crossing and customs town on the road north from Shepparton. People, livestock and vehicles had to be ferried across the Murray on a punt. Even when the new bridge opened in 1895, the railway didn’t cross the river. So there was a constant traffic through town of mail coaches and haulage wagons as passengers and freight travelled between the railheads at Strathmerton and Finley. There was always a call for chaff and hay at the stores where suave Charlie Martin, newly arrived in Tocumwal, served behind the counter and helped the grooms. He’d already caught the eye of young Amelia Park. They began ‘walking out’ together, as people said in those days. When Amelia was still seventeen (though she said she was twenty-one) and by licence from the Bishop, they wed.

  The young-marrieds stayed on at Tocumwal. Amelia already had family there. Her sister Mary and Arthur Pigot moved to town, where Arthur worked as a teamster with the draught horses and heavy drays. Mary and Arthur had two boys by then, Archie and Frank. It was good for the children to be near their grandmother – and also their cousins, as Charlie and Amelia Martin’s own children began to arrive.

  Esther was the firstborn in July, 1896. Alice followed two years later. Jim, of course, opened his infant eyes in the first exciting days of Federation in 1901, though whenever Amelia remembered that time her happiness was marred by grief. For her own mother, Frances, died in June. She was buried by the Reverend Joseph Ward who, only a month later, baptised the baby James Charles Martin, at the new red brick Anglican Church of St Alban.

  For a while, Charlie and Amelia wondered if they should move from Tocumwal to improve their prospects elsewhere. But they stayed. Charlie had work and the tips were good. There were ties of family with Mary and Arthur Pigot and the boys, and they spent much time together.

  There was fishing for cod and redfin in the river, and swimming from the sandy beaches on this stretch of the Murray; picnics among the tall river red gums, young Jim with his face full of cream cake; walks through the bush, though they were always on the look-out for tiger snakes; games to play along the low levee banks, built to hold back the water when the river flooded. Even so, Tocumwal was still sometimes isolated by floods that stretched for miles

  There was the life of the town: dances and socials in Hillson’s Hall, cricket matches and bike races on Saturdays, the annual district show. Celebrations when the new King Edward was crowned in 1902, and Welcome Home to the boys from the Boer War that same year. Sometimes the cousins sat wide-eyed with delight when a circus visited town, laughing at the clowns and monkeys, and hardly daring to look at the flyers on the high trapeze.

  Esther started going to school, trudging with her satchel to Mr Richards, the headmaster, at the schoolhouse. Alice went with her after another year or two, but Jim was still a toddler. He was no longer the baby of the family, though. In 1903, Amelia had her fourth child, Mary. Two years later, Annie was born. Soon after, the family left Tocumwal for Melbourne.

  They’d been thinking about it. Now they made up their minds. Mary and Arthur Pigot were going to Germanton, near Albury, where Arthur’s dad was taking over the Riverina Hotel. In time they’d run it themselves. Family ties with Tocumwal were loosening. Amelia always retained an affection for the place, but the bright lights and opportunities of Marvellous Melbourne beckoned.

  In 1906, Charlie and Amelia, with their five children, caught the coach from Tocumwal across the river to Strathmerton. From there, they boarded the steam train which took them to the city and the rest of their lives.

  3: GLENFERRIE SCHOOL

  The first years in Melbourne were hard ones for the Martin family. They knew few people in the city, and missed the close circle of friends and relatives in Tocumwal.

  Money was tight. Charlie got a job driving a horse-drawn cab for one of the livery stables. He enjoyed it, especially the independence of the road. But his family were growing, and the fares and tips he earned didn’t stay long in his pocket. He had to buy boots and clothes and enough food for seven hungry mouths – which eventually became eight. Two years after they moved to Melbourne, Amelia had her sixth and last child, young Amelia, called Millie, named after herself.

  It was difficult to find somewhere decent to live. They couldn’t afford anything grand, but with six children and two adults the small cottages they rented seemed to burst with people. Amelia was always looking for something better and they were constantly on the move around the inner suburbs. So many moves that one morning, as he left for work, Charlie asked, ‘Same address tonight, Amelia?’ He could still make her laugh.

  It was time to settle somewhere. In 1910 the family moved across the Yarra River to
the suburb of Hawthorn. It was a more prosperous part of town. Charlie learned to drive a taxi, for horses then were giving way to motor cars, and the people of Hawthorn could afford his fares. The brick house Charlie rented in Vicars Street was larger, close to the shops and school. That year, at the age of nine, Jim Martin and the older girls enrolled at the Manningtree Road State School.

  In her waking dreams, Amelia could still see the children leaving home in the morning, running out the door so as not to miss the nine o’clock bell. The girls in their dark woollen dresses and white aprons, hair tied back with ribbons. Jim in his cap and coat, serge pants down to his knees, long socks and black boots. Slates and books in leather schoolbags slung over their shoulders …

  There were the children hurrying the half mile or so down Glenferrie Road to school: past Fred Davies’s fruit shop and the delicious smells from Melville’s, the pastry cook. Past butcher shops and grocers, bootmakers, barbers and Ernest Hill, the estate agent. Through the railway gates and across the road. Past the church and Sam Lee’s laundry, stopping outside Elsum’s sweet shop to drool at jars of bullseyes and chocolate drops. Then on again quickly as the school bell rang, to line up just in time with the others in the asphalt yard. To salute the flag and recite the pledge: ‘I love God and my country; I honour the flag; I will serve the King, and cheerfully obey my parents, teachers and the laws.’

  There was a new King in 1910, George the Fifth, whom everybody loved. But it was hard to say that bit about teachers. Discipline was strict. Some teachers were very free with canes and straps – and not just when their pupils misbehaved or made a noise in class, but also for getting their sums or spelling lessons wrong.

  Well, there were large classes! With more than 800 pupils, from beginners to grade eight, the school was very crowded. Things eased when they built new rooms and an assembly hall for the younger classes. But the older children still sat at long desks raised in tiers, with the teachers keeping a watchful eye from the blackboard out front. Even then there was mischief. Sometimes the girls’ long hair was dipped into the inkwell of the desk behind. And more than once Jim came home bearing the bruises of a fight when someone teased his younger sisters, Mary and Annie.

  ‘You want to make something of it? I’ll meet you in the paddock after school.’

  The other children would stand round them in a ring, egging the fighters on.

  Jim was no angel. He was broken hearted one day. Schoolmaster Hyland made the boys empty all the pea-shooters from their schoolbags onto the ground.

  ‘He stamped on them, Mum! Smashed every one!’

  There was a bit of cricket in the schoolyard at lunchtime or a football to kick around in winter, but no organised sport. The children played marbles and jack-bones, at which the girls were good; and the boys often had cockfights, mounted on each other’s back. And every day, after recess, the children formed into lines and marched into class to the sound of a drum and whistle.

  Jim Martin dearly wanted to play the school drum. But that was a privilege reserved for the older boys who belonged to the school cadet band. In Jim’s mind, one ambition merged with the other. He could hardly wait until he turned twelve, and was able to join the junior cadets and play the drum.

  At the time, it was compulsory for all boys of this age to begin military training. The famous commander from the Boer War, Lord Kitchener, visited Australia. He recommended an army of 80,000 men, mainly reservists, to defend the young nation and play its part in the wider defence of the British Empire. From 1911, boys aged between twelve and fourteen had to join the junior cadets, training at school. At fourteen, when most began work, they became senior cadets, training at night and in annual camps. At eighteen they enrolled as adults in the Citizen Military Forces.

  It was a proud time, a patriotic time in the young Commonwealth. The older boys at Manningtree Road State School were soon formed into a cadet corps. They didn’t wear a uniform, much to their disgust – not like senior cadets who wore the khaki battledress of real Australian soldiers. In other respects, though, their training followed correct military lines.

  Old Mr Grigg was one of the teachers in charge of them. Every morning for at least a quarter of an hour, the cadets had to do physical exercises – stretching, jumping, running on the spot – strengthening young muscles to make the boys into fit and useful citizens.

  ‘One two … one two … higher there, young Martin! Put some effort into it!’ Mr Grigg shouting through his white moustaches.

  They learned the elements of parade-ground drill.

  ATTEN – SHUN!

  STAND HAT EASE!

  How to dress in line …

  EYES RIGHT!

  (shuffle shuffle shuffle)

  … until the ragged ranks were more or less in straight lines.

  They were taught how to march at regulation 120 paces a minute, round and round the asphalt schoolyard …

  QUICK MARCH!

  ‘Step out briskly, boys … shoulders back … arms swinging smartly … no whistling at the back there!’

  SLOW MARCH!

  Which was a lot harder. No wonder the cadet drums were needed to keep them in step.

  Occasionally the boys even had real rifles to carry. The school built a miniature rifle range, about fifty yards long, against the side fence. From time to time a sergeant or lieutenant from the local regiment would come to school and instruct the cadets in target shooting. They used .22 calibre rifles generally, lighter in weight than the standard .303s. People often used them for rabbiting, and .22s were good for teaching accurate marksmanship. Fairly safe, too, although a red flag was hoisted at the range whenever the boys were practising.

  The army was thorough. No boy was allowed to fire his rifle until he learned how to look after it properly. How to oil and clean it. How to load and unload the weapon safely. How to use the sights correctly when aiming, and to rest the butt against his shoulder to take the recoil when it fired.

  ‘Don’t PULL the trigger, lad! Squeeze it gently with the ball of your finger!’ The sergeant drilling the boys down at the range. Lying beside them on the mat as, one at a time, they aimed at the bullseye.

  ‘Just before you fire, hold your breath to help keep the rifle absolutely still.’

  Jim Martin loved it. In time he became a good shot, kneeling or standing, at a stationary or moving target. The boys made their mistakes, of course. Forgetting to keep the rifle pointing towards the target as they were unloading.

  ‘It’s for safety, young feller. Make it a habit … a instinct!’

  One kid was bawled out because he forgot altogether to put on the safety catch and remove his last bullet from the breech.

  ‘You fool! You ass! You could kill yourself or someone else if the rifle went off accidentally!’

  And a couple of boys were downright stupid. They didn’t want to be in the junior cadets, and more than once pocketed the live .22 ammunition after parade. They removed the bullets, and when old Mr Grigg was out of the classroom tossed the cartridges into the open fire – where they exploded with real risk of injury. The girls screamed. The headmaster, Mr Hamilton, came running. And the room was filled with the stinking smoke of gunpowder. Nobody ever owned up, of course, and the whole class had to write out 500 lines: I must be honourable and tell the truth at all times.

  One kid practised using three pens strapped together.

  On the whole, though, the cadets brought credit to themselves and their school. Most of them, like young Jim Martin, looked forward to the time when they could join the senior cadets. There was public pride in what they were doing.

  One day, when she was cleaning up Jim’s room after he died, Amelia found a copy of The School Paper he’d kept from February, 1913. It had a photo on the cover and a description of a march through the city by over 17,000 senior cadets: the first such parade ‘since the law was passed that each healthy Australian boy should be trained to defend his country.’

  It took them more than an hour to march p
ast the Governor-General, taking the salute on the steps of Parliament House. True, The School Paper said the lads shouldn’t be confused with fighting troops. They were only soldiers in the making. Still, ‘if so much military knowledge and steadiness can be instilled into boys within a year, the fighting force of 1919, when the scheme will have been fully developed, should indeed be a worthy one.’

  If only they knew of the Great War that was coming. If only they knew how many of those boys would be dead by 1919.

  But it was no wonder, Amelia Martin told herself in her grief, that her son should want to enlist, though he was only fourteen. The idea of the boy soldier was all around him. It was there in the junior and senior cadets. Boys could join the new Royal Australian Navy at fourteen to train as sailors, stokers or signallers, and a year younger as cadet-midshipmen. There were songs about brave little drummer boys marching troops into battle during the wars that won the British Empire.

  Every year on Empire Day, 24 May, (old Queen Victoria’s birthday), there was a bonfire and crackers down at the Glenferrie oval. At school, Headmaster Hamilton – ‘Cock-eye’ they called him because of his glass eye – would talk at assembly about its glories …

  ‘The greatest Empire the world has ever seen! An Empire covering a quarter of the globe … all those countries coloured red on the map: Britain, Australia, Canada, New Zealand, South Africa, India … An Empire on which the sun never sets, bringing peace and progress to more than 400 million people …

  ‘That’s why we have to remain strong and vigilant against those nations building arms that might be used against us. That’s why the Royal Navy must keep command of the seas! Why we must support the Army and our own schoolboy cadets – our soldiers of the future!’

  After which Jim Martin and the band beat their drums. The whole school saluted the new Australian flag, with its Southern Cross and Union Jack in the corner. And they gave three cheers for King George and Queen Mary who reigned over this vast and peaceful Empire.