Worth Fighting For

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

  ‘It’s only been a day. The girls will be back in a week and things will seem a bit more normal.’

  ‘Life will never seem normal again. It can’t – it all just means nothing now…’ Her voice cracked and he felt his own grief overflow as she cried those slow, terrible tears that always cut him. He wished he had something to drink.

  She took a handkerchief out of her pocket, dabbing at her tears. ‘Going into town again this afternoon?’

  ‘No…no,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay here with you, love.’

  She sniffed. ‘Calling me love again? Giving me your coat?’ She took one of his cigarettes and he watched with surprise as she lit it. ‘Just go. I’m all right.’

  For the first time in a very long while, Rory saw her as the girl he remembered. Not because she was young again, or vibrant and hopeful as she once had been – he’d destroyed much of that. But because she was strong somehow, despite this shattering blow. Bitter, yes, but strong nevertheless. He’d forgotten about that Mavis. He hadn’t even noticed she wasn’t around. But now that he needed her, now that life was desolate and the pain wouldn’t leave him, he wanted that Mavis to care again.

  ‘No pub. Not tonight.’ He knew there was nothing there for him, save the drink. The only thing he wanted to do was stand here with Mavis, now that the war had taken their boy.

  ‘It doesn’t bother me. Do what you want,’ she said.

  He searched for something to say, to charm her back to him as he’d always been able to do. Silver Tongue, she used to call him, back in the days before.

  ‘I – I know I’ve been a no-good husband to you these past few years –’ He stopped, hearing the cheapness of his own words.

  ‘It’s not even that so much…you’ve not been much of a father lately. That’s far worse.’

  Rory lit a cigarette too. He couldn’t deny it but it pained his heart, especially now.

  A currawong landed on the fence and Mavis looked at it, straightening to all of her five and a half feet. ‘I’m going to Sydney, to find Michael and tell him about Davey. And to take his birth certificate and hold him from going to war – for now at least,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m fighting this time, Rory. Don’t try to stop me.’

  ‘No, you’re not going.’ There was thunder in the far distance and the rumble ran between them. ‘I am,’ he said, making up his mind.

  She stared at him for a moment then walked past him back into the house, one word carrying on the wind as the rain found the earth.

  ‘Good.’

  Six

  November 1941

  Parramatta, New South Wales, Australia

  The man was beginning to bother her. Michael could see it in the way she tapped on her cigarette packet and shifted her legs around. He was a burly bloke, his biceps bulging from his shirt and hair hanging over the thick meat of neck at his collar. The brute bent in, closer than the girl wanted, breathing what could only be a putrid cocktail of rum and cigarettes into her face as she leant back as far as she could from him. Michael had been watching her since she’d arrived, a small, dark-haired girl with large eyes, trying to look older with her painted lips and tight dress. He supposed he was just missing his sisters and Junie but he instantly wanted to protect the girl and now he just might have to. If he could hold his own after – how many beers had he had, anyway?

  ‘Whoever that girl is you’re moping about from home that ain’t her,’ Jake noted, following his gaze. ‘Don’t poke the bear, Mick.’

  Jake Loadsman had been droving and sharing in stockman duties with Michael for the best part of two years. He and his other droving mate, James Clifford – or ‘Cliffy’ as everyone knew him – had falsified their birth certificates together and were now locked in each other’s company, day in, day out. Training had been easy enough, they were used to shooting and hard, physical labour, but they’d missed having a drink.

  And Michael missed seeing Junie.

  He hadn’t realised just how much he’d looked forward to Sundays at church purely because she would be sitting there, mere feet away. Or occasions in town when she could be glimpsed through shop windows or chatting to her friends on the footpath. Without those prized moments to look forward to and revisit each night, life was dull – a chore to be borne – and he was pained in the knowledge she was too far away to be seen. Nor his to look for any more.

  And so he watched this girl as she tried to stand and leave, clenching his glass as the man pulled her back down by the arm. She was beginning to look frightened and searched the pub, probably for the woman she’d arrived with, an older, more hardened type who had already exited through the back door with a sodden-looking private.

  His attention shifted as Cliffy came waltzing across the bar, singing ‘I’m in the Money’ in a very loud voice.

  ‘Shh, y’bloody idiot. Why don’t you just put a sign around your neck while you’re at it?’ Jake hissed at him. Michael watched the big thug to see if he had noticed. He hadn’t, busy as he still was harassing the girl, but his equally brutish friend had, finishing his drink in a gulp and moving away from the bar to circle in on Cliffy.

  ‘Twenty quid,’ Cliffy announced happily, brandishing it under their noses. ‘None of them city boys know a thing about throwing darts.’

  ‘Some of them may know a thing or two about killing,’ muttered Jake as the big man moved closer.

  ‘Well…we might need some pointers, all things considered,’ Michael muttered back. ‘Don’t know how much use he’s going to be.’ He nodded at Cliffy, who was busy counting his money through one eye and swaying in his seat.

  ‘About as useful as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest,’ Jake agreed under his breath, smiling widely at the arrival of the brute. ‘How are you today, my good man?’ he asked cheerfully, leaning back in his chair to stretch towards the pool cue rack.

  The beefy man smiled back, displaying an alarming absence of teeth. ‘A bit low on funds actually.’ The first man had noticed the scene now and joined his mate; they presented an unnerving wall of muscle. Then a third one arrived, similar in girth and with a large scar running down the side of his face.

  ‘Times are tough during wars,’ Michael said amiably, sizing up what weaknesses he could and finding none. ‘What happened to your face?’ he asked the third man.

  There was no smile from him. ‘Had a disagreement with somebody a few days ago.’ He looked at Cliffy’s pocket. ‘He thought he could beat me at something. I disagreed.’

  ‘Let’s play darts in Parramatta,’ Jake mumbled under his breath to Cliffy. ‘Good plan, mate.’

  ‘Give us the dough and we might let you live,’ the first man said, growing impatient as he noticed the girl with the dark hair make her way to the door.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Michael said, stalling as long as he could as he noticed her too. ‘How about you walk away now and we won’t add to your list of reasons?’

  ‘What reasons?’

  Michael grinned at him. ‘Reasons why women can’t stand your repulsive self.’

  Cliffy pointed at the one he’d beaten in darts. ‘Reasons why you couldn’t hit a – hic – dartboard if someone stuck a dart in y’mouth and threw it at ya.’

  ‘And reasons why your ancestors obviously remained Neanderthals,’ Jake finished, winking at the third.

  ‘Arrrgh!’ The Neanderthal in question took sizeable offence to that and Jake met his lurching attack with a swift blow across the head from a pool cue.

  The pub must have been ready to ignite because bodies came from everywhere, all stinging for a fight. Michael met the first man’s swinging arms with a small table but it was instantly smashed into pieces and he was left holding the leg in amazement. It proved to work well as a weapon, however, which was fortunate, considering the man had picked up a chair arm. They sparred with them like swords.

  Meanwhile Cliffy was busy utilising his talented aim as a dart player by hiding behind the bar and launching anything he could find at his opponent. Jake had mana
ged to outrun the Neanderthal, making use of his fence-balancing skills as he moved along the benchtops, ducking the odd stray missile from Cliffy before one connected and he slipped and fell straight into a bunch of uniforms. He managed to crawl away under the remaining tables, leaving the soldiers he’d landed on to tangle with his pursuer.

  ‘Retreat!’ Michael yelled as his table leg was snapped in half against the big man’s face and his opponent gave him a bloodied grin.

  ‘Leg it!’ Cliffy called to Jake and the three took off out the doors and down the street just as the sirens arrived.

  Michael looked back to see the three thugs pause outside the front door as the police drew close, then they took off in the other direction.

  ‘This ain’t over!’ The first man called after them, spitting out blood and looking murderous.

  ‘Tell it running, Ugly!’ Jake called and they struggled to keep going for laughter.

  Michael figured they wouldn’t be risking the seedier pubs in Parramatta again any time soon.

  Cliffy was singing, something he wasn’t doing too bad a job of considering he had a fat lip and a half-empty bottle of rum in his hand.

  ‘Bollocks! was all the band could play.’

  They were lying on their bunks, still talking about the brawl and comparing stories for the entertainment of their bunkmates.

  ‘Seven feet in his socks, he was,’ Jake was telling Wally Simpson, a young fellow from Yamba whose eyes were round in their glasses.

  ‘Seems to be growing taller with each telling,’ said Tommy Hawkens, Wally’s mate. ‘Sure he wasn’t standing in manure?’

  ‘He smelt like it,’ Michael said, laughing.

  Footsteps sounded down the hall and bottles were quickly hidden under blankets and beds as the men stood to attention.

  ‘At ease, gentlemen,’ said the sergeant, turning a blind eye to their inebriated states. ‘Riley, Captain Marren wants to see you.’

  Michael looked up in surprise. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes you, y’great galoot. Look sharp.’

  Michael walked the halls across to the office, straightening his uniform as he knocked on Captain Marren’s door, wondering what news lay within.

  Whatever it was, he hadn’t expected it to be delivered by the figure that rose from the chair in front.

  ‘What did he want?’ Jake asked as Michael made his slow way in to the room a while later.

  He said nothing until he lay down and stared at the ceiling. ‘It’s…it’s my dad. He found me. He’s here.’

  The others went very quiet then Jake sat forwards. ‘Did he dob you in?’

  ‘Worse…much worse. My brother Davey…’ He couldn’t finish the sentence, his throat tightening as his chest began to heave.

  ‘Mate,’ said Cliffy.

  None of them seemed able to find any other words so they sat with him a while, listening to the painful sobs that held no shame here; in a room full of young men, watching their friend lose his only brother to the same war they were about to enter. Pub fights seemed like child’s play now. There would be no police sirens to break things up over there – it was fight to the actual death – something that no longer seemed a distant, possible fate.

  For death brushed close now, touching them all.

  ‘Drink?’ Captain Marren was pouring, probably wishing he hadn’t witnessed what had just transpired. ‘Think you deserve one tonight.’

  Rory hesitated, but took it. ‘Just the one.’

  The captain studied him. ‘Served yourself, did you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rory said, ‘the Somme and Palestine. Did three years in the end.’

  ‘No thought to re-joining? Army’s looking for experience.’

  ‘It crossed my mind.’

  Captain Marren looked thoughtful. ‘My brother was in France. Gas still affects him, poor sod, but it was Turkey that got to him first. Lost his best mate,’ he said, sipping his drink. ‘Least you missed out on that.’

  ‘I was underage when I went to France as it was,’ Rory said.

  ‘Many were back then.’

  ‘Many still are.’ Rory put down his drink and took out a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘I’ve come here for more than one reason.’

  Captain Marren frowned, scanning the birth certificate Rory had placed on the desk. ‘Eighteen?’

  ‘Yes. Only just.’

  ‘They’ve put it down from twenty to nineteen now, as I’m sure you’ve heard. We need men.’

  Rory held fast. ‘Even so, a year’s a year. Besides, he needs parental permission under twenty-one, and I haven’t given it.’

  The captain walked over to the window, staring out at the lights of the barracks. ‘Best shot in the outfit. Natural leader…I had my eye on him. He’ll make a damn good soldier.’

  ‘He’s a damn good son.’

  Captain Marren nodded. ‘I can see that.’

  Rory took another sip of his drink, eyes wet.

  ‘I can’t keep an eighteen-year-old lad,’ the captain conceded. ‘I’ll see to it.’

  ‘You may need to see to a few others too. Clifford and Loadsman are only eighteen as well.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Captain Marren frowned.

  Rory drained his glass. ‘I think you may be surprised just how many of the country lads are; it’s quite easy to forge dates and notes from parents out our way – just ride far enough until no-one knows you.’

  ‘So it seems,’ the captain replied, obviously rattled, and he finished his own glass. ‘Thank you, Mr Riley. Where will you be staying so I can reach you?’

  ‘The sergeant has given me a bunk.’

  ‘Excellent. Forgive me, I’m forgetting my manners. Again, I am so sorry for your loss. We’ll talk again tomorrow and I’ll arrange things.’

  Rory stood, holding his hat. ‘I know he needs to be a man, but his mother needs her boy right now.’

  ‘Of course,’ the captain said, but as he left Rory couldn’t help but feel this wasn’t quite over.

  The sun was high as Rory sat in the captain’s office next day, wondering why he was waiting. The sense of uneasiness returned. Surely it was just a matter of telling Michael to pack his things and they could head back home?

  He stood and moved over to look out on the empty parade ground, thinking about Davey. He’d trained here too, before he went. The dark buildings stared at him in stony disregard and he imagined his son marching past them, handling his gun with ease and experience as he’d been taught on the land. Taught by me, Rory thought bitterly.

  Davey was as skilled as any man Rory had seen, but all the skill in the world hadn’t saved him in the end. He wondered how he had died. There were no details in the telegram, only the stark words that he’d been killed in action. Every imagining of what that entailed was as bad as the first, because they all ended with his body falling, his voice being silenced forever; that cheerful, practical sound that rang out across fields as they mustered together. Rory knew it would haunt him always. Round ’em in.

  Country through and through, that boy. Rory took his handkerchief out of his pocket and absently wiped his cheeks.

  It was another ten minutes before he heard footsteps and the captain opened the door and entered – not with Michael, Rory noted warily, but with a major.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Mr Riley, may I present Major Reynolds. Major, this is Rory Riley.’

  ‘Mr Riley.’ The major nodded, taking a seat.

  Rory did the same. ‘Is – is anything wrong with Michael?’

  ‘No, no, not at all,’ the major assured him. ‘On the contrary, actually. Your son is one of the finest we’ve had through in quite some time. Crack shot. Where did he learn that? From you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rory said, feeling pained rather than proud. He’d prepared Davey to shoot and look where that had got him.

  ‘Smart too,’ Major Reynolds said, taking out a cigarette case and offering it around. ‘Takes the lead like a natural.’

  Rory took his time lighting his
smoke, waiting for them to come to the point. He knew an army pitch when he smelt one.

  ‘Truth is, we don’t want to lose him. Or Clifford, or Loadsman,’ the major said. ‘Or the other dozen or so outstanding underage men we’ve been discovering in our ranks over these past few hours. Definitely need to keep a tighter rein on some of these remote enlistment personnel,’ he conceded, flicking at the ash tray. ‘Must thank you for bringing it to our attention.’

  Rory wondered what kind of thank you they had in mind.

  ‘Seems a shame to send them all home – I mean, here they are, some of our finest lads, drilled and fit and eager to serve. God knows their country needs them,’ the major continued, ‘Japan looks set to declare war any day now.’

  ‘Pity they’re underage then,’ Rory said carefully.

  ‘Yes, pity,’ the major agreed. ‘Unless…we encourage them to stay.’

  Rory looked at him, confused.

  ‘The captain here tells me you were an underage recruit yourself – so was I.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure you remember the reasons why we joined up: a bit of excitement; the women liking the uniform; overseas travel. Of course we had no idea what war really was. Truth was, we weren’t prepared.’ He leant towards Rory. ‘What if we did that for these boys? What if we prepared them properly?’

  ‘By keeping them here?’

  ‘No, not here,’ the captain said, joining in. ‘Liverpool. There’s an empty set of barracks, a parade ground. Plenty of room to set up a special squad of elite recruits.’

  ‘Underage elite recruits,’ Rory reminded him.

  ‘Who receive more training, more preparation, than any men in the Australian Army.’

  The major nodded. ‘And who do so under the guidance of an experienced soldier. Someone who understands exactly what they need to know…someone with a particularly strong motivation to protect them.’ He paused, looking at Rory meaningfully.

  Rory stared at them. ‘Me?’

  ‘Who better?’ the major said. ‘I’ve checked your records. Plenty of brave action and a promotion to colonel in Palestine. Few bust-ups and wild nights, but didn’t we all?’ He shrugged. ‘You could teach them how to survive, Mr Riley.’