Gallipoli Street

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

  Despite the way Rose had treated her, and Jack of course, Veronica still felt sorrow at her passing. Her heart went out to Mildred and George, who’d lost their only daughter and were, by all accounts, devastated. Then there was poor Iggy who had always been a devoted brother to Rose and now had to hear of her passing in a trench somewhere on the other side of the world. To top it all off no one knew the whereabouts of Gregory. Apparently he was missing in action in Pozières. Hearing they’d been in France at the same time, Veronica hoped they’d been able to reconcile, aware that there had been ‘problems’ via Mildred.

  Wherever he was, she was glad Gregory was spared having to deal with her passing for now.

  During war, ignorance truly was bliss.

  And then there was the little girl, Elizabeth. George’s sister Joelene had sent a telegram stating she had been looking after her in France and was bringing her home on the first available ship to Australia. Stroking her hand softly against the baby in her own womb Veronica felt keenly the loneliness of a small child in the middle of a vast ocean, leaving her mother behind forever and possibly her father too as she headed towards a strange land.

  The sound of the Sunbeam coming up the drive and Pattie’s excited call roused her and she turned to see her arriving with her mother and May. Veronica walked towards them her arms outstretched to hold her niece who clapped her hands at the sight of her, saying, ‘Wa! Wa!’

  ‘Auntie Wa can’t pick you up today, darling.’ Alice held her granddaughter and gave Veronica a kiss on the cheek, reprimanding her gently. ‘No heavy lifting, remember? How are you, dear? Is Catherine about?’

  ‘Inside and knitting.’ Veronica followed them up the stairs as Pattie linked her arm through hers.

  ‘When’s this nephew of mine arriving? Good Lord, you’re waddling like a duck! It’s not a good sign. The suspense is killing me as to whether he’ll have webbed toes or not like his father.’

  ‘He does not have webbed toes!’

  ‘Yes he does: the little pinkie is all meshed up against the next one. I suppose I should have warned you that you were marrying a duck-man but I selfishly wanted you as my sister.’

  Veronica laughed, feeling instantly cheered by Pattie’s arrival. ‘I don’t really know that it’s a boy…’

  ‘Of course you do,’ she said airily. ‘Now, we just have to get Clarkson home so I can get busy cooking him a chum. He’ll need someone to practise cricket with.’

  They took tea with their mothers in the parlour as May entertained them all with her baby discoveries, including some ‘sooz’ (shoes), a ‘sushun’ (cushion) and of course, the perfectly clear ‘Cake!’ The conversation turned to Rose and Alice shook her head sadly as she told them further news.

  ‘Mildred said one of Rose’s friends had written to her, expressing her condolences and telling her how well loved Rose was over there. Apparently they called her Redsped because she was the fastest ambulance driver they had. And she also mentioned Rose had an Australian friend who often visited and was killed at the same time. They were collecting wounded from the front line when they died. Stray shots I suppose…Anyway it’s all terribly sad, although Mildred said it’s a comfort to hear that she had friends over there who cared about her.’ They all nodded quietly, imagining this other Rose, tearing along in an ambulance with her friend only to meet their own deaths.

  ‘I wonder if it was anyone we knew?’ Catherine said after a moment.

  ‘Mildred said she was going to write back to this girl, Beatrice is her name I think, and ask if she knows the friend’s name and any other information she had on her life over there. Rose didn’t talk about it in her letters for fear of Gregory finding out where they were. She was quite adamant he not know anything.’

  ‘I wonder what happened to them? They seemed a perfect match,’ Veronica pondered, deciding not to elaborate on some of the less savoury ways in which that was true. Not so Pattie.

  ‘Both snakes in the grass if we’re honest,’ she blurted.

  ‘Pattie!’ gasped her mother.

  ‘I was being honest!’

  ‘Honesty doesn’t necessitate speaking ill of the dead.’

  ‘Doesn’t necessitate reinventing their characters either,’ mumbled Pattie as she sat on the floor with May, rolling a little ball to her and smiling as she grasped it with her chubby hands and rolled it back. There was a knock at the door and they heard Eileen go to answer it as May grabbed the ball and placed it in a shoe, pushing it about like a little train and saying, ‘Choo choo.’

  Veronica was sipping her tea and smiling at them when her mother stood up, dropping her napkin to the ground. Following Catherine’s gaze to the doorway she felt her face drain of blood. Alice placed her cup down very carefully, hardly daring to look up at Father Francis, who stood holding the most dreaded of wartime correspondence. A telegram.

  Veronica held her breath, following the priest’s eyes as he searched the room. They came to rest on Pattie.

  She was yet to notice him as she reached under the couch for May’s ball.

  ‘Patricia…’

  Pattie turned at the priest’s voice, standing slowly as the ball slipped from her fingers.

  The smile faded from her face, not to return for many months, as she watched him move towards her in his long black robes, like the spectre of death holding out her fate in an envelope that she backed away from. Veronica stood and held her shoulder as Catherine took the telegram and opened it. Her hands shook as she read the words in a blur and Pattie’s eyes pleaded with the priest before swinging to Alice, who simply shook her head and began to cry.

  Pattie fell onto the floor screaming in pain, the sound more terrible than any Veronica had ever heard. The priest muttered to the others and Veronica vaguely registered the words ‘loss’, ‘Clarkson’ and ‘line of duty’. Alice collapsed next to her daughter, rocking her to and fro, trying to stem the pain and direct it into her own flesh as her daughter’s thin shoulders hunched in agony against her.

  And throughout it all, May held out her ball and wondered why Mummy didn’t want to play anymore.

  They all wore black at mass that Sunday and Veronica watched her friend closely as she placed a wreath upon the altar, her face drawn, dark circles under eyes that couldn’t seem to produce any more tears. Next came the Dwyers, Mildred appearing far older than her forty-nine years, holding tight to George as they laid a wreath for Rose and Father Francis offered up a special prayer for the fallen. He spoke of the news that the Australians had taken Pozières in the end, showing enormous courage against impossible odds, and how the victory might change the fate of the war in France. Of the never-ending hope for peace. But the price seemed too high to many in the church that day.

  The congregation headed back to the O’Shays’ for tea and in hushed tones they moved together, sharing their grief. Veronica served cakes and answered questions about her brothers and Jack as she searched the crowd for Pattie, finally spying her down by the fence, looking out at the fields. She made her way awkwardly to her side and placed her arm about her waist, dropping her head against her shoulder.

  ‘Love you,’ she said simply. Pattie leant her head against hers and they watched the new calves seek their mothers in the nursing field.

  ‘I suppose this is it. No funeral. Nothing else to do.’ Pattie shrugged helplessly. ‘Funny thing is I keep expecting him to walk in and say it was a mistake. Then I think maybe it’s just a dream and I’ll wake up soon. But I don’t. I’m beginning to think it isn’t a mistake and it isn’t a dream. And he…he’s never coming back…’ She turned and held Veronica’s hands. ‘I know I sound crazy but I need you to tell me. Is it real? Did this really happen?’

  Veronica nodded and held her friend, who found fresh tears after all. ‘Yes, darling, it’s real. Terribly real…I’m so sorry.’

  Pattie cried for a while, then pulled away, wiping at her face. ‘So now I’m just another skinny spinster.’ She tried to smile. ‘Or should I say whining wido
w.’ Her face crumpled again and she apologised as Veronica held her stomach and frowned. ‘Sorry. I’ll be all right in a minute.’

  ‘You’d better be. I don’t have much use for a skinny spinster or a whining widow, but I am in need of my sister-in-law.’

  ‘To keep my brother in line?’ She sniffed.

  ‘No, to help me have this baby. I think my waters just broke.’

  The next morning a wail broke over the house as Peter Clarkson Murphy entered the world and no one gave him more cuddles than his aunt Pattie.

  Twenty-nine

  Beersheba, Palestine, 31 October 1917

  It was the flies that got to him. On his food, his face, his ears, cloistered about the dead and annoying the horses, constant and clinging. After nearly two years in the Middle East he’d decided he’d never complain about the flies in Australia again, not after this. It had become a game to them to try and eat their food before a certain number of flies landed on it. Iggy held the record, managing to land only two in his mouth during lunch one day. Some of the men had given up on the ‘blowies’ and ate them along with the food, figuring it all tasted about the same.

  They were waiting for yet another battle, scattered about in small groups across the desert to deter attacks from the air. The horses were thirsty and Jack walked over to pat Tilley and reassure her, impatient to make a move as the punishing sun bore down on yet another dry, dusty afternoon. She pushed her head against him and he talked to her softly, her large eyes trusting as he ran his hand along the pelt of her nose.

  A group passed nearby and they squinted and saw they were Turkish prisoners being led away.

  Simmo immediately leapt up and began shouting, ‘Go back an fight yer bastards!’ baring his backside and whistling loudly. They laughed and Jack shook his head as Simmo waved his bottom in the air. ‘Tell ’em Australia sent ya!’

  Jack gave Tilley one last pat before settling back down and placing his hat over his eyes, moving off to his favourite place: Vera. How he missed her, the lightness of her smile, the everyday joy she exuded, the gentle way she had about her when someone needed nurturing. And her body. Oh how he missed that. He felt he could trace every curve in his mind’s eye down to the last inch, although he supposed it was different now in parts. More rounded. He smiled at the thought, looking forward to finding out, then sighed. If he ever got out of this blasted desert. He couldn’t seem to remember a time when he wasn’t stinking and filthy, the dust in every inch of his clothing and person. Then again he supposed he should be thankful. He could be waist-deep in mud like the poor sods in France. He shuddered to think of living in those trenches.

  Something else bothered him though, more than the flies and the dust and the heat. It had continued to grow since Gallipoli, the uneasy feeling that he’d changed here. He’d noticed it in some of the others too, even Iggy. They’d become truly hardened. Once upon a time the sight of a dead man would have turned his stomach, but now he barely noticed the corpses lining the fields of battle. The unthinkable act of burying a bayonet in a man’s heart was everyday work. And he didn’t even register the screams of the dying and wounded, blocking them out as expected noise.

  Not that he enjoyed it. He hated it, all of it. And he hated what it had turned him into.

  Problem was, he didn’t know how he was ever going to turn back into himself again. Into Jack Murphy. He was ‘Lieutenant’ or ‘Murph’ or ‘cobber’. Jack Murphy was an ordinary man, not a digger. As much as he lived for the day, he didn’t know how he would be able to handle going home. They wouldn’t understand; how could they? Even Veronica, for all she had seen, would never have to live with becoming part of the killing. He felt unclean, like the stench of slaying men could never leave him now, sometimes gazing at the blood on his hands and feeling that it forever stained his skin. Only his brothers here understood, and he thanked God that Iggy was with him. Somehow, having a mate going through the same thing made him feel he could face home again.

  It was hours later when he opened his eyes, surprised he’d managed to doze off for a while, and he watched Iggy thoughtfully stroking Ebony and staring out across to where they knew their usual division, the 1st, were fighting. He, Iggy and Simmo had been pulled in to the 4th Division two days ago and Jack wondered why they had been picked. With Simmo’s recent promotion, perhaps General Chauvel felt he needed more experienced officers for this part of his attack. Jack laughed inwardly, thinking of Simmo’s backside waving antics, wondering what Chauvel would make of that particular brand of leadership.

  The signal came and Jack roused himself, mounting with the others as they re-formed the line, wondering why they were bothering as the afternoon wore on.

  An hour and a half later they were still waiting as the horses flicked their tails, smelling the water in the nearby town of Beersheba. What was Chauvel up to? They had a great deal of faith in their Australian leader but this seemed a strange move. Why hold them there, waiting, so late in the day?

  Then the instructions rang clear down the line. They were ordered to draw their bayonets like swords for a mounted charge. The Light Horse were to break through to Beersheba, secure the wells and take prisoners. On horseback. Jack exchanged glances with Iggy. It was unheard of for mounted cavalry to stay on horseback and charge and they knew Chauvel was taking a great gamble based on the faith he had in the abilities of his men.

  Jack wondered if this was it. Was this the day he would die, here in this hated desert, a million miles from home, on a suicide charge towards a city of enemies, hoisting bayonets against machine guns?

  Backs straightened along the line and they held their mounts firm, bracing themselves. Jack felt the sweat of his palms against the leather as the call came.

  ‘Go straight at it.’

  They began at a trot, fanning out, then leapt forward and seized the only weapons they had, speed and surprise. Jack felt the fear flooding through him and harnessed it as determination, urging Tilley on and hoisting his makeshift sword. She flew across the desert next to Ebony, the need for water adding to her speed as the pounding of hooves beat a thundering drum in the burning afternoon light. Machine-gun fire met them and men and horses fell. Flashes of Gallipoli assaulted his memory, but he pushed the images of massacre out of his mind and forced himself to keep on riding. They were still falling but somehow less so. What was Johnny Turk up to? The trenches were near and he realised they were actually going to make it. It was a blur. His bayonet flashed and met flesh and Tilley swung about as they moved as one. He pushed through, Iggy still alongside, and they slashed and turned, watching the Turks scramble to recover from the shock of hundreds of Australians appearing out of the dust and bearing down on them at once, like giants towering above them, orange steel in the sun.

  Some surrendered at once, others fought bravely, and soon the sudden chaos was just as suddenly over and the bewildered Turks had lost the stronghold of Beersheba at the hands of just a few hundred Australian Light Horsemen. Turkish losses were heavy and the Australians took over seven hundred prisoners with only thirty-one of their own dead.

  But every number holds a precious life.

  Jack found Iggy crying, pinned beneath Ebony. The once fastest horse in northern Sydney had taken a fatal shot from a Turkish bullet. Iggy’s leg was crushed, but his tears of agony were for far more than the physical pain. Jack pulled him free and supported him as he struggled to pat his loyal mount one last time. When they turned, it was to see a stretcher pass by, Simmo’s enormous form sprawled across it, stilled at last by the enemy’s sword. They heard later he took on several men at once and was caught from behind.

  The horses drank their fill as the ancient city gave in to the night, and slept in the hands of new rulers for the first time in centuries, while on her outskirts the shovels pierced the land and buried those who also slept, but would never wake.

  Mick came but Tom chose to continue working with Iggy and the other wounded under the giant red cross marking the mobile hospital from th
e air. The sky was clear as usual and the sky turned a dusky pink, staining the dark into light as the day dawned on those who still survived this desert war.

  Jack and Mick stood together, watching them hammer the white crosses above the fallen and thinking about their mate Simmo, who would never again entertain them or make them laugh, nor delight them with his amazing resourcefulness. The large man with his even larger heart was gone, along with so many others from home. Jack felt his sorrow border on desperation as he stared at the cross that held so few words for such a man. How he resented the fools who’d sent them all there, the men in boardrooms and mansions and castles who played with their lives, poring over their big maps then sipping their whisky from their crystal glasses. He felt a stab of grief and sent it straight to God as the bugler played the last post. Please, let it end.

  The burial over, they walked back together, the sun beginning to burn once again.

  ‘Jeez, I’m starving. What shall it be, bully beef or flies for breakfast?’ Jack sighed.

  ‘Actually I’ve got high hopes for some eggs now we’ve taken the town. Saw some chickens running about this morning.’

  ‘As long as it wasn’t human chicks you were looking at. They get a bit funny about their women around here, Casanova.’

  Mick laughed. ‘Hey, I’ll be too busy keeping Tom out of trouble to be sweet-talking in this town. I wonder if you can get arrested for being too friendly?’

  ‘Tomfoolery perhaps?’

  Mick laughed again before squinting against the sun at an approaching plane.