‘What the hell…?’
The single German plane was low and flying towards the hospital and Mick and Jack watched in horror as the impossible happened.
People scattered as the bomb dropped and blew the red cross across the desert, sending debris flying in a massive black cloud. Men ran out of the conflagration, their bodies on fire as the plumes rose like the gates of hell behind them. His senses assaulted, Jack found himself, after almost three years of war, frozen in shock for the first time.
Mick took off at a sprint, screaming orders as he searched frantically for survivors in the chaos, however Jack still couldn’t seem to move as he watched the appalling scene unfold, almost as if he were watching something make-believe. It was too terrible to be real as injured men tried to crawl away, their clothing and skin and hair in flames. Then he saw that one of them was Iggy and something clicked. He ran to pull him free and soon joined the others in a desperate race to stay the hand of death.
Then it was done. The dead lay and the living writhed and a terrible sound rent the air.
Jack turned to see his brothers-in-law lying in the morning sun, Mick screaming in pain not from his severely burned leg but for the charred form of his beloved brother, Tom, dead in his arms.
That afternoon the sun’s final journey ended as it had begun: in burial. The desert had taken another life, the most unjust casualty of all, because this was a life that had been dedicated to saving others, in more ways than one. A man who made the intolerable duty of war bearable for all who knew him, salvaging their sanity along with limbs and lives. The one person who kept them going was now gone, and in their darkest hour, when they needed him the most.
Departed this world on the feast of All Hallows read a little makeshift plaque near the graves. All Hallows. All Souls.
Jack looked at the words, feeling emptied of faith. His soul was surely damned, because as he stared at the grave of the man who was, in every way, his own brother, the final piece of pain tore within. He knew all his fears had been well founded, for now he truly knew what it was to hate.
Thirty
Circular Quay, Sydney, June 1919
Jack leant against the rail, watching the harbour as the boats moved about in the early morning light and breathing the cold air in deeply. He’d forgotten just how beautiful it was with its golden beaches and bushland edging the city. It didn’t seem possible that after nearly five long years he was finally coming home and, as he waited for them to dock, he re-read Veronica’s last letter again, drawing her closer in anticipation to pass the time.
Dear Jack,
Pete is finally asleep and I’ve got some time to write a proper letter without him grabbing at the ink. My apologies for the mess he made of the last one! Your son is a curious little chap as you can see.
Firstly, I want you to know I am so proud of your promotion, MAJOR Murphy. Does that make me Mrs Major Murphy? That sounds terribly official. I only wish it didn’t come with another commission. Surely the Egyptian revolt can be handled by the English at this point.
I want you home and I don’t care how unpatriotic that sounds!
Speaking of appointments, I’m happy to report that Mick got his. He is now working with Dr Dwyer as a specialist in artificial limbs. Little May is fascinated by the arms and legs and sits up next to Mick, helping him design them. She loves making things and drawing and he doesn’t seem to mind at all, although she has drawn quite a few animal legs instead of human ones in her designs. I enclose a few to give you a chuckle.
Mick’s first triumph is the new foot he helped design for Iggy, who says he’s finding riding much easier now. He has a new mare called Beersheba, or Sheba for short. He told me to tell you that she loves her food so much he really should have just gone ahead and called her Simmo, but that won’t do of course, what with baby Simon already having that honour. She’s actually getting quite fat but I’m sure he’ll exercise it off her. I’m glad to report he is playing piano again. I thought he might have given it away after Helena died but he has got back on with things now. He amazes me with how brave he is: losing a foot, then marrying his nurse, only to lose her in childbirth…well, that’s an enormous amount for any man to handle. Fortunately little Simon is so very easy and Mildred is giving him a good smothering, as you can imagine.
Mick’s leg still bothers him but he gets around all right. It almost hurts me to look at the scars – burns are such nasty things. Still, he says he’d rather a limp than a missing appendage any day and counts himself pretty lucky, especially where he is working. I’m glad he has something to keep him busy. I know he is missing Tom something awful, but then again so are we all. Our dearest boy.
My parents have planted a row of jacaranda trees along our road in his memory and Mother says one day the flowers will be so bright he’ll see them from heaven. I always cry when she says things like that. It is so hard for her that her brother and son both died in an attack on a field hospital. I think she finds that fact crueller than anything else, that such injustice could curse her twice. Still, it hasn’t stopped her working at the orphanage with Alice and moving on with life, but there is a sadness in her face I don’t think will ever go away.
I’m sorry, my darling. Here I am writing a letter supposed to cheer you up and all I’m doing is telling you of our grief. I’d tear it up but goodness knows I’d better not. Pete may not let me have another chance today and I want to get down to the post office before it closes for the weekend.
To answer your last question, no, the Dwyers still haven’t been able to find Elizabeth. It’s as if she’s fallen off the face of the earth. I feel so sorry for Mildred. She sat down at the Quay right up until recently and the ships kept on coming but never with her granddaughter.
At least she’s stopped doing that. It was terribly sad. They have searched under Elizabeth Chambers, Elizabeth Dwyer, even Elizabeth Rose but there is no trace. The aunt has seemingly disappeared too: no Joelene Pascal or Joelene Dwyer. No one travelling and no reported deaths at sea. Joelene’s son was killed in the Somme so no leads there. Iggy thinks that Joelene was probably travelling under an alias to hide Elizabeth from Gregory and I suppose that’s the only explanation, only where are they now? With Gregory confirmed KIA we will probably never know, but it’s all very strange.
Anyway, my dearest heart, I will post this off, but not before I tell you how much I long for you to come home to me. Every day you are in my thoughts and every night I kiss your photo before I fall asleep and put it under my pillow to try to dream of you.
Stay safe and I’ll keep on praying that you’ll be home soon, my darling,
Your loving wife, Vera
Jack folded the letter, putting it back in his pocket in his old lucky tin. The day had finally come. No more waiting and holding letters and photos instead of his beloved ones. They didn’t know it yet, but today he would meet his son and today he would hold his wife.
He had survived the war.
She woke early that day and brushed her hair, checking on Pete, who was sleeping soundly, clutching his bear.
‘Daddy is coming home today, baby,’ she whispered, kissing his soft head, before dressing and quietly moving out into the kitchen. Eileen was there boiling water for breakfast tea and looked up at her in surprise. ‘What are you doing up at this hour, miss?’
‘Heading in to the city. Keep a close eye on Pete for me, won’t you? And please make sure you bake a cake for dinner.’
She winked at her, then, humming to herself as she put on her new velvet hat, ran happily out the door past the bemused housekeeper.
She bounced along in the new car she had purchased the previous month and marvelled again at the freedom of driving. Iggy had been teaching her every day and she was rather proud of her progress. By the time she parked at the Quay she had moved from feeling excited to deliciously nervous. Jack was coming home. Maybe he was already there.
Veronica was early, she knew, but she didn’t want to take any chances. His l
atest letter was dated three weeks earlier from his last port and, somehow, the feeling was so strong that he would come today she had to sit at the Quay. There were no other transport ships due this week and waiting at home just wouldn’t do. This was his boat, surely, and she wouldn’t accept one more minute of separation than she had to. Smoothing her new turquoise jacket and straightening the white blouse beneath it, she settled in to wait.
It was late morning when the ship finally docked and she watched it impatiently, scanning the decks. There weren’t as many people about as she’d thought there would be, but then again no one ever knew just what time these last ships would arrive. Most families figured it was easier to just see their loved ones when they walked up the path. But not Veronica.
She searched the faces as they walked down the gangway, looking for him, certain he would be among them. They were alike, these experienced soldiers: thin, sunburned, worn. The crisp uniforms they had once donned were long gone and they ambled rather than marched now in faded greens. Man after man they came and still no sign of him. Not another week of waiting. Please God. She moved closer, focusing on each one until at last, she finally recognised a familiar gait. He was shaking hands with another officer and several of the men saluted him as he turned to walk down. Then he saw her. The space between them contracted, their steps too slow as the short distance that ended the years of separation finally closed, and she was in his arms.
He kissed her long and hard, uncaring of the amused glances of the men or the stares of passers-by and she clung to him, joyful tears escaping.
‘How did you know?’ he finally said, holding her face and drinking in the sight of her.
‘I willed you home.’ She smiled, and he kissed her again before grabbing her hand to walk through the crowd. ‘Wait,’ she said, taking off his hat, ‘the army doesn’t own you anymore.’ He laughed as she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, wrapping his arm about her.
As they left the wharf Jack took one last glance behind him and, looking at the sea of diggers melting into their homeland, he hoped to God it was true.
Part Four
Thirty-one
Beecroft, September 1929
Katie ran across the paddock as quickly as she could with her large basket in hand, the cotton skirt light against her legs. She relished the feeling of spring arriving at last, her arms bared and her hat dangling against her long dark hair, feeling particularly excited that morning at the prospect of the day ahead. May said they were going to bake bread in the dug-out termites’ nest over at Nana and Pop’s, down by the creek, and Eileen had set an extra loaf to rise overnight for her to take along. She was looking forward to watching it cook, then spreading out her little tablecloth and coating the delicious pieces with the butter Mum had packed for her in her very own pot, along with another tiny pot of jam.
Even Pete was excited, stuffing his pack with other things he planned to ‘cook’ in there, including some potatoes, an old jumper and a pile of his wooden soldiers.
She hoped Simon was coming too. His grandmother often didn’t let him play outside, making him stay indoors even on sunny days, saying it was either too hot or too windy or too something else. She was even stricter since Simon’s Pop had died. Katie heard her daddy say Nana Dwyer was ‘too damn stuffy’, adding ‘the boy needs some blasted air’. Her mum told her dad to keep his voice down whenever he used those funny words he learned in the war, which Katie supposed were trapped inside his whisky bottles, because he only ever said them when he drank whisky.
She knew Simon’s dad was a famous piano player who travelled a lot, so his nana looked after him most of the time because his mum had died when he was born. Katie thought that was very sad because mummies were the best people in the world, especially hers.
Pete bounced past her on Bonkers, their mule, whooping at the top of his voice, and she called out to him to lift her up, but he either didn’t hear or didn’t want to stop and she sighed, trotting along behind him. Pity the new baby was a boy too.
Ten minutes later she reached the creek and was pleased to see Simon had turned up today.
Pete was already busy investigating inside the makeshift stove, stoking the fire her Pop had made for them earlier.
‘Don’t leave the poker in there; it will get too hot, and you’d better stand back or you might get burned from an ember jumping out. Careful!’ May bossed him about, acting very important. Pop had put her in charge and Pete didn’t like that much. He was under strict instructions to listen to everything she said or else Dad was going to make him stay indoors tomorrow and miss the cake stall after mass as well as the cricket. Pete loved watching the cricket. He’d been practising all winter and hoped to start playing soon, now that he was thirteen. She was turning six and she wanted her birthday cake to be pink with a rose in the middle. Pete’s had been green.
‘What’s that? Don’t you even think about putting that in there.’ May pointed at the old jumper.
‘Come on, May. It’ll just smoke up a bit. I thought you might like to do a little dance for us like those Indians do while I make some signals. Get some rain in,’ he suggested, rolling the jumper into a tight ball. Katie wrinkled up her nose. It smelled like mothballs.
‘Put it away Peter Murphy or I’ll tell your mother!’
Pete pulled a face then stuffed the jumper back in his bag, taking out the potatoes instead.
‘How ’bout these then? You can’t object to actual food.’
May sighed. ‘All right, but only after we bake the bread. Have you got your loaf, Katie-bird?’ She smiled at her as Katie very carefully unwrapped it and brought it over. They all watched as May put the bread in to cook, the embers burning nicely under the black tray, then May produced a breadboard and she and Pete sliced up the potatoes.
‘Pity we haven’t got any butter.’ May frowned and Katie jumped up and went to her basket, holding out her pots.
‘I’ve got some!’
May told her she was a clever girl to think of bringing it and Katie, encouraged by her success, spread out her tablecloth on the ground and placed the jam pot in the centre, earning another smile from May and praise from Simon.
‘Quite a home-maker, our Kate!’
She felt very pleased about that comment. One day she hoped Simon and she would get married and she could bake her own bread in her own oven for him and he could play her lovely songs on the piano. She was sure he was going to be famous like his dad. She just hoped he didn’t meet someone else before she grew up; after all he was five years older than her.
She could smell the fresh-baked bread and May took out the loaf, letting them eat while it was still nice and hot, with melted butter and jam. The potatoes baked to a delicious golden brown and soon they ate all of those too. Katie decided Pete had been right about that idea.
‘Come and get some water with me, Katie,’ Simon suggested and she followed him down to the creek to fill the bottles.
‘Why are there always dragonflies down here?’ she asked him, watching as one hovered nearby.
‘They like water ’cos their babies live in it. Why? You scared of them?’
‘Oh no, I think they look like fairies.’ She watched the little rainbows on its wing, then ventured to ask, ‘Are they fairies, Simon?’
‘Nuh. Dad says they’re just insects and they’re pretty ugly too. I saw one through his microscope. They look like monsters up close.’ He screwed up his nose, trying to see it properly through his spectacles. ‘See? Six legs.’
She leant over and squinted. ‘I don’t think it’s ugly. I think it’s beautiful.’
‘Nuh, it’s ugly. So’s the praying mantis. Dad reckons he should pray to be less of an ugly-looking mug.’ Simon grinned at her.
She giggled. Simon knew so many things. She wished her dad had a microscope. Still, she knew she was very lucky because she still had two grandfathers. Simon had only ever known one.
She knew he was sad that his Pop was in heaven now but Mummy said he would
n’t be too lonely because his daughter lived there as well. Her name was Rose so Katie supposed she must have been very pretty.
She was glad her grandfathers weren’t in heaven yet. Da played the violin and held wonderful parties and Pop made toys, plus he had an apple orchard nearby which was filled with flowers at the moment.
‘Can we go and see the orchard after?’ She jumped up, splashing a bit of water on her skirt.
‘What do you want to go over there for? There’s no apples this time of year.’ He picked up the bottles and started walking.
‘It’s so pretty.’ She sighed dreamily as she skipped along next to him.
Looking down at her, he shook his head. ‘You really are a girl, you know that?’
‘Yes.’ She was confused. ‘What else am I supposed to be?’
He didn’t answer because an angry voice – her dad’s – reached their ears.
‘Get home. Home!’ he roared at Pete, who ran across the field, her dad marching after him.
May was crying and they hurried towards her.
‘What happened?’ Simon asked.
‘Nothing. Take Katie home. Actually, don’t…Bring her up to my house.’ She was packing the picnic away sniffing and Katie went over to put her arms about her.
‘Don’t cry, May,’ she whispered, starting to cry herself.
‘I’m all right Katie-bird.’
But Katie knew she wasn’t. ‘Why was he so angry?’
May cried hard then and told them. ‘Pete…Pete put some soldiers in the fire. I was cleaning up and I didn’t see him and then…his dad came and saw them burning and…got really angry and yelled at him and…and hit him…’
‘Daddy hit Pete?’ Katie was horrified. He got cross sometimes, especially when he drank the whisky, but he never hit them.
‘It’s all right, darling, I’m sure he didn’t mean to. He slipped I think.’
Katie knew May was lying and felt very sad as they made their way across the field.
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