Beneath the Southern Cross

by Judy Nunn

  Aggie lifted her head from Kathleen’s breast. ‘What will Otto say?’ She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. ‘He won’t approve.’

  ‘Otto will do as I ask him. And we will tell everyone that you and Robbie married before he left for the war,’ she said. ‘From now on you are Aggie O’Shea.’

  Aggie smiled through the remnants of her tears, genuinely relieved and grateful. ‘Thank you, Kathleen.’ She hugged the older woman. ‘Thank you, thank you.’

  As Aggie’s belly grew, so did her confidence. She was Aggie O’Shea, proud mother-to-be, and Robbie’s letters, assuring her of Kathleen’s devotion to her and the baby, gave her unlimited licence to demand special attention.

  Robbie’s were not the only letters to arrive from the training camp in Egypt. Johann too wrote regularly and from the outset his letters were boyishly enthusiastic.

  You wouldn’t believe Cairo, Dad, it’s like a story from The Arabian Nights. We went to the bazaars, me and Robbie and Tim, and there were snake charmers, and womendancing in veils, and the smell of incense everywhere. And the people! So many people you wouldn’t believe! All trying to sell you something. Carvings and jewels and good luck charms. I bought some beaut souvies.

  ‘What isthis “souvies”?’ Otto pointed the word out to Kathleen.

  ‘Souvenirs?’ she said after a moment’s thought.

  ‘Ah. Yes.’

  … and you should see the pyramids, Dad. One of the seven wonders of the world all right. You wouldn’t believe how big they are or how they made them like that.

  The work’s been hard. Took us weeks clearing bloody great rocks out to make a campsite and a parade ground. And marching through the sand’s a right bugger, I can tell you.

  ‘He swears too much,’ Otto said.

  ‘He’s just being one of the boys,’ Kathleen assured him as she peered over his shoulder.

  Otto grunted and read on.

  There’s talk that we’re leaving here soon. But no-one knows where we’re going. At least, if they do they’re not telling us. Some of the blokes reckon it might be Greece, some reckon it might be Turkey. Just furphs. Nobody really knows.

  I’ve made a lot of new mates in the army, Dad. Robbie and Tim are still my best cobbers of course, but you’d be surprised how many of the blokes here are Catholics, and we go to Mass together on Sundays. It’s something we share, it makes us close. I know that, like me, they pray for their mates and their families back home. And it feels right that we’re here. It feels that God’s on our side and He’ll look after us all. So don’t you worry about me. Your loving son, Johann.

  Robbie’s letter to Kathleen a month later made it clear why Johann’s letter had been so vague about their destination.

  Our ship’s anchored at a British base, but we’re not allowed to say whereabouts. They didn’t even tell us where we were going until two days before we got here.

  We’ve been at the base for nearly a month now, and we don’t look like leaving in a hurry. Sometimes they exercise us ashore, but mostly we’re confined to the ship, practising disembarkation drills. Belting up and down rope ladders and in and out of small boats carrying full gear is no joke, I can tell you. And I reckon they don’t mean it to be either. I reckon they’ll be landing us somewhere pretty soon.

  Don’t say any of this to Aggie, Mum, this is just for you and Otto. I’ve written her a letter that will go out with this mail, telling her I’m having a beaut time and that I miss her, the usual thing. I do too. She must be nearly seven months by now. How I’d love to see her. Puffed out, knowing that the baby inside her ismine. It’s a wonderful thing.

  Look after her, Mum, I know that you will. And if anything happens to me—well, I don’t want to sound gloomy, and I don’t want to make you unhappy, but I think it’s not far away now, and we have to be realistic, don’t we?

  I love you, Mum. Second to my girl you’re the dearest thing in my life. Write soon.

  Robbie.

  The horrifying news of the bloodbath at Gallipoli plunged Australia into a state of shock. Official numbers were not yet known, but the endless casualty lists published in the black-bordered newspapers were hideous proof of the extent of the slaughter.

  Like countless others all over the country, Kathleen and Otto queued up every day to buy the newspaper, or joined the dozens clustered around the lists displayed at railway stations and various other public buildings.

  Together they would scan the names, praying that they would not see their own. No De Haans or O’Sheas today, thank God, and they would go home to comfort Aggie who sat frozen at the kitchen table, holding her huge belly, waiting for the news.

  In Surry Hills, Benjamin and Norah Kendall were doing the same thing. As were Nellie and Jack Putman, who lived a block away now. The Putmans and the Kendalls were no longer neighbours. Wexford Street, along with whole blocks of Surry Hills, had been destroyed to make way for the broad new Wentworth Avenue where the rents were so high that the area was effectively killed off as a residential neighbourhood.

  Each morning Spotty Putman would fetch the paper, bringing it home to his parents so that the three of them could search the lists together. They never looked at the paper until Lizzie was safely off to school.

  The first week went by and they were safe. Then, early in the second week, Nellie’s finger froze on the spot as she was tracing her way down the list.

  “‘Putman, Geoffrey,”’ she read. And, directly beneath, “‘Putman, Michael.”’

  ‘Both of them,’ she whispered. ‘Oh sweet Jesus, no. Not both of them.’ She turned to her husband. Her eyes, like raisins in the dough of her fleshy face, were brimming with tears of shock and disbelief. ‘Not both of them, Jack. Not both of them. Not both of them.’

  Jack Putman held his wife’s huge body to him as she cried. Not loudly. For once Nellie was not loud. Her sobs were more gulps, deep, despairing gulps for air. Silent tears coursed down Jack’s cheeks as he looked over his wife’s shoulder at his son.

  Spotty was not crying. Spotty was shaking his head at the newspaper as he read and reread his brothers’ names.

  ‘They were bound to cop it together,’ he said. ‘Geoff promised he’d look after Mick, d’you remember, Dad? He said, “Don’t you worry about Mick, I’ll stick right by his side every minute of the day”, d’you remember?’

  Jack pulled a seat out for Nellie at the kitchen table and sat beside her as she mopped her face and blew her nose on her apron.

  Spotty was talking to himself now, but it didn’t matter, he just went on. “‘They get one Putman, they’ll have to get us both,” that’s what he said. He reckoned it wouldn’t happen, he reckoned the law of averages was on his side. Silly bugger, the law of averages doesn’t count over there!’ Spotty was getting angry. ‘And his bloody brother’s thirty-one years old, he doesn’t need his hand held!’ He sniffed and wiped his runny nose with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Silly buggers,’ he said, ‘they were bound to cop it together.’

  Spotty left his parents to their grief and went out to get drunk.

  Two months later a letter arrived from the front. It was addressed to Nellie and it was from Billy Kendall.

  Dear Nell

  I don’t know if this will be of much comfort to you, but I wanted to write and let you know. I was close by Geoff and Mick when it happened and they fought bravely right till the end. It came quickly, I honestly don’t think they felt any pain. They died for their King and their Country, justlike we are all prepared to do, and you have every right to feel proud of them.

  My love and sympathy to you all,

  Billy Kendall

  Nellie was grateful. ‘He’s a fine man your brother,’ she said to Ben when she visited the Kendalls to show them the letter. ‘His own life in the balance and he takes time out to comfort me like this.’ She dabbed at her eyes with her ever-present handkerchief, she always seemed to be crying these days. Not sobbing or bawling, but tears streamed from her eyes at the oddest times. ‘
A very fine man. I hope he comes home safely, him and young Tim.’

  Ben nodded and Norah said gently, ‘Let me get you a cup of tea, Nellie.’

  ‘That’d be nice, thank you Norah, I’ll give you a hand. And don’t you worry about this,’ she sniffed and dabbed away, ‘I’m fine, lovey, really I am, just can’t seem to stop, that’s all.’

  Ben stepped out onto the back porch whilst the women made the tea. He didn’t want Nellie to see his face, for Nellie’s letter was a tissue of lies.

  Benjamin too had received a letter from his brother, delivered by a returned soldier in order to escape military censorship. It was several pages long, the first page being a brief note to Norah assuring her that her son Tim was alive and well. The rest of the letter was for Ben’s eyes only.

  Tear this up when you’ve finished it, it won’t do anyone any good to read what it is that I want to say. I don’t even know how I’m going to say it, all I know is that I have to, and you’re the only one I can say it to. I can’t talk to the blokes over here because a lot of them feel the same way, I can see it in their faces, but like me they’re too scared to admit the truth. They don’t dare, not even to themselves. They pretend that what’s happening isright and that it’s noble—men dying for King and Country and all that stuff.

  But the truth is, it’s not. It’s not right and it’s not noble. I saw the Putmans cop it and there was nothing noble about their deaths, I can tell you, just like there wasnothing noble about all the others who copped it in the first landing. Half of them were shot in the back while they rowed ashore. The Putmans were. Mowed down before they could face the enemy.

  Our boat was ten yards in front of Mick’s and Geoff’s and I don’t know how we ever got to the beach, but we did. Three of our boys were shot, and we chucked them over the side and kept on rowing, we had to keep on rowing so as not to upset the rhythm, but any minute we expected to get it in the back. I just fixed my eyes on the boat coming in behind us and tried not to think about anything but heaving on the oars.

  It was easy to see in the dark, the flares the Turks were firing turned the whole night into day, it was like we were all under one bloody great spotlight. Mick copped itfirst and they chucked him overboard, I think he was dead, I think it was quick. Then about four of their blokes copped it all at once and the boat capsized. The others triedswimming ashore but they didn’t make it, they were picked off one by one. Geoff was wounded and he couldn’t swim, but he was yelling at the top of his voice. I couldn’t be sure what he was yelling, not above all the din, but I’d swear it was ‘You bastards’. They shot him and he went under just as our boat hit the shallows and I don’t remember anything after that except running like hell for the cover of the cliffs.

  I remember an hour or so later though. When the sun came up and you could see all the bodies. Everywhere, they were. I couldn’t pick out which ones were Geoff and Mick, but there were lots washed up in the shallows. Dozens of blokes whose boots hadn’t touched dry sand. They never got a chance to play the hero, they never even fired a shot. What’s bloody noble about that? And now we’ve heard that the whole thing was a bungle. We were landed in the wrong place. Fed to the Turks we were, like prize targets in a shooting gallery. What’s bloody right about that?

  I shouldn’t be writing this to you, Ben, not with Tim over here, but there’s no-one else I can talk to and I didn’t want to die without getting it off my chest. I said inmy note to Norah that I’d look after Tim, but to tell you the truth, he doesn’t need looking after. He’s much tougher than I am. He seems to be weathering the storm far better, and I hope that’ll see him through. Remember when I was his age and belonged to the Push? I thought I was so tough, me and Mick Putman, we both did. Now Mick’s dead and I’m over here scared out of my wits.

  I’m going to send Nellie a letter saying all the right things. God forbid she should ever know that Geoff and Mick died so bloody uselessly. After that, apart from a note now and then to let Marge and the kids know I’m alive, I’m not going to write any more. I’ve had my say.

  You’ve been a good big brother to me, Ben, more like a father really, after Dad died. I hope I see you again, but if I don’t, thanks for everything.

  Love Billy

  Ben wasn’t the only one receiving disturbingly frank news from the front.

  There had been no word from Johann since the troops had left the safety of the British base on the island of Lemnos. Then, finally, a full five months after the landing at Gallipoli, Otto De Haan received a letter from his son.

  Dear Dad

  I don’t know how I’ve lasted this long, I don’t know how any of us have, but I know that I won’t last much longer, and I wanted to say goodbye. Thank Kathleen and give her my love, she’s been a good mother to me when most of the time I didn’t deserve it.

  I can still remember my real mum, even though I was only a kid when she died, and I’d like to think I was going to see her on the other side. But I know now that I won’t. There’s no life after death. There’s nothing after death. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dad, but the war’s knocked all that out of me.

  If I have a chance, my last thoughts will be of you. I love you, Dad, and I’m grateful to have had you for a father. Goodbye.

  Your loving son, Johann

  The letter arrived two weeks after the priest’s visit. The war office had settled upon a more humane way of informing families of their loss, and a visit from a clergyman now preceded the casualty lists published in the newspapers.

  For Otto the knowledge that his son had lost his faith brought a profound anguish. The thought that Johann had died alone, without God’s comfort, was agony to him. But he was only one of many who found themselves bereft.

  General Sir Charles Munro’s recommendation that the peninsula be evacuated, ‘on purely military grounds’, resulted in a visit to the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps by Lord Kitchener on 13 November. Orders ensued that the troops were to be removed from Gallipoli, and the evacuation of the Anzacs, as they were now known, commenced. The battle had lasted just over six months and the losses had amounted to 7,600 dead and 19,000 wounded.

  The enthusiasm with which the declaration of war had first been greeted and the jubilation with which the troops had been farewelled were quickly forgotten as the horror of Gallipoli reached home. No longer did the lackadaisical attitude that ‘it would all be over in a few months’ exist. The war was destined to grind remorselessly on, and thousands more were destined to lose their lives.

  In August, 1916, whilst the disastrous battle of the Somme still raged in France, the British Army Council urgently demanded reinforcements from Australia. Prime Minister, William Morris Hughes, was presented with a problem. The rates of enlistment had been falling off throughout 1916 and, at the conclusion of the seven-week battle of the Somme, the Anzac casualties numbered approximately 25,000, a statisticwhich would no doubt serve as a further deterrent to prospective volunteers. The only method, Hughes therefore decided, which could guarantee the sustained supply of manpower was conscription.

  Billy Hughes was an aggressive bantam rooster of a man. A patriotic militarist, he stood five feet six inches tall, was partially deaf, and commonly known as ‘The Little Digger’. He liked the nickname, it suited his self-styled image as a ‘battler’ with a commitment to Australia’s fighting men.

  Despite opposition from his own Labor Party and from the very unions which he himself had helped form, Hughes forced the issue of conscription upon the people of Australia by popular referendum.

  There ensued the most controversial political issue Australia had ever faced. It seemed no sector of the community was left undivided. Even amongst religious leaders there was conflict of opinion. The Roman Catholic Archbishop of Melbourne, Dr Daniel Mannix, was Hughes’s most forceful antagonist, yet the Archbishops of Sydney, Perth and Hobart strongly supported conscription.

  Within the arts, prominent figures lent theirvoices to the cause, both for and against. The gr
eat diva, Dame Nellie Melba, appealed to Australian women to vote ‘yes’, whilst the flamboyant Melbourne contralto Cecilia John publicly sang the plaintive:

  I didn’t raise my son to be a soldier;

  I brought him up to be my pride and joy.

  Who dares to put musket to his shoulder,

  To kill some other mother’s darling boy?

  Artists and caricaturists were employed to join the fray, some even plagiarising the opposition’s theme. ‘I didn’t raise my son to be a soldier,’ a mother was pictured saying as she embraced her foppish boy, whilst, beside her, another mother said ‘I did,’ her hand on the shoulder of her strong young son in uniform. Above the four, the caption demanded ‘Whose son are You? Enlist today!’ The people of Australia were in a dilemma. Who should they listen to?

  Strangely enough, the mothers, wives and sweethearts of the men who’d gone to war listened to little of the propaganda, they seemed to have made up their own minds. But, despite their common circumstances, they too held opposing views. There were women who vehemently believed that their men needed backup on the battlefields of France, ‘stand by your brothers!’ they cried. And there were others who said ‘too many have died, don’t send more of our sons to their death!’ The country was in turmoil.

  In Sydney, the turmoil found its voice, as it always did, on the Domain. There, in 1916, shortly before the referendum was put to the people, the Labor Party held an anti-conscription rally, the press later estimating attendance numbers as high as 100,000.

  Billy wished he hadn’t come. Marge had been right. ‘You hate crowds, love,’ she’d said gently, ‘and they say there’s going to be thousands there.’ But he’d felt somehow obliged to attend.

  He’d arrived early, the rally had only just started, yet throngs of jostling people seemed deliberately to impede his way as he wove through them in an attempt to escape. And the noise—the screech of the speaker’s voice through the megaphone, the rousing cries from the crowd—Billy was getting a headache.