Box Office Browning

by Peter Corris

  Before an attack men would scribble frantically in their diaries or letterbooks. Once a man, who looked too old to be anywhere but at home by his fire, thrust a letter into my hands before he went on a raid. None of the party returned and the letter had no address so I kept it for years as a reminder of what a powerful force religion is in keeping the masses in order. I can quote from it from memory: 'I am ready in body and mind and spirit to die in this most just cause. This Christian cause. I am purified by my love for Jesus Christ who will surely protect and save me now and forever . . .' Then there was some blather about his mother.

  I remember nothing of interest from the time except one incident in June of 1918. The unit . . . [At this point on the tape there is a sound of a bottle on the edge of a glass and Browning's voice becomes indistinct. It is probable that he was trying unsuccessfully to recall the number of his Brigade and taking a drink to help the process. No identifiable number comes through. Ed.] . . . near Cambrai, south of Valenciennes, taking part in a big British offensive along with some Canadians and Kiwis. The British laid down a heavy barrage and set off some mines that had been planted earlier. As always, I hung back playing an inspirational role as an organiser, message carrier and generally strutting around with a black patch over one eye. I had the nickname of 'Black-beard' and as a sniper I was viewed as something of a star, like a quarterback, a valuable player and also one to be protected.

  After the barrage had cut the wire and the British and Canadians had charged the trenches we followed, mopping up around the edges. Moving cautiously forward I came upon a shellhole about the size and depth of a California swimming pool. It was piled with corpses, mostly Canadians but some Germans and one or two British. Things were getting a bit hot in front so I stopped for a protected breather.

  'I say . . .' I spun around with my rifle up but the voice came from a Canadian sergeant lying half under another man. He wriggled free and put both hands to his head and groaned. He was a small, slim man with a blackened face but I could see a finely shaped nose and a delicate-looking mouth.

  'Are you hit?' I said.

  'Don't think so.' He looked around the hole and closed his eyes.

  'What?'

  'That's everyone, the whole group.'

  'What happened?'

  'Shell.'

  'Theirs or ours?'

  He tried to grin but the movement caused him a spasm of pain and he held his head again. 'That's the stupidest question I've ever heard. It's like asking a man whether the bullet in his brain is a .45 or a .38.' He bunched his fist against his jaw. 'I'm forgetting my manners. This bloody war. Maybe you were making a joke. Were you?'

  'I don't know,' I said. 'I don't feel much like joking.'

  'D'you know you're the first Aussie I've ever met? I think that's right. Hope you're not the bloody last. My name is Ray Chandler.11 What's yours?'

  'William Hughes.'

  'Call me a medic will you, Hughes? There's a good chap.'

  I scrambled out of the hole with no more intention of calling a medic than of painting a target on my chest, but I saw one treating a man with an eye injury close by and I told him about the Canadian in the shell hole. Many years later I met Chandler again in Hollywood; I didn't remind him of our first meeting. By then he spoke like an American, not an Englishman, but he was still a snooty son of a bitch.

  Towards the end of that move forward towards a line of German trenches I did something that almost got me killed. There was an English major in charge of the movement and, for once, he was a cautious and sensible type. Several times I saw him hold men back, wait for a development up forward to clear the way and then move, with scouts out. He was my kind of officer and he had trouble controlling a hot-headed subaltern who was forever wanting to charge machine gun posts and clear trenches by means of the bayonet. He wanted to press men into this kind of service and you can bet I stayed well clear of him. It was near the end of the push, but with still some resistance to be overcome, that I saw a wounded German prop himself up on his elbow and take a bead on the admirable major. Against every instinct I stepped from behind the man I was carefully using as shelter and shot the German in the head. He gave a satisfactory squawk before he keeled over and the major and a few others saw what I'd done, even though I ducked back pretty quick behind the broadest body I could find.

  We gained a fair bit of ground that day and stopped at a German trench which had been stoutly defended if the number of Fritz corpses lying around was any indication. It was a good trench, well-built and sandbagged, and yielded a little in the way of loot – the usual souvenirs but also things like pieces of sausage and the prize I picked up – a half bottle of schnapps. I stuffed it away out of sight, got myself settled in the former German sniping post and prepared for a quiet, well-oiled night. Truth was, I was a bit unnerved by the point-blank shooting earlier, not the sort of thing I'd been used to at all. I think I'd begun to get the shakes but the schnapps worked wonders on that.

  Late in the night a messenger came up that Major Anthony wanted to see me. I cursed at having to leave the snug hole but I went, crouched low, following the messenger. Anthony had installed himself at the end of the trench and, like all the officers, he'd got things set up pretty comfortably – stretcher bed, food box, shaded lamp etc. I hopped down into the hole and he actually got to his feet and stuck out his hand.

  'I'm Evelyn Anthony,' he said. (It might have been Glynnis or Joyce; some such name anyway.)

  'William Hughes.' I shook his hand.

  'I witnessed your action today, Corporal,' (I'd had a promotion you see, more for survival than anything else) 'and I'd like to thank you.'

  'My pleasure, sir,' says I. Just the reminder of it would have brought on the shakes if I hadn't had the schnapps inside me.

  'I'm also told that you jumped up out of a shell hole to get a medic for a wounded Canadian.'

  Jumped out to get away from the bastard, thinks I, but I just nodded manfully.

  Anthony motioned me to sit down on a box that he probably kept his champagne in. He got out his cigarettes, offered me one and lit us up. The night was quiet and still, peaceful after the hectic events of the day. There'd be flares later and shelling but for now we could have been sitting in Centennial Park.

  'Stiff work tomorrow, Hughes. We're going to clean out this section. The Jerries have honeycombed the terrain ahead – trenches, foxholes, machine gun nests, wire, the lot. There'll be a spot of hand-to-hand, I shouldn't wonder.'

  Jesus, how am I going to get out of this?

  'I' m mentioning you in my despatch, wouldn't be at all surprised if there's a gong in it for you.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'And I'm promoting you to Acting Sergeant. I want you to lead a squad with grenades and bayonets and get the Jerries on the run.'

  I choked on the cigarette.

  'Bloody gas got you has it? Poor chap. You've been through a hell of a lot but I know I can ask this one thing more of you.'

  I fought for breath.

  'It's by way of being a desperation move, I suppose. But ours not to reason why, eh? Casualties will be . . . heavy.'

  I deserted that night.

  11

  It was just my infernal luck to desert, making myself a coward on the run, a few months before the Armistice which would have made me a hero. I've done the same thing with shares a dozen times, sold out before the boom. But I'm still here to talk about it and that's the main thing.

  Deserting wasn't easy. I did some shivering and finished the schnapps and would've prayed if I'd thought it would do any good. I had my money belt, a good idea of which way the coast lay, a rifle and a pistol and a good pair of eyes. As well I had some bread and German sausage. In the early hours of a very black night I slunk out of the sniping post, moved quietly behind the sentries and worked my way slowly back over the ground we'd covered during the day. That was an advantage, knowing the territory. I had a keen eye for cover so I knew where the woods and farmhouses and other build
ings were.

  I'd covered a few miles when a bombardment started up an hour or so before dawn. I couldn't tell what it was in aid of but I doubted that it was a prelude to a movement by Mad Major Anthony. How I'd misjudged that man, I should have let the Hun shoot him.

  My absence was still probably undiscovered and I kept moving through the dark night which was lit by flashes and filled with rumblings. I was tramping along a winding road when the sky lightened and I kept my eyes peeled for a farm which I reckoned to be not far away. Despite the cold I was sweating from the steady walking in a heavy greatcoat and I was starting to panic at the thought of being spotted alone on the road when the sun came up.

  As the sun cleared the eastern horizon (it was damned flat country with no real hills to delay the light) I saw the farm and scuttled along the fence, through a gap in it and over to the barn. The old, ramshackle barn was half-full of hay and I burrowed in behind the wall and the edge of the stack, re-arranged a few bales and built myself a hiding place. I buried my money belt and pistol in the hay, lay down with my rifle for a bedmate and went to sleep.

  It was afternoon when I woke up with a furry mouth and a bursting bladder. I relieved myself, ate some bread and sausage and was assailed by thirst. This drove me out into a pallid sunshine to look around the run-down farm. The land seemed to have escaped the direct ravages of the war but soldiers had bivouacked there. The signs were unmistakable – planks ripped off walls and used for fires, broken bottles and empty food tins, copses and other sheltered places fouled. I found a well some distance from the main building and drew up some water that tasted better than brandy to my parched mouth.

  The place looked deserted. I kept my rifle at the ready and went up to the farmhouse and in through the dehinged door. It had been a warm comfortable place once but now it was draughty through broken windows and showed signs of letting in the rain. There was nothing worth looking at in the kitchen, sitting room or parlour in front, just old furniture with empty drawers and tables that hadn't been sat at for a long time. I went up the stairs to the front bedroom which was perched out over the front of the house, supported by posts. The low bed had a straw mattress on it with the straw hanging out and two mice jumped from the straw when I gave it a nudge with my rifle. There was an old sea chest beside the bed. I opened it and saw folded inside trousers, shirts and jackets – the deserter's treasure.

  I whooped, put down the rifle and began stripping off my clothes. I'd dropped my trousers to the floor and was about to step out of them when the voice came from behind me.

  'Stand right there, chum, and put your hands on your head.'

  I did it and turned around slowly. Two men, both barefooted and both pointing rifles at my naked chest.

  'Jesus,' I said, 'who're you?'

  The one who'd spoken was a stocky, apple-cheeked kid with worried, deep-set dark eyes. He was wearing clothes like those in the sea chest. So was his mate, a fair-haired, blue-eyed giant, well over six feet with shoulders and chest to match. On him the shirt was tight and the jacket and pants were inches short.

  Apple-cheeks looked at my discarded rifle and uniform and a grin split across his face showing tobacco stained teeth, shocking in one so young.

  Appears to me we might have something in common, like. Why don't you get dressed?'

  I pulled a pair of pants out of the chest and hopped into them; they were loose around the waist but I can still recall the feeling of relief at being out of uniform for the first time in over a year. I pulled on a shirt.

  'Feel good?' the kid said.

  I nodded.

  'Scarpering?'

  It didn't take much brain power to work out what that meant. I nodded again. He looked at the crumpled clothes on the floor.

  'Shit me, we're a fuggin' international brigade.'

  His tone had got friendlier so I dropped my hands. 'How's that?'

  'Hans here and me're on the same lark. I've had a bellyful of war.'

  I nodded vigorously at that. The giant lowered his rifle and smiled; his teeth were pearly white and there was something simple about the look that came over his face. I glanced sharply at the kid.

  'Don't worry, he's all right. He's a Hun but he's all right. Quick tempered, mind; he wanted to shoot you on sight but I made him wait. When I saw you drop your pants I thought you might be scarpering.'

  'You bet.' I reached into the trunk for a jacket and put it on, also an old scarf which I wound round my neck. 'Could you point the rifle away, please?'

  He did and I stepped forward and held out my hand. 'William Hughes.'

  'Georgie Witherspoon. This's Hans Steller.'

  We shook hands. I picked up my rifle, got a few things out of the pockets of my uniform and stowed them in the new clothes.

  'We burnt ours,' Witherspoon said.

  I looked at the khaki jacket with the chevrons on the sleeve and the heavy woollen pants, muddy and stained with other men's blood. 'Good idea,' I said.

  We went downstairs and I crammed the clothes into the burner of the combustion stove. Steller tapped Georgie on the shoulder and made eating motions. Georgie raised his eyebrows at me.

  'Bit of bread and sausage, in the barn.'

  We trooped over to the barn where I shared out what was left of the food. They ate ravenously and bit by bit their story came out. Georgie was a Londoner who'd been in the service from the outbreak of the war although in 1917 he was still only nineteen years of age.

  'Put me age up, mad I was. Mad to get into it.'

  I nodded, implying that I understood, might even have shared the feeling.

  'Hans was conscripted,' Georgie said. 'Came up into the line just a couple of weeks ago. One show was enough for him. I understand a word or two of his lingo, picked it up from some prisoners we took in '16. He ain't a coward exactly, just reckons he's too big and is bound to get hit.'

  'He's got a point,' I said.

  'Fuggin' right. Well, I packed it in after that last push. We made what, half a mile? And I had to crawl over a pile of dead men this high.' He raised his hand to his shoulder. 'That was it for me. I ducked off, moved by night and found Hans already here. He was asleep. If it'd been the other way around he'd have cut my throat.'

  I smiled at Hans who showed the pearlies slowly. 'He looks mild enough.'

  'He is, 'cept he wants to go home. That's all he wants and Gawd help anyone who stops him.'

  'Not me. My idea exactly.'

  'Many Aussies take it on their toes?'

  I shook my head. 'Not many, bit of s.i.w., that's about it.'

  'Same with us. Have you got a smoke, Bill?'

  We lay back in the hay and smoked. Hans didn't understand any English but he'd make a remark or two in his guttural gibberish to Georgie who'd respond as best he could, usually using a bit of mime and hand-waving to help comprehension.

  'He says the Australians are fierce fighters,' Georgie said.

  I sighed. 'The ones that aren't dead. What does he say about when the war's going to end?'

  Georgie and Hans did some grunting. 'Never,' Georgie said.

  'That's too long,' says I. 'Did you have a plan of any kind?'

  For an answer he pulled out a folded sheet of newspaper. It turned out to be a page of the London Times on which was printed a large map of Western Europe showing the state of the war. The paper was more than a year old and some of the front lines had changed; where we lay at that moment, for example, was securely occupied by the Germans on the map. Georgie pinpointed the spot with a grimy fingernail.

  'Here's us', he ran the nail south-west, 'we thought we'd make for Switzerland.'

  'Schweiz, jah,' says Hans.

  'Neutral territory,' I said. 'Good idea.'

  'Yes, and our Hans comes from some place near the border on the German side. He says that if he'd been born another couple of hundred yards west he'd have been able to spend his time yodelling and mending clocks instead of getting shot at. Anyway, if we can get there he knows some people who'll hel
p us.'

  I was getting to like Hans more and more and I'll say this for him, I never met anyone less likely to rape a Belgian nun and he'd have looked bloody silly in a spiked helmet.

  I've often thought since that the story of how Georgie Witherspoon, Hans Steller and I scuttled four hundred kilometres across war-torn France to Switzerland would have made a good film. I near as damn it tried the idea out on Raoul Walsh12 once but I thought I might have trouble explaining how I'd come by all the authentic detail. In fact we'd have had to dress up the story a little for Hollywood because the reality wasn't all that hard. Oh, it had its scary moments, right enough. It wouldn't have been so hard to keep clear of the Germans because they had other things to think about but, as outlaws, every man's hand was potentially turned against us.

  We had to worry about the locals who could have taken us for deserting Germans (well, one of us was, but you see what I mean) and all kinds of Imperial forces as well as Americans. The skies were full of airplanes some days and we had no way of knowing whether they spotted us or not or cared. Of course we travelled mostly by night and had as little contact with other people as we could. We got an occasional ride on a hay wagon and now and again bought food in the small villages but mostly we grubbed up potatoes and turnips and stole eggs and, a couple of times, chickens.

  But the real trick of staying safe in that country was this – we hid in the churches. Many of the villages and all of the towns had them and it was even possible to plot a course from steeple to steeple in some places. Georgie had done some road travelling in England, hop-picking and the like, and he knew the dangers of sleeping rough.