1917 Read online

  To the memory of my great-grandfather,

  Trooper William Horsfield, medical orderly, 2nd Australian

  Casualty Clearing Station, Palestine and Flanders.

  October, 1916

  Point Cook Air Base

  Melbourne

  … And then we’re flying! There’s a bump or two as we leave the runway, my stomach lurches a little, but then we’re airborne. I’ve never felt anything like it.

  Wish you could have seen me, Sis.

  We cleared the pine trees at the end of the airfield, circled round so I could see right across the bay, and then Charlie took her up. He climbed slowly, nursing the old bus towards the clouds.

  I was supposed to be listening to the engine, but I didn’t pay any attention for the first few minutes. I couldn’t. I was too busy gawking. Everyone on the ground shrank to the size of my old toy soldiers and everything else got smaller and smaller—the hangars, the control tower, all of it. From up there I could see clear across Melbourne: the ferries on the bay, and fishing boats, a big ship under full sail charging towards the Heads, and the city spires in the distance. Oh, how you’d have loved it.

  Then finally I heard the engine shudder. Actually, it’s as if I felt it, deep in the bones of the plane. I worried then, thinking it’d stall and we’d fall out of the sky. Sometimes they do, you know. That’s how it must feel for all the pilots, way up in the blue and at the mercy of weather and clouds and, soon enough, enemy fire. And us.

  That’s why I’m here.

  I know it’s hard for you to understand. You’ve never even seen an aeroplane. But I’m good at this, Sis. I was born to do it, I reckon. Aircraft can’t fly without mechanics. If I don’t do my bit, then Charlie just might fall out of the sky one day. Him or someone else. And that’s too terrible to think about.

  But enough of that serious stuff. I figured out what was wrong with the old kite, and we’ve been working on it all day. It wasn’t the engine at all, but one of the rudder bolts. Couldn’t tell when it was on the ground. Still, we replaced all the valves and put in a new magneto just to be sure.

  So now every time a pilot reports a fault in a BE2, I’m going to say I can’t sort it out for them unless they take me flying. It’s the best feeling I ever had in my whole life.

  If I was a pilot, I’d fly all day every day. I suppose they do, at the Front. Imagine.

  Anyway, I’ll see you next Saturday. I’ve got weekend leave, so tell Ma I’m hoping for a roast chook, or there’ll be trouble!

  Your airborne brother,

  A

  ‘Finished yet, Ace?’ Charlie burst into the tent shouting, as always.

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Did you tell her how we nearly died?’

  ‘Of course not.’ There was no way I’d admit to Charlie or anyone else how scared I was when that plane shuddered and twisted in the sky. I reckon I died a thousand deaths by the time he wrestled it back under control. I crossed out the sentence in my letter about planes falling out of the sky. No need to worry everyone.

  ‘Don’t see why you write to her so often,’ Charlie said. ‘She’s only an hour away.’

  ‘She misses me,’ I said.

  ‘If I wrote to my family, they’d think I’d gone barmy.’

  ‘They think that anyway,’ I said.

  ‘Hey!’ He cuffed at my hair. ‘Actually, you’re not far wrong.’

  ‘Anyway, she has to get used to the idea of writing to me, in case we get posted soon.’

  ‘Which we will,’ Charlie said. ‘Any day now. Get that through your noggin.’ He knocked on my head like it was a door.

  ‘I know.’ I nodded, pushing his hand away. ‘But it’ll be hard on her. She’s only little.’

  ‘Nonsense. She’s what? Fourteen?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘Mate, I hate to tell you this, but fifteen isn’t little. By the time we get back, she’ll be walking out with some fella. I might even call on her myself. She’s a lovely girl, that Maggie.’

  ‘Oi! That’s enough out of you.’ I jumped to my feet. ‘Don’t you talk about my sister like that.’

  Charlie took a step back, crouched down, and raised his fists like some bloke in a boxing ring.

  ‘Oh, really? Going to take me on, are you?’

  I threw my writing pad onto the table.

  ‘You’re a pushover,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t want to hurt you.’

  Charlie snorted. ‘Like your chances, eh?’ He stood tall, his hands held so high they brushed against the canvas. ‘Against me, the champion of the Flying Corps?’

  ‘Champion git, that’s what you are.’

  He turned round slowly, arms up, like Les Darcy after a knockout fight.

  It was too tempting. I reached out and tickled under his arms.

  ‘That’s cheating!’ yelled Charlie.

  We were still laughing when the bugle sounded for us to fall in.

  Major Blake looked around the room and grinned.

  ‘Well, lads,’ he said. ‘We’re off at last.’

  Someone cried ‘Hurrah!’ but one glance from Blake stopped anyone else from shouting out loud. Charlie was sitting at the front with the other officers. He turned, threw me a wink and signalled thumbs up. I smiled back, but I didn’t feel much like celebrating. All those weeks waiting for this moment. Now here it was. The call to war.

  I should have been happy like the others. But I felt a bit sick inside. I glanced at Charlie. He looked a little green too. Not just me, then.

  ‘Enjoy your weekend off,’ said Major Blake. ‘Because when you get back, we’ll be busy as a ship in a storm. We’ve got to get all our kit packed up and ready for transport. You’ll be in England for Christmas.’

  So that was that. We spilled out of the hut, everyone talking at once. The blokes behind me teased one another about kissing their girls while they still had the chance, and Banjo sang, ‘Goodbye, Piccadilly. Farewell Leicester Square …’

  I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t worried about getting torpedoed on the way over or killed at the Front. First, I had to face something worse.

  I had to tell my mother.

  There was a roast chook. The best ever. My ma is the greatest cook on the face of the earth. I’ll give her that. But apart from the actual food, you couldn’t say my last supper with the family was a roaring success.

  Maggie knew as soon as she saw my face. She grabbed my hand and led me out the back door, into the wash house. It was where you always went if you had to tell someone a secret.

  ‘When do you leave?’ she asked.

  I had to gulp a bit to get the words out. ‘Next week.’

  ‘So soon?’ She blinked back sudden tears.

  I sent up a little prayer: Please don’t let them cry all over me.

  ‘The Army needs us,’ I said. ‘We can’t sit around here forever.’

  ‘But why you?’ said Maggie. ‘Why you in particular? They could send anybody. You don’t have to go.’

  ‘I do,’ I said. ‘You know that. I signed up—’

  ‘There you go,’ she said, crossing her arms. ‘That’s the first mystery.’

  I sighed. Not this again.

  ‘You didn’t need to,’ she said. ‘You were in a protected occupation.’

  I turned away from her. That wash house was our hidey-hole when we were tiny. We used to crouch in there, and I’d tell her stories I’d read or made up. But now it smelled of mildew and old soap flakes and boot polish. On a shelf, shoved away almost out of sight, was the model of a Sopwith Pup I’d made on my evenings off. A spider scuttled into the corner behind the copper.

  I couldn’t lie to Maggie—not then, not ever.

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ I said. ‘People talk about you. That woman in the grocer’s.’
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  ‘She lost both her boys at Gallipoli.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘But still … she called me a coward.’

  ‘That wasn’t fair. But she’s grieving.’

  ‘How do you think that felt?’ It burned like acid—the shame, the guilt, the sorrow for her, her sons, everyone. ‘She only said aloud what everyone else thinks.’

  ‘Who cares what people say?’ said Maggie. ‘It’s not true.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I said. That was what kept me awake at night. What if I really was a coward? How could any of us know? ‘All the other blokes are already over there, or going … or dead.’

  ‘Not all of them.’

  ‘Almost. And those of us who are left—’

  ‘Are needed here.’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Oh sure, the Tramways need mechanics. But working on trams isn’t nearly as much fun as working on planes. And nowhere near as important as what’s going on at the Front. People are dying.’

  ‘They’re not simply dying.’ Ma stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. ‘They are getting slaughtered. On purpose. And they are forced to kill other human beings.’

  I sighed. ‘But I don’t. I won’t.’

  Ma held my gaze for a long moment. ‘Dinner’s on the table,’ she said. ‘I’ve been calling. I should have known you’d both be in here.’

  The evening got worse from there. Surely I was the only member of the entire Australian Imperial Force with pacifist parents. Ma wore her Women’s Peace Army rosette pinned to her apron. Dad ranted about General Haig’s war plans and waved the carving knife so theatrically he nearly sliced off one of my eyebrows. Come to think of it, he probably meant to. Then I’d be kept home. Wounded in action. By a man shouting with his mouth full of roast spud. Maggie sulked. The little ones were sent to bed early, crying because they missed out on pudding. And Ma—well, Ma kept up a barrage so heavy the Kaiser would have been proud.

  ‘Promise me you’ll stay out of the fighting.’

  ‘I promise,’ I said, patting her hand.

  ‘I’ve always hated this war,’ Ma said. ‘I hate it even more now that you’re in the middle of it.’

  ‘I’m not in the middle of it,’ I said. ‘I’m going to be safely set up on an airfield way behind the lines. Miles away from the action.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ she said.

  ‘I do. Honest. They don’t put valuable aeroplanes anywhere near the trenches.’

  ‘Except for the ones that get shot down,’ she said. ‘I read about it all the time in the newspaper. All those famous flying aces keep scores of how many men they kill, as if it’s some kind of game.’

  Fair point. I walked right into that one. I tried another tack. ‘Luckily, I won’t be up in the air at all.’

  ‘But you were,’ said Maggie. ‘Just last week.’

  I was outnumbered three to one. The Red Baron himself couldn’t outfight my family.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘You don’t need to worry. I’ll be on the ground, in the workshop, leaving all the hard work to blokes like Charlie.’

  ‘Him!’ said Ma. ‘He’s always been trouble. Since the first day you met. You came home from school with a black eye.’

  I grinned at the memory. ‘Well, you always taught me to defend the defenceless. So I stuck up for the scrawny kid who got belted up by his own brothers at lunchtime. It turned out to be Charlie.’

  ‘Violence solves nothing,’ said Dad.

  ‘Neither does arguing,’ said Maggie. ‘Please. Let’s not spend our last evening together like this.’

  ‘She’s right,’ I said, giving Maggie a grateful smile. ‘I might be gone for months. I don’t want to leave you all cranky.’

  Ma stood up and threw her arms around my neck. ‘We just worry, that’s all.’

  ‘Not to mention the fact that the government should never have gone to war in the first place,’ said Dad.

  Maggie glared at him.

  ‘And we’ll miss you,’ he said. ‘Terribly.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I said, and I knew he meant it, deep down.

  late October, 1916

  HMAT Ulysses

  At sea

  Dear Maggie,

  I’ve never in my life had to do anything so hard as hugging you all goodbye and walking up that gangplank. We all threw our kit bags in a big pile and rushed to be the first up on deck. Charlie didn’t have anyone seeing him off, so he wanted to wave to you too. We could see you there, crammed in as we were among all those other fellows and everyone waving, arms going everywhere, and you jumping up and down on the pier until I thought you’d pop.

  You should see this setup. So much food, every meal. I swear I’ve put on two pounds already. Mind you, there’s all sorts of games and races, and drill every morning, and the top brass gives talks about different topics every day—military tactics and history sometimes, other days more boring things like how to behave when we get to wherever we’re going (no clues yet, and I couldn’t tell you even if I knew, in case some German spy reads this letter).

  The pilots are up on the top decks with the other officers, of course, and all of us mechanics and fitters are bunked in below, with the infantry. So I don’t get to see Charlie much but he sneaks down to say hello from time to time. He reckons we have more fun than the officers—the Army types, anyhow.

  Flyers are different. I hadn’t thought about it before, but it’s obvious when you see our lot next to all those other chaps. Charlie and the pilots depend on us. So we are pretty close already, just from all those weeks of training at Point Cook. The Army boys don’t really trust one another yet, but I expect that’ll come soon enough.

  You’ll never guess who’s on the ship. Young Ralphie! I haven’t seen him since he was about four, but he remembered me. What are the odds? Ma always says he’s her favourite nephew. Mind you, she says that about all of them. Ralphie signed up with the 47th Battalion in Hobart and got shipped out almost straight away. I can’t figure out how he’s suddenly old enough to enlist, but it’s years since we’ve seen them, and so hard to keep track of all those cousins’ birthdays. He thought he’d be sent to Egypt like his brothers. He reckons Tom’s in the Light Horse! I wouldn’t have picked him for a cavalry man. But anyway, it doesn’t look like that’s where we’re headed.

  There are blokes from all over the place: farmers like Ralphie, and milkmen and bank tellers and even a middleweight boxing champ from the circus tents. (I’ll keep out of his way, don’t worry.) They’ve all got a story to tell, and half of them wish they were in the Flying Corps. They reckon it’s cushy. So aren’t I the lucky fellow?

  Don’t you worry about me, old girl. Look after Ma and the little ones, and give Dad’s whiskers a tickle for me.

  Yours,

  A

  PS They’re sending the mail from Fremantle so by the time you get this I’ll be out in the middle of the ocean somewhere, heading for the nearest bit of the war, I expect.

  Nobody in our house felt much like celebrating.

  The whole country had argued about conscription for months. Friends turned on each other and families split apart, all over the question of whether or not Australia should force men into the army instead of waiting for them to volunteer.

  Prime Minister Billy Hughes said it was our duty to the Empire and to the boys who’d died at Gallipoli. He called a referendum and wanted everyone to vote Yes to conscription. Other people said it was wrong and everybody should vote No. And among those people were my parents.

  Ma got caught up in the Women’s Peace Army, handing out leaflets on street corners and badgering politicians at public meetings. I’m surprised Mr Hughes didn’t give up immediately. He obviously hadn’t met my mother, or he’d have known he had no chance. He campaigned all over the country, thundering about it in the newspapers and plastering posters all over the city. Well, I’m sure he didn’t put the posters up himself. But it felt like he had. And Ma and all her friends spent hours plastering their own posters ove
r the top.

  Dad kept his debating skills for the dinner table and a weekly letter to the editor of The Argus, none of which were ever printed.

  There they were, Ma and Dad, worrying about other people’s sons being made to fight overseas, arguing about whether or not it was right for a country to go to war, and all the time Alex was getting ready to leave. Their son.

  By the time the votes came in on the referendum from all around the country, neither of them had much heart for it. They’d won. Australia voted No. The country would never force men to fight on the other side of the globe. Some people held parties and there was a big rally on the riverbank.

  But our boy had already left.

  This may sound strange, but it never actually occurred to me that he’d be shipped out. I’d imagined him spending the entire war fiddling with aeroplane engines over at Point Cook and coming home on Sundays for lunch. I mean, I knew in my head that he might be posted overseas, but my heart really never accepted it.

  And then he was gone, the ship getting smaller and smaller and my arm sore from waving, and we all went home and cried, even Dad.

  Though we’ll never tell Alex that.

  late October, 1916

  Station Street,

  Coburg

  Dearest Numbskull,

  I can’t quite believe you’ve gone. We stood on the pier and waved and waved until the troop ship was tiny in the distance and Ma dragged me away. I would have kept waving until you vanished completely, but it did take a very long time and I got hungry. We couldn’t see you after you went up the gangplank, in among all those faces, but we waved anyway.

  Ma locked herself in her bedroom the moment we got home. Flossie and Bertie are playing tiddlywinks quietly on the carpet in the front room. That’d be suspicious on any other day, but I think they’re just missing you. Dad’s out in the garden. He’s not digging or anything. Just sitting there staring at the chooks. They’re good company at times like this. I’d go out there myself but I have to write to you like I promised.

  I suppose you heard the big news about the referendum. No doubt Billy Hughes curses the day that women got the vote. Serves him right.