He had seen his son once. One glorious week in June, he had finally obtained leave. Two months late for the birth, but the Brigade Major said the approval had gotten lost, then a follow-up application had gone to someone in the wrong unit.
‘The usual army fuck-up,’ Harry said, and made his way to Boulogne, hitching rides on army trucks and with French farmers,’ and then by hospital ship where a kind nursing sister turned a blind eye and let him sleep on deck while they made the night crossing to Folkestone.
To his surprise, his grandfather and Hannah were still there, but after a joyful reunion dinner, had tactfully announced they were going to spend the rest of the week touring the West Country, and that Kate and Harry and the baby should occupy their Claridges hotel suite.
Which they did. They savoured the luxury, taking William at his word — that if he returned and found his account showed they hadn’t eaten the most expensive meals, and ordered the best wines, he would be seriously disappointed. It became their main objective — not to seriously disappoint Grandfather, and consequently they had a luxurious and ecstatic week. Harry nursed and marvelled over the tiny baby, and at night they made love.
‘At this rate,’ Kate gasped, as they lay tousled and expended in the canopied bed, ‘we’ll have another one in less than a year.’
‘You said we’ll have four. Don’t want them too far apart.’ Carl and I are only a year apart, he thought, and wondered if it had been like this for his father and mother. Not that it could be quite like this; no one, in the entire history of the world, could have found such rapture in each other as they did.
They both got the giggles when they realised the baby was awake and quietly gurgling, and had doubtless gurgled all through their frenzied and passionate coupling.
‘Whatever will he think when he grows up?’ Harry said, and Kate laughed and he tickled her until she could no longer stand it and pummelled him with her fists, whereupon he secured them, kissed her and wrapped his legs around hers, while he grew erect and hard, and Kate took him gently, and slid him inside her, already moist again as she did so, and she told him to be nice to her, to behave himself, and to spend the night in there.
The days were warm. They took William in his pram, window-shopped in Mayfair, and walked to Green Park, where they bought sandwiches and fed crusts to the ducks, and it brought a moment of nostalgia, not only for the time they fed the pigeons on his leave when they first became lovers, but each remembered doing this as children in Centennial Park. They knew they were homesick.
‘I’m more homesick than you are,’ she told him. ‘I’ve been away five years. Five years since that awful day when the ship left.’
‘I was there, remember? Singing.’
‘You said you were crying your eyes out.’
‘Singing,’ he repeated, ‘and crying my eyes out.’
‘Will we always be this much in love, Harry?’
‘Always,’ he said, tenderly. ‘As long as we live.’
Harry checked his watch. Ten minutes past ten o’clock. It was damp and cold, and there was a lifeless November sun in the pallid sky. In less than an hour, the armistice would begin. Meanwhile, as if in a last act of defiance, the big guns fired a relentless barrage. Artillery shells screamed overhead, and distantly exploded. Why don’t we just stop, he thought. What the hell is the point of prolonging this? Some poor bastard is going to get blown to bits about five minutes before the curtain comes down.
Across the world, the startling news that a ceasefire had already occurred swept Sydney on the night of Friday the eighth of November. The city celebrated. People formed happy groups and kissed strangers, trams clanged their bells, cars and buses tooted, and out on the dark of the harbour the ferries sounded their sirens. Later that night, it was discovered the festivities were somewhat premature. Twenty-four hours premature, according to all the reliable rumours. So they celebrated again the following night, Saturday the ninth, and when that proved yet another false alarm, people went soberly to church on Sunday, and prayed earnestly there would soon be an end to this carnage.
Early on Monday the eleventh, confirmation came that there would be a ceasefire at 11 a.m. in France, which meant early evening, Sydney time. By now, many people were unsure if this might be just another rumour. Some rabid hysterics — burning the Kaiser in effigy — expressed the sentiment that the whole thing might be a clever German ploy to lull Australia into a false sense of security, and then invade our shores.
It was ten-forty.
Harry put on his tunic and the officers’ smart belt and strap he had hardly ever worn. It gleamed in the thin sunshine. He thought again about that wonderful week in June. Taking out his wallet, he looked at the tiny snapshots it contained of his wife and his son.
Darling Kate, he thought. I want us to have such a good life.
He began to be aware that the guns were falling silent. Just a few distant explosions now. No rifle fire. No machine guns. Everyone waiting. No one wanted to be brave, or have the honour of dying in the final minutes of four long bitter years of war.
The sniper had his rifle resting on a rock, so there was no need to raise it. The slightest movement might be visible from over there. He was alone in the cleft. He did not know how the war would end, but he imagined there would be a signal, and everything would stop. Before then, he would find a target and take one of the enemy into eternity.
The silence was so gradual. It developed without their being conscious of it happening; it existed but no one realised that until they heard the startling sound of a blackbird. ‘Shit,’ one of the Canadians said. ‘Was that real?’
Nobody could quite place the moment when the sound of gunfire had ceased. Harry and the others with him, a motley collection of nationalities, had lived with the noise of it for so long, that when it stopped they all felt something was wrong.
They checked their watches. It was within minutes of eleven. ‘Put your head up, see if it’s over,’ a Scots captain suggested. ‘Up your Edinburgh arse, my old son,’ said a British voice. ‘How will we know?’ It was one of the Belgians.
‘They’ll play bagpipes,’ said the Scot, grinning. ‘And we can all eat haggis, and get pissed on Glenfiddich.’
‘Not the haggis,’ said the Englishman. ‘Please God, not the bloody haggis, today of all days.’ They laughed, then stopped, because it was more important to listen.
They waited a few more minutes. ‘Can you hear that?’ Harry asked.
It sounded like a chorus of cheers in the far distance, but they felt unsure. It’s over, Harry told himself. Kate and I and the baby are going home, and nobody is going to make me leave Australia again. It was not our war, and we should never have been here.
He remembered having been told so. And of all places, it had happened, ironically, in the very heart of Empire.
On his leave in June, Green Park, near Constitution Hill, had been filled with people. Like many of them, Kate and Harry were drawn in the direction of the gates of Buckingham Palace, and the tall guards with their beaver hats. Kate had a camera, and he thought they should certainly get a photograph of her and the baby in front of the palace — just to show people at home their own little cosy London residence. Harry wore his uniform with the A.L.F insignias, and his officer’s cap. Kate was in a skirt and blouse, pushing the pram. It was a cloudless, perfect midsummer day.
‘Australians and their tarts,’ a voice said. ‘Why don’t you clear off where you belong?’
Harry turned towards them. They were a couple in their late middle age, ordinary, innocuous. Quite pleasant looking, really. They could easily have been Mr and Mrs Forbes.
He knew Australians had become unpopular this past year in Britain. In the early days, after Gallipoli, when they went to France and fought on the Somme, when they lost five thousand men in one futile battle in one terrible day, then refused to retreat, and the French brought them flowers and wine, and declared they felt safe — because the Australians are here — in those years t
he digger and his slouch hat was a symbol in England. They were loved and welcomed.
But the mood had changed. Boredom, drunken behaviour, a series of unruly, larrikin incidents had taken their toll. Resentment had replaced respect. Australian soldiers, lonely in cities like London, sought to find girls, and the English girls responded. The Tommies began to dislike them, and this spread to the civilian population. In magazines, Australian troops were often depicted as an uneducated, ill-disciplined rabble. The antagonism was not one-sided. Many of the A.L.F responded to the antipathy, and what they had been led to think of as ‘home’ was now a hostile place.
‘Yeah, you,’ the man said. ‘Colonials, come over here takin’ our wimmen. Ought to be bloody ashamed.’
‘Excuse me,’ Kate said loudly, and they turned to leave.
‘Forget it,’ Harry said, but she followed them, insistently.
‘Listen to me,’ she said. ‘I’m not “your wimmen”. I was born in Australia, the same as my husband. And we’re not “colonials”. Years ago we became a nation, thanks to people like his grandfather. As for clearing off home, I truly wish he could, because I’m going to have another baby, and the last thing in the world I want is for him to go back to France to fight for people like you.’
‘Kate,’ he said, holding her arm, while the couple scuttled away in acute embarrassment. ‘Kate! It can’t be true?’
‘I have every confidence it’s true.’
‘But I’ve only been back a few days …’
‘You only needed that long the first time. You remember the feeling I told you I had, saying goodbye at Victoria Station?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I had it when I woke up this morning. A distinctly intuitive sensation. And it’s getting stronger. I was going to tell you tonight, over candlelight and Claridge’s best wine.’ She suddenly laughed and hugged him. ‘Fancy losing my block like that, and telling them first.’
‘If I kiss you, in the middle of all these people, do you think they’ll cheer or boo?’
‘Let’s find out,’ Kate said.
He sat in the trench, warmed by the memory. No one had cheered or booed, but a couple had smiled as they embraced, and admired young William in his pram, and dinner that night had been a magical evening. Kate had confirmed the pregnancy barely six weeks ago, in September. According to his reckoning, here on November the 11th, their new ‘bun’ would be born sometime in March, and the children would be almost exactly a year apart.
Thank God it would be over soon — if it wasn’t already. The hands of his watch showed a few minutes past eleven. They could go home. Harry realised all the guns were silent. Another bird had begun to sing. One day, he thought, this awful piece of bloodstained and muddy ground might grow grass and flowers again.
The distant sound was definitely a crowd cheering. It was over. He followed the others out of the trench. For the first time since he had been made an officer, his badges shone in the pale sunlight.
The sniper saw the badges, the polished leather belt and cross strap that denoted an officer. He could see the three pips on each of his shoulders. Even better, he thought, and steadied his rifle. The figure was in his sights. He remembered what his instructor had told him — to hold his breath and gently squeeze the trigger.
The German officer looked at his watch, and decided it was time to emerge. He thanked God that someone in the High Command had had the sense to make peace with some kind of honour. He had been on the Western Front for three years, and all he could feel was a great sense of relief that it was over. As he appeared from the trench, he saw the sniper. His first instinct was that the rifle should be lowered; instead it was aimed at someone across the mud and wire, someone like himself, emerging to breathe the air, and look at the sky, and say a prayer to their God that it was finished.
He realised he had discarded his pistol. He shouted, but it brought no response. In desperation he picked up a stone and flung it at the sniper. It hit the prone figure a glancing blow, as he squeezed the trigger.
Harry heard the familiar sound of a rifle shot, and instinctively ducked his head, but the bullet — if it was a bullet — must have gone in some other direction. He looked around, warily, but there seemed no danger. Across the wire of no-man’s-land, he saw a German soldier with a rifle, and an officer taking it from him. The officer seemed to be shouting, but it was too distant, and Harry could not hear the words. Now the officer raised an arm in a farewell wave, and Harry replied with a similar gesture.
They moved away.
He stood there and thought about the sound.
It had been a rifle, but who it was aimed at, and where it had gone, he did not know. One thing he did know.
If he had his way, it would be the last shot he would ever hear fired in anger.
EPILOGUE
The children were down by the creek. Elizabeth could hear the young excited voices, like an echo, a memory of their first years here. She could see Harry with Carl, as they walked up the terraced hillside, inspecting the flourishing new vines, and in her mind’s eye they were playing together by the chicken coop, while Stefan dug and turned the soil by hand, then Heinrich, as he still was, running down to meet Gerhardt, with Carl tottering behind, the day the letter came about her mother’s accident.
Now they were strolling together, talking, Harry enthusing and admiring the way Carl had restored the vineyard. Maria came out to join her, and smiled as she looked up towards the hilltop, and the magnolia tree with its creamy white flowers, where her brothers stood.
Her daughter, soon to be a doctor, Elizabeth thought. Telling her she might marry David Brahm, when she graduated. Perhaps start a medical practice together. Almost incestuous, Elizabeth had laughed, but he’s perfect for you.
Her three children, Kate, and the two grandchildren, all here for the long holidays and New Year. Her father and Hannah coming tomorrow. The Pattersons and the Mullers sitting down to Christmas dinner together.
Stefan, she thought, would like to have seen this.
‘Let’s walk,’ Maria said, reading her thoughts, and Elizabeth smiled. They climbed the hill where she had planted roses, and joined her sons. The headstone was beneath the canopy of the magnolia tree, where she had arranged to have the grave moved, to the consternation of the minister and the church elders.
This is where he belongs, she had told them, and preparing to fight had found there was no need. She was no longer alone. Harry and Kate, Carl and Maria had all supported her. It had been done, and Sigrid, Eva-Maria, Bruno and a few close friends had joined her family, to attend the very private ceremony.
She stood in the shade of the tree, and looked down towards the creek. Kate waved. Two tiny figures danced around her. Kate had confided last night she hoped there would be a third.
‘Come and see us swim,’ shouted two-year-old William. ‘Come up here first, to see my favourite view,’ she called.
And the children began to run up the hill towards her.
Acknowledgements
The initial research for this book was done on returning to Australia after a period spent living and writing in England. Some of the material was first incorporated in a mini-series I wrote for the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, under the title The Alien Years, which aired in April of 1988. I am forever grateful to those people in Hahndorf and the Barossa Valley who assisted my research, allowing me access to private family papers that revealed the hostility their grandparents encountered in the 1914-1918 war.
I am also indebted to several published sources for background material, including The Australian People and The Great War by Michael McKernan, Australia’s Yesterdays by Cyril Pearl, the Sydney Morning Herald’s History as it Happened, edited by L.V. Kepert, and Max Kelly for the photographic book entitled Plague, Sydney 1900. And then there’s The Centennial Diary, edited by Harry Gordon, which featured a letter written by Lieutenant John Alexander Raws, who died aged twenty-four at Pozieres. This letter moved me so deeply and seemed so
much in accord with my fictional character Harry Patterson, that I adapted some of his words into one of Harry’s letters from France.
Finally to my publisher, Jennifer McDonald, and her colleagues at For Pity Sake - Anna Blackie, Emma Jewell, Candace Chidiac and John Cozzi, all of whom contributed to this new edition of A Bitter Harvest. My very sincere thanks.
Peter Yeldham
[email protected]
About the Author
Peter Yeldham’s extensive writing career began with short stories and radio scripts. He spent 20 years in England becoming a leading screenwriter for films and television, also writing plays for the theatre including Birds on the Wing and Fringe Benefits, which ran for over two years in Paris.
Returning to Australia he won numerous awards for mini-series among them 1915, Captain James Cook, The Alien Years, All the Rivers Run, The Timeless Land and Heroes. His adaptation of Bryce Courtenay’s Jessica won a Logie Award for best mini-series.
He is the author of several novels including Barbed Wire and Roses, Currency Lads, A Distant Shore, Glory Girl, Above the Fold and the recently released Dragons in the Forest.
For more information please visit www.peteryeldham.com.
A Bitter Harvest Page 48