by Judy Nunn
The families travelled to the farmhouse from their various homes on the property; Constance, the boys’ older sister, with her husband and brood of three; twenty-five-year-old Norman, their elder brother, with his pregnant wife; and of course the boys themselves, who arrived with their mother and father in Edwin’s brand new Model T Ford.
The day soon turned boisterous. The brothers, always quick to egg each other on, insisted upon driving the ‘Tin Lizzie’, as the popular American Model T Fords were nicknamed, and Edwin gave them brief instruction, freely admitting that he’d only just got the hang of the thing himself. Then he stood to one side and watched as his three sons took turns racing the vehicle up and down the quarter-mile drive that led from the house to the main road, seeing who could get it up to the highest speed.
It was Wes’s suggestion that they add another component to the exercise and pit the car against Belle. Belle was a coal-black, four-year-old mare, the prettiest and fastest horse on the property. Harry and Norm agreed that it was an excellent idea and Wes went off to bring her in and saddle her up.
A half-hour later, the entire family gathered in the front garden to watch as Harry called the start of the race.
He raised his hand high in the air. ‘Ready . . .’ he yelled. ‘Set . . . Go!’ and he flagged them away with a wave of his arm.
Norm took off in the Tin Lizzie and Belle leapt into action, Wes riding her at full gallop towards the main gates, Connie’s three small children squealing with excitement and running after them. But over the quarter-mile distance it proved no contest: Belle was the undisputed winner.
They switched places for the return trip – Wes drove and Norm rode – but Belle once again romped home for the win.
‘The car takes too long to build up momentum,’ Wes said as he climbed out in a cloud of dust. ‘We need a longer course. Why don’t we make it a race from the front gates to the bridge at Pontville. It’s your turn, Harry – you want to drive or ride?’
That was when Edwin finally put his foot down. ‘Harry will do neither,’ he said firmly. ‘The car’s not to be raced in the main road. You’ll stay on the property.’
‘Oh, rightio. Where do you reckon then, Norm?’
‘From here to our place,’ Norm suggested, ‘that’s a good mile.’
‘You’re on. What’s your pick Harry, the car or Belle?’
Harry, however, was destined for disappointment. ‘There’ll be no more racing,’ Amy said. ‘Sorry, boys, but I won’t have the roast dinner spoiled. Wes, see to Belle, we eat in half an hour.’
Amy’s word as always was final, and she disappeared inside with the other women to set the table for a luncheon that was already an hour later than she’d intended.
The boys actually weren’t too disheartened. Healthy appetites coupled with the prospect of one of their grandmother’s roast dinners formed a powerful distraction, particularly to Wes and Harry, who’d been living on army food.
They ate and drank for a solid three hours. After several plate loads of lamb and roast vegetables smothered in gravy, the men sat back with their glasses of ale while the women cleared the table, then twenty minutes later they hoed into massive bowls of the rice pudding and custard that Connie had brought along.
‘Crikey, we haven’t eaten like this for a while,’ Harry said.
‘And it’ll be a while before we do again. Make the most of it, I say.’ Wes passed his bowl to Connie for a second serve even though his belly felt about to burst.
After pudding, the women once again cleared the table, and then they served tea, although the men, even Donald, decided to stick with ale, at least for the moment. Norm was about to propose a toast, and you didn’t drink a toast with a cup of tea.
After refilling their glasses Norm rose to his feet. ‘I’d like to propose a toast to my brothers,’ he said. ‘I wish I was going with you boys, I really do . . .’ It was true, Norm had ached to enlist, but it wouldn’t have been fair. He glanced down at his wife who was eight months pregnant. Beth smiled sympathetically up at her husband, aware of how he envied his brothers their great adventure. ‘Frankly I don’t know how you’ll manage without me,’ Norm continued and everyone laughed, ‘but I’m sure you’ll find a way.’ He dropped the banter. ‘In fact I’m sure you’ll do this family great honour,’ he added seriously. ‘We’re proud of you, Wes and Harry, very, very proud, and we wish you a safe and speedy return.’ He raised his glass. ‘To Wes and Harry,’ he said.
The others all rose to their feet – at a nod from Connie the children did too.
‘To Wes and Harry,’ they chanted.
After that the brothers proceeded to get drunk, all three of them, not staggeringly so, but it seemed only right that they should. Men didn’t go off to war every day of the week.
Night was falling as the families started to wend their way homewards. Wes, however, didn’t accompany Harry and his parents in the Tin Lizzie. Wes didn’t go home at all. He borrowed a torch and set off in the dark for Pontville. His parents made no comment. He was clearly going to visit a woman, as presumably many a young man did before departing for battle, although they wondered just who the woman might be.
Harry didn’t wonder. Harry knew. Wes had been sleeping with the widow on a regular basis for nearly a year now. The widow worked behind the bar at the tavern and she was thirty-nine, nearly twenty years older than Wes. Harry was dead bloody envious. He couldn’t wait to lose his virginity.
The Balfour boys returned to camp late the following afternoon, and just over a week later the big day finally arrived.
On the twentieth of October 1914, a chilly spring Tuesday, the 12th Battalion, along with the 3rd Light Horse Brigade, assembled at dawn. Bulging kitbags slung over one shoulder and rifles over the other, they marched to the railway station at Brighton and boarded a train bound for Hobart. Then, upon arrival at Hobart Station, they marched the half-mile or so through the streets of Wapping and along Old Wharf to the newly-built Ocean Pier. There the entire battalion and the troops of the 3rd Light Horse were embarked on board the SS Geelong, a P&O merchantman of 8,000 tons now designated HMAT, His Majesty’s Australian Troopship. The SS Katuna, which was docked nearby, took on board the horses of the 3rd Light Horse, artillery pieces and the medical unit. The entire embarkation was completed by ten o’clock in the morning.
Due to military censorship, there had been no announcement that the troops were leaving, but word of mouth spread the news like wildfire and by mid-afternoon, as the hour of departure neared, the docks were packed not only with those from the city and suburbs, but also those who’d travelled from far and wide.
The Balfours had heard the news from their neighbours in Pontville, who had heard it from their neighbours in Brighton, and Edwin and Norm had jumped in the Tin Lizzie and headed for Hobart.
In the Huon, the Powells had heard the news from Simon Hawtrey, who had telephoned the post office in Franklin, and the entire Powell brigade, together with the Müllers, had set off for Hobart aboard the SS Emma Jane.
Other families had used whatever means they could to travel to the city and farewell the troops and, as the hours passed, the huge new dock of Ocean Pier became a seething mass of well-wishers.
There was no longer any point keeping the departure a secret so members of the battalion’s brass band struck up an impromptu series of rousing songs to match the occasion.
Aboard the HMAT Geelong, men leant from the railings waving to loved ones in the crowd. Those who couldn’t find a vantage point at the rails climbed high in the rigging to seek out the faces they knew, while others climbed up into the lifeboats that were hanging from davits. It seemed the entire ship was festooned with uniforms dangling like ornaments from a Christmas tree.
The Powell boys and Max Miller were glad now that they hadn’t been able to score a possie by the railing. The Geelong was docked facing the city so the men were all leaning from the starboard side. From their vantage point up in one of the lifeboats, Gordie, David and
Max had a view from the port side as well. They’d spied the Hawtreys in the crowd on the docks early on, which was good, but they couldn’t believe their luck later in the day. They’d heard the honk of a steamer’s horn and there she was right beside them, the Emma Jane, with the whole damn tribe of Powells and Müllers aboard. The sight had sent the boys into a frenzy of screaming and waving. ‘Up here, up here,’ they’d yelled, finally catching their families’ attention. Then they’d quickly climbed down and raced over to the port side.
Now, at four o’clock in the afternoon as the HMAT Geelong cast off, the Emma Jane prepared to follow her out into the Derwent, the Powells and the Müllers drinking in this last image of their sons.
David was drinking in his last image of Jeanie, her mass of fair curls tossed about by the wind as she blew kisses up to him. My Jeanie with the light brown hair, he thought. It seemed most appropriate that, at that very moment, the musicians should choose to strike up ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’.
From his position beside Oscar at the railings, Hugh was thinking exactly the same thing as he looked out across the sea of people to where Caitie stood.
Oscar, in true form, had scored them both a prime position. ‘She’s over there,’ he’d said when he’d spotted his father and sister, and oh my God, he’d thought, Mary Reilly as well.
But Hugh had needed no prompting in order to find her. He’d already seen the flash of red among the hordes. She had deliberately come hatless in order that he should.
The musicians continued to play ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’ as the troopship made its way out into the harbour. Many aboard found it a poignant choice, but not one man had a single regret. The girls would be there when they came home again. In the meantime, they were off to fight a war.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The HMAT Geelong docked in Albany for the embarkation of the two Western Australian companies that completed the 12th Battalion, and it was there in the massive bay of King George’s Sound that the ship joined up with the rest of the convoy. The fleet included twenty-six Australian and ten New Zealand troopships, escorting battleships and the cruiser HMAS Sydney. Stretching three miles in length and carrying thirty thousand troops, the convoy departed Albany bound for Colombo on the first of November.
Several weeks later, letters started to arrive home, although some took a little longer getting there than others. Oscar wrote to Eileen, Col and Caitie:
7 November 1914
Dear All,
I hope this letter finds you well. That is, when I finally post it. The word around the decks is that the convoy will be putting in to Colombo on the island of Ceylon, so with luck, I may be able to send it from there.
We left Western Australia a week ago and, if the truth be known, I’ve started writing out of sheer boredom. Life aboard ship is monotonous, unless of course you happen to be an officer. They’re living the life of Reilly up on their own deck with canvas chairs and by the smell of it wonderful food. We of the rank and file are not so lucky, we live on the troop deck where there is not room to swing a cat and the food is truly terrible. The last of the bread on board is now hard and dry and the meat is as tough as boot leather. The only alternative is British government rations, biscuits hard as river rocks and Fray Bentos corned beef in a tapered tin with a side-key opener, bully beef the Tommies call it. I can soon see us Australian lads getting mighty sick of it.
9 November
There was much excitement aboard ship when the news arrived this evening. And not just aboard our ship either – I could hear men cheering from other boats in the convoy. This morning about daybreak, the Australian battleship HMAS Sydney took off for all she was worth, full steam ahead, and later in the morning we heard the roar of heavy gunfire away to the west. Apparently there was a fight between the Sydney and a German raider called the Emden and the Sydney done for her right royally as they say, shot her to pieces at a place called the Cocos Islands, which are supposed to be part of Australia, but I’ve never heard of them.
16 November
We anchored in Colombo yesterday and first thing we saw was the HMAS Sydney. She sailed right past us and the lads all lined the decks and gave her three rousing cheers. I went for a walk around the city this morning, a pretty place with pretty women by the dozen, dark eyes, beautiful skin, a man could easily lose his soul if he were so disposed. Fortunately I’m not that way inclined, isn’t that right, Da?
20 November
Oops, I missed the mail boat. I’ll have to post this at the next port of call, wherever that may be. We’re on our way again, heading towards the Suez Canal, or so the word is, and then through the Mediterranean Sea and on to our final destination, Britain herself. Who knows, maybe I’ll get over to Ireland and look up the family. Can Gran remember if there’s anyone there owing her money? Just kidding, Eileen, just kidding.
4 December
Oops again. We’re not in Britain at all. We’re in Alexandria. That’s Egypt of all places! Can you believe it? I’m posting this to you right now. There’s a mail boat going out today.
You probably won’t hear from me again for a few weeks, so a very Merry Christmas to you all,
Love Oscar.
Hugh Stanford’s first letters home were even slower to arrive, but not because he’d missed the mail boat.
Mena Camp
Cairo, Egypt
29 January 1915
Dearest Mother and Father,
I am so sorry I have not corresponded until now, but I have been rather ill. Not long after we arrived in Egypt I was stricken with measles, as were quite a few of the battalion. Then an outbreak of influenza ran through the camp and those weakened by the measles seemed particularly prone. It took quite a toll on all who suffered it, but thankfully the epidemic seems to have run its course.
Who would ever have guessed we would end up in Egypt? We were all so convinced we were headed for England. We docked in Alexandria in early December, which seems a lifetime ago now, and after being entrained some one hundred miles to Cairo, we were marched to Mena Camp, a massive tent city for want of a better description. My own tent is not four hundred yards from the Great Pyramid of Cheops and the inscrutable Sphinx, which I remember so clearly from books and lessons in my childhood. Oddly enough, these ancient wonders make me think of home. It seems strange to stare at them now in reality and have memories of Mother, Rupert and me in the library poring over the pictures of the pyramids and Rupert lamenting the Sphinx’s missing nose. Remember, Mother, how he would worry that the Sphinx must have trouble breathing?
Heaven alone knows what we are doing in Egypt while the war rages on in Europe, but to paraphrase Tennyson, ours is not to reason why. This place is indeed a land of contrasts, with the countryside lush and verdant in the Nile Delta between Alexandria and Cairo, but quickly giving way to desert, as it is where we are here at Mena. Cairo itself is both repulsive and fascinating. We go by tram from the camp to the city centre and for the entire day we are plagued by scruffy street urchins begging for money and old men attempting to sell us every conceivable artefact, from statues of mummies and ‘antique’ coins, to jewels they swear have come from a pharaoh’s tomb and a funny style of hat called a fez.
I have included a photograph for Rupert. The camel I am on is called Mahmood and, as you can see, the Sphinx is in the background. Rupert would love this place. The Cairo Zoological Gardens would enthral him, I know. I’ve been twice to date and still not seen all the wonderful creatures on show; they must number in their hundreds.
I trust this letter will find you well, and I promise that I will write again soon now that I am in better health.
Give my love to Rupert, and to you both I remain,
Your loving son, Hugh
Hugh wrote also to Caitie, again apologising for the delay and again, as he had done in the letter to his parents, downplaying the severity of his illness. It laid me pretty low, I have to admit, he wrote.
I simply didn’t have it in me to put pen to pape
r. And now three letters have arrived from you all at once, I feel very guilty. But I cannot tell you my dearest girl how much comfort I found in your photograph during my illness. I would kiss it before I went to sleep at night. I still do in fact. When I mentioned that to Oscar he called me a sook, but I don’t care. I love you, Caitie.
The truth was, Hugh’s mates had been desperately worried about him. Several soldiers had died as a result of the influenza outbreak, and Hugh Stanford had very nearly been one of them.
In their letters home Wes and Harry had not written of Hugh’s illness. Hugh had made them promise not to, just as he had made Oscar promise. He didn’t want his family or Caitie worrying unnecessarily.
‘I’ll be up and about in no time,’ he’d said during his lucid moments, and he’d been convinced that he would be. It was only when he was over the worst of it that he discovered just how close he’d come.
‘Those poor lads,’ he said when he learnt of the soldiers who’d died, ‘fancy going like that, without even getting a chance to fire a single bullet.’
Hugh’s illness was not the only subject omitted from the letters home. The boys didn’t write about their riotous, drunken nights in Cairo, and Harry Balfour and Max Miller made no mention of their recent expedition to the red-light district of Haret el Wassa, although both would actually have loved to announce to the entire world that at long last they had lost their virginity. They supposed it was a subject that called for censorship, however, particularly where family was concerned, and common-sense prevailed.
‘No man should go into battle a virgin,’ Oscar had declared dramatically and Harry and Max had jumped at his suggestion they rectify the situation. The other two sexual innocents of the bunch, despite the urging of their mates, had refused to join them. Hugh hadn’t even used his weakened state as an excuse, swearing that he would have no girl but Caitie, and David, for all of his larrikin behaviour, had similarly determined to remain a virgin until the day he married Jeanie Müller.