by Judy Nunn
‘Yeah, you lucky bastard,’ Harry said, ‘how’d you manage to get out of the rest of the donnybrook?’
‘Brains, Harry, that’s what it takes,’ Oscar tapped a finger to his forehead, ‘all a matter of brains. You just have to fool them into thinking you’re dying. They don’t send dying men back to the front. I decided to wait it out in comfort until the campaign was over,’ he said breezily.
They all laughed, although Hugh suspected Oscar’s nonchalance was a total sham. The medics were not that easily fooled, even by a trickster as smart as Oscar O’Callaghan.
Hugh was right. Oscar had very nearly died. He’d contracted a serious infection at St Andrew’s Hospital on the island of Malta, his survival indeed surprising the medics. Instead of being sent back to Gallipoli, he’d been sent to Egypt to convalesce.
The boys sat around sharing news from home and reading out bits and pieces from their latest letters. They’d been greeted by a new mail delivery upon their arrival, and it had perked everyone up amazingly. In fact, spirits were high throughout the camp. Australian reinforcements had been arriving in Egypt by the thousands since October, and their presence breathed fresh life into the weary troops who were now determined to put Gallipoli and its horrors behind them.
Oscar did touch briefly upon the horror, however: a little later in the day he took Hugh aside to ask him about Harry. Harry seemed perhaps a little too bright-eyed and jumpy, perhaps a little too animated, Oscar thought, but certainly a whole lot better than one could ever have expected.
‘How is he, Hugh? I’ll never forget seeing him that morning, hanging on to Wes like he was. I thought he’d lost his mind completely.’
‘I think he did.’
‘He seems all right now though.’
‘He’s not really. I doubt he ever will be. He has the most shocking nightmares.’ Hugh shrugged. ‘But then I suppose everyone does. The biggest worry about Harry is the way he puts himself at risk these days. He should have copped it by now given the chances he takes.’ Hugh glanced across at his cousin and shook his head, perplexed. ‘I really don’t know, Oscar, it’s as if he’s trying to pay the price for Wes’s death with his own.’
‘You want to watch yourself, mate.’ Oscar sounded a warning. ‘If Harry’s determined to get himself killed, then you’ll just have to let him. No point trying to save him and copping it yourself. That wouldn’t be doing either of you a favour.’
Hugh nodded. ‘Yes, you’re certainly right there.’ He was grateful for the advice. ‘Anyway, the bullets have dodged him so far. For someone who thumbs his nose at death Harry seems to be leading a charmed life.’
‘The luck o’ the Irish,’ Oscar said, adopting the lilt of his clan, ‘must be a drop o’ the Celtic in him.’
They shared a smile and rejoined the others.
Christmas Day turned into quite a party. The Australian Comforts Fund had supplied billy tins packed with sweets and cigarettes and biscuits, which were doled out to the men, lending a festive air to the proceedings.
Gordie Powell produced his harmonica and struck up the first in a round of Christmas carols. He was quickly joined by another man on a concertina and soon the sing-along was under way.
Men started to gather in droves, several mouth organs were added to the band and before long the carols gave way to popular songs, requests being yelled out from the crowd.
‘“Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair”,’ a voice called – Gordie didn’t need to search the faces to know where that one had come from.
‘“Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ral”,’ another man yelled.
‘“On the Road to Mandalay”,’ said another. Then ‘Oh You Beautiful Doll’, ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling’ . . . On and on they went, the requests coming in thick and strong, the men belting out the lyrics and the sound ringing loudly through the clear desert air. It wasn’t a particularly harmonious sound, it was true, but no-one cared: it was joyful.
We’ll make a bonfire of our troubles and we’ll watch them blaze away
And when they’ve all gone up in smoke clouds,
We’ll never worry should they come another day . . .
Hugh Stanford lent his voice to each song as loudly as the next man, but he couldn’t help thinking ‘Blaze Away’ was the one that most summed up this Christmas Day of 1915.
And as the bonfire keeps on burning,
Happy days will be returning.
While the band keeps playing
We’ll let our troubles blaze away.
He also couldn’t help wondering what the hell was going to happen next.
The Australian military had decided to divide the old battalions and create new units for the 1916 campaign in Europe. The original 12th Battalion, bolstered with fresh volunteers newly arrived from Australia, was split into two, becoming the 12th and 52nd Battalions. Hugh Stanford and David Powell, both now confirmed in the rank of corporal, remained in charge of seven-man sections consisting primarily of new recruits, with the exception of their old mates Gordon Powell, Oscar O’Callaghan and Harry Balfour. The lads were now part of the 52nd Battalion, and their destination was France.
On the first of June 1916, following months of rigorous training in Egypt, the 52nd Battalion sailed from Alexandria aboard the SS Transylvania. They were bound for Marseilles, from where they would be entrained to the area of their encampment in Northern France near the Belgian border.
After three days’ train travel in open wagons designed for horses – forty men to a wagon, standing all the way – the troops found it a relief to be on the march to their billets. There were well over a thousand of them, marching along the dusty country road and through the main streets of villages, and as they marched they sang.
It’s a long way to Tipperary,
It’s a long way to go.
It’s a long way to Tipperary,
To the sweetest girl I know . . .
The lads were in fine spirits. They were in France after all, and they liked what they saw.
Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag
And smile, smile, smile.
While you’ve a Lucifer to light your fag,
Smile boys, that’s the style . . .
The countryside they were passing through was indeed picturesque, a colourful patchwork of little fields growing all manner of crops and vegetables, gentle slopes interspersed with copses and hedgerows. Nestled cosily in valleys were villages, each with its church spire rising importantly above the thatched roofs of tiny cottages. The men were entranced. This was unlike anything they’d seen in Australia.
They were overwhelmed too by the welcome they received. Every township they passed through greeted them effusively. Villagers lined the street or leant from front windows, waving and calling out ‘Australie!’ Girls blew them kisses, old men nodded respectfully and women waved the chubby arms of the babies they held up in greeting. The Australians’ reputation as fighters had preceded them via their French comrades-in-arms at Gallipoli, and the citizens of France eagerly embraced their arrival.
The battalion’s encampment was on three large rural properties that had been requisitioned by the French government for military purposes. The farm owners were wealthy and the farms impressive, with two-storey houses and extensive outbuildings. The men were billeted in the high-roofed, thatched barns and sheds and stables that abounded, sleeping on straw with issued blankets. They were comfortable enough. The weather was a little cold and rainy despite it being the first month of summer, but the lads didn’t care: they’d been fed up with the heat and sand of Egypt.
‘I could do without the pong of horse dung though,’ Gibbo complained. Brian Gibson was one of the new recruits in Hugh’s section, a nice young lad from Launceston who hadn’t as yet been involved in any conflict.
The seasoned campaigners exchanged a glance – the pong of horse dung was eminently preferable to the pong of rotting corpses.
‘I love the pong of horse dung,’ Harry Balfour declared, ‘it reminds me
of the farm.’
David Powell agreed. ‘Crikey, I love the whole set-up,’ he said, gazing about the huge stables. They were standing beside the two horse stalls that he and Hugh had snared for their sections’ billet and, grand though the farm’s stables were, the smell of straw and horses reminded David of the stables at Charlotte Grove. ‘All the comforts of home,’ he said with a smile.
‘Well I’m happy,’ Gordie chimed in. ‘You know they’ve got a pig pen, don’t you?’
Everyone laughed, even the new recruits. Gordie’s picture of Delilah had become a running joke.
‘Better be careful, Gordie,’ Oscar said with a suggestive wink, ‘farm residents are strictly off limits. No fraternising, remember?’
The men were worked hard over the next month or so with endless brisk hikes up and down country roads, drill and musketry exercises, then more hikes, then more drill: the training was relentless. But to the Gallipoli veterans it was like being on holiday, and they managed somehow to find holes in the day. Oscar O’Callaghan certainly did.
‘I have a present,’ Oscar said smugly.
It was approaching dusk. Their platoon had just returned from a ten-mile march and Oscar had mysteriously disappeared, returning to the stables after a half an hour or so, a cloth bag slung over one shoulder and something bulky conspicuously concealed beneath his coat. Beckoning his mates to follow, he ducked into one of the horse stalls.
‘Voila,’ he said with a flourish. There was a moment’s silence as they stared down at the billy tin he was holding, and at the five eggs nestled within it.
‘You’ll have to put them back,’ David said.
‘Put them back. Why?’
‘Why?! You’ll get court-martialled if they find out you nicked them, that’s why. You could land us all in a hell of a lot of trouble. Now I’m not asking you, Oscar, I’m ordering you. Put them back where you found them.’
‘I didn’t nick them.’ Oscar appeared insulted by the suggestion. ‘And I’m certainly not giving them back. She’d be offended if I did.’
‘Eh?’ David stared at him uncomprehendingly; they all did.
‘They’re a present. Yvette gave them to me.’
Yvette Picot was the youngest daughter of the property’s owner. She was a pretty girl of around twenty, and the men lusted after her from afar.
‘She gave them to you,’ David scoffed, ‘she gave them to you, just like that, right out of the blue.’
‘Yep.’ Oscar nodded happily. ‘We had a bit of a chat yesterday. She wanted to know about Australia – she’s a nice girl, very inquisitive. Anyway, she said she’d have a present for me today and here they are,’ he held out the billy tin, ‘oeufs, for your information,’ he added with a superior smile. ‘So who wants one and who doesn’t?’
David supposed, as Oscar’s corporal, he should issue a warning about fraternisation, but Gordie jumped in with the question that was foremost in all their minds.
‘How’ll we do them, boiled or scrambled?’
‘No need. They’re boiled already.’ Oscar handed the billy tin to Gordie and took the cloth bag from his shoulder. ‘Voila again,’ he said, producing a loaf of home-baked bread and a wedge of cheese, ‘le pain,’ he announced triumphantly, ‘and le fromage.’
David’s resistance went right out the window.
‘What about the others?’ Hugh queried. Like David, he felt that as the leader of his section he should voice some concern for his men. ‘Shouldn’t we share it around?’
He was met by a blank stare from his mates.
‘There are only five eggs,’ Oscar said. The silence that followed was a statement in itself.
That night, seated outside with their backs against the wooden walls of the stables, looking up at foreign stars in a cloudless sky, Oscar, Gordie, David, Hugh and Harry voted it the best meal they’d ever had in their lives.
The eggs, bread and cheese were only the first in a number of treats Oscar provided over the following weeks courtesy of Yvette. Next came a billy tin full of apples.
‘They’re called pommes d’Api,’ he announced in his rapidly improving French as he passed them around.
‘Not where I come from,’ David said, inspecting his apple with a professional eye. ‘They’re Lady apples where I come from. We used to grow them in the Huon, but we don’t any more. They don’t sell as well as Pippins or Cleopatras.’
‘I wonder why,’ Harry mumbled juice dribbling down his chin. ‘Apples never tasted this good at home.’
‘You can only sell so many varieties,’ David explained with a direct quote from his father, Thomas, ‘people get confused otherwise. I’ll tell you something for nothing though, Harry,’ he said with a mixture of defensiveness and pride, ‘I’ll bet you half the apples in Europe come from Tassie these days.’
But as David bit into his pomme d’Api, he had to agree with Harry: apples didn’t come any better than this, not after bully beef and biscuits anyway.
Oscar’s next present was even more impressive.
‘Le gateau,’ he said a week later as he unveiled the cake. Wrapped in a blue-and-white striped tea towel, it was large and mouth-wateringly impressive. ‘Yvette baked it especially for us.’
That was when David decided to read Oscar the riot act for his own safety’s sake, but he waited until after they’d demolished the cake, which they cut up and shared with the others (he would have had his own riot to deal with otherwise).
‘You have to stop this, Oscar,’ he said, taking him to one side, ‘you know that, don’t you?’
‘Stop what?’
‘Orders have been issued about fraternisation and you damn well know it,’ he said firmly, finding his friend’s pretended innocence just a little irritating. ‘Whatever’s going on between you and Yvette has to stop right now or you’ll find yourself court-martialled.’
‘But there isn’t anything going on.’
‘Oh come off it, Oscar,’ David was exasperated, ‘a woman doesn’t bake a man a cake for nothing.’
‘Yvette does. She’s that sort of girl. She’s really nice, if you know what I mean: a really good-hearted person.’ Oscar went on before David could interrupt, arguing his case with vehemence. He was a man misunderstood. ‘I ask you seriously, David: what am I supposed to do? If she wants to stop and have a chat am I supposed to ignore her? And if she wants to give me a present to share with my Australian comrades, for whom she has the greatest respect I might add, am I supposed to throw it back at her? You tell me, mate. You tell me, because in all honesty, I don’t know. What am I supposed to do?’
David gave up. What was the point? If Oscar was determined to get himself court-martialled, so be it. The situation was out of his hands.
The weather had turned fine and sunny and, with the arrival and disbursement of the ever-welcome mail, the troops enjoyed the luxury of reading their letters sprawled out in a paddock.
The mail brought with it as always several letters from Caitie, and Hugh was able to catch up on the latest reports about Rupert. His father never wrote to him of Rupert, and he relied solely upon Caitie for news of his brother.
Hugh had known of his mother’s death for some months now. When, at Christmas, there had still been no direct correspondence from her, he had demanded his father tell him the truth. You always write only that Mother is ill with a bronchial condition but sends her love, Father, yet this has been going on for so long. Even the bed-ridden can put pen to paper, as I know Mother would. I demand the truth.
Reginald had responded immediately, informing Hugh his mother had died of pneumonia some time ago. I am so sorry, my boy, it is the saddest news. I had thought to keep it from you, hoping you would be home in only a matter of months and not wishing to add further to your present burden. Please forgive me if this was wrong.
Much as he had expected the worst, Hugh had been sorely hit by the news of his mother’s death. Camped out there in the Egyptian desert, surrounded by thousands upon thousands of men, he had sudden
ly felt very much alone. He’d needed to talk to someone. Normally he would have turned to his cousins Wes and Harry, but Wes was dead and Harry was not the same any more. He’d turned instead to David Powell. They’d sat up smoking and talking well into the night, or rather Hugh had. David had simply puffed away and listened. Hugh had sung his mother’s praises. He’d talked on and on about all that she’d meant to both him and his brother, and also to their father, who couldn’t have been the easiest man to live with. David was a good listener and a good friend, and Hugh had felt a great deal better in the morning.
Paying tribute to the memory of his mother had helped salve his own grief, but Hugh’s main concern had then been his brother. How had Rupert fared? Rupert surely would have been distraught, yet his father had made no mention of him. He’d written once again demanding news, but his father had replied in characteristically abrupt fashion, which, although intended to allay any fears, had contained no particular detail. We were all deeply affected by your mother’s death, Hugh, Rupert included. But he is healthy and well looked after I can assure you. You must concentrate upon your task at hand, my boy. I will not have you jeopardise your safety by undue worry about your family at home. I can assure you all is well.
Hugh was obviously supposed to have been satisfied with that. It’s so typical of Father, he’d thought. Thank goodness for Caitie. He’d written to her immediately.
I realise now, my darling, that, like Father, you considered it in my best interests not to burden me with my mother’s passing. Thank you for your consideration, but as you can see, I now know the truth, and I need also to know that Rupert is all right. Has he come to terms with his loss? I cannot imagine it somehow. Indeed I cannot imagine him at all without Mother.
Father says that Rupert is healthy and well looked after, but he refuses to write any further on the subject for fear I will worry. I do worry about Rupert though, Caitie. I worry that even dear Iris, who is so very fond of him, could not substitute for Mother. I worry that he might break under such pressure: he is such a delicate creature.
I bless you for visiting him as you do, my darling, but please be honest with me, I need to know. Is Rupert suffering?