Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Having got the warrant, Jeremy pocketed it and rose, saying, ‘Thank you, Captain Smollet . . . good day!’ He turned to the door.

  Captain Smollet beat him to it, leapt through the door, to stand to attention and bark, ‘Stand fast!’

  Corporal and private in attendance were ready for it. Two soldiers at the counter sprang to it. All stood glazed-eyed, as Jeremy, with a wave, went out. Outside he broke into a chuckle. An over-painted girl, perhaps waiting for those inside, met his laughing eye and scowled, snapping, ‘Who you laughin’ at?’

  He looked surprised, then said, ‘Not you, my dear.’

  The thin scarlet lips writhed. ‘Don’t you Dear me, y’ol’ prick!’

  Jeremy paused to look at her, reddening now. He said, ‘No . . . it would be silly, with all the boys about.’

  ‘Who yo’ callin’ silly?’

  ‘Everybody, lady . . . everything!’ He fled.

  That evening a different RTO received him, to send a private soldier marching ahead to place his suitcase in his reserved compartment. The soldier looked as if he could have been any sort of tough self-reliant Aussie workman formerly. Now, in answer to Jeremy’s murmured thanks, he stiffened to attention and used the English flunkey’s ever-ready answer to his master: ‘Very good, Sir!’

  It was easier to sleep during the journey through the night because of the rhythm of the mechanical din and the natural darkness mostly outside. Waking, there were the old familiar things: the Beasts of the Dream Time sleeping against the Eternity of the Sky — the Ol’Goomun-Ol’Goomun, humping her Dilly-bag of Souls and trailing the Cat’s Cradle of their Relationships — the Fly, buzz-blazing, brightest of all — Igulgul, striving with shrunken magic to rouse the craggy hills to do something as in Alcheringa, Kurnallun, the Beginning of Things.

  In Sydney, Jeremy went strolling through the city, as much as it was possible to do such thing in contrariety with the mad rush of urban humanity. He came to Circular Quay. There was the usual ferry-boat traffic, a couple of smallish steamers berthed at the wharves of the further shore. But what caught the eye, not only his but of individual starers and groups, was the glimpse of a great ship riding the Harbour just behind the glimpse of Garden Island Naval Depot to be had across the ships and wharf-sheds opposite. Only mighty masts and three funnels like factory stacks were visible. It wasn’t hard to identify her, from what the other starers were saying: ‘Queen Mary . . . biggest ship in the world.’ But don’t Cunard Liners have red-and-black funnels? These were warship grey.

  A Manly ferry was blowing off the full head of steam about to move her. Jeremy hurried, boarded her just in time. There soon in full view was the majestic ship. She was all warship grey, and to be sure a warship, flying the White Ensign and with a six-inch gun atop her fo’c’stle and A-A’s on her boat-deck. Naval pinnaces were plying between her and Garden Island Naval Depot, looking like shiny water-beetles by comparison. The big ferry-steamer was dwarfed to a bum-boat as she passed. The ferry passengers crowded the rails to stare up at her.

  Being on their Harbour, the Sydney-siders were relaxed enough to talk.

  ‘Biggest ship in the world.’

  ‘But never been nothin’ like this one in ’ere before.’

  ‘Tykes a war to bring the biggest things to us, eh?’

  ‘Yeah . . . she’s a troopship now.’

  ‘Long time since I seen a troopship.’

  ‘Like ol’ toimes, ain’t it. I ’member 1916 when I syled in the Medic . . . same line’s this ’un.’

  ‘She’s ’ere to tyke the first contingent of Our Boys, they reckon.’

  ‘She’ll take a ’ole flymin’ Division . . . biggest ship in the world.’

  Jeremy murmured, ‘Biggest ship for the biggest fools.’

  A heavy-faced man swung on him. ‘What’s that?’

  Jeremy looked at him. He was about his own age and size and one used to having his opinions respected, with fists if need be. He wore an RSL badge. He demanded, ‘What was that you said?’

  Jeremy held the glaring eyes for a moment, then gave an elaborate shrug, said, ‘No spik English.’ He turned away.

  Someone mumbled, ‘Bloody Reffo.’

  The RSL man growled, ‘Bloody Bolshie!’

  Jeremy escaped to the deserted bow, to stand taking in the view on the other side. Every garden ashore was bright with flowers. They would be a-hum with bees, too; not with the little black native bees, but the big slave types imported by that slave himself, the kuttabah. However, in the bits of bush yet clinging to points not yet given over to the realtor, no doubt cicadas would be drumming out their ear-splitting joy in waking after sleeping seven years, as in pretty well every native tree still standing on the Continent, this being just their time of emergence. Out here on the slave ship all that could be heard was the roar of the forward propeller.

  The train for Melbourne was due to depart at what Jeremy’s Warrant called 2110 hours. He was there well ahead of time, with another heel-clicking RTO’s man to put him into his reserved compartment. Again he wore that new expression of half-mockery as from the spacious isolation thrust on him by reverence for rank, he watched through his half-open window the scramble of lesser ones for accommodation already paid for but still requiring a fee, judging by the forking-out to porters and conductors. Service personnel of lowly orders were being herded by RTO’s men and military police. Officers were being saluted into place. All this in a country priding itself on its lack of class distinction!

  So many of the passengers were in uniform that it might well be described as a troop-train. Would the guards on the bridges along its track be fishing? They might well be, since still further away from the Phoney War by a couple of thousand miles. But away down here the bellicosity was livelier. Hence for want of something better to do in that way, the sentries might pass the time honing their bayonets against the happy day when they might be able to use them for their proper purpose.

  Perhaps Jeremy was thinking of the Australian preoccupation with what was called The Bayonet with a kind of reverence. Australian troops claimed to be the Best in the World With The Bayonet. Speaking now of the War of 1914– 18, currently referred to as The Last Turn-out, to say, ‘We got to ’em with The Bayonet,’ was tantamount to declaring, ‘The Victory was Ours.’ Old enemies were honoured or despised according to their readiness to be disembowelled: ‘Johnny Turk was a great fighter . . . met you with The Bayonet man to man. But Fritz didn’t like cold-steel. He only had to see The Bayonet . . . and up’d go his hands and Kamerad!’ The preoccupation is to be seen in the Australian Military Emblem, the so-called Rising Sun, introduced with the establishment of the Australian Military Forces along with semblance of nationhood, which in fact is a semi-circle of Bayonets cropping out of a Crown. Yet so far are Australians from having a propensity for gut-slitting in normal life that their chief dislike of non-British immigrants is their readiness to use a knife in violent disputation. Judges and Magistrates continually rant: ‘We will not tolerate use of The Knife in this country.’ The bottle, the axe, the gun, the boot . . . but never the foreign Knife!

  Jeremy may have been dreaming over such an anomaly when he became aware of a face staring at him through the window. It was a man’s face, youngish, handsome, leanly dark, topped with a military officer’s cap — a familiar face. It smiled. Then it dropped down to peer through the opening, and a slim hand came through.

  ‘Jeremy!’

  Jeremy, staring, took the proffered hand, murmuring, ‘Frank Candlemas!’

  There was no doubt about the immediate pleasure of both in meeting. But even as they wrung hands, embarrassment smote them both, causing them to blink, to avoid eyes, to release each other. A little silence. Jeremy broke it, with evident effort: ‘How come you to be mixed up in this lunacy?’

  Frank was wearing the pips of a lieutenant. He grimaced. ‘You said you got caught up yourself in the Last Turn-out. Anyway, I’m not really a combatant.’ He explained that he belonged to a new
type of unit whose job was to survey zones of combat for endemic diseases, particularly malaria.

  Jeremy said it was about time something of the sort was thought of, adding that the casualties from malaria in Asia Minor had by far exceeded those wrought by the enemy. He remarked, ‘That’s where you’ll be heading, eh?’

  ‘They don’t tell you anything, you know.’

  Another little silence, while Frank stood hunched in the window. Evidently he had more purpose there than simple exchange of greetings, judging by his expression which changed instantly on Jeremy’s asking, somewhat constrained of voice, ‘And how’s the little lady?’

  Frank smiled. ‘Wonderful, actually . . . but . . . but being Alfie . . .’ There was a look of appeal in his eyes.

  ‘How’s she occupying herself these days?’

  ‘The book.’

  ‘Book . . . she’s on another?’

  ‘The great work . . . the one you told her to write.’

  Jeremy blinked, cleared his throat. ‘That’s nice to hear. How’s it progressing?’

  ‘Nearly done.’

  ‘That’s going some.’

  ‘That’s the way she’s been going . . . ever since she found she was going to have the baby.’ Frank smiled at the reddening, gaping face. ‘She calls them her twins . . . says they’ll be born together . . . couple of months’ time.’

  Jeremy asked, with evident difficulty, ‘Should you be going away at such a time?’

  Again the smile. ‘Not wanted . . . in the way.’ Then a slight frown: ‘I’ve been going to write to you since we’ve had movement orders . . . just as well I didn’t.’ The fine brows rumpled more. ‘I’m afraid the book might get her into trouble. She really should have the stuff taken off her as she writes it. That’s what I was going to ask you. She’d only take notice of you.’

  Jeremy asked, warily, ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Well . . . National Security and all that. She’s really gone to town on it . . . all the things you inspired her with. She’ll never get it published while the war’s on . . . and I’m scared that if the script fell into the hands of Security just now . . .’ The look of appeal returned. ‘Will you go and see her while you’re down?’

  Jeremy blinked.

  The starting bell rang. Frank seized Jeremy’s hand again, said urgently, ‘The baby’s yours, Jeremy . . . and the book . . . it’s about the You she’s always dreamt of since meeting you . . .’

  The engine’s whistle was hooting.

  The hand clung. ‘Will you, Jeremy . . . please!’

  The train jerked. Jeremy swallowed, nodded. The anxiety of the peering face vanished in a smile. The train was moving.

  A last squeeze of the hand. ‘Goodbye, Jeremy . . . God bless!’ Hand and face vanished. There was scuffling on the platform as RTO’s men and MP’s seized the belated officer to shove him aboard. Doubtful if Jeremy saw any of it, sitting staring blankly as he was, saw even the line of pallid faced and flapping hands past which the train was running smoothly, inexorably, it seemed.

  Still he stared as they entered the maze of glittering tracks, gantries, coloured lights, click-clack-clacking, gathering speed. He was still staring, when, with the glare of the city fragmented into mere flares and pinpoints, the conductor came and asked about making up the bunk. Jeremy told him to do it at once, and betook himself meantime to the lavatory.

  Back in his compartment, he prepared for bed, but not for sleep. For hours he lay propped on pillows staring out into the roaring and occasionally light-slashed darkness.

  At dawn, changing trains at the Border, evidently he was looking for Frank. No sign of him. However, when on the other train they’d run for about an hour it stopped at a small station beyond which a large encampment could be glimpsed through trees, he saw him amongst a crowd of soldiers who alighted. Frank was now looking for him, but only from a distance and to wave and then to vanish into khaki anonymity. The train went on.

  Then there again was the Queen City of the South, looking so regal — until you saw the rags of her outer raiment. Then journey’s end at the Interstate Station. There was General Sir Mark Esk, resplendent in khaki gaberdine with red tabs and gold braid as Jeremy never yet had seen him, walking across the platform, oblivious to the rigid immobility about him caused by the call to Stand fast!

  ‘How are you dear boy?’ Esk asked, taking Jeremy’s hand. Then he linked arms with him and led him towards a luxurious staff-car ringed about by graven images in khaki.

  They were whisked away through the city, towaras a hotel where the General had a suite and where he had booked a suite for Jeremy. Chuckling, he whispered that the ‘C-in-C properly has a mansion near GHQ. I’ve never been in it. It’s been under repairs ever since my appointment.’

  Jeremy was left to settle himself into his own quarters, with an arrangement to meet the General in his: ‘At 1100 hours. Have a perfect brandy . . . present from a feller from South Australia . . . Major Light Horse . . . vintner, don’t y’ know. Makes the stuff specially for himself and friends. Mentioned you as a likely friend . . . eh, what?’ Whiskers also sounded much more the soldier now.

  At 1100 hours a military flunkey, wearing white jacket and black red-striped pants, came to escort Jeremy. The General’s quarters were quietly luxurious to the limit. The large windows of the sitting-room overlooked an English-like park. Deep leather chairs were drawn up to take the view with the brandy. Esk allowed the flunkey to pour the first of it, then dismissed him.

  Esk toasted: ‘To the continuation of our friendship in uniform, dear boy!’

  Jeremy responded with a nod, but having drunk, said rather shortly, ‘I don’t have a uniform, Mark.’

  ‘Anticipated, dear boy. Maltravers wore your things at Lily Lagoons, and with customary thoroughness knows your measurements. So we had a few things made. Didn’t you find them in your wardrobe?’

  Jeremy, reddened somewhat, answered, ‘I didn’t have that much to unpack that I needed the wardrobe.’

  Esk was staring at him over his brandy glass, wondering, it was obvious. Jeremy took another pull at his glass, then, setting it down, said almost harshly, ‘Right, Mark . . . out with it. Why’m I here in such a hurry?’

  Whiskers blinked, took a sip, smiled wryly. ‘My forthright Jeremy! I’m not used to bluntness these days.’

  But Jeremy’s face remained set, his eyes demanding. ‘Very well,’ said Esk. ‘I want you to go to Malaya.’

  It was blunt enough to cause Jeremy to catch his breath. Having delivered himself, General Esk turned to the view. ‘I’ll give you the map. I’ve been almost completely outflanked politically. This new Prime Minister, while very suave, actually has all those elements of what it is that you’ve told me go to make a successful Australian. This is what makes him so popular . . . even with many of his opponents, in a grudging way . . . and, of course, what makes the larrikins in military high places agreeable to him. You understand these people better than I . . . but, I expect it follows that his sycophantic pro-Anglicism is part and parcel of the type. Mark you that I say pro-English, and not pro-British. That’s what appeals to the Blimps at home. That’s how he and his laddies are able to outmanoeuvre me. High Command would like to do exactly what I recommend . . . but have this sycophancy, which in my mind is a sort of confidence trick, all the while diverting them. They truly believe that Australia is behind the Old Country out of sheer identity. The fact that in high places the motive is political and military adventuring is beyond them. By gad, it was beyond me . . . until you taught me that this is no nation at all, but a haunt of confidence tricksters!’

  Esk sipped, glanced at Jeremy, who still was watching him. He resumed: ‘You may know that they’ve the liner Queen Mary here to embark the first contingent to the Middle East. If you don’t, you’d be one of very few.’ Jeremy nodded. Esk said, ‘There’s been no attempt at secrecy about it. On the contrary. It’s a show-off . . . nothing less than the Biggest Ship in the World for the Bravest Men. Some mo
re brandy?’

  Jeremy finished his glass, met the watchful blue eyes as he handed it.

  Having drunk, Esk said quite sharply, ‘I’ve got to stop this bleeding of this country of every man worth tuppence as a soldier. Let them throw away their first recruitment. For the most part they’ll be mere adventurers and no-hopers. I predict that with their larrikinism they’ll bring nothing but discredit on themselves . . . and on the British Commonwealth.’ The last was said with anger that brought up the colour of the thin aristocratic face and made the blue eyes flash.

  Whiskers swallowed the affront to English decency with his brandy. Then, his suave self again, he resumed: ‘It is subsequent recruitment that will count. They’ll be men of responsibility, who’ve had to take time to put their affairs in order before committing themselves to the drastic demands of war. The Seventh Division, Jeremy, must not go out of this region!’ The force of the last words left Esk breathless. He grabbed his glass.

  Jeremy asked, ‘You mean out of Australia?’

  ‘I mean out of the region in which danger to this country, and with it the British Commonwealth as a whole, really lies. If Australians, lacking imagination to live adventurously in their own country or in the wider Commonwealth, as you once said, must seek military adventure abroad, then let it be to places that have meaning in the defence of their homes and the Commonwealth.’

  The General paused, as if expecting comment from Jeremy. Getting none, he turned again to the view. ‘I was brought here, and sent here, to establish the defence of an utterly defenceless part of the British Commonwealth, against the only true enemy that institution has . . . and I’m not going to be put off by any European conflict that can only end, as ever, in the reshuffling of European power blocs. These Colonial Australians you hate are hand-in-glove with the Little Englanders I hate. The local Larrikin Brass counters my otherwise irrefutable contention that our defence is a local matter by declaring that the European war offers Australian troops essential battle-seasoning. But in what way? If the European war goes on, it will be a tank war. Fritz has concentrated on his Panzer. It was our tank that threw him off balance last time. Look how they’ve used their Panzer squadrons this time. Were any of their mechanised cavalry war-seasoned before they rolled over Poland? There’s only one way to stop a tank . . . and that’s with a tank. They soon found that out in Poland. If Fritz keeps at it . . . as I don’t doubt he will, because by nature he’s a military marauder . . . it will be with his Panzers. How will Australians, famed only as shock-troops handy with the bayonet, meet these? How will they be seasoned? They will simply fertilise ground that doesn’t belong to them. Britain and France are preparing for a tank war. Leave it to them, I say. I’ve succeeded in my contention to this extent . . . I’ve had a company detached from the Sixth Division, ostensibly to form the nucleus of an Armoured Unit, which will be kept behind here to train, with a few tanks I hope to have for them soon. The ostensible part is that the Brass expect they’ll be sent after them when trained. I do really hope to establish a full armoured Division, with mechanisation built here. But I assure you that none of these men or their armour will go to Europe or the Middle East.’