Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  That midnight Moomboo howling to Igulgul beaming full magic from above.

  Here the Hour of Zero, according to the new count of time. Over there the Hour of Thirteen — and the Unhappy Hun, so close to the Devil always, rising compulsively to meet his doom.

  Captain Toby turned up the radio. A new commentator was speaking: ‘Well, it looks like this is his last toss. He’s not coming en masse this time. It must have been a bitter lesson that last one. Jerry learns with bitter lessons. He’s in for another. He’s coming in three waves from different directions . . . but, of course, our boys are up waiting for him.’

  Poor blundering Hun — still not a wake-up to the obvious fact that the British must have some device by which, beyond ordinary human viewing, they watched his every movement beyond the Channel. Up and up he rose, and then came heading for the inevitable. He knew he was beaten, according to reports, which came in swiftly to tell of the jettisoning of bombs in the marshes short of the obsessive objective, London, of fighters landing to surrender on cricket pitches. Finally the fiasco of the only formation that got through to London, there to be swooped on by one lone Hurricane, from which they all turned tail. While the announcer was laughing over it the All Clear sounded. He said, ‘Looks as if it’s all over bar the shouting.’

  But as there was no shouting there yet, there was none here. Captain Toby kept his crew quiet, or rather they themselves did, since most fell asleep waiting, even with Igulgul staring them in the face and the mosquitoes up from the river feasting on them. It wasn’t until the river timber was standing black against the silvering eastern sky and Igulgul was winking an eye through the western tree-line and news came in of a silly little raid at 1800 GMT in the vicinity of Southampton, the anti-aircraft guns of which chased the silly ones off to drop their bombs in the sea and the announcer said, ‘Well, good evening to you all, and God bless,’ that the Captain rose up and roared through his megaphone, ‘And now those three cheers that will echo round the world . . . Hip, hip . . .’

  HOORAH!

  It roused the cockies and the butcher birds five miles away.

  The Captain declared that they would form up and march over to the pub, but in good order and discipline till they got there. ‘Band!’ he bellowed.

  But McDodds was ready. Even if the Sassenach had licked his kith at Bannochburn, noo doot aboot it, there would hae been moore Scots in this English victory, as in every English victory since Scots discovered the principle of: ‘If ye canna lick ’em join ’em.’ He leapt to the lead, and without having to suffer the delay of tuning up, since there was not so much tune to what he played, swung away with jaunty swish of kilt, piping Cock o’ North. Captain and Band and crowd fell in behind him.

  The Lily Lagoons people came to the stable. Jeremy motioned them away to follow the pipes.

  Finnucane, quite drunk again, was weeping freely. He refused to be put to bed. ‘Le’ me dhrink meself to death, man . . . Ould England’s won for ivver, to the etarnal defeat av Ould Ireland . . . nivver, oh, no nivver, nivver, will we get off av us those last chains they boind us wit’ in Yeller Ulster . . . Oh, take me home wit’ ye, boy . . . me own boy, Jeremy . . . me son be what ivver soide av the bed it was . . . and I’m proud av it, because always have I wanted to mix the blood of Finnucane and Delacy . . . me darlint Bridie tell me, and ’tis no sin as I see it . . . so, Jerry, me son . . . take me home wit’ ye . . . and le’ me drhink and drhink meself into the forgetfulness of the Beyant . . . and bury me be the soide o’ me ould friend, your Da . . . and put upon me shtone what I’m croyin’ in me heart loike a lorn blackfeller . . . Poor Feller My Counthry . . . my poor Ireland now for ivver in chains . . .’

  Jeremy went to the utility. Before starting it, he cocked his ear to the procession climbing the further bank. Now the crowd were singing to the piping:

  Bonny Mary caught a canary

  Up the leg of her drawers.

  Half a croon to fetch it doon,

  And mind what ye do wi’ ye paws!

  When he’d pulled the car in close, he called to Shamus. But the old man was asleep now. He got out and went to him. The radio was still operating, perhaps switched onto its own power by the distraught Finnucane. As he reached to switch it off, Jeremy paused, recognising the well-known voice: ‘Never . . . in the long history . . . of human conflict . . . was so much . . . owed . . . by so many . . . to . . . so few.’

  23

  I

  No one would deny that the Battle of Britain decided the issue in what came to be called World War II, even if it by no means stopped the conflict at the time. The issue could be made very complex by delving in economics, history, sociology, but in fact primarily was the very simple one of whether the nation calling itself Deutschland was in reality what it had boasted so long in song of being: Uber Alles, or Above All. Now, that even the Deutschers themselves conceded the famous victory, tacitly at least, surely was made manifest by what came to be dubbed the Hess Escapade. Rudolph Hess, Deputy to Adolf Hitler, attempted privately and secretly to treat with England for peace. That his coup d’essai was in truth quite unofficial was quickly proved by Hitler’s promptly disowning him. However, that he embarked on it as the inspired representative of most of his countrymen and that such humanness finds no favour with those given to rulership must be acceded as being borne out by history.

  Hess, a strangely simple man to hold so high a place in a gang like Hitler’s Nazi Party, sought to treat only with the King of England, whom he believed to be a Man of Peace and true leader of his people, refusing to have dealings with him he called the Warmonger Churchill or his Ruling Clique. In disowning him, his Führer at first declared him an Idealist Suffering Illusions. Churchill’s first estimate was that he was the cunning emissary of a wily enemy, whose aim was to weaken that purpose he himself had declared as England’s, namely to bring Germany to her knees, by encouraging a movement for peace already extant in England. An interesting sidelight was Joseph Stalin’s opinion of the Escapade, which was that it was connivance between Hitler and Churchill to stab him, Joe, in the back. Thus do the mighty reckon: who lives by the sword in the hands of others must ever be wary of its coming anywhere near him.

  But what was most significant about the Escapade was the way it affected the world at large. It was top news everywhere for a fortnight, sustained by the idea that something of a miracle was taking place simply through one man’s having the courage to stand up in the middle of mad mass slaughter and cry, Enough! Was the day of miracles really past?

  Beatrice River and locality, for all its remoteness and former contribution to the belligerence, seized on the idea of imminent peace no less eagerly than most, and perhaps even more so than some. It happened that the Hess Affair took place at the height of that part of the war which claimed most of their attention, namely the Greek Campaign, in which, to judge by the little news available from our side and the lot from the enemy’s, Our Boys were being badly mauled. According to Winston Churchill, Our Boys, called by him Those Gallant Australians, were Fighting a Rearguard Action of Inestimable Value as a Contribution to Ultimate Victory. It was he who had sent them into Greece, as he had sent their fathers into Turkey. The region seemed to have some special fascination for him. He even had a special name for it — The Soft Underbelly of Europe — on which he harped in his broadcasts to the world, as if relishing it as something to slit; as if he were, as Jeremy Delacy made bold to say, ‘A Jack the Ripper.’

  Jeremy, taken in like the rest, and still more because he saw the thing as token that the genus he belonged to was not generally utterly insane, talked out during that strange period as never in a long time. In fact, ever since the Battle of Britain, he had turned his back on what he considered the lunatic sequel, to prosecute that little war of his own, more important to Australia than any other at the moment, as he averred, against the Feral Pig.

  Jeremy did some straight talking about Man’s being the only genus in the Animal Kingdom that deliberately killed
its kind. Unnatural as murder was, he said, perhaps it could be claimed as natural to a degree in Man, since undoubtedly the acme in achievement was the taking of a brother’s life, and Man with his intelligence could perceive that fact. Other animals would have no such urge, since they obtained no perceptive personal satisfaction at all. The vying of the lower animals in combat is instinctive service to the genus or species, obedience to the natural law of Survival of the Fittest. Hence the reason animals in combat mostly stop short of the coup de grâce, a killing when it did occur being rather accidental. But even if Man’s murdering may be considered as natural, it is no less perverse for being expression of his intelligence above his instincts, hence cannot be condoned. That there is a sense of guilt attached to it is surely shown in the general ban on killing without the faked excuse of tribal sanction, as in legal execution or war. Even then guilt is betrayed, with elaborate trials and religious ceremonial and the salutation of the fallen foe as comrade after the reek of war has blown away. The savage warrior eats his fallen foe to put things right with a show of ingesting his victim’s valour.

  Jeremy held forth like this at Finnucane’s on the nights of the couple of train-days that fell over the period, not going straight home as usual after the train’s arrival, but hanging on and even getting a little drunk, on the strength of the expectation of the miracle. He had pretty attentive audiences, too. A couple even took notes, one of these being the new constable who was working with Stunke, who had lately been promoted to sergeant. The other, a stranger, might have been only philosophically interested. Perhaps the least attentive one, excepting the plain dim-wits, was old Shame-on-us, who formerly would have been Master of Ceremonies, even if with the aim only to silence what he might have judged dangerous talk. Poor old Shamus, after a lifetime of self-restraint with what he called The Bahttle, had scarcely been sober since the Battle of Britain. Not that he was incapable of carrying on his business. His hard drinking was done in private. In public he behaved like an automaton, simply dispensing his wares and raking in the cash and looking as if he would be only too glad when alone again — he who had acted Mine Host to perfection.

  Of the Escapade, Jeremy declared: ‘Many a madman has arisen to put the world right . . . but this is the first time to my knowledge that someone simple and sane has done it. Now, it only remains to be seen how many other people in Britain and Germany are sane enough to accept him. The British can do it through their Parliament. A mere vote of no confidence in Churchill to conduct their affairs sanely any longer is all that’s required. Then the new Government, instead of sending over the bombers with the thousand-pound bombs and the poison gas that Churchill’s been telling the world he is building up for the annihilation of the German race if they don’t surrender unconditionally, ought to send over a hundred million leaflets, signed by King George and Hess, saying, “You had twelve months as Supermen. Surely that’s enough. It is enough for us that we put you back in your place as ordinary human beings like ourselves. We have got rid of the man who inspired us to stand against you, before he can go mad with self-importance and drag us to the destruction that’s all a megalomaniac can ultimately achieve. Now you get rid of your Messiah-turned-Mephistopheles. Then we can get together, unarmed, and talk over the grievances that started this damn thing, and maybe once and for all solve the problem of war”.’ He went on: ‘It may be natural enough for us to get involved in mortal combat, tribe against tribe, just to break the monotony of things, as blacks do . . . or to try to overcome our doubts about ourselves as being as good as we’d like to be . . . but internecine war is an evil that there’s no excuse for at all, except the negative one that we hate ourselves and want to destroy ourselves and all the things we’ve been at pains to make as intelligent animals. Surely we had enough of self-destruction in the Last Turn-out? You can’t blame it on the homicidal maniacs who drive us to it. They are in the minority. The people of Europe have far less to fear from defying their blood-lusting masters than they have from one another doing the blood-letting at their masters’ behest. As I see it, here is Man’s chance in all history to face up sanely to his first problem: how to make his theoretical brotherhood work.’

  But what a squib of a thing it turned out to be!

  What a poor little thing is Sentiment compared with Destiny. Both Hitler and Churchill were Men of Destiny. In all modesty they had told the world so, and were mostly so accredited, although for good or ill according to viewpoint. How deal with a silly yet potentially dangerous bit of sentiment like Hess’s? The well-tried method of all Grand Turks in silencing criticism that might appeal to reason is to declare the critic a madman. Perhaps its efficacy is due to the fact that only autocrats themselves are sure of their sanity. At any rate, Churchill, who had possession of Hess, put him away in a madhouse, with a kindly British injunction that he be given everything he wanted — except access to other lunatics like himself. Hitler concurred by putting away Hess’s relations and friends, or rather, to use the euphemism, Putting Them Down, since the Nazi system precluded the continued existence of any kind of lunatic except such as could with unfeigned fervour scream Zieg Heil!

  Thus was the way cleared again for the havoc so thoroughly inaugurated and so well planned for progression to the limit of human endeavour by what might be called the Best Brains of the most civilised nations of the world, meaning not merely Britain and Germany, but also the United States of America, Russia, Japan, all now spoiling to be in it to the knife. Poor Rudolph Hess! In his innocence he made matters only worse.

  At Beatrice River again it became dangerous to talk of Peace. Jeremy shut up, and went back to warring with the pigs, but gave himself to the latter with no such purpose as formerly. As he said to the one safe confidante he had left outside his simple household, Fergus Ferris: ‘By tradition the genus Sus scrofa is the greediest, dirtiest, most destructive creature on the earth. I’m coming to doubt if it’s any worse than Homo sapiens in these respects . . . and to concede that it’s better in one . . . it isn’t self-destructive. Maybe I’m wasting my bacteriological efforts on pigs, and would be doing a more useful job finding a less painful and more dignified way of wiping out our own race, than the accepted one, which amounts to the sort of suicide practised by some poor old disappointed prospector, who lets off the last of his stock of gelignite with a three-inch fuse.’

  Perhaps Fergus could be called one of the household now, since he spent most of his time at Lily Lagoons. It wasn’t only that it was a more convenient base for his shrunken aviation business, but a refuge from the ever-increasing pressure people were putting on him to get into the war. He told Jeremy: ‘If only the bastards’d charge me with cold feet, it’d be easier. I could tell ’em to go to hell. But the attitude is that a pilot with my experience could turn the bloody scales. They’re fascinated by aerial warfare now . . . Churchill-inspired, of course. The Battle of Britain was won by The Few. A Few More, and we’ll win the bloody war. One of our pilots is worth ten of the Luftwaffe. Tom Toohey more or less blames the Greek debacle onto me . . . “If only Our Boys’d had air-cover by a few flyin’ men like you, it’d never ’a’ ’appened.” Bitter like. No good telling him Churchill ought’ve thought of the air-cover . . . because he knows all about it . . . how the RAF there had to be in half a dozen places at once . . . and after all, it was a job for our own Air Force to look after our own Army. No good telling him our Air Force doesn’t have the kites. “What about your own?” he says. “In the Last Turn-out a lot of the Lighthorsemen took their own horses with ’em . . . Jerry’s brother Jack, for one.” Is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jeremy. ‘All the smart squatter-boys did that. Jack took a couple of good horses . . . one, King Cole, was as fine a beast as I ever saw, and out of a brumby mob. Matter of fact, he was grandsire to old Elektron. I’ve often wondered what happened to him after they dismounted Jack’s troop . . . probably finished up carrying some brass hat who couldn’t ride a donkey . . . and then got shot like the rest. We lost a lo
t of good horses in that Turn-out, too.’ He sighed: ‘Old Tom to become a Sooler, eh! Who’d’ve dreamt it? It’s on account of Brumby, of course. Poor old Tom’s hoped he’d come back covered in glory, join the RSL, and be accepted as a worthy citizen, instead of hounded as the mongrel outlaw, as he’s always been. He had a crack at me, too, over Clancy. He asked me if I’d heard from him. I said, “Why should I?” He called me an unnatural father, especially when I would know what my son was going through. As a matter of fact I had a letter from Clancy, and suspected that Tom knew and might even have a hint of what was in it. That new Station Master is a worse sticky-beak even than Col Collings. Clancy wrote to me just before going to Greece . . . poor kid . . . bragging about his soldiering . . . one old soldier to another, sort of thing. He happened to mention that Brumby Toohey was in trouble with the Brass and he’d been trying to put in a word for him. I felt that Tom was fishing. I couldn’t very well answer him straight, in case he pressed me. I just walked off. He’s gone crazy like the rest of ’em . . . with mixed grief and pride and doubt. He’s probably heard that rumour you picked up from the Air Force about the sell-out in Greece.

  Fergus had heard at Air Force Base in Palmeston that the Command had virtually bolted from the Greek Debacle, leaving Our Boys to the mercy of the enemy. The source could be judged reliable. Evidently the flying man’s contempt for the foot-slogger lent savour to spreading the unsavoury tale. It had become widely known and a source of some bitter argument. The RSL in Palmeston had gone to the length of advocating jail for anyone overhead repeating it. No Australian officer would do such a thing, the League declared, let alone the AIF’s beloved General Tubs. Still, it was a disturbing fact that Tubby was still being reported as alive and kicking, mostly in news from luxurious Cairo, while most of Our Boys who had fought the Greek Campaign remained listed as Missing. The General wasn’t kicking about the monstrous failure of the AIF in Greece. He was concentrated now on Churchill’s latest game with the Knife, and was greatly angered by what he called the Callous Indifference of the Majority of the Australian People. He wanted more men — more and more men. Jack the Ripper now saw Italy as the softest part of the Underbelly. The trouble was to get at it when about a million Italians and Germans under heavy arms in North Africa, had first to be brought to their knees. He particularly wanted the Gallant Awstralians in it. You could always count on them. As a nation of gamblers they never counted risks or costs. Not that General Tubs was classed like this, to judge by news of strife he was having with British High Command. Evidently by them he was considered more the Bookmaker. A more apt designation would be Ringkeeper in the Two-up Game, only the British would not understand the low-class colonial jargon. The Ringkeeper is always the first away when things go wrong.