1917

by Kelly Gardiner

  Nothing else has happened since you left. Wasn’t it fine, though, standing on Station Pier with all those thousands of people—men in uniform like you, and that handful of nurses all proper in their capes, and everyone waving and crying and laughing at the same time?

  I shouldn’t talk about it like that, I know, what with how we’re supposed to be opposed to the war and everything. But I did think, when I was in the middle of all those people, seeing their tears, watching your friend Charlie throw his arm around your shoulders and laugh so hard, that maybe I can understand a bit why you felt you had to go. I said so to Ma and she gave me one of her hurt looks.

  It’s all very well for you, going on a steamship and getting to see London and maybe even the pyramids, but it’s hard on us to be without you, and hard on Ma especially. I know nothing bad will happen to you over there and you’ll be far away from the fighting, but I’ll worry about you until the day you step back on the pier and we get to wave hello instead of goodbye.

  Yours sincerely,

  Your loving sister Maggie

  Ten days out to sea, Major Blake sent for me.

  ‘Crikey,’ Charlie said. ‘What have you done now?’

  I shrugged. ‘Probably wants me to report on your recent crimes.’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘How much is my silence worth to you?’

  He grinned. ‘Best not keep him waiting,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’

  It wasn’t until I was halfway up the stairs to the Major’s cabin that I wondered why Charlie had wished me luck. What had I done now?

  I knocked on the door and heard a sharp reply, so I took a deep breath and walked in. The senior officers weren’t living in luxury, but the cabin was a sight larger than the bunk room I shared with the rest of the ground crew. Major Blake sat at a small makeshift desk under the porthole.

  I saluted.

  ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

  ‘Indeed I did,’ he said. ‘Stand at ease, Robinson.’

  I didn’t move a muscle. Not at ease. Not one little bit. I’d never been alone with the Major before. In fact, I’d never even seen him so close up. His hair was shot through with grey, although he can’t have been that old, and his nose was sunburned, just like mine.

  He smiled. ‘I understand the chaps call you “Ace”?’

  ‘It’s a joke, sir,’ I said. ‘Because I’m slightly obsessed with aircraft.’

  ‘Just slightly?’

  I smiled too. ‘Maybe more than slightly, sir.’

  ‘That’s what I heard,’ he said. He leaned back in his chair until it creaked. ‘Do you know what else I hear?’

  Now I’m in for it, I thought. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You can tell what ails a plane just by the sound of it,’ he said. ‘You anticipate problems before they happen. And you’re the best fitter we’ve got, so the story goes.’

  I blinked. ‘Don’t know about all that, sir.’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ he said. He glanced down at one of the papers on his desk. ‘You were an engineer before enlisting?’

  ‘Almost, sir,’ I said. ‘A fitter and turner.’

  ‘Put yourself through trade school?’

  ‘Yes, sir. At the Mechanics Institute. Night class. Worked for the Tramways during the day. But then … Well, I signed up for the Flying Corps.’

  He nodded. ‘Just so you could get your hands on an aircraft engine?’

  I chuckled. ‘That’s about the truth of it, sir.’

  ‘Exactly as I thought.’ He looked up, right into my face. I shifted my gaze straight ahead. There was nothing outside the porthole but ocean.

  ‘When did it start?’ His voice was gentle.

  ‘My dad took me to see Harry Hawker fly.’ I smiled at the memory. ‘It was before the war started. There were thousands of people there, at Caulfield Racecourse, just to watch one man and his machine.’

  ‘I remember it well.’

  I glanced down. His smile widened, so I went on. ‘Then a few months later, Guillaux came to town with his Bleriot. I watched every display. Everyone was mad for him because he looped the loop and landed at Government House. But that plane … Ah!’

  ‘I remember that too,’ said Major Blake. ‘The days of sunshine and glory. I suspect that one Frenchman convinced more men to enlist in the Flying Corps than any recruitment poster.’

  ‘Too right,’ I said. ‘I would’ve joined up that day if they’d declared war. But I was still an apprentice then.’

  And my parents would never have given permission for me to enlist. They were opposed to the war from the very start. But I didn’t tell Major Blake that. Instead I said, ‘Guillaux had three mechanics. None of them could speak much English, but I hung about all day every day, and eventually Monsieur Cominos took pity on me and sneaked me into the hangar to look at the plane. I’d never seen anything so beautiful.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what we’re going to do with you, Robinson,’ said Major Blake. ‘On one hand, we need fellows like you in the workshop, keeping our aircraft in the air.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But on the other,’ he said with a grin, ‘I think we might make a damn fine pilot out of you.’

  Charlie was waiting for me outside. He looked as stunned and nervous as I felt. A couple of the other pilots were there too, milling about.

  ‘So?’ asked Charlie.

  I shook my head, trying to make the news stick in my brain.

  ‘He’s sending me to pilot training,’ I said. ‘Me!’

  ‘Now the Hun’s in trouble.’ Charlie grabbed me, twisted me round, and lifted me right up to face the others. ‘Gentlemen, I give you Cadet Robinson!’

  ‘Hoorah!’ They all shouted and carried on like pork chops, jostling and shoving me outside onto the deck. Banjo Boyd sang an impromptu song in my honour: ‘Ace is going to be an ace!’ The ground crew on the deck below sent up a cheer.

  ‘How did you know?’ I asked Charlie when the ruckus died down.

  ‘I tried to talk Major Blake out of it,’ said Charlie. ‘But he wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ I said. ‘You never.’

  ‘Well, maybe I did recommend you,’ he admitted. ‘But I needn’t have. Apparently I was only one of several.’

  ‘I can’t believe it’s happening,’ I said. ‘Blokes like me don’t get to be officers.’

  ‘And why not?’ said Charlie. ‘For goodness’ sake. This is the modern world. Blokes like you should be promoted on merit.’

  Easy for him to say, of course. He never had to win a scholarship to go to a fancy school, or leave it at fourteen to be an apprentice. There was no doubt, when Charlie enlisted, that he’d be an officer, like all his brothers. University cadets, father a lawyer. That’s how the world works.

  And that’s what Ma always said: this war churned through the working classes as if all those thousands of men were just cannon fodder. Officers had it better. Officers—

  I sat down suddenly on the nearest bench.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Charlie asked. ‘Good news too much for you?’

  ‘My mother’s going to kill me.’

  He sat down next to me. ‘Ace,’ he said, ‘given all the people who are about to try to kill you, your mother is the least of your worries.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear,’ I said. ‘A positive attitude.’

  ‘Seriously,’ he said. ‘You’re going to be an officer. A pilot. It’s a great honour. Girls will fall adoringly at your feet. Men will admire and envy you.’

  ‘You’ve been reading too many enlistment pamphlets. How many girls have ever fallen adoringly at your feet?’

  ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘Anyway, girls aren’t that daft.’

  He patted my arm. ‘You’ve grown up around fierce women. It has affected your view of the world.’

  ‘Too right,’ I said. ‘And I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

  November, 1916

  HMAT Ulysses

&
nbsp; At sea

  Dear Sis,

  I wish I could tell you where I am but it’s a secret. See if you can guess. It’s a port halfway to England, and I hoped there might be lions and elephants here but I haven’t seen any.

  Not likely to either, since they won’t let us off the ship. We’re floating about waiting for more troop transports to join the convoy, and then we’ll be off again. I have to admit, I like aircraft a lot more than boats.

  Now, I have some news, and I want you to break it to Dad and Ma as gently as you can. I’ve been promoted! The CO has offered to put me through pilot training once we get to England. That’s not a thing that happens every day. I never imagined it’d happen to me. But he reckons I can make a go of it, so I’ll try my very best. They’re already cramming my head full of navigation and map reading and goodness knows what.

  Just think of it, Sis. When the war’s over, I’ll come home an officer. Maybe I can even start my own business. I’ll put aside a bit each week (I get paid more!) so I can buy a garage, and fix up cars and trucks and planes. Have a car of my own. Maybe even a plane. Imagine that.

  That’s what I tell myself anyway. Everything will be all right. But I know Ma will worry about me flying, so tell her not to fret. And Dad won’t be happy because he hates the war. But you tell him … I don’t know. Tell him a man has to do his bit. Just like it says on the posters. I know I promised I wouldn’t get into any danger, and I’ll try not to. We’re a reconnaissance squadron, so all we have to do is fly around taking photos. And we don’t have to shoot anyone. It’s the scouts that get into those famous dogfights. Not us.

  Anyway, we have to spend months and months in training and the war will probably be over by the time we’ve finished. You bet it will.

  Your loving brother,

  A

  It was a blazing hot summer. The war had ground on for more years than we’d ever dreamed was possible. In every suburb, sometimes in every street, there were families in mourning. After Gallipoli, we thought we’d seen the end of suffering. But there was fighting in Palestine and those endless trenches through Flanders and France, battles in Italy and all along the Russian Front. The war seemed to take over the whole world.

  It had even taken over our little family. Every evening, Dad spread the newspapers out on the table and read out the news from the Front. There were stories about battles in the desert and in snowstorms, between ships far out at sea, or across the rivers and mountains of Serbia. We learned the names of villages, forests and hills we’d never heard of before, and Bertie made Dad read out all the news about the British pilots flying high over France and Belgium. Flossie wanted to know all about the Light Horse.

  ‘What are the horses’ names?’ she asked.

  ‘Not listed,’ said Dad.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ said Flossie. ‘They do all the running around. The soldiers just sit there, and get medals and everything.’

  Dad nodded. ‘I’d never thought about that.’

  ‘If I had a horse,’ Bertie announced, ‘I’d call him Bertie.’

  ‘If I had a horse,’ said Flossie, ‘I wouldn’t let her get taken for the war.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Bertie. Then he started crying. ‘Don’t let the Army take him away.’

  Mum squeezed his arm. ‘Darling,’ she said gently, ‘you don’t have a horse.’

  ‘Oh yeah. I forgot.’

  But usually Ma pretended not to listen. She didn’t like all the news of attacks and casualties, and Pushes and artillery barrages. She especially didn’t like to hear about plane crashes. The newspapers printed all the stories of Great Deeds by Our Men and Australia’s Finest in Action, but they also published news from places like St Petersburg and the latest reports from German newspapers. Most mornings, the news from the Front was all of New Breakthrough and Glorious Victory, but then the next day it didn’t seem as if anything had changed. We would look carefully at the maps, and the trenches stayed where they were, pretty much.

  The hoo-ha of the conscription debate died down— for us, at least. Not for the politicians, who bickered and split and voted and carried on. Billy Hughes hung on as prime minister, even though he was kicked out of his own party.

  His life was simple compared to mine.

  ‘Dad,’ I said one evening, over treacle pudding. ‘Is it all right if I don’t go back to school this year?’

  His spoon, halfway to his mouth, stopped in mid-air. ‘You what?’

  Ma told the little ones to go to bed. Now. That was not a good sign.

  ‘The thing is,’ I said, ‘with Alex gone, everything seems so different.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with your education?’ asked Ma.

  ‘A very good question,’ said Dad.

  They waited for my answer. They like a good debate, those two, but when it comes to important matters they can be terrifyingly patient.

  ‘I know we don’t support the war,’ I said, ‘but we do have to look after the people who are in it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Ma said. ‘But I still don’t see what that’s got to do with you. You and Alex are the first members of this family to have a proper education.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I really do.’

  ‘Most girls your age have already left school,’ said Dad. ‘If you finish this year, you can get a job then. You might work in an office.’

  ‘That’s not enough,’ I said. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Then you could be a teacher,’ said Ma.

  ‘You can’t afford to send me to teachers college,’ I said. ‘Let’s face it.’

  ‘We do our best,’ said Dad.

  I touched his hand. ‘I know you do. Truly.’

  ‘I’ll never get rich working for the Railways,’ said Dad. ‘Nobody’s rich now. Except people making explosives.’

  Ma stared at me, her face grim. ‘We want you to set an example for other girls.’

  ‘But I still could, just in a different way. Women are getting jobs in other places—building things and working machinery—with all the men away.’

  ‘That’s true in Britain,’ said Ma. ‘Not here. The government doesn’t want to encourage young ladies to work.’

  ‘But that’s the sort of job I want. Something a man might do.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very ladylike,’ said Ma—the same woman who shouts at politicians and marches in the streets chanting slogans.

  ‘It might be my only chance,’ I said. ‘When the soldiers come home, we’ll all have to go back to working in offices and shops. So we ought to have interesting jobs in the meantime.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Dad. ‘That is a splendid political argument.’

  They swapped glances. I could feel them weakening— it was the biggest strategic defeat of the war so far.

  ‘Say we agreed to this scheme,’ said Ma. ‘Where on earth would you get a job?’

  ‘Somewhere exciting,’ I said. ‘Herding cattle or working in the shipyards or driving trucks.’

  ‘I know just the place,’ she said.

  January, 1917

  Station Street,

  Coburg

  Dear Dingbat,

  Oh yes, very funny. Get promoted to fly aeroplanes at the Front and leave your poor sister to tell the parents. Maybe you are a coward after all (just joking).

  They took the news as well as can be expected. Ma smashed all the good china and Dad drove his fist through the kitchen wall. Just joking again. That’s one good thing about growing up with pacifists. Instead, they both went very quiet and didn’t say much for a few days. I could hear them whispering to each other in the evenings, but I couldn’t make out what they said. After a while, everything returned to normal. You can get used to anything, I guess. Even missing your brother every moment of the day, which I do, by the way.

  Your letter reached us just after New Year, so I hope by now you are happily ensconced in some luxurious English castle, being waited on by minions, and spend your evenings wearing full dress uniform and maki
ng toasts to the King before smashing your brandy glass in the fireplace. Do they still do that? Are there minions?

  Bertie wants to know if it’s snowing where you are. It’s roasting here, as usual. And Flossie wants to know if you’ve seen a Zeppelin yet, and could you please bring one home for her? I think she imagines they are the same size as their photographs in the newspaper. I explained to her that they are enormous airships and twice the size of a sea-going ship, but she still asked that you bring one home if you can.

  As for me, I have news of my own. You aren’t the only one to get a promotion. I’ve promoted myself right out of school and into Cardigan’s House of Quality. You know, the ladies wear shop on Lygon Street, just near the bank? I work there five days and a half day on Saturday, and have to wear my best clothes all the time, which is awkward because I don’t have that many.

  So when you come home, you can pop in and buy one of those fancy silk scarves the flying aces wear. But don’t expect a discount. The boss watches me like a hawk.

  Love,

  Mags

  It was dark by the time the train pulled into Oxford station. There was nobody to meet us, just a clutch of officers waiting to get on board and head back to London. A paperboy about Flossie’s age shouted down the platform.

  ‘Get your copy here! Hun submarines back in the hunt.’

  Banjo rummaged in his pocket for some coins.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘For you, sir, threepence.’

  ‘How much for anyone else, eh?’

  ‘Tuppence.’

  Banjo chuckled. ‘Here.’ He gave the kid sixpence and took a copy of the newspaper.

  ‘Thanks, mister.’ The boy sprinted off before Banjo could change his mind.

  Banjo held the front page up to the lamplight. ‘Looks like the Germans are attacking our ships again.’

  ‘We got here just in time,’ I said.

  ‘Not soon enough,’ said Charlie. ‘We have to get over there and stop them.’

  Banjo shivered. ‘Imagine being a submariner. Under the water. Dark all the time. How do those things even work? Wouldn’t be one of those blokes for quids.’