1917

by Kelly Gardiner

  We have excellent and enormous draught horses here, one called Ned Kelly (because he’s a bit of an outlaw, says Miss John) and the other Nellie Bly, named after the daredevil undercover journalist. Actually, she is rumoured to be reporting on the Western Front now— the lady, I mean, not the horse—so I wonder if she will interview you and write about Matilda. I wish I was a daredevil journalist like Nellie Bly. Or maybe Louise Mack. I’ve just been reading her book all about her adventures at the start of the war. Some women do such amazing things. Even flying planes! But until the day I can have an actual adventure, I have work to do here.

  It’s quite a few acres, and we’re slowly turning all of them into orchards or flower beds or market garden. I get to do almost everything, along with Miss John and Miss Higgins. There are only two young ladies in residence now: Elsie, who needs a good feed or two, and Lila, who definitely doesn’t. Once we get better set up more girls will come. There are an awful lot of people who need homes and looking after at present. Not only do I get to be on a farm and learn a million new things every week, but we are helping other people, so Ma totally approves. I wish you could see it. I think you would be proud of me. I hope so, anyway. I’m very proud of you.

  Love,

  Mags

  The big Push. Another one.

  The infantry had covered some ground at last. They’d used tanks to break through the wire and roll right over the trenches. The British lines pushed out across the old road to the town of Messines, or what was left of it. You couldn’t really see where roads were meant to be along the Front any more, because the earth had taken such a pounding.

  So had we. Day after day the German planes roared out of the clouds and swept down on us while we tried to take photos or spot the artillery flashes. Our scouts took them on, time after time, driving them away so we could get out of the danger zone. Then it’d be like an allin fist fight at the Palladium on a Saturday night, with everything happening so fast you could hardly tell friend from foe, and bullets and planes screaming everywhere.

  All the aces on our side went out on lonely scouting flights every day, scouring the skies for someone to shoot down, while the German hunting packs did the same. They said it was more chivalrous than the fighting on the ground, like old-fashioned duelling in the air.

  Blokes like Charlie would get their blood up, desperate for a fight. Me, I was different. I realised after the first few scraps that I couldn’t really fly like a fighter pilot. The machine wasn’t up to it, for a start. All I could do was try to keep Matilda in one piece so we all lived to fly the next day. And if I’m honest, that suited me too. I was no ace. I’d stick up for myself and our blokes if anyone attacked us. But hunting other people down? Picking fights in the sky? I left that to other fellows and got on with my own job. It was hard and important enough for me.

  Luckily, our new Squadron Commander thought the same thing. He arrived on a rainy afternoon. We were sitting around in the Mess, waiting for the sky to clear.

  The door slammed open. ‘Bored, chaps?’

  We jumped to our feet. A few men saluted, but I rarely bothered to do that nowadays.

  The major looked each of us up and down. ‘Still here, Robinson?’ he said.

  I grinned. ‘Yes, sir. I was trained by the best.’

  Major Ferguson threw me one of his familiar lopsided smiles. ‘I tried. Glad to see it worked.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Relax, gentlemen,’ he said. He sat at the table. He didn’t need the walking stick any more, but still wore the eye patch. Some of the new pilots stared at him, in awe of the Military Cross ribbon and his obvious scars.

  ‘So, tell me how things are here,’ he said, looking around at each man in turn. ‘I’ve been briefed at HQ, but I want to hear it from you. What’s the situation in this sector?’

  ‘Pretty hot, sir,’ I said. ‘The Huns have got those new Fokker triplanes.’

  ‘Too fast even for you, Ace?’ he said, smiling. ‘Fastest aircraft in the air,’ I said. ‘The Red Baron and his whole circus have got them. In our RE8s, we’re like sitting ducks.’

  ‘That’s how they see us too,’ said Charlie. ‘Prey. Waiting to be picked off, one by one.’

  ‘But don’t you have a scout escort now?’ said Major Ferguson. His gaze lingered on Charlie’s face. I hoped he could see in it what I saw every day: a thin mask of courage over a swirling mess of frayed nerves.

  ‘It’s all right for those chaps,’ said Charlie. ‘They can give as good as they get, while we … we need faster planes, sir.’

  ‘To do what?’ asked Ferguson.

  ‘Take them on, sir,’ said Charlie. ‘Put up a decent fight.’

  Major Ferguson glanced at me. ‘What do you think, Robinson? Now you’ve had a taste of combat flying, would you rather be in a scout patrol?’

  ‘Not really, sir,’ I said. ‘I don’t think it makes much difference. When there are twenty planes charging around in a small patch of sky, you’ve got as much chance of crashing into someone or diving into a spray of bullets as you have of getting shot down or shooting someone else.’

  ‘As I learned to my cost,’ he said.

  Charlie leaned forward. ‘Don’t listen to Ace, sir. He’s got the wind up.’

  It was like being punched in the guts—my best mate, telling everybody I was afraid.

  ‘Charlie—’

  ‘You’d be a fool if you’re not at least a little frightened,’ said Major Ferguson.

  I glared at Charlie. ‘Of course I’m scared. We all are.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said.

  Perhaps it was true. Perhaps he’d gone beyond feeling scared. But the rest of us knew the truth. Nobody spoke for a moment.

  ‘We all feel fear,’ said Major Ferguson, at last. ‘Every man here and everyone on the entire Front, from the sappers to the artillery to the nurses in the Casualty Clearing Stations. I’m sure even General Haig has sleepless nights. It’s natural. What matters is how we act in spite of our fear.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But given that we are stuck with RE8s and we have reconnaissance work to do, no matter how boring that may be for some of you, let’s discuss tactics.’

  We all gathered around the table. Nobody had ever bothered asking us for our ideas before. Major Ferguson unfolded a trench map.

  ‘In a few days, the infantry will start pushing out towards here.’ He pointed to a little village on the map. ‘It’s called Passchendaele.’

  ‘I’ve flown over there,’ I said.

  ‘I know,’ said the Major. ‘Your photographs have helped the staff plan the assault.’

  ‘Good to know we’re not wasting our time,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Far from it,’ said Ferguson.

  ‘Not much is left of that village but rubble and holes in the ground,’ I said.

  ‘But it’s on a hill, and the German gun posts there need to be knocked out,’ the major said. ‘They’ve kept our lot trapped for months. Worse. They fire on our men every day.’

  ‘Will there be artillery support for the charge?’ said Charlie.

  ‘A major barrage just when the attack starts,’ said Ferguson.

  ‘That never works,’ I said. ‘The Germans hide in their bunkers and come out again when the guns stop. Don’t the generals know that by now?’

  ‘That’s why I want some of you to visit some friends of mine in the New Zealand artillery before the battle,’ he said. ‘If we put our heads together, we might be able to coordinate things better.’

  Even Charlie nodded. ‘Makes sense. I’ll go.’

  ‘Good lad.’ Major Ferguson reached out to touch his shoulder, and Charlie flinched.

  ‘But there’s still the small problem of the Red Baron and his mates,’ Charlie said.

  ‘We can’t beat them in the air,’ said Ferguson. ‘I want you to leave them to the fighter squadrons. Will you do that?’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ I said. ‘Richtofen uses his plane as a weapon, like a dart. That’s what makes h
im so good. He only fires when he draws close enough to be sure. And that’s really close. He can fly, I’ll give him that. They’re pretty sharp, those Germans.’

  ‘So if they can’t get close to you, they can’t get a clear shot,’ said Ferguson. ‘It’s that simple.’

  ‘And that hard,’ I said.

  ‘Of course,’ said Major Ferguson. ‘But each one of you is worth more than any number of Red Barons. What you all do is critical—not just for planning things like this, but for protecting the men in the trenches. So those are my orders. Keep out of the Red Baron’s way.’

  7 Squadron,

  Royal Flying Corps

  Proven, Belgium

  Dear Sis,

  Things are looking up. We have a new Commanding Officer, our old friend Ferguson, now promoted to major. It’s good to have him around again. And there’s progress on the Front too.

  Did I tell you about the mines they set off back in June? The explosions were so massive that people in London heard it. I hate to think how it felt for those poor sods in the German trenches. As if the world was ending, I expect. But they’re still there, holding the line, months later. Fewer of them, but still strong.

  I’ve flown over the mine site plenty of times. I’ve seen a lot of craters in my months at the Front. The ground from Ypres to Passchendaele is nothing but shell holes, most full of water after the winter rains. But I’ve never seen anything like that crater. It was as if a great monster had taken a bite out of the earth and then spat it out again. Over and over. Incredible.

  And somehow those mining blokes dug tunnels right under the German lines and planted bombs big enough to make a hole the size of a city block. They must have some nerve. I wouldn’t like that job, not for quids. Imagine spending your days and nights under the ground, with shells falling on top all the time. And the Germans were digging too, trying to do exactly the same thing. What if you came face to face, deep under No Man’s Land? Shivers.

  Give me the sky any day. It’s full of Germans too, but at least I can see where they are. Most of the time.

  Thanks so much for sending the lucky kangaroo for Charlie. He didn’t say much when I gave it to him, but he doesn’t say much about anything nowadays. Still, I noticed he tucked it away in his pocket. Every little thing helps. Every letter. Every thought. Every bit of love you send.

  We need to know we aren’t forgotten.

  Love

  Alex

  ‘What’s this?

  ‘It’s asparagus,’ said Miss John, handing around a platter. ‘This is what Miss Higgins and Maggie have been harvesting all day.’

  The other girls stared at it as if it was some disgusting slime. I’d never eaten it before either, but since I’d spent the whole day slaving over it, I decided I’d better try some.

  ‘Looks like grass,’ said Elsie. ‘Fat grass.’

  ‘Tastes like it too,’ said Lila. ‘I bet.’

  ‘You could argue,’ said Miss Higgins in her Very Reasonable Voice, ‘that all vegetables are like grass.’

  ‘Not spuds,’ said Elsie. ‘I love spuds.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Lila. ‘Why don’t we grow spuds?’

  ‘We will,’ said Miss Higgins. ‘But not quite yet.’

  ‘Try some asparagus with a spot of butter,’ said Miss John, still holding the platter in front of Elsie. ‘You might like it.’

  ‘Got any spuds?’

  Miss John sighed. ‘How do you feel about peas?’

  ‘Give us a hand, will you, Elsie?’

  We were raking over the far paddock. Miss Higgins had turned over the ground with the horse and plough, and now fine furrows stretched into the distance. Next, we had to drop hundreds of bulbs into the groove and rake the sandy soil gently over the top. We’d been working out in the spring sunshine for an hour or two already. Or at least I had. Miss Higgins had taken Ned Kelly into the next field. They were moving slowly and precisely to and fro across the ground, Ned harnessed to the plough, and Miss Higgins walking behind to guide the blade through the earth and dig in last season’s lucerne.

  Elsie sat on a tree stump by the fence. She was older than me but looked much younger, her legs skinny as sticks and scratched all over after a nasty collision with the blackberry patch.

  ‘I don’t see why we have to plant all these onions,’ she said.

  ‘They aren’t onions,’ I said. ‘They’re lilies.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Flowers. Lovely flowers.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘You’ll know them when you see them,’ I said. ‘They pop out of the bulb in summer.’

  ‘Don’t look like much,’ she said.

  ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘Truer word never spoken.’

  I straightened up, stretched my tired back, and pushed a few stray strands of hair back under my hat. Somewhere a kookaburra laughed—probably at me. I took off my jacket and hung it on the wire fence. Elsie plucked at a loose thread on her cardigan.

  ‘I’m famished,’ she said. ‘The ladies are starving us on purpose.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Trying to make us eat grass and all.’

  I sighed. ‘That asparagus is worth a fortune in fancy restaurants,’ I said. ‘People go to the market specially to buy it fresh.’

  ‘Rich folks are crazy,’ she said. ‘Why would you eat that if you could buy as many spuds as you like?’

  I rolled up my sleeves. It was one of Alex’s old work shirts, soft and pale blue.

  ‘If we can just get this row done, it’ll be time for lunch,’ I promised.

  ‘I’m too weak with hunger to work.’

  ‘Elsie, please at least try to help.’

  ‘Why should I?’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be here.’

  ‘Then why are you?’

  ‘Dunno, really,’ she said. ‘Mum put me on the train in Bendigo. When I got off in the city, this bloke tried to grab me. Miss Higgins was there, and she belted him on the head with her umbrella. She said it wasn’t safe to walk around the city by meself.’

  ‘She’s probably right,’ I said.

  ‘Didn’t have any choice about it though, did I? Needed to find work, see. Have to send money home to Mum. Anyway, Miss Higgins brung me here and I been stuck here ever since.’

  Her voice was defiant but she wrapped her cardigan tightly around her as if she was chilly.

  ‘You could always go home,’ I said.

  ‘Mum wouldn’t take me back.’ She shook her head. ‘She’s got enough mouths to feed as it is.’

  ‘Where’s your dad?’ I asked, but then understood, too late, that I shouldn’t.

  ‘Silly beggar got blown up at Gallipoli.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Elsie shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with you.’

  ‘My brother’s in Flanders,’ I said.

  She shrugged again. ‘So’s everyone’s. You want me to feel sorry for you?’

  That was exactly what I did want, I realised. Maybe we all did. Even Elsie. I decided to start again.

  ‘Well, you’re here now.’ I held out the rake. ‘And I’m supposed to be supervising you.’

  ‘Like to see you try,’ she said. She crossed her arms. ‘You can’t make me do nothing.’

  ‘I shan’t force you,’ I said. ‘Still, you wanted a job and now you’ve got one. You have to earn your keep.’

  ‘But I wanted to be in town, and go to the pictures and see all the fancy folk,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Work in a shop, maybe. Or a biscuit factory. Not stuck out here, shovelling horse muck. I can do that at home.’

  ‘I used to work in a shop, but I’d rather be here.’

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ said Elsie. ‘You go home at weekends.’

  She grabbed the rake out of my hand and stabbed at the soil as if it was the enemy. So she was homesick. I would be too, in her place.

  ‘It won’t be forever,’ I said.

  ‘That’s what they said about the war.�
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  Miss John, Miss Higgins and I had a secret meeting in the stables.

  ‘I don’t think I’m a very good role model for Elsie and Lila after all,’ I said. ‘We need reinforcements.’

  ‘You sound like Billy Hughes,’ said Miss John.

  ‘Don’t tell Ma that.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ asked Miss Higgins.

  ‘Perhaps we could persuade another daughter of a Peace Army member to come and stay with us?’ said Miss John.

  ‘I have a much better idea,’ I said.

  My old friend Lizzie raced out of Mordialloc station, bag in hand, waving wildly and smiling fit to burst.

  ‘A women’s farm?’ she shouted. ‘Truly?’

  ‘It’s not easy,’ Miss John told Lizzie, when we got back to the farm. ‘We face significant barriers.’

  ‘Called Elsie,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll sort her out,’ said Lizzie. ‘Never you mind.’

  Miss Higgins turned to me. ‘Yes, she’ll do nicely.’

  Lizzie was just what we needed. Together, we mucked out the stables and helped Miss Higgins finish off the asparagus harvest. We drove with her to the market and sat on our old bench, drinking our tea and watching everyone go by.

  ‘We need a plan,’ I said, ‘to tackle Elsie.’

  ‘You can’t tackle her,’ said Lizzie. ‘She’s not livestock.’

  ‘Could have fooled me.’

  ‘See?’ she said, her green eyes clear in the sunlight. ‘Why would she respect you when you don’t respect her back?’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ I said, though I didn’t like to admit it. ‘But still—’

  ‘You leave young Elsie to me.’

  When we got back from the market, Lila and Elsie were sitting on the front porch dangling their feet in the horse trough. They looked like they hadn’t moved from the porch the whole time we’d been away.

  ‘Hey, there,’ Lizzie called to them. ‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’

  ‘I’ve heard that one,’ said Lila. ‘Everyone has. To get to the other side.’