One Place

by Cara Shaw

  There was complete silence in the transport truck where twelve soldiers were jammed tightly against one another, each holding their rifle upright.

  Eventually someone said, “Where are we going?”

  “Amiens,” came the reply, and silence descended once again.

  Most of the soldiers who were being sent back into combat had come from the convalescent house located at the rear of the hospital. Those whose injuries were minor, but still required decent recovery time had been sent there from the wards, and for some it wasn’t a bad reprieve from the hellish reality of fighting daily. Their injuries were mostly flesh wounds and grazing’s from stray bullets. A few had come down with trench foot and had spent their time in the house scraping the soles of their feet and drying them out by the coal grate, knowing that once healed they would be sent back to the frontline.

  Amiens was where the most intense fighting was now taking place. One of the men in the truck was crying openly and the others were careful not to acknowledge him. They had all come in from the field, and each knew what they were going back to. They were not the buoyant green young men they were at the beginning of the war and most had witnessed some horrible sights. Visions of heads blowing apart, dismembered limbs with rats feasting on the blue-tinged fingers of corpses were not images that a man could ever really forget.

  A young soldier turned to Robbie, “What was up with you?” he asked casually.

  “I was gassed,” replied Robbie

  “Gassed … one tick, are you the bloke what lived through it?” he said excitedly.

  Robbie nodded hesitantly, “Yeah, I suppose…”

  “I say,” said the young soldier in awe, “Everyone knows about you. You’re the Australian that didn’t cop it when everyone else did!” His face lit up.

  Robbie couldn’t understand why he looked so pleased and then he glanced around the truck; all the soldiers were looking at him in admiration.

  “You’re alright mate!” said one.

  “Blimey, I’m glad you’re in my transport – my lucky day,” said another beaming.

  The rest of them were murmuring amongst themselves and giving Robbie approving looks. It appeared that his provident survival and presence on the truck had elevated his status to that of a good luck charm and he wasn’t about to try and change their minds. The truck hammered on, heading with a convoy of others to deposit the men near Amiens where they were to join the other troops.

  The soldiers on this particular day had been picked up from various points, hospitals, bombed out villages, military camps – the remainders of decimated regiments and sections that were right in the midst of the war, that were now being split up and absorbed to make up new divisions. Robbie’s truck was heading for the British Fourth, a regiment that included British, Australian, New Zealand and American soldiers. By the end of August 1918, the Allies were gaining substantial advantage against the Germans and the Russians. Both sides were worn down, both were low on food and artillery, and the human cost had gone far beyond what either had envisaged. The conflict was at a tipping point, and troops on both sides were horribly aware of this fact. Some of them barely knew what they were fighting for anymore, and had entered into a detached state. They did what they were told, and went where they were sent, hoping to survive long enough to get back home. Robbie’s goals were entirely different. The last two years he had spent in the army was the first time he had ever earned a wage, and he saw the military as merely his employer. He had no real idea what the war was actually about, only that it was his job to kill Germans. His life had changed radically from the simple existence he had led in the camp outside Billington. He was now a trained soldier and with his natural athletic ease and good eye, had become a supreme shot. He had an innate way of looking at the big picture and working out solutions, and people tended to listen to his ideas. The other men took no notice of his skin colour and he was quick witted and funny, and he always shared everything – just as he had been taught to do since he was a small child. All of these factors contributed to his development into a fine soldier, and his uncanny ability to survive in the most dangerous military zone in the world. His new maturity inspired him, now he wanted more, he wanted to take everything he had learnt back home with him and build a new life, for him, for Maria and his people.

  It took about five hours to travel from Ypres to Amiens on roads that were riddled with muddy potholes and abandoned articles that ranged from walnut chiffoniers to broken cannon carts, all of which gave a surreal dimension to the war-ravaged landscape. The truck finally lurched to a halt and the men began to disembark. As the first man edged past him he felt a tap on his knee and then another his shoulder. Then it was his turn to jump off the truck and the taps continued as the men jogged past him. Then suddenly it came to Robbie what they were doing; touching him for luck. They might as well he thought, we all need it. The troops were set down on the outskirts of Amiens and sorted into their divisions. Then they were ordered to sit and eat the rations from their packs; the ubiquitous tin of bully beef, wheat biscuits and a canteen of water. Robbie could barely eat or swallow and the food tasted like dust.

  He glanced around at the others and was aware that he wasn’t the only one who felt that way. The men sat grimly on the ground with their knees drawn up, a few were holding crosses to their foreheads and praying. It was five o’clock in the early evening, and Robbie thought it was probably a good time to move into the field, as it would now stay light until about eight. They were given fifteen minutes to eat and smoke and then received the order to fall into place. At their senior officer’s command all the divisions including Robbie’s, set out at a brisk jog to the front line. New trenches had been dug and secured by the engineers, and at given points the men jumped in and began to adjust their sights. Everything was eerily quiet, the sun had come down and there were no shadows to be seen in the long dusk. A blue and rose-coloured haze hung over the mud churned fields, and one or two seagulls that had blown in from the coast circled lazily above the emptiness, occasionally letting out a cry that to Robbie sounded mournful and portentous. Robbie’s crippling fear had left him and he was calm, accepting. He knew what was coming and had resigned himself to deal with whatever was to be his fate. He wanted to pray like the others, but he did not know God, and instead he looked skyward, searching in vain for the comforting constellations of his youth. He spied one shining orb that was hanging low in the dusky sky, the one his people called Moloo, and he was reminded of the moon legend told to him by his mother.

  In the Dreamtime Birong the Moon camped by the river with the Duradjuri people. He was very round and plump and had spindly arms and legs and the whole tribe made fun of his appearance. Birong didn’t care because he had a secret. He was in love with Moloo, the beautiful Evening Star who also laughed at him every time she saw him. Birong decided to woo her, and at dusk he would sit down in a circle of magic stones and sing to her. After a long time he won Moloo over with his persistence and they were married and had a baby daughter, whom they named Boba, the Morning Star. Boba was Birong’s pride and joy and she accompanied him everywhere. One day they were high up in a tree collecting honey as a special treat for Moloo, when Boba fell from a branch to her death. In the Dreamtime, this was the very first time that one of their people, the Duradjuri, had died and Birong and his wife mourned her terribly. The Duradjuri were very angry with Birong and blamed him for Boba’s death. Grieving, he wrapped her little body in paper bark and tied it with reeds, and then went down to cross the river so he could bury her on the other side to spare his people from even more sadness.

  While he was wading through the water he fell and dropped her body into the river and it floated far far away and up into the sky. Birong weeping, climbed out of the river and made a fire to warm himself, then lit a grass torch to carry through the bush so he could find his way home. The Duradjuri people didn’t know it was him and thought the flame was an angry spirit,
coming to punish them for Boba’s death and were very frightened. When they discovered it was only Birong, they became angry and threw him into the sky so he wouldn’t harm them anymore. There he stayed forever cursing his people, and said that instead of having eternal life they would all know death – like his Boba. He would be the exception and his life would be renewed again month after month so he could keep looking for his daughter. Now Birong lives in the sky and every night he grows fatter and fatter and then when he is about to burst he fades away again. Boba his daughter moves across the sky each night, following her father and shines brightly each morning so she can look for him, but is destined never to find him. At dusk you can see both Moloo and Birong together, forever hanging in the night sky waiting for the return of their beautiful daughter.

  Robbie recited the legend in his mind and thought that perhaps Birong and Moloo were watching over him too. He noticed that a soldier who had sat eating with him earlier, was now next to him in the trenches and was nervously checking and rechecking his rifle.

  Robbie caught his eye. “You’ll be right mate,” he said encouragingly.

  “Maybe. I’m Evan,” and the soldier held out his hand

  “Robbie,” he replied. “Didn’t I see you at teatime?” he said with a smile.

  Evan looked embarrassed, “Yeah. This is my first time. You look like you know what you’re doing, so I thought I’d stick close…”

  Robbie could see that not only was Evan very scared, he was trying very hard not to show it.

  “You did the right thing. Just do everything I do and you’ll be okay,” he said.

  At this stage all he had was hope, and for the boy’s sake he fervently wished he spoke the truth.

  Evan relaxed a little and stopped fiddling with his rifle, “Thanks,” he said.

  Then came a sharp singular crack that sounded peculiarly loud in the quiet trench. The first battle shot had been fired; and then the hell began.

  Robbie and Evan, also Australian, fought with the British Fourth at the Battle of Montdidier, which opened in the August of 1918. The brutal and heavily armed force took the Germans by surprise, and after three days the enemy retreated to the Hindenburg Line, allowing a significant victory for the Allies. Over the next three weeks the Germans launched fresh offensives despite the depletion of their supplies and artillery, and the British Fourth resumed its advance to the east of Amiens. One night in autumn the Fourth crossed the Somme River with the intent to further break the German line.

  Since that first day at Amiens, Robbie and Evan had fought side-by-side and relied absolutely on each other for survival. Over the weeks they developed an intuitiveness for each other, that at times astounded even them. Once, in the midst of battle, Evan suddenly turned and shoved Robbie along and down the trench and then leapt straight over him to crouch against a putrid wall. Robbie was about to bellow at him in fury when a grenade whistled over the embankment and blew up the section where they had just both been kneeling. Robbie’s throat tightened in fear, and he looked at Evan in horror.

  “But, but… how,” he was so choked up that he couldn’t finish his sentence. Evan looked at him in fright and shrugged in reply.

  Later, the Fourth had just received the order to march down to the Somme and begin crossing. Their target, Mont St Quentin, was held by the Germans and the aim was to capture it from the enemy by daylight. It was night, and the men crouched down on the embankment behind thick bushes and stone cairns, at the narrowest part of the river. They huddled together to keep warm while the engineers cobbled a makeshift bridge, using army apparatus and wreckage from the old bridge that had been blasted to bits. Dimmed oil lamps shone weakly over their work.

  “The bloody thing will rust away before we get over it,” said one soldier sarcastically.

  The others gave him baleful looks, all wondering how the rickety structure was going to support an entire regiment.

  “Guess it’ll be sink or swim mate,” quipped Robbie, and for some reason the other men found this incredibly funny and laughed hard.

  Eventually a signal flashed through the darkness and the men went down in groups of three to cross. The bridge rocked and wobbled, and they trod gingerly, there was no rail to steady them so they held their rifles across their bodies to balance their weight. Just as the last of the men had stepped off the end raft and splashed their way up the bank, they were bombarded with shells and the men scattered for cover. Robbie sprinted as well, automatically looking behind him to check that Evan was following – and saw that he wasn’t there. He fell to the ground and crawled back the way he had come, using his elbows and holding his rifle aloft, the ground cold and wet against his belly. He found Evan lying spread-eagled on the ground with one bloodied arm flung out and the other resting on his chest. He slung his rifle onto his back to grab Evan under the arms and dragged him to a rocky tussock and leant him against it.

  The night sky was exploding with shells, and the intermittent light cast strange shadows over their faces. Evan rolled his head to the side, and then opened his eyes, staring straight ahead.

  “Evan, Evan!” whispered Robbie urgently. Robbie felt something warm on his leg and looked down. There was blood spurting from Evan’s forearm, his hand had been blown off and the young soldier had gone into shock. Robbie acted quickly. He removed Evan’s belt and wrapped it tightly above his elbow and secured it tightly with the buckle. He pulled a canteen from his pack and trickled some water into Evan’s mouth to stop him from dehydrating and then covered him with his own jacket.

  He knelt down beside him and said, “I’m sorry mate, I can’t stay with you. I have to go. Someone will come, just hang on. Hang on tight.”

  Then without looking back Robbie ran on, climbing up the bank to pursue the attack with his regiment, wondering if he would ever see his friend again. The British Fourth went on to take the Mont, and by early October broke through the whole of the Hindenberg defence at the Battle of Cambrai, which signalled the collapse of the German effort. The fighting continued, with Robbie Dalton, an Aboriginal Australian soldier in the thick of it all.

  Finally, after the Battle of Thierache, Armistice took effect at eleven pm on the eleventh of November 1918. The Great War was over. When word came through the men laid down their rifles and sat on the ground, some wept bitter tears, others hugged gratefully, and not a soul cheered.

  Robbie’s regiment was deployed to Marseilles, where the troops were billeted in various cottages, bistro’s and bombed out hotels to await the arrival of their transport to Calais. During that week Robbie wrote many letters to Maria, addressed to the hospital in the hope they that they would reach her, telling her of his plans and hopes for their future. He kept her other address to her family estate in Italy safely in his wallet. He grew accustomed to his morning coffee and croissant, and spent some time wandering the streets of Marseille observing the architecture that had survived the war. He was drawn to the French style and discovered that he liked the design and structure of the houses and official buildings. He visited a few churches, still magnificent although many had lost their stained-glass windows, destroyed during the war. He was fascinated by the ones that he did see and marvelled at the coloured glass.

  Robbie didn’t tell Maria about the suffering that many of the men were enduring now that the war was over. The affected couldn’t speak and shook ceaselessly. One soldier’s jaw chattered so violently that his teeth had begun to snap and periodically he spat out small ivory shards. Robbie was told that this was called shell-shock, a condition that was now common amongst surviving soldiers of the war, and at one moment a sufferer would behave quite normally and the next begin shouting in high-pitched staccato yelps and covering their heads with their arms. Robbie too was shattered, but was aware that what he mostly needed was rest, sleep and plenty of food. He had lost an enormous amount of weight and his ribs protruded beneath his jacket. When their ship docked at Calais the m
en marched on, and after roll call split up to retire to their quarters. There was plenty of food on board, plain and good, and Robbie was able to eat regular and huge meals. Every day for afternoon tea the ship’s cook generously provided them with crumbly slices of mixed fruit pound cake, which Robbie loved.

  At the beginning of his six weeks at sea Robbie explored the vessel, once a retired passenger ship and brought back into service to transport troops. It was serviceable even though it was fusty and run down. While he was poking around he found an old ballroom off the passageway, dirty and covered in dust, and he stroked the shabby velvet seating with curiosity. Robbie had never seen a room like this and he guessed that this was where passengers had once come to mix and dance. He carefully closed the door and opened the next to find a spacious cabin fitted with wall-to-wall shelves that housed hundreds of books. The cabin also contained old chairs and lounges and a few musty Moroccan rugs.

  Weak ocean light stole through the few portholes that ran along the hull; too poor to read by until Robbie found a small kerosene lamp that was secured by bolts onto a side-table. He lit it with the matches that sat in a nailed down box, and when the room was alight, drifted around the packed bookshelves reading the titles of the novels on the spines. He pulled out one that looked interesting and sat down in a peeling leather chair that sent up a puff of dust as the decrepit cushion pressed down under his lean weight. The book was The Tale Of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, and after the first chapter Robbie was hooked. Over the next few weeks Robbie read as many books as he could, surfacing only for meals and showers, always returning to the library to jump back into whatever adventure he was reading about. He trawled through Thomas Hardy and fell in love with Tess in Tess Of The Durbevilles, and felt Jude’s pain in Jude The Obscure. He read Huckleberry Finn, The Jungle Book, The Mayor Of Casterbridge and Great Expectations, and was stunned to discover that Abel Magwitch had made his fortune in Australia. When the ship docked, Robbie felt a real pull over having to leave the ship’s library behind, and he ended up taking his favourite book, the Tale Of Two Cities with him, admitting to himself guiltily that this was the first time in his life that he had stolen something. He rationalised that since he was the only person who visited the library during the entire six weeks they were at sea, he couldn’t imagine that anybody would notice that it was missing.