Long Flight Home

by Lainie Anderson

  I studied my hands. ‘Why are you so keen to fight a war on the other side of the world?’ I asked.

  He turned to me. ‘You think this isn’t our war?’ he said. ‘You think the Hun will stop at France and Britain? If everyone had your attitude, the Germans and Turks would be sailing into Sydney Harbour by Christmas. And there’ll be no one left to back us up. Will it be your war then?’

  He rose abruptly and left me to my bench. When he’d taken a couple of steps he turned back and spat, ‘God help your mates if they’re ever in strife.’

  I called out a lame ‘Sorry, mate …’

  I tried to clear my head. I was so thirsty.

  You know, that was the only day of my life I felt small.

  Chapter 2

  NARRANDERA, 1915

  I took a deep breath and opened the Alfords’ front gate as quietly as I could. Damn thing still creaked. How many times had I told Fred to oil those hinges? By the time I’d taken the few steps to the verandah, Helena had already thrown open the door and was standing there beaming.

  ‘Welcome home, Mr Oranges,’ she said. ‘I’ve been counting the seconds since you left.’

  She saw me hesitate, saw the look on my face, and straight away knew something was wrong. Thought I’d changed my mind about the wedding.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, her face fallen.

  ‘Everything’s fine, love,’ I said, reaching out for her. ‘It’s just that when I was in Sydney they made me enlist. An old copper practically forced me.’

  We were still in the doorway, half in, half out, and she gave me a little shove backwards onto the verandah. ‘What?’ she asked, folding her arms in front of her chest. ‘What do you mean you enlisted?’

  I rubbed my forehead. ‘I had to, love. They’re making everyone sign up. You should have seen it. Every bloke my age was in khaki.’

  She stared at me with a fierce intensity. ‘I thought you wanted to be an electrician with a Riverina fruit block, Wally. I thought you were going to ask me to marry you.’

  ‘I still do, Helena. I still am.’ I rested my hands on her shoulders and pulled her toward me.

  She shrugged me off. ‘So when do you leave?’

  ‘No word on when we embark for the Front,’ I said, and hesitated before adding, ‘But I’m wanted back in Sydney day after tomorrow.’

  She looked at me in disbelief. ‘The day after tomorrow!’ she repeated, raising her voice.

  I glanced into the street, praying the neighbours weren’t in earshot. She looked like she was going to cry, so I opened the door and put an arm around her shoulders to guide her into the hallway.

  ‘Is everything alright, Helena?’ Mrs Alford called from the kitchen. For a horrifying moment I thought she might come out, but then Fred said: ‘No, Mum. Leave it.’

  The hallway was painted a dark green and the light was always dim, but there was still no avoiding the photograph of Mr Alford. Proud white beard. Demanding glare. ‘I am John Alford,’ it seemed to say. ‘And who are you?’

  I turned my back on him and took hold of Helena’s hands. ‘Helena, darling, I’m sorry,’ I said quietly, hoping the others couldn’t hear. She’d started to cry now, in soft little sobs. ‘I’m sorry for enlisting, Helena, I’m sorry for what I said at the station …’

  ‘So I’m right,’ she interrupted with a defiant look. ‘You didn’t mean it.’

  ‘I meant every word,’ I whispered. ‘I just wish I hadn’t said it from a moving train, especially given everything that’s happened since. I’d give anything to take it back and ask you properly without this bloody war hanging over us.’

  She was quiet for a long while, biting her lip, then slowly shook her head. ‘There’s no point thinking about marriage now,’ she said.

  ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘lots of couples do it. Blokes heading off to the Front figure their sweethearts might as well be listed to receive a widow’s pension if the worst happens.’

  She let out a wail and Mrs Alford appeared at the end of the hallway, clutching a tea towel anxiously. I looked desperately from mother to daughter before Fred poked his head out with a ‘sorry, mate’ grimace, before gently tugging his mum back into the kitchen.

  ‘Oh love,’ I said, pulling Helena in tightly. ‘That was a daft thing to say. Nothing’s going to happen to me, okay?’

  I smoothed down her hair until she stopped crying. ‘Only two things matter—that I love you, which I do, and that you love me.’

  She pulled back from my chest and offered a weak smile, her eyes sad and wet, her nose red and shiny. ‘Love you … I do.’

  ‘Well then,’ I said, ‘this war won’t last forever, and when it’s over I’ll be on the first ship home.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise. Before you know it, I’ll be at the altar in St Thomas’s, watching as you walk down the aisle.’

  Then I went down on one knee, fumbling for the imitation diamond ring I’d bought instead of orange trees in Sydney. ‘Miss Helena Alford, will you marry me?’

  They threw a little farewell party for me, before I caught the train the following day. I’d met her family over the summer—older brothers and sisters all married, but not far away. Nice people. And always lots of ’em, noisy, with a crop of kids underfoot.

  I wore my Light Horse uniform, looking nothing like those other chiselled lads I’d seen in Sydney. The woollen jacket itched my neck. The felt slouch hat was too tight on my head.

  Helena promised there’d be no speeches but Fred stood on a chair anyway. Said he was proud to call me a friend; was glad Helena had found someone almost as short as she was.

  When they’d done three cheers, Helena said, ‘And when Wally comes home, we’re getting married.’

  Well, that raised the roof. Nearly put out my back with all the slapping.

  Helena and I managed to duck off together for an hour before the train left. We walked arm in arm over to East Street like there wasn’t a care in the world, and I felt a bit proud with Helena all lovely in her best green frock beside me. The uniform did make people look at you differently. Blokes would give a nod of respect and ladies wished me well. It was embarrassing at first—no one ever noticed me before—but I got used to it.

  ‘Maybe the war will be over soon,’ Helena said. ‘We can just return to before.’

  I tugged at the collar of my uniform. ‘I just don’t know, love. I can only promise to keep my head down, which shouldn’t be hard for a shorty like me, should it? And whenever I’m not pointing my gun at the Hun I’ll be thinking of you.’

  I was trying to keep things light, giving her waist a little squeeze when I spoke.

  ‘And one day we’ll start a family,’ she said. ‘Little cousins for all the others.’

  I’d seen the way she nursed her baby nieces and nephews, or sat on the floor with her head bent over a game of dolls or toy soldiers in a circle of nippers. I turned to face her, pushing my slouch hat back from my forehead and wrapping an arm tightly around her back. ‘Yep, one day we’ll have a whole brood of ’em. Girls who all love to bake sponge cakes.’

  We had a nice long kiss, right there in the street down from the pub with the late afternoon sun warming our faces. We didn’t even stop when the hollering and whistling started through the pub window.

  Later at the train station, Helena’s mum held me close, all rose water and soft cheek, and she whispered, ‘You’re family now. Be careful, Walter.’

  SYDNEY, 1915

  I don’t remember spending a lot of time with my father as a kid. He was a plasterer, and when he wasn’t working he was either eating dinner or exhausted, or both, and us kids were seen and not heard.

  Dad was a decent man, never raised his hand to us, or to Mum, and only ever drank when the house was full of aunts and uncles and Mum’s Irish ditties. I do remember him sitting me down once, on the old brown velvet settee in the front room. Must have been around the time I went to work for Mr Frazer the market gardener, but I was still a
t Richmond Public School because I remember tugging at the bottom of my grey school shorts, embarrassed and keen to get outside to the kids kicking the footy.

  ‘Not everyone can be the winner, Walter,’ he said. ‘But there’s plenty of room in the world for hard workers.’

  I can’t have been more than 12 or 13. Not a kid anymore, but a long way from being a man. ‘Yes, Dad,’ I said, relieved I wasn’t in trouble. And he ruffled my hair and it was over.

  One night, years later, my brothers and I got to reminiscing about Mum and Dad over a few beers, and realised we all got the same speech on that settee. The old man hated formalities, but he chose those words wisely.

  Take the army. They weren’t looking for anything special from blokes like me. Keep working. Keep your chin up. Keep out of trouble. And looking back, I s’pose the life suited me fine. I never minded a bit of routine or being told what to do, and I’d never lived posh. I liked the tucker too, for the most part, and the camaraderie.

  But there was this one bloke, Sergeant Patrick Copping.

  Copping was meaner than a red-back. He was a Boer War vet with a white puckered scar on his left cheek. He said it was from shrapnel; got it from some big siege when a handful of Aussies held out against the Boers. Reckoned he’d met Breaker Morant, too, but I say he was full of the stuff we mucked out of the stables.

  I joined up with the 4th Light Horse Brigade and my first day was at Liverpool training camp just outside Sydney. Some recruits turned up for training with their own horses, but most of us had to be matched with government mounts called Walers.

  And that’s when I met Copping.

  I wasn’t used to the humidity in Sydney and I remember my nose was itchy from damp hay and horse sweat. The horses were tied up to a long line of rope on one side of the yard and us blokes were on the other, a bit like blokes and girls eying each other off from either side of a dance hall. We’d been standing around for hours. Drizzle turned to blinding sunlight, turned to drizzle. My nose was running. My jacket was a lead weight. My eagerness to get a horse had given way to dread churning in my guts every time this bloke Copping swept his eyes past me to some other bigger, stronger recruit.

  You know that feeling when big kids are picking out their teams for cricket or footy, and the youngest or weakest kids are always last? You can either beg for selection or stand there powerless, and either way you look like a right dope. That’s what this was like.

  At 25, I had years on some of the blokes invited across the yard before me, and I knew Copping’s kind by the way he made every man grovel before stepping across to meet his horse.

  It took most of the morning—three long hours—until only two of us were left. The young bloke beside me was called Bernie, a thin, shy chap, all arms and legs. He was shaking and fidgety. I worried a bit for him.

  Copping’s small, nasty eyes finally found me. ‘Done much ridin’?’ he asked, spitting out the words like he already knew the answer. Nasty blokes always mistake shortness for weakness.

  The best horses were long gone. ‘Yes, sir, I can handle myself on a horse just fine. But I’m told this young bloke is a champion in the saddle. Might as well sort him out before you bother with me. Sir.’

  His eyes narrowed as he stepped forward. Without taking his eyes off me, he growled softly at Bernie, ‘Off you go then, son. Take the chestnut on the left.’

  Bernie bolted to collect a saddle and join the men paired with their mounts. ‘Walk, you dumb bastard!’ Copping hissed at him. ‘Don’t startle the bloody horses.’

  Copping came close, like those sorts of blokes always do. Close enough for me to smell tobacco and Pears soap and a hint of stale beer. He used a thumbnail to scratch at something between his front teeth.

  ‘Name.’ It was more a challenge than a question. He was a head taller than me and twice my bulk in muscle. Keg on legs. A vein throbbed at his temple, just beneath his slouch hat.

  ‘Walter Shiers, sir,’ I said, nice as pie, back straight and eyes forward like they taught us in the Barrier Boys’ Brigade, my old cadet group back in Broken Hill.

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Twenty-six next month, sir.’

  ‘Old enough to know you’re no fucking hero, then, Shiers.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He marched me across to the remaining horses. ‘Light Horse is no place for a man who can’t ride,’ he announced to the other recruits. ‘It’s a danger to every soldier in the regiment.’

  There were two horses left. And I’m not kidding, one looked a canter away from the glue factory. Bare blotches of skin on its neck, barely able to lift its head. To my relief, Copping stopped at the other one, a bright-eyed, bay beauty with a large white diamond on its forehead.

  ‘You heard of Walers, Shiers?’ he asked, scratching the horse behind its ear. ‘They’re named after this great state of New South Wales. All the Light Horse regiments use ’em ’cos they’re tough as nails. Where you from, Shiers?’

  ‘Born in Adelaide, sir.’ The other blokes were watching intently, waiting.

  ‘Croweater,’ he said slowly, his lip curling. ‘Should have known.’ The sweet smell of manure was turning my empty stomach.

  He looked up, like he was searching for something in the sky. He ran his hand slowly down the back of the horse and made like he was going to smack its rump. Frightened me. He shook his head, smirking.

  ‘This is actually a bloody fine horse, Shiers,’ he said finally.

  I stepped forward to take the reins, glad the game was over. But as I cleared my throat to say ‘Sir’ he cut me off.

  ‘So we might have to save him for a soldier who knows a horse’s arse from its head.’ He stepped between me and the animal. ‘You can have Bobby.’ He nodded toward the nag. Someone sniggered.

  I took a deep breath, doing my best to hide the disappointment as I looked over to Bobby. And then I did the worst thing possible. I hesitated.

  A nasty smile spread across Copping’s face. He looked at the waiting men and said, ‘There’s always one sloppy sheila holding up the crowd, eh boys?’

  ‘Yeah, hurry up, Shiers. We’re gonna miss lunch,’ said one.

  ‘Fuckin’ Croweaters,’ said another.

  ‘He thinks he’s too good for Bobby, boys!’ said Copping, stepping close and pressing a forefinger into my chest. ‘A Croweatin’ private should count himself lucky to score any nag from New South Wales. Get on with it!’

  I quickly collected my saddle and blanket from the stable manager before Copping could have another go, then walked across and held my hand to Bobby’s lowered mane.

  ‘Looks like it’s you and me, old mate,’ I said quietly. He nuzzled my breeches and I felt a surge of pity for the pair of us.

  ‘Right then, men. We’re done here,’ said Copping as I set my kit down, completing the line of horses, men and gear. ‘Head to the mess for some tucker, but be back here for drills at two o’clock.’

  As we turned to walk off he said, ‘Not you, Shiers. This yard needs mucking out. Get it cleaned up.’

  I missed my lunch, but truth is I was happy to stay back with the horses for a bit. When I was a kid, I’d never dreamed of owning a horse and such a fine saddle, or wearing all the new kit and the boots and the belts. I felt sad for my parents. Wish they could have seen me.

  I wanted to spend a few minutes with my new horse, too. The stable manager had some tea tree oil and I added a few drops to a bucket of water, gave the horse a rinse down to relieve the heat rash and it bucked him up no end. I introduced myself to Bobby, told him about Helena and the Riverina, let him know I’d look after him. Might sound daft, but the best horseman I ever knew always talked to his animals, made them feel safe and special. Willy Martin, his name was, taught himself to ride as a nipper on a station outside Broken Hill—nothing he couldn’t do on a horse’s back, saddle or no. He was a funny bloke, too, always daring us other Barrier Boys to try new tricks when the horse trainer had his back turned.

  By the time Copping c
ame back with the others, I had my jacket off and sleeves rolled up and was helping the stable manager unload hay.

  ‘Are you a Light Horseman or a stable boy, Croweater?’ Copping asked when he saw me. His stood with his legs apart, arms folded. The other men were lined up behind him, silent and staring.

  My heart sank. ‘Light Horseman, Sir.’

  ‘Well, untie your horse, race to the bottom of the yard and clear that jump on the way back. No saddle. No reins.’

  ‘No saddle?’ asked one of the other blokes.

  ‘Quiet,’ Copping snarled. ‘You think the Hun’s gonna wait till you’re all saddled up to attack, you soft bastards?’

  I eased Bobby out of line and warned him I was coming aboard, grateful for the time I’d had to cool him off. Grabbing a fistful of mane in my left hand and steadying myself with the right, I threw myself up and over his back, finding my balance after a wobbly second or two as Bobby adjusted to the weight. Without thinking, I smiled and looked over to the men. To my surprise most smiled in return.

  ‘Don’t get cocky yet, Shiers,’ Copping said. ‘My wife can sit on a horse. Doesn’t mean she can fucking ride. You fall, you’re out.’

  My stomach lurched, but I told myself it was fair enough. If I couldn’t rise to a 400-yard challenge in Sydney, what use would I be on a battlefield? Then I prayed like no Shiers has done before or since.

  Leaning forward, I gripped Bobby’s mane with both hands, squeezed my thighs and made a ‘K-K’ sound in my cheek to move him forward. We were a good fit right from the get-go, Bobby and me. Walers are bred small and stocky, with bags of heart. We gained speed and reached the bottom of the paddock quickly. Turning was tough—my left hand lost grip and I almost slipped down his right flank before throwing myself forward to rebalance and tighten my thigh hold. We took the log with me lying low against his neck and returned to the yard victorious.