When Our Jack Went to War

by Sandy McKay

  When war breaks out in Europe in 1914 people are excited at first. They describe it as ‘the war to end all wars’ and say ‘it’ll be over by Christmas’.

  To begin with, Tom is envious of his older brother, Jack, who has been called up to join the army. ‘He looked so grown up — and important and brave.’

  ‘Make sure you write to me every day,’ Tom yells to his brother as he waves goodbye.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ says Jack, with a grin.

  But as Jack’s letters home reveal the harsh realities of war and battle, Tom’s thoughts begin to change.

  Follow the trials of Jack McAllister’s family as they respond to the devastating events of the First World War. Their story is typical of many families …

  A powerful, moving and ultimately heart-wrenching story.

  — Dedicated to the memory of —

  Private John McIntosh, 27553, 2nd Battalion

  Otago Regiment, NZEF, killed in action

  12 October 1917.

  Son of Grace Sophia McIntosh of 375 George St,

  Dunedin and the late J. C. McIntosh.

  For my late Poppa, whose brother John went to war. Also, for Jim Baird, a great Aussie coach and a fair dinkum ANZAC.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1916 October

  Jack’s First Letter 1916 October

  What Do You Know About The First World War?

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Sandy McKay

  Copyright

  When our Jack went to war our mother cried and cried. Poor Ma — she really didn’t want him to go. But it was 1916 and the war in Europe had been under way for nearly three years. It was called ‘the war to end all wars’ and it was going to be over by Christmas, which is why they needed all the fit young men they could get — to help force the Germans to surrender.

  Loads of Jack’s friends were going off to fight. Some had already left. Tom Baxter from Blacks Road joined up last year. So did Walter McSkimming from Outram.

  Ma wasn’t happy about our Jack going though.

  ‘It’ll be fine, Ma,’ said Jack, trying to talk her round. ‘I’ll be home before you know it. You’ll see.’

  ‘It just doesn’t seem right,’ said Ma. ‘Going off to the other side of the world to fight a war that’s got nothing to do with us.’

  ‘But it has, Ma,’ said Jack. ‘England’s war is OUR war. That’s what the Prime Minister says.’

  Jack grinned. Then he put on his silly deep voice and narrowed his eyes like our Dad used to do, right before he gave us a ticking off.

  ‘Remember, loyal countrymen — it is your DUTY to fight for king and country.’ Jack pointed his finger straight at Ma. ‘And you must do whatever is in your power to resist our common enemy. And help defend the mother country.’

  Ma still wasn’t convinced. But these days there wasn’t much choice. If your name was in the ballot you had no option but to sign up.

  Ma shook her head, sipped her tea and gazed out the window.

  ‘What is our world coming to?’ she said.

  Since our Dad died Ma could gaze out the kitchen window for hours on end, wondering what our world was coming to. Sometimes she gazed for so long she forgot to put the dinner on.

  The window faced the patch of manuka scrub where Dad used to chop firewood. His old axe was still jammed into a tree stump next to the lavvy but Ma wouldn’t let anyone take it out.

  ‘It was the last thing your father did before he died,’ she would say, with a tear in her eye.

  When I first saw our Jack in his uniform I wished it was me. I’d never seen my brother so spruced up before. His jacket had buttons and pockets all over the place. And around his middle was a big brown belt. His boots were well shined up and the hat looked top notch. I’d never seen Jack in a hat before.

  Blimey. He looked so grown up — and important and brave. There was only one thing missing.

  ‘Where’s ya gun, Jack?’ I said.

  ‘He’ll have it soon enough,’ muttered Ma.

  ‘Is it a .22 like our Dad’s?’

  Jack laughed. ‘No. It’s not a .22, Tom. I think it’s Germans we’re supposed to be shooting, not rabbits.’

  Jack loved Dad’s .22. He could shoot a rabbit from 150 yards away. I couldn’t wait to have a go but I wasn’t allowed to use it.

  I wanted to be in the army too, but I hadn’t turned thirteen yet. You were supposed to be eighteen years old to enlist but Frank Morrison’s brother said you could get in at sixteen if you passed the fitness test.

  Still … even though I was fit as a fiddle and nearly as tall as Jack already, I would never pass for eighteen. And besides, if I went off to war who’d be left to help at home? It’d be all up to Ma and she had enough to do with looking after the garden and the fowls and everything. Not to mention our Amy who hadn’t started school yet.

  It was hard not having our Dad around. He died not long after the war started. Poor Ma. She cried and cried. I did too. But I didn’t cry quite as much as Ma.

  Thank heavens for Mrs Jenkins. That’s when she started coming over regularly — ‘just to keep an eye on everyone’.

  Mrs Jenkins lived around the corner, in Frame Street. Her first name was Nola but only Ma was allowed to call her that. They’d been friends for a long time, Ma and Mrs J. And she was on the back doorstep the moment she heard about our Jack signing up. They must have sat in the kitchen for ages talking because when I got up to go to the lavvy the two of them were still there — huddled by the coal range and warming their hands over another mug of tea.

  I couldn’t hear what they were saying exactly, but I knew it was serious and I knew it was about the war. I could tell by the way Mrs J whispered and stirred her teaspoon round and round and round.

  It all happened pretty fast and once our Jack was signed up he was on his way to Trentham Camp quicker than you could say ‘Jack Robinson’.

  The whole family went to the railway station to wave him goodbye. Ma wore her best hat, the one with the red feather. And Amy wore her brown pinafore. I wore Jack’s old best trousers and my new best shirt.

  ‘Make sure you write to me every day,’ I yelled to Jack.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said, with a grin.

  ‘That’s our Jack alright,’ said Mrs J, rubbing lipstick from our Jack’s cheek with her hanky.

  Our Jack always did his best. He was a beaut runner and a dab hand with a pencil too. One of his drawings of Brighton Beach got hung up in the church hall last year. Everyone admired it. Mrs J said it was good enough to pass for a photograph. ‘I’d be proud to have it on my mantel any day,’ she said.

  Our Jack was clever alright. There was nothing he couldn’t turn his hand to. After he left school he did odd jobs on farms around the place. Then, early last year, he started training to be a carpenter. He got an apprenticeship with Mr Kidd from North East Valley Joinery. Mr Kidd gave Jack his own personal nail bag — with a buckle that tied round your waist and initials carved inside the strap. But Ma said Jack’s building career would have to wait till he got back from the war.

  We kept Jack’s letters in a biscuit tin on the shelf in the kitchen, right next to the hook for his nail bag. The tin had pink roses on it — and a lid that didn’t close properly after it got stood on accidentally by our Dad. Some of the letters were addressed to Ma and Amy and some were just addressed to me. The letters were often held back by the authorities, for security reasons. And sometimes they’d arrive three or four at a time. It was up to me to sort them out. To put them in the right order. I liked doing that, sprawling them out on the mat to see which one came first. We read them together on Fr
iday nights when Mrs J came over to play cards.

  Our Jack’s first letter came all the way from Trentham army camp. I took the stamp off the envelope straight away and soaked it in a saucer of water — all ready for my album. I’d collected eleven stamps so far. Most of them looked the same. They were nearly all of King George, but in different colours.

  With our Jack going overseas I thought I might start collecting coins as well.

  October 1916

  Dear Tom,

  Well, mate. Looks like I finally got here, safe and sound.

  Your big brother is in the army for real now. Private Jack Donald William McAllister — 275530, 2nd Battalion, Otago Regiment, NZEF. (That stands for New Zealand Expeditionary Force.)

  We clattered into Trentham last Wednesday arvo on the train. There’re a few of us from down home. Some of them you know — like Tom Hendry and Ted Macleod. Cyril Jackson’s here too. And Stuart Croft. And Billy Prescott. Billy Prescott is in the same section as me.

  The place is a bit different than I expected. It’s been grey and drizzly since we arrived so everything’s pretty well soaked through. There are eight in our tent, all packed in like sardines. Billy Prescott and I are together — Stuart Croft is in the next row over.

  Things have been slow to get cranked up due to the crook weather and we’ve been confined to barracks for days. I spent all of yesterday arvo sewing on buttons so I’m getting a dab hand at threading a needle, if nothing else. Only stabbed myself twice — so not too much of a bloodbath yet.

  Best regards,

  Jack

  I read the letter out loud to Ma and Amy and Mrs J who sat round the kitchen table, peeling potatoes for dinner.

  ‘Let’s hope that’s all the blood he gets to see,’ said Mrs J, cutting a knobbly bit off with her knife.

  ‘Blood? What blood?’ said Ma, in a panic.

  Mrs J laughed. ‘From the sewing needle, Jess.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Of course,’ said Ma. Then they both took another slurp of tea and went quiet. They always went quiet when the subject of the war came up. Mrs J’s lips would go all thin with pursing and her cheeks dented inwards, like she was sucking the life out of them. And Ma would get her ‘what’s the world coming to?’ stare on again.

  Ma and Mrs J weren’t too keen on the war. Not like Mr Gilbertson. He was the butcher on the corner of Felix Street and North Road. He wore a black and white striped apron and always gave us kids free saveloys. Mr Gilbertson loved to talk about the war.

  It was Allies this and Allies that. Germans this and Germans that. He liked to jabber on about the Russians and the French and the Yankees. And other wars too. Wars with funny names. Like Boer and Crimea. Mr Gilbertson reckoned if he was a few years younger he’d be signing up quicker than you could say ‘Jack Robinson’.

  ‘Give those bolshy Huns a good seeing to,’ he said.

  Jack’s next letter came three days later.

  Trentham Camp

  Dear Tom,

  I’m pleased to report that the rain has finally stopped and yesterday we had our first route march. Blimey! I didn’t know a chap could walk so far. Nine miles, in one day! Talk about tuckered out. You don’t get much chance of a sit down at the finish either — not without a bollocking from the Sergeant.

  ‘Did you think you joined the army for a bloody holiday, McAllister?’

  Our Sarge has a voice like a foghorn and it’s a wonder you didn’t hear him all the way across the Cook Strait. I wouldn’t mess with him though. He’s built like a brick lavvy and I know who’d come off second best.

  Route marches are hard work, Tom. And the Sarge makes it just about as hard as he can. You have to march with all your gear on, which means a full uniform as well as your pack. Last night my back ached like billy-o and today I can barely stand up.

  I can’t imagine going into battle with a load like that! The pack weighs a jolly ton and some of the smaller lads are struggling. Billy reckons he hasn’t worked so hard in his life.

  I’m no slouch when it comes to fitness and I’m no stranger to hard yakka either. But it’s different work to what I’m used to.

  Some of the ‘townies’ are doing it hard. There’s one chap, Arnold Wilson, who came straight from the Mornington Post Office. I don’t think he’s done anything more physical than lick a stamp since he left school.

  Don’t get me wrong. Arnold’s a nice chap and I’m sure he has a fine knowledge of postage stamps but I think he might be a bit soft for a soldier. Cyril Jackson nicknamed him Stampy and it looks like it’s going to stick. I s’pose there are worse names to be stuck with, eh.

  Anyway, I can’t see old Stampy shooting too many Germans. But I guess no one knows until we get there.

  Best regards,

  Jack

  Jack’s letters were chocka-full of army stuff. He wrote about route marches and drills and what the food was like. Trentham was a different world alright but it sounded a sight more interesting than North East Valley.

  I always wrote back as soon as I could. Ma let me use her fountain pen sometimes. But mostly I used a pencil. I kept it sharp with Dad’s old pocket knife and if there was no paper I wrote on the back of an old envelope.

  Usually I did a pencil sketch as well. And sometimes I let Amy do a scribble, but only if she stayed in the lines. I wanted it neat and tidy. These letters were going all the way to Wellington and you never knew who might be seeing them. Jack sometimes drew on the back of his envelope as well.

  There was a lot to talk about. And I wanted to know every last detail.

  Dear Jack,

  Poor old Stampy, eh. What do you think’s going to happen when he meets his first German? Let’s hope he doesn’t lose his nerve and scarper. Marian Murdoch says you can get shot for that. Or sentenced to hard labour at least. She had a cousin up north whose friend was court-martialled. there was a piece in the paper about it.

  Do you know how much longer you will have to stay in Trentham Camp for? I bet you’re dying to get off overseas. Will you have to go to England first? Marian’s brother’s in France just now. I don’t know how big France is but it looks quite small on the map. You might run into him if you get there. She’s always going on about him. Marian reckons he’s shot heaps of Germans already.

  Pow! Pow! Lucky you!

  I wish I could join the army, Jack. It’s boring here at home with Ma moping about and no one half-decent to yarn with. Amy starts school soon so I’ve been helping her write her name. We found an old slate in the shed.

  The best thing about Amy’s name is that it’s only got three letters. I reckon school’s hard enough without having a long name to write.

  Talking of names … now that I’m acting ‘man of the house’ I’ve been trying to come up with a suitably serious signature. these are my efforts so far. Which one do you like best? the one with the curly A or the one with the curly M? I think I’m leaning towards the curly A.

  Lots of love from your brother,

  Thomas Andrew McAllister

  Dear Tom,

  The curly A looks classy, mate. Top notch, I’d say.

  I did hear about Marian’s brother getting wounded and he was lucky not to be killed by the sound of it. Must be tough at times and there’ve been plenty of lucky escapes. Some serious fighting in France by all accounts but I think we’ve given them a run for their money. Here at Trentham Camp the war still seems a long way off. Most of our days are filled with routine drills and marching, which is starting to wear pretty hard on the feet. At this rate they’ll be worn out before we get there. You should see my blisters, Tom. The leather boots are stiff as corpses and twice as rough.

  The march on Saturday went forever and a couple of chaps dropped out along the way. Old Stampy had to have a sit-down in the middle. I’d hate to see him tackle a march like that in scorching heat.

  Sergeant Harvey didn’t bother hiding his opinion of the lads who weren’t up to the task.

  Our Sarge has a reputation as a bit of a tyrant. N
othing escapes his beady watch. Billy Prescott reckons he goes to bed in his khakis and sleeps with his eyes open. Ha! I wouldn’t put it past him.

  Speaking of sleep, I really must try and get some. Got to keep up my strength for tomorrow.

  Love to everyone at home.

  Best regards,

  Jack

  Dear Jack,

  Marching round hills sounds way more exciting than doing sums. I reckon I could even put up with blisters, if I had to. Better than doing arithmetic by a long shot.

  The worst thing is the times tables. The twos and fives are okay but I don’t do so well with the sevens. Beats me how you’re supposed to remember what six times seven equals. Or seven times four.

  And Mrs Stains cracks me over the knuckles with her ruler when I get one wrong. I think she expects me to be as clever as you, Jack. But I don’t see how cracking someone over the knuckles is going to help. In fact, I reckon it only makes it worse.

  Oh well … At least I haven’t had the strap in a while. Malcolm Davis got the strap last Friday because he couldn’t do his takeaways. And Mrs Stains said if he can’t do takeaways at his age then heaven help him. Malcolm didn’t like her saying that and said, ‘Well, why doesn’t heaven help me, then?’ Ten minutes later he was sitting outside the headmaster’s offce as punishment for being cheeky.

  Blimey, Jack! I don’t think I’ll ever get these tables learned. I’m okay saying them out loud but, when it comes to a test, they go clean out of my head. I can’t wait to leave school and not have sums to do. Mind you, Ma says if I want to be a carpenter like you I’ll have to be knowing how to measure properly.