by Sandy McKay
I might try and get Uncle Ced to help. He’s coming over in the weekend. And he promised to take me rabbit shooting. I don’t have Ma’s permission yet but Uncle Ced reckons he can talk her round. He says he was only eleven years old when he shot his first bunny and Ma must have a short memory if she thinks otherwise.
I’m not holding my breath for Ma’s permission though.
To tell the truth she’s gone a bit cranky since you left, Jack. She won’t let me out of her sight for five minutes. So it’s good to have Uncle Ced on my side. Uncle Ced’s a cracker. Last time he came round he told Ma I was the man of the house now and that means I should be knowing how to hunt.
He said if our Jack can go overseas and kill Germans then surely I can stay home and kill rabbits. Ma went a bit quiet after that.
Lots of love
From Tom
PS — I hope you like the fruit cake. We made it last weekend. And we used up a whole cup of sultanas, which meant no rice pudding for Sunday. So tuck in and enjoy. And remember, it’s not just soldiers making an effort for the war these days.
Trentham Camp
Dear Tom,
Thanks a heap for the tucker, mate. I am ashamed to report that your delicious cake came to a rather sorry end after I hid it under my stretcher. When I got back from the route march, a rat had beaten me to it! He’d toothed it over good and proper.
I know, Tom — it was my own jolly fault and serves me right. Still … I’d be grateful if you could send more and next time I promise to share it with the lads.
I might have a touch of homesickness. And I think I may be missing Ma’s cooking more than I thought. The food here is not worth writing home about so I won’t bother.
It’s a strange old feeling being stuck in Trentham. A bit like no-man’s-land, I expect. Still no word about when we set sail though. Oh, well …
Cheerio and take care,
Best regards to everyone,
Jack McAllister (Private)
Dear Jack McAllister (Private),
I promise I’ll make you another cake, just as soon as we can lay our hands on more sultanas.
Good news! Uncle Ced came round on Sunday and Ma let me go hunting.
Our uncle has the gift of the gab, as you know, and we must have caught Ma in a weak moment. He reckons it was the thought of rabbit stew that sealed the deal. I reckon so too. Ma said she hadn’t had a good rabbit stew since our Dad was alive. Then Uncle Ced gave me a wink and said he might be knowing how to fix that.
So off we went, all the way along Lindsay Creek and up Mount Cargill Road. And guess what! I’d shot two rabbits by lunchtime. One of them was more than fifty yards away. Uncle Ced reckons I must have a good eye for hunting.
We came home with six dead bunnies altogether. It was great! The best part was at the end when Uncle Ced took the skins off with his special knife and we hung them on the back fence to dry. Talk about blood and guts, Jack! It was cracker!
Lots of love
From Tom
PS — I hope you like my sketch. That’s me in the tussock grass and that’s Uncle Ced beside me. In case you didn’t notice, he’s the one in the hat. I’m the one with the skinny legs and the gun. And see that little smear of blood in the right-hand corner? That’s fair dinkum bunny blood.
Trentham Camp
Dear Tom,
Well done on the rabbit front, eh. I can see I’ll be in for some serious competition when I get home. I hope Ma rose to the occasion and made a nice hearty stew for you all.
Speaking of which, I could really go one of Ma’s hotpots right now. Complete with all the trimmings … Thick juicy gravy, creamy mashed spuds and plenty of carrots, onion and swede. The mouth’s fair watering at the thought. No such luxury here, I’m afraid. Just more sloppy dishwater soup. Yesterday it was potato and leek, only I’m yet to see any trace of leek!
No point in complaining though. Sergeant Harvey says we should have our minds on more important things. Like marching together in strict military formation, for example!
Things are getting serious now. Yesterday we were shown how to use a hand grenade and I’d have to say pulling the pin isn’t as easy as it looks. The Sarge says it’s all in the arm action and it took me a good while to get the hang of it. I have a feeling I’m going to need more practice before they let me loose on the Hun, put it that way.
It started me thinking though. What’s it going to be like with a real grenade, eh? I mean, it’s all very well practising but what’s going to happen when your target is a fair dinkum person? The thought of it scares the jeepers out of me.
Oh well, the Sarge reckons, when it comes to the crunch, we won’t give killing enemy soldiers a second thought.
Let’s hope he’s right.
Best regards,
Jack
PS — I’ve been thinking about Erik Hoffman at school. His father came from Germany and, apart from eating a swag of red cabbage, there was no way you could tell. So, what if the enemy soldiers look just like him?
How’s that going to feel?
Just a thought.
Dear Jack,
I didn’t know Erik Hoffman came from Germany. Fancy that. People who came here from Germany are getting a hard time of it these days. The neighbours are starting to look at them sideways. Like they’ve suddenly grown two heads or something. It doesn’t seem fair ’cause they were okay before, weren’t they.
Why can’t we fight someone else?
Frank Morrison’s grandad can’t work out why we’re fighting the Germans in the first place. He said it’s usually the French you have to watch. Them and the Russians. He said in the last war Germany was on our side.
Not this time though.
Mrs Stains gave us a history lesson last week. She said the reason the New Zealanders have to fight in the war is because Germany invaded Belgium and Britain made a promise to help Belgium. We have to help Britain because we’re part of the Empire and when Britain declared war, so did we. She made a diagram on the board.
It all sounded very complicated when Mrs Stains tried to explain and Frank started flicking bits of wood around with his ruler. He ended up copping ‘six of the best’ from the headmaster. So I didn’t get to hear the reason why we’re friends with the French again. I suppose it’ll work itself out in the end.
Anyway, I’ve saved the best news for last. You’ll never guess. Not in a million years!
Last week we got a dog. Yep. Fair dinkum. I know Ma always said we couldn’t have one, but in the end she couldn’t say no. Mrs J’s terrier had pups and she brought one over. I wish you could see him, Jack. He’s black and tan in the body and his paws are real fluffy and big as paddles, which means he’s going to grow into a very large animal. But he fits into the palm of your hand just now and his ears are soft as velvet.
Lots of love,
Tom
Dear Tom,
A new pup, mate? Crikey! Things are looking up. Make sure you train him properly. Let him know who’s in charge right from the start and don’t stand for any nonsense. If you don’t let him away with too much he’ll turn out good as gold. Start as you mean to go on, eh. About time you had some responsibility. It’ll do you the world of good.
I don’t have much time to write today. Too busy polishing boots and darning socks.
Take care little brother.
Best regards,
Jack
Dear Jack,
What a week we’ve had. Last Wednesday was our Dad’s birthday. Did you remember?
Poor Ma. She didn’t take it too good. In fact she didn’t get out of bed till lunchtime. And that was only after Mrs J came over. Mrs J doesn’t like people not getting out of bed and she flung the curtains nearly off their tracks in protest.
After that it was all hands on deck. First she made Amy and me have a bath. Then she made me chop the wood and get the coal range going ’cause it had gone out two days ago. Amy had to get her hair washed because Mrs J thought it was ripe for nits and ‘we be
tter get onto it’ before the nit nurse came and dunked her head in kerosene. Talk about bossy.
She even gave our new dog a seeing to with the scrubbing brush. He didn’t know what hit him.
By the time Mrs J left, things were up and running like clockwork. And probably just as well. Amy and me don’t know what to do when Ma gets that stare on. She either sits by the window in a daze or takes to her bed. Mrs J says it’s called grief and Ma has a bad dose of it. When I asked how long it was going to last, she said there was no way of telling, but it might go for another twelve months and it was up to us to pitch in and make things easier.
Twelve months! Jeepers! Can you imagine Ma moping around for that long? It doesn’t seem fair. I miss our Dad too, of course I do. But crying all day doesn’t do any good. Like Mrs J said, better to keep busy.
Amy made a card for Dad’s birthday and we took it down to the cemetery. She drew a picture of our new dog on the front and we took a jar of sweet peas. The sweet peas came from down the back of the fowl house. We took jam sandwiches too. There was just Amy, me and Mrs J. Ma stayed at home with a headache. But she promised she’d come next time.
Hope all is good with you, Jack.
Lots of love,
Tom
Dear Tom,
Joves, mate. I’d forgotten all about our Dad’s birthday. The day and dates mean nothing up here. Do you know how old he would have been? I reckon he would have been coming up fifty. Poor Ma. I hope she’s feeling better now.
Things are a bit hectic here. We’re all recovering from a visit by our Governor General so there hasn’t been much time to think. What a palaver, eh. The Governor General came to thank all the ‘fine colonial men’ for serving Mother England. It was all very formal with plenty of saluting.
To be honest, I don’t think the lads were taken in by the ‘Mother England’ talk. It’s not like we’re professional soldiers or anything. At the end of the day we’re just a bunch of lads keen to see some action.
I think Billy Prescott spoke for us all when he said, ‘We don’t mind giving a hand, Sir, but we need to get there before it’s over. And we need to stop practising and get on with the real thing.’
He’s right about that. None of us joined the army to be stuck in Trenthan sewing on buttons and the sooner we get on with the job, the better.
Best regards,
Jack
Dear Jack,
Hey! Guess what? We’ve finally come up with a name for our dog. Jacky. It was Amy’s idea and Mrs J thinks it’s a cracker. So now you’ve got a brand new dog named after you. And I’d have to say he really suits it. Amy says he’s got your nose and he’s certainly got your big paddle feet!
Must go now and feed the fowls.
Love from
Tom
Trentham Camp
Dear Tom,
My big paddle feet are taking a real hammering from all this endless marching.
We had bayonet practice yesterday arvo. What a lark. There were kit bags flung over a cross bar, just like a soccer goal. And when the Sarge yelled ‘Advance’, we all marched towards the bag, plunging bayonets in as we went. ‘In … Out … In … Out … In … Out …’ bellowed the Sarge. ‘Harder. Faster. Come on boys! Give it a twist!’
It was quite comical really and some of the lads were in stitches. But the Sarge doesn’t like to see a soldier enjoying himself and afterwards he gave us all a proper talking to. He said it was about time we took our training seriously. Then he rabbited on about what an important task lay ahead.
‘You must never forget what you’re fighting for,’ he said, sternly.
‘And what’s that again, Sir?’ said Billy.
The next bit was laugh-out-loud funny. Because the Sarge got this real serious expression on his face and said, ‘Freedom. Humanity. And Civilisation!’
Blimey, Tom! He did it with such a straight face that it was hard not to crack up. We knew we’d be in for a big lot of press-ups if we did, though.
Like I said, the army can be an odd place at times. And anyone joining up would be well advised to pack his sense of humour.
Please pass on my regards to Mrs J. And tell her I am grateful she is taking such good care of our Ma.
Best regards,
Your brother,
Jack
Dear Jack,
Bayonets, eh. After I read your last letter Frank Morrison and me had a go ourselves. We stuffed pea straw from the strawberry patch into pillowcases and had a ‘stab-up’ in the shed. It was all good fun until Ma cottoned on and starting going crook about the state of her kitchen knife. I guess she had a point because there was no doubt about it — her best knife had certainly lost its cutting edge.
Jeepers! It won’t cut much of anything now and Ma can’t use the steel to make it sharp again, which means we’re going to have to ask Uncle Ced next time he visits. Ma hates asking Uncle Ced for help. She says he’s got his own family to look after and we shouldn’t be worrying him with our troubles.
But that’s a load of rot because Uncle Ced doesn’t mind in the least. He’s feeling bad about not being able to join up and likes to make himself useful. Well, that’s what he told me.
Did you know Uncle Ced tried to get in the army, Jack? Turns out he was too old by just thirteen months. I don’t see what difference thirteen months would make. I thought they needed all the soldiers they can get. But schoolteachers don’t have to go and some of the farmers don’t either. It said so in the paper. There were people writing letters to complain.
There must be loads of people in the army now, Jack. I know heaps of kids at school whose brothers and uncles have signed up. Some are only sixteen or seventeen. Sally Johnston’s brother is at Trentham like you. And Eddie’s oldest brother is in France. Lily Brinsdon’s uncle is in a hospital in England after copping a bullet in the shoulder.
Some have come back already. Like Marian Murdoch’s brother, for example. He got half his leg blown off by a German shell. Marian said he might have to stay in a wheelchair for a very long time. Maybe even the rest of his life.
This war is affecting everything, Jack. At school last week there was a massive fight in the playground. And Peter Hammer got thumped by Bert Thompson for no reason. Bert Thompson just went for Peter, grabbed him by the collar and gave him a right seeing to. The next day Peter Hammer’s eye was so swollen he couldn’t see the blackboard. So they both got sent to the headmaster’s office straight away. No one knew what started it, but Colin Griffiths reckons it was all over Peter Hammer’s uncle being a ‘conchie’. We didn’t know exactly what a conchie was. Darrol Fibbs thought it was some kind of chestnut. But then Frank Morrison looked it up in the dictionary and we could only find the word ‘conch’ which means shellfish.
Must go now, Jack.
Best regards,
Tom
Trentham Camp
Dear Tom,
‘Conchie’ is short for ‘conscientious objector’, which is someone who refuses to be conscripted. It’s not a popular call to make these days for obvious reasons. They’ve got some conchies locked up in huts here in Trentham Camp. They have to stay here till they get shipped out and, believe me, the conditions are even worse than prison.
Yesterday, me and Stuart Croft were put in charge of a group of them. The poor beggars aren’t allowed to go anywhere and have to be guarded twenty-four hours a day. The guards work in shifts — four hours on and four hours off. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have much sympathy for the conchies, but I know they don’t have an easy time of it either.
Best regards,
Jack
Dear Jack,
The people round here don’t have any time for conchies either. Peter Hammer doesn’t go to our school any more, not after the fight. And Richard McGregor’s Ma said his family was going to move away because of it. They have to go down south to look for work because no one will give them any here.
I think that’s daft.
But when I said so to Ma she said, ‘W
ell, I don’t see why our Jack should have to fight if the others don’t. Why should they be allowed to stay home safe and sound while Jack does all the dirty work?’
She was starting to get cranky again so I decided to keep the rest of my thoughts to myself.
Love from
Tom
Trentham Camp
Dear Tom,
It’s true about the war changing things and your observations are spot on. The whole of Europe’s getting a royal shake-up and no one knows how it’s going to turn out. I guess we can only try to get through as best we can and not dwell on things too much.
So how’s your Jacky getting on these days, eh? Have you got a kennel sorted yet? I think there’s some corrugated iron down by the fowl house that might do the job. I was going to use it for a new shed but that can wait till I get back. There might even be some nails in an old honey tin under Dad’s workbench. If you run short, don’t be shy about using my nail bag. It’s hanging on a hook in the kitchen. I’m sure Uncle Ced would give you a hand if you asked him.
There are a few things you’ll have to consider before you start building. Like you’ll need to make sure the pitch of the roof is high enough for the rain to run off. And a bit of spouting wouldn’t go astray either. I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Tom. Just take your time and watch your measuring.