by Sandy McKay
I received another of your parcels today. Please thank Ma for the shortbread and tell her it was a great treat to get the butter. Also, many thanks for the elephant, which I’m going to keep in my trouser pocket for luck.
Things are pretty grim in England just now. The bad news from the Front continues and the casualty lists are worse than expected. Thousands of men are perishing daily and there’s no sign of it letting up.
The Somme had such heavy losses last year and apparently men are still dying in hospital from wounds they got there. Everyone’s been knocked for a six by the scale of things. And I don’t think anyone really knows what’ll happen next.
I miss you all a lot.
Give Amy and Ma a hug for me.
Much love,
Jack
Dear Jack,
We are thinking about you all the time these days.
Yesterday I climbed to the top branch of the plum tree down behind the shed. You can see for miles from up there because it’s grown even higher than ever. Remember when you used to take your cobbers up after school? You let me come with you once and we sat and talked and ate so many plums that our lips turned purple.
Anyway — I stayed up there for ages yesterday, just thinking. Mrs J says too much thinking can make you melancholy. I’m not sure what melancholy is exactly but it doesn’t sound like much fun.
This week Mrs J told us we all have to be cheerful. She said if we think good thoughts then good things will happen. She even brought Ma some daisies to cheer her up.
What sort of flowers do they have in England, Jack?
Marian Murdoch says they have mostly roses. She knows all about England on account of her mother being born there, and also because of her brother being in hospital there too. England looks quite small on the map. Even smaller than New Zealand. I wonder what the people are like.
Marian says they talk funny. She says the English are prim and proper with a stiff upper lip.
Love from
Tom
Sling Camp, Wiltshire
Dear Tom,
I think Marian Murdoch is referring to the English reputation for a stiff upper lip, which means they like to keep their emotions under the surface. I’ve noticed they like things done more formally than we do and they have a few different customs as well.
From what I’ve seen, Englishmen may take some getting to know. They are quite reserved and seem to regard us ‘diggers’ as a bit rough round the edges. That’s probably because we don’t take kindly to all their bowing and scraping. And we don’t like being bossed around either!
Still … I reckon there’s not too much difference underneath. At the end of the day we’ve all got ten fingers and ten toes. (Well, we did before we came here, anyway!)
Best regards,
Jack
PS — ‘Melancholy’ means sad and gloomy. I guess it’s what people get like when they think too much about sad things. Poor Ma.
Dear Jack,
Guess what?
Uncle Ced chopped more firewood last week. I helped him stack it in the shed. He says we should have enough to see us through next winter, providing we don’t go silly with it. No chance of that these days with Ma refusing to light the fire in the sitting room till you get back. She thinks it’ll bring us bad luck for some reason.
I loved the stamp you put on your last letter, Jack. But I’ve got two of them already so I swapped it with Frank for a green halfpenny one with the word ‘Victorialand’ on it.
Better go now and start chopping wood before Ma starts nagging.
Take care big brother.
Lots of love,
Tom
PS — Amy says to say hello. She can print her name all by herself now. She’s neater than me with a pencil, and Ma says I better get cracking ’cause she’s good at her times tables too.
PPS — In your next letter can you tell me more about Sling Camp, Jack.
Sling Camp
Dear Tom,
I’m glad you liked the stamp and managed to find a good use for it.
Sling Camp, eh. Well, what can I say? It’s not a place you’d want to come for your holidays, if that’s what you’re thinking. We were all given stern lectures on arrival. And they told us we have thirty days to be ‘knocked into shape’ and turned into ‘proper’ soldiers. (Whatever that means!)
The food is well below Trentham standards and the accommodation isn’t much better. From where I’m standing I can see rows and rows of khaki tents. They are all very orderly and organised but the place is pretty bleak. Everyone wears the same colour clothes and the Sergeant-major shouts out orders every minute of the day.
Speaking of which, I can hear someone bellowing in the distance as I write.
Better sign off for now and go jump to attention.
Best regards,
Your brother, Jack
Dear Jack,
Sorry I haven’t written in a while. Ma has been laid low with ’flu. She didn’t want me telling you about it till she was well on the mend. She’s been crook for a few weeks now. The doctor had to visit twice and then Aunty Jean came to look after us. You know what Aunty Jean’s like — a total killjoy. If there’s any fun to be had she’ll squash it in a flash.
I was so glad when she left, Jack. She wouldn’t let me go near the plum tree in case I fell out. She’s even stricter than Ma and not so tender-hearted. That’s what Uncle Cedric says. It’s hard to think of them as sisters. I wonder what they were like as kids. I bet Aunty Jean was the bossy one. And I bet Ma didn’t get a word in edgewise.
Poor Jacky wasn’t allowed in the house the whole time Aunty Jean was here and even the fowls went off the lay in the finish. Things are better now though, with Ma up and moving again.
I’m so pleased I didn’t get the ’flu. I hate being poorly. And I can’t stand lying about in bed all day, either. Last month I had a day off school with a crook stomach and I got fed up with staring at the walls after five minutes.
So, what else’s been happening? Oh, yeah … Uncle Ced came on Saturday. He’d been pig hunting with Uncle Keith and they stuck a boar somewhere up near Mount Cargill. Everyone was pretty excited and we had dinner together to celebrate. Even Mrs J was invited. She brought round a huge pot of vegie soup. It would have been nicer without all the silver beet though. Mrs J says silver beet is good for your blood. I think a person’s blood can do fine on its own.
Speaking of blood, I might be going rabbit shooting again next week. Sure hope so.
Lots of love,
From Tom
PS — Guess what? Mrs Stains was telling us the reason why the seasons in England are opposite to New Zealand. She said it’s all because of the earth and the sun. She tried to explain using an apple for the earth and a plum from Marian’s lunchbox for the sun. I didn’t quite get it and I still can’t imagine what it’d be like having Christmas in the wintertime. But I bet you’ll be glad to come home and have proper seasons again.
Sling Camp
Dear Tom,
It’s good to know you’re holding the fort, mate. Ma is lucky to have you and you are lucky to have her. Look after each other, and Amy. I know you’ll do your best, Tom. You’re a good lad and I couldn’t ask for a better brother.
What a lark we’re going to have when I get back home, eh. I can’t wait. And I’m really looking forward to meeting our Jacky.
I wonder how many people are allowed on an elephant at once. What a treat it’s going to be.
I had a dream last night. I was at home helping our Dad fix up the shed and I was all set to nail the iron in place when Crofty’s snoring woke me up. (That’s when it turned into a nightmare!)
Seriously, Tom. I think I’d give my right arm for a few days back in kiwiland right now. The British soldiers get home leave but New Zealand is a bit far away for such luxury.
Still, we make an effort to make the most of any time off, even if it’s just a few hours. On Sunday we managed to get over the hill for a walk and we treated o
urselves to a feed at an inn. It was a quaint old place with shutters on the windows and a fair dinkum thatched roof.
The food wasn’t too badly priced either. Eggs, bread and a slice of vanilla cake for two shillings, which is pretty good value when you consider our wages here are five shillings a day. That’s four shillings more than the British soldiers get and a shilling less than the Australians.
Unfortunately, there hasn’t been much opportunity for sightseeing yet.
The routine is fairly tedious and humdrum. War isn’t at all like you’d expect. And so far it hasn’t been in the least exciting. Most days are full up with marches and drills. Every day we rise at six and we train for several hours. The morning parade is at 7:40am — followed by a stiff inspection by the platoon commander. Half an hour later there’s a battalion parade.
It’s all very traditional and army hierarchy reigns supreme. Privates like us don’t get much respect over here and we’re all expected to know our place. Usually we get spoken to like a pack of schoolboys by a regimental Sergeant-major called Cunningham. He’s a fierce little ginger bloke who likes to throw his weight about and makes our Sergeant Harvey look like a pussycat.
The officers at Sling are what Mrs J would call ‘stick-in-the-mud’ and everything runs with clockwork precision. Your kit has to be polished to within an inch of its life. And boots, belt, rifle and pack must all be spick and span. Or else! You don’t want to know about ‘or else’, Tom. Suffice to say, we spend a lot of time saluting and drilling. And it pays to do everything right if you don’t want to find yourself with all privileges removed and confined to barracks! On the positive side we are learning practical skills that might come in useful back home. Yesterday we had an extra drill in the afternoon and learned how to cut and repair the wire. I reckon I’d be able to have a fair crack at making a fence now. And, when we were done with that, we had a lesson in throwing grenades (not quite so practical, but necessary, nonetheless).
There’s another bomb we’re learning to use now. It’s called the Mills bomb. They say if you get the action right, you should be able to hurl it ninety feet. I wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of one, that’s for sure.
Best regards,
Your brother, Jack
PS — This is a sketch of me, making a fence.
Dear Private McAllister,
We could do with a few Mills bombs here just now, I reckon. Ammunition is hard to come by these days and I didn’t shoot a single rabbit last time I went out with Uncle Ced. I guess the ammo’s all earmarked for Europe.
Glad to hear you are picking up a few extra skills. It’d be good if you could fix up the boundary fences when you get back though. That’d be a real help.
Have you been to the frontline yet, Jack? Marian’s brother said there are rats in the trenches. Big ones, the size of cats. And mud up to your eyeballs. And mice as well. Marian said there are lice that live on your body and in your hair and people get shot and left to die in the mud. That’s what nearly happened to her brother — the one who had his leg blown off. Her brother went to Egypt as well. That’s where the pyramids are. I think they’ve got camels too. Marian said the heat in Egypt was unbearable. Even worse than the Ida Valley in the heat of summer.
We had some bad news here last week. Owen Watson from the corner shop got killed and his family had to close the shop. He got killed at the frontline after a German sniper got him. He’s the second brother to get shot. We had a service at church with egg sandwiches and orange cordial for afters.
Blimey! Those snipers sound dangerous, Jack. I haven’t seen much of them on the news reels at the cinema though. I’ve only seen the soldiers from our side.
Lots of love,
Tom
PS — Do they have any rabbits in England?
Dear Tom,
I haven’t been to the frontline yet, mate.
Most divisions spend around a week there at a time and I dare say my turn won’t be too far off. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it but reckon I’d rather be doing something more useful than endless army drills and route marches.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit scared though. They say that no amount of training prepares you for the Front and it doesn’t come with too many positive recommendations.
The lads who’ve been there don’t say much but I’ve heard they don’t look too good when they get back. They say it’s not a place you’d want to go if you didn’t have to, put it that way. But don’t worry, Tom. The McAllisters are made of stern stuff and I’ll do my darndest to make it home in one piece. You can count on that.
Greetings from the Northern Hemisphere.
We’re getting closer to action time now, Tom, and I’ve learned a lot more about what to expect at the Front. Frontline fighting takes place in trenches and the system is quite complex. Trenches are like ditches surrounded by masses of barbed wire. They go for miles on end with the no-man’s-land area in the middle. These trenches take a lot of digging and the ANZACs have done their fair share of it. That’s why we’re called ‘diggers’.
Apparently, if you want to stay alive you need to stay down low for as long as you can. If an attack is ordered you have to go forward. Going forward is also called ‘going over the top’. And your job is to take as many Germans as possible before taking over their trenches.
Of course, the infantry are the ones who cop it first. We’re the little guys with the most to lose. The big guns behind us send out the barrage. And if the barrage goes well the enemy soldiers are killed (theoretically, their barbed wire should get broken by exploding shells).
By gaining ground, yard by yard, we are supposed to win the war. It’s a bit like a game of chess and the Generals move us around like pawns.
Billy said we should think of it like rugby. He said it’s all about territory and possession. If the forwards do a proper job, the backs just need to pick up the ball and run. But if the forwards don’t do their job properly, the infantry end up facing all the enemy tackles. Let’s hope the artillery do their job right, that’s all I can say.
Three days later:
No action yet, Tom, and, mercifully, the frontline is still a good way off.
Of course they’re not letting us stand idle with route marches scheduled daily. Saturday morning is spent on fatigues and there’s always a game of something in the afternoon. A few teams have been picked for football and hockey but most of my mates prefer the cross-country. I’m still keen on the three-mile race and, with all this training, I’m fitter than I’ve ever been. Not carrying too much extra weight these days, either.
Oh well … the Sarge is hovering so I’ll keep my letter short and sweet this time.
Best regards
Your brother, Jack
PS — Stampy sends his regards.
Dear Jack,
We are having races at school too. Last week I got fourth in the 100-yard dash. I always come fourth when it’s 100 yards. I like longer races best (the half-mile especially) but Frank Morrison prefers them short. He can run as fast as anything for 100 yards, but he slows down pretty quick at the end. He doesn’t have the build for distance. Not like me.
Uncle Ced says I’m like a wily old fox. Maybe I am. I know I can walk for miles on a rabbit hunt. Last week, me and Uncle Ced went right up to the top of Flagstaff and across to Swampy Summit. We stayed there for most of the day and cooked pork sausages on the fire for lunch. They tasted great, even the burnt ones. Uncle Ced’s going to show me how to make damper next time, with flour and water. I hope he comes again next weekend.
Lots of love,
From Tom
PS — In the cross-country Frank Morrison and Theo Bathgate were battling it out for first and second. The whole school was cheering when Frank passed Theo and then Theo passed Frank about halfway and then Frank passed Theo again just near the finish. Frank got first in the end, but only by a hare’s whisker. I’ve made a drawing of it.
PPS — Last night Mrs J came round to check us
all for worms. And not the kind you take fishing, either! She had us all lined up outside the lavvy door.
Dear Tom,
That’s a great picture, mate. I’m glad you and Uncle Ced are getting along so well these days. And I’m pleased you’ve stuck with your running too.
We had a trial run on the sports track recently — it was a three-mile teams’ race. Each team had nine men and the six fastest times got tallied up at the end.
Some of the chaps put in some good performances. I didn’t go so well myself this time because the course was steep and slippery and I’ve got a bit of a bad throat. I hope I’m not coming down with anything, though it wouldn’t be surprising considering what’s going on down here.
The camp’s been hit hard with ’flu and measles and they’ve isolated some of the huts to stop it spreading. The odd thing is, they’ve got us eating and sleeping separately but they still make us do our drills together. I’m not sure how effective the isolation will be as there’ve been reports of some soldiers dying from ’flu already. It’s something you want to keep your distance from, that’s for sure.
Best regards,
Your brother, Jack