by Sandy McKay
It’s the generals calling the shots!
Hold it right there,
’cause your day might be near.
It’s the generals calling the shots.
I’ve about had enough.
Can’t you give me some snuff.
It’s the generals calling the shots!
You’ll get back on the horse.
We don’t deal in remorse.
We’re the generals calling the shots …
Dear Tom,
Last week Arthur Weir copped a bullet in his arm and got himself a ‘Blighty’. The lucky beggar’s off to England now for a spell in hospital. Seems everyone wants a Blighty these days and I reckon I wouldn’t say no to a rest myself.
It’s not that we’re lazy, Tom. The kiwi soldiers are some of the hardest workers out. The ANZACs have a fine reputation and our divisions are well respected. We work hard behind the lines and our record is top notch. They say we’ve achieved all objectives so far and we helped win the battle of Messines. Some of the others haven’t done so well and I’ve heard the French forces are in total disarray with soldiers even refusing to move.
Best regards,
Your brother, Jack
Dear Jack,
The school hols are nearly over and I spent most of them chopping firewood and doing chores for Ma. Not that I minded too much, ’cause at least I managed to go hunting with Uncle Ced for a couple of days. I took our Jacky on some nice walks as well. He’s going fine on his leash by the way.
To be honest, not having to go to school was such a treat that I didn’t much care what I did.
Mrs J came to visit last night and we had a singsong round the piano. I don’t know how many times they sang ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ but it must have been at least a hundred. Then they both got tipsy on sherry. Ma got all tearful from singing and Mrs J made it even worse by reading out Stampy’s poem. Then they both got on their high horses and started on about the Prime Minister and the war office. Mrs J was ranting and raving about conscription and Ma was agreeing with everything she said for once.
Mrs J reckons the kiwi soldiers have done their duty three times over. She reckons enough’s enough and if she had anything to do with it you’d all be on a troop-ship home. She’s going to write a letter to the Prime Minister about it next week. Ma says she’ll write one too. Fat chance.
I wish you could get a Blighty back to New Zealand, Jack. I’m sure they could carry the war on just as good without you. What difference would one soldier make, eh? Maybe I could write to the Prime Minister myself. If I told him about our Dad dying and Ma staring out the window all the time they might let you come home. Surely there’s special leave you’re entitled to.
I can’t wait for you to come home.
Take care of yourself, Jack.
Lots of love,
Tom
PS — Don’t forget about the zoo, will you. Our Amy is worried that you won’t remember. She’s drawn you a picture of a giraffe so you don’t forget.
Somewhere in France
Dear Tom,
The frontline is getting closer all the time.
We’ve been on the move for almost a week, marching most of the day. It’s a long, slow trudge and our packs weigh a bleeding ton.
Last night we bivvied down in an old barn, and tried to get what sleep we could. This morning our orders were to move up to a new position opposite some German machine guns. Can’t say I’m not shitting bricks here now, Tom, ’cause I am.
It’s pretty hard not to when you’re this close to enemy lines.
Close to the Western Front
Dear Tom,
The German trenches are now only 600 yards away. It was so quiet on patrol last night that we could hear their soldiers talking. It was the first time I’d heard Old Fritz up close before and, even though I don’t speak German, I reckon I had the gist of his conversation. It might sound strange but I don’t think our enemy sounds too much different to us. And the voices I heard could well have been Bill and Stampy, if I didn’t know better. It’s an odd thing to say, I know, but I reckon those soldiers sounded just as sick of this war as we are. Their voices sounded as weary and fed up as us. And just as scared as well.
It got me thinking, Tom. We’re all the same underneath. Our blood is the same colour — there’s enough evidence of that here. But there’s more to it than that. We’ve all got lives and loved ones back home. And I reckon this war’s gone on for long enough!!
The other day Stampy found a photograph — from a German corpse’s pocket. The chap in the photo was in his bathers at the beach. This chap could have been anyone, Tom. Like me or Bill or Stampy. Or you, Tom. (Well, maybe not Stampy ’cause I can’t imagine him in bathers.) And the beach could have been St Clair beach. Or Brighton. It looked just like our beaches back home. And it made me wonder why I should want these men dead.
But war is a funny old thing because an hour later Old Fritz had shelled us yet again. With an accurate dose of shell fire he’d managed to kill three of our men and blast Malcolm Blaney’s lower arm off.
Might suspend my sympathies for just a bit longer, eh.
Two days later:
Another day, another exchange of fire. Getting more used to trench warfare these days.
There were shells bursting all around and the noise was ear-splitting. But then the weather turned sour.
The Germans always get the upper hand when the weather goes bad. Fritz chooses the ground with care and his positions are higher and drier than ours. Unfortunately, the British trenches are not as well constructed and more likely to fill with water and sludge.
This time, after a very strong barrage our Sarge called the order to advance and off we went, clambering up the hill. Old Fritz had waited until we’d left the trenches before opening fire. Then he let us have it. We hadn’t got far before things turned to custard.
We struggled for a while, shin deep in sludge and unable to see too far ahead. The conditions were atrocious now. Hail fell in sheets and men dropped like flies. The place became a bloodbath in minutes and the sensible thing would have been to retreat except that the officers continued to order the attack. So we had no choice but to do as we were told.
Finally, an hour and a half later we were ordered to dig in where we were. It was too late for those who had copped it already but the rest of us took our chances and tried to dig back in, under heavy fire. Luck was on my side this time and I found shelter in a shell hole. I’m not sure exactly what happened next. There was a lot of confusion and my brain was all fuddled from shellfire. I think I must have been knocked out though because next thing I knew I was on a stretcher being carried behind the lines.
A doctor informed me I’d lost a lot of blood and I could feel pain on the side of my face. I was lucky to get some first aid before losing any more blood.
Feeling mighty relieved, as you can imagine.
Will write again when I’m feeling up to it.
Take care back home.
Your loving brother,
Jack
July
Dear Tom,
I’m feeling better now and the other lads have filled me in on some of the details about what happened. My face must have swelled up pretty bad after that because I was sent straight to the first aid post. There were two other chaps alongside me and what a state we were in with me bleeding like a stuck pig and the other two not looking much better. Between us we had missing teeth and a broken arm, and one poor sod had half his leg blown off. The doctors did what they could but it was obvious that we all needed more attention and were sent on to the casualty clearing station.
We left the clearing station about ten that same night and were taken by motor ambulance to the hospital. We arrived around four the next morning. It was a rough ride but I was relieved to be finally out of there. Things had become pretty serious for the bloke with the wounded leg though and I’m not sure about the third chap because, by this time, I was having trouble with my sigh
t. My eyes were swollen shut and my mouth was split and bleeding. I felt like I’d just gone five rounds in the boxing ring.
I stayed in the ward for three days before being transferred. I didn’t see the bloke with the leg injury again so I assumed he’d been taken straight away.
Counting my lucky stars I’m still alive.
Love from
Jack
August
Dear Tom,
Looks like I finally got my Blighty and can’t say I’m disappointed. My wound must have been worse than I thought because I have now been ordered back to England. I was hoping to meet up with a couple of the lads from my section but I haven’t seen anyone yet. I haven’t heard from Bill either, but I did get a letter from Stampy.
Dear old Stampy — he has become such a good friend over these past few months. I don’t know how I would have got this far without him. He’s a damn good mate and someone you can trust your life to.
(And to think I once doubted his abilities as a soldier.)
Back in England
Dear Tom,
We sailed to Dover and waited in the train for the next lot of wounded to be shipped in. They were coming thick and fast that day — boatloads of broken lads, with head injuries, missing limbs and bullets lodged in all sorts of unmentionable places. It just goes to show what sort of bloodbath this war has become.
I’m in hospital now, and looking at some of the wounds here I know I’ve been lucky. Some of the lads are paying a high price and I have to be grateful for having most body parts intact. At least I’ve still got four limbs. And I haven’t had to give up my right arm either. Not yet, Tom.
The worst thing I face these days is not being able to eat much. With the old jaw being out of action there’ll be no mutton chops on the menu for a while.
My orders are to follow a light diet of easily swallowed food. Custard goes down not too badly and the nurses bring me bread soaked in milk every now and then. It’s not the tastiest food in the world but better than Machonochie’s or bully beef. And it’s a relief to be out of bombing range for a while too, I reckon.
Best regards,
Jack
North East Valley, Dunedin
Dear Jack,
Jeepers! You really have been in the wars lately. (Pardon the pun, as Mrs Stains would say.) I guess the best thing you can do is try and enjoy your Blighty.
Mrs J sends her love and says there’s a letter coming. So does Mrs Stains and Mr Gilbertson. Everyone wishes you a speedy recovery but Ma says ‘not too speedy’. Mrs J has just discovered some new pills that help you put on weight and she will put some in her next parcel. She said to tell you to be on the lookout.
We’re thinking about you all the time, Jack. Amy was actually calling out to you the other day. She can get quite a way up the plum tree now. She’s got sturdy legs and a head for heights. Not like me who gets all giddy in the tummy. Anyway, Uncle Ced made us a ladder and Amy was under strict instructions not to go any further than the fourth branch from the top.
What an imagination that girl’s got.
Amy reckons she can see Europe from up there, Tom. She reckons England’s just over the hill.
‘Let’s talk to our Jack,’ she said to me the other day.
‘But he’s in England, Amy,’ I said.
‘I know. But England’s just over there,’ she said, straight as a die.
‘Over where?’
‘Over that hill,’ she said, pointing to Pine Hill. ‘Mary Brownley told me. And she said if you shout really loud they can hear you.’
So that’s what we did (hollered like hillbillies) and I hope you could hear us, Jack, because we yelled so loud we almost lost our voices.
Lots of love,
From Tom
North East Valley, Dunedin
Dear Jack,
We haven’t heard from you in a while. Where are you now? Are you still in England? Or are you back at the frontline?
I know my letters are getting shorter but it’s hard knowing what to say these days. Telling you about my stamp collection seems silly now. And writing about knitting seems even sillier. Mrs J is hovering around as usual. And Ma still spends a lot of time in her room. Nothing is very exciting here in North East Valley and we’re all missing you heaps.
I’d be grateful for another man about the place, that’s for sure. When is this war ever going to end, eh?
Please come home soon, Jack.
Lots of love,
From Tom
England
September
Dear Tom,
Joves, mate. Sorry I haven’t written in a while. But don’t let that stop you sending your chatty cheerful letters. They buck me up no end and make life more bearable than you’ll ever know. I look forward to the sketches and the scribbles too. Not to mention the scarves and honey and socks. And, of course, Mrs J’s latest remedies are always welcome.
Please tell Ma I’ve had the operation and the doctors say there should be little disfigurement, which is a good job if I’m going to impress the young ladies. Also, I’m hoping for just a hint of a battle scar, which could make me look mysterious and interesting.
The stitches have been taken out from the inside of my lip and the outside ones will stay in for a bit longer. The doctor says I’ve been lucky not to lose my teeth. Unlike the poor beggar in the next bed who got a piece of shrapnel in the top corner of his mouth and lost his whole top set.
Take care and give my love to everyone.
Best regards,
Jack
North East Valley, Dunedin
Dear Jack,
Ma says to stay in hospital for as long as you can. She says to keep your head down and don’t be in a hurry to get back to France. Bide your time, Jack. That’s Ma’s advice. I think she’s hoping this war will be over before you get out of hospital. That’s what the papers are saying these days.
And Mr Gilbertson agrees.
Mrs J says she’ll believe it when she sees it and why hasn’t the Prime Minister replied to her letter yet.
Hey Jack. Guess what?
Frank Morrison’s sister is going to be a nurse. She’s doing her training and wants to go to England soon. Ma is getting all morose. (That’s a new word for melancholy I learned from Mrs Stains.) Ma says what’s the world coming to when all our young lads get shot overseas and our young ladies have to go and help stitch them back together again.
Love from
Tom
September
Dear Tom,
Frank’s sister is in good company, I think. The nurses here are total angels and very pretty as well. There’s one in particular I’ve taken quite a shine to. Her name is Jennifer Skelton and she comes from a place called Bath.
You’d like her, Tom. She tells me she has a dog called Rosie. A corgi of all things. Her people are from Scotland and she has a sister about the same age as you. We seem to have struck up quite a friendship. She’s been nursing for just a few months. I told her we call Dunedin ‘The Edinburgh of the South’ and she likes to hear what it’s like.
I’ve told her all about the North East Valley and our school and the fun we have in Lindsay Creek. And you and Ma and Amy. And Mr Kidd. I’ve told her about Mrs J too. And our Dad. I’ve told her about my plans to be a carpenter too. She said she wants to come and visit us. Who knows, she might make it over when this war is done and dusted. Fingers crossed, eh.
The ward I’m in is mostly full of head patients. A right sight we must look too — all wrapped up like Egyptian mummies. The nurses read to the lads with eye injuries and I’ve started reading the paper to an English soldier called Gordon.
Poor Gordon had a bad dose of gas and doesn’t know when his sight will return. I’ve also been reading him Tom Sawyer because one of the soldiers had a copy. Have you read it, Tom? It’s by an American writer called Mark Twain and it’s a great yarn. I’m only a few chapters into it but it’s all about this young boy called Tom. At the start of the book he plays hooky fro
m school and has to whitewash the fence for his Aunt Polly. But he has such good powers of persuasion that he ends up getting everyone else to do it for him. Tom’s best friend is Huckleberry Finn (I love that name). Huck Finn doesn’t go to school often on account of his father being the town drunk. I was put in mind of you and your friend Frank Morrison — not that Frank’s father is the town drunk but I know the two of you are tip-top friends.
Yesterday Gordon confided to me that he is engaged to a young lady in Wales. Obviously he is anxious to regain his sight. But will his young lady still want him if he returns home blind? That’s the worrying thing.
He’s in a terrible state about it. I tell him it won’t matter. If she loved you before, she’ll love you again, I say. But in my heart I’m not so sure. Poor sod. I’d hate to be in his shoes.
On the bright side, we are all treated very well here. Some of the patients even get the odd trip to London and parcels arrive from the Red Cross on a regular basis. It’s a treat to see what’s inside. The last one contained a copy of the Otago Daily Times. It was amusing to read the ‘entertainment’ section but not so amusing to read the ‘roll of honour’. It really brings it home when you see the names in a printed list like that.