“Dear Miss Reilly,” Oliver Melrose had written, “I was surprised, not to say pleased, to get a letter from you, as I was quite unaware that Walter had mentioned my name. Your letter was pleasant, interesting and sane, so different from those of the misguided but well-meaning girls who write to ‘lonely soldiers’ without saying anything, or else making them feel lonelier. Perhaps you don’t know that I’m in Egypt at present; wounded …”
Frances shifted position on the windowledge. She touched her raw throat and drew her legs up, wrapping her arms around them. Then with care she rested her chin on her knees. Along a reach of harbour she saw the dark shape of a barge being propelled by a tug. How many months had passed since her last dream of sailing away? What would she do with herself? The tug entered a shaft of moonlight and darkened even more. How odd that light should do away with mysterious detail, leaving only a hard black outline. She was tired, and dozed for a second before waking with a start. Then she made her way back to bed.
“Concerning Walter,” the letter had concluded, “about whom you ask most nicely. He went missing at the point I was getting to know him. It was the devil’s job to make his acquaintance, and we used to fight, but in that unpleasant place the fights never last. He went the way of thousands and when he was gone nobody gave him a thought. Does that sound hard? There’s no morality in all this. When word came through of his capture we cursed his luck, being out of it, but then gave a thought to the Unspeakable who fenced him in, and felt a little sorrier. That’s about the depth of things in this surprising world, at least till the present madness runs its course. Come to England when it’s done, I’m going to settle there, and we’ll pretend that nothing has happened. Have you ever run gaily over an ant heap, dashing towards a pretty flower or (pardon me) to the arms of a lover? Your dainty tread, etc. Until then we are the ants.
“This isn’t the kind of letter you want: but we never get what we want, or if we do, we find it was not worth waiting for. If I have been lengthy to the point of boredom, forgive me, for as I said before: I was blown up by a bomb, which is as bad as being blown up by a woman — but not so interesting.
“If you write again, please send letter to the above address; the hospital will forward it to me, as I may be back at Gallipoli, or I may be — who knows?
Yours sincerely,
Oliver Melrose.”
Acknowledgments
Although derived from many real events, 1915 is a work of the imagination. The following, however, willingly recounted their experiences at Gallipoli, fully aware that their stories were destined as background to fiction: Mr Albert Platt, M.M. (7th ALH) of Parkes, Mr Len Bennett (1st Field Ambulance) of Yass, Dr A.T. Dunlop (Medical Officer, 18th Battalion), Mr H.A. Clapson (23rd Battalion), and Mr Clive Newman (9th ALH), the last three all of Canberra. I am particularly indebted to Mr Newman for a wealth of vividly remembered detail.
I also wish to record my debt to the late Mr Tom Dunford (6th ALH, Palestine) of Parkes, and especially to the Parkes and District Historical Society through the generosity of its President, Mr W.F. Nash.
I was directed to valuable sources by Dr Bill Gammage; made use of many books, diaries and letters held in the library of the Australian War Memorial, Canberra; and viewed material in the La Trobe Library, Melbourne, thanks to the assistance of Patsy Adam Smith. I am grateful to Geoffrey Lehmann for invaluable comments and criticisms.
While writing this novel I was the recipient of a Senior Writer’s Fellowship from the Literature Board of the Australia Council (1977–78).
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