Solomon's Song

by Bryce Courtenay

  Victoria pronounces the result inedible but Martha’s ‘billyjam tarts’ eventually become a great favourite in the trenches of Gallipoli and France. They are a major source of comfort to many a young soldier who, standing knee-deep in mud and surrounded by death, with artillery fire whistling overhead, closes his eyes, munches slowly into the hot jam tart, and with a little imagination is transported back to family excursions to the beach and his mum’s Sunday baking.

  But it is on the rifle, the Short Magazine Lee-Enfield, that Ben now concentrates. By military standards Ben Teekleman is a misfit when it comes to the popular concept of a platoon sergeant. He is relaxed and reassuring, without the need for hyperbole or the traditional overused vernacular of the soldier with three dog’s legs on his shirt sleeve. His easy manner makes his men keen to improve under his direction.

  At the rifle range while the other sergeants are yelling, threatening, insulting and cussing the greenhorns in their platoons, Ben spends time with each of his men explaining the basics. He watches them carefully as they fire off a round, correcting their action, ‘Give the trigger a gentle squeeze, lad, like squeezing a tit, no, no, don’t shut your eyes when you fire!’ He shows them how to adjust their sights, how to correct an error or bias in the rifle itself, demonstrating the right way to position themselves to maintain firing for long periods without becoming cramped or shooting erratically. Ben strives to give them confidence in themselves, accepting the mistakes they make as beginners and never humiliating them in front of their comrades in arms.

  After the second musketry session Ben makes his platoon sit down in a quiet spot under the shade of a large angophora near the firing range and talks with them. ‘Nobody gets to be a good shot in a hurry, lads, I ain’t yet come across a bloke who was a natural. To use a rifle properly takes patience and some learning,’ he grins, ‘even a little love and imagination.’ He picks up a rifle belonging to one of the infantrymen and almost immediately the Lee-Enfield takes on a different look in his confident hands, it is as if the rifle and the man have a natural affinity with each other.

  ‘Now this thing is a pretty clumsy weapon,’ Ben begins, ‘it’s a rod of steel and a chunk of wood and it ain’t friendly neither, it kicks you if you don’t hold it tight enough and jams up on you if you don’t oil and care for it properly, just like a flamin’ sheila.’ The platoon laughs and Ben waits until he has its attention again. ‘It’s heavy and it’s a pain in the arse to carry around. Add a bayonet to it and it becomes a top-heavy spear that can’t be thrown and isn’t that easy to stick into someone’s gut.’ He brings the rifle to a horizontal position at about waist height, cupping it halfway along the stock with his left hand and working the bolt action smoothly with his right. Although he is left-handed, he works the action with consummate ease. ‘But despite all these obvious character deficiencies, you’ve got to make this clumsy fellow your best friend.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘And because your rifle is such a cranky sonofabitch, making friends isn’t gunna happen overnight. But like all true friendships, with a little practice and a bit of respect, you’ll soon enough be the best of mates.’ He looks around at the platoon. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant!’ An infantryman named Cooligan stands up. He is the smallest man in the platoon and at five feet and six inches only just tall enough to make the first intake. He wears a brush of snowy hair above a cheeky face sprinkled with a million freckles and is already known in the platoon as Numbers Cooligan or, simply, Numbers.

  ‘What is it, Private Cooligan?’

  ‘Sergeant, we are to do range practice once a week while we’re here, that’s six weeks where we fire off two magazines if we’re bloody lucky, that’s a hundred and twenty rounds.’ He clears his throat and looks about him. ‘And the best I’ve done so far is an outer and I think that must have been by mistake, I must a jerked or somethin’. You see, I’ve never had a rifle in me ’ands before this. ’Cept for Crow and Hornbill, we’re all city blokes, so I’ll vouch it’s the same with most of us.’ He turns to the remainder of the platoon. ‘What do you reckon, lads?’ There is a murmur of acquiescence and several nods of the head from the other young infantrymen.

  ‘Yeah, well it ain’t that difficult to tell,’ Ben says smiling. ‘Can’t expect to hit the bullseye right off. One on the outer rim after your second practice on the range, that’s not too bad, Private Cooligan. So what’s your question?’

  ‘Well, are a hundred and twenty rounds enough practice to kill a German at three ’undred yards?’

  ‘Well, in terms of not firing a shot in anger, that’s about all the firing practice you’re gunna get. All I can say is I hope it’s enough when the Hun aims his Mauser at you.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant, but what if I miss him?’

  ‘Then you better pray he’s had no more practice than you, Cooligan.’ Ben pauses, thinking. ‘While I admit there’s nothing quite like using live ammo, firing a rifle isn’t the only way to get to know your weapon.’ He looks at the faces around him. ‘Remember, it’s not the bullet that does the killing, it’s you. It’s you or the Hun and the difference between the two of you is simply practice with a rifle or a bayonet. Practise holding your rifle, practise carrying it, practise firing it with an empty magazine in all sorts of positions, practise squeezing the trigger ten thousand times until you can do it in your sleep. Practise ejecting a spent cartridge, reloading and firing until you can do it in three or four seconds without taking your eye off the enemy position. Practise hitting the enemy in your imagination.’ Ben sees the grins on their faces at the idea of this. ‘No, really, I mean it, see the Hun in your mind’s eye, see the bastard cop your bullet, see him jerk back suddenly, see him clutching at his gut, see him topple, hear him scream out his mama’s name as he sinks to his knees and coughs blood. Do it all in your imagination a thousand times. Get so that’s what you see without thinking when you fire a shot in anger. Half the skill of firing a rifle effectively is about total confidence in yourself and your rifle. It’s about not having to think about what you’re doing.’ Ben lifts the rifle he’s holding up to his chest. ‘You can look at this weapon in two ways, as an extension of yourself, a very dangerous twenty-nine inches or so added to the ends of your arms, or you can regard it as something the army gives you to make your life difficult. You can do what you are required to do at rifle drill and no more, or you can work with it after hours, every spare moment you’ve got.’

  ‘But, Sergeant, I reckon a man would look a proper galah falling about with an empty rifle, going click, click, click, “bang you’re dead”, when he wasn’t doing rifle drill on parade, like when it’s not official, know what I mean?’ one of the infantrymen volunteers.

  ‘Unloaded rifle, Private Hamill, a jam tin is empty or full, a rifle is loaded or not loaded, or, if you wish, safe,’ Ben chides him without raising his voice. ‘Sure, it takes a bit of character to play around with an unloaded rifle. I would have thought that keeping yourself alive would be a top priority and that’s what this is all about.’ He grins. Ben has the kind of easy smile that gives men confidence. At twenty-six he is only about four years older than most of them but they accept his authority as one might an older and more experienced brother. ‘There are only two things that can keep you alive in a battle, luck and good practice. I hope you all have a lot of the former, but before I leave you, I’m gunna make damned sure you’ve had plenty of the second. Then if you haven’t the guts to make a bloody fool of yourself in front of your mates, well, I guess I’ll be there to bury you as well.’

  There is laughter in the platoon and a sense of increasing confidence. Ben hasn’t threatened his men with mindless practice and punishment for errors, so that they get to hate their Lee-Enfields, instead he has made them see how necessary the S.M.L.E. is to their survival.

  Ben now points to a lanky private who seems to have more bony angles to his body than ought to belong on a normal human being. ‘Right, now we all know Private Rigby here is a damned good shot, bett
er than any of you blokes, certainly better than I am.’

  The platoon turns to look at Crow Rigby, a country boy from Gippsland who carries the all too familiar badge of recognition of a volunteer from the bush, a permanent squint from staring into the sun. The young private, not yet twenty, blushes furiously and the fresh crop of acne covering his neck and jawline brightens visibly, his elbows rest on his bony knees and he looks down between his legs. It is obvious that he is not accustomed to praise or even to being noticed in a crowd.

  ‘Good on ya, Crow,’ someone says.

  Crow Rigby has earned his nickname because of an incident on the very first occasion the platoon is taken onto the firing range. All of them are sprawled on their bellies in the standard firing position, legs apart, feeling awkward and anxious, the butt of their Lee-Enfields unfamiliar, tightly tucked into their shoulders to prevent the legendary kick few of them have yet experienced. Each man has his own target which is about to come up in the target butts three hundred yards away. Their instruction is to fire at a rate of fifteen rounds a minute. There is a great deal of nervous anticipation, every man hoping to give a good account of himself while not quite knowing what to expect. Each has his finger lightly on the trigger waiting for the musketry sergeant to give the command to fire. Moments before it comes, a crow cawing and flapping its wings suddenly alights on the top of a flagpole a good twenty yards beyond the end of the firing range. The bird is still wobbling slightly on its new-found perch when a lone rifle shot rings out and the crow explodes in a cloud of black feathers. At three hundred and twenty yards it is a truly exceptional shot.

  Placed on a disciplinary charge and marched in front of his company commander, Rigby is asked if he has anything to say in his own defence. ‘Er yes, sir, it come on me like automatic, it’s the lambing season back ’ome, crows’ll peck the eyes out a newborn lamb, can’t ’ave one o’ them buggers hangin’ ’round the paddock, can you, sir?’

  Rigby was given only six days’ picket duty and then selected to do a special training course as a company sniper. This is his first day back with his platoon.

  ‘Private Rigby, how many times do you think you’ve fired a rifle, not a S.M.L.E., a rifle of any sort?’ Ben asks him.

  Rigby is too shy to look up and keeps his eyes on his boots as he thinks, then answers carefully. ‘Crikey, Sergeant, I dunno, I been doin’ it since I were knee ’igh to a grasshopper.’ He squints up at Ben briefly, ‘Thousands and thousands o’ times, I s’pose, I reckon ’bout six shots a day, though maybe that includes a shotgun, I been doin’ it since I were five year old. Awful lot a crows, snakes, and rabbits ’anging about on the selection, Sergeant.’

  At the mention of crows the platoon breaks up.

  ‘Thirty-two thousand, eight hundred and fifty times he’s fired a rifle against our possible hundred and twenty,’ Cooligan shouts out, sending the platoon into fresh gales of laughter.

  ‘Thank you, Private Cooligan, that’s very encouraging. Right, now let’s be serious for a moment.’ Ben, crooking his forefinger, beckons to Cooligan. ‘Come here, lad.’ The young private gets to his feet from the back and steps between several of the men, zig-zagging his way forward, placing his hand on their shoulders to get to Ben. ‘Righto, take your cap off, Private Cooligan.’ Numbers Cooligan removes his cap, placing it on the ground. Ben takes a clean handkerchief from his pocket, twirls it into a strip about two inches wide and blindfolds the infantryman.

  ‘Oi, what’s ’appening?’ Cooligan cries.

  ‘Right, Private Rigby, c’mere!’ Ben says not answering.

  Crow Rigby unfolds his legs and, rising, walks over to Ben. ‘Take Private Cooligan over to the tree, stand his back and head against the trunk.’

  ‘Righto, Sergeant, will I tie his hands?’

  There is laughter. ‘No, he’s going to need them to cover his goolies,’ Ben says calmly. ‘Now, Cooligan, don’t move a muscle, that’s an order, ya hear?’

  ‘What you gunna do, Sergeant, shoot me?’ Cooligan asks tentatively.

  ‘No, lad, you’ll be as safe as if you were in your mother’s arms.’

  ‘Do I have to, Sergeant?’ the young infantryman pleads, instinctively knowing that somehow his courage is to be tested. ‘I promise I’ll shut me trap next time!’

  The platoon all laughs uproariously. ‘Yes, I’m afraid you must, Private Cooligan, it’s an order.’

  Crow Rigby takes him by the hand and leads him the twenty or so feet to the trunk of the large old gum tree and positions him as Ben has directed.

  ‘Now hold your hands over your privates, lad. Don’t want you catching cold, do we?’ Ben’s voice is perfectly calm. ‘Don’t move until I tell you. You understand, don’t even twitch yer nose?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant, but I ain’t happy, Sergeant.’

  ‘Not supposed to be, you’re in the army now.’

  Ben stoops over his kitbag as he speaks and from it he removes Tommo’s fighting axe. Before anyone can quite realise what’s happening, he has straightened up and the axe has left his hand in a whirring blur. It lands with a soft thud, its blade buried in the trunk of the tree no more than half an inch to the side of Cooligan’s head and directly above his left ear.

  ‘Shit, what was that!’ Cooligan howls as the remainder of the platoon gasps in collective astonishment. To his credit he has not moved.

  ‘Right, Rigby, remove his blindfold,’ Ben instructs.

  The lanky country lad plucks at the blindfold, his country calm gone, his hands trembling from the shock of what he’s just witnessed. Cooligan opens his eyes. The axe handle is sticking out beyond the left side of his nose, but he cannot see the axe clearly as it is so deeply embedded that only the head and a small section of the blade are exposed.

  ‘Jesus!’ Cooligan yells. His knees give way under him and he collapses to the ground.

  There is complete silence from the rest of the young infantrymen, then someone says softly, ‘Jesus and Mary!’

  ‘Right, Cooligan, well done, lad, stand up,’ Ben commands.

  ‘Can’t, Sergeant,’ Cooligan whimpers, the after-shock of the experience bringing him close to tears.

  ‘Come, come, it wasn’t that bad, what you can’t see can’t hurt you, stand up, lad,’ Ben says soothingly.

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant, I mayn’t, I’ve pissed me trousers,’ Cooligan says in a distressed voice.

  Cooligan’s confession that he’s wet his pants breaks the tension and the platoon roars with laughter, though as much from relief as mirth.

  ‘Shut up! That’s enough!’ Ben barks suddenly, bringing the platoon to instant silence. Then turning to Cooligan he says, ‘Don’t blame you, lad, a lot of blokes would have shit themselves.’ He rummages around in his kitbag and pulls out a spare pair of khaki trousers. ‘Here, take these, lad, get to the latrines, clean up, then back here on the double.’ Ben’s sharp, emphatic orders help to jerk Cooligan back into action. ‘Eyes left, all of you!’ He hands Cooligan the spare trousers. ‘Up you get, nobody’s looking.’ Ben turns back to the platoon. ‘So what do we do about that, gentlemen? We give our comrade in arms three cheers for being a bloody good sport, eh?’

  To the cheers of the platoon the miserable Cooligan, covering the wet patch to his front with the help of Ben’s spare trousers, legs it for the latrine block.

  ‘Private Rigby, fetch the axe,’ Ben now commands. The country lad retrieves the axe, though not without some difficulty. Ben goes to stand where previously Numbers Cooligan stood blindfolded. ‘Righto, Rigby, you’ve got a good eye, now do the same to me,’ Ben says evenly.

  Private Rigby hops from one leg to the other, his head buried into his right shoulder and appearing to be all bones and acute angles. ‘I can’t, Sergeant,’ he says at last.

  ‘Why not, lad?’

  ‘I might miss, Sergeant,’ he says, grinning.

  The platoon, a moment before brought to a nervous silence, now cracks up again.

  Ben steps from the tree and, going over
to his kit, he removes a small cork dartboard of the type a child might get as an inexpensive extra in a Christmas stocking. It is about half as big again as a human head. He walks back to the tree and fixes the board to the trunk at roughly the same position occupied by Cooligan’s head.

  ‘You first, Rigby, and then the rest of you. Take the axe and throw it at the target, see how you go, eh? Ben has now reached the position where he previously stood to throw. ‘Imagine it’s your only weapon and that there dartboard is an enemy head. Fritz is coming at you in a bayonet charge and he is no more than a few feet away, ten, fifteen feet, you’ve got maybe two or three seconds. Righto, Rigby, go for your life.’

  The young blokes are clearly taken with the game and, with some jostling to get to the front of the queue, quickly form a line behind Crow Rigby, who now takes careful aim, not bothering about the imaginary bayonet-wielding German advancing. Taking a great deal more time than the three-second maximum, he sends the axe flying and they watch it tumble head over handle through the air. To his credit the blade actually fixes into the tree trunk, though almost three feet above the dartboard and somewhat to the side.

  ‘Better hope he was a very fat German sitting on a horse, Private Rigby,’ Ben says.

  ‘German general, Sarge, big ’orse, seventeen hands,’ Crow Rigby says.

  ‘Well done, anyway. Who’s next?’

  Rigby and one other young infantryman are the only ones who manage to get the blade of the axe into the tree, while the others either miss the trunk or the head of the axe bounces off the trunk and falls to the ground. They have almost completed the exercise when Cooligan arrives back wearing Ben’s trousers. He has rinsed his own under a faucet and now carries them bunched up in his right hand. He sees instantly what’s afoot and can’t wait for his turn to come. With the rest of the platoon watching, he weights the axe in both hands, then gripping it firmly he takes careful aim, pulls it well back beyond his right shoulder and lets it go with a furious swinging action. Tommo’s fighting axe twirls several times in the air and comes to land about twelve feet up at the conjunction of the trunk and the first of its branches, but at least it bites in, the blade sinking solidly into the rough bark. The platoon claps and whistles.