Solomon's Song

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘The Union of South Africa, sir,’ Thomas will reply mournfully. ‘Will you take tinned cream with your peaches, sir?’

  ‘Jolly good show, yes, yes, just a drop, ha ha, don’t want to drown the African sunshine in the fruit, do we?’

  Joshua has come to dread those nights when tinned pears are served. These invariably come from Australia and while the colonel’s reply to Thomas always remains the same, with the only change being that Australian sunshine replaces the African, it means that Joshua will almost inevitably be selected to remain behind to share the colonel’s after-dinner carafe of port.

  Corporal Thomas, also regular army, waits until the port is passed around and the toast to the King is pronounced, then he retrieves the carafe (always from the left) and refills it to the brim.

  Together with two fresh glasses and a small silver bell he places the newly filled carafe in front of the old man and then, taking one step back from the table so that he stands behind the colonel’s right shoulder, he stamps his right boot to rigid attention. ‘If that will be all, sah!’ he announces at the top of his voice, bringing his hand up in a smart salute.

  ‘Yes, yes, Thomas, don’t fuss,’ comes the invariable reply. With Thomas departed, Colonel Henderson looks around the table and fixes a bloodshot eye on one of his company commanders. ‘Captain Carruthers, a word in your shell-pink,’ he’ll say, whereupon the remaining officers, barely able to contain their relief, will hastily scrape their chairs backwards and retire from the table, leaving the old man and the hapless officer of his choice to drink out the brimming carafe.

  On a bitterly cold night in mid-January 1916 pears are served for dessert and Joshua finds himself selected for the after-dinner port run. He sighs inwardly. No officer has ever escaped before the carafe was empty. If he’s lucky it may take an hour, but if the colonel is in a melancholic mood with the conversation punctuated by long silences it could take as long as two. By the time the last glass is swallowed the old man’s conversation will have deteriorated to an almost incomprehensible mumble, always involving the Siege of Mafeking, where it seems Henderson was appointed the senior quartermaster.

  However, the mention of Mafeking is always the signal that the evening is coming to an end and the little silver bell may be rung with impunity to summon Gunner Morton, the colonel’s batman. Gunner Morton will enter, come to a smart halt, salute and say, ‘Permission to transport you to your billet, sah!’

  Tubs Henderson, slumped in his chair, will give the soldier a desultory salute and offer the same arm to Gunner Morton to raise him from his chair, whereupon Morton will lead the colonel quietly off to his billet, a cottage on the outskirts of the small French village of

  Albert, some two hundred yards from the front gates of the ordnance depot. Many a young officer summoned to the port run of an evening, unable to rise after the colonel has made his departure, has been discovered asleep under the mess table by Corporal Thomas the following morning.

  With the weather outside bitter, Joshua had hoped to retire to bed early with a book and a bottle of Scotch. He makes a mental note to renew the pound note he’d slipped Corporal Thomas some weeks earlier, together with the suggestion that he go easy on serving Australian pears for dessert. With a second toast to His Majesty and the royal family and an additional one to the speedy defeat of the Hun, he waits, ruby glass in hand, for the colonel to open the after-dinner conversation.

  ‘I say, young Solomon, you’re a damned curious case what?’ Henderson begins.

  ‘Case? Curious? How, sir?’

  ‘Well, you’re a strapping lad, damned fine specimen, all the right qualifications, Oxford, rugby and cricket blue, not at all the type to be found in an ordnance outfit.’

  Joshua, realising that, like himself, the old man is a little worse for wear, replies carefully, ‘Are you not happy with my work, sir?’

  ‘Good God, lad, not at all! Quite the opposite. Good heavens! You’ve done a splendid job. Splendid. Promoted to major, almost unheard of what.’

  ‘What is it then, sir?’

  ‘Young, fit officers like you don’t usually end up in an ordnance battalion. We’re a bunch of old crocks here, jumped-up senior clerks and depot men in uniform.’

  Joshua smiles, unable to disagree with this assessment of the officers in the battalion. ‘Well, sir, I really can’t say. As you know, I’ve put in for a transfer to a fighting battalion every month I’ve been here.’

  ‘Quite right too! You deserve your chance to have a shot at the Hun. At your age I’d feel the same way, old boy.’ The colonel takes another sip from his port glass and looks up at Joshua. ‘I’ve put through your request for a transfer every time you’ve made one and, well, it’s tantamount to bumping my head against a brick wall. Damned curious what?’ He holds up his port glass and sniffs, then squints over its rim at Joshua. ‘Tell me, Major Solomon, are you being saved for something?’

  ‘Saved, sir? Whatever can you mean?’

  ‘Politics? Only son? Heir to the throne? That sort of malarky? Never come across anything like it in my life. Not British, you know. Sort of thing they do to a maharaja’s son in the Indian army. Not the done thing here.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what you mean, sir?’ Joshua says again, knowing himself to be tipsy and so trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

  ‘Are you quite sure?’

  ‘Of what?’ Joshua asks, now consciously restraining his temper.

  ‘Well, I finally grew curious myself. Not usual to have a request refused when it’s signed by the battalion commander. Bit of an insult, actually. Slap in the face. Know a chappie in the War Office. We clerks, you know, stick together. Asked him to dig around. Came back to me all hush-hush. You’re not to be moved. Stay where you are for the duration. Nothing I can do about it, old chap. Orstralian Government. Official request to the W.O.’

  This is all the confirmation Joshua needs to act and he immediately writes off to his father. In his letter he threatens Abraham, telling him that if he doesn’t have the order rescinded he’ll not return to Australia after the war, stating that he’d be ashamed to do so. He points out that his grandfather has left him sufficient funds to live comfortably in England for the remainder of his life, a prospect that would not make him unhappy. In addition he adds:

  Father, please understand, this is no idle threat. While I respect you greatly, I deserve the same chance to serve my country as any private soldier and that means carrying a weapon into battle against the enemy.

  If you do not see to it that my grandfather’s interference is removed I shall write to the Age, the Sydney Morning Herald and the Bulletin. If you think you can buy their silence then I will write to the Truth, who has long waged war against our family and would relish the opportunity to run a piece as follows.

  I shall tell them that while others lay down their lives for their country the rich and privileged such as me issue bootlaces and count cans of bullybeef in perfect safety five miles behind the front line.

  I will not hesitate to add that I have weekend leave to Paris and a private automobile to get me there, where I have occasion to enjoy champagne suppers with beautiful young mademoiselles while my countrymen die in the mud and stench of the trenches.

  Furthermore, I shall not be above using the anti-Semitic angle to all of this. ‘Rich Melbourne Jew’s son . . . etc.’ You know how much the Truth hates Jews and niggers.

  Please, Father, take me seriously in this. I have been trained by my grandfather and I will fight you the way he would have done and you may be sure I shall win.

  I wish also to be transferred to the 5th Battalion A.I.F. and not the Light Horse as previously. There are sound reasons for this, the 5th contains the public school company which includes many of my friends.

  Although, with the rank of major, I am more likely to command another company in the 5th, it will still be within the same battalion. When, after the war, we all return to Melbourne, it will be most useful for business purposes a
s all the top families are represented.

  Please, I beg you, do not let me down in this endeavour, Father.

  Yours respectfully,

  Joshua.

  Though mortified by the general tone of Joshua’s letter to him, Abraham Solomon takes his son’s threat seriously and realises at the same time that Joshua’s ruthless attitude towards him will make him an ideal opponent for Victoria when he returns to civilian life. Moreover, his transfer to the 5th Battalion, if it can be arranged, will not be an altogether bad thing. If he should return as the conquering hero with the rank of major, having faced the Boche in the trenches, it will do him not the slightest harm in the Melbourne business community. The newspapers claim that the worst of the fighting is over in France and that things are relatively quiet on the Western Front. Some sort of medal will sit nicely on his son’s chest.

  Abraham is beginning to realise that Joshua will not have it all his own way when he returns to Australia. Victoria Teekleman is showing a natural aptitude for business. Increasingly she is being allowed by Hawk to do things her way and the results are impressive. The Potato Factory is growing at better than a ten per cent rate per annum so that the Tasmanian-based company will soon be more profitable than its Victorian counterpart under the Solomon & Teekleman banner.

  Hawk’s granddaughter is proving to be bold but not foolish in her business ventures and Abraham is forced to admire her intelligence and application. Starting with a small woollen mill in Launceston, which Hawk had given her on her own in the first months she’d been placed under his direction, she has, in just under eighteen months, built it to a size where it is now a major supplier of blankets to the Australian army. In addition she has recently lobbied for and submitted, without any help from Hawk or himself, a government tender for the supply of army greatcoats for the troops fighting in France.

  John Parkin, the permanent head of the Department of Trade and Customs, who sat in on the conference when Hawk and Victoria first confronted Abraham with Hinetitama’s shares, dropped Abraham a note after the successful contract.

  Parliament House

  Melbourne

  15th January 1916

  Dear Sir Abraham,

  This morning I was able to write to Miss Teekleman in Hobart to inform her that her tender for the manufacture of greatcoats for our forces abroad has been accepted by my department. While doing so I was reminded of the meeting in your office.

  I must say that I was impressed with the way Miss Teekleman conducted herself on that occasion and again during our recent negotiations. She strikes me as an exceptional young woman and well exemplifies the old adage that we should trust our hopes and not our fears.

  I trust you are well,

  Yours sincerely,

  John Parkin

  Department of Trade and Customs.

  The factory, which has hitherto employed twenty men and seven women, now has two hundred employees, all but sixteen of them female. Using the excuse that the able-bodied men are increasingly away at the war, Victoria has trained young women in the most previously unimagined capacities. She has them working as successful drivers, mechanics and machine operators, occupations traditionally thought only suitable for men. Furthermore, the clerical staff are also all women, with the exception of the chief accountant, who is an old retainer at the factory. Her appointments include a recently retired hospital matron, fearsome by reputation, named Mildred Manning, who has become her general manager.

  When Hawk indicated some doubt about the wisdom of this appointment, Victoria responded sharply, ‘Grandfather, if Mildred Manning can run a hospital filled with sick people she can run a blanket factory filled with healthy young ones. She’s well accustomed to working with nurses and other female staff as well as handling men, who, if you want my opinion, constantly interfere to very little effect on the boards of hospitals anyway.’

  The maternity hospital started in Mary Abacus’ home for the wives of the employees of the Potato Factory Brewery has, over the ensuing years, become a general hospital. And while it has been taken over by the state, the brewery has an entitlement to a seat on the hospital board. Hawk has given this position to Victoria and she has made it known to him that the old fogies who sit with her on it, all of them men, do nothing but create obstacles.

  When the unions complain about the female bias in the blanket factory, Victoria invites the ten most senior union officials involved in the combined trade unions active in Launceston over for afternoon tea. Needless to say they are all men and the affair, which quite incidentally includes tea and cake, features libations of a somewhat stronger and more spirited kind. In addition, there is a case of beer for each of the men to take home afterwards.

  After the officials have had a few tipples Victoria points out that she is acting well within the trade-union charter and that factories employed in essential war industries can recruit from anywhere they wish and are not restricted to union labour. She then informs them that every one of her employees carries a fully paid-up union membership card. After she promises to pay the transport and accommodation for three local union officials as delegates to the Trade Union Congress to be held in Melbourne, they leave, assuring her of the utmost cooperation and giving her three resounding hip hip hoorays.

  Victoria has also expanded beer production in the Tasmanian brewery and Tommo & Hawk beer has made significant inroads into the South Australian market, taking a ten per cent market share from West End, the well-established Adelaide brewery, which has hitherto successfully fought off all outside competition.

  Abraham has been forced to conclude that Joshua will need every resource at his command if he is to succeed his father as chairman of Solomon & Teekleman.

  Moreover, Abraham privately thinks the deal David made to keep Joshua away from the fighting was quite wrong and that money and title should not be allowed to buy such privileges. Accordingly, he sets about undoing the elaborate network of safeguards that David, even in his apparent dotage, put together, marvelling in the process at the old man’s Machiavellian mind.

  Joshua finally receives his transfer to the 5th Battalion in March 1916 and is given command of C Company.

  On the 25th of January 1916 Ben Teekleman arrives in England on the hospital ship Gascon and is transported from the London docks to the 3rd London General Hospital at Wandsworth where a number of Australian military surgeons and nurses are stationed. Nearly ten thousand Australian wounded have been sent to Britain, and this hospital, and the London War Hospital at Woodcote Park near Epsom Downs where Australian medical staff have also been transferred, are working around the clock with the operating theatres running in shifts, twenty-four hours a day.

  It is a week before a surgeon is available to see Ben, and then only because his admission sheet shows that he has been mentioned in dispatches twice and is to be awarded the Military Medal. This is not to say that he has gained preference over cases more urgent than his own, but only over those of equal importance where his credentials as a war hero have shuffled him to the top of the pile.

  He is interviewed by a weary-looking doctor with a colonel’s insignia on his epaulets, who introduces himself quietly as John Mockeridge. He appears to be in his early fifties and, asking Ben to be seated, apologises unnecessarily for not having had time to shave the two-day growth he scratches absently as he talks.

  ‘You’ve got quite a record, Sergeant . . . oh, I beg your pardon, Sergeant-Major,’ the surgeon corrects. ‘I’m . . .’ he looks up, ‘well . . . impressed.’

  ‘Impressed?’ Ben says slowly. ‘It’s only stuff they give you if you’ve been stupid enough to stay alive.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant-Major Teekleman, I had no intention of offending you.’

  ‘No offence taken, Doctor. It’s just . . .’ Ben doesn’t finish the sentence and shrugs instead.

  ‘Well then, let’s see what’s doing, you’ll have to forgive me, I’ve been operating all night and haven’t had the time to read my case notes.’ Ben
sits silently as Mockeridge reads. Finally he looks up. ‘It appears from the X-rays that you have a bullet lodged near your spine, could be tricky, would you mind if I examine you? You’ll need to take off your uniform, leave your undershorts on.’

  Ben finds himself disarmed by the man’s pleasant manner, it is not something he has seen in a military doctor before, or any doctor, for that matter, where arrogance and a disregard for a patient’s feelings are the usual distinguishing characteristics.

  Ben removes his clothes and the doctor points to his examination table. Making Ben lie on his stomach, he prods gently around the jagged purple scar where the bullet has entered. ‘Most fortunate, the object appears to have entered sideways with a loss of momentum. A Mauser bullet coming in clean would most likely have severed your spine and entered your stomach. They’re a higher-velocity bullet, slightly bigger calibre and do more damage than a Lee-Enfield.’

  Ben is impressed. ‘Yeah, it was a ricochet, the bullet came off a rock.’

  ‘Well, there you go,’ the doctor says, ‘a spot of luck, but we’re not out of the woods yet, old son.’

  ‘What do you mean, Doctor?’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t feel too bad, but it could have damaged the nerve casing around your spine. Fortunately it has not penetrated through the wall of your stomach. Sometimes taking these blighters out causes more damage than leaving them in. Is it very painful?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say it’s a lot of fun, Doctor, but I’m learning to sleep on my stomach.’ He looks directly at the doctor. ‘I’d rather you had a go at taking it out.’

  ‘A lot of pain, eh?’

  ‘I’ve seen blokes in a lot worse.’

  ‘Well, if I leave it in you’ll be sent back home?’ Mockeridge offers.

  ‘And if the operation doesn’t work I’ll be sent back home in a box, is that it, Doctor?’