Two Generations

by Anne Connor

  On Broom’s command, they removed the magazines of their mud-caked Owens.

  On the next command, they opened the breech.

  Jock noticed three foraging ravens taking off from the waste bins. The noise and quick movement of the drill startled them. They flew over the parade ground, squawking their annoyance at the interruption.

  My father’s diary ends after his return to camp. Medical records show his health deteriorated until his early discharge from the army in 1945. Military and medical records, war diaries and information sourced from veterans, helped me piece together the following chapters of his enlisted life.

  Jock woke to the sounds of voices – women’s voices. At first, he thought he was back in Clarence Street with Bess, her mother and sisters. Then he heard men talking and yelling and the motors of jeeps and trucks. He opened his eyes to a green mosquito net hanging six inches from his face and covering his entire body; through the net, he saw a high canvas ceiling. Two lines of thick bamboo poles held up the roof of the tent. The humidity and heat enveloped him. He was lying bare-chested on a high iron bed and wearing someone else’s shorts.

  He tried to get up – too heavy. His head was foggy. No other option but to rest his head on the pillow. He could smell antiseptic, mould and sweat. He thought of Horry, and then …

  Sadness and grief swamped him; his eyes filled. Why did I have to wake?

  He hoisted himself up on both elbows, saw two lines of tall double bunks on either side of the tent. They were occupied by dirty and bloodied men with bandaged heads, legs, torsos or arms. A number looked in shock, with tremors. There were men similar to Jock, with no physical wounds. A few sat sideways on their beds, legs dangling over the side, blank eyes staring. So high were the beds that men sitting sideways on the bottom bunk couldn’t touch the ground with their feet.

  At one end of the long tent, he could see outside to the jungle. Soldiers were building huts in cleared areas. Someone shouted orders to the fuzzie-wuzzies,3 telling them where to dig, place poles and flooring. A truck stopped. More shouting, the canvas flap was rolled back and secured. Soldiers carried more wounded past his bed. Jock wrestled with the netting. A nurse wearing a grey uniform and gumboots squelched her way towards him. Jock then noticed the floor – it was a bog.

  ‘No, no mate, you stay put,’ she said as she came closer. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ Her voice was soft, with a strong Australian accent. He thought of Bess.

  ‘I’m not wounded. Those blokes can have my bed.’

  ‘You’re wounded enough.’ She tied the mosquito net into a ball above him. ‘You stay there until we decide where you’re to go.’ She pulled a second pillow from the empty bed next to him and helped him sit up. ‘Just rest, you’ve been through a bugger of a time. You don’t have to do a thing at the moment.’ She made sure he was comfortable, leaned on the side of the bed and patted his arm a couple of times. ‘I’m Joan, I’m a nurse here.’

  She had freckles on her face and arms, brown eyes and her straight brown hair was cut to just above her shoulders. When she smiled, her teeth protruded. It was pleasant and strange being so near a woman after being so long in the company of men. He stared.

  ‘You’re safe here, Jock,’ she said and smiled. ‘You’re in the 2/9th Australian General Hospital, just outside Port Moresby. You were brought here after … well … you know.’ As she spoke, she ran her fingers through her hair and poked it behind her ears. ‘You’ve been sleeping a while, sedated, so I bet you think you’ve been hit by one of those trucks parked outside the tent. We’ve let the padre know you’re awake. He’ll be over soon.’

  As she straightened the worn sheets on his bed it was as if she was talking to herself. ‘Bloody Owens, you’re not the first soldier I’ve nursed because of the faulty buggers. There’s been a few. Had one bloke in here just the other week – he shot himself in the armpit during drill. The gun discharged when the butt hit the ground. ‘Diggers’ darling’, they call them. Well, that’s a joke if I’ve ever heard one. The ‘diggers’ devil’, if you ask me.’

  Jock continued to stare, realised his mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut.

  ‘Are you hungry? You must be.’ Joan patted Jock’s arm again, straightened his pillow and tried to lift her feet out of the mud.

  ‘The field bakery baked a batch of fresh bread this morning. I’ll get you a slice or two before it gets mouldy. Happens quickly here in this humidity, either that or the rats get it. But you’re in luck today, Jock. The Red Cross have sent over rations. I will see what I can rustle up.’

  Jock watched as she squelched her way out of the tent.

  Injured soldiers carried on canvas stretchers passed his bed. Many wounds were flyblown and putrid. The pong of rotting flesh hung in the air. One soldier’s arms and legs were stiff and jerking as if he had an electric shock. He was semi-comatose and calling out. Jock counted another five with tremors.

  Joan appeared again smiling. ‘Your lucky day, mate.’ On a wooden tray, she had a plate of bread and jam and a mug of steaming tea. Jock sat up, rested the tray on his lap and took a bite out of the bread. He closed his eyes and relished the delight of fresh bread and the sweetness of the strawberry jam. He ate hurriedly, licked the jam off his fingers, sipped his hot tea, placed the tray at the end of his bed, rested his head on the pillow and drifted off to sleep.

  When he woke, a soldier with small crosses on each lapel of his shirt was standing by his bed.

  ‘Hello Jock, I’m Father Pat Keane. Just came over to say gidday. Do that with the new boys.’ The priest was clean-shaven, wet brown hair stuck to his head and his army shirt had dark, damp patches under the arms and across his chest. He brought over a high stool from the nurses’ station and placed it next to Jock’s bed.

  ‘What can I do for you, Jock? A confession? A few decades then. I’ve got a spare rosary.’

  Father Keane led the prayers. Jock closed his eyes, bent his head and prayed under his breath, moving his thumb and index finger along the beads.

  A couple of years before my mother died, my brother recorded a series of conversations with her. She was ninety then and spoke candidly of our father’s breakdown, why it happened and life with him after the war.

  March 1945

  Bess sat on the back seat of the bus with a string bag flopped on her lap. It contained two tins: one with Anzac biscuits she’d baked the day before; the other held photographs of their son and two men’s handkerchiefs with the letter ‘J’ she had embroidered in navy cotton.

  Her trip from Geelong to the Repatriation Hospital in Heidelberg took four hours on two trains, a tram and a bus. The last leg was the most trying – a bumpy bus ride along an unmade road past paddocks and a few houses scattered along the way. She was relieved when the bus stopped outside a cluster of multistorey red-brick and fibro buildings. Covered walkways surrounded a number of dwellings. People, cars and trucks provided the site with a sense of busyness. A high cyclone-wire fence around the perimeter reminded Bess of a prison.

  She walked along a side street to the hospital’s entrance thinking of the last time they had been together in Sydney, at Miss Walsh’s house where they had rekindled their romance. She smiled to herself when she pictured the two of them squashed into that single bed. They walked together, hand in hand, back to the pine forest – predawn – the long kisses by the side of the woods before Jock left her to weave his way back to the barracks before sun-up.

  ‘I wonder how it will be now?’ she said to herself.

  The hospital’s entrance was just past St John’s Theatre where a crowd of women milled on the footpath. A guard with a patch over his right eye sat in an enclosed booth at the gate’s entrance. When it was Bess’ turn to ask for directions, he pulled open the glass window, picked up a large hard-covered book alphabetised along the side, opened it at C, and told her to follow the yellow line on the duckboards until she reached Ward 15. ‘You’ve got an hour.’

  Bess walked along a dirt road aroun
d a large roundabout with a flagpole erected in its centre. An Australian flag flapped in the breeze. The covered walkway appeared to go on forever and created a wind tunnel. Bess shivered and wished she had worn her coat. Women and men dressed in army uniforms; nurses in full regalia and men in pyjamas and dressing-gowns moved around the grounds.

  Metal tips on Bess’ high heels clicked on the boards as she followed the yellow line. Women walked in front and behind her. No-one spoke. At times, a group filed off onto other duckboards. After walking for a time, Ward 15 came into view. She joined a group of women waiting by the entrance and reciprocated when a few nodded or smiled.

  It wasn’t long before a bell rang and the crowd moved through two glass doors. Bess walked towards a Visitors Report Here sign hanging over an enclosed cubicle. Behind the glass, a nurse sat at a desk writing in a large book. She wore a white starched veil and a pale blue short-sleeved uniform. Bess was taken by freckles on her arms and for a moment they looked familiar. She knocked on the glass and said, ‘I’m looking for Jock Connor. Could you direct me to him?’

  The nurse looked up and stared. Bess waited for her to respond, feeling uncomfortable at being watched. She asked again. This time louder, thinking the nurse may be hard of hearing, maybe she had been in the field herself.

  ‘Is that you, Bessie Brown?’ The nurse stood up, opened the door and came out of the cubicle. ‘It is. It is you. I’m Joan Higgins from Balliang, your old neighbour. You used to drive my brother, Nugget and me to school in the jinker. Do you remember?’

  The two friends hugged.

  Her polished brown lace-ups squeaked on the linoleum floor and her starched uniform swished as she walked. Bess couldn’t help thinking of little Joanie sitting on the jinker swinging her legs as they drove along the bumpy roads of Balliang. And here she was swishing through a hospital ward, looking very much at home.

  Bess recognised the aroma of antiseptic and noticed blank beige walls. Vases of wilting flowers were a poor attempt to lighten the place up. A faded picture of King George VI looked on the weary and wounded. In places, the floorcovering curled up.

  The two old friends passed bed after bed with men wrapped in bandages, and amputees with stumps swathed in tight white bandages. The ward was noisy from visitors and patients talking. Excitement filled the air. A few were out of bed and walked with their guests towards the gardens. Others were being wheeled in chairs or hobbled on crutches. It was a strange world for Bess, yet her old friend appeared in control. Joan stopped at the last bed.

  Jock’s eyes were closed, and Joan leaned over him and touched his arm gently. ‘Jock, Jock, there is someone to see you,’ she whispered. ‘Someone, you will be pleased to see.’ He was propped up in bed with pillows. A sheet and lemon hospital blanket were pulled up to his waist and tucked in on either side of the bed, accentuating his emaciated body.

  A white singlet hung on his bony frame. His cheekbones protruded and his eyes had sunken back into his head. Bess moved little by little, shocked by what she saw. He opened his eyes. His once bright blue irises were now dull.

  ‘Hello love,’ she said and kissed him on his cheek. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’

  He looked at her, but there was no recognition. He looked at Joan and said, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, love, it’s Bessie.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It’s Bess. Bessie, your wife.’

  He closed his eyes.

  Joan indicated for Bess to sit on a timber chair between the window and bed. My mother remembered seeing a pine tree and bushes of purple and white agapanthus through that window. She closed the curtains in case the sunlight might disturb him, placed the tin of Anzacs on his side table and moved the glass of water closer to where it was easier for him to reach when he woke. She sat and watched his face, his thin, clouded, sad face and cried. It was his humour and sunny disposition that had attracted her. She remembered seeing him at the dances and the way he joked and smiled. In front of her now, he looked as if his light had been snuffed out. His bones poked through his flesh. Had he not eaten for months? She watched him sleep and this again took her back to the last time they were together at Miss Walsh’s house in Sydney.

  She had received his letter when he was stationed in New South Wales. The workers on the wharf had been on strike and the army was called in to load and unload shipments.

  He had written …

  I’m just a train-ride away, pet. Why don’t you come up on your own for a break for a while? I miss you and I need you. There is word we’re to be shipped to New Guinea at any time and I don’t know when I’ll be back.

  Bess knew she couldn’t leave Cleary at home. Since the telegram announcing Frank’s death, Mary’s health had deteriorated, leaving her frail. Tilly and Honor had taken jobs in factories and were away during the day. She asked Dorothy if Cleary could stay with her.

  ‘Of course Bess, go and spend time with your husband, the older girls can help out with Cleary.’ Dorothy started to cry then and Bess put her arms around her.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Dot. I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘Of course you should ask me. If I can’t be with my Bert, then, at least, I can help my friend be with her husband. Stay as long as you can. Cleary loves it here with the other children and the two girls are a great help.’

  Bess packed Cleary’s clothes and his toys into a small case and walked to Dorothy’s house holding her son’s hand. She was torn. She didn’t want to leave her little boy, but she did want to spend time with her husband. As they turned into the front gate, Cleary let go of his mother’s hand and ran to the front door, calling, ‘Ed, Ed.’ Inside, she hugged him, kissed his cheek and said her goodbyes. Peggy took him outside and when he disappeared out the back door, tears welled in Bess’ eyes.

  Dorothy hugged her. ‘Go, go and have a wonderful time with your husband and have an extra wonderful time for me.’

  Bess had made herself a sandwich, a thermos of tea and said goodbye to her mother and sisters. She caught the train to Spencer Street and from there a train to Sydney. The trip took hours and she was pleased she had packed her knitting, a jumper for Cleary from unravelled wool, previously her cardigan before the moths found it.

  Jock had written to disembark at the Holsworthy train station and included the address of a boarding house. The dwelling was red-brick with a high unkempt hedge for a front fence. Bess climbed the three steps to the front veranda and tapped the brass doorknocker. She waited then tried again. No answer. She walked around the corner and found a park with a seat. She sat and knitted a few more rows, and finished off the tea. It was late afternoon when she tried the house again – still no answer. She found a hotel and booked a room for the night. The following morning she walked to the house and tried again – silence. An older woman approached from across the road. Bess noticed how dainty she looked. She took small steps, waved at Bess and as she got closer said, ‘I noticed you were here yesterday too, weren’t you?’

  When Bess explained her predicament, the older woman offered her rental of a spare room at her house, on the proviso she met Jock first. She said she didn’t have much respect for soldiers. The room had a leadlight window overlooking red and pink rose bushes in the front garden. Under the window was a single iron bed with a patchwork quilt of burgundy and pink. The walls and ceiling were painted white and an oak wardrobe, dressing table and two comfortable chairs completed the picture.

  Bess fell in love with it and an agreement was made.

  ‘Ten shillings a week, including food; I have a vegetable garden and chooks out the back – everything is fresh. Now, I do need to meet Mr Connor.’

  As Bess watched her husband in the bed in front of her, she smiled remembering how fond Miss Walsh had become of Jock. The older woman looked forward to his visits and made him scones and jam. He spent Sunday evenings with them and Miss Walsh cooked grilled chops with vegetables from her garden. When Bess returned to Victoria, Jock walked with Miss Walsh to churc
h on Sunday mornings and stayed for lunch.

  She was so grateful for her time in Sydney with her husband, even more so now. She remembered looking at him early in the mornings before sunrise. His face looked peaceful then. He slept with the corners of his mouth curved upwards. When he opened his eyes and saw her close by, his smile widened, ‘Morning, pet,’ he’d say. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’

  By her husband’s bed at the hospital, Bess cried, using the two new handkerchiefs with the navy-blue ‘J’ embroidered in the corners. She held his hand.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’ she whispered. ‘Come back to me.’

  The cafeteria was noisy with nurses, doctors and patients walking, talking and moving chairs in and out from tables on the hard floor. Bess’ eyes were red and swollen, her face and neck blotchy. She and Joan were silent as they stood in line for a cup of tea and piece of fruitcake. Bess followed her friend as they walked along the ramp and into the garden. Joan found a quiet spot with a timber picnic table and chairs set under a clump of pine trees. She placed the tray on the table and wiped the pine needles off the seat. The two women sat side by side drinking tea. Bess stared ahead. ‘He didn’t know me.’ She placed her cup on the saucer then on the table in front of them. She picked it up again. ‘He didn’t recognise me.’ She turned and looked at Joan. ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘What do you know, Bess?’

  ‘Very little; the army are stinkers,’ Bess said as she rummaged in her handbag for one of her damp handkerchiefs and blew her nose. ‘They said he had malaria.’

  ‘He has been unwell.’ Joan held Bess’ hand. ‘He’s sedated at the moment and is coming right. Visit again. He will get to know you in time. You’ll need to be patient.’

  ‘What can you tell me? Anything, tell me anything. It will help.’

  ‘I nursed Jock at the 2/9th Hospital in New Guinea,’ Joan said, turning to face her friend. ‘After that he was moved twenty-two times to different bases and hospitals across Australia and New Guinea.’ She paused then and looked down at her lap. ‘He was also here for a time, Bess.’