by Peter Watt
Thousands of wives, mothers, sisters, daughters and lovers dreaded the arrival of the telegram boy on his red GPO bicycle. Kate Tracy was no exception as she sat with her sewing in her lap on the wide, shaded verandah of her house in the tropics. Each day the mail man was welcomed as he rode up the long driveway to her house and delivered the precious letters from friends and relatives and, most importantly, those rare letters from overseas stained with the dust and mud of the battlefields. But the boy on the red push bike was not welcome.
It was a warm day and the world seemed at peace. Kate tied off the cotton thread on a shirt she was stitching for one of the gardeners when she glanced up to see the uniformed young boy riding towards her on his distinctive bicycle.
‘Oh, dear God,’ she heard herself groaning. ‘Let it be a mistake.’
She dropped the sewing at her feet and staggered to the railing as the young boy dismounted, propping his bike against a gum tree before walking towards her with an envelope in his hand. Kate knew the boy as she had sat with his mother only weeks earlier when the news arrived that her husband had been killed on the Western Front.
‘Mrs Tracy,’ the boy said apologetically as he walked up the steps to her. ‘I am sorry, I have to give you this.’
Kate did not say a word but accepted the telegram as the boy ducked his head and hurried away. Too often those he delivered the telegrams to fainted, and he did not like being around women who fainted or screamed out in their grief. It was unnerving. Besides, all he wanted to do was be old enough so that he could also sign up and fight the Huns.
Kate half-staggered back to her chair and slumped into it. She could barely bring herself to slip open the unsealed envelope and spread the single page.
It is with regret . . . killed in action.
From the drawing room where she was dusting the sideboards Angela heard the long, anguished groan and hurried to the verandah to see her mistress ashen-faced. ‘He’s dead,’ Kate said, holding out the single typewritten page to her. ‘Killed in Palestine.’ Then Kate broke down, tears streaming down her face as she sobbed for the loss of one more soldier in this terrible war.
*
Behind any such telegram is always a story of a moment in time, when a man faces death in his own way. Under the competent British General Allenby, the men of the Australian forces were on the road north to Damascus and Jerusalem. The advance had been spectacular, with thousands of Turkish and German soldiers taken prisoner as Allenby’s combined forces of French, British, Indian, Australian and New Zealand infantry and horsemen flowed forward, swamping the enemy. It had become a fluid war, unlike the bogged-down battlefields of Europe, a war designed for horsemen with the wide, sweeping plains to manoeuvre across.
In the air, Matthew, flying a new Bristol fighter, carried out recon and interdiction missions with his gunner, Sergeant Bruce Forsyth, now occupying the rear cockpit with his Lewis gun for rearward protection against enemy fighter planes. Matthew liked the new aircraft, as it was, despite being a two-seater, very agile and capable of engaging any of the German fighter planes they might come across on their missions.
On the ground, Trooper Randolph Gates rode with the advancing troops but a bout of malaria was dogging him. It was not only the enemy and the scorpions and snakes of the desert taking the lives of men, but also mosquitoes carrying the deadly disease. Randolph slumped in his saddle, shivering from the effects of the fever as they trekked ever northwards. They were advancing through low, craggy hills, and Randolph could see aircraft from Matthew’s squadron diving like angry bees into the gorge. The airmen had come across a Turkish transport column which had unwittingly made itself the perfect target for the aircraft circling above. The lead vehicles were immediately attacked with bombs and machine-gun fire; then the airmen went to work on the strung out column of troops, flying a few hundred feet over their targets, dropping bombs and strafing the desperate soldiers as they attempted to take shelter.
Matthew aimed the nose of his aircraft at a cluster of men he could see spilling from the back of a truck. Satisfied that he had a good sight on the soldiers, he fired the forward, fixed machine gun and saw the dust spouting up in tiny bursts as men caught in the bullets fell, riddled with high velocity .303 rounds. Horses were also hit and reared in agony before collapsing on the ground. Some of the braver troops on the ground were answering their persecutors with rifle fire, but to little effect as those aircraft with bombs remaining under their wings dropped them into the packed convoy, exploding ammunition and petrol. Behind him Matthew could hear the chatter of Sergeant Forsyth’s Lewis gun picking off targets of opportunity. The scene below was that of a slaughter but Matthew felt no emotion about the carnage he was helping to create. From his height, the men he killed hardly had features, certainly none he could discern, and were simply targets to be tallied at some later time.
From a safe distance, Randolph’s unit watched the slaughter, hoping that the Turks might surrender. But the Turkish troops were as brave as any on earth and fought back despite their losses. In the time that Randolph had been with the Light Horse he had not seen the scale of death he was now witnessing.
‘Poor bastards,’ a trooper mumbled beside Randolph.
Out of ammunition and bombs, the aircraft flew away to re-arm, leaving a shattered column drowning in their own blood. The order was given to Randolph’s troop to find a way down to engage the survivors. They drew their rifles from the buckets and charged a group of Turkish soldiers attempting to set up a machine gun to cover the rear of the column.
Randolph let out a rebel yell he had heard as a kid in Texas from his uncle, who had fought the Yankees in the war between the states. He felt a thump in his chest that flung him from his galloping horse. Winded, and his lungs filling with blood, Randolph lay staring at the sky, knowing that he was dying. He could hear the shouting of his comrades as the crack of bullets in the air around him faded into another world, one that no longer concerned him.
Hardly able to breathe, Randolph lay still, clutching his rifle. ‘Nellie,’ he whispered hoarsely, although he was alone and no-one would hear him. ‘I loved you.’
When his comrades returned they found him dead. According to records in the regimental HQ, his death was to be notified to a Mrs Kate Tracy in Townsville. Randolph Gates, former cowboy, stockman, adventurer, one-time film actor on two continents and now a mounted infantry man would be buried in the earth where so many armies had fought and died before him.
Winter was returning to the Northern Hemisphere and Major Alex Macintosh was still alive, although he had long given up on any hope of surviving the war and returning to his wife and child. Since his arrival in France he had taken command of a company of approximately a hundred men, but in the months that passed he had written so many letters to next-of-kin that the names of the dead blurred.
Other than a mild case of trench foot, Alex had remained unscratched. He and his men had pushed on as a tiny part of a juggernaut always attempting to break through to the green fields beyond. Though they were hard to pronounce for non-Gallic speakers, Alex clearly remembered the names of the places he had led his company in the slog of taking a few miles of land. Names like Messines, Ypres and Bullecourt were forever burned into his memory, and now they were advancing along the Menin Road to a place called Passchendaele.
The rain was constant, with a biting cold creeping into the air heralding the snow ahead. In the next few months, Alex led his company, with the slatted wooden duck-boards providing the only firm footing in a sea of churned, sticky mud. They struggled along, careful not to slip lest they drown in the liquid earth. Shoulders slumped against the rain, they groped through a stark landscape, the complete desolation brought on by the constant pounding from artillery guns of both sides. At least they were under the command of General Monash, Alex consoled himself. He admired the former civil engineer for the careful planning he brought to the art of war, but this time Alex wondered about the Australian general’s intelligence when he
saw before him a sea of mud.
Eventually they trudged past a group of demoralised English soldiers huddling in an old concrete pill box, scarred by shrapnel and bullets.
‘Good on yer, Aussie,’ one of the young English soldiers cheered weakly. Alex glanced in the English soldier’s direction and caught the expression of a man who had come to the end of his nerves, experiencing too much of hell to function anymore as a soldier. Alex felt pity and respect for the soldier whom he guessed was barely seventeen years of age and should have been home with his mother.
The sun was gone by the time they fumbled their way into what had once been trenches and Alex was called to battalion HQ for the nightly briefing for company commanders. He moved from man to man in the dark until he eventually found a soldier who knew where the CO was located. Alex’s hands were covered in mud that stank of decomposing flesh by the time he reached a section of the trenches that had collapsed from the effects of the constant torrential rain.
A star shell popped in the sky, illuminating the sea of stinking mud, and Alex cursed the glutinous earth that held him fast as he stepped into a collapsed section of the trench and became aware that he was clearly exposed. Frantically he fought the clinging mud to reach the intact trench ahead, but the artillery shell exploded only a matter of yards away. Alex felt the short, sharp wave of heat and a burning, stinging sensation to his face and body. He was knocked sideways and immediately knew that he had taken the brunt of the shell’s force. The pain caused him to scream.
‘Stretcher bearers!’ a soldier yelled.
Major Alexander Macintosh lay in the mud, raising his hand weakly to feel his face. He knew that much of it was missing. Then mercifully the darkness came to the Australian officer before the stretcher bearers were able to reach him. But Alex was not alone as a casualty that night; the German gunners poured in a barrage to welcome the Australians to Passchendaele.
For a brief moment Alex found himself conscious. In the dark he heard a voice speak.
‘Poor bastard. He ain’t a pretty sight.’
Alex guessed it was one of the stretcher bearers. What would his beautiful wife think of her husband returning home without a face?
20
Louise was afraid to tell Sean about her husband’s behaviour, lest he take steps to confront George and leave himself open to charges that would end his career as a solicitor. She knew that George had many powerful contacts – including the police. She remained as Giselle’s house guest, having had a few personal possessions brought over from her home with the help of Angus MacDonald. But as each day passed she felt the separation from her child and her waking hours were filled with thoughts of getting him back. George had not objected to her moving out and told friends that she was staying with her sister-in-law for a short time while his brother was serving overseas. For the time being, the explanation covered the fact that all was not well in his household.
Sean Duffy continued with his work as a solicitor and at Louise’s gentle insistence had cut back on his drinking. He had long disregarded the tenets of his strict religious Irish heritage concerning morality and lost any belief in God after his experiences on the battlefields of Europe. In the case of another man’s wife he had a bitter satisfaction that he was sleeping with the wife of a man whom he considered a slacker – one who had avoided military service while others made the ultimate sacrifice. But he had also grown to love this beautiful and intelligent woman who had preferred to keep their affair private, even from her circle of friends.
Sean was preparing to take his briefcase full of notes to the Court of Petty Sessions on the Monday morning to defend his list of clients when the articled clerk delivered a note to him.
‘Who gave you this?’ he asked the clerk whose expression reflected some concern.
‘That copper, Inspector Firth,’ the boy replied, knowing the policeman from the photographs that appeared from time to time in the daily papers.
Sean glanced at the note and frowned. It was a threat that he should not associate with Mrs Louise Macintosh or he may find himself in dire trouble. The note was not signed. The boy glanced at him with an unspoken question. ‘Don’t tell anyone that you got this note,’ Sean said, pocketing the single sheet of paper.
‘I promise,’ the boy said. Major Duffy was his hero and he would have died for him if he had asked.
Sean painfully walked the couple of blocks to the court house where the flotsam of Sydney’s criminal underworld waited inside for the decisions that would be made against them. Sean’s first client was a former soldier who had lost his eye at Ypres and been returned home to be discharged onto a pension. His name was Harry Griffiths and he had been arrested in a bar room brawl and charged with drunk and disorderly behaviour and causing damage to the property of the public house.
Harry had been granted bail by a sympathetic magistrate whose own son was serving on the Western Front. He stood at the steps to the magnificent sandstone building waiting for his legal representative. ‘Hello, Harry,’ Sean said, shaking his client’s hand. ‘Are you ready to face the beak?’
Harry Griffiths was a man in his mid-thirties. He wore a black leather eye patch and was tall and broad shouldered, denoting his physical strength. Sean knew that his appearance alone might prejudice the magistrate into believing the publican who would appear as a witness for the prosecution.
‘As right as I will ever be, Major Duffy,’ Harry replied, letting go of his bone-crushing grip on Sean’s hand. ‘I see that you are getting around pretty good on your cane now.’
Sean had forced himself to learn to walk again on his artificial legs and now was able to cope with the nagging pain. ‘I will be presenting the story that you did not cause all the damage and that you had been provoked to defend yourself,’ Sean said, walking with great care up the broad stone steps to the entrance of the court. ‘But I doubt you will be able to get off scot-free even in the best-case scenario.’
‘I know that, Major,’ Harry said and suddenly paused halfway up the steps. Sean glanced in the direction that had caught his client’s attention to see Detective Inspector Jack Firth speaking with another man at the top of the stairs.
‘That bastard!’ Harry spat. ‘He’s still around.’
‘You know Inspector Firth?’
‘Before I went away to the front, I was a copper in Sydney,’ Harry answered. ‘Firth was a sergeant at my station and we had a falling out that helped me decide on joining up.’
‘What happened?’ Sean asked.
‘Firth was on the take and one day, while I was on my beat, he turned up drunk to get me to help him do over a shopkeeper who had not paid his dues,’ Harry explained. ‘I refused and then he had it in for me. I got hauled up before the divisional boss who chewed me out for not being worthy of my uniform. Firth had told lies about me and I was on the fast road to be dismissed anyway.’
Sean shook his head in sympathy.
‘How much is having you represent me going to cost?’ Harry continued. ‘The pension don’t pay a lot.’
‘My services are free to ex-servicemen. But I might have a job for you that pays a bit on the side.’
Harry turned to Sean with an expression of interest. He had been unemployed since his discharge and had trouble finding work, attempting to support himself, his wife and three children – all under ten years of age – on his meagre pension. ‘I will do anything, Major,’ Harry said.
‘Don’t worry, it’s legal,’ Sean hurried to add in case this former police officer and soldier thought he might have to break the law. ‘Our firm is looking for a man,’ he said. ‘Kind of private investigator, you could say.’
‘Sounds bonzer to me,’ Harry replied. ‘The Mrs is getting a bit sick of me hanging around, and I wouldn’t be in trouble now if I were working instead of getting drunk at the pub.’
‘Good, now let’s see if we can get you off for good behaviour,’ Sean said, glancing over his shoulder as they entered the doorway. He could see Jack Firth sta
ring at him with a smirk on his face. Sean would work towards wiping off that smirk.
Sean knew that the magistrate had a son at the front and argued his defence along sympathetic lines. He also knew that the presiding magistrate was an Irishman and Sean cunningly introduced that the publican who had laid the complaint was a firm supporter of the Australian prime minister, Billy Hughes, who had crusaded to have eligible Australian males conscripted for service in the British war against Germany and her allies. Two referendums had been fought and the second clearly supported the first in defeating the bill to introduce conscription, and so all the Australian troops fighting were still volunteers. Sean even added that the publican was known to provide hospitality to shirkers. His case was blatantly aimed at the magistrate’s sympathies with the men who had fought, giving a major part of their life to the country.
The magistrate leaned back in his chair and made his decision. The defendant was found guilty of being drunk and disorderly, but not of inflicting the damage to the licensee’s property. The now outraged man sitting behind the police prosecutor had not produced any witnesses to prove his case. Besides, as the magistrate looked down from his bench, he saw two wounded war heroes appearing before him.
Sean and Harry left the courthouse with Harry beaming his satisfaction.
‘Thank you, Major,’ Harry said, vigorously shaking Sean’s hand. ‘I thought I was for it.’
‘We were lucky,’ Sean answered and reached into his pocket for a handful of notes which he passed to Harry. ‘Call this an advance on your retainer,’ he said, pressing the notes into the startled former soldier’s hand. ‘It comes with the condition that you remain away from licensed premises unless you are on an investigation for me.’