At last the soldiers were ordered to pick up their kitbags and march for the train station. Weighed down by his kitbag, he breathed in the salty air of the harbour, laced with the smells of over-crowded humanity and their livestock. By chance, he had already answered one of life’s most evasive mysteries, true love, only for it to be interrupted by fate. As he marched in formation, with his chin high and proud, Clarence had accepted where he was and how he had got there, and prayed silently that he could see it through.
The sergeant roared, and the men, shaded by their distinctive slouch hats, entrained efficiently, ready to depart for their training camp, its destination unknown.
***
Clarence sat on the floor of the rail car, which, before 1914, was no doubt used to transport stock of some description, but since hostilities, had become third class troop transport. As they did their best to get comfortable, some of the men joked that headquarters would have put them in fourth class, but it didn’t exist, so third class it had to be. Clarence hadn’t complained though; he was pleased to be off the Warilda and enjoyed the view of lush green crops through the gaps in the timber panels. As the scenery rushed past, a cool breeze enveloped the soldiers. It carried scents of ripened wheat on a mild but beautiful winter’s day.
Back from one of his regular reconnaissance missions, Sticks plonked himself beside Clarrie, full of information. In his enthusiasm to relay his findings, he had inconvenienced a soldier or two.
‘Watch it, mate,’ snarled a burly looking man, who was trying to sleep against the hard timber panels.
‘Sorry, cob,’ replied Sticks.
‘Bugger off, Sticks,’ hissed the man, even more pissed-off after realising who had disturbed him.
Jack Sticks Sullivan had made himself quite well known during the voyage from Australia. The gamblers loved him; he had been a regular at any card or two-up game, and either through his lack of ability, or not knowing when to quit, he had contributed greatly to their wealth. Jack was also very interested in any information he could get his hands on. Knowing who knew whom, and what they might need, was vital to his other little pastime—trading, as he liked to call it. The card and two-up games were always a good source of gossip, but one of Private Sullivan’s true talents was as a conversationalist. He could walk up to a group of men, and within seconds, they would be laughing and joking like old acquaintances. This talent didn’t cross over to the fairer sex though. Sticks had been slapped in the face by more women than he cared to remember, and confided in Clarrie that he was genuinely confused as to why it was the case.
‘Well, Clarrie, me boy, I don’t think you’re going to see that Cairo place you were so interested in, well not soon anyway.’
‘Bugger,’ spat Clarence. ‘Where are we headed?’
‘No one seems to know. All I could gather is that we’re stopping at a place called Zagazig.’
‘Did you make that up?’
‘That’s what I said to Ramsey; supposed to be a railway junction. Word is, brass hats don’t want us near the temptations of Cairo, too much vice.’
‘My brother Archie camped right near the pyramids when he came over.’
‘No such luck for us, Professor. My bet is the Suez Canal.’
‘Is it?’ replied Clarrie dryly. ‘Well we all know how you go at betting.’
‘Bugger off, Miller,’ said Sticks. He grabbed Clarrie’s slouch hat and tossed it across the rail car before he rolled up his tunic to use as a pillow.
Clarrie resumed his spot after he had retrieved his hat. His soft nature got the better of him and he apologised to his mate, who grunted a reply.
‘By the way, Miller, your brother’s 1st Brigade is at Tel El Kebir.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Clarence, as he grabbed Jack’s shoulder to pull him towards him.
‘Easy, Easy.’
‘Sorry, mate,’ said Clarrie excitedly. ‘What did you say about Archie?’
‘Oh, that’s how it is hey,’ replied Sticks, still wounded by the gambling dig. ‘Best mates when I can do something for ya. Isn’t that lovely.’
‘Knock it off, Jack, what did you hear?’
‘Your brother’s brigade is camped at Tel El Kebir,’ said Sticks. He resumed his original position alongside Clarrie, with his back to the timber panelling. ‘There are a few different camps in the Canal region and your brother is at the biggest. With any luck we will land at the same joint.’
‘Archie, after all this time,’ whispered Clarence. A glaze came over his eyes and his mind drifting over the ocean to Beattie Street, Balmain. He pictured the whole family around the table, happy in each other’s company. Uninvited, a terrible notion crept in and shattered the glistening picture in his mind’s eye. Did he make it back? Pray God he has. He tried desperately to suppress a vision of his older brother, alone and helpless in the dirt.
Sticks Sullivan casually turned away as a courtesy. He pretended not to notice his mate’s emotions, allowing him time to take in the news. He was almost as keen as Clarrie to meet Archie, the big brother who he had heard so much about. Sticks gazed at three Egyptian men who tended their crops, and felt his own emotions. But he would be unlikely to acknowledge it as such, sentiment would be a better word, but not said aloud. ‘Clarence Miller,’ Sticks thought, as he recalled the development of their unlikely mateship over the preceding months. Gentle in nature, considerate, quick witted and intelligent, Clarrie is a softy, no doubt, but with a heart of gold, and tough in ways, definitely… unconventional, but tough all the same. Jack realised Clarrie had opened his eyes to different ways of thought, an achievement in itself. You’re an odd one, my little mate, he continued silently. My little brother.
Balmain, February 1916
Frank Miller placed the last of the tea chests, full of black-market cigarettes, on the floor of the shed. He moved quickly, but without panic. He closed the two large timber doors and secured them with a chain and lock before he turned and walked away. Frank withdrew a thick bundle of cash—wrapped in brown paper and tied with string—from inside his boiler-suit and handed it to the lorry driver without stopping. He made for home via the Dry Dock Hotel.
***
Albert folded the letter and placed it in his top pocket. He stood from the table, nodded to the barmen, and then exited the Exchange Hotel into the heat of a February afternoon.
Albert’s visits to the Exchange had become more regular, and it wasn’t just to read Archie’s letters. While he had always enjoyed a cool beer, especially on a summer’s afternoon, he had never been one to head straight for the pub after work, like so many of his co-workers. He enjoyed being at home with his family; he basked in the excited greetings of Alice and up until recently, Frank. The warm smile of his darling wife, the spirited debates with Archie on who was what in the world of sport, and oddly, now that he was overseas, Clarrie’s sudden and enthusiastic assessments of current world events.
Albert found the quietness of his house slightly uncomfortable. It was a stark and vivid reminder that his boys had actually left to fight a war and it wasn’t all just a bad dream. Ruth had definitely added some light to the house with the exuberance of youth and the glow of pregnancy. But she also carried her own concerns, which from time to time appeared in a vacant look through lonely eyes. Little Alice was always the same, and Albert was grateful for her antics, if only to keep Grace’s mind engaged in something other than her boys’ welfare.
The two eldest away on active service caused more than enough angst in the Miller household, without the added worry of Frank and his undoubted shift in behaviour. As crazy as it seemed, Albert sometimes felt more removed from his youngest son who lived under the same roof than from his two boys on the other side of the world. It wasn’t as if Frank was being unruly or disrespectful, or rude to his mother. He didn’t fight, except for that one time with Jimmy Taylor, which seemed to have been a one-off. Albert felt he could handle changes in young men such as that. It’s what boys do at that age; but Frank had changed in
a way that had caught Albert by surprise. He couldn’t remember the last time they sat and spoke to each other as they had so often before. They had usually settled on football or cricket, and while he was happy and polite around the dinner table, he almost seemed more like a paying boarder than his youngest son.
Frank had developed an interest in horse racing. He had told his parents that he and his mate Jim had made a few bob walking horses for a trainer, which Grace wasn’t too happy about. Albert had consoled her, and said, ‘there are worse things a teenager could be attracted to.’ Albert spoke to his wife with conviction, but he wasn’t able to allay his own doubts about Frank’s activities.
His mother had asked questions about a new cap, amongst other things he had purchased, but in his quiet and amiable way, he had described how an elderly gentleman connected to the stable had been nice enough to tip a few winners to him, and after he returned from Randwick one Saturday evening with a nice little parcel of groceries, courtesy of an alleged winning wager, the questioning became less frequent.
Albert often wondered if he allowed Frank to get away with more than the other boys; he couldn’t tell. If he was honest, he couldn’t remember what the others had tried. Not in detail anyway. It all seemed pretty straightforward then. Maybe that’s where he had fallen down; he had forgotten.
The truth was, thought Albert, as he opened the front door of his home to the smell of sausages, was that he knew something was not right with Frank. He could now admit to himself that time after time he had chosen not to push the issue, for the simple reason that he didn’t want the struggle that would come with the inevitable confrontation. That revelation alone made him feel slightly less of a man than the one he had always convinced himself he was.
‘Daddy, Daddy,’ screamed little Alice, her high-pitched voice sweet and innocent. A shower of relief washed over Albert Miller.
‘Hello, Ally,’ whispered Albert. He picked his daughter up and held the nine-year-old close to his chest. Albert savoured the moment and thought of simpler times. ‘By crikey you have grown, Ally, I can hardly lift you.’ His spirits had lifted and it pushed aside, consciously or not, the concern over Frank. Albert put Alice down, who immediately scampered off through the kitchen and out the back door to begin one of her imaginary adventures.
Following his daughter’s path, Albert walked into the kitchen to find his wife at the stove, while Ruth moved cautiously around the table with a pregnant belly.
‘Afternoon,’ said Albert.
‘Evening,’ replied Grace dryly, but with no hint of anger. She gently reminded her husband what time it was.
‘So it is. What’s cooking?’
‘Sausages, and they are almost ready,’ stated Grace.
‘I’ll wash up and take a seat,’ replied Albert. He smiled at Ruth as he made his way out the back.
Albert bent over to wash his hands and face from the tap connected to the water tank in the back yard, and then straightened. He reached for a small towel slung over his makeshift clothesline, and dried his face and hands. Hungry, he looked forward to his meal and was surprised when the back gate crashed against the fence that supported it.
‘Son!’
‘G’day, Dad,’ replied Frank confidently.
‘Go easy on the gate.’
‘Sorry’.
‘What have you been up to?’ asked Albert, genuinely interested, but concerned it would be perceived as an interrogation.
‘Went to a union meeting.’
‘A union meeting?’ stated Albert. He sounded perplexed.
‘Well not really a union meeting, Dad,’ replied Frank too quickly, ‘just a few of the apprentices getting together for a chat. We have rights too, you know.’ Frank tried his best to sound like a true Socialist, to cover his rather shadowy footsteps for that afternoon. Ronnie Symonds—the criminal tutor—would have been proud.
‘Oh… well it’s good for you younger blokes to stick together,’ Albert replied vaguely. ‘But be careful, you don’t want to be seen to be a trouble maker as an apprentice.’
‘She’ll be right, Dad, we talked about boxing mostly. I can smell dinner.’
Frank excused himself and entered the house. He left his father more confused than ever.
***
The meal of sausages and mash passed with general chit-chat. Ruth relayed what the doctor had told her on her last visit; with a little over two months to the due date, all was reported to be going well. Alice was beside herself with excitement about the arrival of the baby, and asked questions relentlessly. The easy ones were answered, the more confronting gently deflected.
After Ruth and Frank had cleared the plates and Grace had brewed a pot of tea, Albert retrieved Archie’s letter from his breast pocket and read it to the family.
It was dated October 10, and was general in its content, as were all the letters from Archie that Albert read at the dinner table. The tales of sacrifice and hardships—that were able to pass the censor—were read next to a glass of ale at The Exchange. Grace, Ruth, Frank, and Alice, listened intently as Archie sent his congratulations to his new sister-in-law, elated at the news of his younger brother’s marriage, surprised but buoyant—having had time to digest the news via his mother’s letter—on Clarrie’s decision to enlist. Archie relayed news of his promotion to lance corporal, which brought a smile of pride to Frank’s face. A story of a terrible storm that swept the peninsula two days before, with strong winds and torrential rain that cascaded down the numerous ravines and gullies, alarmed Grace. It caused substantial damage to dugouts and supplies. Archie finished off by sending everyone his love, and promising Ruth and his mother that he would watch his little brother like a hawk.
The moment after one of Archie’s letters had been read was always one of quiet. Each member of the family went one way or the other. They occupied themselves with a chore or an old newspaper, as they pondered what Archie, and now Clarence—whom they hadn’t heard from—were going through. The exception was Alice, who just went back to playing with her doll. But who was to know what went through the mind of a child.
EIGHT
Tel El Kebir Camp, February 1916
Lance Corporals Archibald Miller and Alf Conner rested in the shade of Archie’s tent. Both men enjoyed a cigarette after they had toiled for most of the day, erecting lodgings for reinforcements, under a still mild but warming Egyptian sun.
After the evacuation from Gallipoli, Archie’s brigade had spent some time recuperating on Lemnos Island before they embarked for Alexandria, and eventually for Tel El Kebir training camp. The camp was approximately seventy miles northeast of Cairo, and forty-five miles south of Port Said. It was about six miles in length, and home to thousands of soldiers, both veterans from the Gallipoli campaign, and reinforcements that had arrived from Australia.
‘Do you reckon we will get leave to go to Cairo?’ asked Conner, as he watched a plume of smoke he had exhaled rise steadily towards the roof of the tent.
‘Not likely,’ replied Archie, ‘more likely...’
His reply was interrupted by the snap of canvas. Archie recoiled and raised a hand over his brow, as the glare of bright sunlight broke through the entrance of their little dwelling. Lance Corporal Miller was about to give the intruder what-for, but caught himself after he noticed the chevrons on the interloper’s right sleeve.
‘Attention!’ yelled Sergeant Bourke. He announced his presence inside the tent with an arrogance that was usually reserved for commissioned officers. Bourke stood to one side and made way for the platoon commander, Lieutenant Davidson, a man who was respected by the whole battalion. In the glare, Davidson had not been seen by the two soldiers, who struggled to respond to Sergeant Bourke’s command.
‘On your feet!’ barked the sergeant, his lack of self-confidence hidden by his loud, harsh, grating voice; a chance to use his authority never missed by a man with an insecure nature. The lack of regard for the sergeant was displayed in the way Archie and Alf rose slowly to their fe
et.
‘Miller. Conner.’ The lieutenant’s calm voice registered with the two men instantly. It brought them to attention in one sudden and fluent move; the men’s immediate display of respect for the lieutenant only fuelled the sergeant’s feelings of inadequacy and animosity towards the men in his platoon.
‘Lieutenant Davidson!’ the men said in unison, while they executed a perfect salute.
Lieutenant Harold James Davidson stood at five feet eleven, with a muscular, athletic build. He was an officer with whom men liked to serve. Educated at the University of Sydney, he had excelled as a student of law as well as a sportsman, where he was more than accomplished at cricket, rugby, and to his family’s displeasure, rugby league.
After graduating in 1910, he entered his father’s legal practice in Neutral Bay, and gained experience in the militia, with the 1st Battalion, G Company, of the 1st Australian Infantry Regiment located in North Sydney. Enlisting within a week of the outbreak of war, he was given the rank of lieutenant and command of a platoon in A Company within the 1st Battalion, which was one of the four battalions—all raised in New South Wales—which made up the 1st Brigade in the Australian Imperial Forces, 1st Division.
A natural leader, Lieutenant Davidson had earned the respect of his men early. A perfectionist of sorts, he worked the men hard, being tough but fair in all matters, giving the average soldier the impression that he was in their corner, something that didn’t sit too well with headquarters, and rumoured to have stalled further promotion. The respect and devotion afforded him by his platoon and battalion was taken to a new level while on the Gallipoli Peninsula, where the lieutenant was never found wanting in a fight, and it was widely remarked through the trenches and in cramped dugouts that there was nothing the men of 1st Battalion wouldn’t do for Lieutenant Davo.
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