Beneath the Willow

by Michael J Murphy

  ‘At ease. I will get straight to the point. As you may be aware, the Australian Imperial Force has recently gone through a period of expansion. Two new brigades, the 14th and 15th, have been raised, and with the existing 8th, will form the new 5th division.’

  Archie and Alf took a sideways glance at each other. They realised something was coming.

  ‘Headquarters,’ the lieutenant continued, ‘has decided that the new brigades will consist of both experienced Gallipoli veterans such as yourselves and new recruits from Australia.’

  ‘Here we go,’ whispered Alf.

  The lieutenant pretended not to hear Conner’s remark. He allowed himself the faintest of smirks, knowing from experience what the lance corporal really wanted to say, after being shoulder to shoulder with him in the trenches of ANZAC Cove. The sergeant, lips pursed and limbs stiff, resented the comradeship that pulsated like an unseen force amongst the trio.

  ‘Gentlemen, I have recommended both of you for promotion, and headquarters has acted on this recommendation, making you both corporals,’ said the lieutenant. He saluted, and then relaxed his demeanour to step forward and warmly shake each man by the hand.

  Both Archie and Alf returned his salute. The lieutenant, his moment of affection for his trusted soldiers expressed, resumed his previous stance and position as platoon commander.

  ‘Corporal Miller and Corporal Conner, you have been reassigned to 14th Brigade of the 5th Division and will take charge of your own rifle section. You will report, along with Sergeant Bourke to 53rd Battalion headquarters, effective immediately. That is all.’

  ‘Attention!’ yelled Sergeant Bourke. The lieutenant saluted again as a prop to hide his eyes. He rolled them towards his eyebrows to mock the sergeant, and received a glint of acknowledgement in the eyes of the two newly promoted men.

  Knowing it was time to leave, but wanting to say so much more, preferably over a beer rather than in a tent, and without the presence of a self-serving man such as Bourke, the respected officer and leader of men turned and then stopped. He pivoted on his heel and came to attention like he would at parade.

  ‘It’s been an honour and a privilege. You will always have a place as men of the First Battalion. Serve your new commander as you have me.’

  ***

  Sergeant Kent approached the tent hot and bothered, with a thirst that had reduced his already short fuse. He had performed this task over forty times already this morning and silently cursed the AIF’s restructure. The fact that it was Sunday and a day off made it all the worse. Kent wiped the sweat from his brow and adjusted his tunic; it allowed him a moment to compose himself before he entered. His current mood required a swift and proficient execution of his duty.

  Sergeant Kent flicked the tent flap back as if his intention was surprise. He stepped into the dull light and spoke.

  ‘Miller, Sullivan, Finch and Evans, pack your kit and report to 53rd Battalion headquarters, you’ve been transferred.’

  ‘Sarge...’ started Sticks.

  ‘Shut your trap, Sullivan,’ snapped the sergeant, ‘53rd headquarters, promptly.’

  Jack Sullivan looked sideways at Clarrie; his mouth was still open from his unfinished sentence. He returned his blank gaze to the sergeant, who had already turned and exited for the next tent.

  ‘I was only going to ask where 53rd Headquarters is,’ said Sticks, stunned by the sergeant’s response.

  The question, along with his bewildered look, brought raucous laughter from the rest of the men in the tent.

  ***

  They approached their new digs like kids who had swapped schools. Privates Miller, Sullivan, and Finch paused to gather their thoughts. Clarrie glanced at his new rectangular colour patch of black alongside dark green, stitched vertically on his sleeve, instead of horizontal like his 4th Battalion patch. The green represented the newly formed 14th Brigade, with the black—the colour of the 1st Battalion in a regiment–reported that he now belonged to 53rd Battalion.

  Sticks pulled the tent flap back and motioned for Clarrie to enter. Clarrie gave his mate a dry smirk, which would have neatly translated into ‘you bludger.’

  As the men’s eyes adjusted to the softer light of the tent, Clarrie surveyed the surrounds. He counted four men: two playing cards, one polishing his boots, and the fourth reading a letter. All of them were totally disinterested in their arrival. Clarrie made a quick summation, and gathered from their appearance, and more noticeably, from the way they held themselves, that they were all likely to be veterans of the Gallipoli campaign.

  Uncertain as to what move he should make next, Clarence decided the best thing to do was to act like a soldier, and announce his presence.

  ‘Privates Miller, Sullivan, and Finch,’ shouted Clarence, a little too enthusiastically.

  ‘Righto,’ said the soldier with the letter, his eyes fixed to the page, ‘give us a tick.’

  Clarrie, Sticks, and Joseph stood patiently, and waited for the letter reader to finish. They had their attention diverted momentarily, when two more men entered the tent. Clarrie looked back towards the new arrivals and was amazed as to how out of place they looked. They moved nervously; their eyes bulged and darted like scared rabbits.

  Geez, is that how we look to these men, said Clarrie to himself; no wonder they treat us with indifference.

  Sticks moved to one side to make room, and then motioned for Clarrie to follow.

  ‘Get that silly smile of your face, you look like a half-wit,’ whispered Sticks. He had noted that their actions were doing little to disguise their status as untested reinforcements.

  Clarrie nodded to his mate, and then to the man who read the letter. He had now made an effort to stand, but not too enthusiastically. The soldier yawned and then showed a lot of concern for a numb and itchy back-side.

  He looked casually at each man. The reinforcements stood as best they could in the confines of the tent and waited.

  ‘Welcome to number 5 rifle section of 2nd Platoon, A Company men. I am Corporal Alfred Conner, behind me are Lance Corporal Atkins, Privates Baker and Smith.’ Each man raised his hand slightly in acknowledgment of their name being called. ‘Unfortunately,’ the sarcasm in the corporal’s voice present for all to hear, ‘Sergeant Bourke isn’t present to meet you.’ The two privates involved in a card game, Baker and Smith, smiled at the corporal’s sense of humour, loaded with sarcasm.

  ‘Sticks Sullivan,’ said Sticks, as he offered his hand to shake.

  ‘G’day, Sticks,’ replied Corporal Conner, as he shook hands. ‘I normally give out the nicknames.’ He made a mental note of his new acquaintance’s firm grip and overall physical build. This one might be all right, he thought to himself.

  ‘Clarence Miller from Balmain,’ said Clarrie, with a smile.

  ‘Hello, Clarence.’ Officers’ batman. The corporal began to turn towards Joseph Finch and then spun back to Clarrie. ‘Did you say Miller, mate?’

  ‘Yes, Clarence Miller,’ replied the happy-go-lucky private.

  ‘Thought so,’ said the corporal. He moved on, as if his question had meant nothing in the first place, but allowed the faintest of smiles to form on his lips. It gave away—to someone with a keen eye—the penny that had just dropped inside his head.

  ‘Joseph Finch.’

  ‘Now that’s what I like to hear gentleman!’ roared Corporal Conner, ‘a name I can assign a nickname to.’

  The two men that played cards and Arthur Atkins—the boot polisher—now stood and moved forward to great the new recruits, laughing in unison.

  ‘From now on, Joseph,’ said Connor, as if he waited for trumpets to blare and proclaim the announcement official, ‘you will be known as Birdie.’

  All four veterans cheered in unison, grateful to have a diversion from the monotony of labour that had been their life at camp this past month. The new recruits smiled, but felt like the kids who had just changed schools. They knew someone would be picked on, they just hoped it wasn’t them. The exceptio
n of the group was Sticks. He had a grin from ear to ear.

  Seem like a good mob of blokes, this lot, he said to himself, while he stared at Joseph. He actually does look like a bird, now I think of it. His own humour made him chuckle, which brought a sharp look from Corporal Conner for the breach in protocol during an unofficial, but very important “greeting ceremony”.

  The banter subsided and Alf Conner motioned for Clarence and Sticks to move apart, making a gap for a diminutive lad who had been content to stand in the shadows while the fun played out. The young man looked around nervously. He was no taller than five-foot-three inches and as slender as a bean-pole. Unknown to veteran and novice alike, he stepped into the spotlight with the eyes of each man fixed firmly on him.

  ‘James Cook,’ the young man said quietly, swallowing.

  ‘Sorry cob, Cook is it? James?’asked Alf

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Please, James, don’t call me sir. It makes me nervous.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Private Cook. He looked distraught.

  Clarence stared at the poor boy. He knew what it felt like to be a duck out of water. He silently prayed that the private would hold himself together.

  While he liked to have fun, Corporal Conner was by no means a heartless man. He put his arm around Private Cook’s shoulders and brought him over to stand with the veterans. The corporal then held up his free hand for quiet.

  ‘Men,’ he started seriously, ‘everyday you wake up, not knowing what to expect, what lies around the next bend… ANZAC taught us that.’ The soldiers in the tent bowed their heads. They expected to hear something profound from Corporal Conner. ‘Today, when they said we would get some fresh-faced recruits to bolster our new battalion,’ continued the corporal, as he turned to the private to look him in the eye, ‘never, I repeat never, did I expect to be out ranked by Captain James Cook himself!’

  Alf Connor raised his arm in the air, undefeated champion of nickname bestowment. The men took a second to join the dots and then cheered enthusiastically. They tussled Private Cook’s hair and then gave him three cheers. The young private looked so relieved that Clarrie thought he might faint.

  ***

  The five untried recruits found their places in the tent and began to settle in. Clarrie wound up next to Sticks, with Private Atkins on his other side. They exchanged small talk and Clarrie learnt that Atkins was from a small town called Gilmurra, deep in southern New South Wales, a place Clarence wasn’t familiar with. That surprised him a little, as he thought there weren’t too many spots on the New South Wales map he couldn’t place.

  ‘Miller!’ shouted Conner.

  Clarence looked up to see Corporal Conner in conversation with Tom Baker. The corporal signalled for him to come and join them. Clarence rose and made his way across the tent, while Sticks followed.

  ‘Yes, Corporal?’

  ‘Are you his shadow or something?’ Conner said to Sticks.

  ‘We’re mates,’ said Sticks. He didn’t want trouble, but he would be there for Clarrie should the earlier antics begin again.

  ‘You don’t say. All right, tag along then,’ said Alf. He looked at Private Sullivan, still assessing the one newbie who hadn’t seemed intimidated by their veteran status. He switched his gaze to Clarrie and smiled. ‘Follow me, Miller.’

  The bright Egyptian sun and its reflection off the yellow sand speared their eyes like a lance when they exited the tent. Their eyes closed to relieve the ache in their skulls.

  ‘Surely someone could invent something to protect your eyes from that blasted sun,’ hissed Alf to no one in particular.

  Clarrie felt it would be better not to say too much, and decided not to ask where they were going. He followed obediently and then bumped into the back of the corporal when Conner stopped abruptly in front of a tent. It was identical to theirs and the thousand others that were lined neatly throughout the camp.

  Sounds of laughter, much the same as had come from their tent, escaped through the canvas walls. It made Sticks wary as to what would unfold. Calmly, and with a warm smile on his face, Alf Conner leant over and grabbed an edge of the woven fabric; he pulled it back and invited Clarence to enter.

  Clarence hesitated, but Corporal Conner urged him to proceed into the tent. Clarrie did not want to be seen as someone who wasn’t game, regardless of whether he was or not, so he walked slowly towards the entrance. Sticks followed close behind.

  Once again, the men’s eyes adjusted to the change in light. The tent was crammed with men and various items of kit, and to Clarrie’s eye, the soldiers were going through the same little ritual as they had only half an hour before.

  ‘Go away, we have our full quota of “virgin soldiers”,’ shouted a larger than life voice; husky, but all too familiar to Clarence. The orator waved his arm towards the exit and didn’t bother to turn his hunched body.

  Clarrie suddenly realised the objective of the corporal’s covert mission, and spoke louder than he normally would. ‘Well, I wouldn’t normally speak of such things in public. But I am a married man now… so your words are ill-chosen to say the least.’

  Archie Miller straightened his back so quickly, it was like Clarence had pushed a red-hot branding iron against his rump. ‘Clarrie,’ Archie whispered. His eyes were wide, and his cheeks creased from a smile that threatened to split his bronzed skin. ‘Clarrie, you little ripper,’ he yelled, still with his back to his brother. Archie then turned so quickly, that he sent two of his mates to the ground.

  It was something that Clarence was yet to understand, but for Archie, having clung to the unforgiving coastline of enemy territory, it was something that lingered within him. Having fought and survived the nauseating and hellish experience of Lone Pine, he had wondered what—if anything—awaited you once you felt the cold steel or hot lead from a foe, determined to end your life. To pass through those moments of fear and utter helplessness, whether to turn and flee in but the flicker of an eye, or to stand and fight—just a sequence of events that pushed you from one side or the other. To have an idea of something, then to have that idea twisted so far out of recognition, to be beyond explanation. To be surrounded by voices that were not of the living, but your tortured memories of what had lived—then suffered. To keep this inside, deep inside, hidden from view by whatever means necessary, only to be propelled forward by a single voice, a voice that defined all that was good, but stirred all that was suppressed.

  To live, or to survive, with the objective not being a hill or a trench, but to live for the next day. A day which brought hope, hope that somehow things might return to how they were before young men felt the rush of patriotism and adventure. Before they knew the pain of loss, and their naivety had allowed them to live carefree.

  As he hugged his younger brother, Archie soaked up all that he remembered and cherished. Clarence moved backwards a pace or two under the weight and exuberance of his brother’s embrace. He felt all the emotion, but could only interpret it as joy in the re-uniting of siblings, for he was still in that world that Archie longed for but could not reclaim, as it was as dead as any soldier on the battlefield.

  ***

  Archie and Clarence walked up and down the criss-crossed streets or sandy paths that were created when thousands of peaked tents were erected at the Tel El Kebir military camp.

  For Clarrie, it almost seemed surreal to be alongside his brother again, both in army issue, and both in the desert, thousands of miles away from Beattie Street. Luck had put them in the same battalion, and Archie couldn’t get enough of any news from home. He listened intently to the smallest event or happening amongst his family and friends. He would ask Clarence several times to repeat things and then pause to smile, savouring the moment like a cool beer in summer.

  ‘Did you know there was a battle right near here,’ declared Clarence. He scanned the horizon, as if he expected to see some evidence to support his statement.

  ‘No, I didn’t, mate,’ replied Archie. He smiled at his brother
and his love of—in Archie’s opinion—useless bits of information.

  ‘1882, between the British and some Egyptians...’

  ‘Tell me about this wife of yours, little brother,’ interjected Archie. He feared a full-blown history lesson. ‘Mum adores her, judging from her letter.’

  ‘Ruth is… how can I describe her?’

  ‘Here we go, out of the frying pan and into the fire,’ exclaimed Archie, jokingly. ‘Reveille’s at 05:00, so keep it as brief as possible.’

  ‘Impossible,’ replied Clarence, Ruth’s face, the sound of her voice, the smell of her hair, invaded Clarrie’s senses all at once.

  Archie noticed the look on his brother’s face and could tell what she meant to him, but he wanted to hear it anyway.

  ‘Just try for me, little brother,’ replied Archie, ‘I’m out of the loop, my brother gets married and I miss it.’

  ‘I knew from the moment I saw her.’

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘That I loved her.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ scoffed Archie. ‘I mean fair dinkum. Sorry, mate, I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘That’s okay, you’d know if you saw her,’ Clarence replied. ‘Couldn’t speak the first time I saw her, made a right fool of myself. I ordered a loaf of bread and I was… ’ Clarence chuckled to himself, as he took off his slouch hat and twirled it from one hand to the other. He replayed the scene from the bakery in his mind. He could smell the bread and feel the sensation of suspension, as he stared at his future wife.

  ‘I wish I could find a girl like that,’ said Archie. He meant every word of it.

  ‘What do you mean,’ laughed Clarrie, ‘you’ve had plenty of girlfriends.’

  ‘I know that, ya dim wit, poked a few of ’em too, but none of them special.’

  ‘Oh,’ replied Clarrie, a little embarrassed by his brother’s frankness.

  ‘What’s the family like?’