As he opened a novel he had borrowed from a Digger in Marseille, Clarence watched his brother share a joke with the man he had just chastised. The camaraderie he witnessed, each soldier connected to the other by a common cause, took his mind away from his book and back to Egypt on a damp foggy morning in March. It was the beginning of the three toughest days to date in Clarence Miller’s young life, and a moment when he learnt the meaning of mateship.
Clarence sank deeper into reflection; he remembered the heaviness of the damp air on his tunic and the squelch around his woollen socks, as the moisture from the wet sand penetrated his boots. The difficult memories brought on a nervy chill amid the exuberance and warmth of his fellow Diggers in the French barn.
***
They stood in formation, in full marching order, outside of Tel El Kebir Camp. Clarence felt nauseous as he anticipated the march across the desert sands to the part of the Suez Canal defences called Ferry Post. The consensus amongst the men was that it would be a very trying exercise for the most seasoned soldier, let alone inexperienced recruits. In battle dress, the soldiers would be asked to carry full packs while they endured the intense Egyptian heat.
Newly appointed Commander of the 5th Division, Lieutenant General James Whiteside McCay, had ordered the march. Although a courageous soldier, McCay was not well liked. Many believed he had gained his position through powerful political connections; his lack of regard for the troops had brought his ability to command into question.
Clarence, along with many other men, had struggled from the outset in the horrendous conditions. With uniforms wet from the fog, the skin on various parts of the body began to chafe. Many men fell out and sought medical attention before the first halt. As the temperature rose and the fog burnt off, the soldiers were subjected to the harsh sun and the incessant glare off the sand; the number of men in need of assistance climbed to an alarming rate. The soldiers were dehydrated and exhausted; all discipline among the untried troops went out the window. Men began to wander off in search of water, and piquets had to be placed on the Sweet Water canal to prevent soldiers drinking the tainted liquid.
At this point, Clarence was ready to quit. His body was dehydrated and weakened, his feet blistered, and his groin chaffed red raw. He lay against his pack on the hot sand, a pitiful sight for anyone to see. He was lifted to a sitting position by a strong arm that cradled his head. Clarrie squinted to see his brother, who held a canteen to wet his lips; his own bottle had been emptied miles before. While Clarence drank, Archie bandaged his feet. He winced in pain as the skin came away with his socks. Archie spoke to his younger brother constantly, and did his best to motivate his demoralised sibling. He realised Clarence had a lot to overcome before he made it to Ferry Post.
Startled back to the present by a clip over the ear from Sticks, Clarence heard the words that Archie spoke on that day, as clear now as they were on that hot desert sand. ‘What are you going to tell that son of yours when you get home? Get up!’
Clarence had thought about what his brother had said to him, over and over, and he still couldn’t say why he responded as he did. Archie hadn’t spoken with any real aggression or disdain. The words were unlikely to have his fellow soldiers jumping to attention, but they had pulled Clarence from the mire. He made the bivouac at Mahsama that evening, and then rested. Eventually he reached the pontoon bridge for the crossing to Ferry Post.
Archie had never brought it up, and strangely Clarence had never thanked his brother. They had just continued on, the only difference being that Clarrie had emerged a man. No more a man than he was when he married his true love; just the man that he needed to be for now and what lay ahead.
‘Wake up, Miller,’ shouted Sticks, as he positioned his hand for a clip to his mate’s ear, while Tom Baker stood to one side with a smirk. ‘You look like a stunned mullet. Thought there might have been a Hun sniper in the loft, got you while we weren’t looking.’
‘Just thinking,’ replied Clarrie wearily.
‘Well, you’re always doing that, just try not to do it too much when we finally see some action.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ replied a detached Clarence, his mind still partly in Egypt.
‘C’mon, tucker’s ready,’ said Sticks enthusiastically. He held his mess tin, or dixie, as it was known, and began to look impatient. ‘We better make the most of this while the other Divs aren’t here.’
‘Be right there… you two go ahead and I’ll catch you.’
‘Have it your way,’ said Sticks, as he turned with Tom and headed for the large double doors of the barn that opened into a stockyard, which now served as a kitchen.
Clarence forced his book down one side of his heavily laden pack for retrieval at another time. As he did he disturbed some letters bound in twine. Ruth, he said silently, his thoughts turned to their child. He… or she… would be born now, everything going well. He had prayed for them on so many nights. More than two months old, how would Ruth be coping? He wondered. Fine with Mother about. What does he look like? He said ‘boy,’ but he really didn’t care, it just came to his lips, just as it had for Archie on the desert sands in Egypt. ‘Blasted mail,’ Clarence cursed out loud. ‘I should get word soon.’
The heavy workload before the brigade embarked at the port of Alexandria, and then disembarked and entrained at Marseille, had not allowed Clarence to even enquire about the possibility of a telegram. If he was completely honest with himself, there were times when he had almost forgotten he was in fact, a father-to-be. The thought, as he walked out into a cleared French sky, made him feel a little ashamed; but how do you miss something you have never experienced? Alf Conner had said, ‘To find out that you will be a father is the best news you will ever receive. To hold that baby in your arms is something else altogether.’
Clarence felt he understood what Alf meant. He had felt the pure elation on the dock in Sydney when Ruth had delivered her news, but he could tell, as he recalled the tone of Alf’s voice, that it was something you had to experience to truly understand. Clarence joined the line of soldiers with dixies in hand and felt a pain of longing in his stomach that surpassed any desire for food.
THIRTEEN
Thiennes, 8 July, 1916
The whistle sounded in the morning’s mild and breathless air. It signalled the all-clear, and allowed the men of 14th Brigade to remove their gas masks. Although they had drilled the donning of their protective apparatus many times, this was the first time they had been subjected to an actual cloud of poisonous gas.
The brigade as a whole was marched into a field where numerous bombs were exploded that contained the poisonous substance. The men were assembled in mass formation and stood with discipline and calm while they were subjected to the nerve-wracking experience. Many men silently prayed that they had paid the necessary attention to their equipment, as the ghastly looking hood was all that stood between them and a terrible experience.
‘General,’ said a middle-aged colonel, who stood to attention and saluted at a safe distance from the vapour. ‘The commanders of each battalion report no ill-effects suffered by the men during the drill.’
‘Excellent Colonel, General McCay will be pleased. Carry on,’ ordered the general while he executed a perfect salute. He wasted no time as he turned sharply towards his staff car.
The brigade split into battalions and marched back to their various billets. The Diggers were given the afternoon off after a tense morning, and were encouraged to use the time in kit and weapons inspection; advice taken by the men, as a move to the front at any time was anticipated.
Clarence, Sticks, and Tom, entered the cool stone barn and tossed their packs against the wall. They chatted freely, relieved to have the mandatory gas test out of the way. To a man, the battalion was enthusiastic to be thrown in against the Hun. As a unit, they had come together to form an efficient and physically fit infantry brigade, now praised by headquarters. It was a far cry from the dishevelled band that limped across the Egyptian d
esert, unfairly criticised by General McCay.
A commotion, which had begun outside and then filtered into the barn, caught the attention of the three men from Number 4 Section of 2 Platoon, A Company.
‘Mail!’ yelled Private James Cook. ‘The mail’s come,’ he repeated, with the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning.
‘Well I’ll be buggered,’ remarked Thomas Baker, direct and to the point.
The three mates, along with the rest of the company, ran for the double doors of the barn; every man was desperate for news from home and loved ones. The imminent departure for the front gave this particular delivery more emphasis.
A tightly packed crowd formed quickly around a large wagon pulled by two aged geldings. The two bays stood quiet and unmoved by the crowd that now pushed and shoved; the horses no doubt appreciated their assignment, and had quickly evaluated the difference between this mob and an exploding shell. Two MPs did their best to keep the soldiers at bay, while three startled privates and one furious sergeant attempted to distribute envelopes and packages.
‘Private William Cooper!’ yelled one of the privates, a bundle of letters held above his head.
‘Yes,’ came the loud reply, the package was immediately thrown into the crowd to be passed back to its intended recipient.
‘George Smith, Joseph Finch,’ continued the calls.
‘Good on ya, Birdie,’ remarked a voice from the crowd, pleased that his mate Joseph Finch had received something.
‘Clarence Miller!’
‘You lucky bastard,’ said Sticks while he poked his mate in the ribs. Clarence stood on his toes to catch sight of what may come his way.
His eyes bulged and calf muscles strained as Clarence watched the single envelope dance across the fingertips of his countrymen until it landed in his grasp. He turned to escape the mass of men and bumped straight into his brother and Alf Conner.
‘Archie… Alf,’ said Clarence. He stared at them like a husband stares at his wife when he’s had one too many ales.
‘Don’t just stand there! Open it, you useless prick,’ grinned his brother affectionately, in a vernacular that was unique to Australian men.
Clarence wondered over to the post and rail fence that bordered the yard and eased himself down to rest against it. He never once took his eye from the off-white envelope, covered in the elegant handwriting of his wife.
Sticks Sullivan, almost as excited as Clarrie to hear the long-awaited news, began to walk towards his mate, but a strong forearm barred his way.
‘Let him have a minute Sticksy,’ said Alf Conner.
‘Too right,’ replied Sticks, embarrassed at his thoughtlessness.
Excited and nervous, Clarence tingled with anticipation. He opened the envelope while the voices of the mail-men continued in the background, subdued and softened by Clarrie’s heart that pounded against his chest. He stared at the script and took a moment to focus. The page—in his delirium—appeared as a scattering of unintelligible lines and curves. He took a breath, composed himself and began to read.
96 Beattie Street
Balmain, NSW
Australia
26th April 1916
Dearest Clarence,
Over the months, I have wondered many times how I would write this letter. Now that the time has arrived, I am filled with a sense of joy, so overwhelming and uplifting. It has opened my heart and mind to something so wonderful in its purity. My darling, you are the father of a beautiful baby Boy, Reginald Clarence Miller, eight pounds and two ounces.
With his eyes closed, Clarence paused to look skyward. The warm sun bathed his skin tenderly and anointed him with the sacred rights of fatherhood. His breaths became deeper, and he caught every scent delivered by the soft breeze; it filled his soul with the answers to his existence.
Both I and your healthy son are doing well. He was born exactly at eight o’clock on the 25th. He is perfect in every way and looks just like his father. I will get a photograph taken as soon as I can, so you can see how adorable he is. I feel so happy to have given you a son; my only sadness has come from not having you here. I take comfort knowing you will return to me safely, to continue the life we began together, only now with a child.
Every thought is with you, my love. I cherish each letter you write and read them over and over. I write to you constantly, not knowing how many get through. Keep safe.
Your loving wife and son.
P.S. Reginald was my father’s father’s name, he was very dear to me, I hope you don’t mind. My father was very proud. Both he and Mother send their love. Your parents have been wonderful.
***
Clarence stood upright and held his arms in the air like a prize-fighter, the emotions conveyed through his wife’s letter absorbed to become part of himself.
‘I have a son!’ he yelled.
His platoon responded as one and cheered his good fortune. Archie, Alf, Sticks and Tom rushed over to shake his hand, elated at the news. His brother suddenly broke from the group and sprinted towards the barn. He returned moments later with a bottle of French champagne, which he had stashed away for this very occasion.
Archie popped the cork and showered his brother with a little of the foaming liquid, before he passed him the bottle to take a large swig in honour of his new son. Clarence grabbed the bottle enthusiastically, and took a long draught. But as a non-drinker he soon found himself coughing and spluttering, which brought cheers and back slaps from his mates. Each man around the circle, which now included Arthur Atkins, George Bluey Smith, and Francis Tench, took a small mouthful from the bottle to toast their mate, who had become a father.
***
Balmain, 10 July 1916
The rain fell as drizzle. The small droplets, which were driven sideways by a cold southeast breeze, hit Frank Miller in the face as he stepped off the ferry and onto the wharf. It made him begin to dread his walk home. The past months had been mundane for a young teenager who had become accustomed to excitement and responsibility. His thirst for his old job had left him, at times, crazed and maddened, like a parched explorer who stared at an ocean of water he cannot drink. He had followed Ronnie’s orders to the letter and kept his head down. He had even mended his relationship with his father to a degree, attending several Balmain Rugby League games with him, and helping out around the home. But it was the fast-life he yearned for, so he waited patiently for the call from Ronnie.
Frank walked with his head down and coat collar up. He turned into Darling Street and hoped to get some relief from the rain beneath the shopfront awnings. Frank stopped to look in a store window and caught the reflection in the glass of a tall man directly behind him. He had seemed to appear from nowhere.
‘Look forward, son,’ said the voice harsh and gravely. ‘Listen, ’cause I will only say this once. This Saturday morning at nine o’clock, be at Central Station. There is a bench opposite the ticket windows; take a seat and wait. Got it?’
Frank nodded. A flat cap and the gloom of the rainy day hid the man’s identity among shadows and reflective distortions. The stranger touched the peak of his cap, turned and was gone. Frank continued his interest in the shop-front for a minute before he turned and crossed Darling Street, into the miserable rain. He was cold, but he glowed inside. He had received his long-awaited recall.
FOURTEEN
Fleurbaix, 14 July, 1916
The half-moon gradually appeared from behind a solitary cloud that drifted steadily across the night sky. It threw enough light on the timber barn so Clarrie could make out the bodies that slept in 2 Platoon. The 14th Brigade had marched out of Thiennes three days earlier for the Fleubaix-Fromelles sector on the front, while Clarence’s 53rd Battalion, along with the 54th, had been held in reserve. They took up billets in Fleubaix, while the 55th and 56th Battalions had gone forward to man the front line.
The news that their brigade was being moved to the forward lines was greeted with great enthusiasm, and although Clarence’s mind had been pre-occ
upied with the birth of his son, he too had been caught up in the wave of excitement that swept through each company.
A tough twenty-mile march had awaited the men after they left Thiennes. The hard cobble stoned roads had taken their toll on some men, with stragglers noted before the first rest point. Sergeant Kent, a hard but respected man, tore strips off the soldiers in question and told them in no uncertain terms that they were now at the ‘pointy end of the stick’. Slackness of any kind would not be tolerated.
The sergeant’s blast had the desired effect, with not one dropout for the rest of the march. The men now realised that their training was exactly that—training. What lay ahead was real, and ill-discipline could result in the man next to you getting killed.
Clarence lay awake in the musty timber barn. It was not as spacious or clean as their last billet, but with their minds on other things, there had been no complaints. In the distance, artillery thundered like storm clouds and then faded, to be replaced by the faint knock, knock, knock of a machine gun—from which side, Clarrie wasn’t able to tell yet. He listened to the activity, miles away, and felt a bizarre sense of detachment. After all the training that seemed never ending and monotonous, the route marches, the drills and parades, musketry practice and bayonet instruction, he was at odds with himself. He felt some excitement at the anticipation of what lay ahead, while being secure where he lay. So close to where men battled, yet far enough away to sleep in comfort.
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