Beneath the Willow

by Michael J Murphy

  Each man in the Australian Imperial Force had volunteered for active service and knew what that entailed. But Clarence received the distinct impression, as the different platoons went about their respective duties in preparation for battle, that the prospect of death in combat was far removed from anyone’s mind. The rumble of distant guns began again, and Clarence closed his eyes in an attempt to sleep. His thoughts immediately drifted back to his young family.

  ***

  Sydney, Central Station, 15 July

  He arrived half an hour early and purchased a newspaper before he casually proceeded to the bench across from the ticket window, as instructed by the stranger in the cap. Frank looked towards the high ceiling of the main concourse, and pretended to be like any other commuter with time on his hands. He admired the expanse of the impressive structure, and slowly glanced towards the numbered platforms to look for anything out of place or unusual. Frank turned his gaze towards the brick arches that led to offices and dining rooms and, satisfied he was not in any immediate danger, he eased down onto the timber bench to wait.

  Frank stretched one leg outward to fight against feelings of irritability and the loss of pay after taking the morning off work, when his eye was caught by a dark-suited man with a familiar swagger.

  ‘Hello, son,’ said Ron Symonds. ‘Haven’t kept you, have I?’

  ‘No, Ronnie.’

  ‘Good, sorry to drag you all the way over here, but there’s a reason for it. You hungry? I’m starved! Let’s get some breakfast.’

  Ronnie didn’t wait for a reply and started to walk towards the dining room. Frank left his paper on the bench, stood up and followed.

  The pair entered the busy hall filled with tables occupied by hungry overnight travellers; Ron paused, and then made a bee-line for a table already occupied by a tall man with broad shoulders and thinning dark grey hair. Frank followed.

  ‘Cliffy,’ exclaimed Ronnie, ‘sorry to keep you.’ He touched Cliff on the shoulder as he passed him and took a seat at the table. He pulled the third of four chairs out for Frank to sit in. ‘Frank, meet Cliff Ryan; Cliff, Frank Miller.’

  ‘We’ve met,’ mumbled Cliff.

  Frank instantly recognised the voice as the man in Darling Street. He also caught the surname; no coincidence, he thought.

  ‘You have too,’ said Ronnie, while he casually turned to a waitress. ‘Three bacon and eggs please and a pot of tea… thanks, luv.’

  Frank sat silently and looked around the room; he focused on nothing in particular and avoided eye contact with the surly Cliff.

  ‘Let’s get down to it then,’ said Ronnie, as the waitress placed a pot of tea and three cups and saucers on the table. Ronnie waited for her to leave before he continued. ‘Frank, I have a plan that, if executed with patience and discipline, will bring satisfaction to all of us.’

  Cliff poured himself a cup of tea and then placed the pot down without offering it to Ronnie or Frank. He stirred his cup and then tilted his head to look directly at Frank. The family resemblance between Hammer and Cliff was unmistakable.

  ‘Ever worked in a pub, son?’ asked Cliff.

  ‘No, Mr Ryan… never.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ he replied. Cliff leant back as the same waitress placed a plate of bacon and eggs with toast in front of each man. ‘In about twenty minutes,’ Cliff continued, ‘I will take you across to Pitt Street and the Lions Gate Hotel. They’re looking for a lad to do some grooming and odd jobs of a Sunday morning while they are closed.’

  Frank shot a quick glance at Ronnie, who saw that Frank was a little lost, and while Cliff was preoccupied with his meal, he continued in his place.

  ‘What I want from you, Frankie, is to take the job on and get familiar with the joint. Keep your ears and eyes open, while not attracting attention—you know how it’s done.’ Ron cut his egg into several pieces and then paused. ‘The travel will be a pain in the arse, but what else would you be doing, and besides, it will be worth it. Cliffy here will keep in contact and relay it to me.’ Ronnie pointed his fork now wrapped in bacon, and then dangled the necessary bait. ‘We get this sorted, Frankie, and we can concentrate on more profitable things,’ he said. Ronnie smiled at his protégé and gave him a harmless jab to the arm.

  ***

  Fleurbaix, 15 July

  Attached to a work detail of two platoons from his battalion, Clarence held a sandbag while Sticks filled it. Clarence lifted the bag onto a trolley which, when full, would be pushed to a lorry by a soldier, who would curse his luck at having landed the heavy work. This small operation, along with many others, extended from the front line all the way back to the reserve units.

  The increase in activity had begun rumours of an imminent assault, and the men asked each other if and when they would be involved. Clarence wondered if the Germans had noted all the activity from their elevated position upon Auber’s Ridge.

  One thing that had struck each soldier within the 5th Division upon coming into the sector was its flatness. There was barely a notable landmark around, with the exception of a couple of church steeples and Auber’s Ridge, which would barely rate a mention as a ridge if not for the surrounding countryside, and the fact that the Germans occupied it.

  Sergeant Kent looked at his watch, noted 0900 hours and called for a smoko. The men dropped at the first available shaded spot and eagerly waited for the water that was supplied in old petrol tins.

  Sticks returned from a conversation with some men from 1 Platoon, which included Clarrie’s brother Archie. He dropped beside his mates Clarrie and Tom under the shade of an elm tree.

  ‘Anywhere will do, Sticksy, ya clumsy sod,’ cried Tom.

  ‘Righto, Tommy, settle down,’ replied Sticks. ‘I’ll get you a handkerchief to wipe away the tears in a minute.’

  ‘C’mon, boys,’ said Clarence, the peacemaker.

  ‘What’s the latest?’ enquired Tom, the abrasive exchange forgotten.

  ‘Well,’ said Sticks, at home in his favourite role. ‘The boys from 1 Platoon say there is a very big chance we will head to the front tomorrow to relieve the 55th.’

  ‘About bloody time,’ interjected Tom.

  ‘Word is,’ continued Sticks, ‘HQ is being moved further up the road towards the front, to a place they’re calling Croix les Cornex.’

  ‘Sounds like brass might be planning something big.’

  ‘That’s what I said, Tommy,’ replied Sticks.

  Clarence sat with his back to the elm tree. He listened but did not respond to the news Sticks gave; a picture of the girl in a white dress with a tobacco tin flashed into his mind.

  ***

  The afternoon had been used to check and re-check equipment, as well as clean and inspect rifles and scrutinise gas masks. Some of the veterans spent hours going over the one hundred and fifty rounds of ammunition they had been allocated. They would remove each one to wipe away dust or any other matter that might cause the rifle to malfunction.

  The men of the 53rd had received their orders to move to the front lines along with the 54th Battalion under the cover of the pre-dawn darkness, on the morning of 16 July. They would relieve the 55th and 56th Battalions, who would move to billets at Bac St Maur. The mood was electric but quiet as men went about their business. Some would reflect; others like Clarence would get a word of advice from a veteran; the battle-scarred soldier would do his best to prepare the novice for action.

  ‘Just remember, Clarrie,’ said Arthur Atkins, ‘keep calm but stay alert. When we’re asked to jump the bags—which we will be—keep moving, never stop, never! Right, mate. You’ll be fine—just fine.’ Arthur slapped him on the shoulder and then moved in the direction of Private Birdie Finch; another member of their section who looked like he could use an encouraging word.

  ‘Clarrie,’ said Archie quietly, as he crouched down to be at his brother’s side. ‘All set, mate?’

  ‘Good as gold,’ replied Clarence, not too convincingly. A look of apprehension was noted by
Archie, but not commented on.

  ‘Good mate, good; I saw you chat with Arthur, he’s a good man. Follow his lead and you’ll be right.’ Archie looked at the ground for a minute and picked up a pebble. He rolled it between his fingers. ‘Who would have thought hey… you and me… in France together.’ Archie went silent and focused on the pebble.

  Clarrie didn’t reply. He allowed his brother to convey through silence what he couldn’t say in words.

  ‘Remember that time, Clarrie, when we got in that fight with those Thompson kids.’

  ‘You fought, I watched,’ said Clarence with a smile.

  ‘Didn’t have much choice, they were going to pinch that bloody poetry book of yours,’ blurted Archie. He stopped suddenly and looked up from his pebble, eyes filled with brotherly love.

  ‘They got a bit more than they bargained for, didn’t they,’ added Clarence.

  Archie placed the pebble down gently on the dark soil and shook his brother’s hand firmly, while he brought his left hand across to grip his brother’s forearm. ‘Best be off,’ said Archie before he released Clarrie’s hand. ‘I have to go and see Lieutenant Davidson for a briefing; he’s been transferred from the 1st over to us—given the boys a bit of a lift it has.’

  ***

  Tom Baker sat next to Clarence; a smoke dangled from his mouth, which left both of his hands free to relieve Clarrie of his Lee-­Enfield rifle. Tom immediately began to inspect the weapon, and with dextrous fingers, he removed and replaced the magazine and worked the bolt action several times, before giving his approval.

  ‘Trying to make Lance Corporal, Tom?’ joked Clarrie.

  ‘Piss off, Miller,’ snapped the Gallipoli veteran. He used an open hand to clip Clarrie over the back of the head as he spoke. ‘Just want to make sure Fritz doesn’t get me because your bloody rifle jams.’

  Clarrie copped the tip and continued to work on his weapon. The light-hearted banter relieved some of the butterflies that tormented his stomach.

  ‘Hey, Tom,’ said Clarrie. ‘Where’s...’

  ‘Righto boys,’ shouted Corporal Connor, ‘gather round.’

  The ten men of 2 Section moved swiftly to form a semi-circle around Alf Conner, who had knelt alongside a water cart.

  ‘Men, I have just been briefed, along with the other three section leaders, by Lieutenant Sharp. We will assemble at 03:00 hours tomorrow and step off at 04:00 hours. We will march in company formation initially, and then after the first stop we will split into platoons, and then finally sections, when we near the front itself.’

  Corporal Conner drew back on his cigarette and exhaled slowly before he proceeded. ‘There is an attack planned for the 17th and it involves our 5th Division and the British 61st Division. The battle further south at the Somme has recommenced in earnest. We will engage the enemy here and do as much damage as possible, so Fritz cannot send reinforcements south.’

  ‘Corporal?’

  ‘Yes, Birdie.’

  ‘Will we be put into battle straight away?’

  The rest of the section cringed at the question asked by Private Finch. No one wanted to seem unwilling at this point, but none of the men would deny, if asked in seclusion, that they would like it answered.

  ‘I can’t say at this point, Private Finch,’ replied the corporal, very aware of what effect anxious questions could do to the men’s confidence or trust in each other, elements that are essential in the heat of battle. ‘All I can tell you is that we are headed to the front line in the morning, and I have the utmost confidence that each of you will do your duty with honour.’

  The five Gallipoli veterans looked serious but calm, while the men who hadn’t seen action made small movements that betrayed their nervousness. They shuffled from one knee to the other, wiped a brow, or peered off into the distance.

  ‘The way those clouds have built up,’ said Private Dave Smith, another of the section’s veterans, ‘who knows what the Brass will do.’

  Alf Conner tilted his head to the side and sort of tweaked the corner of his mouth, a non-committal gesture that neither refuted nor accepted Private Smith’s statement. He was just glad for the diversion from Birdie’s question.

  ‘Now, boys,’ continued Corporal Conner, ‘there is no need to tell you again, but we will move quietly at all times, all kit stowed and secured properly, no sly smokes, nothing that can draw attention on us. Get some tucker into you, rest up, and I will see you at 03:00 hours.’

  FIFTEEN

  Fleurbaix, Front-line, 53rd Battalion Sector, 18 July

  A shell whistled through the cloudy air and drowned out the machine gun fire that raked the parapet only a hundred yards away. Clarence threw himself against the damp sandbags that made up the breast works of the front line. The contact smeared his already dirty undershirt with mud.

  ‘That one wasn’t even close, Clarrie, said Sticks, who stood motionless. He stared at his mate, as the uplifted earth—sent skyward by the projectile—settled to the ground more than fifty yards away in no-man’s-land. Sticks, who had taken less than twenty-four hours to gauge the trajectory of a shell, continued on with his load of water tins, and distributed them to soldiers who manned the fire step below the parapet. As he moved, Sticks collected empties, which he took to the rear to be refilled. Clarence wiped a forearm across his face and resumed his position behind a wheelbarrow load of empty sandbags, destined for points along the front line. The bags would be distributed to soldiers involved in the first waves of the assault. He was suddenly reminded that one of those soldiers would be him.

  The attack on the German positions in the region of Fromelles and Fleurbaix had been scheduled for the 17th of July, but poor weather, which started on the 16th, had seen those plans abandoned. As a result, the 54th Battalion had been taken out and put in billets at Bac St Maur, while the 53rd remained and held the whole 14th Brigade sector overnight. With more bad weather presenting itself on the 18th, the brigade was put on standby, while the 54th resumed its position alongside the 53rd. Orders were received that the attack would take place on the 19th. Zero hour was yet to be confirmed.

  Exhausted by the mental tension of the postponement, the men of the 5th Division were also physically drained. They had to complete a whole range of demanding jobs in a very limited amount of time. The 14th Brigade under Colonel Harold Pope still had ammunition dumps to complete. Brompton Avenue, the main thoroughfare for the brigade, needed to be cleared, a job that was best done at night to avoid enemy artillery fire; while a tramway, designed to move a range of equipment to the front lines, was still under construction.

  The 15th Brigade, situated on the right flank of the 14th, and the closest to the Sugarloaf salient—the main objective of the operation—had experienced similar problems to the 14th, as had the Australian 8th Brigade, who were on 14th’s left flank. The British on the right half of the salient manned a line that ran roughly south-west. They had the unenviable task of silencing the menacing protrusion known as the Sugarloaf; the responsibility of that enormous undertaking fell to the 184th Brigade. The 183rd Brigade was to their right, and the 182nd took up a position further along the line in front of the smaller, but still formidable, Wick salient.

  As Clarence continued with his job, he wondered what would become of him. How would he perform under fire, what would he do? He knew it wasn’t wise to encourage these kinds of thoughts, but his mind asked a lot of questions of itself. It’s just the way he was.

  They had been informed by their platoon commander, Lieutenant Sharp, that the assault would be an operation comprised of two divisions, the British 61st and the Australian 5th. The three brigades of each division would line up in a two-battalion front. Clarence’s 53rd, along with the 54th, were appointed the 14th Brigade’s attack battalions, with the 55th designated to carry and re-supply duties. The 56th would be held in reserve.

  From the 53rd Battalion, A and B companies would take part in the initial assault. Clarence felt a cold shiver run down his spine after he hear
d the news. At least I’ll be with Archie, he thought. The plan was for the assault companies involved in the first wave to assemble at the parapet during the prolonged artillery bombardment, which began at zero hour. Companies C and D would advance behind them, followed by the 55th Battalion, who would be close behind with much needed supplies. During the bombardment, there would be several ‘lifts’—pauses in fire—which would see the men closest to the parapet lift their bayonets skyward, as if ready to attack. This would draw the enemy to man their positions upon their own parapet, only to have the bombardment commence again, hopefully killing German soldiers and further weakening their defences.

  At an allotted time, depending on the depth of ground to be covered and relative to the different brigade positions along the line, the barrage would recommence. A and B Companies from the 53rd and 54th would move into no-man’s land and position themselves as close to the enemy positions as possible, while being behind the protective blanket of their own artillery fire.

  Once the final barrage had lifted, it was the job of the forward assault units to dash across the ground that remained to take the enemy front line trench before the enemy could regain their positions. Once the enemy was removed from their own front line trench, the initial assault companies were to fortify that position and create a secure line of fire. The subsequent waves would then leapfrog them and move into the German support trenches. It was at this point that Lieutenant Sharp had stressed some points.