Beneath the Willow

by Michael J Murphy

  ‘Slit his throat,’ hissed Private Cooper.

  ‘Shut your fucking trap, Cooper. I’ll take the prisoner. Arthur, you take the MG. Start moving the men.’

  George ‘Bluey’ Smith slid towards the prisoner. The gagged man recoiled in the confined space, his eyes distorted with the fear of his own demise. Smith made several hand gestures towards the captive to let him know what was required and what would be the consequence of non-cooperation. George Smith then rested on one knee and nodded towards Arthur Atkins, while he held his prisoner at gunpoint. As they waited, Private Cooper slithered out of the hole and into a darkness that was alive with the enemy.

  Clarence peered towards the safety of the old German line and readied his nerve to face the unknown. He fell into a state of panic when he remembered his brother lying like a tethered lamb in among a pack of wolves. Although compelled by orders, the shame of leaving his brother gripped his chest and constricted his breathing, shredding the possibility of logical thought.

  Clarence turned and scurried on hands and knees. He moved frantically to the other side of the shell crater, in the direction of his marooned brother. His movement was suddenly arrested by an oppressive weight; a firm and unyielding force that pressed into the base of his skull and sank his face into the dank mud. His heart yearned for his brother, but the strength in his body gave way to self-

  preservation. Clarence sobbed in coughs while he moaned his brother’s name. Clarence implored God and all his saints to protect Archie and free him from the guilt of desertion. As he began to abandon hope, Clarence felt his sanity about to shatter.

  ‘Miller… Miller, get a hold of yourself,’ barked Arthur Atkins. The lance corporal had dropped the German machine gun to prevent Clarrie’s mad dash. His mouth was an inch away from Clarence’s ear.

  ‘Archie,’ moaned Clarence.

  ‘Listen,’ said Atkins through gritted teeth, as he released some pressure on Clarrie. ‘Corporal Miller gave an order and you are to follow it, He wants you to live, not commit suicide. Think of your son and pull yourself together.’ Arthur turned Private Clarence Miller and pulled him to a sitting position before he handed him his rifle.

  Clarence, light-headed and full of self-loathing, pictured his beautiful wife and the son he had not met, and crept his way to the crest of the crater. Behind him, in the distance, he heard the sound of a Mills bomb explode, and then another, followed by several rifle shots, and then silence. Was that Archie fighting for his life and that of Louth, or was it his mate Alf Conner and the remnants of his section? Men whom he had, over the last hour or so, forgot existed.

  Why am I here? he asked, while crouched over; the sound did not escape his lips, but burned like acid through the lining of his gut. Get to that trench. Images of his wife danced through his field of vision as he crept out of the crater. His heart jumped at the sight of a figure to his right, gone before he could determine if it was friend or foe. Intense gunfire, which made him twitch, came from far to his right. Was that the 8th Brigade? Clarence turned to the sound of a German machine gun, as it opened a withering burst of fire to his left. It aimed for targets in the direction he had come from. The glow from a flare revealed the abhorrent scene of a helmeted soldier that grasped a Maxim. His arms and torso shuddered to become one with the machine as it breathed its rain of death on two soldiers; one was bound at the wrist and gagged, the other was a lance corporal.

  Doggedly still, Clarrie closed his eyes to avoid staring at the terrible scene, but the illumination of the flare that unveiled the deathly picture caused it to play and replay in his mind, until it faded into black as the flare hit the ground. He opened his eyes and could faintly make out the parapet of the old German line forty yards ahead. The position was securely held for the moment by his brigade but was under increased fire from German machine guns.

  Clarence crept forward and was forced to leap to his right as particles of earth erupted near his feet from machine gun fire. He rolled into one of the many craters that dotted the landscape and covered his head with his arms, as a concerted barrage of fire from his fellow Diggers homed in on his position.

  Clarence composed himself and then slowly rolled to his right. He gasped in horror at the sight and feel of a dead soldier. Its face was set in a cast of shock; a single bullet wound through his head had given the man no warning of his demise. Confronted by the possibility of being shot by his own countrymen, and pressed from the rear by the enemy, Clarrie had no option but to act.

  ‘Waratah!’

  Rifle fire, nervous and without aim, whizzed past, high and to the left of where he lay. Faint mumbles could be heard, carried on the still night air, but buried by the knock-knock-knock of an out-of-range machine gun.

  From directly behind, and at a distance disguised by mingling sounds and the debilitating effect of fear, a voice whispered.

  ‘Miller.’ The sound reached Clarence as a garbled hiss.

  A pause followed; sweat trickled from every inch of Private Miller’s skin, so close to refuge, but stalked by death. As every sinew tightened, and each nerve stretched under unimaginable mental strain and physical punishment, Clarence was unable to trust his own judgement. Quietly he rolled back to his left and dug the heels of his boots into the soft earth—a sub-conscious act of flight. His back was pressed firm against the crater wall that faced the old German line, and the muddied slope barred his escape from the sound that now tormented him. Gently, he extended his rifle in front and prepared for the unwanted confrontation; breathing quickly in shallow sniffs, his teeth were clenched tight and his hands shook.

  ‘Miller, hold your fire.’ The voice wasn’t German, or was it?

  Clarence held his rifle a few inches higher and felt his feet involuntarily dig into the pliable clay further.

  ‘Clarrie, it’s Atkins, don’t fire, I’m coming to you.’ Another misguided bullet flew high over-head.

  Clarence froze. The words reached his ears but were held in suspension—unable to enter his reason. A figure appeared low to the ground but above Clarrie’s eye-line; a soft drab shape covered in a blanket of darkness. When the form that approached passed the point of no return, Clarence realised that the intention of the oncoming being would have no bearing on his response. For, as he lay there, petrified, and as urine flowed through his trousers and faeces soiled his under-shorts, he knew he was incapable of any action.

  ‘Miller, it’s me Atkins—Christ!’ muttered the lance corporal. He had noticed the body to the side of Clarence and dragged himself closer to investigate. Positive identification was important in the aftermath of a battle.

  ‘It’s Rawlings,’ announced Atkins. ‘Bugger!’ He added, as he pocketed a letter and notebook from his tunic for repatriation.

  Clarence turned and looked at Atkins with blankness. His mind had shut out the horrors that lay across every inch of this poisoned earth.

  ‘I’m going home,’ said Clarence. He pushed the stock of his rifle into the mud and used the weapon as a rod to lever himself onto his feet.

  ‘What?’ Atkins did not understand at first, but then reached out in desperation to grab Clarrie as he realised the private’s intentions. ‘Miller, no!’

  The mud that lay everywhere, and on Private Miller’s trousers, slipped through Arthur Atkins’s outstretched fingers. The mechanical and trance-like figure topped the crest of the shell hole and stepped into the open. Unable to cope, he bared himself to the gods of war and all their violent ways.

  Atkins scampered up the slope and threw himself down to taste the filthy mud as a bullet gouged the earth to his left. A second flew high and whizzed within ear-shot, the lance corporal’s helmeted head unseen, and not the intended target.

  ‘Don’t shoot,’ yelled Arthur hopelessly. He raised his head to place his own life in grave danger, but his voice was lost in the report of the Lee-Enfield that fired on its own. ‘Hold your fire,’ he screamed, ‘we’re from the 14th, for Christ’s sake.’

  The fire from the A
ustralian line ceased. It brought an eerie silence and stillness to the war-torn plain, as the uncertainty of the defenders hung in the air. During the quiet, Clarence seemed to break from the daze that had encompassed him. He stopped and turned to look towards the crater he had vacated and became aware of his complete vulnerability.

  ‘Get down, Miller!’ shouted Atkins, likely to draw attention, but desperate to save the frayed and battle-scarred private.

  Atkins stared at the man. It tore at his heart to watch a helpless and defeated soldier resigned to death. The terrible sight caused the Gallipoli veteran to claw his fingers into the ground and grind his teeth. The isolated man, shrouded in darkness and a developing mist, swayed like a drunk. He appeared as an apparition to Arthur.

  The body spun before Arthur or the men who held the old German line heard the shot. The Mauser’s report pierced the dark night and reached them as Clarence hit the ground. Arthur reacted instinctively and sprinted towards Clarence from the cover of the crater, without thought for his own life. He shouted ‘ANZAC!’—in hope of being recognised—and kept as low as possible. Arthur reached the limp body under intense enemy fire. The men of the 14th Brigade reacted to the lance corporal’s shout and incredible act of bravery and opened a barrage of covering fire, as Lance Corporal Atkins hoisted Private Miller over his shoulder.

  Arthur ran for his life. The sound of rifle fire and a Lewis light machine gun, which cackled like a typewriter, mixed with the sounds of his own breath. The adrenaline that pulsed through his body fuelled his muscles, burdened under the limp weight of a man.

  ‘C’mon, Cobber,’ yelled a Digger from behind a mound of sandbags; his mud-encrusted arms swung his weapon above the makeshift parapet to shoot a series of rounds towards the incoming fire. ‘Get that into you bastards,’ continued the rifleman. He fired his weapon like a man possessed.

  Atkins reached the line and allowed Miller to roll off his shoulder into outstretched arms. Exhausted, he flung himself against the rear wall of the ditch, which only hours earlier had served as a firing step for the Germans. Arthur lay on the trench floor and gasped for breath. He lifted himself to his knees to see a wiry man with bulging white eyes on an unshaven and dirty face. Two other soldiers hurriedly stepped over Arthur to attend to Clarence.

  ‘Haven’t seen too many braver things than that mate,’ said the rifleman, ‘Atkins isn’t it?’

  Arthur nodded, still unable able to breathe, let alone speak.

  ‘Thought so, bumped into you at ANZAC. Jacko’s the name,’ continued the rifleman. ‘We’re under the pump here mate, but we’ll get you out through the sap they’ve almost finished across no-mans. Sooner the better for your mate, he’s not good.

  Atkins looked over at Clarence. Two men worked desperately on him but were hamstrung in the conditions.

  ‘Can you walk, Atkins?’ asked Jacko.

  Arthur nodded at Jacko, not quite sure why he asked. He attempted to stand, but his left leg buckled underneath him. A bullet had passed clean through his calf muscle. It left his lower leg minced, with muscle and tendons torn apart.

  SEVENTEEN

  Balmain, August, 1916

  Ruth weeded the ground beneath the small bed of roses that lined the Miller’s front fence. The sound of footsteps, light and slow, persuaded her to cease work and lift her head. The transfer from one state of mind to another can sometimes come as a complete shock, as it does after a plunge into cold water. Or, it can be met with the complete confusion of being woken from a deep slumber.

  As Ruth knelt on the small patch of grass next to the rose bushes, she felt a combination of both. The image of a teenage boy dressed in a black uniform, his babyish face partly obscured by an official looking cap, paralysed every muscle and nerve in her body. The pink telegram loomed large in her line of sight, and it singed her eyes like hot coals; its presence was the realisation of countless nightmares.

  ‘Mrs,’ said the boy sheepishly, scarred from so many similar deliveries. He was too young and impressionable to deal with anguished faces that met his every stop. He was not yet resilient enough to deal with the frenzied shouts that would, on occasion, prevent him from completing his job. ‘Telegram for Mr Albert Miller,’ he continued. The boy stood rigid and acted in the most respectful way he knew. He did his best to follow his boss’s advice on the etiquette of delivering bad news.

  Ruth extended her arm to receive the pink notice; the sound of Albert’s name released the young mother from her paralysis. A faint voice suggested to her that the telegram, addressed to her father-in-law, was likely to be news of Archie and not her beloved Clarence. A wave of shameful guilt washed over her. Tears welled in her eyes at the misery of having to hold onto such hope. As Mrs Clarence Miller, Ruth had imagined her name on the telegram, but when enrolling to enlist, Clarence had filled out the attestation form naming his father as next of kin, in part to protect Ruth, but also because he wasn’t yet married.

  Unmoved, Ruth stared at a black ant that moved from one blade of grass to another. She possibly held her life’s worth in her hand, but Ruth was strangely motivated by the tiny insect and its continual struggle. Ruth nodded at the boy and rose to her feet. She straightened her dress and walked inside to see Grace.

  Grace greeted Ruth with a smile like always, but her eyes widened and her complexion turned ghostly white when she noticed the telegram in her hand. The mixing bowl that she cradled dropped to the floor and she groped for the bench. Ruth rushed to her side. She realised that there was no lesser evil in what was contained in the message, for the woman who had been her guiding light in Clarence’s absence.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Grace. Suddenly, she was left breathless and hunched over; the effort of the question was too much.

  Ruth did not answer. She chose to embrace her friend instead, for comfort’s sake—her own as much as Grace’s. The news would be dealt with in time. Ruth escorted Grace to the kitchen table. Both women sat, while the telegram lay flat on the table, her husband’s name scrawled across the envelope.

  ‘I cannot sit and look at this thing until Albert arrives home,’ stated Grace and she picked up the pink paper and opened it.

  COMMONWEALTH OF AUSTRLIA

  POSTMASTER-GENERALS DEPARTMENT,

  NEW SOUTH WALES

  URGENT TELEGRAM

  Dear Sir,

  It is my duty to inform you that number 3281 Pte C A Miller 53rd Battalion was wounded in action 19 July 1916.

  Lt Col Bradstreet

  14th Bde

  Ruth gasped while she breathed deeply; the sound of the cry that escaped contained both anguish and relief. Thankful that the telegram had not reported the death of her husband, she was distressed at the thought of Clarence stricken with pain in some foreign land.

  ‘What does that mean, Grace?’ she asked, desperate for comfort. ‘Where is he?’

  Grace didn’t have the answers for Ruth; the telegram lacked any information other than the fact Clarence was wounded. How badly was he hurt? Was he in a hospital or on his way home? These questions had immediately sprung to mind but were left for the mind to ponder.

  Grace cradled Ruth’s head against her chest like she would hold Alice. The young mother, without a husband to lean on, cried tears of loneliness and despair. Grace’s thoughts drifted to her eldest boy. Foreboding, heavy like oil, lay at the base of her stomach.

  A week later the same boy dressed in black arrived at 96 Beattie Street and knocked on the door. He kept his head down and shifted his feet with nerves. The boy had simply held out his hand and waited for the telegram to be taken. To be the bearer of such news was too much for a child, too much for anyone.

  Ruth placed her baby in its cot and suggested Grace sit at the kitchen table. She attempted to reciprocate the role of consoler as she walked calmly—while feeling weak. Ruth turned the handle and opened the door to meet the outstretched hand; the boy was an image in penitence. In an act of compassion, Ruth knelt and placed a hand on his rounded shoulder. She gently
kissed him on the cheek and then whispered a soothing word.

  The words, ‘missing-in-action’, fell over the room with that heavy fog, a chilling presence that had visited the house before. The mist carried the message to Grace in a way the telegram could not. Her son was dead. By the same feeling that told her she was to be a mother twenty-one years ago, she acknowledged its loss. She rose from the table in one uninterrupted movement and walked out the back door. Ruth felt helpless and let her go. She waited a moment and then walked to her bedroom to cradle her own son. She held him close and wet his face with tears.

  ***

  England, Harefield Manor, August 1916

  The English summer sun bathed Clarence with warmth in the picturesque village of Harefield Middlesex. Try as it may, the sun could not penetrate the chill that had settled within the wounded soldier since his experience in France. With a royal blue and beautifully decorated hard cover edition of The Pageant of English Poetry on his lap, closed, but held like one may hold a bible, Clarence held a fixed stare towards the tree-lined horizon.

  He shifted uncomfortably in the rigid wheelchair that had been pushed to the lawn outside the manor-come-hospital and winced in pain as the partially healed wounds grabbed. His mobility was reduced to practically nothing, which had deepened his morose outlook. The discomfort from the bullet that struck and shattered the left side of his pelvis was insignificant compared to the desolation that had overtaken his soul. Surgery was performed in less than perfect circumstances in France, and the wound had become infected while en route to England. The follow-up surgery, a close-run-thing, had saved Clarence’s life. The slow and agonising awakening that is the preface to the comprehension of lost mates, close mates, the experience of killing—regardless of the cause—was for Clarence a scorching of emotions: an entombing of treasures that had naturally blessed his person.