Beneath the Willow
Page 27
For no reason, Clarence pushed to one side the letter that had the words Australian Imperial Force emblazoned across its top, and proceeded to lift the lid on the six by six-inch container. He saw a brown leather pouch, partially hidden by a pinkish sheet of paper folded exactly in half. His mind was full of thoughts, not one of them discernible. The voice that had goaded him was now cruel in its silence.
A dull ache formed behind his eyes as he lifted the folded paper with his right hand and the leather pouch with his left. He noted the weight of the pouch and solid object within.
He unfolded the sheet of paper roughly with one hand. Clarence was struck by a feeling of misery, and a loathing for diligent postal workers. The Coat of Arms and the words Buckingham Palace seared Clarence’s eyes, and melted the chains of imprisoned memories.
I join with my grateful people
In sending you this memorial
of a brave life given for others
in the Great War.
Hope, hope that can send you mad with torment or preserve an idea that is more palatable than the acceptance of what is likely, had held Clarence Miller in a state of unnatural conflict.
It tore at his soul’s delicate fibres. The partially healed remnants, calcified and scarred, had not allowed freedom within a spirit that had graced the earth without concern—until men had ordered other men to kill.
The pink sheet was released from his grip and floated slowly to the timber floor of the kitchen. Its descent held him captive while liberated memories, horrible and vivid, played out before him.
Clarence remained motionless; his skin was washed pale by the scenes that raced in front of his wide-open eyes. His mouth filled with the bitter taste of cordite. He swallowed hard and tried to rid himself of the memories, but the effort only brought a worse sensation, putrid and evil in smell. The mud of Flanders made him gag as a flare blossomed against the black sky above him. It illuminated his brother’s face, brave and unyielding, alone and ready to meet his fate.
With his right arm lifted, Clarence twisted and contorted his fingers in an effort to reach his brother, while an unseen force held him securely to the chair in which he sat. The voice of Arthur Atkins suddenly blared in his ears, and his stomach turned at the sound of machine gun fire; the humiliating feel of a weakened bladder revisited him.
The muscles in his gnarled hand relaxed. He watched Archie fade into nothing, while sickening feelings of cowardice and impotence washed over him as they had on that night many years ago. The stark realisation of what he had been asked to do, and what he had done under orders, struck without pity or compassion. He remembered the small but definite flicker of relief when they began the retreat, knowing that he might get the chance to live. That feeling had been buried inside him and could never be admitted.
Clarence bowed his head and clenched his eyes shut as he fought with the voice that persecuted his existence. The concussion of Mills bombs that exploded was followed by several rifle shots, which tensed his body again. The sounds chilled Clarrie’s blood with their clarity. Like a fence wire strained too tight, Clarence felt a part of his mind snap. The kitchen instantly converted from blackness to blinding light. He lifted his head and opened his eyes to the recognition of the German Mauser rifle that killed his brother.
The tortured man screamed Archie’s name and then moaned in terror as the image of his older brother, wounded and bloodied, rolled off the kitchen table into his lap. The soldier’s face projected a look of ghastly shock and his eyes portrayed dismay after his life had ended. Clarence reeled and sobbed. He pushed frantically at the kitchen floor with his feet and tipped the chair backwards. He fell and lay sprawled on the floor. Clarence rolled away from the table and scrambled to his feet, to run for the kitchen door, maddened with fear and stricken with guilt.
Driven by the past and the sights and sounds that sped through his field of vision, he attempted to out-run his mate Sticks, while a triumphant German soldier stood over a lifeless Archie. A Red Cross letter appeared, perched on the mantle of his Beattie Street home—ignored and forgotten. He saw a woman, overcome by misery, floating on a rising tide.
Spittle dripped from his chin; he panted and coughed in fits, and then he ran for the ridge that lined the western sky.
TWENTY FIVE
Alerted by Emily’s cry, Ruth opened the screen door to the kitchen and ushered Reggie inside. She called out to Clarence and looked quizzically at the overturned chair and the mess of letters scattered across the table, moved from its normal position.
‘Alice, would you put Reggie in his bed?’ asked Ruth, as she walked towards Emily’s room. ‘Prop him up with pillows, like the doctor said.’
‘Yes, Ruth,’ replied Alice. She too had glanced at the disturbed furniture.
Ruth opened the door to her daughter’s room and was annoyed to find M totally distressed and wet with sweat. Where on earth can Clarence be? she said, while she tried to calm Emily.
‘Clarrie!’ she yelled. Emily responded with louder cries at the raised voice. ‘I could strangle your father, M,’ she whispered. She stopped calling for Clarence; his immediate appearance wouldn’t help her calm the baby.
She poured milk into a teacup for Emily and held it while the little girl drank eagerly. Ruth cuddled her baby and took a seat at the table, still annoyed with Clarence. She ignored the mess and left the fallen chair where it was, only to have her attention drawn to the leather pouch that sat on the edge of the table.
Ruth reached for the pouch and slid it towards her. The object aroused her curiosity, so she placed a much calmer Emily in the chair next to her and quickly opened the pouch. Ruth saw part of a metal disc, and immediately removed it from the protective case and began to study the strange item.
With the disc in her outstretched right hand, Ruth could make out a lady in robes. The woman held a trident and stood behind a Lion. ‘Odd,’ she remarked, as she turned the medallion clock-wise to read the inscription on the outer edge.
‘HE DIED FOR FREEDOM AND HONOUR.’ Ruth whispered the words and then covered her mouth. She moved her right hand and revealed another inscription.
‘ARCHIBALD ALBERT MILLER’
Ruth’s thoughts turned immediately to her husband. The loyal and loving wife stood and called out her husband’s name, but her voice trailed off as she realised the futility of it. Her eyes caught a solemn figure in the doorway to the hall.
‘Is that Archie’s?’ said the soft voice.
Unable to speak, Ruth nodded. Her eyes met Alice’s, and then returned to the bronze medallion. The token invoked sadness for a young woman, who, although loved and cherished by Ruth as her own, had watched her family almost vanish before her eyes. Her sister-in-law’s needs, Ruth thought with shame, not always at the forefront of people’s minds; like a child, Alice was seen as one who needed protection from the truth. Ruth wondered if that had been wise. Would she take that approach with her own children?
‘Yes, Alice,’ said Ruth softly. She held out the medallion for Alice to take. ‘It is Archie’s, and I am so very sorry.’
The words, when they were said, sounded bizarre to Ruth. Not because of the sentiment, but because of the time, almost eight years after Archie had been killed in action. Ruth had held out hope, like everyone, that Archie had been taken prisoner after Fromelles. But she had accepted Archie’s death long ago. Long before she had spoken to Arthur, even before the letter had arrived all those years ago from the Red Cross. The letter had informed Albert that there was no record of an Archibald Albert Miller in any of the German prisoner-of-war camps. It had confirmed what Grace Miller had already known.
Through blind stubbornness, or devoted brotherly love, Ruth was not sure which, Clarence had not come to terms with the fact that Archie had not returned. Clarrie had made the issue almost unresolvable, with barely a mention of his brother’s name. People in general did not talk about the war, which she could understand, but Ruth felt that there was more to her husband’s behaviour t
han a willingness to forget and move on. Arthur Atkins’s face, and the true intention of his enquiries, leapt into Ruth’s consciousness, as she handed the medallion to Alice.
Alice took the Dead Man’s Penny from Ruth and walked towards the table and sat down. She stroked the face of the object in one slow movement, before she held it to her chest.
‘Sometimes I find it hard to remember his face,’ said Alice, as she placed the memorial plaque on the table.
Ruth moved quietly to sit beside Alice. She placed a hand on her shoulder to comfort her, and once again Ruth felt shame at not having addressed the subject.
‘I remember some things,’ continued Alice. ‘He always used to pick me up and toss me in the air.’ She paused, smiling faintly as she re-lived the moment. ‘But his face, well I don’t know if the one I see is his, or...’ a tear slid from her eyes. ‘I was only little when he died, Ruth.’
Alice’s cry came from deep inside her; the medallion made Archie’s death strangely official but left a feeling of inadequacy. A metal disc as a memorial for a brother’s life—a life Alice never got to appreciate—seemed insultingly insufficient.
***
The air was like fire as it passed through his windpipe into his tormented lungs. The rocky incline was sparsely covered with dry grass and stunted gums, and his vision was blurred by tears and sweat that ran across his eyes. Clarence faltered on the uneven surface, and then continued on in a frenzy, desperate to outrun the pack of wild dogs that was his past. He stumbled and skinned his knees on the jagged rocks, then bruised and gouged the palms of his hands as he fought to right himself.
Clarence reached the ridge of the hill and then stopped; he turned in circles and tried to get his bearings. The thirsty gum trees spun as he revolved, their dull green leaves and dark stringy bark replaced by mud-encrusted sandbags and water-logged craters. He caught the sound of movement to his right and ran again; he leapt over a large flat boulder that marked the peak of the ridge, and rolled onto his side as the hill fell away beneath him to the valley below.
Trousers torn, the blood from cuts and abrasions seeped into his boots after his frantic descent. Clarence spotted a depression in the earth far off in the distance. It snaked its way from left to right, and Clarence recognised it as the Australian trench. He increased his efforts to outrun his pursuers. He strode with determination past the cattle yards, and across the paddock towards the creek and the twisted branches of the willow tree.
The sun was pushed from the Denman Hill sky by a frenzied mind. Darkness enveloped Clarence’s surrounds, heightening his sense of vulnerability and danger. In the distance, he heard Alf Connor scream for more ammunition. Clarence turned his head, his face a mask of panic. A sense of dread propelled him forward, as Alf’s voice receded in the spatter of machine gun fire.
With the safety of the trench in sight, Clarence tripped over a half-buried log that sent him face-first to the ground. Dazed from the impact, he brushed dried grass and dirt from his face, and tasted the Flanders mud as he spat. He saw shadows lurking in the darkness as he battled to regain his feet. He looked towards the object that had taken his feet from under him, and withdrew in fright at the image of Birdie Finch in an unnatural and terrible pose. The bullet wound to his face was covered with feasting maggots.
Clarence scrambled across the ground and rolled into the trench. He thrashed in the icy water of the creek, and then pulled his body towards the dirt wall, to huddle behind its shelter. Terrified, he tried to raise the courage to look over the lip and across open ground.
‘What in God’s name are you doing here, Miller?’
The voice was familiar. It seared his awareness and startled him. It forced him to look left. Dressed in a blood-splattered tunic with the epaulettes of a lieutenant, there stood a man with a pistol. He stood, defiant and enraged, among the commotion. Clarrie strained his eyes and squinted to make out the face beneath the peaked cap.
‘Lieutenant Sharp,’ whispered Clarence.
‘Why aren’t you with your section, soldier?’
Confused, Clarence looked to his right and away from the lieutenant; he jumped at the sight of two soldiers, their bodies entwined with barbed wire. The head of one of the men—disconnected from its rightful place—lay cradled in his arms, a stupefied smile frozen on its face.
‘What’s the problem, Miller, never seen a dead man before? You probably got him killed with your cowardice. Look at me when I’m talking to you,’ screamed Lieutenant Sharp.
He spun his head around to look at the maddened officer. Clarence breathed frantically and then covered his head with his hands.
‘Don’t you go soft on me again, Miller,’ hissed the lieutenant. ‘The Germans are everywhere, show some backbone and be ready to fight when they come.’
***
The bay gelding weaved its way up the slope of the hill under the urgings of its rider. The horse placed his hooves between scattered rocks and camouflaged rabbit holes. Ruth was more than worried at what had become of Clarence; she slapped the horse on each shoulder with her reins and dug her heels into his flank to push him on.
After she had comforted Alice and ensured she was all right, Ruth had made her a cup of tea and put Emily down to sleep again. She checked on Reggie, who was asleep, and then left Alice to watch after the children while she searched for Clarence.
She had checked all the sheds close to the house, along with the orchard, before she saddled and mounted Chester to check the shearing shed and beyond. There had been no trace of Clarence, so she decided to climb the hill to the west and look in the creek paddock, and possibly beyond. But how far could he get on foot?
Horse and rider crested the ridge and descended the slope toward the valley below; her trusted gelding negotiated the outcrops of stone and eucalypts deftly. The horse remained steady when soft spring ground gave way under its hooves; it allowed Ruth to scan the paddock for any sign of Clarence. Her eyes squinted as she broke from the shade of trees and into open pasture; a movement of her wrists—delicate yet definite—told the gelding to halt. Ruth took time to think. She looked for a moment at the cattleyards and wondered where on earth she should go next. Cattle that grazed on winter grass, and a creek shaded by a willow tree, were all she could see before the land rose again to be covered with more gum trees. Ruth gave her mount a gentle dig with her heels and continued her search.
***
His knees tucked to his chest, Clarence clenched his eyes shut. The incessant voice of Lieutenant Sharp, the sound of shells that whistled as they approached, and the death rattle of countless machine guns all seared his brain and constricted his movement.
‘Stand to, Miller, here they come,’ screamed Sharp. ‘Stand to Miller, do you hear me man? Fritz is out there; protect your brother for the love of God!’
Clarence opened his eyes to darkened shapes and shadows that came and went. The soldiers, entangled in wire next to him—one decapitated—were now bony skeletons; pieces of woollen cloth, rotted and stained, hung like medals from their rib cages. Clarence breathed heavily, then let out a loud sob as he turned to grasp the trench wall. The lieutenant’s face was only inches from Clarrie’s, and it made him shrink in horror. Sharp’s breath was putrid with death and decay and his voice shrilled with an intensity that maddened.
Against every sinew in his body that wished to stay still, Clarence took a foothold, and inched his way up the gully, which was gouged by the constant flow of the creek. Its dry orange dirt was scattered with tufts of grass but was wet and slimy to Clarence’s touch. Just like the unforgettable Flanders clay, it seemed to ooze through his tightened fingers.
‘Get on that parapet, Miller, and cut those bastard Germans down.’
Clarence looked across at the frenzied lieutenant. The willow tree swayed behind him. Suddenly the branches appeared to the traumatised private as impaled corpses; his good friend Jack dropped from high above to fall at the lieutenant’s feet.
‘See what happens when you d
on’t act, Miller, people die!’
Clarence buried his head into the wall of the trench; he screamed, as he was—a madman.
***
The gelding pricked his ears and propped; the unusual sound flooded the horse’s senses with alarm and tensed every muscle in his body. Ruth calmed Chester with a soft voice and gentle pat, while she stared intently towards the creek. The sound, though human, was tortured and crazed. She dug the heels of her boots into the gelding’s flanks, driven by fear. Ruth galloped her charge across the paddock and towards the willow. She spotted movement in the gully. She reined in Chester, roughly and without concern, and then dismounted while his head was still held aloft.
‘Clarence!’ Ruth brushed the hair from her face and strode towards the creek.
‘This is it, Miller,’ yelled Lieutenant Sharp. He produced his revolver and pointed it at Private Miller. ‘Fritz is upon us, defend our position or I will shoot you where you lie.’
Clarence pulled his wretched body up the slope to peer over the parapet. To his horror he saw what the lieutenant had proclaimed. A German was striding like a conqueror intent on killing him.
Clarence felt the presence of the dark barrel near his temple and then heard the metallic sound of the revolver, cocked and ready to fire. The smell of his nemesis’s rotted breath lay over him like a disease; it compelled Clarence to rip at his skin while he sobbed. He wanted it all to end. Desiring to be freed from bondage more than he feared death, he hoped the German would save him from another day of suffering. Clarence leapt from the trench as the soldier, dressed in the steely grey of his Bavarian regiment, appeared at its edge.
‘Clarence, I’m...’ started Ruth, before she gasped in shock.
Clarence grabbed the German by the tunic and used its oncoming momentum to roll backwards. The two bodies were thrown back into the trench; the enemy combatant frantically threw its arms about and ripped at Private Miller’s hair. They plunged to the bottom of the gully. The Bavarian landed first, submerged in the cold waters of the creek. The branches of the willow waved over the scene below.