Where the Line Breaks

by Michael Burrows

  Alan doesn’t move. He watches the knife-edge scratch Nugget’s shirt as the Jacko leans his weight forward.

  The Irishman grunts in pain.

  The back of the Jacko’s neck is smudged with dirt.

  ‘Al.’ Nugget screams, a child’s voice. The blade pushes through his ribs with a loud crack.

  A long sigh emerges from Nugget’s lips, the sliver of metal driving into the buttery white skin of his chest as Alan raises his revolver and fires. The first bullet hits the Jacko in the left arm, and he releases the knife and turns to Alan with a look of surprise. The second bullet thunders into his chest. He staggers back against the wall, sliding to earth with a thud and lying silent. The third bullet makes his body dance, a puppet pulled to life for an instant by impatient hands.

  He crouches and shakes Nugget’s shoulder, and the eyelids flutter. The man looking up looks much older than Nugget. The elaborate strapping of the handle protrudes from his chest, a gleaming stone embedded in the butt of the knife. It’s beautiful, in a way.

  Nugget tries to speak, but the words evaporate in the room. Alan crouches closer, until he can feel hot breath on his ear. ‘Get. Out.’ Nugget closes his eyes. ‘Explosives.’ The word comes out as a long hiss. ‘Getthefuckout.’

  He grabs Nugget under the arms and drags his body free, free of the room with all its smells and colours, free of the darkness and out into the fading light of the street. He sits him up next to a water trough. The two children watch by his side. He looks up and they cringe from his glance. He reaches a hand into the trough and wipes Nugget’s face with the water. Nugget licks the cool water from his lips, so he holds a palm under his mouth and tries to get him to drink. The water splutters down his chin. His breath comes in ragged chunks.

  ‘The whole place is rigged. Al. Dynamite in the other room.’ Nugget nods his head toward the well and the empty square, and Alan notices the black fuse running the length of the road, darting off into doorways of the houses. No wonder it’s deserted.

  Nugget lifts his head back up and fixes Alan with a look. Alan can’t hold his gaze. Nugget knows.

  ‘That baby needs a father,’ Nugget whispers, each word agony. Nugget knows his true character. Knows his every weakness and disappointment. ‘Don’t be scared, Al.’

  Alan can’t breathe. He killed them. All of them.

  ‘You don’t have to be scared.’

  Nugget reaches a weak hand inside his shirt and pulls out a small bundle of papers, wrapped with a thin leather strap. He pushes them toward him. He’s shaking his head, but Nugget is insistent. Continues to believe in him.

  ‘I killed them all, Nug.’

  ‘No mate, I killed them.’ Nugget coughs and dirty brown blood stains his pale lips. ‘Save yourself. Please, do this for me.’

  He takes the bundle of papers from Nugget’s hand. Nugget pulls him closer and tries to speak. His lips move, but no sound comes out. Alan turns his head and holds his ear by Nugget’s mouth, but all he can hear is the wheeze of breath, the whimper of pain. A croak, disappearing.

  A noise to his left – the kids, watching this all play out with shock on their faces. He gestures towards the kids to leave, run, get out of it. They don’t move. He stands and takes a step towards them and they stagger back. He roars, and runs at them, and they scream and scatter up the street.

  He walks back to Nugget. The sky has turned purple, orange, rose. The sky is on fire.

  ‘I’ll try, Nug. I promise.’

  But when he looks down, Nugget is dead.

  In the square, a Waler appears, followed by another, and another. The rest of the troop, the boys, his mates. A teenager he doesn’t recognise turns into the street, trying to control his mount.

  ‘Get the horses out of here,’ Alan screams at him, ‘the whole town is rigged.’

  He has left his revolver inside, by the bodies.

  ‘Get everyone out!’

  The whole building could blow at any moment, erasing everything. He can feel it all rolling off him – responsibilities, expectations, orders. A weight lifts from his shoulders.

  It’s easy once you give up. Nothing matters.

  He doesn’t look to see if the boy has listened, just ducks back into the compound. The bodies of the women, the men, the Turks. He steps over them gingerly, pushes through the door at the back and finds the stack of dynamite, the long black fuse. He takes Nugget’s bayonet from his fallen rifle and cuts, giving himself enough time to make his peace.

  His whole body feels lighter now he’s decided.

  Nugget died thinking he was still capable of change. And maybe this isn’t what he had in mind, but it’s an end, the only end available.

  A candle burns in the back room. He holds the fuse in the flame. It lights with a spark, crawling along the wire faster than he’d anticipated. He runs back into the main room. Bloody footprints on the carpets. The oppressive silence of death. He places the dynamite in the middle of the room and sits beside the body of the woman, glances down at her stony eyes and asks for forgiveness. He’s sure of himself for the first time in a long time. He breathes easily.

  The fuse grows shorter.

  The long black cloth billows on the line outside.

  The first explosion shakes the earth, and the horses scatter, rearing up in panic. The men soothe them in low voices as the second detonation goes off. They cautiously pick their way toward the billowing column of smoke ripping its way across the sky, scything the watercolour-palette sunset in two.

  131 Messaged Em and said we needed to talk.

  She messaged back: Ali told me, I’m sorry. [Sad face emoji] Silver linings: you’ll have time to finish your book? [Shrugging emoji] Out to dinner with Sam tonight, but you could come round tomorrow night? xx [Heart emoji]

  132 Matthew L. Denton, Identifying the Unknown Digger: Conclusive Evidence for the Composition of the Unknown Digger Poems by Lieutenant Alan Lewis, VC (soon to be published as a handsome hardback, just as soon as I can find a publisher willing to take a chance on me, despite what Jennifer might think, despite everything), Chapter 2, footnote 46. I paid good money for those tickets and we missed the whole show thanks to her stupid office and its ‘lack of signal’.

  133 One of the many things Jennifer Hayden found fault with in my thesis proposal – the idea that an active lieutenant like Alan Lewis would have the personal time available to write eighty-odd world-class poems over the course of a five-year campaign, alongside all of his official capacities, his letter writing and his well-documented passion for joining the other troopers in a game of cricket or football. Which I would counter with my own observations over the four years I’ve lived and worked in London forcing myself to write and love and grow with Em: if you love doing it, you will find the time.

  134 But I can’t help thinking about the way our own relationship started, and how Dan must have felt when the inevitable blow was dealt, and whether we are, indeed, destined to repeat history.

  135 There’s a part of me that feels so dirty for reading Em’s emails. My heart pounding away in my chest like it’s about to break free, and not knowing whether I want to find something that confirms my suspicions, and kills me, or not find anything, and understand that the only weak link in mine and Em’s relationship is me, and my jealousy, and the ever-present knot of doubt in my gut.

  And another part that says, Well, what would Alan do? You think he’d run away and give up on something he’d been fighting so hard for, or do you think he’d head back into that darkness, not knowing what might happen, not caring that it might be the end, but willing, always, to fight?

  And a third, quieter part that whispers, Yes, but you are no Alan Lewis.

  CONCLUSION: Final thoughts on the legitimacy of Alan Lewis’s legacy, the importance of a unified theory of authorship, and acknowledgements.

  When I set out to write this thesis, I thought I knew all there was to know about Alan Lewis, the Australian experience of the First World War, and what it might take t
o prove, finally, and without doubt, that the author commonly referred to as the Unknown Digger was a man already revered among the Australian populace for his bravery and the sacrifices he made for his country. I wouldn’t say I was foolish for my belief in the concrete corporeality of these objectives, but I certainly wasn’t prepared for the journey I would be led on by these words. Like Alan Lewis and the Anzacs, I started out a foolhardy young man, eagerly heading out from the relative safety of the beautiful city of Perth, into the dangerous unknown of the academic world. Like Alan Lewis and the Anzacs, I have seen things too horrible to describe, and witnessed horrors unimaginable.136

  I began this dissertation by marvelling at the astounding candour of the Unknown Digger poems, the spine-tingling electricity conveyed by their imagery, and the astonishing way they succinctly capture the collective idealisation of a national identity. I end with my astonishment doubled.137 Finding myself at the conclusion of this thesis, alone in a Brighton hotel room, subsisting on chocolate bars and four-packs of cheap beer, I hope I have done enough to have convinced my readers of the truth. I have learnt all there is to know about the Unknown Digger, have delved deep into the critical and analytical investigation of his poems, have worn myself out with all-day research binges and countless sleepless nights studying every aspect of his gilded words, and at this point – friendless, peerless, loveless and pantsless – I fear there is nothing more I can do. I implore you: read Jennifer Hayden’s stirring and, undeniably, compelling take-down of my work in Australian Literary Journal, and then make up your own mind.138 For me, there is only one man capable of placing those beautiful words down on those yellowed pieces of paper.

  In the previous chapters, I have proved, conclusively, that Alan Lewis is the Unknown Digger using a thorough critical analysis of his poems, intimate knowledge of his letters home, a detailed account of his service history and the importance of his time spent on Lemnos recovering from his wounds, and a completely new way of understanding the poems in relation to his much-later-than-theorised death. While certain personal aspects of my research may be considered irrelevant to the final product, I stand proud of my accomplishments. After publication, there will inevitably come concentrated attacks on my results, my argument, my method of discovery, probably my academic tone and certainly my unconventional writing style, but at this point I find I don’t really give two shits either way. This is the end result of my findings. This is my reality.139

  There’s a great little comedic poem written by an anonymous digger at the end of the war, entitled ‘Andy MacNoon’, which academics originally believed could be another Unknown Digger poem – a line of thought that was rapidly rescinded following another Jennifer Hayden broadside – that I’ve always dreamed of putting in the acknowledgements section of my finished thesis.

  I didn’t think it would end like this, but maybe that just makes the poem more relevant:

  I couldn’t have made it through this s--t,

  Without you lawless b-----ds,

  ’Coz who’d’ve shot the d----d Abduls

  If we’d all f-----g scarpered?!140

  And so I find I must acknowledge the following for their hand in creating the manuscript you find in your hands: Dr Patrick Rossen at The University of Western Australia, for urging me to continue with my initial idea and share my idea with the world, inspiring me to settle in London (the mecca of academic study, he said, forgetting to mention the grime and the rain and the adulterous girlfriends) and even setting me up with an interview with the Prof; my third girlfriend, Meg Fallon, for breaking my heart and giving me the impetus to leave Perth; Nicholas Curtin-Kneeling, despite his derision, and all my colleagues at FWWWAC (sorry for the tackle, Dr Richards, but I’m Australian – we don’t do things by halves); Professor and Head of English Literature Studies Alistair Fitzwilliam-Harding, for teaching me the value of loss, the importance of perseverance, and the danger of thinking ridiculous British stereotypes could never be a serious threat; my parents, for their unwavering support and unlimited pecuniary assistance; Jennifer Hayden, for teaching me that not every friend can be relied upon in the trenches, and that not every enemy wears a foreign uniform; my grandfathers, who both fought for their country, so that I might be here today; and the manufacturers of every tiny, ridiculous excuse for a ‘disposable BBQ’ in the world, for convincing me that the British are no more civilised or cultured than the island of criminals I happily call home.

  And finally to Alan, who taught me the meaning of sacrifice.141

  And to Em, who taught me the true meaning of sacrifice.142

  Where to from here? The world of the Unknown Digger is suddenly open and exciting once more. The eventual publication of this work will spread the knowledge that these poems were created by Alan Lewis, and will produce extensive opportunity for studies into the true significance, the actual contextual background and the real meanings of these renowned poems. I look forward to engaging with my colleagues in the academic world on an equal basis for a long time to come.143

  If we have learnt anything from this, I hope that it is the following: that our military heroes are capable of writing the most beautiful poetry, and our greatest poets can be the heroes we looked up to all along. I truly believe that all of us, from the lowliest trooper to the highest-ranking general, have everything we need inside of us to be poets. And that all of us, students and lovers and academics and Australians, poets one and all, can be that hero when the time comes. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.144

  HOME.

  IT’S to be hoped that we hear no more about ‘the Mother Country’ from misguided people who hold that tortured land up as an example of united socialism. The British election figures prove beyond all doubt that at least half the entire population there opposes socialism; but for the peculiar distribution of seats and methods of voting the people would have thrown the socialists right out.

  – R.H.G., Boddington.

  The train is pulling into the station, and he doesn’t have time to read the rest of the letters to the editor, or the reviews. He hates reading about the world that has passed him by, but he reads anyway. Can’t look away. Out the carriage window he knows the streets they’ll be passing like he never left, the oval and the schoolhouse, the track leading to the beach, the dogs running wild down the main street. He keeps reading.

  … his new collection BUSH POETRY: ‘’ALF a mo’, bloke,’ says the cobber, ‘what’s your blinkin’ rush? Billy’s almost boiled, an’ the damper’s lookin’ lush, You can kip ’ere for the night, if you ain’t got nowt to be, Ain’t nowhere ’alf as luvvly as a bed beneath the trees.’ I look down at the cobber, splayed out in the evenin’ light, An’ it pains me to admit it, but y’know what? B-----d’s right

  He leaves the paper tucked into the back of the seat for someone else to read on their way back to Perth. The town is different, but nothing has changed. The cream paint of the station peels like sunburn, cars putter down the side streets. Seagulls call, and the smell of salt and seaweed rolls up the road that leads to the beach. Everything is smaller than it once was.

  The station hand takes down his bag, and looks him straight in the eye and says thank you, sir, as he drops his last coin into his hand, and doesn’t recognise him. He doesn’t recognise himself any more. He’s grown his beard long, flecks of grey in his hair, his eyes hooded. He’s tired all the time. He stinks too, cooped up on the train like cattle. He doesn’t remember a time when he wasn’t moving, from one place to another, one life to another, one lie to another. One dream to another. Cases and bags. Back alleys and halfway homes. A new name. A new story. He’s convinced himself this is a life.

  He carries his bag on his shoulder and walks down from the station toward the sea. The schoolyard, empty now. The grocers. The police station, unattended, like the empty towns in Har Megiddo, in another life. The street he’s walking down seems flimsy, make-believe: a film set, a cowboy town from one of the Hollywood films he’ll sit and watch, hour after hour,
to get out of the rain. He hasn’t eaten in two days. His stomach swears at him. His shoes are an old married couple, bickering away, falling apart at the seams. A young woman walking up the street toward him changes sides to avoid walking past. He lowers his eyes.

  As he passes the grocers he swipes an apple from the display and keeps walking before anyone challenges him. If you act confident, nine times out of ten, they won’t bother you. He walks down the hill, chewing away, trying to stay in the shade of the gums that line the perimeter of the park. He’s not sure where he’s going, but then he hasn’t for a long time, not since he stopped following orders. He bites through the core, swallows the pips, licks his fingers. It hasn’t killed him yet.

  Walking for the sake of walking. Walking in circles. Walking through another town where the locals eye him up and wonder if he’s worth the trouble. Not for the first time, he wishes he had a horse. A hardy little Waler. A place in the bush. A bit of land. Someone waiting for him.

  He read about it a few years after, once the rest of the diggers had been sent home and they could immortalise the bloody campaign in books and newspapers like what they’d done was some sort of glorious crusade. Once the bodies had grown cold. Once the nightmares had become his only friends. After Damascus, and Jerusalem, and Armageddon, once the Turks had surrendered and Fritz had given up, and the world was put back together like a broken vase. Once the orders came in that the Light Horse was set to return home.

  Without their horses.

  There was never a contingency plan for the horses. Too expensive to relocate back home, for all but the very highest ranking. Too many to consider. Too disposable. They were sold off, in their hundreds, to marketplaces, to farmers and chieftains and nomads and recent enemies. For riding and farming and slaughtering and tanning. For their hair, for their bones, for their meat.