by David Vernon
I always knew when they were playing. I would be swirling through the trees of the open bushland and hear their playful laughter and shouts of joy echo through the late afternoon. The sun would be slanting through the trees, bathing the country in a soft yellow glow and the dust kicked up by the children's feet would hang like a curtain in the air, broken only by the shadows of tree trunks. I would cease my bluster, and zephyr like, creep around them, barely detectable.
The children, oblivious to me watching, would bring out their ‘marngrook’, a ball made of rolled up possum skin. One child would hold the ball in his hands while the rest looked on in silent anticipation, their supple bodies wiry and taut, watching, waiting, wide eyed and ready.
Then, the moment arrives. The ball, this marngrook, is dropped skillfully to the holder's foot, which in a powerful kicking motion, sends the bundle of tightly bound possum skin soaring high into the sky. For a second the children blink as they look skyward, tracking the ball's trajectory, assessing its speed, its height, the way it tumbles, and most important of all, where it is going to fall back to earth.
Then what was once serene and peaceful, so quiet and languid, is suddenly transformed into a flurry of blurred bodies, a ruckus of tangled arms and legs, as children jostle for position underneath the falling ball, their slender arms reaching to the heavens, fingers outstretched in ambitious attempts to catch the fast descending marngrook.
It is a game that suits not only the tall, but those who can jump, and one young boy, lithe and ready to pounce, runs in from the side and floats across the pack of children, his arms just outreaching those around him, his hands, strong and resourceful from learning to hunt, clasp firmly around the ball and he falls to ground, elated and proud, holding tight the marngrook.
The children laugh and clap their hands. The boy dusts himself off and rises to his feet, quickly surveys those around him with sparkling eyes, and with a cheeky grin, drops the marngrook to his swinging foot and once again the ball is sent skywards.
And the game continues. Sometimes the ball is caught and sometimes it is not and the play ends with a pile of sweaty, dusty bodies scuffling to gain possession at ground level.
On occasions, when I was feeling mischievous, I'd gust violently when the marngrook was at its zenith, blowing the ball off course, and sending the milling crowd of children running after their quarry, laughing and cursing all at once.
Later in the afternoon as the shadows grew longer and the older boys and young men were finished with the day's travails, they would join the fray, and one by one the children would disperse and sit along the edge of the tree line, watching and cheering their brothers, uncles and fathers.
And suddenly marngrook was no longer a game, it was a contest, fierce and skilful, with no favours given or asked. The possum skin bundle was kicked twice as high and the leaping for a catch became athletic and spectacular. I marvelled as the strong young warriors jumped, sometimes higher than the height of a standing man, and balance precariously above the dusty earth, knees resting on the hunched back of their opponent, sometimes even on their shoulders. They would fall back to the ground with a thud amid the oohs and ahhhs of players and spectators alike.
So it would go on, until dark, when everyone would return to their camp fires to eat and tell stories before falling asleep to dreams of doing it all again the next day.
And so it went on for a thousand years, and another thousand, and more; unchanging; surviving despite droughts, floods, fires and tribal disputes. It made the times of abundance happier, and the times of hardship more bearable. It became part of the culture, part of the people.
But times were changing.
One day the laughter of the playing children abruptly stopped and the marngrook fell uncontested to the ground. Standing just inside the tree line stood a boy, the same, but different. He had two arms and two legs like all the rest, but his skin was white; and although he looked athletic, his body was draped with strange coverings.
He stood there, shuffling in the dirt uncomfortably as the wide-eyed dark ones stared questioningly at the intruder. They knew of the convict tribe, which had washed up upon the shores years earlier but had had little contact with them. They had heard stories of injustice and mistreatment and did not trust the white people, but this boy seemed harmless. He was no older than them, and he was alone, so the children carried on with their game.
He came to watch often and the children grew used to his presence. I swirled around the trees above his head and observed his loneliness, observed him smile when a great catch was taken, heard him chuckle quietly if someone fell awkwardly. I saw the longing in his soul, the desire to join the game, to run and jump and laugh with the rest of them, so I gusted out of the leaves and swept through the calm air, sweeping the marngrook away from the custodians of the game, and towards the strangely attired boy.
The others watched, waiting to see what would happen as the ball swung towards the visitor. It would surely clear his head and lodge in the branches of the tree behind, but to their surprise the young boy leapt high into the air, raised his arms to full stretch and plucked the bundle of skins from the sky.
The others watched and waited, surprised by the boy's skill, but apprehensive as he now had their ball. He stood, looking back at them, unmoving, before smiling and dropping the ball perfectly on to his foot, kicking it high above the children who once again swarmed below, willing the catch to their hands. Soon he was running and jumping and catching with the best of them. Each afternoon he'd play until the echo of his mother's shrill voice carried through the still evening air.
“Tommy! Tommy Wills! Get home now.”
The boy soon became a young man and moved on. His world was opening up, but that of his dark skinned playmates was all but finished.
As time passed I found it increasingly harder to find the camps of the original people. The tribes of the coastal regions went first, then those adjacent to them, until only a few scattered nomadic groups remained throughout the vast interior. As the elders died, the culture was lost.
I swirled and rustled through the bush as usual, but only the sounds of the animals and birds remained. I searched and searched, but the joyful song of children playing had fallen silent. There was no one left to bind the possum skins together. Marngrook was gone.
I was very angry.
I searched for young Tommy Wills, but he too was gone, a tortured soul who had taken his own life.
I was sad.
But I am the wind and forever will I blow over this Great South Land, and even today, as I carry the spirit of those lost people, and the spirit of Tommy Wills, I find some joy. And so do they.
It is springtime and I blow over a string of people converging on a cavernous structure of concrete and steel, a structure that the spirits I carry could never have dreamed.
Inside, I swirl and eddy with excitement.
The moment arrives. Tension and expectation fills the air. A ball, made of leather and filled with air has been bounced. It ricochets into the air and for a second the young men, taut and muscular, biceps shining in the sun, blink as they look skyward, tracking the ball's trajectory, assessing its speed, its height, the way it tumbles, and most important of all, where it is going to fall back to earth.
Then what was orderly and calm, is suddenly transformed into a flurry of blurred bodies, a ruckus of tangled arms and legs, as the men jostle for position underneath the falling ball, their muscle bound arms reaching to the heavens, fingers outstretched in ambitious attempts to get first hands on the fast descending ball.
The game is played at a frenetic pace, with 100,000 people looking on, gasping in awe at the athleticism of the players. This is AFL football on Grand Final day and those old exponents of marngrook look down in awe, clapping and chattering like they once did in that clearing in the bush, happy that something of their culture remains, a legacy now worshipped by millions across the Great South Land.
And the spirit of Tommy Wills is a
lso smiling, and the dark ones look him upon warmly. For deep in the archives of Australian Football history lies hidden a document, over 150 years old, outlining the first rules of the game.
And below the hand written rules is the scrawl of a signature, the signature of Tommy Wills, the boy from the bush who, as a child, had played among the Tjapwurrung.
Historical note: Tom Wills was one of the founding fathers of Australian Football. He grew up in Victoria's Western District where, as a child, he would watch the Aboriginal children playing their games, including Marngrook. It is not much of a stretch to imagine that perhaps Marngrook is the AFL's great ancestor.
Sean Quentin Lee likes to combine his love of sport with his love of writing. He once had a feature article on outback football published in the West Australian and more recently covered the Jayco Herald Sun Cycling Tour for the Backpagelead website. He is married to Nina and has two sons, Ziggy and Jonty.
Elsewhere
— Rosalind Moran
July 19, 1916
Fromelles, France
Australian 5th Division
Dear Mr Morton and family,
Writing to you is my only means of communication to explain my actions, seeing as you were disinclined to speak with me. Nevertheless, I implore you to continue to read. I write not to beg for forgiveness, nor in the hope of being re-acknowledged as your Horatio, part of your family; however, I must defend my integrity.
I know not if you are aware, but I have recently arrived at the front as a stretcher-bearer. It is true that I carry no weapon. Yet I live and eat with the soldiers and am closer to the war than any general. Like me, the Australians – my comrades – are all volunteers. We fight together, and every man looks out for his friend – a bond the Australians term ‘mateship’. While a certain few see me as ‘the conscientious objector’, in reality, I am simply one of the men.
I am not the coward you believe me to be. By being a stretcher-bearer, I fulfil my obligation to the King while upholding the purity of my spirit. Were I to compromise my faith, I would no longer be able to live with myself, particularly not in a world where humanity is, at times, so disregarded. God did not place me on this Earth to murder His children.
As a stretcher-bearer, the Victoria Cross will be forever beyond my reach. I trust this comes as less of a disappointment to you now that I am no longer aligned with your family. Know this, however; every life I save is a prize tenfold greater than that of any military medal.
I hope you no longer receive any white feathers on my account…
The explosion of the shell made me jump. My whole body tensed involuntarily, the letter crushed in my hand. Earth trickled from between the slats of the ceiling. The crude dugout sprang to life as soldiers rushed to confront their fates.
I cursed. I had lost my pencil stub.
As I hurried to dress I wondered, as I always did, if this would be the last time. The last time I pulled on my coat. The last time I shoved my feet into hard leather boots.
The last time I shook Sam awake.
My friend smiled groggily at me. “Morning already?” he groaned.
Sam could sleep through anything. He was indestructible.
“You missed the wake-up call.”
“Shells again? I thought Fritz was on the retreat. Another ruddy furphy!”
His homely Australian vernacular gave me a momentary smile.
By now the first of the soldiers were trickling outside to pool in the trenches. When the next shell landed, my friend and I heard screams. The initial panic was followed by a silence. None injured, we thought, only dead.
We glanced at each other and knelt to tug out the stretcher stored under my bunk. As I reached my hand into the dark gap, I felt vicious teeth bite down on my fingers. I gasped and drew back a bloodied hand as the rat scuttled away.
Sam unfolded the stretcher. He looked at me and grimaced in sympathy, then pointed at the half-eaten rat on the stretcher. “At least someone around here’s found something to eat,” he commented.
It was true that someone — or something — had benefited from the war. Rats had no scruples about eating fallen comrades, human or rodent. The only things, which survived long in the trenches, were rats and cockroaches. Never men.
“Let’s go, Rat.”
Walking into the trench felt like walking into a grave. The claustrophobia and the high walls affected even the toughest of soldiers — and we hadn’t even lived in this particular trench for more than a few days. Yet the air stank of fear.
The ground was treacherous underfoot. We stumbled over an arm, or a leg; we would collect the dead later. The daytime, after all, is for the living, or so we had been told; here, however, living and dead were easily confused.
The living, as they were, had diminished in numbers on going over the top. Sam and I waited tensely until the third wave of men had vanished before dragging ourselves out of our hole and into No-Man’s Land. Upon leaving the trench, one was immediately gripped with a dreadful desire to scurry back to it.
We held our stretcher, a flimsy shield, in front of us as we slithered along the ground, losing grip in the loose dirt, then regaining a hold with the help of a body, an island in the expanse of nothingness. Check him — no sign of life.
Usually being a stretcher-bearer was enough to stay safe. I would make visible our white flag — a handkerchief which had not been white for quite some time — and Sam would hoist the stretcher into plain view. Our two-man team would then find itself in a bubble of ceasefire. A fragile bubble, possibly an illusion, and perfectly capable of being burst. But it gave some comfort.
Stretcher-bearers, however, were still soldiers. No man could go unaffected by the pain of those around him, and stretcher-bearers witnessed much grief. They were also no more impervious to death than the others, and in the end this was what mattered most on the battlefield. There was a bullet with my name on it the same as the next man.
As it happened, that was the day Sam found his bullet. I didn’t even realise my friend had been shot until I felt the dead weight draped over the end of the stretcher. How could it be so heavy? We hadn’t yet reached the injured man groaning a few yards ahead.
Sam stared past me with a blank gaze, an expression belonging only to the dead. I was unable to tear my eyes away from the face of my friend. Numb with grief, I no longer heard the explosions of the shells, nor jumped when earth spurted into the air a foot or two away. I was a husk, emptied of all will but the urge to curl up and quiver; wide-eyed, a rabbit caught in the open.
A stabbing pain threw me back into reality. It was quickly followed by a frightening numbness creeping down my right arm towards my fingertips as blood seeped through my sleeve.
The blind terror from moments before was replaced by a desperate need to return to the trench. I had an excuse — I was wounded. The fervour of the emotion was nearly stronger than I was.
I disentangled myself from the stretcher, rendered useless by gunfire damage. Incredibly, my trench was still visible, the ground sloping away beyond coils of wire.
I began to wriggle eagerly towards it, the depression in the earth looking at that moment as welcoming as Paradise itself.
Coward!
I heard my father’s voice in my mind, and all the harsh judgements which had been cast upon me came flooding back. I remembered the portraits of my ancestors, in their military uniforms, looking down at me, their disapproval mirrored in my father’s face.
Refusing to pick up a gun! You disgrace this family’s name. A man of valour would gladly fight for his country. Morals? Ha! Don’t play high and mighty with me, boy. You’re spineless, and that’s the end of the matter. A good-for-nothing. Fleeing rather than facing come what may.
I paused, lying still as the corpses which surrounded me. In my fear I had forgotten Sam entirely. Already! Guilt rose like bile in my throat, threatening to choke me. I was dishonouring my friend’s memory. I had also forsaken what I was there to do.
A common, c
raven villain. You ‘hate suffering,’ you say. You shame me.
I simply couldn’t do it. Guns lay around me, hanging loosely from the fingers of the dead, yet I couldn’t pick one up. I wouldn’t — to do so wasn’t right, wasn’t the answer. Nevertheless, a small part of me wished I could take up a weapon, if just to prove my father wrong. Because he was wrong. Wasn’t he? I imagined the cold, smooth metal in my hands, and shuddered, repulsed.
“Mother…”
The wounded soldier‘s voice was fainter now, but still present. I twisted round and saw his outline some distance beyond the mangled stretcher, unmoving — but alive.
Prolonged exposure to gunfire had provoked a steady ringing in my ears, punctuated only by the explosions of shells, and I couldn’t feel my right arm. But I had strength where others did not, and had already lost one friend too many.
Sam’s face floated before me. Mateship.
Pressing into the ground, adrenaline and fear pulsing through my body, I scrambled around and dragged myself painfully towards the injured soldier, my one good hand digging into the earth. My breath came in ragged gasps, but I was beyond turning back. This was my task, and I planned to fulfil it.
I couldn’t even remember the uneasy ceasefire breaking, but there was no doubt of the fighting being in full force once more. The flashes of light coming from the enemy lines dazzled me. Crawling towards them sent to me to a place beyond fear, for I knew that only divine providence stood between me and my maker.
After what felt like an eternity, I reached the wounded soldier. He was little more than a boy. I grabbed his coarse tunic. He moaned, and I saw the cause of his injury — an ugly gunshot wound to the thigh. Not fatal in itself, but if the youth stayed in the open he would bleed to death.