Barbed Wire and Roses Page 2

  He asked Bluey Watson to be his best man, and applied for compassionate leave.

  ‘Someone die?’ the same veteran sergeant asked, and when told it was a wedding he frowned and used his rank to express some highly personal views. He considered it downright bloody stupid, young blokes rushing off to the altar just because there was a war on. ‘A hasty hitch never tied a proper knot,’ he declared with a chuckle, aggravating Stephen, who rashly replied his marriage was not a subject for anyone else’s opinion.

  ‘Is that so?’ The sergeant gave him a withering stare and demonstrated his power by refusing a leave pass for Bluey Watson to be best man. ‘Next you’ll want the whole bloody platoon to have the day off to be wedding guests. Well, I’ve got news for you, mate. We’re an army, not a fucking marriage bureau.’

  The application was forwarded to battalion headquarters and it took a week to be returned. Leave was granted, but because of the uncertainty of future troop movements only four days were permitted.

  ‘Four days?’ Jane was shocked by the army’s rigidity. She tried to conceal it but her disappointment was palpable. Four days for a wedding and a honeymoon? Both the families were equally dismayed.

  ‘I know there’s a war on.’ His mother, who rarely grumbled, felt it most unfair. ‘But I’m sure they could manage to defend Australia without you for a bit longer than that.’

  It was Jane’s mother who posed the question of a postponement, adding hastily that it might be sensible, just until things sorted themselves out. Why rush into marriage, if it couldn’t be a proper one with a proper two-week honeymoon? Her father, an insurance broker, had always found it good policy to agree with his wife, and suggested they have a family round-table on the matter.

  Jane rejected this and wrote to Stephen at the army camp, telling him how much she loved him — and not to listen to anyone, especially her mother. Four days would be four better than nothing; they should think of it as the start of their life together, and they would have the rest of the honeymoon later on when the war was over and he was not beholden to the rules of anyone’s army.

  Stephen agreed, but despite the odds against him he did seek another meeting, making a plea for a few extra days. He was firmly told by the intractable sergeant that an appeal was pointless; once battalion HQ made decisions like this they were irreversible. In fact, he would risk having the leave cancelled if he carried on with any more fuss over such a trifling matter. Either accept what he was offered, or call the whole thing off.

  No, Stephen said resolutely, he was definitely not calling the whole thing off.

  In that case, the NCO replied, he would be issued with a four-day pass after reveille next Tuesday morning, and must be back in camp before lights out on Friday or be considered AWL. And just in case Private Conway did not know it, being absent without leave would mean an appearance before the brigade major with loss of pay and privileges, and a bad start to his life in the army.

  ‘So be sure you’re back on time, laddie. Four days marital leave,’ he concluded, ‘is ninety-six hours by my reckoning. Time enough for whatever you have in mind.’

  Stephen’s mother took over arrangements. A regular church-goer, she went to see the local priest, Father Geraghty, who promised a splendid nuptial mass. He would call their names in the ritual way from the pulpit three times, beginning next Sunday. Edna Conway explained the war would not wait for this fine Catholic tradition. Nor, much as it pained her, would there be time for a nuptial mass.

  Her son and Jane must be married without delay. As short a service as possible. Otherwise, she told the priest, Stephen and his childhood sweetheart might feel tempted to commit a mortal sin and break a commandment. There was no need, she felt sure, to tell him which commandment… For the good of their eternal souls, she needed the church’s help.

  For the good of their souls, Father Geraghty agreed, he would do whatever she asked. An early service, and a short one.

  Cars were rare in the district and the family did not own one, but Stan Conway borrowed a friend’s motorcycle. He was waiting outside the barracks on Tuesday morning at dawn. As the gates opened and Stephen ran out, his father kick-started the machine. It sped away through the early streets, with the groom riding pillion.

  The ceremony was held at eight o’clock. Jane wore a simple ankle-length white dress bought off the peg at the local Bon Marche emporium, and instead of the long bridal train she had envisaged, settled for a short tulle veil. The truncated service was followed by a hasty celebration at the bride’s family home. There was just time for a cake to be cut and toasts to be drunk. After she threw her bouquet to her youngest sister they were taken in a friend’s motor car on a rushed trip to Central Station before the departure of the morning express to Katoomba.

  Stephen had reserved a room at the Valley View Guest House, but his father handed him an envelope just before they boarded the train. In it was a note to say Valley View had been cancelled, and they were to go to the Carrington Hotel where the bridal suite awaited them. All expenses had been settled in advance.

  The newlyweds hugged each other in delight. The Carrington was prestigious; it was a wonderful surprise, and being alone in a box carriage they kept hugging each other all the way to the first stop at Penrith. Passions they had kept at bay since puberty were unleashed; Jane spread her skirt as she sat on his lap with her legs tucked on either side of him, and her eyes widened as she felt his instant response. She had taken his hand and put it inside her dress to caress her breasts, while their lips locked and grew hot with longing.

  In this state of bliss two stops safely passed. At each station they held their breath as adjacent carriage doors were slammed shut and platform whistles blew departure, but no one came to disturb their privacy. The rhythm of the train made them passionate; when the engine slowed to tackle the mountain ascent their fervour seemed to become deeper, more intimate. Stephen began to feel deliriously and utterly out of control.

  ‘I don’t think I can wait for the Carrington,’ he whispered, freeing his mouth from hers for a moment to confess it.

  ‘Nor can I,’ she said softly, an invitation which prompted him to place his hand inside her new silk underwear to the hitherto forbidden zone there. Her moistness immediately responded to him, her body accepting his fingers and beginning to thrust as he was struggling to unbutton his trousers, and they were on the verge of their wildest fantasy as the train pulled into Emu Plains station. When it stopped the carriage door was flung open.

  A well-dressed elderly couple saw vacant seats and promptly entered to claim them. It gave Jane a moment to slide from his lap and rearrange her skirt, although there was little she could do about her flushed face. By the time the couple stowed their luggage and settled opposite, Stephen and Jane were attempting to look relaxed and normal. He nodded to the couple who did not respond, except with a critical appraisal. In particular the woman’s sharp eyes studied them until her gaze fixed on Jane’s new wedding ring. It appeared to make her less judgemental, but she shifted her righteous scrutiny to Stephen. Too late he realised his face was smeared with Jane’s lipstick, and he had not fully done up his fly-buttons.

  The rest of the journey seemed endless. It was a relief to reach their mountain stop and escape the disapproving elders, whose attitude by now seemed to suggest the wedding ring might, after all, be no more than a cheap camouflage.

  Katoomba was busy with holiday-makers. Still in a state of arousal they took a taxi to the Carrington with indecent haste, only to discover it was just a two-minute walk from the station. The unique hotel, known as ‘the grand old lady of the mountains’, was a vast Victorian building set in landscaped gardens. Guests strolled on the trim lawns or took tea on marbled verandahs dwarfed by a row of colonnades. At first glance it felt the perfect place for three-and-a-half glorious days in which to consummate their new marital status, and consummate it as frequently as possible. Stephen’s eager imagination preceded their progress into the foyer; he could hardly wait for
them to be alone.

  But closer acquaintance proved daunting. There was a delay when they announced themselves at reception. Were they quite sure, an immaculately groomed desk clerk asked them, that they actually meant the bridal suite? His polite air of doubt created an impression this was improbable; such a reservation was more likely for officers rather than a youthful private soldier. Since the foyer was crowded the enquiry was overheard, prompting the interest of other guests. By the time an assistant manager had been summoned, the matter confirmed and apologies given, speculative glances followed them and their luggage across the lobby to the gilded lift cage. They were assigned a pert bellboy who, to their disbelief seemed to be whistling ‘Here Comes the Bride’ between his teeth, and who lingered until Stephen fumbled for a tip, then bestowed a knowing wink at him before leaving them alone.

  The boudoir itself was spacious, an elegant chamber of some splendour — almost too much splendour, was their first impression. The four-poster brass bedstead with its ornamental lace canopy seemed to dominate the room. Stephen had a moment of regret for the discarded Valley View, which he was sure would have been a cheerful guest house where they could’ve felt more at home.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ Jane asked him, and he made her laugh when he indicated the bed and rolled his eyes.

  ‘I preferred the train,’ he said.

  ‘Me too!’ she agreed. The formidable bed, like the embarrassment of their arrival, did not inspire the thought of hot-blooded afternoon consummation.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he suggested, ‘let’s unpack, then get some fresh air. Why don’t we go out for a walk?’

  Jane kissed him on the cheek and declared it a lovely idea.

  At the lookout on Echo Point they bought mountain devils from a festive stall, then joined a crowd to admire changing colours on the famous rock configuration called the Three Sisters. Three beautiful young ladies, according to the Dreamtime legend in the tourist brochure, were turned into stone after illicitly falling in love with three brothers of the rival Nepean tribe. Jane and Stephen smiled over this — it seemed a good day for romantic allegories — and later they held hands as they took a ride among happy and shrieking children on the scenic railway.

  It was a wonderful afternoon that ended too swiftly. They decided to linger as sunset lit the breathtaking vista of the Megalong and Jamieson valleys, while the battlements of Mount Solitary and the granite face of the Ruined Castle were bathed in crimson. They were the last to leave Echo Point. When they were entirely alone Stephen cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted into the gathering dark.

  ‘Hello, you sisters of the mountain, my name is Stephen!’

  ‘Stephen…’ the echo replied, ‘Stephen…’it repeated far down the valley, a fading reiteration of the echo, like a ghostly whisper. As it evaporated in the distance, Jane pirouetted and raised her arms to the sky.

  ‘I’m Jane, and I love him!’ She took his hand as the reply came back: ‘love him…’ then a more distant reverberation ‘love him…’ and once again very faintly but still the words intact, as if the echo seemed determined to pass on the message to anyone who would listen, no matter how far away.

  After this they walked slowly back to the hotel, arms around each other, ever slower and pausing frequently to tightly embrace the nearer they came to the grandeur of the Carrington.

  ‘Gritted teeth,’ Stephen said at the entrance, and she kissed him again. They went past the reception desk, through the now-empty foyer, aware from a hubbub that the dining room was crowded for dinner, but neither of them feeling the least tempted by the thought of food. In the bridal suite they locked the door, hurriedly took off their clothes and made silent love for the first time in their lives. When Jane cried out as he entered her he tried to stop, but she begged him not to. They hardly slept that night; time was too precious and their needs too urgent.

  Three more days would never be enough; they knew that as they woke in happy exhaustion and made love again in their grand and gloriously romantic bed all morning.

  In the first week of November Stephen’s platoon and the whole battalion left Melbourne aboard a crowded troopship. They had arrived the previous night at Flinders Street Station following sudden orders for embarkation. Stephen, like the rest of his company, had not been given any final leave. It was, they were told, a matter of high security. The German cruiser Emden was still somewhere off the coast of Western Australia; a lone-wolf raider, she had already sunk almost twenty vessels, and therefore a secret departure was essential.

  Because of this he did not spend any more nights with Jane. Since their return from Katoomba they had seen each other only twice, but these were ‘open day’ visits by relatives to the infantry training camp where picnics took place and social intermingling was encouraged. The army felt it an enlightened step forward. A number of ardent young married couples, having tasted so few precious days of love, would have preferred more private ways to convene.

  So it was with incredulity that he saw a big crowd gathered at Melbourne’s docks to farewell them. No secret and secure exodus; this was a very public departure with local people — all of whom were strangers to him and to the battalion — cheering and throwing streamers, so it was more like an ocean liner embarking on a world trip than a stealthy covert exit to war. Stephen was moved by the emotion of the occasion, even though he would’ve swapped the lot of them for a sight of Jane on the wharf below. He spotted a slimly built girl with blonde hair who looked slightly like her, and waved with one hand while blowing her an extravagant kiss with the other. The girl saw him, waved eagerly and blew profuse kisses in return.

  When the troopship began to move and all the streamers broke the crowd started to sing. Massed voices were raised in a familiar chorus: ‘Now is the hour when we must say goodbye.’ The same girl waved until she became a tiny figure among the dispersing people left behind.

  A small flotilla of tug boats, ferries and private yachts followed them, tooting and waving, as they sailed down Port Phillip Bay.

  ‘Well, we made it,’ Bluey said, watching the land fall away.

  ‘We made it,’ Stephen agreed. It was barely two months since the day they had met, but they felt as if they had known each other all their lives.

  It was exciting to be on our way at last, he later wrote in the diary Jane had given him, but we were such innocents. We had no idea of what lay ahead.

  THREE

  Early that day a hard north wind began to lash the coast.

  The sea gave warning as the water of the bay grew turbulent with rolling whitecaps. The horizon contracted, the clouds took on a different hue — one they had never seen before — and towards evening it began to snow.

  In the night the wind grew stronger; it howled across the Gulf of Saros, the snow turning to missiles that whipped at their faces and stung their eyes. Their forward trench was open to the sky and long before dawn they were drenched and chilled, for wet-weather gear and winter uniforms had not arrived, reportedly lost aboard a transport ship. Lost, or else carelessly left behind — they were unsure what to believe after the constant blunders of the past few months that had put this campaign and their lives in such jeopardy.

  With daylight came a lull in the gale and a singular moment of radiance, for the ground was buried by a thick mantle of white that erased familiar landmarks with their scars of battle. The snow lay deep in Shrapnel Gully, it covered Lone Pine and The Nek. Bomb craters vanished, and sharp ridges where the snipers hid became soft like alpine mounds. A stand of fir trees on the distant hills added to this rare illusion of tranquillity.

  It was Stephen’s first sight of snow, and he was astonished at the difference it could make. ‘I can’t believe it. The bastard of a place looks almost beautiful,’ he whispered.

  ‘Wait till it thaws,’ Bluey warned. ‘The bastard of a place’ll be horrible as ever, but a bloody sight wetter and colder.’

  ‘You see much snow back home, Blue?’

  ‘Heaps when
we worked the Monaro, down Kosciuszko way. Real icy there at times. If the sheep had balls they would’ve froze right off. Like mine might, any time now.’

  Stephen grinned. Eight months now since the April landing, both equally terrified and seasick in the dawn convoy, the pair of them still waking each day to wonder if they would survive until nightfall… Australia felt like another life, a long way away. In the intervening time they had become as close as brothers.

  A weather forecast arrived, sent along the lines from the snug warmth of the officers’ dugout. More arctic winds and a prolonged blizzard was predicted. Bluey went to join a game of two-up. Stephen sheltered beneath his ground sheet and tried to write a letter home.

  My darling,

  A few months ago we cursed the summer heat, and before that we cursed the sand in Egypt. But one thing we never thought to experience in Gallipoli is this freezing cold. Snow is falling and the wind must be coming from Siberia. Huge seas are making it impossible for the hospital ships to take off the wounded. We haven’t got warm clothes for this weather — but winter gear is just one of the things we lack here. Ammunition is running low for the guns, and for months we’ve had to make our own bombs. It sounds mad, but it’s true! We’re short of everything, even medicines. When the censor reads this he might use his heavy black pencil, but he’s a friend of mine — our company commander; Eddie Cavanaugh — and Eddie might go easy on these comments because I’m sure everyone knows how hopeless the situation is here. Or else they’re not telling you the truth at home.

  We’re in an open trench trying to keep warm and dry. I have an hour’s break, as I was on watch since dawn, using a trench periscope, one of our own clever devices that means we can see the enemy but we avoid sticking our heads above the parapet. Johnny Turk’s a dead-eye shot, so that wouldn’t be a smart move. You’d be surprised how inventive we’ve become; we had to be, the odds were so much in their favour we needed a bit of Aussie know-how.