Barbed Wire and Roses Page 3

  With this freeze it’s hard to imagine it’s late November at home. Almost summer. The cicadas will be singing. Yachts will be out on the harbour, and you might be taking Richard to the beach. How I miss Australia, and you — and of course the baby son I’ve never seen.

  There’s talk we might be leaving here soon. The grapevine says the generals are arguing — it feels to us they’ve been arguing ever since we landed — but this time it’s all about whether Gallipoli should be evacuated. It’s one of those army secrets that nobody is supposed to know, but everyone does.

  It would be good to go, although we haven’t won anything here, not that we ever had much chance to do that. It was a dreadful mess right from the start. If we go, it will have been for nothing. Which is sad, because we’ll leave good mates behind, who died for some vainglorious and impossible strategy. I’ll write again soon.

  My love to you and the bub. Give him a big hug for me,

  Stephen

  Later he re-read the letter and tore it up. He wrote instead that all was well; things were working out fine; they were winning the battle of the Dardanelles. He told her how much he loved and missed her.

  He tried to sleep, but it eluded him. It was wrong to tear up the truth and invent falsehoods, but it was done because the reality was unbearable. Letters were the one link they had: an eagerly awaited lifeline no matter how many months they took to reach her, but his thoughts expressed in them had to be circumspect to spare her feelings. It was not possible to write otherwise — blunt honesty could only be confined to the diary she had given him, kept safe in his sodden kitbag. It was preserved in oilskin along with his paybook and the treasured letter from Jane that had come while they were still training in Egypt. He took it out now, noticing the paper was starting to fray, but the writing on it was still clear.

  The doctor says it should be at the end of May. Her hand was a neat copperplate. She had been a trainee teacher before their sudden decision to marry.

  So I’ve been doing lots of calculating and it’s my belief it happened on our very first lovely night. If he’s a boy I’d like to call him Richard, and if a girl then perhaps Emily. Write and tell me what you think. How does it feel to know you’ll soon be a dad, and how I wish you were here instead of wherever you are. And please, dearest, take care. Come back safe to me.

  Dearest. Just re-reading it evoked fond memories. She was the only one who had ever called him that. The only real girlfriend he’d had. Stephen put her letter carefully back inside his diary for safekeeping. He’d written to express his joy at the news, agreeing it had surely been that wonderful night, their first love-making on that enormous bed in the bridal suite, and perhaps one day they could revisit Katoomba and spend a night there again to commemorate the event. He said Richard was a nice name for a boy. He felt sure it would be a boy, but if she should turn out to be a girl he also liked the name Emily.

  As he was to be a dad, one other matter required attention. On joining the army they’d had to make a will. It was not something he’d told Jane — it would unnecessarily alarm her — but he had been to see the orderly-room sergeant and amended it. In the event of Jane’s death his estate should go to his son or daughter.

  ‘That’s a bit vague,’ the sergeant had said.

  ‘It has to be,’ Stephen replied, ‘since I won’t know if it’s a he or a she until the end of May.’

  Six weeks before the expected birth he was on a troop transport in the Aegean approaching the Dardanelles; after that in the dawn convoy, wading ashore onto a shingled beach — he and Bluey, thoughts focused on how to scale the steep hillsides, fearful of Turkish snipers and the machine guns whose deadly hail of bullets would surely kill them.

  In the weeks that followed there was no word of her progress. It was not until the middle of May — when there was a one-day truce so both sides could bury their dead — that a telegraph from his father found him. A medical orderly brought it to the hospital tent, where he was being treated for a shrapnel wound in the arm. He’d been lucky — a grenade exploding perilously close — but unlucky enough for it to be classified a minor casualty. Not even a day’s rest, just a bandage and back to the trenches.

  Stephen was startled by the message. He had read it aloud and laughed happily at the news, although he was conscious of the ironic date. ‘Listen to this: “Congratulations! A son born on April 25th. Premature but Jane and baby Richard both well.”’

  A few months later, after the unit had been pulled back for a brief rest, there was a long, happy letter from Jane, which made him realise that as he waded through the shoal water to the beach during the landing she must indeed have been giving early birth. The east coast of Australia was eight hours ahead, and her letter said Richard had arrived just in time for a late lunch, so by his calculation it could have happened at virtually the same moment.

  Often since then he wondered if he could have continued up that hillside into the Turkish gunfire, had he known it.

  The silence was disturbing, so unfamiliar it felt threatening. The night was cold but clear, the sky luminous with stars. Providentially there was no moon as they made their way in small groups with not a word spoken and without even the sound of footsteps, for their boots were wrapped in hessian stripped from sandbags. In the pitch dark they followed a trail of white flour marking the path that led down to the beach.

  Alongside the jetties the ancillary lighters and barges waited. Over a period of several days, aware they were under the scrutiny of Turkish field glasses, these same craft had approached the shore laden with what appeared to be huge quantities of supplies from the transport ships anchored in the bay. Their arrival did what was intended: created the impression the Australians were stocking up for the winter ahead.

  It was imperative that everything should contribute to this perception. A whole army was to be taken off, and the whole army had to keep the secret. A flurry of trench digging took place to add substance to this. Each day the light horsemen chosen as dispatch riders galloped along the beach as usual, risking fire from the Turkish snipers, while the infantry had their customary bets on whether they would make it through the fusillade or get shot. The classic touch to create a feeling of normality was the staging of a game of cricket on Shell Green.

  ‘Steve.’ Lieutenant Cavanaugh found him in a trench and sat with him while they ate their sparse rations. ‘I hear you played for the second eleven at the uni?’ Before Stephen could answer, he was told he’d been selected to open the batting for Australia A in the forthcoming match against Australia B.

  ‘Raving bloody mad,’ he’d pronounced it, but scored twenty runs and took two catches while an array of armed guards stood ready to protect players from any unsporting snipers. Afterwards the twenty-two relieved cricketers shook hands, declared the game an honourable draw and even waved to distant Turks who’d watched the performance of this strange Anglo-Saxon pastime.

  Meanwhile in empty trenches, rifles were set up to fire long after their owners had departed. Inventive minds used a system of weights made from water cans, punctured so that when the water dripped out a trigger was released and the gun operated. Other homemade controls were manipulated from the beach by wires that set unattended machine guns firing. In this way, as the transports departed with troops packed in their holds, a facade of normality was kept constant. Many thousands had now been lifted off and carried to safety in Lemnos.

  Before leaving Stephen had been among those who had paid a last visit to the burial ground originally called God’s Acre, and later renamed God’s Square Mile. He had gone there to say an awkward goodbye to mates, to straighten flimsy wooden crosses and cry to tidy the graves. Over half his platoon were buried there. He’d attempted some kind of prayer, but was unable to find the words. In the end he had simply said sorry to them — sorry he was alive and leaving them; sorry it had been such a mess, a botched campaign, and that they and eight thousand other young volunteers who’d come here to fight their first battle would not go home
again.

  Ironically, the evacuation was succeeding brilliantly. The first pessimistic forecasts in London had predicted half the army could be killed in the attempt to leave; so far there had been not a single casualty. But each day the pressure increased on those selected to be the rear guard. Fewer men remaining had to create the same volume of gunfire, the same impression of full trenches, while also destroying the supplies they could not take with them.

  A squad of sappers set mines and booby traps in fading daylight on the final day. The sappers were the last group to leave for the beach, together with Stephen’s platoon. Bluey led the way with the loquacious Duggie Chandler, tall and skinny as a beanpole. Ever since training camp he’d been known as Double-Trouble, a nickname acquired from his compulsion of saying everything twice. This habit of repetition, comical until now, almost became a disaster.

  On the steep slope his foot slipped. ‘Bugger,’ he said aloud, and ‘bugger,’ he automatically repeated before he could prevent himself. They all froze, aware how far the slightest sound could carry in the night air. There was still half a battalion on the beach below, waiting to be taken out to the ships. One blunder even now would alert the Turks, some of whom in forward dugouts were only a few hundred yards away. Discovery of the empty Anzac trenches could lead to a massacre of those remaining.

  ‘Fucking drongo,’ Bluey hissed ferociously, and taking a rag from his pocket, stuffed it into Double-Trouble’s mouth that was about to issue an apology. For the next hour he kept a tight grip on the other’s arm as they followed the flour trail to the beach.

  They were safely on the last barge, muffled oars moving them away from the shore, when the pre-set mines began to detonate. The sappers with them had set the fuses.

  ‘You bloody beauties,’ Stephen whispered. The sappers were from another unit; he didn’t know them, but knew they had primed the unstable devices and were heroes.

  ‘Beauties, beauties,’ Double-Trouble echoed.

  The whispers went around the craft.

  ‘Wait till the really big Christmas cracker goes off,’ one of the sappers murmured.

  It began to rain. Soft, like tears. Their barge reached the last transport ship and they climbed on deck. The land was lit as the promised blast exploded like a thunderclap. The soldiers on board, freed from hours of imposed silence, cheered this last defiant gesture.

  Stephen stood at the stern rail looking at the silhouette of the Turkish cove, with its rugged terrain above it. Perhaps some day in peace it might have its own sort of beauty, he thought, but to them it was an awful place. So many dead. No matter what anyone might try to say, it was a dreadful and costly failure. Except for this escape. He had a strangely ambivalent feeling about that. If the landing had been as well planned as the retreat, there would surely not be so many graves or such a bitter taste in his mouth…

  At last the ship began to move. The rain grew heavier and the land behind them disappeared from view.

  January 1916

  My darling

  You will have heard, I’m sure. It seems that in the early morning the Turks began to wonder why everything was quiet. They decided to attack, and soon after dawn they reached our trenches to find no one there. An entire army had been evacuated almost in front of their eyes. Despite predictions of disaster, there were only two casualties. We’re now in Lemnos, which is a Greek Island in the Aegean Sea. We reached here on Christmas Day, and all your letters were waiting for me as well as the photo of our baby. It’s hard to realise we now have a nine-month-old son. I promise I’ll be careful. I know you worry, but please don’t fret, I’ll survive and come home to you both.

  The latest rumour is we’re headed for England, where we all wanted to go in the first place. In the meantime, we’re made to train and go on route-marches as if we’ve just joined up. We’re serving under British officers here, who seem to think we’re an undisciplined lot. We don’t salute enough for their liking. They reckon we’re a rabble because we don’t kowtow and refuse to be subservient. But that’s the army for you. I’d hate to be a regular, and have to put up with all this drill and saluting for a living.

  Remember how people said the war would be over by Christmas 1914, and foolishly you and I believed them? I can only hope now it will be over by Christmas 1916. Then I’ll finish my law degree, become a suburban solicitor, and we’ll raise kids. Send me more photos of our baby, and another of you as well.

  We don’t yet know when we’ll leave here. The army prefers not to tell soldiers anything, but my next letters may come from London. By the way, I’ve been promoted to platoon sergeant. My pay goes up by three shillings a week. My mate Bluey says that makes me a capitalist.

  Your loving capitalist,

  Stephen

  P.S. We’ve just heard on the grapevine it is England, and probably some leave in London. The grapevine is better than official orders. Unlike them, it’s hardly ever wrong!

  FOUR

  In the troop train from Portsmouth they gazed through misted windows as the countryside sped past. Stephen was surprised by the fields and tracts of woodland, so much open space in a land that seemed so tiny on the map. He saw many substantial homes, even a few that looked like small castles or manor houses, and just when he began to wonder where ordinary people lived, the train clattered through a series of towns and past rows of tiny terraced cottages.

  They felt the strangeness of this landscape and the way the pale sun was only occasionally visible between intervals of rain, a rain so fine it seemed like mist. It was wonderfully peaceful. The fields were neat, divided by clipped hedgerows, and the lanes that ran beside the railway were empty except for sporadic horsedrawn carts or heavily rugged figures riding bicycles.

  As ever, they were unsure of their destination. The brigade bookie was quoting generous odds against London; Salisbury was a red-hot favourite at even money. Salisbury meant further training, the prospect of it filling them with gloom. They had no wish for more of what the Tommies called ‘square bashing’ that involved being yelled at by ferocious sergeant-majors; they had been given more than a taste of it on Lemnos when all they wanted (and felt they had rightly earned) was some rest and relaxation.

  Bluey insisted their objective would be London, and to bolster his optimism put half a crown on it. He, Double-Trouble and Stephen were invariably together now, for they were among the only twelve survivors of their original platoon. Despite the relief at their escape from Gallipoli, the memory of heavy losses had left them dispirited. Thus it had been a surprise when the troopship docked at Portsmouth. There was a crowd on the wharf, and as they disembarked came the sound of cheering and the realisation these people had gathered to greet them.

  ‘Strewth, don’t they know we had the shit beaten out of us?’ Bluey wondered aloud.

  ‘They’re cheering as if we won!’ Stephen said, perplexed.

  The truth was more prosaic. As they discovered later, the war had become bogged down on the Western Front, and Britain needed symbols to stimulate recruitment. Newspapers were fulsome in praise of the Australians — Anzac was an iconic name that caught the eye — and the slouch hat had become augmented with hero status.

  In the press they were constantly described as a different kind of soldier, all volunteers, possessed of a breezy irreverence that had begun to appeal to the stratified British society. There was admiration for their courage under fire, and for the daring evacuation.

  So when news of their imminent arrival swept the port, crowds gathered. They were garlanded with flowers and offered drinks and cigarettes. Men shook their hands and women hugged and kissed them with what seemed like genuine affection.

  ‘Lovely,’ exclaimed Double-Trouble. ‘Lovely, lovely,’ and in the ensuing hours while others shivered in the cold waiting for a troop train, he sneaked away with a friendly girl who said he had earnt himself a suitable reward and took him home to bed.

  ‘You bastard,’ Bluey said on hearing this, cracking his fingers more vigorously than usual
, ‘you skinny, long streak of shit! Didn’t she have a friend?’

  ‘She did, she did — and she was nice too.’ He laughed uproariously at their expressions. ‘Nice,’ he reiterated, ‘both of ‘em… nice.’

  ‘Both?’ Bluey was divided between disbelief and outrage.

  ‘Both… both,’ Double-Trouble confirmed happily.

  The light was fading though it was still midafternoon. When the train slowed Stephen saw the spire of a church, and wondered if it might be St Paul’s. He hurriedly realised his mistake as steam hissed and the brakes were applied. There was a collective groan when they saw the name Salisbury on the station platform.

  My darling,

  We’re in camp on Salisbury Plain in Wiltshire, along with what seems like half the troops of the British Empire. Thousands of us: New Zealanders, Canadians, Indians, Ghurkhas and South Africans. Between being drilled and forced on route-marches, we’ve seen Stonehenge, which is only six miles away, and visited Salisbury Cathedral, which has the tallest spire in England, but all we really want is the promised leave in London. The grapevine has really let us down this time. I loved reading all your letters that were waiting here for me…

  He didn’t like to say so, but there had been so many of them, one written every few days, even just a few lines, to tell him their son Richard had managed to stand at the age of nine months and soon might take a first step, which was early… She felt sure Stephen would agree it was very advanced. She was confident Richard was going to be clever, because he knew both sets of grandparents on sight when they visited. He was such a bright, happy boy.

  There were times when Stephen yearned to hear news of other subjects; for instance, what was it really like at home now? Was there going to be a vote on conscription, so they’d get some much needed reinforcements? Was it true what they’d heard, that life seemed completely normal there — that the beaches were full and race meetings crowded — and the enlistment rate had dropped off ever since publication of the shocking casualty lists after the Gallipoli landing?