Authors: Bryce Courtenay
‘Oh, shit!’ Ben says softly, almost to himself. Then, in a calmer voice, he addresses his platoon commander, ‘We’re going back, sir, even if I have to carry you over my shoulders.
We’ll be back for your sketchbook in the morning.’ He turns to where he thinks Hornbill is standing. ‘Private Horne, help me get the lieutenant to his feet.’
There is no reply.
‘Hornbill, you there?’ Ben shines the torch and sees that Hornbill isn’t where he supposed he was standing. ‘Private Horne!’ he shouts into the darkness. ‘Where the fuck are you!’
‘Coming, Sergeant,’ Ben hears Hornbill’s voice some distance away.
‘Get here will’ya, at the double!’
Hornbill comes panting up in the darkness and Ben shines the torch into his face. ‘Where’ve you been?’
Hornbill doesn’t reply but hands Wordy Smith’s sketchbook to the hapless lieutenant sobbing at Ben’s feet. ‘There you go, sir, safe and sound, no harm done.’
Ben is almost too angry to speak. ‘You could have killed yourself, yer stupid bastard,’ he shouts at Hornbill. ‘What for? A bloody useless sketchbook, full of pictures of flamin’ flowers no one can see!’
‘Sorry, Sergeant,’ Hornbill says, in a contrite voice, then nodding his head to indicate the lieutenant at Ben’s feet, he adds, ‘Them flower paintin’s, they’s everything to him, Sergeant.’
Wordy Smith has managed to get to his feet, hugging the sketchbook and standing on one leg sniffing. Both turn to look at him. ‘Thank you, Private Horne, thank you,’ he says quietly. ‘This sketchbook is more important to me than my life, but not more important to me than your life.’ It is said in a steady, perfectly modulated voice, not a single word bumping into another or joining together. Peregrine Ormington-Smith will never have a problem with his speech again.
THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
Egypt 1914-1915
The new and articulate Wordy Smith, while being on crutches for the next ten days, is a changed man. Though it cannot be claimed he has made the transition from hopeless to competent, he has, at least, decided to make up for his previously arcane speech patterns and almost total lack of communication by telling his platoon everything he hears in the officers’ mess. Or so he claims.
Ben, who has cause to visit his cabin from time to time, does not let on to the platoon that Peregrine Ormington-Smith shares a cabin with the military liaison officer to the ship’s wireless room. Nonetheless, Second Lieutenant Peregrine Ormington-Smith is simply incapable of being deceptive and with a slip of the tongue on one or two occasions his source of information is discovered by the platoon. The wireless subaltern, it seems, has grown so accustomed to Wordy Smith’s inability to articulate that he talks quite freely about the messages coming through, airing his opinions on what goes in and out.
Ben realises that his platoon officer, if discovered, will be placed in an extremely awkward position, not quite a court martial as he can hardly be accused of supplying information to the enemy, but he will still be in considerable trouble. He finds himself in a real quandary, as a sergeant he must co-operate with his officer, while at the same time he is responsible for the immediate welfare of his platoon.
Even though the information from ‘Wordy’s Wireless’, as the platoon has dubbed the lieutenant’s cabin mate, cannot, in this instance, be said to be critical to their welfare, there is a very sound principle involved which every sergeant in every war ever fought would understand. It is simply that the more hard information you can get from an officer the more likely you are to prevent him from doing something stupid which may get you all killed. After years of saying as little as possible, Ormington-Smith must be actively encouraged and Ben decides to swear the platoon to secrecy.
‘No leaks yer hear? We’ve got this on our own. If it gets out where the lieutenant is getting his information he’s up shit creek without a paddle and so is Wordy’s Wireless, the ultimate source of our information. We’re sitting pretty, lads, so shut yer gobs. That’s an order.’ Ben looks searchingly into the eyes of every member of the platoon, extracting a silent promise from each of them. ‘Righto, Private Cooligan.’
‘Yes, Sergeant?’
‘You run the two-up school on E deck and you’re a bookmaker for the Tuesday-night fights, ain’t ya?’
They all laugh and Cooligan colours. ‘Me, Sergeant? Never! The army has cured me o’ me wicked ways. All I wants is to fight Herman the German.’
‘Right, there will be times when the information we get from Wordy’s Wireless has to get out to the rest of the ship so, Private Cooligan, you’re our official mouth, our Gob Sergeant.’
‘What’s that mean, Sergeant?’
‘When stuff comes from Wordy’s Wireless that needs to get to the rest of the ship, you’re it. But don’t make it look that way, you mix what’s real with a fair amount of bullshit, just the way you did a moment ago - you know, but you don’t know, you heard, but you’re not sure where, something somebody said, putting two and two together, could be wrong but. . . It’s a question of mixing the right amount of fact with the correct proportion of crap. Can you do that, Private Cooligan?’
‘Can a crow fly?’ Crow Rigby quips and they all laugh.
‘No, no, I’m serious,’ Ben says. ‘It takes a fair amount of imagination and at least a pint of Irish blood in yer veins to do it right and Cooligan’s got both. What do you reckon, Private?’
Cooligan is flattered. ‘I think you just done me a spot-on character reference, Sergeant. Gob Sergeant, eh? Is that a promotion, Sergeant?’
Wordy’s Wireless proves to be a real bonus for the Click platoon and adds greatly to their reputation, they now become a valued source of information. Numbers Cooligan performs the role of chief rumour monger with a special brilliance, instinctively understanding the age-old Australian adage that bullshit baffles brains. The information tidbits Ben allows for dissemination spread outwards at an alarming speed and, in a matter of an hour or two, the entire ship knows the latest news. Numbers Cooligan is soon much sought out for information by blokes from the other platoons and, in the nature of these things, anything they know is given to him until there isn’t a lot happening on the ship that isn’t known to Ben.
However, the very first piece of information Second Lieutenant Peregrine Ormington-Smith brings to the platoon is not from Wordy’s Wireless but the officers’ mess. Upon hearing it, it is the first time the enlisted men have felt anything but excitement at the prospect of getting stuck into the Hun.
The day after they leave Aden for the Suez Canal and thereafter Britain, Wordy Smith tells them the horrific news brought back by the officers who spent the day at the Aden Club while he went specimen hunting on the cliffs. Several months previously two British battalions of regulars stationed in India, each a thousand men strong, passed through the port on their way to the Western Front. Like those from the Orvieto it was an occasion which saw some of their officers visit the club. Now members of the club have received letters from two of the officers who survived to say that one of the battalions has been reduced to three hundred men and the second has been almost completely annihilated.
The news comes as a shock to the thirty thousand Australians and New Zealanders who, from the very beginning, have regarded the war in Europe as a grand opportunity to prove their worth as fighting men while, at the same time, seeing Europe and Britain with their mates. They are suddenly sobered by the thought that they too are destined for the same killing grounds that have butchered both regiments. Herman the German is proving to be less of a pushover than they’ve been led to believe.
If the minimum recruiting age for men had been put at fifty, saving the young men for breeding and for work, the old men on both sides would have soon enough found another way to resolve the conflict. Young men, though, have always possessed a sense of immortality which their elders have exploited since time out of mind. The notion that they are invincible appears to be a part of the young warrior’s genetic code. In a peacetime society this is further evidenced by the fact that almost eighty-five per cent of all violent crime is performed by men under the age of twenty-eight. The young male seems to need an outlet for his aggression and, in the process, believes himself to be bulletproof right up to the moment when a high-velocity Mauser bullet churns his innards to mincemeat.
Sobering as the news of the two devastated battalions is, it doesn’t seem to greatly affect the desire of the young Australians to fight the Germans but now there is a rumour gaining notoriety on board that the British High Command does not fully trust the Australian irregulars, or believe that men can be trained effectively to fight a war in twelve weeks. This, in their minds, is especially true of the Australians, who, on the last occasion they fought beside British troops, gained a reputation for often ignoring the commands of their senior British officers. In truth, this only occurred in the Boer War on no more than half a dozen occasions when it became apparent to the Australian Mounted Rifles that the British officers, untrained in the guerilla tactics required in South Africa, were attempting to fight a war in the African bush as if they were back in the Crimea.
Britain has always depended on the career soldier who never questions orders. The Australians, faced with similar bush conditions as at home, and living a not dissimilar lifestyle to the Boer enemy, quickly adapted to the hit-and-run commando style of warfare, much of which was conducted in the saddle.
The British regulars took a hiding against the Boer irregulars, whose commandos were made up mostly of simple farmers with virtually no previous military training. But, like many of their Australian counterparts, the Boers rode like the wind and could shoot a man between the eyes at a thousand yards. They could attack a British unit and be twenty miles away before the British had time to pack up and move out in pursuit. In the peculiar African conditions they proved too elusive for the highly trained, rigidly disciplined British regulars, who found it difficult to adapt to this new kind of warfare. Only by sheer force of numbers and the personal understanding and leadership brought to the battlefield by that great general, Lord Roberts, did Britain finally succeed. By the time the war ended in victory for the British forces the Boers had been outnumbered six to one.
The rumour now doing the rounds on board the ships of the convoy is that Britain will use the supposedly under-trained, ill-disciplined and second-rate Australians in India and Egypt as garrison troops. This will relieve the British regulars, at present occupied in this task, to fight in the real war on the Western Front. To further substantiate the rumour, news comes through that the Turks have sided with Germany and have declared war on Britain and her allies. The average soldier on board has no trouble making one and one equal two and reaching the conclusion that the Australian troops will be stationed in Egypt.
So when Wordy’s Wireless tells them the day after they leave Aden that General Bridges has received instructions by wireless that they are to proceed to Britain, there is a palpable sense of relief. The news spreads as if carried on the stiff nor’easter blowing that morning and by the time the official announcement is made most of the troops on board see it simply as confirmation. Those who first got it from Numbers Cooligan are beginning to show a growing respect for his sources.
However, on a day filled with contradictory news, night brings a further instruction to General Bridges. The Orvieto is to sail ahead of the convoy to Port Said. The same message is received by Major-General Sir Alexander Godley, the commander of the New Zealand force headquartered on the Mauganui. The two ships are to proceed at their own speed to Egypt.
Wordy’s Wireless has suffered a stomach complaint and has been confined to bed for two days when the message comes through so Ben doesn’t receive any advance notice from his lieutenant. Therefore it is a tremendous surprise to the troops when the Orvieto breaks away from the convoy and sails off on its own. Numbers Cooligan, newly appointed Gob Sergeant, is unable to supply any explanation, which, strangely enough, confirms his status among the troops, as knowing everything seems improbable and is also highly suspicious. Fortuitously, Wordy’s Wireless recovers from his stomach ailment and is back on deck the following evening, safely ensconced in the wireless room when a late telegram arrives for General Bridges from Sir George Reid, the Australian High Commissioner in London. Wordy Smith reads it to the Clicks at the breakfast parade fully two hours before it is officially announced to the troops on board.
GEN. BRIDGES. HQs FIRST AUSTRALIAN DIVISION - ORVIETO.
MESSAGE FOLLOWS:
UNFORESEEN CIRCUMSTANCES DECIDE THAT
THE FORCE SHALL TRAIN IN EGYPT AND GO TO
THE FRONT FROM THERE. THE AUSTRALIANS
AND NEW ZEALANDERS ARE TO FORM A CORPS
UNDER GENERAL BIRDWOOD. THE LOCALITY
OF THE CAMP IS NEAR CAIRO. GEORGE REID - AUST. HIGH COMMISSIONER. U.K.
The decision is met with utter consternation. When the change in plans is made known to the troops they boo loudly and stamp their boots on the deck to demonstrate their disapproval. To the average soldier the arithmetic is irrefutable, the declaration of war by Turkey and the order to proceed to Port Said can mean only one thing, they are to be used as garrison troops against the Turks.
Ben and his platoon, like every volunteer in the A.I.F. and together with the New Zealanders, have a burning desire to prove their mettle on the Western Front. Nothing short of this is acceptable to them. The soldiers of both antipodean nations take a quiet pride in the fact that they are the finest specimens their people can supply to the war machine, and unspoken, but in their minds, is the notion that they deserve to go against an enemy worthy of their calibre. For them the Turks are simply a bunch of wogs to be kept in line.
General Bridges is forced to issue the exact contents of the telegram together with a personal explanation. He strongly emphasises the particular section of the telegram which stipulates ‘AND GO TO THE FRONT FROM THERE’. This somewhat, but not entirely, mollifies the men. There is already a sense of distrust between the private soldier and the officer class which is part of the Australian personality. The convict against the prison warder, the shearer against the squatter, the trade unionist against the capitalist, the people against the politician and, now, inevitably, the foot soldier against those who are placed over him.
The explanation for the diversion, couched in the usual official military language, is essentially correct, but it does nothing to subdue their misgivings. In the eyes of most of the troops it is a heap of bullshit and they suspect the British High Command is going to leave them stranded in Egypt to face the Turks. They are simply told that, due to the early onset of winter in Britain, the site on Salisbury Plain, which is intended for the encampment and further training of Australian and New Zealand troops, has not been adequately prepared.
Three weeks after they arrive in the camp in Cairo a more satisfactory explanation comes out. Wordy Smith once again has come to the rescue. It seems he has an uncle who is a major on the staff of Lord Kitchener, the Minister of State for War. In a letter to his nephew in Mena, the Australian camp just outside Cairo, he gives a much more colourful account of the reasons.
Wordy Smith, perhaps a little naively, simply reads the letter to his platoon.
6th December 1914
Dear Peregrine,
How very disappointed your Aunt Agatha and I are that we shall not be able to give you a warm welcome on your return to England. We remember you as a fine fourteen-year-old lad. Your father assures us your bad chest has completely cleared up in Australia and we greatly looked forward to meeting the strapping young man you’ve undoubtedly become.