Chapter 9 No trouble; Hardening up; War weary; Incident in Darwin; No mates...

War Weary

SOMEWHERE at the back of his mind - towards the end of this route march in the steamy heat, with a forty-pound pack on his back like a flamin' Tommy, and the sweat trickling down his chest - was that persistent little itch that he had wasted his leave.

Three weeks! Twenty-one precious days that a bloke had looked forward to for three years, nearly.

Dreamed about in battle, thought about, talked about in Palestine mud, Tobruk sands, Syrian snows - carried with him through the desert night-patrols in front of Tel el Eisa - gone now like the flare of a
match! How they had longed-amid the stinks Egypt-for that first glimpse of old Aussie's shores, the fragrance of wattle, the scent of burning gum-leaves, home! And now it was gone, in a confused phantasmagoria of home- coming and hectic nights and nothing to show for it. And he was up here doing this "Jungle-training"! His sense of injury and injustice had grown with the miles as he headed north.

Didn't they think he'd had enough of it. It was the same old routine, really, in a new environment. But his problem, though he was scarcely aware of its origin, was psychological rather than physical. Each day that passed took him a day farther from the might-have-been of a frustrated dream-world, closer to the stern reality of action. He did not like the idea of action again. A bloke could not go on
being lucky.

It was not only this vague fear, this uncertainty, that disturbed him. A bloke got browned off. War-weary. Although he would not admit it even to himself, somewhere deep inside him he knew that what he really needed was contact - a link with the life he loved, the life he hoped to regain - a contact, intimate, personal, something other than his own home, something not wasted, something to do with a girl.

Particularly -as they crossed the creek and approached the camp this day- he felt rising within him his resentment at what had happened to him on his leave, at what might happen to him if he went into action again morally alone, without the sort of backing a bloke got from thinking of someone, not sentimentally, but just knowing that she was thinking of him, in battle.

Funny, he had a feeling he would come through all right then. But there was no one.

The resentment, as they climbed the last rise, rioted inside him like a soured stomach. He put one foot in front of the other, tramping through the last of the tropical undergrowth, single file, with the slow, easy stride of the practised infantryman, under a hundred to the minute. His webbing cut into his shoulders; his rifle grew in weight. Philosophically, he wiped the sweat from his eyes with a wet arm. At the last halt, the boys had flung their packs off wearily, great round patches of dirty sweat on their shirts.

They had talked of mail. That itch in his brain had a lot to do with mail. He did not like coming into camp and getting no mail except a letter from Mum, or Dad maybe. Other blokes, on their leave, had got engaged, got married, had at least weighed in with somebody who wrote to them. All that he had achieved on leave was an empty pay-book, and getting himself all washed up with Lorraine.

"It's different this time, Joe," she had said: "You're more serious than you used to be. You've changed. Get yourself a decent break."

And she'd walked out on him, or he on her -what did it matter which?-when they'd had that bust-up about her and Butch, and maybe others.

A decent break. What had she meant by that, he wondered. The only decent break he'd got himself -he grinned at the absurdity of it- was that little girl down at Andy Foyle's shop, the one in munitions. Bit of a comedown from Lorraine the good-looker, jitterbug 'Joints, and champagne.

Funny little kid. Pert as a pin. Pert as her name. Prim. Short for Primrose. He used to tease the life out of her about it. That was after he'd mucked up his leave, anyway, and was broke. Used to hang around Mum's back garden doing a bit of diggin', and stringin' on that kid in the corner shop when she was off shift. Remember how sore she'd got at him when he'd said the A.I.F. didn't count for so much in Aussie. The mob waved flags, he had said, then looked vague and asked when your leave was up.

She had flown at him like an angry cat. Told him to stop being sorry for himself. Looked sorta pretty, she did, all on fire. They were wonderful, she said-all wonderful: and the A.I.F.! How could he say such things! Why, they were -she thought- well, well ... ! They had burst out laughing together-she got so stuck for words....

It had amused him to take her out that last night of his leave. Had to do something. And he was sick of flashy sheilas, sick of the old lurks. Of course it had only been a bit of kidding on his part; but she hadn't been so prim, that night, when he'd kissed her, first and last time. Funny little kid. She'd got a catch in her throat and run inside whispering: "God bless you, Joe. Don't be bitter." What had she meant by that? He had kicked himself afterwards for treating her so casually.

They were back in camp. As they broke off, he remembered with a slightly unpleasant shock, that all the blokes in his tent were "reos". Good kids, but new. He missed the old mob-Charlie, P.O.W. in Germany; and Bill and Lofty who had got theirs the same night in Tobruk. What a long time ago it all was! Paddy had got a discharge - good luck to him! -and he'd seen Broncho in hospital and he was no pretty sight. Most of all he missed Bluey - hillbilly Bluey who had called him a city slicker - as grand a cobber as a bloke ever had. Poor old Bluey had got his, clean through the head, that last night in the October battle when the Maoris had gone through.

And he, Joe, had come home. How's his luck? Twice slightly wounded - he was a moral to get it next time.

He'd put his name down for the commandos; but no - no transfers. Anything was better than the P.B.I. There had been a time when the boys had reckoned it was the good old P.B.I.

After the war a bloke ought to get a block up here through the Repat, marry, and settle down. Pretty country it was. Running water; rolling uplands; smiling homesteads - not all jungle - a bloke could do worse after the war than get married and come up here....

There were two letters for him. One from Mum. He studied the other speculatively, warily, bracing his thoughts against something he would not even permit himself to consider consciously, something that nevertheless pulsated excitedly in his sub-consciousness. Not Lorraine.

He opened it slowly-sitting on his bed-boards in his tent, surrounded by the other blokes all reading their mail. Feminine handwriting, neat but bold; sensible sort of hand. ... He turned quickly to the end of it....

Prim ... Silly sorter name but rather nice. ... Kinda made you laugh....

"I've thought a lot about writing to you, Joe, after you went away before I made up my mind to write to you because we girls do think you are all wonderful. I want you to know I do. I think you are wonderful, really I do, Joe, to go on year after year fighting for us and not giving up. I know you never complain about anything either, Joe, and that you are not really bitter. Please don't be, -Joe ......

Who said he was bitter?

One of the blokes, passing outside the tent, Clinker it was, called to him: "See you over at the game to-night, Joe?"

For a long time he sat gazing at the bluish note-paper, not hearing. When Clinker yelled to him again, and he did look up absently, there was a long, slow grin on his face and a faraway look in his eyes. As yet he was scarcely aware of the subtle change taking place within him, but he knew a warming sensation of good fellowship and goodwill. His voice, as he answered Clinker, was gay, almost triumphant:

"Not to-night, Clinker-got a letter to write!

"SX3028"

INCIDENT IN DARWIN

GILL and I were quaffing ice-cold squash for which this cafe' was renowned. The place was comfortably filled with customers, but not crowded.

Outside a window an abo was acting in a mysterious manner, reminiscent of a nit-keeper in the days of S.P. bookies.

Inside the cafe' mysterious things were going on too. Every now and then a couple of Diggers would disappear through some beaded curtains to a room at the rear of the cafe.

Gill and I noted several of these disappearances. We also noted that the chaps did not return. Both of us were agog with excitement. Both of us were wondering what went on in the room behind those beaded curtains.

Was there a gambling room out there? Maybe there was a two-up game on? What was the mystery and how did one get the open sesame through those curtains, we asked ourselves.

We watched the next two Diggers who made their way towards this mysterious back room. They had spoken to one of the chaps behind the counter. And the abo outside the window was still acting like a nitkeeper....

Well, we wouldn't approach the chap behind the counter. We didn't know what to make of him. So, plucking up courage, we decided make our own way through the curtains _,nd take a chance. Our curiosity simply must be satisfied.

We ventured towards the beaded curtains. If there was gambling to be had we would be in it. But if it was anything else we would be looking for a short cut out of the place.

Once through the curtains we were confronted by a pair of foreigners who looked to be half-Greek, half-Jap, and who were playing cards. One of them said: "Do you want one , too?'

"Yes," we stammered, not knowing what the "one" was. At the same time we looked about for a convenient window through which to make a quick getaway, for we were satisfied that our worst suspicions of this place were well-founded.

"Come this way," rapped the chap who had spoken to us first.

We followed him out into another room. He closed the door behind us and then opened a large cupboard.

"One each?" he asked.

We nodded, but with little enthusiasm.

He then fossicked about in the cupboard and produced two sixpenny ice-creams.

"We can't serve this stuff to everyone," he explained. "We've only one can left."

We paid him and left by the back entrance, happier and wiser men. And the abo watched us leave. . . .

"SX22085"

FROM A NORTHERN STATION

THESE things were good: laughter and comradeship,

The ring of faces round the bivouac fire,

Grey ghost-gums in the background; voices raised

Of girls, the deeper bass, singing together;

Eager faces shadowed by dancing flames;

The Jest that brought the sudden shout of laughter;

The closeness of companionship, caressed

By friendly darkness; night with its myriad

Voices, and rustle of wings; about us

An infinitude of stars.

... And these were good

The breeze cooling our cheeks, the measured swing

Of limbs as we marched in the dusk, our eyes

On the darkeming hills with a crimson glow

Behind, and saw like a jewelled serpent

The leave-train curve towards the Gap ... Stern discipline

Of mind and body, when only the will to serve

Kept the tired spirit from breaking, yet strangely exultant

Because we shared their toil, had part in their vigil,

Bound by a common oath, dedicated

To the same dread cause, working together

With vision unclouded for the destined goal;

Friendship of men and women, for whom the curse

Of class and caste no longer exists, because

They have looked death in the face, and for them

Only essentials matter; the wordless

Instinctive sympathy of friends who know

What the others think and endure.

. . . These, too, were good

A country of vast horizons and hills fantastic,

Of sunshine and lonely places; the stark

And rugged beauty of rock-strewn gorge and chasm,

Of gorgeous colour; splendour of sunrise and sunset;

Hills white with frost; Gillen* majestic in the dawn.

Rose-flushed, with a thin white scarf of mist;

Strident chorus of grey and pink galahs,

As they flashed from the white boughs of the gums;

Beauty of line and contour, of swiftness

And motion-a bomber fared on its lonely way,

The wings golden with sunshine, undaunted:

Stillness of evening like a benediction:

Bugles under the stars.

Gillen-A mountain in the Northern Territory.

"SF64679"

NO MATES IN THE ARMY

"I've got no mates in the Army . . ."

You said it yesterday in the mess, when someone laughingly said "Pass the salt - think of your mates"; you said it because it was the reply that was expected of you, and because you knew it was always good for a laugh.

After-wards, the words kept turning over in your mind, and you began to remember. Your memory wandered back to that day in the Showground, the day you decided to "give it a fly". You felt strangely alone, bewildered ... and then the tall bloke next to you started to talk. He was older than you, and somehow guessed how you felt. He didn't say much, really, but you were comforted, stronger in the thought that you were doing the right thing anyway.

Then you were drafted to a country camp, and sitting on your palliasse the old feeling of doubt returned-until your neighbour offered you a cigarette. He, too, was wondering what the future was going to bring, so it was natural that you should start talking. You and he sort of "clicked", and you were together pretty often, finding consolation in each other's company. For despite the way you sold yourself the idea that enlisting was the only thing to do, that doubt existed, and you needed his unspoken reassurance. You took leave together, tried to wangle identical duties, and felt glad when, first training over, you managed to get into the same troop.

You travelled to the Middle East on the same ship, and when Fremantle Harbour dropped behind, and a feeling you couldn't analyse came (you felt indescribably low, lower than you'd ever felt before; looking back, you couldn't help but wonder if you'd seen Australia for the last time; you thought of your wife and kid, and try as you might you failed to stop eyes becoming wet-you were ashamed, but when you looked at him, he nodded because he couldn't speak, and the bond became tighter-remember?)

Food was light on in the ship, and the five bob a week you got went almost immediately.

So did his, but he found enough to buy a penny cup of tea each afternoon, and he invariably tipped half in your mug. There wasn't any thanks-it would have embarrassed you both.

Tewfik . . . and you got your webbing hopelessly mixed and you were due to move in thirty minutes. The ex-sergeant who stood over you in rookie days sees your distress signals, and comes to your rescue. It's funny, but you thought that guy was a real twerp.

The training camp at Nusierat meant hard training-which you didn't mind, and lonely, incredibly nostalgic nights-which were terrible. Sometimes, despite yourself, you let up, and memories came to mock, and pictures floated across your mind that you'd mostly been able to keep shut in the prison of your heart. Your hut-mates would pass a glance, and they'd be at you-chiacking, jeering, laughing at the picture of misery you were the old trick of direct attack. They meant nothing; nothing, that is, except that from their own experience, they knew how you felt, and meant to "snap you out of it".

The "blue" started, and you knew you'd be going up. Not the whole reinforcement draft, first time. When they read the list you hoped you'd make it. You did; your name was third, and as you fell out on the right, you waited in suspense to see if the bloke- who offered you that cigarette so long ago would make it too. He did, and you were happy.

Your first days and nights in action will always stick in your memory. You won't talk about it much after the war, but that's not because of the popular conception that soldiers don't talk about battle; it's because your audience will often be a civilian one, and you'll feel like a golfer amongst a crowd of footballers. You'll remember how, with palpitating heart and the conviction that you had a streak, you skulked in your doover, and how a stranger, who stopped being a stranger, walked unconcernedly, for your benefit, from his own hole and dropped into yours "for a talk"; you'll remember how much better you became for it and, for ever after, possess a deep regard for the other; you'll remember lots of things about those days and nights.

The infantryman, for instance, who picked you up after a blast and said "Okay, mate?" The faces you never saw again, and those you couldn't recognize through the blood and sweat on them - anonymous faces with eyes that smiled encouragement for a rookie and with eyebrows that lifted in an inquiring "How's it going?"

Then you stood in a cemetery at Alamein whilst the Padre spoke of those who shall not die . . . whom age shall not weary ... nor the years condemn. You paused a moment by an oblong of stone, topped with a cross, rough lettered: "Ever remembered." You won't forget all that easily.

"No mates in the Army". You'll say that again to-morrow, maybe. You'll say it because it's the reply expected of you.

But in two ... three ... four years' time, there'll be a reunion of your unit, the first of many to come. And you'll talk of things that happened, of men you knew. You'll laugh and joke; and at times you'll be pretty serious, momentarily. Someone, presently, will say, laughing: "Hey! Don't drink all that beer ... think of your mates."

You'll give the reply that's expected of you: "I have no mates in the Army."

And then you'll turn and smile at the bloke who offered you that cigarette. He'll understand from your eyes the words you wouldn't for love or money speak. Yes, he'll understand, and so will your other ... Mates.

"NX92265"