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Scars
– the ebook
Scars is a collection of short stories, all set in Australia at some time in the book. For more information about this ebook, please go here.
Climbing Cliffs
The moon hides behind the clouds, neither a blessing nor a curse. If the moon had been brighter, it would have made the task of boarding the destroyers easier. But it would have made the Turk’s task of spotting us on our way to Gallipoli easier, too. There is not much need for moonlight, anyway. The sea is so calm the gangway has been lowered, and we are boarding the Ribble by a much easier method than the rope ladders we have been practising on for the past 2 months.
“What a waste!” Peter says.
I am about to disagree, thinking he means the hours of practise. The added moisture from my sweaty palms would have made descending by the rope ladders difficult and I am glad of the reprieve. But when I look at Peter and see he is not looking at the gangway, but the men of the 12th Battalion walking on it, I realise he does not mean the practise at all.
Peter is different from the other boys. He is not interested in football or movie stars or cigarette cards. He doesn’t talk as much about war as the other boys, who all dream of glory and giving it to the Germans. Most of the time he prefers to sit down with a book, rather than talk to the rest of us. This suits most of the fellows just fine. It’s not that they dislike him exactly, they just don’t understand him. But I like him. He’s very intelligent and comes out with some interesting statements. And when I’m with him I seem to appear more intelligent in myself. I like being around Peter and I like myself when I’m with Peter. He seems to like my company, too – at least he puts his book down when I approach him, which is more than he does for the other blokes. Given time, we could become firm friends.
It is almost midnight when the Ribble leaves the Devanha. Sailors bring cocoa to us and as the drink warms my hands I feel like crying. Cocoa is a drink for winter evenings in front of the fire, spending time with family. Drinking cocoa in such different circumstances, when I am just about to fight for my country, reminds me of how far away from home I am.
Lieutenant-Commander Wilkinson leans over the bridge and says “You fellows can smoke and talk quietly. But I expect all lights to be put out and absolute silence to be kept when I give the order.”
Funny how being told you can talk, often creates silence. For a while no-one speaks. It is a time for reflection, prayer and composing letters to loved ones. But my letters were all written yesterday or the day before. And I don’t feel like praying any more. Anything that has to be said to God has been repeated a thousand times. There is nothing to do but watch the sea and the moon and wait. Some times I fancy I can see the faint outline of the land. The land where we will fight – and perhaps die.
I don’t want to think. What is there left to think about? Thinking just means repeating the same thoughts that have been running around my head since I enlisted. Will I fight well? Will I be brave? Will I be able to kill a man? Will I die? I look around, hoping that someone will start a conversation. I catch Gary’s eye. Gary can never remain quiet for long. He winks at me and walks to the middle of our group.
“So what’s everyone’s goals in life?” he asks.
I shake my head. Goals? At a time like this he asks about goals? Surely there would have been better topics of conversations. Surprisingly enough, though, most of the men appear to be thinking hard about it.
Jeff, who has been standing unnaturally still for about 15 minutes, turns around to the group. “I want to buy a house in Queensland,” he says.
“Queensland, why Queensland?” Gary asks, giving me another wink and a bit of a chuckle.
“I dunno. Just like the sound of it.”
“It’s hot in Queensland.” Blue joins in.
“I like the heat,” Jeff replies, smiling for the first time that day.
“I want to travel to England,” Martin says. “I’ve got family there.”
“My goal used to be to travel anywhere overseas.” says Blue. “Looks like I’ve achieved that one.”
We all laugh, more from relief than amusement. We are grateful for this chance to laugh at something. The rest of the boys are shaking off their melancholy moods and are joining the conversation. In a few minutes, we have turned from total quiet to quite a lively conversation.
“I want to be a journalist,” Mick says.
“A journalist. Why a journalist?”
“I think I’d make a good journalist.”
“Well here’s your first assignment,” says Gary. “Give us a first hand account of the battle of Gallipoli.”
There is an uncomfortable silence, but not for long.
“I want to kiss Shelly Garran,” Gary says.
Catcalls and whistles come from the men.
“Who’s she, your sweetheart?” asks Thommo.
“Nah! But I wish she was.”
“I want to kiss Lillian Gish” Martin says.
The men laugh loudly. The chances of Martin even meeting the famous actress are slim, let alone kissing her. Our laughs are genuine now, caused by humour, not by fear. Strangely enough, Gary’s poor choice of subject has turned into a success. All around, the men are smiling. And if we are not quite as happy inside as we appear on the surface, and if an occasional flicker of fear marks the features and wipes the smile off someone’s face, we pretend not to notice. We cling to this conversation. To talk and laugh prevents us of thinking of other things. Things that we would rather not think about. Things that we have spent too much time thinking about.
“What about you, Rich?” Martin asks me. “What’s your goal in life?”
I could tell them that I want to buy my own car, see Perth, get married, have children, become a professional cricket player and make lots of money. Or I could joke around and say that I want to see Lucy Reynolds naked, go skinny-dipping and drink copious amounts of beer. But I want to say something different. I can’t tell them the truth, that my biggest goal in life is simply to make it through this war. I have another goal, which I haven’t told anyone, that might just do.
“I want someone to be better for having known me,” I say.
Thommo takes off his hat and throws it at me. “That’s not a goal,” he says.
The rest of the boys laugh and poke me in the ribs. They push and shove and make fun of me. Only one boy does not join in - Peter.
“What do you want to do?” I ask Peter. “What’s your life goal.” The others turn to look, interested in what he will say, because they know it will be strange and unusual. They are prepared to laugh at him. I listen, too, because I know that what he says will make me think.
He looks around the group, meeting each boy’s eyes. “I want to make someone smile,” he says.
There is silence for a moment and confused looks on the faces of the group. Then the confused looks are replaced by laughter.
“Smile, he wants to make someone smile.”
“What kind of a goal is that?”
“Look, Peter, I’m smiling. You’ve achieved your goal.”
“Not that kind of a smile,” Peter says slowly. “A special smile. A smile that means something. I’ll know it if I see it.”
“You’re 20 years old, mate,” says Martin. “You should have other goals besides making someone smile.”
“Yes,” Peter says. “Perhaps I should. Instead I’m here.”
Everyone looks at him, waiting for an explanation, but he doesn’t give one. I think I am the only one who understands.
All of us here on this boat think that we’re invincible. We have an exaggerated idea of our own importance, which, to some extent, makes us feel immortal. Our thoughts and inner feelings seem too special to us to be killed by a bullet.
Martin said one day that he was sure he wasn’t going to die in the war. He said he had the same feeling that his Dad had while fighting in the Boer War. And his dad made it through okay.
“What feeling was that?” Freddie had asked.
“He felt like he was going to be okay.”
Peter had given a rare smile. “So did all the people who died.”
We might die. It seems like an impossibility, but we might. And although I feel important, invincible and immortal, I am also a realist. And the reality is that bullets, gunfire and bayonets don’t care whether we consider ourselves important or not. Much as it seems impossible, death is quite probable.
Peter is not the type of man to set himself goals that he cannot reach. And I guess he can’t see himself reaching any goals that he might set for later in life. I look into his eyes and he looks into mine and I am sure he knows that I understand him.
Lieutenant-Commander Wilson gives the order for quiet. “We’re going in boys,” he says. The moon has now sunk. It is so dark I cannot even see the destroyers next to us, or the rowboats in front of us, filled with the men who will land first.
A sheer cliff of about 300 to 500 feet is in front of us. Gorse-like bushes jut out from its face. We were expecting something much flatter. It seems like it will be a miracle if we climb that cliff, but we must try. The Turks fire at us, from places that we can’t even see. They were shooting at us even as we moved into the rowboat. Some of the men, including a navy-boy, died before we had even landed.
We climb upwards and upwards into the gunfire. There is a machine-gun firing somewhere, and also rifle fire. Many soldiers near me are receiving gunshots. Men that I talked to yesterday or the day before are falling around me. Injured, dying, and dead.
I look at the top of a mountain, which juts out sort of like a head.
Freddie comes up next to me and follows my gaze. “It looks like the Sphinx.” He begins to laugh, but it is cut short. Freddie falls face down. I bend down to help him, but when I turn him over I find his eyes are staring, motionless. Peter grabs my shirt and pulls me up.
“Keep moving,” he whispers. “We can’t help him now.”
Poor Freddie. He will never kiss Shelley Gordon. I wonder if she cares. Will she spare a thought for him when she learns of his death? Perhaps even shed a tear? In 5 years time, will she still occasionally think of him? Or will she have other dead to mourn?
“Keep moving,” Peter says. But he seems to say it without moving his lips. And I know that he means my mind, not just my legs. Don’t dwell on it, he seems to say. Keep moving. We communicate, without speaking a word, both knowing what the other is thinking. Our minds seem to be in tune.
I think I always suspected that Peter and I were kindred spirits and in normal circumstances would probably become good friends. But in peace we would never have shared this spiritual intimacy. It took a war, strangely enough, to form this connection. Strange how it takes people fighting with each other, to bring others closer together.
We climb up and up. Try to dodge the bullets, even though we have no idea where they are coming from, when they will come or what they will hit. My mind is totally focused on survival. Survival, not just for myself, but for all the men I’m fighting with, especially Peter. I’m scared, shit scared. But this fear doesn’t immobilise me, like I was worried it might. In fact, it keeps me moving.
A groan comes from Peter. I turn and find him lying on the ground, his hands clutched to his stomach. His face is drained of all colour. I kneel down next to him.
“Where are you injured?” I ask quickly. “Stay there. I’ll get a stretcher-bearer to carry you back.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t bother. I’m going to die anyway.”
I stare at him, uncomprehending; my spiritual connection with him temporarily lost.
He moves his hand to reveal a huge pool of blood. There is a gaping hole in his stomach. Something squishy pokes out of it. I gag when I realise it is his intestines.
“Leave me,” he says. “I’m gone now. To move me will just prolong the pain. If I’m lucky, I’ll be hit by a stray bullet.”
They are not just empty words. I seem to be connected to him again and I know, intuitively, that he really wants me to go. To stay would only be for myself. As a good friend, I must do what’s best for him. I take the letter from his shirt, that he has written to his mother. Slowly, I start to walk away.
“Rich” he calls me with a thin croaky voice. Quickly I run back to his side.
“I’m better for having known you,” he says.
Though tears are falling down my face, I smile.
He coughs and blood splutters out of his mouth.
“Can die now…reached goal,” he whispers. “Now go!”
I get up and walk from his side, each step taking me further away. Every couple of steps I turn back to see him lying on the ground, the blood coming from him, not far from death, but not quite there yet. His death appears very final. People usually say that death is final, but I haven’t found it to be so. To me, death is like a novel put down before coming to the end of the story. Peter was too young to finish this story but, with his goal accomplished, I think he finished his chapter. Knowing Peter, I think he would have been pleased with that. He could die with a sense of fulfilment.
As I return to the battle, I realise I can too.
Climbing Cliffs is one
of the short stories featured in Scars, a collection
of Australian historical stories.
Gallipoli
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McFarlane's Military Series 2 Action Figure Case
Something to Celebrate
I am being kissed roughly on the lips by a man I do not know. I pull myself away and slap his face.
"Hey lady," he says, grabbing me around the waist. "That's not very nice. It's VP day, you know. We've got something to celebrate." Although I have given him an insult, he doesn’t seem offended. Just very drunk. I take his hands from my waist and walk away, without even sparing him a look
"Prude!" he shouts out, sounding angry. "Think you’re something special, do you. Well let me tell you, there are much prettier girls around here that aren’t so guarded with their kisses.”
He speaks the truth. Above me is a big sign, proclaiming Victory in the Pacific. Every ten minutes, fireworks explode in the sky. The street is filled with people, decorations and a lot of alcohol. And everywhere, women are kissing men.
Ahead of me is my friend, Gwen, who I have been looking for the past 15 minutes. She, like me, is a land-army girl.
“Rebecca,” she calls out to me. As I walk up to her, her arms go around a man who I am sure she doesn’t know. Their lips meet in a kiss. I can’t help wondering where all these young men are coming from. Have they been hiding, in order to escape the white feather? Now they come out and use the celebrations as an excuse to be free with the women.
I decide against joining my friend. She’s always been a bit of a flirt and will probably use this chance to kiss as many men as possible. If I’m in her company, they might expect the same from me.
I have only walked a few metres, when I come across another land-army girl, Carla.
“Hi Rebecca,” she calls. “Meet John.”
A man is holding Carla’s hand. He is dressed in an A.I.F. uniform.
“John is a returned soldier.” She looks at me, expecting something. What? Does she want me to go all gushy and thank him a million times for fighting for our country? Returned soldiers are a dime a dozen. I can’t see anything special in them.
“John,” Carla says, “Were you in that place that is so famous? You know, where Australians first fought? What is it called again? Gall… Gallap?”
“Gallipoli,” I say. “And a completely different war.” She looks annoyed. I think she wanted John to answer her question. Well, I am annoyed with her, too. Pretending that she doesn’t know the name “Gallipoli”. I have heard her say that name perhaps twenty times. I know that she is an intelligent woman and not the dumb girl she is pretending to be. Disgusted, I walk away. They make no attempt to call me back.
Why is it that women are acting in this way? The declaration of Victory in the Pacific is an important celebration, but does this mean that women have to revert to their place as sexual objects for men? During the war, we showed that we were not just frivolous things, fit only for looking pretty, satisfying men’s urges and raising families. We became people in our own worth; sweating and working in jobs that previously belonged only to men and proving we could do just as good a job. We came so far.
Now we are kissing strange men in the streets and acting stupid. All our hard-won independence finished with the war. Must we fall back into our roles of submissive females.
Well, not me. I will not forget what we accomplished. I will remember my importance through this war; that I helped the farm get through disasters and seeked solutions to problems more important than whether I should knit blue or black socks. I worked hard. Very hard. Sometimes the work was so hard I wondered why I did it. But at the end of the day I knew I had done something worthwhile. And I knew I was not only a woman, but also a worker, a good worker and someone of value. I did not exist just for men's pleasure. I existed because I could contribute to the country I live in.
I loved being a land-army girl. I had always had a yearning to live in the country and when the advertisements came, calling woman to work as Land Army Girls, I was one of the first to join up. I thought it was just the job for me. And from the moment I stepped off the bus into the refreshing country air, I knew I was right. Not everything was the way I expected, of course. There’s no way I could have imagined how exhausting the work would be. But that exhaustion just proved to me I was making use of my life. And I knew I wouldn’t change my job for the world.
Until I joined the land-army girls, I had never really had anyone close to me. My mother was my only family and we are too different to form a loving relationship. Even close friends eluded me. But the land-army changed all that. Even though I’m a bit annoyed with some of them at the moment, I still love them. All the girls I worked with have became like sisters.
Working and living in a place I love, and finding such good friends, I have to consider the war just about the best time of my life. It is very unpatriotic to enjoy a war, but I did. How could I not?
A man, who looks about 70, is trying to carry a big box of cut-up wood to the bonfire. He seems to be struggling. Without even thinking about it, I walk over to him and grab one end of the box.
He steps back, out of my reach, almost toppling over.
“No, thanks, girlie,” he says sternly. “This here’s men’s work. It’s too heavy for you.”
I’m too shocked to do anything but laugh.
“I have helped carry loads five times heavier than this box of firewood,” I say.
“The war’s over,” he says. “No need for you to do hard work no more.” He walks off, still struggling with the firewood, before I have a chance to reply.
I sit down, hurt by his words. I am capable of so much, but am not allowed to help people less able than I. Why? Because I am female and they are male. It is so unfair. The Prime Minister told us that all jobs would revert to the men when they got back. I think he expected us to go back into our nice little families and for everything to be the way it always was. But I can’t be slotted back into my old role in society, as though I’d never known any different.
"Sweetheart," a voice calls out, "You look like the war's just starting instead of finishing. Smile a little. We've got something to celebrate!"
I manage a small smile, but my heart isn't in it. My heart isn't in these celebrations at all. I feel more like mourning, than celebrating. It is almost as if I am upset that the war has ended. Almost? Why don’t I be truthful with myself, at least? I don’t want the war to end. I never wanted it to end. I wanted it to go on forever, so I could continue to work. I know that I’m horrible for thinking such a thing, but I can’t help it. I’m unhappy that the war has finished and I don't feel like celebrating at all.
Funny how it needs a war for women to be given a chance to do something, to show that we can do more than raise a family. A war is such a dreadful thing, but to women it is a chance, an opportunity.
Now the war has ended, and so has women's chance.
Wouldn't it be good if women could continue these jobs in peacetime? If men knew women’s true worth. Wouldn't it be good if, even though the war has ended, I could still have a career on the land?
Now that would be something to celebrate.
Something to Celebrate is one of the short stories featured in Scars, a collection of Australian historical stories.
Kissing The War
Goodbye
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Rosie the Riveter
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The gold buyer reaches out for the couple of ounces of gold-dust, held in a matchbox in my hand. He weighs it, then gives me his price. It is not even enough to buy food for the week. And I am nearing starvation. If I don’t make a substantial find soon I am not sure how I will survive. Why must I continue in this ridiculous way of living? It is not as if I don’t have a choice. It is time to stop this absurdity.
“Do you have some writing materials I could borrow?” I ask.
The gold buyer turns to look at me; gold flecks gathered in his hair and under his long fingernails. “Sure. Can you write?”
I nod, almost laughing. Shall I tell him that not only can I read and write English, but am competent in French and excel in Latin? Why bother? The gold-buyer would not find that at all interesting. The gold fields are full of educated gentlemen—but the ranks of society are different here. Ex-convicts have become wealthy and are treated as gentry. Whereas titled men have lost all their money and are treated as scum.
“If you write yourself, that’ll only be one pound.”
One pound. Whatever happened to common decency? This person would make more money than most people on the diggings, yet he still considers it necessary to charge for the loan of a pen and a piece of paper.
Dear Father, I write
After much expense, energy and labour, my efforts are still fruitless. It is becoming almost impossible to continue. Could you possibly allow me to return home? If so, I will need to be forwarded money for the journey to England. It appears you were right, after all.
That last sentence hurts. I put a line through it, then another, continuing until it is one black mess. I might have well left it there. The whole letter shows my father that he was right. He will read it and realise it at once. He will send me all the money I need. Of that, I am quite certain. Yet he will never quite forgive me. Not for failing—he was certain I would fail—but for admitting my failure. My father always taught his sons to have pride.
He warned me against going. He told me I would be wasting my time. I had brushed aside his advice, seeking my chance to make good of myself; my only chance to become wealthy. My father is quite wealthy, himself. With five sons in which to distribute, it dwindles considerably. And I am the youngest. My share will be barely enough to survive. By going to the goldfields I thought I could change that.
How wrong I was.
All the stories I had read or heard told of huge findings and over-night made millionaires. These stories were told because they were interesting. I did not realise it was not the full picture. No one told me about the many people who looked and struggled, never making a substantial find. Why would they? That part of life on the goldfields was dull.
So I left, filled with ambitions and dreams. The first week left blisters on my hand that I thought would never harden into calluses. Still I persisted, sure that I would make my big find within a couple of months—at the most. Two years later, and the huge nugget of which I dreamt has still not materialised. I do not even make enough money to pay for my license. Like the many others who also cannot afford it, I hide when the troopers come, hoping they will not catch me. Already, I have sold everything I owned, just to enable me to keep going. All that is left is my Father’s parting gift, a derringer pistol, still fully loaded and operational.
When I arrived in Australia, I took up an alias. Not because I was ashamed of my family name, but because I was proud of it. I did not want to use it while I was only an ordinary man on the goldfields—toiling hard amongst peasants and sons of convicts. I planned to return to my original name when I had made my fortune. Then I would be proud to use it again.
Working on the goldfields, I have to associate with ex-convicts, thieves, paupers and the lowest amongst society. I have sweated alongside of them, and have even sometimes surpassed them in bad language and behaviour. Morals and gentlemanly ways have no place on the goldfields. The others have seen me do things for which I am ashamed. That does not bother me, as long as my family name is not involved. Disgrace has come upon me many times, but never will I bring it on my father.
But won’t I bring that disgrace with me when I return? How awful for my father, who is so proud, to have to tell his peers that I failed on the goldfields. It will become gossip and people will snigger behind mine—and my father’s—back. Hurt my father as I have in the past, I cannot—and will not—hurt his pride. My mind is changed; I will not return.
I tear the letter into little pieces. Then I take the derringer from my sack. How beautiful she looks. She shines so brightly. I spend 5 minutes memorising each detail.
“She’s a beauty,” the gold buyer says.
“Yes, she is. How much will you give me for it?”
The gold buyer scratches his head. “Five pounds.”
I fight back the impulse to hit him. One pound for the loan of a pen and a piece of paper—yet 5 pounds for my most prized possession. How could I sell my father’s gift for such a meagre amount? It is impossible. How dare he even suggest it? I clench my fist, but do not raise it. I have my pride.
“May I borrow another piece of paper?” I ask through closed teeth.
Reluctantly, he hands it over. I can see him deciding against asking for more money. The look on my face a few seconds ago must have scared him. And people with bad judgement die easily here.
Dear
Father, I write
Just a short note to let you know that I am well. At the moment I am persisting in an area that seems sure to give me high returns. If I am lucky, which I am sure I will be, I must be alert—murder often happens here when men have found gold. Do not worry, though, I do not think that will happen to me.
I fold the letter and give the shopkeeper the last of my money to post it to England. Then I take my gun and walk far into the bush, away from this strange idea of civilisation. When I can hear no sounds of the shots from the gold-diggers, emptying their guns as they do every night, I take out the derringer. Such a beautiful piece. My father’s gift. It has never been used—
But that will soon change.
It has a task before it; quick, difficult and important. It does not matter if the court finds it murder or suicide. Nobody here knows my family name.
It is time to end my father’s disgrace.
My Father’s Gift is one of the short stories featured in Scars, a collection of Australian historical stories.
Dolly's Creek: An Archaeology of a Victorian Goldfields Community