Searching for Sofia, page 17
‘World domination! Plus, Australia has resources: Iron. Copper. Gold. Land! And, in any case, we need to support those people in England. If the Japanese should invade us, well, we’ll be wanting the help of Britain, so it’s only fair that we are there for them against the Germans. Besides, most Australians have family there. You included! Don’t you want to keep them safe?’
Jack knew that using Margaret’s family was scant defence; she came from a line of pacifists. Vanessa and Virginia and all the other Bloomsburys had been conscientious objectors throughout the Great War and Ness had lost Julian to the Spanish war. He wondered how Ness and Duncan, Clive and Roger were coping now, with war yet again threatening their country.
Margaret changed her tack. ‘Regardless, Jack, even if Australia wants to send its army, you are no soldier... You’re an artist!’
She had branded him with the same title aboard the Ormonde almost a decade earlier, a phrase that catapulted him into the world of painters and led him to Paris.
‘I can play soldiers as well as the next man, Margaret! You watch me.’
His playful pseudo-sibling teasing did not have the desired effect. Tears suddenly erupted and she did not seem to care who overheard her as she shouted at him, her voice thunderous and her face red, punctuating the phrases of her tirade with her fist against the table.
‘Let the British fight their own damned war! For heaven’s sake, Jack. People get killed in wars. People die! If Menzies wants to fight, well, he can take himself and his cabinet to London and pick up a gun himself. They’re always so bloody quick to send our young men off to do their dirty work, but you can bet the politicians and their sons won’t be standing on any battlefield facing the enemy’s bullets!’
Jack was shocked. He had expected opposition, for Margaret to give him a hundred reasons why he shouldn’t enlist. He had prepared for her to beg him not to go—to be frightened for him. What he hadn’t expected was the cold fury, the berating, the tears. Her tears were not for him, he knew, but for the young man that she’d lost in the Great War. Her beloved artist who’d put duty before love... and despite his promises to return, had got himself killed.
‘Margaret, I will be alright, I promise! I need to go—I need to find Sofia—be sure she is okay. She’s right in the middle of this, you realise. And after all, she is my wife.’
Margaret’s face fell, defeated. She nodded, hugging him.
‘Yes, I know, I know... It’s just... please be safe. Please make sure that you come home.’
‘Sure, I’ll come home. You’d probably kill me if I didn’t.’
‘That is not even funny, Jack. But you are right. I will. With my bare hands.’
* * *
Telling his parents was easier than Jack had expected. He wasn’t sure if his demeanour had changed since that morning, but it was as though they knew the minute he stepped through the front door.
‘You’ve enlisted! Already!’ His mother had tears in her eyes, but she held them back.
William’s response betrayed a gruffness in his voice. ‘Good on you, son. I can’t say I am happy to see you go to war, but I agree, Hitler needs to know that Australians are not prepared to put up with his nonsense, and we need to be there for Britain. God help them, they’ve barely recovered from the last war. Hopefully this will be over quickly.’
Over dinner they discussed every scenario they could imagine—both for Jack’s immediate future and that of the world’s stage. When would he be called up and where would he go? What training would he need? Where would he be posted? Would he be able to send letters home? William and Marian drew on their recollections of the Great War, and Jack could see they were trying to be positive. From her controlled reaction, he realised that his father had prepared his mother for the likelihood that Jack would enlist, and he was glad to see them take it so well. What choice did any of them have?
* * *
A week later, the letter he’d been waiting for arrived—crisp, cream coloured and important looking. Jack’s appointment to the Second Australian Imperial Force, Sixth Division, 17th Brigade was official. Of the Brigade’s four infantry units, he was allocated to the 2/5th and was to report for duty at the Brigade Headquarters, the Melbourne Showgrounds, on Friday, October 20th. Considering the date, he was pleased, for it meant that he’d be available to attend the Town Hall for the Herald Exhibition of Contemporary Art of London and Paris as he’d hoped.
* * *
They were strange for Jack—the days leading up to the exhibition. His mood felt unsettled, as if he were living between two worlds, which of course he was. He was about to step into a world entering a war, threatening and uncertain; but coupled with the thrilling possibility of being united with Sofia. The other was the pre-war world of Heide, which was fixated on the exhibition that would commence that very weekend. Preparations were all but completed, and conversations had come down to the simple things like which clothes to wear and the transport arrangements for the evening.
A sense of celebration filled the air, and although Australian towns and cities everywhere held men who were packing their bags and farewelling their families in readiness to take their place in the various army training camps dotted across the nation, the residents of Heide had more important things at hand. Cynthia had arrived for the weekend, and Margaret joined them for the Sunday evening before the opening. They sat around drinking wine and cocktails, and eating cheese and olive canapés—all of them thrilled that finally some of the world’s most extraordinary and significant modern artwork was about to be revealed to Melbourne's public.
On Monday the 16th they were up early and full of good humour as they manned the door of the Town Hall, happily chatting with the guests and handing out programs that listed the paintings on display. It was interesting to see the celebrities of the day arrive and the men from the Herald. Bill Burdett, the man responsible for selecting the paintings, was congratulated by everyone, as was Keith Murdoch for his role in sponsoring the event. It irked Jack to see Bellows clinging to the coattails of both men, smiling and nodding as if he alone was responsible for the success of the event.
Jack, Cynthia and Margaret manned the doors on and off throughout the week, and Jack enjoyed the exhibition far more than he’d anticipated. Cynthia was terrific company—witty and well-travelled—and as it turned out, the three shared much in common. She’d spent time in London a couple of years earlier, where she’d met Roger Fry and even been to the Burlington Gallery to attend an extraordinary surrealist exhibition that Roger had organised.
‘Surrealism! Truly, I ask you, what does anyone see in it? Modern art, yes, the impressionists and even some of the abstracts are interesting, but I just can’t understand the fuss about surrealism,’ Jack said, thinking of Salvador Dali’s strange concoctions, and remembering Monsieur Simon’s unflattering descriptions of the conceited artist.
‘You need to be open-minded. Surrealism portrays the subconscious mind, our dreams and fantasies,’ Cynthia explained.
‘Well, some people’s dreams are downright weird. I don’t think that surrealism helps the cause of modern art at all.’
‘Yes, Jack, but you always were such a conservative,’ Margaret teased, and he laughed, remembering how she’d taken him through the galleries of London, teaching him about the various art movements, and how he’d mocked some of the ridiculous works she’d shown him. She was right. He was a conservative. Essentially, the paintings that he appreciated most were traditional, although he now loved the impressionists like Renoir and Monet, and he didn’t even mind the strange colours used by Cezanne and Matisse.
It was wonderful to have the works of artists he’d seen on the walls of the Louvre here in Melbourne, amid the chattering Australians—vocal in their opinions, laughing and analysing the works with gusto. The atmosphere of the display was utterly unlike Paris, where he, Sofia and Andrés had frequently been shushed by frowning museum staff. In quiet moments, Jack looked around the room, his thoughts turning to Sofia. How he wished she were here with him! She would have loved this exhibition, and he felt sure that John would have found a way to include her in the organisation of this landmark event.
Manning the door was interesting, Jack found, for it was fun to see the arrivals. The vast majority of people knew little about modern art, but they were full of curiosity. In addition, it seemed that everybody connected to Melbourne’s art world was there, even those who openly abhorred modern art, and Jack was surprised to see Max Meldrum and numerous dignitaries from the National Gallery. He wondered if their opinion of modern art would be improved after they viewed the exhibition. Also surprising to him was the arrival of the Jorgensens and Skippers along with a group of Justus’ pupils. Lena was trailed by Mervyn, whose pencil worked furiously, filling his notebook—no doubt preparing an article for The Bulletin. The Montsalvat artists were equally surprised to see Jack at the door and keen to hear about his life at Heide. They were pleased to see him looking so well, although shocked when he told them he’d enlisted in the AIF and was reporting for duty later that week.
Fobbing off their concern, Jack enquired about the latest happenings at Montsalvat and learned that the babies had grown fast; now they were almost walking, and Sonia had settled into a small cabin with Arthur after all. Jack was pleased for Sonia and her daughter, sure that their lives would be much easier living within the semblance of a family, even if there was no ring or certificate to formalise the arrangement.
From the outset, the exhibition received wildly opposing reviews. Burdett and Murdoch were lauded as visionaries and geniuses for allowing Australians the opportunity to experience modern art, whilst the denigration expressed by Melbourne conservatives descended to new lows as they described the exhibition as ‘putrid meat’ and called modernism ‘a disease’.
Notwithstanding, it was very possible that their negativity served to support the goal of the exhibition’s organisers: to provide widespread exposure of modern art to Victorians. Throughout the week, over twenty thousand attendees walked through the doors of the Town Hall, and so popular did the exhibition prove, that its duration was extended by four days. Nonetheless, Jack had to withdraw from his door duties, for on Friday he was due to report at Melbourne’s showgrounds for his initiation into the Second Australian Imperial Force.
Chapter 17
PART TWO - THE MIDDLE EAST
Boarding the train to the showgrounds, Jack noticed the buzz of excitement that filled the air immediately. The carriage was full, with far more young men on board than he remembered seeing in times past when he’d travelled from Eltham to the city on his way to work. At Flinders Street Station, he joined the dozens of men now striding along the platform with purposeful gaits, each gripping bags or small suitcases, converging on the central console. Like a multi-tailed snake, they wove towards the sign indicating Platform Four and descended the long ramp to board the train resting there. Soon, it was full with standing room only, and men squeezed into the doorways to watch as the train rolled through the rail yard, barely exceeding a walking pace, creaking along the intersecting web of rails until it finally came to a standstill at Richmond Station, barely five minutes away.
On disembarking, Jack gave himself over to the human tide, allowing it to direct his footsteps towards their common destination: the Melbourne Showgrounds.
The showgrounds had the atmosphere of schoolboys arriving for a camp—albeit an adult version—and as they approached the makeshift buildings, his footsteps stalled along with the crowd around him, uncertainty setting in. Although no one seemed to know what to do next, the air was alive with expectancy and chatter. Many of the lads, judging from their rough clothing, were labourers from farms or perhaps factory workers, and excited for a change from their otherwise dreary lives.
In the distance he could see a series of tables set in a row, and already men were forming lines behind them. They were guided by officers in uniform, who weaved among the new arrivals, calling directions—‘Fifth/Sixth this way... Seventh/Eighth that way... The tables are in alphabetical order for your surnames. Check the letter you received if you are unsure of your unit.’
Jack had been allocated to the 2/5th unit, and so he turned to the right accordingly. Moving along the rows of tables, he read the sign, 2AIF 6th Division 17th Brigade 2/5th Battalion N–Z. He joined the queue and quickly arrived at the front desk, where a tick was placed against his name; and he was given a sheath of papers, including a map of the showgrounds. He noted the cross that marked Hut 87—the large rectangular tent that he would call home for the next few weeks—and made his way towards it.
* * *
The tent was sparsely furnished with rows of canvas stretchers set out along the perimeter. Half a dozen men stood in a circle in the centre, chatting and laughing. Their belongings had been neatly set beside camp beds, as if they had anticipated the army’s stipulation for orderliness and weren’t going to be found wanting.
A stretcher in the corner of the room appeared to be unclaimed and Jack ventured towards it, nodding at the tallest man in the group, who’d caught his eye.
‘G’day, mate. Welcome to the Bat Cave.’ The men laughed, pointing to the decomposing remains captured in the tent’s top rail. The man speaking was about thirty years old—and at least six foot six, with shoulders a yard wide. Huge, by any stretch of the imagination, Jack reached out for the lump of a hand extended toward him and felt welcomed by his hearty greeting.
‘Shorty.’ The man gestured to himself, chuckling before turning to the others. ‘Snowy and Macka.’ He pointed to the two men on his right. ‘We’re from Horsham. Came down on the train last night. And here we have Johno and the Doc. They’ve just arrived from down Frankston way.’
‘Jack,’ he replied. ‘Pleased to meet you. I am from here—Melbourne. Heidelberg.’ He shook hands with each of the men in turn, listening as Shorty bantered.
‘Watch out, boys. We’ve got another city-slicker here. Better keep our heads low. If Jacko here gets a gun in his hand, he’s as likely to blow our heads off as hit the Jerries.’ Their laughter was good natured, and so it began: Jack became Jacko, and a city versus country rivalry was launched. For half an hour the men chatted, and Jack learned that Shorty and Snowy were brothers, and Macka their friend. They were sons of men from a Light Horse Brigade who’d served in the Great War and determined to do their bit to keep the world free of the likes of Hitler. Like Jack, they’d joined up at the first opportunity and were ready for anything. They told him that they were only sorry that they could not bring their horses along.
Over the next half hour, another dozen men stepped into the hut. It became a ritual that each would be greeted by Shorty, who demonstrated an astonishing memory for detail as each time he repeated introductions on behalf of the whole group before bestowing the new arrival with a nickname and making him feel welcome.
Together they chatted until a loud siren sounded through the grounds; and guessing it was a call to assemble, they left the bunkhouse and headed outdoors.
‘Hey, hup,’ said Shorty as they shuffled into a ragged line and straightened their backs. Winking at Jack, he chuckled and glanced at his watch. ‘O nine thirty hours and reporting for duty.’
‘Hmph...’ the uniformed man standing on a makeshift stage tapped on his microphone to get attention. ‘Good morning, men. It’s wonderful to see you all here, so bright and early. We welcome you and are very glad for your decision to join the Second Australian Imperial Force. Believe me, Australia needs men exactly like you—men who show initiative and commitment to duty.’
The man speaking introduced himself as Major General Thomas Blamey, the commanding officer of the Sixth Division. He was immaculately presented; his uniform freshly pressed, his shoulders square, his khaki-clad breast a fine backdrop for the multitude of colourful ribbons gracing it, an array of stripes on his sleeve: irrefutable evidence that he bore an impressive military service history. Blamey’s voice was firm and authoritative, and Jack had no doubts as to the man’s proficiency as leader of the Australian military. He spoke to them at length, describing the virtues of life as a soldier and the enormous pride that their government and country bore for each of them for volunteering themselves to the AIF in their country’s hour of need. His words drew to a close with a final statement, accompanied by a smile.
‘You may be raw yet, and you will have much to learn. Nonetheless, you are good material and it is our intention to train you until you are Australia’s finest army—as fine as our Diggers of the Great War.’
Clapping erupted at the words, and Jack looked around him, detecting the ripple of pride now swirling through the lines—just a mild current, but discernible. He felt it rise within him too and was glad of his decision to join up. There was something about being here, together with so many types, all sharing a common purpose. Men from rural villages as well as the bigger country towns and those, like him—from the city. Men who were educated and others, possibly illiterate. Men who showed determination and savvy, like the fellows from Horsham. A mix of nationalities gathered here also, judging from the various accents he’d heard since he’d arrived, and even a few Aborigines’ dark features stood out among the rows of pale-skinned faces.
Jack watched as a second officer took the podium, who introduced himself as Brigadier Stanley Savige, General Officer in Command of the 17th Brigade. He welcomed them and explained that they were just the first five hundred of those who’d be arriving to the camp. Over the next two days the remainder of the 17th Brigade would arrive, and by Sunday night in excess of three thousand men would be in residence at the showground. Looking around the lines, Jack was amazed. As it was, the five hundred or so fellows gathered together felt crowded. To think that their numbers would be multiplied six-fold seemed incredible.
The man continued to speak, advising that the weekend’s timetable was written up on the blackboard outside the canteen, and then he followed with a brief outline of the events that they could expect. And in a single sentence Jack felt the thrill of transformation from civilian to soldier, ushered by one of the most fundamental features of language—the words pertaining to the measurement of time. They would reconvene on the oval for some basic training at 1030hrs, break for lunch at 1230hrs and resume afternoon training activities at 1330hrs. For the sake of organisation, they would be divided into groups of twenty-five—each led by men of the Militia who would supervise their activities and answer any questions they may have regarding military protocol. The real training would begin on Monday; however, they should use the weekend to learn as much as they could. Additionally, they’d have time to get to know each other and familiarise themselves with the resources available to them at the showgrounds. Immediately following the meeting, they would be issued with some basic supplies, following which, morning tea would be available at the canteen.
