Searching for Sofia, page 18
After being dismissed, Jack joined with the men from the Bat Cave, lining up for their provisions: two pannikins, a knife, fork and spoon, two blankets and a paillasse stuffed with straw. ‘So far, so good,’ they all agreed, as they headed across to the canteen.
Morning tea was plentiful. Steaming cups of Bushells, accompanied by bread and jam of every type imaginable: fig and apple, quince jelly, raspberry and apricot. Judging from the comments Jack heard, the jam was a real treat for some of the lads.
The men from the Bat Cave were pleased to find that they were to be combined with the men of Hut 88 for training activities, and a good-natured competitiveness developed between the two groups as they followed the instructions of a dour, nervous type, a Private Johns, who’d been given the task of guiding the new recruits through the weekend’s activities.
At 1230hrs, Jack, Shorty, Snowy and Macka filed into the mess hall, where lunch was being served. Ham and pea soup was followed by generous slabs of mutton, well boiled vegetables and to finish, a baked rice custard. After almost a year of eating a mostly vegetarian diet at Heide, Jack enjoyed the mutton and had to acknowledge that despite being spoilt by Sunday’s baking, he found the meals tolerable. Very likely they were more than some of the men were used to.
* * *
Throughout the afternoon, evening and into the night, a constant stream of men arrived at the showgrounds, all bearing confused expressions as they wandered around, adapting to the strange new world.
On Saturday morning, huddled around the benches in the canteen, full from the porridge, toast and tea he’d eaten, Jack felt like an old-timer. Barely twenty hours in, he was already familiar with the layout of the camp, the location of the canteen and restrooms; and he was developing a fast-growing network of new mates.
The weekend’s routine was much the same as the previous day—a morning’s muster followed by exercises, morning tea, more exercises and lunch and then still more exercises. The only difference was that the numbers of men increased almost by the hour, and the oval became full as groups of twenty-five vied for space to conduct their activities.
At the end of each day, Shorty and Macka were quick to organise teams for football, inviting anyone within earshot—who thought they knew one end of a ball from the other—to the far end of the showgrounds, where goal posts were created from rubbish bins, and opposing teams were distinguished by their jumpers: sleeves up versus sleeves down. Quickly, there were over forty players to a side. Needless to say, the games were riotous.
On the first day, Jack joined the men on the football field for a short time; but as the teams’ numbers swelled, he left them to it, choosing instead to stroll around the camp. He was surrounded by men of every description, using their free time to either socialise with the others, or to escape to a quiet place for a few minutes where they could sit back and watch the world around them. Some, Jack noticed were using the time to write in journals, or perhaps they were writing letters to their girlfriends or families. Card games sprang up everywhere, though uniformed men were quick to shut down games where the jingling of ha’pennies was heard. No gambling was allowed, much to the disappointment of some of the men.
As the weekend wore on, Jack enjoyed the activities and the camaraderie of the men in his team. He was conscious of feeling different—independent—and he liked it. Nobody really knew him here; sure, they called him Jacko and everyone was friendly, but here relationships were superficial. His grief and losses were private, as were any burdens the other lads may carry. In some ways, everybody had the chance for a fresh start. A blank slate on which all of them were equal and each could rebuild their lives into a new and better version of himself.
Like so many times in Jack’s past when he’d found himself amongst strangers, a desire to sketch took hold of him. It was as if, amid the men in this camp, he’d reverted to a Jack of old, the schoolboy who’d sat in parks or down by the river with his pad and pencil poised. Who’d enjoyed watching the people around him—family groups playing cricket or fishing, boats on the river, children flying kites—bringing the scenes to life with deft movements of his pencil on the page.
His thoughts turned to Sofia, wondering what she would make of all of this, and it shocked him to realise that he found it difficult to form a clear picture of her face. He decided that it must be this overwhelmingly masculine environment that obscured her image from him.
* * *
On Monday morning, following the relaxed introduction to army life over the weekend, the men of the Bat Cave were keen to commence preliminary training, learning the basic skills: lining up and saluting, marching, and body-strengthening exercises. Quickly their friendly rivalry intensified, each determined to run farther, carry more weights and do more push-ups than anybody else. Whilst giving it his best, Jack accepted that nobody had a chance of outdoing Shorty and Snowy. Coming from a large sheep property, the whole of the brothers’ lives had been committed to running, lifting and carrying; and each had the strength of an ox. Nonetheless, Jack was satisfied with his progress and thankful for the years of shovel work, lifting beams and climbing around scaffolding with Matcham at Montsalvat, as well as for his last twelve months working in the garden at Heide.
Each afternoon ended with a game of football on the back oval, which became a gathering place to end the day before they lined up for showers and headed to the dining room for dinner.
On the first of November, the men were called to the quartermaster’s hut to receive their khaki uniforms. With much hilarity they dressed in the ill-fitting garments, swapping slouch hats until they found a size that fit, and strapped on thick webbing belts to hold up the oversized waistlines of the baggy trousers. To Jack, it seemed that they were more like boys playing dress-ups than soldiers, and it had been fun.
When they were issued with Lee Enfield .303 rifles, albeit without bullets, Jack watched the manner in which the Horsham boys handled the weapons, weighing them in their hands, peering through the sights, turning them over with casual nonchalance before slinging them onto their shoulders with the ease of lads who’d been shooting rabbits since they were ten-year-olds. In Jack’s hands the weapon felt awkward, and he resisted the irrational feeling that it might discharge in his hand despite its empty chamber. He’d never held a gun in his life, and even devoid of bullets, it felt like a killing machine that could explode at any second.
Shorty evidently picked up on Jack’s caution. ‘Come here, city boy. We better show you how this thing works before you shoot our nogg’ns off.’ Finding a place to squat, he spent fifteen minutes explaining how Jack needed to hold the rifle against himself as though he were caressing his sweetheart, the butt of the stock firmly fitted into his shoulder, the barrel against his cheekbone. He pointed out the sights, one near the stock, the other at the end of the long barrel, and demonstrated how Jack should line them up to be sure that his aim was true, then showed him how to work the bolt and how to slowly squeeze the trigger. For as casual as the lesson was, on the bright sunny day in the back corner of the showground, it shook Jack to think that one day in the very near future he might be pointing this very weapon into the face of the enemy; that by his hand, it may kill another human being.
* * *
Although Jack and the others had commenced their training at Melbourne’s showgrounds, the site was only ever intended to be a temporary measure. In mid-November, it was announced that the men of the 17th Brigade were to be transported by rail to the camp that had been built especially for them, seventy miles north of Melbourne, near the township of Seymour.
William and Marian, accompanied by Margaret, were amongst the families at Richmond Station on the morning of their departure.
‘Heavens, Mum. You’d think we were heading off to war to be slaughtered, with all of the tears going on here!’
‘Jack! No! It’s just that we don’t know when we’ll see you again. Who knows what the future holds? We just have to make the most of these moments while we can.’ She gave him a large brown envelope. ‘Don’t open it now,’ she said, but Jack couldn’t resist.
It held three photographs. One of himself and his parents, taken immediately after his graduation—he had no recollection of ever seeing it. The next was a photograph of himself and Sofia on their wedding day—a copy of the one that his mother kept on the mantlepiece in her dining room. He gently touched the face of Sofia, whose smile was full of the joy of their marriage, and wondered how on earth he could ever forget her features. The third was a photograph of Scotty, taken in the back garden of Copelin Street. His boy was sitting in the small tin truck his grandparents had bought him two years earlier, and the sight of it brought tears to Jack’s eyes.
‘Is it okay? I hope you don’t mind! I thought that you might like to have it... you know... when you are so far from home. I know it is sad and all, but I just thought you should have it.’
‘Thank you, Mum. Thank you!’ He hugged her. ‘I’m going to find Sofia, you know!’
‘Of course you will, love. Bring her home to us all, please!’
A whistle blew, and as they boarded the train, Jack compared the men around him to the motley collection of lads who’d gathered at the showgrounds barely a month earlier. Now they wore their uniforms with ease; the slouch hats looked worn and comfortable and he couldn’t imagine them dressed any other way. They looked like... well... an army, prepared for battle, and he felt proud to be numbered among them.
After the initial excitement of boarding, the men settled into quiet groups. As the train crept through the city of Melbourne via Spencer Street and wove its way northward, their mood seemed to grow sombre, imbued with a sense that the fun and games were over—that action was imminent.
* * *
Two hours later, they arrived at Seymour Station, from where they were transported via lorries to the camp seven miles out of town. Much had been said of this purpose-built camp, that had been constructed in the space of a month, designed to accommodate twenty-thousand men. Jack had been quick to join in the jests: joining the city boys in their teasing of the country lads, bantering with Shorty, Snowy and Macka about the expectation that there would be a bunch of sheep sheds for them to sleep in; how instead of a lavatory, they’d be issued with cut-up newspapers and a shovel; and how for meals they’d take a sheep from a neighbouring paddock and would make damper over open fires.
Now, finally they were here, and Jack could not deny Camp Puckapunyal was nothing less than impressive. Three hundred and twenty huts, as well as kitchens, showers, meat houses and stables had been built from timber that had been transported from mills across Victoria, and its water supply was pumped directly from the Goulburn River. It was astonishing—a whole brand spanking new village risen where barely a month earlier, only virgin bush had stood. It must have cost thousands of pounds, and Jack couldn’t wait for an opportunity to climb the rise that overlooked the camp and sketch it from the elevated position.
Weeks at the camp turned into months, and while Jack was pleased to be given leave to spend Christmas with his family he couldn’t shake the feeling of being a soldier who was walking among civilians—a man who bore knowledge that was to be kept secret—and when it was time to return to the camp on Boxing Day, he was ready. Whilst it had been wonderful to spend time with his parents and Margaret, he’d found their endless questions exhausting. He limited his replies to the extraordinary resources that the soldiers had been provided with and the magnitude of the camp, rather than discussing the nature of the training activities. For whilst training routines at ‘Pucka’ were similar to those at the showgrounds, now their activities had a far more deadly intent. Bayonet drill, weapons training and toughening-up exercises seemed endless. Jack learned about the sorts of artillery the units would have access to, and beyond their .303s they were trained to use Webley revolvers and Mills bombs. The details of war machines such as Matilda tanks and Bren Carriers were demonstrated, and they were all taught how to manage machine guns such as the Owen and Bren—weapons that would be handled only by the gunners—and additionally, they were taught how to work as a team to setup, feed and fire the largest of machine guns—the Vickers. In addition, there was marching and marching and marching some more. Many of the younger men grumbled, but Jack knew that these preparations were not just about fitness and order, but also about mental strength. The refusal to give in. Jack was intrigued by the way the men in his unit garnered the tenacity to maintain the stringent training regime. For some, like Shorty and Snowy it was about a hatred for the Germans, a determination to take them down. For others—like the Doctor and his friend, George—it was about the competition, the notion that the battles ahead of them would be defined by the victors and the defeated, and that they had no intention of being the latter. Jack had his own source of motivation: each time he endured yet another dozen push-ups followed by jogging ten laps around the oval, his thoughts were for Sofia. For her, he’d train twenty hours a day if he had to. Nobody knew what was ahead of them, but if they experienced anything like the Diggers did in the Great War—where troops had spent months holed up in trenches and walked ten days at a time with minimal rations—he was determined that he would survive for Sofia.
Chapter 18
In early April, the prime minister’s order came—the 17th Brigade was to embark within the month, crossing the ocean in readiness to support the French and British in their fight against Hitler and Mussolini. Where they were destined for exactly, nobody knew. Jack accepted that during wartime, many things were held secret for fear that the enemy would take advantage of the intelligence, but ignorance didn’t stop him from weighing in on the various discussions. A bloke called Pete heard that they were going up into the Pacific, while The Doc’s father was attached to the British Foreign Office; and he’d told his son they might be heading for somewhere near Russia. Others thought that they might be going directly to Poland to wrestle it back from Hitler. Jack remained convinced that they’d be posted somewhere in the United Kingdom, or even France; surely each were under threat and needed reinforcements. He hoped he was right because as soon as he got leave, he intended to search for Sofia.
It was strange, Jack realised, to be so confident that he would find her; so sure even, that she wanted to be found. It was illogical, perhaps, but ever since Menzies had announced that Australia was at war, it had seemed that Jack’s whole purpose in life had been clarified. As Sofia’s husband, it was his duty to ensure that his wife was okay. And in being sure of finding Sofia, he was even more sure that at last, they would be reunited. Jack constantly imagined the moment when he would finally lay eyes on her; perhaps a chance meeting with her at a railway, or across a café, or perhaps he would bump into her while walking in the streets of London or Paris. It was fanciful, he knew, but in his mind it seemed utterly feasible, and more than that, the thrill of his imaginings became his daily inspiration and hope for the future.
* * *
Before they were to travel across the world, the men of the 17th Brigade had one last duty: All 5000 troops would march through the centre of Melbourne. It was on a Saturday, and the autumn sky was clear, the air crisp. The march had the atmosphere of a fair. The army’s brass band took the lead, footsteps striding to the 2/2 beat of the drum, trumpets and coronets weaving bright tunes—Roll out the Barrel and Tipperary. Thousands of people—citizens, as Jack now viewed them—lined the streets, and it was touching to be on the receiving end of their show of appreciation. Children waved their small flags, and the adults clapped and called out words of encouragement.
‘On you, boys!’
‘Stay safe!’
‘May God be with you!’
‘Go get ‘em!’
‘Come home and I’ll marry you!’
Jack nodded as he caught the eye of ladies dabbing lace handkerchiefs to their eyes, smiling bravely through tears. He smiled at the dozens of young women who ran forward, pressing small slips of paper into the hands of troops—which he later found to be postal addresses where a lonely soldier far from home might like to send a letter. He returned the grim gaze of the older men who stood silently, unsmiling, their brows furrowed, offering barely perceptible nods of their heads. Jack had no doubts that these men were Diggers from The Great War. The war that was supposed to end all wars. What must they be thinking today, he wondered? The Diggers knew the horrors of the trenches. They knew that not all of those marching past them today would come home, and truth be told, so did those marching. However, these were reflections for another day. Today, every single lad felt invincible. They’d be home in no time for sure!
* * *
After the parade, Jack joined the hundreds of soldiers who’d packed into the main bar of The Young and Jackson, the hotel directly opposite Flinders Street Station—one he had passed possibly a thousand times in his life and never once thought to enter. The mood was celebratory and Jack joined in with the men as they toasted each other, toasted their anticipated victory and toasted Chloe, the beautiful woman depicted standing in all of her naked glory—her luminous curves and silky skin the closest that some young soldiers would ever get to the charms of a female.
