Searching for Sofia, page 33
It was John Treloar, Jack realised, the man who worked for the army’s Department of Information. The man he’d met in Alexandria two years earlier and who, with the stroke of a pen, had reassigned Jack’s status from private to captain and reallocated his commission from soldier to war artist. Inwardly, Jack squirmed, feeling a little fraudulent. He wondered if he was about to be officially reprimanded for dereliction of duties. As his Cretan ordeal had unfolded, opportunities to draw soldiers on the battlefield had ceased and all he had to offer Treloar were village scenes.
‘So, Jack, I am glad to see you back. Very glad! I’m supposed to look after my war artists, be responsible for your health and well-being. As you might imagine, I was a little concerned when you went missing on me for almost two years! It was a happy day when I heard that you were back in Australia, and I am sure that your family is pleased as well.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jack responded, wondering what Treloar might be expecting from him now.
‘That friend of yours—Margaret—she was like a dog with a bone. She harassed me non-stop, week after week, wanting to know what had happened to you. I don’t like to think what she might have done with me if you hadn’t returned!’
Jack laughed, relaxed by Treloar’s humour. ‘Yes, she’s been known to take quite a few men apart in her time. I am rather glad that she is on our side and not the enemy’s.’
‘So, it’s just your shoulder? Your left shoulder? Everything else is okay?’
Jack nodded.
‘I can see that your right hand is safe. Do you think that you will be right to paint again? I mean, not now, but when you are feeling better?’
‘I expect so. There is nothing wrong with my right arm, although painting one-handed might prove a bit tricky. I’m happy to give it a try. Mr Martin—my surgeon—believes my left arm should come good, once the wound heals and I do some rehabilitation exercises. It will probably be a bit stiff for a while. Time will tell, sir.’
‘Right-o, then. That's wonderful. Anyway, never mind painting for now. I really just popped in to see that you were okay. War is the darndest thing, but at least you are alive!’
‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate your bothering to come and see me.’
‘Not a problem. If you like, I'll fish out some of those sketches of yours. If you are at loose ends, you might like to sort through them.
* * *
True to his word, the following week, Treloar arrived, bearing a satchel filled with sketchbooks. Picking out one, Jack noted how a front sheet had been attached that included a description of the work on each page.
There were over eighty sketches that he’d put together from Alexandria to Bardia to Tobruk. Looking through the drawings, Jack felt it all coming back to him. Not just the places, but the sound of the men’s voices—Shorty, Snowy and Macka. Turning the pages, he saw them jogging in single file towards Bardia and then, a few pages later, in similar scenes at Tobruk. He wondered how they were. He could smell the cordite and taste the dust. Looking at the first sketch he’d done at Bardia, took him straight back to those early hours of shivering in the cold, waiting for the battle to begin; the dreadful combination of thrill and fear as he’d stood watching as the flickering fingerlings of sunrays filtered across the desert. He inhaled deeply as he relived the anticipation for the call of ‘fire’, heralding a cacophony of whistling bombs and thudding twenty-five-pounders, amid flashing lights and choking gunpowder, into which the men of the 17th had made their advance.
Jack smiled at his sketch of enemy POWs held behind the barbed wire enclosure, remembering the 2/7th singing with the Italian prisoners. He recalled how elated they’d all been after defeating the Italians in both Bardia and Tobruk, and how desperately they’d waited for their chance to be let loose on the Germans.
Lifting a second bundle from the bag Treloar had brought in, Jack realised it was, in fact, the package that he’d left with Marita. She’d found a way to send them after all, despite his insistence that she not take the risk. To have been caught with these drawings, portraying scenes around Suva Bay prior to the German invasion, the Fallschirmjäger dropping from the sky and sketches of young Cretan children playing cricket with Leo and Danny in Astikas, could have been a death sentence for her. He hoped that she was safe.
Glancing through the images, he thought of George and Michael, and Marita’s uncle, whose lamp in the window had warned them when the village was unsafe. What extraordinary people the Cretans were, resisting the invasion of their island and caring for the Allies who’d been left behind as though they were family.
Jack flicked between the pages and waves of emotion ran through him. The battles depicted here were no longer with the Italians, but rather the Germans. There were the half a dozen sketches he’d completed around Kalamata, following the disastrous confrontation with the Germans in Larissa and before boarding the Costa Rica.
Jack looked closely at the scenes he’d drawn on the beach at Suda and those of the Fallschirmjägers tumbling from the skies above the Retimo Airfield, lost in his memories of the madness of that day, when Treloar spoke.
‘This would make a wonderful painting, Jack. We have some camera footage of it, but a painting... it would be extraordinary!’
Jack nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I knew, even as I sketched these, how they should be painted. No ordinary painting could portray the insanity of that day. These parachutists—they looked so beautiful, drifting on the breeze like dandelions on an air current. And then, as soon as they reached our gun range, we picked them off as if they were no more than wild ducks. Bang, bang, bang. It was surreal, seeing them slump, knowing that they were dead, and that is how it must be painted.’
Treloar nodded and looked at him curiously.
‘You are the artist, Jack. You do what you think. After all, you can paint the scene a dozen times if you wish, until you are happy with it.’
Treloar did not stay long; it was as though he knew that Jack’s reunion with his memories was deeply personal, and Jack appreciated his thoughtfulness.
He flipped through the pages a second time, this time looking for a specific image. It didn’t take long. It was the drawing of the young Italian soldier who had lain on the ground in Bardia, his blood spilling from his leg. Just looking at his drawing reminded Jack of the lad, his face calm and resolute; how he’d gratefully accepted the sip of water Jack had offered, and then, in the shelter of Jack's shadow, he’d taken his last breaths.
Breathing deeply, he turned the page, gently passing his hand over the words the boy had scrawled. Written in Italian, they were indecipherable to Jack, but he recalled the promise he’d given: that he would send this message to the boy’s loved ones. The number that Jack had recorded was clear, taken from the boy’s tag. Hopefully, it would allow him to trace the family. He’d ask Treloar. The man seemed compassionate, and Jack thought that he would understand the gesture. It wasn’t the thing to consort with the enemy, but those minutes beside the dying lad had been Jack’s first encounter with death, and the boy was just that—a boy, dying for his country in the same way that Australian lads died for theirs. Nothing to do with right or wrong, friend or foe. Just a young man whose family loved him, and who’d doubtless want to learn something of their son's last moments and be glad to know that he had not died alone.
* * *
Three weeks later, Marian was excited when Jack asked if she could bring his old easel into the hospital, and he knew that she saw it as a sign that he was getting well. Treloar, also gladdened to see Jack improving and keen to encourage him to create paintings for the War Memorial, had already purchased a supply of paints and a roll of canvas. Very quickly it became a combined goal, with the rehabilitation officer putting a couple of soldiers to work banging together timber to create frames and, following Jack’s instructions, helping him to stretch and prepare the canvas in readiness for painting. His left hand was useful for holding things, but the weakness in his shoulder limited his ability to lift anything heavier than a feather.
As soon as the first canvas was ready, Jack began painting. He decided to work in chronological order, thinking it would help to reconnect with the various emotions he’d experienced, and in doing so, ensure his paintings would better depict the truth of the events.
* * *
Treloar visited weekly, not only to check on the progress of the paintings, but also showing a genuine interest in his recovery—which was slow—and Jack realised that Treloar took the responsibility of managing his war artists’ welfare seriously.
Each time he visited, they chatted for half an hour or so. Jack found the man interesting and was fascinated to learn how an idea born two decades earlier had been realised; and now an Australian War Memorial had been built in Australia’s capital city because of their determination and fundraising. The idea had come to Charles Bean when he and Treloar had worked in London during the Great War, and together they’d ensured the return to Australia of the artefacts they believed were the property of Australians.
‘You wouldn’t believe what we managed to bring out,’ he said. ‘Thousands... tens of thousands... letters, photos, film and more. A shipload! There was no way that I was going to leave it for the British to use in their Memorial—they had enough of their own material. It’s all here in Melbourne. I'll show you one day. And now, with our War Memorial finally opened, I am slowly transferring everything to Canberra. It’s wonderful!’
It was obvious that Bean and Treloar had made a formidable partnership; Bean, it seemed, was a man with a big vision, while Treloar had the skills and patience to painstakingly identify, categorise and pack over 25,000 items. What Jack also realised was that, even greater than Treloar’s passion for collecting items was his determination to uncover the stories behind each. He was dedicated to creating not only an accurate record of war history, but also a display that was interesting to military historians and the public alike.
It was through their chats that Jack discovered Treloar was no longer employed by the Department of Information—something he was very pleased about.
‘Thank God I left all that behind. We were expected to distribute factual information to keep the public informed, and yet were being instructed by the politicians of the need to keep the public happy! Honestly, in wartime, the facts are hardly likely to keep anybody happy. And the very notion that the Department could report the facts of war alongside propaganda and censorship was ridiculous.’ But that had been only half of Treloar’s problem.
‘The worst of it was that I was expected to spruik about how successful the government was in its handling of the war, and hence promote its political ideology. The whole situation was appalling, what with the various prime ministers complaining that they were being under-acknowledged, the Opposition questioning everything we released and the poor public quite rightly annoyed that they were being fed sunshine and fairy tales.’
‘Yes, I remember my friends saying exactly that,’ Jack replied, recalling Neil’s and John’s grumblings about the newspaper articles they’d read even before Jack had enlisted.
To Treloar’s relief, his complaints about the work at the Department of Information had been accepted and he had been allocated the role of Director of War Records, which had been expanded to include Military History and Information; and Treloar now worked out of the Victorian Barracks, just near the city, where his collection was stored.
While he was reserved about his personal life, Jack learned of his love of cricket, his commitment to his Methodist faith and his fears for his son. Warrant Officer Ian Treloar was currently missing in action: presumed dead.
‘I can’t help but believe that he’s okay, Jack,’ Treloar confided. ‘Look at you. We were sure that you were gone... and here you are. Anything’s possible.’
Jack dearly hoped that Treloar was right, and that his son was safe.
It was in the spirit of this disclosure that when next Treloar arrived, Jack produced an envelope, and emptying it, he unfolded the letter he’d written to an Italian mother he’d never met, where he’d described the circumstances of her son’s death. Jack also showed Treloar the message that the boy had written and a sketch that he’d made, where the young man looked peaceful and rested. He asked if Treloar might be able to locate the origins of the boy’s village based on the official number Jack had recorded, and perhaps get the documents to the family.
‘Sure Jack, I’ll see what I can do. I agree, the family would undoubtedly be thankful to hear words of his final moments. I know that I would be.’
Chapter 34
Jack was surprised when, in late August, Treloar arrived, accompanied by a lady. Tall and slender, with fairish hair and a wry expression, she looked decidedly uncomfortable in her pencil-thin skirt and army jacket. The stripes on her shoulder revealed that she shared the rank of captain with Jack, and he saluted her. She was the first female captain that Jack had ever met, and he was amused to see her blush even as she fumbled a salute in reply.
Treloar was formal with his introductions. ‘Captain Tomlinson, I’d like you to meet Captain Heysen. She, too, is one of our war artists and, indeed, the first female to join our team. Captain Heysen will be painting the women’s services—nurses, munitions workers and so on. Her work will be a very valuable addition to the War Memorial’s collection, don’t you agree?’
Jack nodded, surprised at the incongruity of women artists, who struggled to gain respect within the art world in Australia, being shown respect from the military.
Treloar continued. ‘Nora... Captain Heysen is Hans Heysen’s daughter. You might have heard of him—the landscape artist? Very good, he is. A Director of the South Australian Gallery. He paints some of Australia’s best landscapes, so Captain Heysen certainly comes with a good pedigree. I thought that since you were here, you might show her your work. Give her a sense of what we are doing for the Memorial.’
Hans Heysen’s daughter! Of course, Jack had heard of Hans Heysen. Like Streeton and McCubbin, Heysen was well-known for his watercolour paintings of the Australian bush, and his exhibitions had often been featured in the newspapers.
‘Certainly. It would be a pleasure.’ Jack led them to the small area where he’d set up his painting materials. To the delight of his rehabilitation officer, Jack was increasingly spending a few hours wielding a brush before the fatigue that continuously dogged him resurfaced and sent him back to his bed for a rest.
Captain Heysen’s expression revealed little as she studied the painting resting on the easel, a scene from the battle of Tobruk.
‘And this was started during the fighting?’
‘No, not during the battle. But while it was happening, I did some sketches... dozens of them. The landscape and the buildings. The planes coming in and the Matildas and infantry all doing their jobs. It is only now that I'm putting it all together.’
Treloar spied Jack’s drawing books containing the sketches he’d made in Egypt and Libya. ‘Do you mind, Jack?’ he asked, before selecting one and handing it to Captain Heysen.
Again, the captain’s face was blank as she turned the pages, one by one.
‘See, Nora, how Jack captures the grit and determination of the soldiers as they enter the battle?’
Captain Heysen’s reply was curt. ‘Yes, John. I guess if one were in the battlefield, “grit and determination” would be a feature, but the women whose portraits you have me painting, with their dull uniforms and expressions of desperation to get back to their work after half an hour with me, do not lend themselves to grit and determination. Unless, of course, it is their determination to see me banished from their presence.’
Jack was both shocked and amused at the woman’s disrespectful tone. It was obvious that she did not share the same easy relationship with Treloar that he did. To the older man’s credit, his reply was patient.
‘Now, Captain, you know it would not be right for a young woman to be out on the war front. What do you say, Jack? You’d agree that the battlefield is no place for a lady?’
Jack’s thoughts turned to those women he’d seen clubbing the German parachutists who’d fallen from the skies onto the airfields of Crete; of Marita, moving across the mountains in her disguise; collaborating as an equal with the men of Crete; of the way Evanthia had so quickly and coolly responded the crisis of two dead German soldiers on her doorstep. Women determined to thwart the stranglehold the Germans had on their home territory.
He thought of Sofia, trying to capture an elusive image of his wife working under the flimsy canvas of the temporary hospitals set up as close to the front lines as possible, in earshot of exploding bombs and enemy gunfire as she tended to bodies broken on the battlefield—dressing wounds where flesh was torn by bullets and saving the eyes of wounded soldiers. Jack had no doubts that she would undertake duties on the war front with the same diligence and courage of any man.
He felt the cool grey eyes of the captain upon him, awaiting his response.
‘I am not so sure, sir. From my own experience, women can be every bit as tough and clear-sighted as the men on the battlefield. Yes, it is dangerous, of that there is no doubt. But, by golly, in Crete many a woman stared down the enemy, thought quickly and endured hardship with a stoicism equal to that of the men that I served with—and some, with a lot more.’
‘Humph. Well, yes, we’ll see.’ Treloar changed the subject and Jack knew that he hadn’t provided the answer that Treloar had hoped for.
Gesturing to a painting set against the wall that depicted a ragged group of soldiers making their way along a steep, mountainous track, Treloar pointed out the two soldiers at the rear: how between them, a third—a man whose leg had been seriously injured—was being supported.
‘So, Captain, what we are looking to paint is the truth of war. The triumphs and the trials. Not a rose-coloured picture of glory, but rather the story of hardship and mateship, as men–men and women–serve their country under terrible circumstances.’
