The Ghosts of August, page 17
A knock at her office door tore Naomi away and she felt a twinge of guilt for covertly sharing the tender moment between lovers.
‘Ma’am, may I speak with you?’ A woman stood in the doorway. She seemed familiar; Naomi thought she might be one of the new employees of their shoe factory that was located a short distance away. Many of the men who had worked for the Solomons had resigned to enlist, and their jobs were now being filled with female employees. After training, Israel had accepted that his new workforce was just as good as the men who once produced his shoes. Now the Solomons had a contract with the government to produce army boots in great quantities.
Then Naomi remembered who the woman was – they had spoken when Naomi had gone with her father to inspect the factory. Her name was Edith Crosby, and she had lost her husband only days before Naomi’s brother was killed in action in the same battle. She had no children.
‘Mrs Crosby, please enter,’ Naomi said. ‘How can I help you?’
The widowed woman stepped inside, and Naomi could see the slight frown of concern in her expression. Her words came out in a rush.
‘Mr Solomon has been very good to me and so I hate to let him down, but I need to ask permission to join the VADs. I feel I will be more useful to our cause in this war there than here. I know my dear departed husband would approve of my choice, so I am requesting that I be able to do so.’
‘VADs?’ Naomi asked. ‘What is that?’
‘I am sorry, ma’am,’ Edith said. ‘The Volunteer Aid Detachments. They are posted here and in France.’
‘What do they do?’ Naomi asked, her ears pricking up upon hearing the word ‘France’.
‘They do a lot of things to help out the army,’ Edith replied. ‘Everything from working with the Red Cross to cooking in the hospitals. They also work with the ambulances bringing back the wounded.’
‘What is required to join the VADs?’ Naomi asked.
‘Not a lot,’ Edith replied. ‘I have saved to pay for my medical first aid training. I hope that I will eventually be sent to France to be closer to where my dear husband lies.’
Naomi guessed that Edith was still grieving, and when Naomi thought about David, she felt a deep empathy for the woman standing before her.
‘Mrs Crosby, I fully support your desire to join the VADs,’ Naomi said. ‘I am sure that I can convince my father to allow your resignation from our factory and I also feel it is only patriotic for my father to pay for any expenses you incur in your pursuit to help the war effort.’
Tears were forming at the corners of Edith’s eyes. ‘Thank you, Miss Solomon,’ she said with a sniffle, trying to hold back her tears. ‘You are a saint.’
Naomi felt a strange warmth for the woman before her. Not only was it touching that this woman wanted to help their soldiers in the place where her own husband had been killed in action, but she had also shown Naomi a way to leave England to be closer to David.
Edith left the office and Naomi immediately sought out her father. She had already told him that she was ineligible to become a nurse posted to France, and although he didn’t show it, she suspected he had been quite relieved to hear it. She knew he would not welcome the idea of her joining the Voluntary Aid Detachment which might lead to service in France, and it was possible David would feel the same way. However, it took time for the mail to be sent to and from France, so by the time David learned of her becoming a VAD, she would already have commenced her training.
TWENTY-ONE
The men of David’s battalion could hear the heavy artillery guns in the distance from their camp near the peaceful French village at Boëseghem. For early April the weather was warm and sunny, the fields green with new life, and the scattered farms with their old stone buildings dating back to medieval times were picturesque. The booming sounds did not feel real during the days when David and his platoon trained in gas warfare, conducted route marches that included bayonet and rifle drills, and sat through lectures on subjects such as hygiene in the trenches.
There was even time to arrange cricket matches, much to the bemusement of the French spectators who learned new English words such as ‘Howzat!’ – a war cry of some kind, they decided. Knowing this respite would likely be brief, David spent his time lolling in the spring sunshine writing letters to Naomi and his family, as well as sharing thoughts and views with his fellow platoon commanders who had not as yet seen battle. David had come to learn of their backgrounds as graduates of the exclusive Public Schools where the sons of the rich were educated, much as he had been. Only one of the newly arrived platoon commanders rubbed David the wrong way. Lieutenant Christian Holmes was a young man who considered himself superior even to his colleagues, and from what Holmes’ platoon sergeant had divulged in conversation with David’s sergeant, the men of Holmes’ platoon disliked their commanding officer for his arrogance and patronising attitude towards his men.
David realised that he had become something of a mentor to the young platoon commanders of the company, who were charged with protecting the lives of the thirty or so men in their command while carrying out the missions assigned by their commanders. For now, there was a sense of peace in the rear echelon of the frontlines, but all that changed when the British decided that it was time for the newly arrived Australians and other former colonial troops to be moved to the front.
They conducted a three-day march east to the forward area south of Armentières, from where they would occupy a section of the front in the Bois-Grenier Sector. It was a stretch of frontline referred to as the ‘nursery’, as it saw less intense activity than other sections of the Western Front. It would be an opportunity for the fresh Australian soldiers to acclimatise to life at the frontlines before they engaged in full-scale warfare further along the line.
For David, guiding his platoon into the trenches was all too familiar. At first, they were positioned in the support line of trenches, then were gradually moved forward to the reserve and frontlines that faced the brunt of any attack by the Germans facing them.
It was around mid-April when the new members of the battalion experienced their first taste of war when the German artillery shelled their area. Shrapnel rained down upon them, but the shelling was intermittent and no casualties were reported – with the exception of nearby farmhouses and the battalion cookhouse roof.
Within days, however, the situation changed for the worse. A cold spell brought rain, making life in the trenches miserable. In addition, the artillery fire increased on both sides, along with the deadly sniping.
*
While the men on the Western Front shivered miserably in the cold and wet conditions of their trenches, it was hot and clear in the arid lands around the Kantara Camp in Egypt. Sergeant Ben Steele felt the sweat trickle down his back as he sat astride his tough Waler mount. The previous evening, they had been positioned with the British in their camp, and that morning a rumour had circulated in the regiment that the Turks were a short distance away. This was soon corroborated, and now Ben expected to face real action. He felt more excited than fearful about what lay ahead.
His mount snorted as if understanding his tense expectation, and he leaned forward to pat the gelding’s neck.
Ben’s squadron followed a tarred road for a short distance under a baking sun, the only sound the clattering of metal horseshoes on the hard surface until the paved road ended and nothing but the broad sandy desert lay ahead.
‘Load rifles!’ came the cry as they rode past barbed-wire entanglements and redoubts. Ben ordered his troop to spread out into a skirmish line for the advance into a world of sand and small dunes topped by prickly scrub. After a while, they reached a small hill noted on their maps and linked up with a British unit of two infantry companies of British Royal Fusiliers. Ben’s squadron then rode to the flanks of the advancing British infantry to provide cover against any sudden Turkish attack.
An hour later, the distant sound of small arms fire drifted to the Australian mounted flank guard, and Ben knew they were getting closer to a clash with the Turkish army. When he glanced around him, he saw how tense and excited the new reinforcement arrivals appeared as they rode with rifles ready.
The squadron received the order to hurry forward, and Ben spurred his mount into a trot until he could see up ahead the backs of Turkish soldiers who were well armed but who wisely realised that they had been caught in the open and quickly surrendered.
Leaving the prisoners behind with an armed guard, Ben and his troop continued the advance at a trot until they could see white tents and camel lines at the top of a sandy rise. They rode into the camp to see scattered Turkish and Bedouin bodies, and Ben wondered if the British Yeomanry had attacked the camp, but as they approached a small oasis, they saw their British counterparts lying wrapped in bloodied bandages and badly sunburned under the scant shade of the palms. The British soldiers glanced up, smiling, as they rode past, pleased to see that reinforcements had arrived, and it was obvious to Ben that it had been the Yeomanry who had been attacked. All around the ground lay Turkish soldiers dressed in yellow uniforms with a bright sash; some were still alive and they were taken prisoner.
The order was given by the squadron commander to continue the advance in pursuit of the attacking Turkish soldiers, but it was discovered they had fled on camels. When Ben’s squadron met up with their brother squadron, they learned that they had forced the Turks to retreat when they came to the aid of the British Yeomanry. Ben’s troop returned to the oasis where Ben was told by a wounded British soldier that his brigade, vastly outnumbered, had been attacked by a force of approximately five thousand Turkish soldiers.
‘This is the price we paid,’ the British soldier said sadly, gesturing to the bodies of nineteen of his comrades laid out in a row under the palm trees alongside their dead horses.
As Ben listened to him, he felt a bitter disappointment that they had not been able to close with the attackers to wreak revenge for the deaths of the Yeomanry troopers. At least he had not lost any of his own soldiers in the near contact with the enemy. But he would have to wait for another opportunity to prove that he had earned his rank of sergeant.
*
Although Naomi’s parents supported her application for service with the Volunteer Aid Detachment, Naomi knew it was with some reluctance. But Israel ensured she had the right references when she stood before the selection board, who were impressed with her grasp of the French language as well as the fact that she had already been vaccinated against enteric fevers such as typhoid. She also assured the panel that she would comply with all VAD regulations and provide her own nursing uniform.
In the hallway outside the London office where the interview had been conducted, Naomi was approached by the matron who had been on the panel.
‘Miss Solomon, I just wanted to say how impressed the board was with your application,’ she said. ‘You will most probably be posted to our hospitals in France once you complete your training and compulsory residency in a hospital in London. I am sure that your family will be very proud of you and your choice to serve the King.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Naomi replied, trying not to show how excited she was at this hint that she would soon get the opportunity to serve in France. All she had to do now was dedicate herself to her training, which she knew would include first aid, home nursing, cookery and hygiene, and comply with the other requirements to graduate as a member of the VAD. She decided not to mention to her family that she might be posted to France. As far as her father knew, his beloved princess would simply be nursing the men repatriated from the battlefields in the safety of an English hospital.
*
Life in the trenches at La Rolanderie alternated between mud and sun, heavy and light artillery bombardment, and occasional sniping by both sides. Plus there was always fatigue duty to strengthen the trench defences with sandbags and barbed wire. David’s men would spend a ten-day shift in the forward trenches before rotating back to the reserve trenches, after which they would eventually be granted rest in the safer rear echelon of the battalion defence.
David noticed that his men grumbled about the lack of rest and monotonous diet of canned bully beef and rock-hard biscuits while occupying the forward defences, but once back in the rear echelon they were able to consume fresher rations of hot stews and indulge in tinned fruit. But the most important part of the life of a soldier was the mail parade, when precious letters and parcels arrived, as it was a tangible link with the lives they had left behind.
David savoured his supply of letters and parcels from Naomi and home in the rear echelon, away from the concern that the odd artillery shell might burst close enough to rip a man apart or a sniper’s round might find a target of some unwary soldier. The threat of sudden death had become a constant in the lives of the men of David’s battalion, but so far they had not faced conditions as severe as those suffered by the French and British engaged in major battles along the line. The title of ‘nursery’ was an apt one, David thought, as his men became accustomed to a lesser version of the fury they knew lay ahead.
The battalion even had a rotation system of leave to England. When David realised that a year had passed since he first saw action on the beaches of Gallipoli, he was granted preference for a ten-day pass for England. He would leave the men of his platoon in the capable care of his platoon sergeant, Brian Williams.
When he heard his leave had been granted, David immediately wrote a short letter to Naomi to disclose when and where he could meet her in London. He packed a few items and made a point of touring the trenches his men occupied, where they greeted him with warmth and bid him a good leave. Most had witnessed how calm their commander was when the German shelling rained down on their heads, and respected him for it. Lieutenant Steele would light his pipe and calmly stand at the centre of the trench, humming a popular tune, cracking jokes between explosions and generally reassuring his men that the bombardment would pass. Once or twice shrapnel had ripped up the earth very close to their leader, but he simply ignored these close calls. His example of courage gave the men a good feeling that they would be safe while he was nearby and in command. The men appreciated David all the more when stories were swapped between their fellow platoons which did not cast their own platoon commanders in such a glowing light. It seemed that the most despised officer was one Lieutenant Christian Holmes. David remembered the man he had noticed as being unpopular when he had first arrived in France. As David farewelled his men, he learned that some had been speaking to Holmes’ men, and that they had divulged that the officer had been complaining about the fact that a Jew was commanding troops in the battalion.
Returning to the rear echelon area just before his departure, David saw the arrogant officer berating one of his corporals for failing to salute him. David watched until Holmes was alone and then strolled over to him.
‘Do you mind if we have a quiet chat, Mr Holmes?’ David said.
Startled, Holmes turned to David. ‘What about, old chap?’ he countered.
‘I would rather we go somewhere out of hearing of the lads,’ David said quietly. ‘Just over there near the cookhouse seems a relatively private place to discuss a matter that has been raised with me.’
Holmes looked nervous but followed David. ‘It has come to my attention that you object to serving alongside a Jew,’ David said in a cold but steady voice.
Holmes’ eyes blazed. ‘It’s well known that Jews are only interested in making money and have no concern for good Christians. It is also well known that your family have a fortune back in Australia,’ Holmes spat.
‘Is that so?’ David replied. ‘Funny, perhaps I should not have volunteered to serve only to have some Johnny Turk try to rearrange my face at Lone Pine with his bayonet. I should have stayed at home, making money off you good Christians.’
David could see that his words were having an impact when his fellow officer’s face rapidly reddened. Holmes appeared to be about to explode. ‘I should add that my brother is with the Light Horse somewhere in the deserts of the Holy Land, risking his life. Another Jew who should be busy making money off the backs of good Christians, according to you. Furthermore, the man who helped establish our family’s financial legacy was a Christian by the name of Colonel Ian Steele, but probably not a good Christian if the tales about his military exploits fighting for the Queen are any guide. So, here I am, and I wonder if you have any other objection to me serving as an officer in the Australian army – or perhaps I have misjudged you, and you have an apology for your deluded views?’
David could see that Holmes was almost shaking with rage at being confronted by a Jew, but it was obvious he was not about to apologise. ‘I think this conversation is over, old chap,’ he replied icily, then turned his back and walked away, leaving David bemused by the man’s lack of courage to challenge him to something like a duel of fists. Yet David felt a sense of calm at having confronted Holmes and grinned when he thought about his brother; Ben would have simply punched the man in the face, laying him on his back with a bloody nose. It was fortunate that Ben did not hold the King’s commission, as such behaviour was not deemed to be that of an officer and a gentleman.
That afternoon David boarded a train for the French coast to embark on a ferry to London. Later, he would notice that Holmes avoided him at every opportunity, and the term ‘Jew officer’ was heard less and less in the battalion lines.
TWENTY-TWO
Ben always felt a thrill at seeing the fragile low-flying biplanes overhead, as the idea of a man aloft in the sky navigating across the vast arid lands appealed to him. He envied how the pilots of the flying machines could look down on humanity engaged in vicious close-quarter killing where the opponent was all too real in the exchange of blood for blood. From above, a man was a mere object to destroy with machine gun and bomb; the horrific intimacy of close-quarter fighting did not concern the man in the flying machine.
