Tiger Men (69 page)

He also couldn’t help wondering what the hell was going to happen next.

The Australian military had decided to divide the old battalions and create new units for the 1916 campaign in Europe. The original 12th Battalion, bolstered with fresh volunteers newly arrived from Australia, was split into two, becoming the 12th and 52nd Battalions. Hugh Stanford and David Powell, both now confirmed in the rank of corporal, remained in charge of seven-man sections consisting primarily of new recruits, with the exception of their old mates Gordon Powell, Oscar O’Callaghan and Harry Balfour. The lads were now part of the 52nd Battalion, and their destination was France.

On the first of June 1916, following months of rigorous training in Egypt, the 52nd Battalion sailed from Alexandria aboard the
SS Transylvania.
They were bound for Marseilles, from where they would be entrained to the area of their encampment in Northern France near the Belgian border.

After three days’ train travel in open wagons designed for horses – forty men to a wagon, standing all the way – the troops found it a relief to be on the march to their billets. There were well over a thousand of them, marching along the dusty country road and through the main streets of villages, and as they marched they sang.

It’s a long way to Tipperary,

It’s a long way to go.

It’s a long way to Tipperary,

To the sweetest girl I know . . .

The lads were in fine spirits. They were in France after all, and they liked what they saw.

Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag

And smile, smile, smile.

While you’ve a Lucifer to light your fag,

Smile boys, that’s the style . . .

The countryside they were passing through was indeed picturesque, a colourful patchwork of little fields growing all manner of crops and vegetables, gentle slopes interspersed with copses and hedgerows. Nestled cosily in valleys were villages, each with its church spire rising importantly above the thatched roofs of tiny cottages. The men were entranced. This was unlike anything they’d seen in Australia.

They were overwhelmed too by the welcome they received. Every township they passed through greeted them effusively. Villagers lined the street or leant from front windows, waving and calling out ‘
Australie!
’ Girls blew them kisses, old men nodded respectfully and women waved the chubby arms of the babies they held up in greeting. The Australians’ reputation as fighters had preceded them via their French comrades-in-arms at Gallipoli, and the citizens of France eagerly embraced their arrival.

The battalion’s encampment was on three large rural properties that had been requisitioned by the French government for military purposes. The farm owners were wealthy and the farms impressive, with two-storey houses and extensive outbuildings. The men were billeted in the high-roofed, thatched barns and sheds and stables that abounded, sleeping on straw with issued blankets. They were comfortable enough. The weather was a little cold and rainy despite it being the first month of summer, but the lads didn’t care: they’d been fed up with the heat and sand of Egypt.

‘I could do without the pong of horse dung though,’ Gibbo complained. Brian Gibson was one of the new recruits in Hugh’s section, a nice young lad from Launceston who hadn’t as yet been involved in any conflict.

The seasoned campaigners exchanged a glance – the pong of horse dung was eminently preferable to the pong of rotting corpses.

‘I love the pong of horse dung,’ Harry Balfour declared, ‘it reminds me of the farm.’

David Powell agreed. ‘Crikey, I love the whole set-up,’ he said, gazing about the huge stables. They were standing beside the two horse stalls that he and Hugh had snared for their sections’ billet and, grand though the farm’s stables were, the smell of straw and horses reminded David of the stables at Charlotte Grove. ‘All the comforts of home,’ he said with a smile.

‘Well
I’m
happy,’ Gordie chimed in. ‘You know they’ve got a pig pen, don’t you?’

Everyone laughed, even the new recruits. Gordie’s picture of Delilah had become a running joke.

‘Better be careful, Gordie,’ Oscar said with a suggestive wink, ‘farm residents are strictly off limits. No fraternising, remember?’

The men were worked hard over the next month or so with endless brisk hikes up and down country roads, drill and musketry exercises, then more hikes, then more drill: the training was relentless. But to the Gallipoli veterans it was like being on holiday, and they managed somehow to find holes in the day. Oscar O’Callaghan certainly did.

‘I have a present,’ Oscar said smugly.

It was approaching dusk. Their platoon had just returned from a ten-mile march and Oscar had mysteriously disappeared, returning to the stables after a half an hour or so, a cloth bag slung over one shoulder and something bulky conspicuously concealed beneath his coat. Beckoning his mates to follow, he ducked into one of the horse stalls.

‘Voila,’
he said with a flourish. There was a moment’s silence as they stared down at the billy tin he was holding, and at the five eggs nestled within it.

‘You’ll have to put them back,’ David said.

‘Put them back. Why?’

‘
Why?!
You’ll get court-martialled if they find out you nicked them, that’s why. You could land us all in a hell of a lot of trouble. Now I’m not asking you, Oscar, I’m ordering you. Put them back where you found them.’

‘I didn’t nick them.’ Oscar appeared insulted by the suggestion. ‘And I’m certainly not giving them back. She’d be offended if I did.’

‘Eh?’ David stared at him uncomprehendingly; they all did.

‘They’re a present. Yvette gave them to me.’

Yvette Picot was the youngest daughter of the property’s owner. She was a pretty girl of around twenty, and the men lusted after her from afar.

‘She
gave
them to you,’ David scoffed, ‘she
gave
them to you, just like that, right out of the blue.’

‘Yep.’ Oscar nodded happily. ‘We had a bit of a chat yesterday. She wanted to know about Australia – she’s a nice girl, very inquisitive. Anyway, she said she’d have a present for me today and here they are,’ he held out the billy tin, ‘
oeufs
, for your information,’ he added with a superior smile. ‘So who wants one and who doesn’t?’

David supposed, as Oscar’s corporal, he should issue a warning about fraternisation, but Gordie jumped in with the question that was foremost in all their minds.

‘How’ll we do them, boiled or scrambled?’

‘No need. They’re boiled already.
’
Oscar handed the billy tin to Gordie and took the cloth bag from his shoulder. ‘
Voila
again,’ he said, producing a loaf of home-baked bread and a wedge of cheese, ‘
le pain
,’ he announced triumphantly, ‘and
le fromage
.’

David’s resistance went right out the window.

‘What about the others?’ Hugh queried. Like David, he felt that as the leader of his section he should voice some concern for his men. ‘Shouldn’t we share it around?’

He was met by a blank stare from his mates.

‘There are only five eggs,’ Oscar said. The silence that followed was a statement in itself.

That night, seated outside with their backs against the wooden walls of the stables, looking up at foreign stars in a cloudless sky, Oscar, Gordie, David, Hugh and Harry voted it the best meal they’d ever had in their lives.

The eggs, bread and cheese were only the first in a number of treats Oscar provided over the following weeks courtesy of Yvette. Next came a billy tin full of apples.

‘They’re called
pommes d’Api
,’ he announced in his rapidly improving French as he passed them around.

‘Not where I come from,’ David said, inspecting his apple with a professional eye. ‘They’re Lady apples where I come from. We used to grow them in the Huon, but we don’t any more. They don’t sell as well as Pippins or Cleopatras.’

‘I wonder why,’ Harry mumbled juice dribbling down his chin. ‘Apples never tasted this good at home.’

‘You can only sell so many varieties,’ David explained with a direct quote from his father, Thomas, ‘people get confused otherwise. I’ll tell you something for nothing though, Harry,’ he said with a mixture of defensiveness and pride, ‘I’ll bet you half the apples in Europe come from Tassie these days.’

But as David bit into his
pomme d’Api
, he had to agree with Harry: apples didn’t come any better than this, not after bully beef and biscuits anyway.

Oscar’s next present was even more impressive.

‘
Le gateau
,’ he said a week later as he unveiled the cake. Wrapped in a blue-and-white striped tea towel, it was large and mouth-wateringly impressive. ‘Yvette baked it especially for us.’

That was when David decided to read Oscar the riot act for his own safety’s sake, but he waited until after they’d demolished the cake, which they cut up and shared with the others (he would have had his own riot to deal with otherwise).

‘You have to stop this, Oscar,’ he said, taking him to one side, ‘you know that, don’t you?’

‘Stop what?’

‘Orders have been issued about fraternisation and you damn well know it,’ he said firmly, finding his friend’s pretended innocence just a little irritating. ‘Whatever’s going on between you and Yvette has to stop right now or you’ll find yourself court-martialled.’

‘But there isn’t anything going on.’

‘Oh come off it, Oscar,’ David was exasperated, ‘a woman doesn’t bake a man a cake for nothing.’

‘Yvette does. She’s that sort of girl. She’s really nice, if you know what I mean: a really good-hearted person.’ Oscar went on before David could interrupt, arguing his case with vehemence. He was a man misunderstood. ‘I ask you seriously, David: what am I supposed to do? If she wants to stop and have a chat am I supposed to ignore her? And if she wants to give me a present to share with my Australian comrades, for whom she has the greatest respect I might add, am I supposed to throw it back at her? You tell me, mate. You tell me, because in all honesty, I don’t know. What am I supposed to do?’

David gave up. What was the point? If Oscar was determined to get himself court-martialled, so be it. The situation was out of his hands.

The weather had turned fine and sunny and, with the arrival and disbursement of the ever-welcome mail, the troops enjoyed the luxury of reading their letters sprawled out in a paddock.

The mail brought with it as always several letters from Caitie, and Hugh was able to catch up on the latest reports about Rupert. His father never wrote to him of Rupert, and he relied solely upon Caitie for news of his brother.

Hugh had known of his mother’s death for some months now. When, at Christmas, there had still been no direct correspondence from her, he had demanded his father tell him the truth.
You always write only that Mother is ill with a bronchial condition but sends her love, Father, yet this has been going on for so long. Even the bed-ridden can put pen to paper, as I know Mother would. I demand the truth.

Reginald had responded immediately, informing Hugh his mother had died of pneumonia some time ago.
I am so sorry, my boy, it is the saddest news. I had thought to keep it from you, hoping you would be home in only a matter of months and not wishing to add further to your present burden. Please forgive me if this was wrong.

Much as he had expected the worst, Hugh had been sorely hit by the news of his mother’s death. Camped out there in the Egyptian desert, surrounded by thousands upon thousands of men, he had suddenly felt very much alone. He’d needed to talk to someone. Normally he would have turned to his cousins Wes and Harry, but Wes was dead and Harry was not the same any more. He’d turned instead to David Powell. They’d sat up smoking and talking well into the night, or rather Hugh had. David had simply puffed away and listened. Hugh had sung his mother’s praises. He’d talked on and on about all that she’d meant to both him and his brother, and also to their father, who couldn’t have been the easiest man to live with. David was a good listener and a good friend, and Hugh had felt a great deal better in the morning.

Paying tribute to the memory of his mother had helped salve his own grief, but Hugh’s main concern had then been his brother. How had Rupert fared? Rupert surely would have been distraught, yet his father had made no mention of him. He’d written once again demanding news, but his father had replied in characteristically abrupt fashion, which, although intended to allay any fears, had contained no particular detail.
We were all deeply affected by your mother’s death, Hugh, Rupert included. But he is healthy and well looked after I can assure you. You must concentrate upon your task at hand, my boy. I will not have you jeopardise your safety by undue worry about your family at home. I can assure you all is well.

Hugh was obviously supposed to have been satisfied with that. It’s so typical of Father, he’d thought. Thank goodness for Caitie. He’d written to her immediately.

Caitie had written back as truthfully as she’d dared.