Beneath the Willow Read online

  Along the wharf, a mass of people and vehicles congregated. Some carried supplies to be loaded; some, such as the horse-drawn ambulances, waited for bandaged soldiers. Archie remembered the wave of excitement that had passed through him as he forced his way through the crowd, and although he had been aware of men lying limply on stretchers, it had not entered his mind to wonder what had brought them there. His thoughts had been occupied with finally joining the fray and being with his mates.

  When he had leaned against the stern rail and watched the murky water of the ancient port churn against the torment of powerful turbines, he had flicked a well-drawn smoke from his fingers, a formal declaration that his past misfortune would be laid to rest.

  Although it was a warm summer’s day, the wind blew hard from the northeast and ripped at Archie’s clothing. It plastered the side of his face and made his ears hum and his eyes water. As the incessant gale ran over the featureless landscape, it drove the oldest Miller boy to seek shelter. He held his slouch hat securely to his head with one hand as he walked awkwardly amongst the hospital tents. He occasionally spied a nurse who tended to a patient, and once had to sidestep suddenly as a tired orderly emptied a tub of blood stained water from a tent onto the path in front of him. The orderly’s action earned him a verbal tongue lashing from a middle-aged sister who appeared from the unlit recess of the makeshift ward. Her rebuke had been delivered with the aim of maintaining a certain level of sanitation in an already underequipped and understaffed facility, not out of any regard for inconvenience to a private.

  Due to embark on a transport for ANZAC Cove at 16:00, Private Miller continued his search for some shelter other than a hospital tent. He felt assured that it would be frowned upon by all and sundry, in the light of the condition of the men inside. With only two hours before embarkation, Archie started to think it might be wise to make his way back to the pier and sit it out, when a familiar voice found him through the driving wind.

  ‘Miller! Miller, you bludger.’

  Archie stopped and turned to his right. He raised his hand over his brow in a tired, some would say, very Australian salute. He shielded his eyes from the harbour’s glare and could make out a group of men under a tarpaulin. Its canvas flapped frantically, like everything else around him.

  ‘It is you. Miller, you blind bastard, get over here.’

  A broad smile stretched across Archie’s face. ‘Private Glanville, is that you?’ he yelled. Archie strained his eyes to pinpoint the voice amongst the dozen or so men laid out on stretchers.

  ‘Too right,’ replied Glanville. The wounded soldier made an effort to prop himself on one elbow. ‘And it’s Lance Corporal, thank you very much.’

  ‘Lance Corporal hey, things must be bad if they have promoted an Ashfield boy,’ chirped Archie. He quickened his gait and then slowed it again to step carefully between bodies. He felt his jubilation fade as he peered into the wounded men’s eyes. ‘Sorry cobber,’ he whispered to the bloke with a leg wound. ‘G’day mate,’ as he stepped around a soldier, his head a mass of bandages, a large patch of dried blood matted with what hair you could see. He gave a solemn nod to a young kid, no older than Clarrie. His vacant stare dealt with the pain of a jaw shattered by shrapnel.

  ‘Bertie, good to see ya, mate,’ said Archie, in a hushed but heartfelt voice. ‘What the bloody hell have ya done to yourself?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, mate, just a scratch. Got a smoke?’

  ‘Yeah… yeah for sure.’ He quickly reached for his smokes. He lit one and then placed it between his mate’s lips.

  Bert winced as he drew back on the cigarette. The grimace caught Archie’s attention, and drew his gaze towards the wound on his mate’s hip. Archie forced a smile to his lips and looked away.

  ‘Why don’t you take a load off and lay back for a while Bertie, enjoy your smoke.’ Archie’s voice showed concern, but not so much as to embarrass his mate in front of the other lads.

  While Lance Corporal Glanville inhaled the soothing tobacco, Archie stood and quietly made his way around to the other men. He lit a smoke for those who could take one, and delivered a quiet word for those who couldn’t. Beyond the makeshift shelter, a young nurse from the Melbourne suburb of St Kilda smiled for the first time in days as she watched the young Australian comfort his fellow soldiers.

  Archie squatted by his mate’s side once again. ‘So, what are George and Alfie up to?’

  Bert smiled as he removed the smoke from his mouth. ‘George is doing fine, makes a bloody good jam tin.’

  ‘Jam tin?’

  ‘Bomb, mate, made from jam tins and anything you can get your hands on.’ Bert let out a stifled cough; the contraction caused pain in his hip, which he tried to hide. Archie pretended not to notice. ‘Brass didn’t give us many real bombs.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And Alfie?’ asked Archie tentatively. After what he had seen around him, he wondered if he should pursue the topic.

  ‘Alfie! He’s as good as gold; he was practically running the black market.’

  ‘Well, he is from Mascot.’

  ‘Too right,’ chuckled Bert. He regretted the emotion instantly. ‘Hey, try and get him a few things before you leave, he’ll appreciate it. Look after ya, when the time comes.’

  ‘What like?’ said Archie, like a real first timer.

  ‘Anything, mate. All you’ll get there is bully beef and biscuits harder than granite. Oh, and flies, I forgot the flies, plenty of them. How’s the leg?’

  ‘Yeah, all good. I was pretty embarrassed. Breaking your ankle in a drill, felt like a right fool I did.’

  ‘Mate! After a few days clinging to the side of those bloody ridges, Alfie, George and I wished we’d done the same thing.’

  ‘Tough, is it?’ Archie’s voice was reserved, but without fear.

  ‘No walk in the park. I’d be lying if I told you otherwise, but you’ll be right; tough Balmain boy like yourself.’

  Both men grinned but did not attempt to speak. After all the training, myth-telling and untested bravado, crouched in a makeshift hospital without a shot being fired, a small part of Archie Miller had started to realise what this was.

  The next hour-and-a-half flew by as the two mates, unknown to each other before the war, passed on what news they had. They did their best to make light of the present, neither man delving into what the future might bring.

  Archie looked at his watch and declared it was time to leave. After he shook Bert’s hand, he touched his mate on the shoulder. He tried, through the gesture, to say all the things he couldn’t. He slowly rose to his feet and then walked away, sobered.

  ***

  In a barge, laden mostly with supplies and a handful of other soldiers—some veterans returning to battle after being patched up on Lemnos—Archie gripped his rifle. He held it upright against his hip and upper thigh; his palms massaged the weapon with varying degrees of firmness, in an effort to control the nerves that made his muscles spasm involuntarily. His mouth was parched, so he licked his lips, but tasted only salt, as the steel barge laboured through the dark choppy sea. Their destination was illuminated in the distance by countless lamps—an enchanting sight that didn’t reveal the quarrel that played out beneath the glittering canopy.

  As the minutes passed, Private Miller prayed that the stress that elevated his pulse and sent trickles of sweat from his armpits along his flanks would fly away with the briny breeze, and allow him to make a good account of himself when called upon. Archie stared intently at the dazzling scene; its peaceful mask was shattered by the sound of shell-fire and the sporadic crack of a rifle being discharged. Private Miller was roused by a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head slightly and saw a large face, crinkled with exposure to the Australian sun. It hovered inches from Archie’s nose and smiled. The veteran soldier produced a metal flask, already de-corked.

  He held it out in front of Archie. ‘Get this into ya son, it will help.’

  Archie accepted the flask and downed a gener
ous swig of the overproof rum. He tightened his lips and instantly felt the effects of the warming spirit as it settled in his belly. He nodded in appreciation and handed the panacea back to the veteran soldier, who let out a muffled laugh as he slapped the young private between the shoulder blades.

  ‘You’ll be right, son, just keep your eyes and ears open and your head down.’ The Digger reclaimed his seat and receded into the blackness. Archie was left alone with his thoughts as the sluggish craft inched closer to the shore.

  Each uninitiated soldier in the small boat was in a different state of anticipation. The veterans however, felt resignation; they received and then passed on the message to disembark. The adrenalin roared through Archie’s veins like fire to bushland and he was confident and ready to meet his foe. Strangely, as he leapt over the gunwale, an image of his mother filled his mind. She stood at Circular Quay, as she was the day he had boarded the troop ship. Her eyes were heavy with emotion; her message of concern had been transmitted but not acknowledged by her jubilant son. Instead it rose from his memory to jab at his heart right at this moment; instantly it conveyed the innate feelings a mother bears. As he splashed through water laced with bleached foam, Private Miller landed on the pebbled beach of the enemy, knowing what it feels like to be loved. He suddenly felt he had something to lose.

  ***

  Balmain, July 1915

  Clarence and Ruth Miller looked the perfect couple as they stood in front of St John’s Anglican Church; Clarence strikingly handsome in his three-piece suit, Ruth in a white gown, as beautiful as ever. As the church bell, perched high above, rang to announce the exchange of their vows, friends and family applauded the newlyweds. Their faces glowed with pride and joy, as members of the small congregation tossed white confetti towards them. The photographer’s bulb flashed to capture their moment of bliss.

  Albert Miller stood alongside Harry Reynolds, just inside the church gates. They talked politely about local issues but kept the war at arm’s length on such a happy occasion. Slightly surprised but not at all concerned by Clarence’s sudden declaration that he intended to marry Ruth, Harry had given the obligatory blessing to his future son-in-law. He had not made a fuss, as his wife Mary had, when Ruth disclosed the wedding date. He assumed Clarence’s decision to enlist had influenced it, and being a patriotic man, felt it reason enough. In his eyes Clarence was a decent, hardworking young man, prepared to serve his country and the Empire for the greater good. Despite having to deal with Mrs Reynolds’s damaged ego at not being able to plan a lavish ceremony, and her misguided fears as to what rung this would place her on, on the social ladder, things had gone smoothly enough. In the end, all that mattered to him was that Ruth was happy.

  Grace Miller stepped quietly towards her new daughter in-law, as if she didn’t want to intrude. She placed her hand gently on Ruth’s arm and whispered something that made her eyes sparkle. Grace thought their marriage would always happen; the war, in an oddity of life, had just brought it forward. She knew Clarence loved Ruth without question, adored her in fact, and Ruth’s feelings for Clarence were displayed in her every movement.

  When Ruth had sat her down one rainy afternoon for a talk, Grace had no premonition of the subject. When she thought back, she would admit she was surprised but not shocked, and as the news was delivered, she had admired Ruth’s assuredness. The young lady had remained respectful and calm, but glowed with contentment over her future. Grace knew Ruth was an exceptional young lady, in a time when young ladies were expected to be anything but, and she realised that she loved her like one of her own. Grace’s response to the news had been everything Ruth knew it would be. It had justified Ruth’s decision to tell Grace before her own mother.

  Grace took a few paces back and allowed herself a moment to absorb the cheerful surrounds. She knew her son as a warm and tender person, an intelligent young man, who had promised, even from a young age, to be special, different from the crowd. Grace looked at him as he tenderly brushed confetti off his wife’s cheek, and saw her son as being complete. Damn this war, she cursed silently. She smiled to hide her apprehension and used her fortitude to push ill-will away with the breeze.

  ***

  Mr and Mrs Clarence Miller fought the outgoing tide of passengers who had disembarked from an earlier train. They bounced off one stranger into another; Ruth laughed and then grimaced as she desperately tried to stay with her husband on the busy Central Station platform. Their train was scheduled to depart in five minutes.

  ‘There it is, Ruthy, I can see it. Not far now.’

  ‘I’m surprised you can see anything. Ouch! That beastly man just stood on my toe.’

  ‘Are you alright, dear?’ asked Clarence, preoccupied with boarding the train.’

  ‘No, I’m not actually,’ replied Ruth. She realised her husband wasn’t paying attention. ‘Half of my foot has been sliced off.’

  ‘That’s good Ruthy, almost there. Ah! Here we are. I was getting a bit worried, Ruth, thought we might miss our own honeymoon.’

  Her cheeks flushed from the effort, Ruth gave Clarence a forced smile. One part of her wanted to throttle him with the bag she carried, the other half cherished his enthusiastic but muddled way. ‘Excellent, Clarrie, let’s find our seats.’

  The Millers stepped into the second-class carriage and found their allocated compartment. Ruth took a seat near the window, while Clarence placed their luggage in the racks above.

  Clarrie let out a sigh as he dropped to the seat opposite Ruth. He was pleased that he had completed the mission of escorting his wife to a waiting train. Women just didn’t understand the pressure associated with such a task, he thought. While it wouldn’t be spoken out loud, every man worth his salt knew how important it was—especially on a honeymoon—to be able to navigate a city and arrive safe and on time, injured toe aside. Women, from his observation, didn’t seem to grasp the rationale; they were likely to ask for directions.

  ‘This is grand, isn’t it,’ exclaimed Clarence. He risked a public display of affection and reached over to place a hand on Ruth’s leg. ‘Boarding a train for the Blue Mountains… wouldn’t be anywhere else.’

  ‘It’s exciting, Clarrie,’ replied Ruth. She adored her husband’s enthusiasm. ‘I am really looking forward to seeing the Hotel Carrington, I’ve heard it’s lovely.’

  ‘Mr Blake has stayed there and said it is very elegant, a perfect retreat from the bustle of Balmain. It was very generous of your parents to pay for the accommodation, very generous; I must thank them when we get back.’

  ‘You already have, a hundred times over,’ laughed Ruth. ‘It was very nice of them, I think it was father’s idea actually, and they both know you appreciate it.’

  ‘Apparently it was built in 1882 and is of the “Italianate style”, which ironically originated in England based on Italian themes.’

  ‘You are a wealth of information, aren’t you?’

  ‘I have been reading.’

  ‘Obviously,’ replied Ruth as she raised herself off the cushioned seat to kiss Clarence briefly on the lips. She smiled playfully, as she held her face inches from his.

  ‘Ruth! Not here, someone will see,’ his voice hushed and panicky.

  Ruth gave a cheeky wink and moved back to her seat. Clarrie’s face went from red to purple.

  ‘Chicken.’

  Relieved the crisis was over; Clarence shook his head and let out a controlled laugh. ‘You’re wicked, but I love you.’

  A brief silence was interrupted by the shriek of the train whistle. Moments later the rail car jolted as the slack was taken from the couplings and the engine drew them slowly from the station.

  Lulled by the gentle sway of the rail car, Clarence Miller’s mind drifted away. The terrace houses and large industrial plants darted through his field of vision as the train snaked its way through outer Sydney.

  Over the past weeks, Clarence’s life had changed dramatically. Some of it was welcomed; some forced upon him through circumstances.
Like he would watch a film in a theatre, Clarence stared blankly out the window; the view of suburbia was replaced by scenes from his recent memory. Each recollection was vivid, at times painful, but mostly warm and tender; love in its different forms. All of his thoughts linked one to the other in a maze of events that rolled to a fated conclusion.

  He recalled the discussion he had with his father in front of their Beattie Street home on that Saturday in June. The feelings brought on by the white feather were still so raw at the time, and had wrenched at his soul as Albert Miller began to speak. Clarence had expected to be lectured, but instead was treated as a man by another man. Albert, a father who had himself seen what war can do, was a man who only wanted to protect his children. In the end, he was resigned to the fact that Clarence must find his own way.

  The rhythmic tap-tap of wheels that crossed joins in the track drew his mind further away. He relived the instant where an outgoing but confused eighteen-year-old was left behind for a man who, presented with life’s choices, had matured to know they were his to make. The following morning, after his announcement of his decision to enlist, Clarence had woken from his own bed and thought of Ruth and what they had shared. The essence of their act seemed to hover around him like a perpetual embrace.

  His mind cleared of self-doubt, he had dressed and walked to Darling Street to board a tram for the city. He carried a signed letter from his father, a letter penned with a methodical calmness that masked his debilitating heartache. Clarence had made his way directly for Town Hall and the recruitment office, where he joined a line of men; it wasn’t as long as the months prior to the Gallipoli landing. Eventually he had been called forward to give his details, along with the consenting letter from Albert Miller that would allow him to enlist under the age of twenty-one.