Elianne (15 page)

T
he National Service Scheme, which had been introduced by the Menzies government in November 1964, required all males twenty years of age to register with the Department of Labour and National Service. The young men were then subject to a ballot and if their birth date was drawn and they passed the ensuing medical tests, they were to serve two years in the regular army.

The government’s principal concern at this stage was the confrontation between Indonesia and the newly formed Federation of Malaysia, a conflict that could potentially affect the border with Papua New Guinea, for which Australia had defence responsibility. The general population believed, however, that the National Service Scheme had been conceived for the sole purpose of supplying troops for Australia’s growing commitment to the war in Vietnam. Conscription was set to become a contentious issue.

‘Do you think they’ll send you to Vietnam?’ Hilda asked.

Neil nodded. ‘More than likely.’

‘Oh dear.’

The letter addressed to Neil Francis Durham, Elianne Estate, Bundaberg, Queensland had been dated 10 June 1965. It read:

You are hereby called up for national service training in the Royal Australian Army. You will present yourself for induction at the Army Training Depot at Singleton, NSW . . .

It went on brusquely to give the date of his departure and the specific details of each train and each connection that would deliver him to the barracks at Singleton, a hundred miles or so north of Sydney.

Neil had been one of those whose number had come up. He’d passed the medical and was now about to join the ranks of Australia’s national servicemen.

‘Ah well, a couple of years in the army won’t do you any harm.’ Stanley Durham had decided to take the philosophical approach. ‘It could even be a good thing. Military training toughens a man.’ He gave his son a hearty punch to the shoulder. ‘And you could do with a bit of toughening up, boy.’

The two shared a grin. Neil was strangely ambivalent about being called up. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to actually fight in a war, but the world of physical training and weaponry and battle tactics held an allure that was exciting.

‘I’m appalled you should treat the matter in so trivial a fashion,’ Hilda said frostily. ‘Your son –’

‘Is about to serve his country,’ Stan interrupted. Then he added, ‘You can’t buck the system, old girl,’ as if humouring his wife, though he was in reality shutting her up. Hilda detested being called ‘old girl’. ‘And it’s not as if we haven’t been expecting the news. Neil’s as fit as a mallee bull – he was bound to pass the physical.’

Upon Max’s delivery of the letter, Stan had called the family together in the smaller front sitting room, invading Hilda’s solitary morning-tea ritual. With Kate in Sydney and Alan in Brisbane there were just the four of them – indeed had Hilda not insisted upon Bartholomew’s inclusion there would have been only three.

‘It would be appalling to exclude your father, Stanley,’ she’d said. ‘Bartholomew is a part of this family. Of course he must join us.’

‘Why? He hardly has anything to contribute, has he?’

‘That’s beside the point. He must be informed of the situation.’

‘All right, tell him we’re meeting in half an hour.’ Stan had shrugged. He didn’t really care either way.

‘Well, Neil,’ he now said, continuing in the same hearty vein, ‘it’s good to see that you’re following in your old man’s footsteps. Just make sure you don’t cop a bout of typhoid along the way, eh?’ He gave a self-deprecating laugh.

Stan was making light of things in order to allay his wife’s fears, but he was rightfully proud of his service in North Africa. He’d been a Rat of Tobruk and if he hadn’t contracted typhoid during the 9th Division’s brief rest period in Palestine, he would have gone on with the others to fight at El Alamein. Typhoid fever had come close to killing him, however, and he’d been repatriated to Australia in early 1942 with a weak heart that prevented him from further military service.

‘You’ll make a fine soldier, son,’ he said. ‘The training will stand you in good stead, and it’s a minor war when all’s said and done: it’ll be over before we know it. Mind you,’ he added, ‘it’s a war that could well serve our purpose. We’ll be gaining a valuable ally assisting the Americans. But it won’t last long in any case. Storm in a teacup.’

Hilda cast a quick glance at Bartholomew. It won’t last long. Wasn’t that what they’d said about the Great War? Bartholomew had lost two brothers at Gallipoli. She wondered what was going through his mind. Very little, it appeared. Bartholomew’s eyes were on Stanley, but he appeared quite removed from the proceedings as he methodically sipped his tea.

*

Neil telephoned his brother and sister with the news of his call up. Their reactions were very different.

‘Oh shit,’ Kate said, ‘what a pity you’re not at uni – you could defer. Any other way around it, do you think?’

‘Nope, mind you I haven’t given that aspect much consideration.’ He was a little surprised by her automatic assumption that he would do anything to avoid national service. University is having an effect upon Kate, he thought. For starters she never used to swear.

‘Military training camp, wow,’ Alan said, when he’d been summoned to the boarders’ phone and told the news, ‘that could be really interesting. Do you reckon they’ll train you to drive tanks?’

‘Don’t know. We’ll soon find out. I’ll be home for Christmas. See you then.’

The night before Neil’s departure, Stan insisted on an evening at the Burnett Club. Hilda, who had no wish to be deprived of her son’s company, would far rather have organised a modest farewell dinner at home, but tradition demanded otherwise.

‘It’s the done thing, my dear,’ Stan was adamant, ‘the members will want to wish him well and speed him on his way.’

Objection was futile, Hilda knew. Stanley needed to show off his son. Whenever something of importance required celebration or recognition, the Burnett Club beckoned.

Situated in Quay Street overlooking the river, the Burnett Club with its strictly ‘gentlemen only’ membership had been the favoured meeting place of Bundaberg’s professional and business elite for as long as most could remember. When the son of a prominent citizen came of age he was invariably introduced to the Burnett Club, although in Stan’s case things had been a little different. As Bartholomew Durham had had little interest in that kind of socialising, Stan had been introduced to the club by his grandfather, Big Jim. These days, with his own son and heir, Stan adhered to tradition and also to Big Jim’s business policy, which he considered of fundamental importance.

‘My father never understood the value of cultivating relationships with the more influential members of the community,’ Stan said, ‘he considered a trip into town for a beer at the club tedious and unnecessary. Big Jim knew better, and Big Jim was right.’

Father and son had deserted the busy bar, which had become stuffy with cigar and cigarette smoke. Crossing through the empty function room that looked directly over the river, they’d stepped out onto the lawn with their beers. The night was still and chill with the bite of winter, but the air was bracing and the river below glistened silver on black in the moonlight. Behind them, even with the doors closed, the babble of men’s voices could clearly be heard.

‘Good turn up tonight,’ Stan said, ‘lot of the regulars.’

A healthy cross-section of the town’s upper echelon was indeed present, including from the medical profession Dr Len McKeon, prominent physician, and Dr Jack Scott, surgeon. Representative of the business sector was Carl Nielson of Nielson’s Musical Store, Stewart Pettigrew of Wypers, Garnet Buss of Buss & Turners and Rob Black of John Black’s Drapery and Clothing Emporium. Stanley Durham was on friendly terms with each and every one, and each and every one had shaken his son by the hand. They’d gathered about and toasted the lad, raising their beers and their glasses of ‘Special Blend’ and ‘Governor’s Choice’, the club’s exclusive OP rum blends. ‘Godspeed, Neil,’ they’d said while Stan had stood by, pretending nonchalance, but bursting with a father’s pride.

‘The men of the Burnett wish you well, Neil,’ he now said as they gazed out at the river and the sprawl of the Bundaberg Foundry on the opposite bank. ‘That’s a powerful bond forged in there, son, valuable friendships that’ll last you the whole of your life.’ He downed a large swig of his beer. ‘Something my father could never understand,’ he added with a touch of derision. ‘Just as well I had Big Jim in my life.’

Neil, like Kate, often felt critical of the treatment afforded Bartholomew by his own son. Stan continually ignored or derided his father, which seemed not only unfair but puzzling. Neil himself could clearly remember, in the days before Bartholomew’s stroke when he’d accompanied the old man into town, the respect his grandfather had commanded. It had been quite evident that Bartholomew Durham was held in high regard by all those who knew him. Did it make him any less of a man if he chose not to become a member of the Burnett Club?

‘Do you know, Neil,’ Stan continued, ‘I remember all those years ago before I went off to training camp. Big Jim brought me here to the club and his mates all gathered around to wish me Godspeed. Just like tonight.’

‘History repeating itself, eh?’ Neil said, although his smile was a little forced. He sometimes disliked himself for not taking a stand. I should have spoken up just then, he thought, I should have spoken up for Grandpa: Kate certainly would have. He wondered, as he did on occasions, whether his choice to remain silent was a sign of weakness. Am I a spineless bastard, he wondered, or do I not want to prick Dad’s bubble, which is it?

‘History repeating itself, exactly.’ Stan beamed with pleasure. ‘A man’s friends are the measure of him, son, and my friends have become yours. I couldn’t be more proud, Neil. I swear I couldn’t possibly be more proud.’ He raised his glass and they clinked and drank to each other.

Neil decided to let himself off lightly this time. Of course I can’t prick Dad’s bubble, he thought, not a bubble as big as this one anyway. But living in Stan the Man’s shadow could be wearing, and living up to his expectations even more so. Neil was plagued by the ever-present fear of disappointing his father.

He drained the last of his beer. ‘Come on, Dad, finish her off,’ he said, ‘my shout. Then I’ll beat you at snooker.’

Stan laughed. ‘Want to bet?’

The following evening, Stan and Hilda stood on the platform of Bundaberg Railway Station waving farewell to their son who was hanging out the window of the ‘Rockhampton Mail’, the slow, overnight train that stopped at every station between Bundy and Brisbane. Neil’s instructions had been meticulous. Upon his early-morning arrival at Roma Street Station, he was to proceed to South Brisbane Interstate Railway Station, where he was to board the lunchtime train bound for Sydney. He would alight at Singleton in the early hours of the following morning.

‘It’s only training camp, Hilda,’ Stan said unable to disguise a touch of irritation as she ferreted for her handkerchief. ‘The boy’s hardly going off to war.’

Hilda made no reply. Not yet, she thought, dabbing at her eyes.

The training course at Singleton was tough and deliberately so, the intention being to push the young national servicemen to their absolute limit, even to breaking point if necessary, and then remould them to army requirements. Military experts believed that the new recruits, in taking a dislike to their officers and NCOs, would rely more and more upon each other, thereby forming a bond of mateship that would serve them well in combat. The psychology worked. Over the ensuing weeks, the bond forged between the ‘nashos’, as they were known, became steadily unbreakable. It was a bond very much embraced by Neil Durham.

After several months of arduous basic training, Neil and his newfound mates were transported to Brisbane where on 5 September they were marched into Enoggera Barracks, home of the newly formed 6RAR. It was here they would embark upon their serious corps training.

The 6th Battalion of the Royal Australian Regiment constituted four companies of approximately one hundred and twenty officers and men, each company consisting of four platoons, numbering around thirty men and one officer. Private Neil Durham was assigned to D Company, 12 Platoon.

Neil loved the routine of army life. He was a fit young man, lean and strong, and, unlike some of the other national servicemen, particularly those from the city, the rigorous physical training presented him with little hardship from the outset. Relentless though it was, he found it exhilarating, liberating even. In fact, Neil embraced everything the military had to offer. He loved the camaraderie of his fellow ‘nashos’, he loved the precision of weaponry training and the discipline of army drill, and he particularly loved the mindlessness of endless marches to the chant of ‘These Boots Were Made for Walking’. The men of the 6th Battalion had claimed Nancy Sinatra’s number-one hit as their own and sang it with pride and gusto, always tuneless, but in perfect rhythm, never missing a beat.

Freed from the constant pressure of his father’s expectations, Neil Durham loved, above all else, being simply one man in an army of men.

Alan was the first of the Durham siblings to arrive home for Christmas. Unlike Kate, he’d returned to Elianne for each of his term breaks throughout the year, every visit finding him more eager than ever to be reunited with Paola.

The relationship between the two had escalated to the point where it was evident to all and sundry that young Alan Durham and Paola Fiorelli were smitten with each other.

Stan voiced his concern to his wife, and he didn’t pull any punches doing so. ‘There’d better not be any funny business going on,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll have his bloody guts for garters if he gets the girl pregnant.’

‘Don’t be coarse, Stanley,’ Hilda replied primly. ‘Of course there’ll be none of that going on – they’re only sixteen.’

‘Exactly! Just the age when a boy thinks of nothing but sex!’

‘A girl, however, does not.’ Hilda’s response was icy; something in her husband’s tone had seemed to add ‘you stupid woman’. ‘Particularly a girl like Paola, who comes from a very good family.’