Evan's Gallipoli (15 page)
You'll never guess who I saw againâCurly! He came in on the transport this morning! Complications from a broken arm, it looks like he'll lose it. He grinned at me and said, âHere we are again, young Evan! I thought you'd copped it!' I was so pleased to see him. He was one of the frozen ones so I sat by him as he soaked. His arm was broken by a shrapnel fragment. He says Bluey is still alive and far too cunning to die. It's strange to see a man's features emerge from under the mud as it is soaked off. Curly has short dark hair. I don't know that I have ever seen him without his hat before. They took him off to surgery soon after. I'll see him again tomorrow.
Poor Curly. They took the arm off near the elbow. It was his right arm. He's right-handed, too. But when I came to see him he was sitting up in his light blue hospital pyjamas. Someone had organised him a cup of tea which smelt suspiciously of that Greek brandyâit smells like burnt sugar. He wants me to find him some paper and a pencil so that he can practise writing left-handed. He says that maybe someone can fettle him up a sheath and a hook for his missing arm. Then he might be able to go on with his peacetime profession, which is horse-breaker. No reason why he couldn't ride, of course. You really only need one hand on the reins. He was pleased to see Father, too. He thought we had both died. I hope no one has told Aunt Euphie that we are dead. I'd better write to her. The Salvation Army can stand me a stamp.
I wrote to Aunt Euphie. Father told me to send his best love to her. He really has recovered. Abdul sloped off to some meeting with someone he wouldn't tell me about. He didn't come back until very late. I wandered around Athens on my afternoon off. Such a lot of things to buy in the shops! This is a rich place. But unpleasant French soldiers, very arrogant, shouting at the shopkeepers for having the nerve not to speak French. I interpreted for a French officer, very dapper, who wanted to buy an icon. The shopkeeper was an old lady. She cursed him in Greek the whole time. He had no idea, of course, what she was saying. She said, âTake the icon, godless foreigner, for ten times the price, for I have a use for your money, and my worst wishes with it, I hope you drown,' and smiled. He smiled back and handed over a shocking sum. He bowed and went away and I started to laugh. The whole Plaka joined in. The old lady giggled like a girl. Then she pressed a tiny icon, barely three inches across, into my hand. It's of St Christopher, patron of travellers. âTake it,' she said, âmay the Lord protect and keep you, I have eleven mouths to feed.' It could not properly be refused so I took it. I shall look out for rich Frenchmen to direct to her shop.
More frozen bodies. Too tired to write.
I went back to the icon shop on Plaka. The old lady was pleased to see me. Then she dragged me close and whispered that someone was watching me. She thought he was Bulgarian. It was the thin man again. This time I just went up to him and asked why he was following me. He didn't say a word in any language. He just fled. The Greeks cheered and yelled and threw things at him. So there.
It's getting really cold. I bought Abdul a new hat to keep his ears warm. I looked down towards Pireaus and saw a long, long line of ambulances, carrocrios, cars and trucks. If it wasn't for the fact that most of the patients were shipped out yesterday I don't know where we would put them all. The Greeks are saying that the Somalis eat children, it's well known. They do have filed teeth, which are surprising if you aren't used to them. It's a shock when they smile. But I don't really think they eat children. They don't even eat pork. Abdul is getting on really well with them. They think he's a pet. Curly is learning to write left-handed. He's already in trouble with Sister for bribing someone to bring him brandy. It isn't me. He hasn't asked me. All I gave him was paper and pencils. She tried to disapprove but she didn't really. But she scolded him. He's allowed to get up tomorrow and asked me to take him for a walk. There isn't really anywhere to take him in Athens. It's raining all the time now. Curly says that if the Turks continue to hold Chunuk Bair, which is the highest point Gallipoli cannot be taken. So far they still have it.
I took Curly to Constitution Square. It is a fine place. The marble flooring is easy on the feet. We sat down at a little taverna and I bought him one ouzo. He sat easily, looking at the people and the traders. There were old men playing cards. Curly was interested. They asked if they should deal him in. He said yes and I interpreted as he learnt the game, which is called Triumph or maybe Victory. They were only playing for tiny little coins which are not in regular use any more. I bought a handful for half a drachma. Curly got the hang of the game very quickly. The old men liked his company. After an hour or so I had to take him back. But he promised he would come again. The old men were pleased with him and called him
pallikari
, which is warrior. He has to write home and tell his wife about the missing arm. He says he won't do it until he can write for himself. I haven't seen the thin man for a couple of days. I hope he has gone away.
Cold and raining. The old men in Constitution Square say this is going to be a hard winter. Even the gypsies, they say, have come in early to the outskirts of the town. They don't like gypsies. They spit when they say âgypsy' and Mrs Vasilopoulos, who owns the cafe, tells them off for soiling her floor. Curly comes every day for his card game. He doesn't need an interpreter any more. He manages with grunts and gestures. I can leave him there for an hour and wander around the square. I wonder where the gypsy camp is? And are these my gypsies? If so, they have travelled a long way.
Quiet day. The big scandal is that an interpreter has been caught telling the Turks how many wounded have come in from the Dardanelles. It wasn't Abdul, which is a relief. It was a boy called Peter. I didn't know him well. Two military policemen took him away. I don't know what will happen to him.
But Sister Lucas is cross and wouldn't let me take Curly out today. Which made no difference, of course, he went on his own. After all he has been through, what can the officer bloody commanding do to Curly? That's what he says. Sister gave him a scolding when he came back. He didn't seem to mind.
Father has been sitting all day with the incurables. I cannot tell if he does any good. Sometimes they call out, or scream in their private nightmares. Sometimes they talk, a long babble of nonsense. They make me anxious. If I don't get some sleep soon I might be joining them. I was assigned to the Salvos today. Sergeant O'Rourke has lollies, razors and soap, tobacco and books. Books! I rummaged through them. He said I can borrow them as often as I like. I found another book by Robert Louis Stevenson,
Catriona
. I put it in my bag and went around with the comforts. The shaving gear is much appreciated. Men like to be shaved. I don't need to shave. Considering how much fuss they make about it I am glad about that. A terrible thing happened. Father took some comforts into the incurables tent. One of them took the razor and cut his throat, just like that. There was blood everywhere and Father is in trouble. We aren't supposed to allow the incurables anywhere near a sharp object. Their food is already cut up when they get it. It is terrible when a gift is misused. The poor man must have been deep in the mortal sin of despair. I am going home to read
Catriona
.
Mr Richardson phoned the hospital. Father and I went with Sister Lucas to the Embassy where he admitted that we were who we said we were and handed over our new passports. He didn't apologise or anything for keeping us waiting. We could have starved to death for all he cared. Sister Lucas was very short with him. It will go hard with Mr Richardson if he ever gets admitted to her hospital. Then we went to the bank in Omonia Square and presented the passports and were able to use our account. Father has a lot of money now. I said that we needed to pay for our journey home. I don't want him to spend all of it on comforts for the soldiers. Sister Lucas backed me up. She likes Father but she always says that saints are hard to live with. She made Father leave enough to take us all home with a lot to spare. The bank manager who had been so snooty was now all smiles. I shall go this afternoon to ask about ships. I'm going home. I could sing.
I found that
Pericles
is sailing to Australia next Thursday. When I came back to tell Father he said we can't leave, not while the men need us. I am so cast down. I feel like screaming and stamping my feet as I used to do when I was much younger. But there is nothing to be done. When Curly saw me he asked me what was wrong and I told him. He said it was too bloody bad. And so it is.
On my afternoon off I went to find the gypsies. Their camp is out of bounds to soldiers but I am not a soldier. I walked a long way in the cold until I found the familiar circle of wagons and trucks, the horse lines, the barking dogs. The dogs bailed me up and the boys surrounded me until I said â
Frare Romanischel
,' and they backed off. They are Greek. They welcomed me into the camp and gave me tea and asked me about Thrace and about Romani's people. I said I last saw them outside Alexandropoulos and he had been planning to winter there. They nodded their heads at this. They said Romani was a wise leader. They have come down from Salonika because there is a war there between Bulgaria and Greece. They have picked up a few lost souls on the way and three babies. They too think it is going to be a hard winter. They are making baskets to sell. Also they make a good living telling fortunes. Their old lady, bent and white-haired, threw knuckle bones for me and said that I would get home, but not yet. I already knew that. I have finished
Catriona
and borrowed
The Master of Ballantrae
from Sergeant O'Rourke.
Cold. More frozen men. The thin man has been replaced by a fat man. He is watching us, too. Father asked me to enquire about treats for the soldiers. My friends in the Plaka may be able to help. He wants soap, singlets, handkerchiefs and lollies. Sister wants spices, because the cooks are trying to make Christmas puddings without them. Or dried fruit.
I found spices at the spice market. A wonderful place. It smells divine. I bought cinnamon, nutmeg and a mixed spice which makes the mouth water. Then Abdul and I scouted around for dried fruits. We found some at a impossible price. We might do better in the market on Friday. I note that these are Australian raisins and sultanas. I wonder how they ended up in the Plaka? I shall ask around.
One of the cooks has been selling the stores: that's how the dried fruit ended up in the Plaka. And dried milk and dried egg and hundreds of tins of bully beef. Myself I don't care if I never taste bully beef again. But it is stealing. There is a terrible to-do about it. He was using the money to pay for the company of a very beautiful Greek girl. Silly man. Now he will be thrown out of the army and sent home. He was very angry with me for telling. If I had known it was him, I probably wouldn't have. He shouted threats at me until Curly told him to shut his bloody gob or else he'd bloody shut it for him and then the cook was led away by two MPs. Sister Lucas told me to go and find some dried fruit so I went. I took George and Abdul with me to carry it back. Not a lot of raisins but enough sultanas and apricots. They cost a lot. French soldiers in the street were rude to us. I just kept walking. Germans are not the only barbarians in the world.
More transports. Curly joined us in talking to the newly arrived patients. He says he wants to be useful. He is. They know his soft Australian voice and calm down directly. âYou're apples, cobber,' he says to them, and they are. It must be snowing on Gallipoli. The thawed ones are dreadfully frostbitten. The flesh goes white, then black. The things Sister Lucas says about the people in charge of the transports are very strong. I didn't know that nurses swore like that. Father reproved her gently for saying âGod damn those bloody butchers' and she told him that she meant exactly what she said. Father accepted this. In the old days he would have been cross with her on God's behalf.
French officers being difficult again. Some of the Somalis got into a brawl outside a taverna, saying that the owner was robbing them. He probably was. The Greeks think the Somalis are beasts. The trouble with this beautiful universe is people . . .
Cold and blowy. This must be the
meltermi
that the transport people were talking about. Fat man still watching us. In Australia it would be getting hot by now. I have missed the wattle blooming. Someone brought in a few branches of mimosa from the big flower market in Omonia. You could pick out the Australians by the tears in their eyes.
Horrible. I don't know what to do. One of the Germans, an Oberleutnant Manfred Schmidt, knows Father. He must have been there when Father and I were taken to the commandant and he ordered that we be shot. They say that Germans are all tall and blond but he is a short dark Prussian who speaks a dialect which is designed for shouting orders. His eyes are grey, like slate, and just as hard. He thought we had been killed. He got a shock when he saw Father. He knows that Father is a traitor. He grabbed my hand and whispered that I was to help him escape or he would tell and Father would be executed. Who can I ask for help? I don't know any reliable people in Athens apart from Sister. But she's very patriotic. Perhaps she would turn away if she found out about us. This is awful. We have to get out of here. But Father will not go.
