Kal (51 page)

‘And what exactly is a “creature of Kalgoorlie”?' he asked, still scowling. ‘I wasn't even born here.'

‘And I was,' she laughed. ‘In a humpy, in the outback. Stop looking so serious, it wasn't an insult.' The seat slowed down and gave its final squeak of protest. ‘Kalgoorlie can get in anyone's blood. You don't have to be born here.' In the silence that followed, Briony herself became serious. ‘Kal is a place you never want to leave or a place you can't wait to get out of.'

Her words were heartfelt. ‘And you want to get out?' Paolo asked. She nodded. ‘It's a place you always want to come back to, Briony.'

‘Maybe.' She swung the seat until it squealed again. ‘But I won't know that till I get out, will I?'

 

‘HUGHES VISITS THE FRONT' the headlines proclaimed. ‘While in France, Prime Minister Hughes visited the Australian troops and was briefed by General Sir Douglas Haig …'

It was a Sunday and the whole clan was gathered at Rico and Teresa's house. They always discussed the news from the front and it was Briony's turn to read from the paper as they sat around the family table.

Paolo was amused to see Salvatore, yet again, dive for a place on the bench beside Briony. ‘Young Salvatore's besotted with you,' he'd told his sister when the clan had first gathered to welcome him home.

‘Don't be silly, Paolo,' she'd answered dismissively, ‘he's a baby.'

‘Do you want to play football, Briony?' Salvatore asked when they had finished with the newspaper and the adults were discussing the politics of the day.

‘No, I don't.' Briony refused to acknowledge the I-told-you-so look in Paolo's eye. ‘Do you want me to help?' she asked as Caterina and Teresa rose from the table to prepare the meal.

‘No, no, you children go outside and leave us some space,' Teresa answered. ‘Caterina and I like to talk while we work.'

Rosalina jumped up immediately, but Salvatore hung back waiting for Briony.

‘I won't be late.' Carmelina was up from the table in a flash. She had been waiting impatiently, as usual. ‘Bye, Papa.' She kissed the top of Rico's head. ‘Bye, Mamma, bye everyone.' And she was out the door.

Paolo watched her as he sat at the table with the men, Giovanni opening a bottle of red wine, Rico lighting his pipe. Carmelina always left before the meal on a Sunday. ‘It is the only time she has with her friends,' Teresa had apologetically explained. ‘She works so hard at the restaurant.'

Carmelina had changed more than any of them, Paolo thought and he marvelled that the family couldn't see it. What friends did she visit with such desperate anticipation? Certainly not her girlfriends. Who could the man be? Paolo wondered. And, if he was an honourable man, why the secrecy?

He had tried, as gently as possible, to broach the subject with Carmelina. ‘Why are you leaving? Stay and talk with me.' It had been the second Sunday the family had gathered and, once again, she had left as soon as she could. He'd followed her quickly out onto the verandah. ‘I haven't seen you for so long and we
haven't exchanged a word alone since I've been home.'

‘You don't need to talk to me, Paolo, you have the whole family.' Her smile was brittle and he knew she wanted to get away.

‘But I'll have the whole family for the rest of the evening,' he'd urged, ‘sit and talk to me. Just for a little while.'

‘I can't' She was already edging towards the verandah steps. ‘You heard Mamma, Sunday is my only day off, the only day I have to see my friends.'

‘What friends, Carmelina?' He knew he was treading on dangerous ground. ‘What friends could be more important than your family?'

There was no pretence left in her eyes now, no attempt at a smile, brittle or otherwise. He was making her late and Louis was waiting. ‘Leave me alone.'

‘Carmelina, please. We are family, I care about you.' He had tried to take her arm. ‘And whilst your brother is not here …'

‘I said leave me alone!' She had wrenched her arm away and her voice had been as loud as she dared with the family sitting inside. ‘I am eighteen and what I do is none of your business.' Carmelina hated him then—she hated them all. Italian peasants. ‘And if Enrico were here it would be none of his business either,' she had said as she ran down the steps and into the street.

Paolo had wondered, for quite some time after that, what he should do. He dared not tell Rico. And Giovanni was a sick man, he needed no added burden. So, guiltily, Paolo kept Carmelina's secret. Perhaps, after all, she was right. She was of age, she was a woman, and this was Australia, not a peasant community where the brothers were beholden to avenge their sisters' honour.

Paolo persuaded himself that perhaps everything would turn out for the best. Perhaps the man with whom she was in love was honourable and Carmelina was
simply keeping her affair a secret for fear of her father's reaction. Perhaps it was only a matter of time before her beau would declare himself. If so, Paolo wished him luck. He would need to be a bold man to approach Rico.

‘Caterina tells me you have another letter from Enrico,' Teresa said as she set the table. ‘You will read it out to us after we've eaten?'

‘Of course,' Paolo answered, meeting his mother's eyes as she smiled an apology behind Teresa's back.

When Paolo had received Enrico's letter only several days previously, Caterina had made him promise to bring it to the family gathering on Sunday.

‘But you saw what happened when I read out parts of the letter he sent me from Gallipoli, Mamma,' Paolo had protested. ‘It only gets Rico going again.'

Indeed, there had been very few portions of the letter Paolo had dared to read out. Before he had even started, Rico had embarked upon his ‘fool of a boy, fighting for a country which is not his own' crusade.

‘I know, I know,' Caterina had agreed, ‘and Rico will do it again, he does every time. But take the letter, Paolo. For Teresa's sake.' When he still appeared reluctant, she added. ‘Make it up as you go along. Teresa won't know and it will make her happy.'

Women were so devious, Paolo had thought as he put the letter in his pocket, even his mother whom he so much admired.

‘Yes, of course I'll read it to you,' he said to Teresa. ‘After we've eaten and before we sing. I promise.'

 

C
ARMELINA CRIED OUT
as the pain knifed through her. But it would ease soon. Soon she would be able to bear it without crying out.

In the rose-coloured room at Red Ruby's, Carmelina rarely achieved her own pleasure any more. But it
didn't matter. It was his pleasure that mattered. And afterwards, when he'd defiled her, he would hold her close and kiss her gently and tell her how much he loved her.

He no longer brought the whores in to make love to her whilst he watched. ‘Just you and me, my darling,' he'd whispered that first time and she'd been glad. He'd caressed her until she was insane with desire. ‘Every part of you is mine, Carmelina,' he'd murmured, ‘will you pleasure me with every part of you?' She moaned her acquiesence, there was nothing she would not do for him. And then he'd defiled her in a way she could never have imagined.

Afterwards, as she lay shocked and degraded, he made love to her with his tongue and his hands. ‘You're mine, Carmelina,' he whispered, ‘I own you, every part of you, I love you, I love you …' And, unbelievably, her body had responded. She'd cried out in ecstasy even as her humiliation was still fresh in her mind. It was true. He owned her.

It was a little different these days. Sometimes he gave her her pleasure, but more often he did not, and Carmelina's satisfaction now lay in the vows of love which followed her degradation. Louis's pleasure was all she lived for now.

Louis himself had not expected the affair to last this long; he'd expected to be bored after six months. But how could he tire of one prepared to surrender to his every whim? Her devotion was total and his power absolute. The prospects which lay ahead were limitless and irresistible. It would be a long time before Louis Picot would tire of young Carmelina Gianni.

 

‘“… W
E'RE BILLETED IN
Sailly, in an area known as the Armentières sector. It's named after the town of Armentières on the River Lys”.' Paolo read Enrico's
letter out loud to the assembled family, his eyes scanning ahead for the sections he knew he must avoid.

‘“I'll send this letter to Kal as I know you'll be home by now. You lucky geezer”.' Paolo looked up to catch Rico frowning. Rico didn't like his son's use of soldiers' slang, be it Aussie or Tommy vernacular.

‘“Are you still thinking of joining up? Don't be a fool, mate, stay at home—”'

‘Ah now at last he wakes up,' Rico growled derisively.

‘Be quiet, Rico,' Teresa snapped without even looking at him. ‘Go on, go on,' she urged.

‘“… although I must say the countryside around Sailles is peaceful and pretty. Hard to believe there's a war raging all about us. We're only a couple of miles from the front line and mid-way between the towns of Ypres and Loos, both of which have seen some heavy fighting.

‘“They're holding us in reserve and they drill us hard—the Frogs are fond of cobbled streets, a right bastard for marching on—but we have it fairly easy on the whole. The calm before the storm.

‘“The villagers are a beaut bunch and we've become mates with some of them. We even sat up all night last week waiting for a cow to calve. In the middle of a war, just think, a bunch of us squatting about the old stove, taking turns to stroke the cow's head and all of us murmuring encouragement like a mob of midwives. When she had twins there was a whopping great celebration. The villagers broke out the plink plonk—white wine—and everybody got right royally stonkered. Well, not me, I'm still not mad about the stuff, but my mate had a bugger of a hangover”.' Paolo had thought quickly and replaced the word ‘Jack' with ‘my mate'. ‘“He tells me the local vino's pretty rough stuff”.'

Paolo skipped ahead. He certainly couldn't read aloud the next paragraph.

‘Yes, Jack Brearley,' Rick had written, to Paolo's utter amazement. ‘Bet you're surprised. We've become good mates, it's too stupid to be anything else over here. I know you'll be glad to hear it, Paolo, you always were the peacemaker, and you were right. Jack's as wild as ever but he's a good mate. We even left the train for a couple of days on the trip north, I thought we'd get into terrible strife, but Jack wasn't worried. When we reported to the nearest military headquarters and told them we'd got lost, the Tommy officer gave us a whopping dressing down, went on about the lack of discipline in the Aussie ranks and the fact that we're noncommissioned officers now (sergeants, how about that!) and we should have more regard for our rank. On and on he went, but there was nothing he could do. You should hear Jack's toffee-nosed Tommy imitation. Has all the blokes in stitches.

‘We're a bit of a duo act actually. Jack does the joke-telling and I play the concertina …'

‘Go on,' Teresa was urging once more. ‘Go on, what does he say?'

‘“… I play the concertina”,' Paolo continued, catching his mother's sympathetic glance.

‘I drive Jack mad with the old concertina.' He couldn't read that. ‘Jack says he's spent his whole childhood listening to the bloody thing but the other blokes love it.'

‘“… the other blokes love it”,' Paolo read out. ‘“I'm surprised I can even get a sound out of the old thing now. It's held together with string and glue and sticking plaster. But it manages a tune and the men sing as if their hearts would break”.'

Paolo glanced up at Giovanni as he read the next part. ‘“I told Giovanni, in a letter I wrote to him from
Gallipoli, that the music he gave me is my salvation, and it's true, Paolo. Mine, and many others. I've seen a song raise men's spirits the way nothing else could. I've seen men on the brink of madness join in a song with their mates and, for that moment at least, the horror's forgotten.

‘“That's all for now”.' Paolo again skipped the next bit. ‘It's good to be able to talk openly to someone,' Rick had written. ‘I owe Jack my life, Paolo. At Gallipoli, he saved my life, and there's no one in Kal I can tell, apart from you. Not even Giovanni, and I speak to Giovanni from my heart.

‘Jack and I have agreed that, when we come home, we'll end this family feud. Why fight a war in Kal when the whole world is doing it? Kal is a place to be safe. Kal is home.'

‘“… Look after yourself”,' Paolo read, ‘“and congratulations on Harvard and all that. You'll be a real toff by the time I see you. Your good mate …”' Paolo changed the ‘Rick' to Enrico. He looked up to see Teresa with tears streaming down her face.

‘Good God, did we really send men to fight in that?' It was after the conclusion of the third battle of Ypres, referred to as Passchendaele, that General Kiggell, Haig's Chief of General Staff, made his first journey to within a few miles of the front. Many reports said that he wept.

General Douglas Haig, British Commander in Chief of the Allied Forces, was directly responsible for the disastrous choice of terrain which resulted in a battleground that was no more than a boggy marshland.

The British generals were warned that the ground on which they planned to launch their attack had been reclaimed from the sea. Centuries of labour had been employed in building and preserving the intricate drainage system of dykes and culverts and the farmers themselves were under penalty to keep their dykes clear and well maintained. Any bombardment, the generals were told, and the land would revert to marshland. Haig refused to listen.

The first two weeks of shelling proved the accuracy of the warnings. The troops were forced to lay down tracks in order to advance. If a man strayed from those tracks he could find himself up to his armpits in mud. In the first battle alone, half the British tanks were lost in the quagmire and the remaining tanks were of little
use. Trenches were impossible to maintain under the relentless enemy barrage and many troops were buried alive in the mud.

Haig was advised of the appalling conditions and the prospect of failure but such opinions were unwelcome and he ignored them. The battle was to continue as planned.

 

‘P
LAY US A
song, Rick,' Snowy said and the other half-dozen men, crouched in the ditch beside the derelict wagon, urged him on.

‘Give a bloke a break,' Jack loudly complained, ‘we've had enough music for one day. The Germans have played us a whole bloody concerto—how about a bit of peace and quiet?'

Tom Brereton howled him down and the others joined in as they always did. The concertina had become a running gag between Jack Brearley and Rick Gianni and the men enjoyed it.

The gunfire had indeed been severe all day and, as night drew on and the shelling became more sporadic, the relief from the constant noise was intense. Not that they were ever entirely free of shelling. Every now and then a growl would sound overhead and, somewhere amongst the grey wasteland, a geyser of mud and water would explode into the air.

It was the end of October and the men of the 11th Battalion were on their third tour of the line. The Westralian diggers had seen it all and there wasn't a man amongst them who didn't awake in the muddy trench after his several intermittent hours of cold, wet, liceridden sleep to wonder at the fact that he was still alive. Snowy, Tom, Jack and Rick made a joke of it. ‘Still here, mate?' was their good morning greeting to one another.

The 11th Battalion headquarters were in dugouts at Zonnebeke but the troops of the 3rd Brigade, on the line
near Decline Copse, were existing under terrible conditions. Having relieved the 2nd Brigade, the 3rd was acting as protection and decoy for the right flank of the 4th Canadian Division which was making an attack on Passchendaele, and the gunfire had been so heavy for so long that there was not one area of ground untouched. In the welter of mud and broken trenches it was up to the troops to find shelter for the night as best they could and, all over the battleground, pockets of men huddled in holes in the ground.

In the ditch by the wagon, the group dragged out their waterproof sheets from their packs, settled themselves down in the mud and lit their cigarettes whilst Rick pulled the old concertina from his kitbag.

‘“Piccadilly”,' Charlie Blanchard insisted. Charlie was a Cockney and he always wanted the old vaudeville songs. ‘Give us “Piccadilly” first.' The Aussies didn't howl him down the way they used to do. By now, the Diggers knew the Tommy songs as well as they knew their own and, in No-Man's-Land, any song was a good song.

They sang in desperation at first, to drown out the sound of gunfire and erase the memory of the day's hideous battle. Then cries of ‘Good on you, mate' sounded from other ditches and craters and broken trenches and, here and there, a man stood and waved. More and more voices joined in. Wherever the sound of the concertina could be heard, men sang and, gradually, down the line, the song swelled to become a rousing chorus of defiance. ‘“… dear old London's broad highway!”' They shouted the finale.

Requests were yelled from afar. ‘“The Road to Gundagai!”'

‘“My Old Man!”' And everyone's favourite, ‘“The Rose of No-Man's Land!”'

‘There's a rose that grows,

In No-Man's-Land …'

Jack studied Rick, playing valiantly on and on, never missing a beat. Even when a shell exploded nearby and they were showered with mud, Rick played on.

‘… It's the one red rose,

The soldier knows.

It's the work of the Master's hand …'

Today of all days, they needed Rick Gianni, Jack thought. Today had been a day from hell.

“Neath the world's great curse

Stands the Red Cross nurse.

She's the Rose of No-Man's-Land!'

Whilst men from all over the battlefield roared the final words Jack looked around at his mates. He and Rick and Mad Tom Brereton—they called him Mad Tom these days to his face, Tom seemed to like it—and Snowy Wilson and the others. How the hell had they lasted this long? Jack wondered. How the hell had they lasted this long?

There had been a purpose to start with, or at least they'd told themselves there was. Reach the front line, man the trenches and advance when the order came through. Pretty simple really.

Through the communication saps and over the parapet they'd gone, with the hundreds of others. Through and over the endless maze of trenches, amongst the shell holes and barbed wire, ignoring the bodies that lay strewn in their wake. There had been many a fight for the ridge ahead and both sides had suffered heavy losses. No time to think about that now. The Germans were retreating. Orders were to advance.

The front line. They'd made it. The trench was full of bodies, Germans as well as Allies. So Fritz had got this far, they thought. Some men were not yet dead. Stretcher bearers would come under cover of darkness for those who could last that long.

Ahead of them was No-Man's-Land. And the orders to advance once more at dawn.

They'd advanced, all right, Jack thought as he looked at the others—they were singing ‘It's a Long Way to Tipperary' now—but, here in No-Man's-Land, there were few left to tell the tale. This was a gunner's war, an artillery duel between the Allied and German batteries, and heaven help the poor infantryman caught in the middle. If they could only meet Fritz face to face, in man-to-man combat, at least they would feel they were serving a purpose.

Finally, the men stopped singing. As the blackness of night crept in about them, broken every now and then by German flares and a fresh burst of gunfire, they fed themselves from their kitbag rations. Then they curled up in the mud and tried to give their weary bodies whatever minutes' or hours' sleep their nerves would allow.

‘I'll take first watch,' Charlie Blanchard offered. Nightly watch was maintained not so much for fear of attack, as for fear of the dreaded mustard gas. The minute the familiar shower of popping gas shells sounded, the alarm went out and the men had only seconds to don their gas masks before the yellow-green haze wreaked its deadly havoc.

Jack's mind drifted off and the visions appeared, as they always did. Old ones were joined by the fresh unspeakable horrors of the day and he couldn't rid himself of the man's face. The man drowning in the mud that very afternoon. As they'd frantically dug to free Snowy, the mortally wounded man had been barely five yards away. Buried from the shoulders down, he'd been blown to pieces. God knew how much of him was left beneath the mud. But he was conscious and struggling feebly. The more he struggled the quicker he sank and, by the time they'd dug Snowy out, the man had gone. But Jack had seen the final look in his eyes and now, in
fitful sleep, the man was back. His mouth opened he was about to say something.

Jack awoke, startled, the sweat of alarm mingling with the drizzle of rain. A noise nearby. ‘What was that?' He sat up.

‘Rats, mate.' It was Snowy. ‘Rats, that's all. Go back to sleep. You too, Charlie, I'll take over the watch.'

‘Right you are then,' and Charlie curled up in his waterproof sheet.

Tough little Snowy Wilson was having trouble sleeping. Each time he closed his eyes, panic rose in him. He could feel himself drowning as the trench closed in about him. Jack was pulling on one arm and Tom on the other whilst Rick dug frantically at the mud. But it was no use, Snowy was being sucked down into his grave. He kicked with his feet and felt the bodies of the men buried beneath him. His foot found a purchase and he started to climb. The limbs of dead men were the steps of the ladder he climbed to safety as his mates pulled him from the slime. Tough little Snowy Wilson was having trouble sleeping.

Tom Brereton was not. Mad Tom always managed to sleep. But there was no respite in it and he usually awoke more tormented than before. In his sleep, an endless array of torn flesh and limbless bodies paraded behind his eyelids and every dead man bore the face of one of his brothers. Now Ben, now Bill; they seemed to take it in turn. Even the faceless bodies, those with a stump where a head used to be, were the headless bodies of his brothers.

Rick Gianni had managed, more successfully than the others, to exorcise his nightly demons. As the images started to appear, he concentrated on the music in his brain. Always the same tune, the very first one he'd written. He'd been just a boy. ‘Solange's Song' he'd called it. And then he would conjure up her face. Not as
he'd last seen it, with nothing but the fear of discovery in her eyes. But loving. Impudent and laughing. During every tormented night, the memory of Solange was Rick Gianni's saviour.

The image of the drowning man would not allow Jack sleep so he and Snowy talked quietly together.

‘Not a good possie, this,' Jack said, referring to the ditch in which they were huddled. It was beside one of the few existing roads across the battlefield and roads were regularly shelled to prevent the supplies getting through to the Allied front line.

‘We'll be out at dawn, mate. They'll signal the advance.' Snowy lit up another cigarette. ‘We've got to press forward and get under the barrage. We're sitting ducks out here.'

‘Reckon we can make it to the ridge?'

‘I reckon.'

Dawn's first light revealed the carnarge. Behind the men there stretched miles of wet, grey wasteland strewn with bodies and debris. A low mist rolled across the boggy marshland and, here and there, lay evil pools of yellowish liquid, remnants of the hideous mustard gas.

Far ahead, the German lines looked green and untouched. Virgin country, in stark contrast to the Allied lines and No-Man's-Land. Strange to think that the hideous slime in which they lay was the victor's ground and that the Germans were in retreat.

They could see the ridge ahead and, as the signal sounded, men rose like ghosts from the mud. Were there really that many of them left, after all? Jack wondered as he ran with the others.

The noise from the heavy German bombardment was horrendous. Shells roared overhead like freight trains to explode in a shower of mud and men. Still they ran, staggering, falling in the mud, and rising again, those who could. As he ran, Jack's mind was strangely
lucid. Snowy was right, he thought, they were spot in the middle of the heavy guns' target range. If they could just get forward. If they could live that long. Usually the cacophany of artillery became one nightmare roar, but something told Jack's mind that there was less sputter of machine-gun fire. Amongst the growl of shells and the squeal of field guns, where was the constant rat-tat-tat of machine-guns? Was it true then? Had the Germans retreated? Was the ridge theirs for the taking?

Closer and closer to the ridge. Soon they'd be under the heavy barrage. Then a wall of mud engulfed them and Jack was thrown to the ground, Rick beside him. ‘You right?' he yelled, but Rick was already struggling to his feet. So were Charlie Blanchard and Snowy. The shell had missed them. Mad Tom Brereton, the strongest and fastest runner of them all, was twenty yards ahead, screaming like a banshee.

On they ran. And on. They'd left the shells behind now. But the fierce splutter of machine-gun bullets suddenly surrounded them and Charlie Blanchard's chest ripped open. Three other men beside him fell. Jack saw them, to his right. On he ran. The ridge was in front of them now. The ground was slightly firmer underfoot. Bayonets at the ready, they charged.

Tom disappeared in front of them. Over the ridge and he was gone. But, through the inferno's noise, they could hear his screams. Then they, too, were over the ridge, Jack and Rick and Snowy. And there was Tom, bayonet plunging. Thrust, twist, withdraw. Thrust, twist, withdraw.

But they were dead men. Mad Tom Brereton was fighting dead men. Beyond the ridge were shell craters filled with bodies. The craters of their own shells, Jack realised. And the bodies were those of both sides; the Allies who had led the previous charge and the Germans who had been too late in their retreat.

Tom, in his madness, at least had wits enough to bayonet the enemy uniform. ‘Bastard!' he was screaming. Thrust, twist, withdraw. ‘Bastard!'

‘Leave it, mate,' Jack yelled, while the others dived for cover. There was machine-gun fire nearby.

‘Bastard!' Thrust, twist, withdraw.

‘I said leave it!' Jack grabbed Tom's arm. ‘Leave it!' Tom whirled on him, madness in his eyes, bayonet at the ready. Then recognition dawned. ‘They're dead, mate,' Jack said.

They huddled in a crater amongst the bodies and looked back at the butchery of No-Man's-Land. The mists had lifted and a cold wind blew across the battlefield. Troops who had nearly made it were being mown down by machine-gun fire from further along the ridge.