Tiger Men (63 page)
Now, at four o’clock in the afternoon as the
HMAT Geelong
cast off, the
Emma Jane
prepared to follow her out into the Derwent, the Powells and the Müllers drinking in this last image of their sons.
David was drinking in
his
last image of Jeanie, her mass of fair curls tossed about by the wind as she blew kisses up to him. My Jeanie with the light brown hair, he thought. It seemed most appropriate that, at that very moment, the musicians should choose to strike up ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’.
From his position beside Oscar at the railings, Hugh was thinking exactly the same thing as he looked out across the sea of people to where Caitie stood.
Oscar, in true form, had scored them both a prime position. ‘She’s over there,’ he’d said when he’d spotted his father and sister, and oh my God, he’d thought, Mary Reilly as well.
But Hugh had needed no prompting in order to find her. He’d already seen the flash of red among the hordes. She had deliberately come hatless in order that he should.
The musicians continued to play ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’ as the troopship made its way out into the harbour. Many aboard found it a poignant choice, but not one man had a single regret. The girls would be there when they came home again. In the meantime, they were off to fight a war.
HAPTER TWENTY
T
he
HMAT Geelong
docked in Albany for the embarkation of the two Western Australian companies that completed the 12th Battalion, and it was there in the massive bay of King George’s Sound that the ship joined up with the rest of the convoy. The fleet included twenty-six Australian and ten New Zealand troopships, escorting battleships and the cruiser
HMAS Sydney.
Stretching three miles in length and carrying thirty thousand troops, the convoy departed Albany bound for Colombo on the first of November.
Several weeks later, letters started to arrive home, although some took a little longer getting there than others. Oscar wrote to Eileen, Col and Caitie:
7 November 1914
Dear All,
I hope this letter finds you well. That is, when I finally post it. The word around the decks is that the convoy will be putting in to Colombo on the island of Ceylon, so with luck, I may be able to send it from there.
We left Western Australia a week ago and, if the truth be known, I’ve started writing out of sheer boredom. Life aboard ship is monotonous, unless of course you happen to be an officer. They’re living the life of Reilly up on their own deck with canvas chairs and by the smell of it wonderful food. We of the rank and file are not so lucky, we live on the troop deck where there is not room to swing a cat and the food is truly terrible. The last of the bread on board is now hard and dry and the meat is as tough as boot leather. The only alternative is British government rations, biscuits hard as river rocks and Fray Bentos corned beef in a tapered tin with a side-key opener, bully beef the Tommies call it. I can soon see us Australian lads getting mighty sick of it.
9 November
There was much excitement aboard ship when the news arrived this evening. And not just aboard our ship either – I could hear men cheering from other boats in the convoy. This morning about daybreak, the Australian battleship
HMAS Sydney
took off for all she was worth, full steam ahead, and later in the morning we heard the roar of heavy gunfire away to the west. Apparently there was a fight between the
Sydney
and a German raider called the
Emden
and the
Sydney
done for her right royally as they say, shot her to pieces at a place called the Cocos Islands, which are supposed to be part of Australia, but I’ve never heard of them.
16 November
We anchored in Colombo yesterday and first thing we saw was the
HMAS Sydney.
She sailed right past us and the lads all lined the decks and gave her three rousing cheers. I went for a walk around the city this morning, a pretty place with pretty women by the dozen, dark eyes, beautiful skin, a man could easily lose his soul if he were so disposed. Fortunately I’m not that way inclined, isn’t that right, Da?
20 November
Oops, I missed the mail boat. I’ll have to post this at the next port of call, wherever that may be. We’re on our way again, heading towards the Suez Canal, or so the word is, and then through the Mediterranean Sea and on to our final destination, Britain herself. Who knows, maybe I’ll get over to Ireland and look up the family. Can Gran remember if there’s anyone there owing her money? Just kidding, Eileen, just kidding.
4 December
Oops again. We’re not in Britain at all. We’re in Alexandria. That’s Egypt of all places! Can you believe it? I’m posting this to you right now. There’s a mail boat going out today.
You probably won’t hear from me again for a few weeks, so a very Merry Christmas to you all,
Love Oscar.
Hugh Stanford’s first letters home were even slower to arrive, but not because he’d missed the mail boat.
Mena Camp
Cairo, Egypt
29 January 1915
Dearest Mother and Father,
I am so sorry I have not corresponded until now, but I have been rather ill. Not long after we arrived in Egypt I was stricken with measles, as were quite a few of the battalion. Then an outbreak of influenza ran through the camp and those weakened by the measles seemed particularly prone. It took quite a toll on all who suffered it, but thankfully the epidemic seems to have run its course.
Who would ever have guessed we would end up in Egypt? We were all so convinced we were headed for England. We docked in Alexandria in early December, which seems a lifetime ago now, and after being entrained some one hundred miles to Cairo, we were marched to Mena Camp, a massive tent city for want of a better description. My own tent is not four hundred yards from the Great Pyramid of Cheops and the inscrutable Sphinx, which I remember so clearly from books and lessons in my childhood. Oddly enough, these ancient wonders make me think of home. It seems strange to stare at them now in reality and have memories of Mother, Rupert and me in the library poring over the pictures of the pyramids and Rupert lamenting the Sphinx’s missing nose. Remember, Mother, how he would worry that the Sphinx must have trouble breathing?
Heaven alone knows what we are doing in Egypt while the war rages on in Europe, but to paraphrase Tennyson, ours is not to reason why. This place is indeed a land of contrasts, with the countryside lush and verdant in the Nile Delta between Alexandria and Cairo, but quickly giving way to desert, as it is where we are here at Mena. Cairo itself is both repulsive and fascinating. We go by tram from the camp to the city centre and for the entire day we are plagued by scruffy street urchins begging for money and old men attempting to sell us every conceivable artefact, from statues of mummies and ‘antique’ coins, to jewels they swear have come from a pharaoh’s tomb and a funny style of hat called a fez.
I have included a photograph for Rupert. The camel I am on is called Mahmood and, as you can see, the Sphinx is in the background. Rupert would love this place. The Cairo Zoological Gardens would enthral him, I know. I’ve been twice to date and still not seen all the wonderful creatures on show; they must number in their hundreds.
I trust this letter will find you well, and I promise that I will write again soon now that I am in better health.
Give my love to Rupert, and to you both I remain,
Your loving son, Hugh
Hugh wrote also to Caitie, again apologising for the delay and again, as he had done in the letter to his parents, downplaying the severity of his illness.
It laid me pretty low, I have to admit,
he wrote.
I simply didn’t have it in me to put pen to paper. And now three letters have arrived from you all at once, I feel very guilty. But I cannot tell you my dearest girl how much comfort I found in your photograph during my illness. I would kiss it before I went to sleep at night. I still do in fact. When I mentioned that to Oscar he called me a sook, but I don’t care. I love you, Caitie.
The truth was, Hugh’s mates had been desperately worried about him. Several soldiers had died as a result of the influenza outbreak, and Hugh Stanford had very nearly been one of them.
In their letters home Wes and Harry had not written of Hugh’s illness. Hugh had made them promise not to, just as he had made Oscar promise. He didn’t want his family or Caitie worrying unnecessarily.
‘I’ll be up and about in no time,’ he’d said during his lucid moments, and he’d been convinced that he would be. It was only when he was over the worst of it that he discovered just how close he’d come.
‘Those poor lads,’ he said when he learnt of the soldiers who’d died, ‘fancy going like that, without even getting a chance to fire a single bullet.’
Hugh’s illness was not the only subject omitted from the letters home. The boys didn’t write about their riotous, drunken nights in Cairo, and Harry Balfour and Max Miller made no mention of their recent expedition to the red-light district of Haret el Wassa, although both would actually have loved to announce to the entire world that at long last they had lost their virginity. They supposed it was a subject that called for censorship, however, particularly where family was concerned, and common-sense prevailed.
‘No man should go into battle a virgin,’ Oscar had declared dramatically and Harry and Max had jumped at his suggestion they rectify the situation. The other two sexual innocents of the bunch, despite the urging of their mates, had refused to join them. Hugh hadn’t even used his weakened state as an excuse, swearing that he would have no girl but Caitie, and David, for all of his larrikin behaviour, had similarly determined to remain a virgin until the day he married Jeanie Müller.
Caitie couldn’t help but experience a sense of relief when Hugh’s letter finally arrived. The family had by now received two letters from Oscar, and she had started to feel just a little insecure. Could Hugh’s feelings for her possibly have waned? She chastised herself now for such girlish self-doubt, which was indeed out of character. The poor boy had been ill, and who knew, perhaps more severely than he was leading her to believe.
The following Saturday morning, she called around to Stanford House. She had after all promised to visit Rupert, and perhaps, without alarming the family, she might make some discreet enquiries about Hugh’s state of health.
The housekeeper showed her into the smaller front drawing room where Evelyn was sitting with her petit point and Rupert was kneeling on the floor, his eyes riveted upon the coffee table where a half-completed jigsaw puzzle was laid out.
The moment she was announced, he jumped to his feet, bobbing up and down on the spot, waiting until he was allowed to say hello.
‘Ah, Miss O’Callaghan . . .’ Evelyn stood. She was not yet fifty, but looked older, her body frail, her once-rich black hair now quite grey. She put down her petit point and extended her hand. ‘How lovely to meet you,’ she said.
Caitie crossed and shook the woman’s hand, surprised by the warmth of her reception. She had presumed Hugh’s mother would not know who she was. ‘How do you do, Mrs Stanford? I’m a friend of Hugh’s –’
‘Of course you are, my dear. I saw you at the ball, and Hugh has told me all about you.’ Evelyn turned to the housekeeper, who was awaiting instruction. ‘We’ll have some tea, thank you, Iris.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Iris departed, leaving the door ajar.
‘Hugh told me that you might be calling in to see Rupert. How very kind of you.’ At the mention of his name, Rupert’s bobbing became fiercer. ‘Yes, dear,’ Evelyn said, ‘you may say hello now.’
‘Hello.’ Rupert dived forward to grab Caitie’s hand and pump it up and down enthusiastically.
‘Hello, Rupert. You remember me, don’t you? I’m Caitie.’
‘Caitie, yes. Caitie with the beautiful hair.’ He stopped pumping her hand and studied the fiery tresses that framed her face beneath the small straw hat she wore. ‘It’s shorter,’ he said.
‘Yes, I had it trimmed recently.’
‘Oh.’ Rupert appeared critical.
‘Sit down, my dear, please.’ Evelyn gestured to an armchair and Caitie sat. ‘You too, Rupert,’ she said, and Rupert pulled a hardback chair up close to Caitie’s and plonked himself on it. ‘Have you heard from Hugh?’
‘Yes, I have, Mrs Stanford. I received a letter just several days ago. He said in it that he had suffered some illness . . .’ She left the query gently dangling.
‘That’s right. A nasty bout of the measles, followed by influenza, most unpleasant I should think. He’s over it now, I’m glad to report.’
‘That is good to hear indeed.’
Rupert interrupted, even though he knew he shouldn’t have. ‘Hugh sent me a photograph,’ he said and he looked pleadingly at his mother. ‘May I show her?’
‘Yes, you may, dear.’
Rupert took the photograph from his top pocket. It had become his prize possession and was transferred on a regular basis to the pocket of whatever shirt he was wearing. He presented it to Caitie.
‘The camel is called Mahmood,’ he explained, ‘and that’s the Sphinx there.’ He leant in close and pointed out the Sphinx just in case she should miss it.
‘So it is,’ she said. ‘What a lovely photograph.’ Caitie felt rather envious and she resolved there and then that she would demand Hugh send her a photograph of her own. ‘You’re a very lucky young man, Rupert.’
‘Yes.’ Rupert smiled happily and returned the photograph to his top pocket.
The women talked about the surprising news that the battalion’s destination had proved to be Egypt and, after a brief interruption caused by the arrival of the tea, they went on to discuss the mystery of where the troops might be sent after their desert training.
‘The location will no doubt be kept a secret until the very last minute,’ Evelyn said. ‘In fact we probably shan’t learn where they are until they’re actually doing battle.’
