'A Most Unremarkable War': Inspired by Fred Allwood’S Letters to His Sweetheart

By Alan James

This is essentially a love story of the Great War inspired by a recently unearthed family collection of more than 100 letters, running to more than 240 pages, written between 1915 and 1919 by Fred Allwood to his sweetheart Phyllis James. What these letters offer us is incredible detail about the life that he led for over 3 years on the Western Front.

Written as historical fiction, the main characters and events are portrayed with historical accuracy and Freds letters, with their minutiae of detail, are woven into the story in their original form. His words tell the story, not of the fighting and the dreadfulness of the conflict but of his love, his doubts and his fears. The story traces four principal characters, real people from the Kalgan River near Albany in Western Australia, and tells of how the war impacted on them all and those around them.

I am aware that other authors have drawn on primary sources to tell of such war experiences but by creating a narrative from real events and including such a volume of primary material I hope this work will bring a different perspective to such an immense event that is looming in our consciousness with the approach of the ANZAC centenary in Australia.

Alan James
2013.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Sep 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483696980

Alan James

Alan James is a recently retired History teacher from Albany in Western Australia. This is his second novel relating to his own family’s history. This novel deals with the experiences of the Great War, shared by his grandfather and his uncle. He lives today on the Kalgan River, where much of this story is set, on the family farm, nearly a century after these events took place. Alan James can be contacted in Western Australia at [e-mail].

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Copyright © 2013 by Alan James.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This work is a family history, a fiction based on very real events. With the exception of the James and Allwood families the names and characters of all others have been changed, the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Rev. date: 09/12/2013

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‘A Most Unremarkable War’

1915—1919

Chapters

Introduction

1     October—November 1914

2     March—June 1915

3     June—August 1915

4     August-October 1915

5     October 1915—January 1916

6     February-April 1916

7     April—May 1916

8     April—June 1916

9     June—August 1916

10   August—September 1916 (France)

11   August—September 1916 (Albany)

12   Christmas 1916

13   January—March 1917 (France)

14   January—March 1917 (Albany)

15   April—1917

16   June & July—1917

17   August—December 1917

18   January—May 1918

19   June—July 1918

20   July—November 1918

21   December—March 1918—1919

Author’s Note

References and Acknowledgements

‘WAR’

______

(Comrade I did not want to kill you…….You were only an idea to me before, an abstraction that lived in my mind and called forth its appropriate response. It was that abstraction that I stabbed…..forgive me comrade. We always see it too late. Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony—forgive me, comrade how could you be my enemy? If we threw away these rifles and this uniform you could be my brother.)

Extract from ‘All Quiet on the Western Front’

by Erich Remarque—published 1929

_____________

(Shell after shell descends with a shriek…..each one an acute mental torture, each shrieking, tearing crash bringing a promise to each man…..I will rend your flesh and pulp an arm and leg; fling you half a gaping, quivering man like these that you see smashed around you to lie there rotting and blackening like all the things you see by the awful roadside. Ten or twenty times a minute, every man in the trench has that instant fear thrust upon his shoulders—I don’t care how brave he is—and with a crash that is physical fear and a strain to understand.)

Extract from ‘Official History of Australia in the War of 1914-18’

by Charles Bean—Sydney 1921 -42

______________

‘A Most

Unremarkable War’

Introduction

A s a teacher and a student of history, I have often wondered about the response that might have come from the young men, who so willingly and spontaneously stepped up in the latter months of 1914, to serve ‘King and Country’, had they been asked to justify their decision to enlist.

I believe it a fair assumption that few if any could have named the belligerents, beyond Germany and Britain, in the war they were rushing to join. How many I wonder, could have made a case to justify their decision to enlist beyond the simple calls of nationalism and patriotism?

It has been said that those who rode the first convoy out of Albany in November 1914 were motivated by adventure, escapism and a total ignorance of what lay ahead. They wrote of the ‘game they were about to join’. Not one among them would have reckoned on being involved in an invasion of Turkey, a country few could have placed on a map.

The thousands who later volunteered to serve, after the first terrible accounts from Gallipoli reached home; after the spiralling casualty figures were made public and after the return of those first damaged and injured men, must surely have faced a decision predicated on an assumption of personal peril. Every man who enlisted must have wrestled with that decision. I doubt that knowledge of the original real causes of the war played any real part.

I also wonder about the waves of modern pilgrims, who now, nearly 100 years since the commencement of hostilities, are flocking to the hallowed grounds of the Gallipoli and Western Front battlefields and cemeteries in search of lost forebears, to remember and to bear witness to the madness, the horrendous losses and the overwhelming sadness of the Great War.

How many today could name the belligerents beyond Germany, France, Britain, and as Australians, Turkey or explain in even the simplest terms, the root causes of this greatest of human conflicts?

This book is my attempt to understand and appreciate the decisions taken by two of my relatives, who, as so many thousands did, voluntarily enlisted, well-armed with the knowledge of what lay in wait for them in Europe.

I was provided a remarkable insight into both my Uncle’s and my Grandfather’s war through Fred Allwood’s letters that are reproduced here in their original form.

The inspiration for this book, in the form of a collection of Great War letters, came to me by chance while researching the life and times of my Great Grandfather, the Reverend Thomas Albert James. For two decades his life story, which had been my obsession, ended with its eventual publication as ‘The Knowing of Thomas James’ in 2011. Only then was I free to properly investigate the old cardboard shoebox with its treasure trove of more than one hundred letters that had been located, buried at the bottom of a battered tin trunk,

My Uncle had offered me the tin trunk; a repository for ‘stuff’ related to my Aunt’s Grandfather, (The Reverend Thomas James) wanting nothing more than the return of the trunk, unaware that it contained these precious letters that my Aunt’s father, had written to his true love, Phyllis James, throughout the entire span of his enlistment in the AIF from 1915 until 1919.

I had permitted myself the luxury of selecting at random, just one of the letters, still housed in its stained, dog eared original green field envelope and was at once captured by Fred’s words. With great reluctance I resisted the urge to open any further envelopes but I was convinced that Uncle Fred’s words must not be lost to his descendants, to his family, to all of us.

With my first novel launched I was free to once again visit the shoebox that that had sat on my study desk, tempting me with its contents for the best part of a year. I read, I sorted, I catalogued and then I committed the contents of each letter to the computer.

An educated man, Fred Allwood, wrote so beautifully, so personally, in such detail, of his love and of his feelings, revealing the life he led during the Great War one envelope at a time. Fred’s letters are a conversation with his Phyllis and through them we can hear him talk to her as much as write to her.

In them he confides his hopes and his fears about the dangers he faces without dwelling on the terrible detail of what he must endure and the dreadful deeds that he must undertake for King and Country. His words bring to us the minutiae of the daily life of the men with whom he served for so long.

Entwined in the letters, along with Fred and Phyllis’s enduring love story, is the parallel love story of Astley James and Marie Stables. Fred’s best mate, Astley, elder brother of Phyllis, is so often the subject of the letters and in so writing, Fred brought to me the story of my Grandfather’s war. All that was left for me to do was to place the events and the characters in context and let Fred’s own words tell their story.

Phyllis James, God bless her, was a collector. She hoarded Fred’s letters and although they are only one side of the conversation, it takes little imagination to hear her loving words to him as she responds in kind.

I felt immensely privileged, at times voyeuristic, in reading these most personal, intimate words and thoughts and could not have done so without the blessing of Fred and Phyllis’s daughters before embarking on this venture.

This, like the ‘Knowing of Thomas James’ is written as historical fiction, the narrative and the military history I have created is as historically accurate as I could make it, however my words are nothing more than the thread that binds the wonderful, century old fabric of Fred Allwood’s letters.

Alan James

2013

1

October—November 1914

E gbert Astley James knew better than most that Molly, the Jersey house cow, would shit with a precision by which a man’s pocket watch could be confirmed. This October morning would be no exception.

Astley, who had chosen at an early age not to adopt his given Egbert, was late, pre-occupied, thoughts ahead of the now, planning the day’s much anticipated trip into town. His head rested heavily on the heaving bulge of Molly’s belly as he stole the best of the milk from her calf. In his haste he had chosen to forego the leg and tail ropes so essential to managing her predictable, unsavoury habit.

With a roll of her doleful eyes and a toss of her tethered head, Molly met her morning schedule. The very first splatter on the hard packed earthen floor jolted Astley from his reverie. Instantly ruing his neglect, he reacted to protect the fruits of his morning’s labour. Swivelling on the milking stool he turned his back, hunching to shield the bucket. As the discharge behind him slopped to its natural conclusion, Molly’s now fully laden tail, whipped through the cool morning air, slapping firmly across his neck and shoulders. It smeared and splattered, puncturing the creamy froth in the bucket with myriad steaming green droplets.

With the stool upended and the bucket abandoned, Astley cursed himself and scolded the cow. In frustration he slapped Molly’s broad yellow rump launching a cloud of dust and chaff that floated gently through the pale morning light to further decorate the now ruined milk. In the yard outside the calf bawled in hungry protest.

Nice work old boy, quite a performance.

Astley’s brother-in-law and partner, Len Hill, stood shaking his head in reproach outside the milking yard, their large grey work horse alongside him on a short halter.

Thought I’d get him for you so you can be on your way, you are late.

Astley backed Molly out of the stall and sent her on her way with a smile and a forgiving slap with his hat. She waddled, as only a Jersey can, into the yard to the boisterous greeting of her calf.

I guess the pigs win today. Old Moll caught me out well and truly, don’t know what I was thinking, said Astley with a rueful grin. Will you take the milk? I had better get moving; the others will be waiting.

The big grey made Astley James look smaller than he was. Just shy of six foot in his work boots and slight of build, he walked the large horse to the tack shed and harnessed him to the spring cart. He drove past the grand homestead where his elder sister, Elsie, lived with Len and their two youngsters, Alix and Trevor.

Little Alix, was on the verandah, waiting for him, as often she would. She called cheerily to her favourite uncle as Astley guided the grey past the house.

Morning’s greetings to you my dear Princess Alix, he called, standing at the seat, sweeping his battered hat from his head and bowing in comic exaggeration. Alix skipped the length of the verandah and ended with tiny feet on the bottom rail and tiny face straining to peer over the top. She waved dramatically.

I shall bring the Princess a special treat on my return from yonder town. He waved, resumed his seat and drove down the track through the orchards, toward the river and the smaller house that he shared with his Mother and younger sister, Phyllis.

He could see Phyllis in the yard; the slap, slap, slap of the butter pat as she deftly prepared butter for market, drifted to him on the still morning air.

Miss Molly got you didn’t she? declared Phyllis with a giggle in response to the absence of the milk bucket and the foul decoration on her brother’s shirt. I do so hope you will be changing; really Ast, what will Marie think?

Phyllis was a slip of a girl, slender, petite, a gentle smiling face, framed by dark hair piled and pinned high, At just twenty one years, she and her brother were close, bonded by the tumultuous events of their past.

Their mother, Mary James, having helped them load, stood watching as the spring cart bearing her only son and youngest daughter departed, making its way through the apple trees toward the farm entrance and the roadway beyond. She responded to their parting waves as Phyllis dismounted to deal with the five barred gate bearing its neatly painted welcome—‘Riverside’.

They had packed the butter and a small case of lemons for the grocers in town and they had left her on her own in the house by the river. She looked to the heavens, a fine rain drifted down, it was cool; the butter would travel well.

Mary stood lost in thought long after the cart had gone from view. She was used to being alone, ever since she had been exiled here on the Kalgan, eight years previously, by the heinous actions of her husband, the Reverend Thomas James. Such was her shame, so deep the stigma that she chose to cloak herself in the isolation afforded by the farm on the river. Even with her children and grandchildren around her, she was, to this day, so often alone in her head and her heart on many a long sleepless night.

She was nonetheless pleased, that on this day, her Elsie, with husband Len and the two little ones were close by at the big house. She too was pleased that now, as adults, all three of her children felt comfortable with visits to the town; a comfort still denied her, she ventured there as needs be and no more.

Astley urged the big horse into a fast walk. They were late and Marie would be waiting. The misty drizzle eased.

‘New-Hay’, named for New-Hay Grange in Yorkshire, stood on a rise above the road a little more than a mile from ‘Riverside’. Here, Frank Robinson had carved out a small farm and meagre living for his wife and children with the assistance of his wife’s younger sister; Marie Stables. Marie had been sent from Yorkshire to accompany her sister and help with the children on the long voyage. The ensuing life and lessons learned were moulding her into a young woman capable of holding her own in home or barn or garden.

Phyllis James and Marie Stables had become the closest of friends and, as a single female of age in the district, Marie had, for some time, caught the eye of Astley James. He had grown aware of being well pleased whenever Marie called on his Mother and younger sister.

Marie stood waiting under her umbrella at the gate with her own small wooden box carefully packed with neatly wrapped blocks of butter. She was short in stature and younger than the others; about to turn just seventeen at the end of the next month, a mere girl, but she carried herself with a confidence and maturity beyond her years.

Good Morning Phyllis dear and good morning to you Egbert Astley. She had adopted the practice of gently teasing with the use of his rarely used first name. He had never rebuked her for so doing.

Phyllis climbed down to help and the two girls embraced warmly. Astley, smiling a little self-consciously, doffed his hat in exaggerated greeting.

We best push on ladies, Fred will be waiting, he said, reaching down to offer Marie a hand up.

Fred Allwood was indeed waiting and had been for some little while. His cart stood in the shelter of a low hanging Marri branch on the road. He kept dry on the porch of the small hall that stood in a rough clearing above the bridge.

The tiny, iron clad Kalgan Hall had become the district’s place of meeting and worship in the two short years since it had been built and had, just this very year, officially become a school for local youngsters. The Jarrah timbers had been cut in the mill on ‘Riverside’ and, much of the building organised by Fred, had been carried out by his brother Ted. He inspected their handiwork as he waited, quietly cursing the unwelcome evidence of the termites that were already making their presence felt.

Fred Allwood was short in stature, wiry and athletic. He had left the comfort of his parent’s home and his many siblings in Derbyshire and together with elder brother, Ted and sister Alice, they sought to make new lives for themselves in the new state of Western Australia.

Educated, eloquent and handsome, Fred had worked as a teacher on several remote postings in the State School Service before making the decision to go on the land. He had taken up a block a mile up river from the hall, naming it ‘Lea-Hurst’ in honour of the summer estate of Florence Nightingale from near his family home at Matlock, in the old country.

With greetings completed, the foursome light heartedly bickered over travelling arrangements, until Marie, by dint of her nature rather than her seniority, resolved to climb aboard with Fred, leaving Phyllis to travel with her brother. Deep inside, both men felt a little aggrieved by Marie’s decision. Both would perhaps have preferred things the other way around.

Fred flicked old ‘Doll’ with the reins and led the way down the rough stony roadway behind the hall onto the bridge that spanned a narrow rocky ford in the river. To their right the river widened and wandered away to the West: its waters fresh and good for stock and garden. On their left, below the natural rock cataract, the river bulged into a broad pool of salt water. This point marked the farthest intrusion of the tide and the sea, a further six meandering miles downstream. Ahead of them lay a four hour journey into Albany town.

It was somewhat remarkable to think that this trip from the Kalgan into town should be inspired, albeit indirectly, by the actions of a consumptive Bosnian student on the far side of the world. In June of this year of 1914, Gavrilo Princep had taken the fateful decision to strike a blow for Bosnian independence by shooting dead the Austrian Prince, Franz Ferdinand and his wife, at Sarejevo.

As events, snowballing out of control in faraway Europe, dragged Britain into a pre—ordained war, Australia’s politicians volunteered Australia’s ‘last man and shilling’ to the British cause. This extravagant promise to the Mother country launched a great assembly of horses, men and the stuff of war destined for the battlefields of Europe. The ‘Orvieto’ had led the convoy out of Melbourne on the East coast of Australia and now this mighty armada was about to bring a faraway war to sleepy Albany as it assembled, ship by ship, in the sheltered waters of King George Sound.

Fred, Mr Robinson says that we should not have got involved in this war, what do you think? enquired Marie turning their conversation inevitably to the turmoil in Europe.

Who does he mean by us Marie? Does he mean England or does he mean Australia?

Oh he means England; well I am most certain he means England. She paused and then added. We are all English after all are we not?

Fred considered a moment. I wonder what Astley and Phyllis would say to that proposition my dear, he asked thoughtfully. It is different for the likes of Mr Robinson and yourself and for that matter I as well. We are English; we were born English and have family still living in family homes in England. Astley and Phyllis, well, they were born here, their only known family is here, they may think a little differently on matters concerning this war.

I feel less English every day Fred, but I do know what you mean. Another summer like the last will surely drive the Englishness from my soul. Do you ever wish you were home again?

"I quite often did, Marie, when I was away teaching in the bush, it was such an isolated life, but now I am back on the Kalgan, I feel here I am at home. I must confess to the sin of envy though, I envy most considerably the home life; the family that you have at ‘New-Hay’ with the Robinsons. The family I see at ‘Riverside’."

"Oh really, I thought there was another attraction for you at ‘Riverside’. Marie smiled at him knowingly then turned back to check on the progress of the other cart; they were too far back to hear this conversation. Did I disappoint you by not travelling with Astley?" she asked quietly, giving him a familiar nudge with her elbow.

Yes my girl you did, no mistake about that, but then again you just might have disappointed old Ast as well you know, Fred looked at her with a smile and a wink. Marie blushed and staring straight ahead, returned the conversation to the war.

Mr Robinson says that England should have had nothing to do with these events, he says the murder of the Austrian was a matter for the Austrians and the Serbians and England was silly to get involved. He says the British navy would never allow any fighting to come to England and if England had stayed well out of it, so would Australia.

I daresay Frank is right Marie but we know so little of the truth of events way out here, perhaps there is more to it than we can know.

Fred was impressed by Marie’s interest and grasp of the detail of events. The influence of Frank Robinson, her brother-in-law, who Fred knew to be an astute, well-schooled man, was clearly evident.

I think there was a great deal of high politics being played out and the major powers have been tied up in alliances and treaties and agreements that drew them all in to this mess, he continued. And poor little Belgium, she had done nothing but those German bullies marched all over her and that by Jove, was just plain wrong.

I guess England had to stand up for the Belgians, but those silly agreements, really: I can understand France, they are neighbours and are supposed to be a democracy like us, but Russia I ask you, why would we side with Russia, surely not just because the Tsar is the King’s cousin?

Fred looked across at Marie with respect increased. He knew she had received a sound schooling in Yorkshire and had shown aptitude at her lessons. It occurred to him that never before, had he had cause to have such a conversation with her.

France was linked to Russia and England to France and it became a case of one in all in, explained Fred. The same goes for Germany and Austria; it was destined to explode and now it has. I don’t think it will take too long to sort things out though. Most likely our boys coming here to Albany will get there too late and have to turn about and come home again.

It will be exciting, won’t it Fred? This must be the biggest thing to ever happen in Albany since 1908. You and I did not see the White Fleet so it will be marvellous to see all those ships in the bay.

Marie turned once more and waved back to Phyllis. They were now making their way down the sandy, rutted roadway bordered by Sheoak and Jarrah trees, toward the King River and a welcome chance to stop and stretch their legs. Here they would rest the horses and take refreshments in the tea gardens at Happy Days by the bridge.

With the horses watered and secured under the pine trees by the roadside, they walked as one back to the bridge. Like children, Fred and Astley collected cones to throw into the river. They leaned side by side at the bridge railing watching the cones splash aimlessly into the waters below. Two men in a small boat rowed toward them. They waved and called cheery helloes before strolling back to the tea rooms and ordering tea and scones. Their journey from the river into town would occupy a further two hours.

The lemons and butter were delivered and the shillings so earned were credited to accounts that they, like all property holders, ran with merchants on York Street and the Terrace. Fred and Astley then left the ladies to their leisure and took the horses to the edge of town, to Chadwick’s paddock, where they would be pastured until the return to the Kalgan after church on Sunday.

Fred and Astley walked back into town to find Phyllis and Marie studying the contents of the window display at Thomas’ drapery on the main street. They linked arms and walked in high spirits, all four together, down York Street and turned left along the Terrace. The cool breeze that scuffed the waters rose up to greet them.

Below in the harbour they could see all manner of craft steaming to and fro, tracing their passage between the wharves and the harbour entrance with black smoke trails that hung suspended on the light breeze. Despite the activity on the water, the town was as quiet as it would be on any normal day.

Further along the Terrace stood the stately, red brick Post Office building, one of Albany town’s finest, and inside they found McCann, the senior Post Master, waxing authoritatively, to a threesome of Albany’s matrons, on the comings and goings in the harbour.

They be marching again tomorrow, right down the Terrace past here and then up York Street to the big hall and way round past to the beach, he pronounced with importance. I hear told that there be thousands coming ashore this time. He laid emphasis on the ‘thousands’.

Really, Mister McCann, interjected Mrs Leery, the most imposing of the ladies. Thousands you say, can that really be so?

That be so Mrs Leery, but that be a drop only, I have it on authority and mind you we’re not supposed to be knowing; top secret and all now you know.

McCann tapped the side of his bulbous red nose and leaned forward across the counter toward the ladies, who as one joined his conspiracy, leaning intently toward their source.

Twenty thousand, I’ve heard, he whispered loudly enough so that none in the Post office could help but hear. Twenty thousand boys out there in them boats, they’ll make old Kaiser Bill sit up and take notice, you mark my words.

Fred and Marie both collected mail but there were no letters for Astley or Phyllis. Len Hill had been to town and collected their mail just two days before.

In the late afternoon light they walked the short distance from the Post Office into Lawley Park. Here, from among the gardens and stately trees, they could see the ships alongside the wharf and far across the harbour at the coaling barges. On the deck of the last ship they could see large numbers of uniformed men crowding the rails.

They would each stay that night with family friends, as was the way on their visits to town, and agreed it was time to adjourn to their hosts. Fred offered to escort Marie and having arranged to meet the following morning, Astley and Phyllis set off in the opposite direction to the home of Mr and Mrs John Saxon.

The Saxons were long time church friends from the old days when their father, the Reverend Thomas James, had been the Methodist minister on the Albany circuit. Theirs was, as always, a welcome most warm and genuine.

The following morning, Astley and Phyllis arrived at the ornate rotunda above Queen’s Park on the Terrace, as arranged, to meet with Fred and Marie. Astley stood waiting, watching the activity on the harbour while Phyllis stole a rare opportunity to window shop across the street.

Good morning one and all, chirped Fred in his usual good spirits as together with Marie he crossed the street to join Astley. Phyllis turned from the window display and hurried to join them.

Well Astley my good man, what is afoot on the wharf?

Two troopships are alongside and I think there are some of the soldiers coming ashore now. I don’t know how many ships will unload for the march.

As he spoke the sound of pipes taking their air drifted toward them.

I thought there would be a huge crowd here to see this march, said Marie. Why, there is little more than normal traffic at the moment. It was true, the street was as quiet as most often it was.

Perhaps it’s like old McCann said yesterday. It is all top secret. suggested Astley.

Secret, but from whom would it be a secret Astley? asked Phyllis innocently.

Germans I suppose. Astley replied lamely. Maybe they are worried about German spies knowing about our boys coming and what they are doing.

Astley lead the way out of the rotunda. The others followed and they walked, as they had the previous day, past the Post Office into the Park to better observe the activity on the harbour. It was obvious that the march was still some time away as the ships had only just begun to unload their troops onto the waterfront. Small craft fussed busily among the larger ships like worker ants tending their every need and the morning air made hazy by the dark smoke from so many vessels.

This parade is obviously going to be some time, observed Fred. We should head around the hill to see the ships in the sound; after all it is why we came all this way. Are you ladies up for a walk?"

After you good sirs. said Marie as she linked arms with Phyllis and prepared to follow Fred’s lead. Astley fell in alongside Fred and they headed East out of the park following the gravel roadway carved across the lower part of the hill.

By the time the two men had drawn adjacent to the narrow entrance to the harbour, they had left the ladies some way behind. They waited, leaning on the railing, watching as another troopship made its way through the narrow granite walled channel that led to the inner harbour. Two small craft showed her the way. Several soldiers on deck returned their wave.

From where they stood the roadway curved away from the harbour around the slope of Mt Adelaide affording a sweeping view of the sound and its sentinel islands, stark and clear across the water. As they walked on they saw, coming into view below them, first one, and then the next of the convoy ships. The further they walked, the more ships they could see. It was a grand sight and it did not fail to impress.

A breeze from the Northwest had swung the ships and they pointed their noses toward the white sands of Middleton Beach. In lines they lay peacefully at anchor, some, having moved or being about to do so, oozed heavy black smoke to be smeared on the breeze. In the distance near Emu Point, the ‘Euripedes’ lay at the head of the first column. The others lay quietly, rising and falling on the gentle swells that curved across the sound toward the beach.

That is an awful lot of ships. An awful lot of men, observed Astley quietly as they stood together at the roadway railing taking in the sight before them. The slope of the hill, with its covering of harsh olive scrub and bushes, plunged through a garland of granite boulders into the dark waters of the sound. The slop and wash of wave on rock carried up to them on the breeze.

Is this the whole army? asked Phyllis of no one in particular, Mr McCann said twenty thousand soldiers are out there on the ships. That is rather a large number.

I would think perhaps the army might have more than twenty thousand, mused Fred. Just imagine what it must be like out there with horses and feed and men. Methinks a long trip lies ahead for those boys.

Both Fred and Marie, in recent times having made the sea voyage, albeit in the other direction, had a feel for what lay ahead for the men on the ships in the sound. Under normal circumstances the sea journey to Europe was long and arduous, for the men on these transports it threatened to be even more so.

They stood and watched for some little time before turning back the way they had come. It was early afternoon as they passed the park. The troops were formed up along the foreshore. The first ranks were moving off.

With pipes and drums leading the way, the soldiers arrived at the head of the Terrace outside the Post Office and the march commenced. Four abreast for as far as the eye could see. There were certainly many hundreds if not the thousands predicted by McCann the Post Master.

A small crowd grew as people spilled from hotels on the terrace and watched as the columns of khaki and slouch hats marched purposefully toward the turn into York Street. An old man stood as stiffly to attention as the street lamp beside him, resisting the urge to salute. Two young ladies waved handkerchiefs, several others applauded as the lines of young men, with eyes alight and jaws well, set streamed by. A gaggle of barefoot urchins in knee length pants ran alongside the troops, others, mimicking the marchers, fell away, unable to keep pace.

Astley and the others stood under the awnings outside the Strand Café near the very bottom of the main street. A horse, standing in harness nearby, pawed at the ground, agitated by the commotion.

Aren’t they so smart Phyllis, whispered Marie. The uniforms are grand don’t you think?

Phyllis hooked her arm through Astley’s. Wouldn’t you two boys look smashing in that uniform with shiny buttons and boots, she said with a smile. Why Fred, you could even be a General like that man in front.

I have my doubts that he is a general, Miss Phyllis, added Fred knowingly. I’ll wager the Generals will be taking tea out on their ship. They would leave this sort of affair to their underlings. That fellow in front is probably no more than a Captain.

They stood in silence as the troops flowed past. The tramp, tramp, tramp of boots united in rhythmic purpose, bounced and echoed off the buildings behind them. There was little more than a smattering of applause from the few folk watching with curious but sombre respect.

A sense of disquiet, a gnawing, unknowingly shared in the pit of both Astley and Fred stomachs disturbed them. Feelings of guilt, of exclusion; troubling, but silently endured.

When finally the column passed, its head now lost from view far up the street, Fred turned and breaking his own mood, led the way to the café.

My shout for afternoon tea, he announced holding the door open for the others.

Over tea they mapped the remainder of their afternoon. A round of visits planned to catch up with friends whose company was denied them in their isolation on the Kalgan and it was agreed that they would meet later in the evening at the Town Hall to attend the staging of the French play, ‘Monsieur LeCoq’.

By the time they left, the street outside the café was as quiet as before. The same horse now stood, head bowed, motionless in his traces, the troops gone like a great column of ants, completing the long route march down to Middleton Beach and then back around the drive to their ships waiting at the wharf.

As the crowd filed into the Town Hall later that evening, Fred stopped and studied a new poster on display in the foyer. It promised the first real film of the war to be screened the following Saturday evening. They would not be in town to see it.

At first light the following morning, Fred Allwood and his brother, Ted, joined Astley James on the steps of the Post Office and together they set off, up the hill, toward the summit of Mount Clarence.

When they left the last street, perched high on the slope, they turned onto a narrow track that scrabbled its way through the scrub. Here, in the dark shadow of the hill, the air was cool and the bushes damp from the evening dew. Several times they stopped to catch their breath as the steepness of the track took its toll. Eventually they reached the very summit and stood in the chill of the breeze atop a granite outcrop. It was the first day of November, the summer light had returned but the morning warmth was still some weeks away.

They were not alone. A small gathering of townsfolk, of men and young lads, had done, as they had, made the climb that morning with the very same intent. They could hear others coming up from behind.

Below them in all directions swept a panorama of such grandeur. To the south, appearing now as if at their very feet, lay the town and the stillness of the harbour. Away to the North and West stretched olive green tree covered plains, punctuated by the ranges of the Porongorups and beyond them, the Stirlings, starkly purple in the purity of the morning light.

As they looked away to the East, to the sound, to the waters beyond Mt Adelaide, lit by feeble morning sunshine, they could see the warships ‘Minotaur’ and ‘Sydney’ leaving silvery trails in their wake as they steamed for the islands and the open sea beyond. Smudges of black smoke belched from the troopships as engines fired and stacks smoked. The ‘Orvieto’ was turning, the first to move, to follow the lead of their protectors as they led the way out of the sound.

The gathering on the mountain stood a long while in silence on the cold granite outcrops, staring out to sea, a gentle breeze sighed around them, whispering in the low scrubby bushes. Two magpies, drawn by the gathering, warbled their greeting to the day.

Would you have gone Ast? Should we be going? whispered Fred breaking the silence between them.

I guess I’d not thought much about it until that march yesterday, replied Astley, quietly with a shrug. I doubt that I would, what with the farm and all. What about you?

Not sure old boy. Did you know that Mrs C’s two boys have enlisted, they are, right this minute, in training at Blackboy Hill according to Ada; she wrote me last week.

That must make it tough out at the farm with two of them leaving so suddenly. Astley observed. I am surprised they would both enlist.

Mrs Carpenter and her daughter Ada were frequent visitors to Albany and were close friends of both the Allwoods’ and the James’. Their trips to Albany invariably included time spent staying with Mrs James on the Kalgan.

I am wondering if we may yet find ourselves going, added Ted quietly. I have this gut feeling that I should be down there. He pointed in the direction of the sound. I think perhaps I have missed a chance to be part of this thing, perhaps we all have. I wonder if some day we might regret not joining them.

As they watched the drama play out on the waters below them, the ‘Southern’ belched a massive plume of smoke and turned in a slow, laboured arc to fall in behind the rapidly disappearing ‘Orvieto’. Others in their turn now signalled their intention to follow.

As the morning light strengthened, the line of ships, steaming stem to stern, stretched as far as the islands and beyond into the vastness of the Southern Ocean. On board the transports the hordes of young soldiers crowded the rails, some seized with excitement, others with trepidation and sadness. They knew not what lay ahead and some had the presence of mind to wonder if this might be the last glimpse they might have of their homeland.

Back on the mountain, Astley wrapped his coat tight about and stamped his feet to warm himself as one by one their fellow watchers began to melt away into the bushes, making their way down from the summit.

Come along lads, we had best head down, I think we should ready the horses and make to leave directly after church.

They stood together for one last look at the sound. The ‘Orvieto" was all but out of sight as she turned away to the South West on a line past the heads. The column of ships now extended for several miles in her wake.

Church attendance remained an emotional affair for Phyllis and Astley, but for Phyllis in particular. The Duke Street church, her father’s old church, stood in all its grandeur alongside the handsome Manse that had been their home for several years. Old memories could not be silenced whenever they passed by. The comfort she had once known, as a child, in the church itself, was no longer there. At least now people smiled in genuine welcome rather than the whispers and glances that had once hurt so much.

On this particular Sunday morning the Reverend Bray led the service. His theme the ‘Laddies away from home’ reflected a concern for the troops, who were by now well and truly out of sight of Albany town. Gladys Little’s moving rendition of ‘Where is my wandering boy tonight?’ inspired the congregation to join with a strength and gusto that reflected their fears for this war and the boys on their way to take part.

Fred and Ted did not join them but attended instead, a very similar service at the stately St John’s Anglican church nestled in gardens but a stones’ throw away on York Street.

The weather gods favoured their return to the Kalgan that afternoon. The sun that had smiled so brightly on the departing convoy that morning was hidden by grey and threatening skies however the drizzle so common to the South Coast stayed away.

Once again Marie made the decision to climb aboard with Fred leaving Phyllis to accompany her brother as they had on the journey into town. Astley was more than a little miffed. Fred was unsure of just how he felt about these arrangements.

Fred and Astley had been friends for several years and Fred had, on many occasions, spent long periods on the farm at ‘Riverside’. In those times Phyllis was young, she was his best pal’s little sister but that was all she was; a pleasant young girl, a little shy but comfortable in his presence, of no real consequence to him. Now his thoughts confounded him as alone, he drove ‘Doll’ back to the solitude of ‘Lea-Hurst’ having left the others at the hall. He had enjoyed the company of his friend’s little sister in a way that he had not done so in the past. Now he felt a new knot inside, a knot tinged with sadness; an emptiness at their parting.

Astley James was troubled by similar feelings as he and Phyllis bid adieu to Marie at the ‘New-Hay’ gate. Phyllis sensed his disquiet and left him to his thoughts for the last part of their journey back to ‘Riverside’. She would be less reserved when reporting on their venture to Mother.

2

March—June 1915

I t was late in March, the new year, 1915, was well upon them and Fred had completed his pick of Jonathons, Cleopatra’s and Dunne Seedlings from the orchards at ‘ Lea-Hurst’ . It had not been an especially good year, the Cleopatra’s had pitted. The apple pick continued at ‘ Riverside ’ and he had, for the last few days, been travelling at daybreak each morning to assist Astley and Len to finish their harvest. Phyllis worked side by side with the men in the weatherboard and iron packing shed that perched on the steep bank above the river.

Astley stood over the press with a mouthful of nails, hammer in hand, deftly constructing the jarrah cases that would carry the fruit downriver to Albany and hopefully on to markets in England and Europe. Worryingly, the outbreak of war had meant the loss to their trade of the German market. On this cool clear morning, as on so many others, the talk in the packing shed turned to events so far away.

Mrs C’s boys are in Egypt now, announced Fred as he worked alongside Phyllis sizing, wrapping and packing individual apples carefully into the cases that Astley stacked alongside them. The heady sweet smells of fresh cut jarrah and ripe apples filled the air. Ada wrote me last week, she says when she last heard from them they were both well and itching to get at the Hun.

Astley took two boards from a stack beside his press and carried them