Half a Man

By Tony Jacobs

Half a man is a simple story that highlights the true strengths of great mateship. It also endeavours to recall the struggle that returning soldiers faced after the Great war and describes the challenges, the way of life and the ways of the Australian bush in the 1920s and glories in the absolute beauty of the Murrindindi valley through all
of the seasons. It is also a love story and tells of Jessies great love and compassion for her Peter, her wounded husband and of the healing power of Tims love for Penny

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jul 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524515294

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Grey, freezing rain swept across the ruined fields of the battleground, drenching the miserable living, soaking the uncaring dead. In the thin half-light, no living creature stirred, but with a force no human hand could stay, the very earth itself seemed to shudder as a constant, deafening bombardment pounded the half flooded trenches. The barrage caused great spouts of mud and filthy water to spew high into the air, blowing huge gaps in the rusty barbed wire that wound like a farmer’s nightmare, still strung with yesterday’s dead, through the few yards of mud separating the survivors of the two great armies. It deafened the troops cowering against the noise and the ceaseless destruction and snuffed out lives in an instant of blast and light.

In a torn, wet dugout in the very front trenches, men huddled in the mud, waiting for the morning attack, indifferent to the rain but praying for the shelling not to stop. When it did, they knew they would climb from their shelter and charge once more into the face of a storm far worse than the most malevolent god could throw at them.

These men were battle-hardened veterans, survivors of the bloody beaches and scrubby cliffs and gullies of Gallipoli.

Here, in France, they had found a different kind of horror. At least at Gallipoli, a man could survive the Turks with his wits and his cunning in the endless sniping duels and in short, quick dashes up the narrow ravines and gullies. Here, life itself seemed to depend on sheer, blind luck.

The men would charge through breaks in the wire into the very muzzles of heavy machine guns, through withering mass fire that knew no favorites and bowled men over at random. Some of them were dead before they fell, others were screaming and crying. Many who fell and still lived were maimed and shattered; others had minor wounds that would win them only a brief respite from the front.

And if they survived the charge through the smoke and the clinging mud, they faced ferocious hand-to-hand fighting in the enemy trenches with bayonets, pistols, knives, and shovels, seeing their own fear and exhaustion mirrored in the faces of the men they fought so desperately——men who, like themselves, were pale and strained, dirty and scared. If they were lucky, they would leave those other men lying in the mud, bloody and torn, screaming for help in a strange new tongue.

And even when it was over, there was still no rest. When the whistles blew or they could go no further, they dug in and tried to make some sort of shelter while waiting for a counterattack or the next charge forward, a few yards more in the same seemingly haphazard direction. There was no logic to it, just the command of far-off generals for whom the men suffering and dying were just brightly colored pins on a map.

Huddled in a muddy corner was Tim Gardner, a young private from Victoria, wrapped in his sodden greatcoat, the rain and sleet beating against his face, frozen to his very marrow, hungry, tired, and scared.

The dugout where he and his mates sheltered had no roof, and above him he caught occasional glimpses of low grey clouds, streaked with black, greasy smoke. Beside him in the mud, his best mate Pete slept fitfully, while around him, scattered amongst the shapeless humps that had once been men, the few survivors chatted quietly or, like Pete, tried to snatch a few moments of oblivion amongst the carnage around them. A few scribbled on wet and dirty bits of paper, writing to their loved ones. Some of these brave, cheerful letters would find their way into the cities and the little towns and villages in Australia. In homes and pubs they would be read proudly again and again. Others would fall with their writers and lie forever unread in the mud.

All of the men were muddy and dirty, hungry, and tired. They bore little resemblance to the proud soldiers who had marched through the streets of Melbourne and who had waved so gaily to their friends and families as the heavily laden troop ships edged away from the wharves.

How long ago this all seemed to Tim. As the bombardment raged around him and the rain trickled down his face, he closed his eyes and let his tired mind wander away from the never-ending horror and back to the peace of his home.

Tim and his elder brother Stan had been raised in the eastern suburbs of Melbourne. His father was a self-made man who, after the death of his own father, had left school at fourteen and started work in the warehouse of the rag trade business of a family friend. Through sheer hard work and determination, he’d progressed to eventually manage the firm.

When Tim’s father was twenty-four he’d fallen in love with the secretary of one of his clients, and on a beautiful spring morning, had married her in their little local church. Stan had been born two years later, and not long after, Tim was born. It was a long and difficult birth from which his mother never fully recovered, dying five years later.

In the early years, the family was very happy and some of Tim’s early memories were of family picnics. His father would pack them all in the train and they’d spend their Sundays down at the beach or spread out on a blanket by the river. He remembered the beach most of all. He and Stan would make sandcastles by the water and their dad would dig deep holes in the coarse, wet sand, then bury them up to their stomachs and tip buckets of cold, salty water all over them. Best of all, they would wade into the water, their dad always beside them in the early years, and Tim could still feel his father’s strong, safe arms around him as the water got deeper and deeper.

He remembered, too, holidays in a boarding house at Bermagui and fishing trips to the little local jetty. He could still see his dad’s old cane creel with the little square hole in the middle, his trusty old bamboo rod and the big, brown, side-cast reel. They would buy bait at the local fishing shop and his dad’s big fingers would push the hook through a salty, crunchy whitebait or a sticky chunk of long-dead squid. Then he’d turn to his side at the edge of the jetty and his line would swirl out to land with a splash, twenty or thirty yards out in the bay. Sometimes, Stan and their dad would fish at night and Tim loved to wake early in the morning and sneak out to the old fridge in the kitchen to see his mum’s biggest plate loaded with shiny, beautiful fish—tailor and snapper and occasionally a big muddy flathead.

As the boys had got older, their father had seemed to work harder and harder, leaving before dawn in the morning and, more often than not, returning home long after the boys were asleep. On the weekends he’d often work on a Saturday and when he was home, he’d be irritable, grumpy, and ever more demanding, especially of his sons. As they entered their teens, they were given jobs around the house and their father expected nothing but perfection.

Tim tried hard to please him, but increasingly, nothing he did was right, especially after Stan joined up and left home two years before the war had even started. Tim never really knew whether Stan’s leaving was an act of defiance, and, as things turned out, he was never to know. A few months after he joined up, Stan was killed in a live fire training accident

Tim had become a quiet, sensitive teenager, uncomfortable with the rough and tumble aggressiveness of his friends. He’d tried to be one of them, wanting desperately to be good at sport, but he was never picked for school teams and at best, was an irregular maker-up of the numbers in the house sports.

Girls too were a problem, and puberty just seemed to add to his teenage blues. He wanted so much to be calm and confident around the blossoming girls at the school but found himself anxious and tongue-tied. He struggled with his newfound sexuality—the guilty excitement of his first wet dreams and the feelings of strange bewilderment amongst the busty young schoolgirls as they chattered and giggled in the schoolyard.

To escape from all this confusion and doubt, he’d buried himself in books, becoming even more of a loner. He was a passionate reader, and he’d lose himself for hours in the adventures of far-away soldiers and sailors and big game hunters. He’d be carried away to the teeming plains of Africa with their vast herds of wildebeest and the ever-threatening prides of hungry lions.

He read everything he could get his hands on, and if a new book wasn’t available, he read newspapers and magazines and even the labels of bottles and cans.

The turning point came when he finished at high school and decided, much against the wishes of his father, to live in at university. They’d argued for hours, Tim knowing that unless he withstood his father’s sarcasm and spite, he’d never make the move and never be free. Finally his dad had relented, and Tim now knew that his father’s reluctance hid his fear of an empty house, both his boys gone and his wife long dead.

And so, on a hot sunny afternoon in February, Tim had packed his favorite books and a few summer clothes. He’d wandered once last time through the house and the sprawling gardens and then caught the train for the short, sooty ride to the city and the long walk up Elizabeth Street to the university.

Now he was free, and he took to university life with a passion. Within a few short months, he’d made lots of interesting new friends, finding he was liked as much for his mind and his ability to contribute to the bright and never-ending debate about the life around him and the ever darkening world scene, as his schoolmates had been for their rough and tumble.

He joined the university rowing club and spent nearly every morning in a single scull slicing through the early mists on the Yarra. He loved cutting through the water, straining every muscle as the grassy slopes slid by. To his amazement, he excelled, and the hours of exercise quickly toughened and hardened his body and the weight of his teenage years slipped away.

At nights, he’d drink with his mates at the pub or join in the seemingly endless round of parties that someone always knew about. At one of these parties he met Suzanne, a first-year student like himself who lived in the suburbs and traveled by train to the university each day. They soon formed a friendship, which, over the weeks, soon turned into a relationship. After months of heavy petting, they finally made love in an old abandoned boat shed at the beach, a first for both of them. They were initially awkward and clumsy, but as the months slipped by, they learned how to please each other, how to take their time to bring each other to long, slow pleasure. They were friends and lovers, but it was not to last, and over the summer holidays Suzanne decided she wanted to see other people. Their relationship withered and faded away.

In the meantime, the newspapers were full of the increasing world tension, especially in Europe. There were months and months of speculation and finally, the outbreak of war. Patriotism swept the country, and all over Australia, young men rushed to join up. Uniforms appeared in the streets and the papers were full of the talk of a quick victory.

But things had not proved so easy. Australian troops were