ENLISTED
Nearly a month afterwards Ted was driving me to the camp.
The wind had worked up into half a gale, and much of the way clouds of
dust swept into our faces. The ponies faced the weather unwillingly, and
Ted did not spare the whip. I crouched back in the buggy, with hat hard
over my eyes, and for minutes together neither of us said a word, unless
it was to curse our luck. Sometimes the gale dropped, the dust lay down,
the sun shone again; and then we found ourselves in grassy country, hilly
and also flat. Up once more jumped the wind, and the dust sprang after
it. It was damnable, nothing less.
At last, at a level crossing, we turned sharply to the right, and the
buggy hood afforded some shelter. Between the dust storms, the camp was
to be seen, ahead and to the left hand. Tents stretched over many acres.
Also I caught a glimpse of paddocks filled with manœuvring infantry and
occasional artillery teams. Then we were passing a long row of pines.
Opposite them were open paddocks, with Melbourne in the distance.
“It’ll be somewhere about here,” Ted said, moving his head my way, and he
pulled the horses into a slow trot.
The road began to fill up. Half-companies of infantry passed us in an
opposite direction, made up of uniformed men and men in civilian dress.
The whole moved to the shouts of sergeants and lesser fry. A gun team and
ammunition waggon rumbled by. The horses were awkward, the harness stiff,
the drivers at sea. A mounted N.C.O. called the wrath of Heaven on the
whole affair. We steadied to a walk, and the team ambled past.
“This must be the place,” Ted said again, and stopped the ponies. I
pushed my head round the buggy hood to find us at an opening in the
fence, with a sentry on guard there. The other side of the fence was a
paddock filled with tents in rows, and between each row ran horse-lines.
Between the tents and the road were drawn up guns and ammunition waggons.
“Yes, this must be the place.”
Ted drew into the footpath while I got out. “I’ll wait somewhere about
here,” he said, moving up on the road at a walk and calling back.
The sentry challenged me; but my pass let me in. I asked for the Colonel,
and was directed straight ahead. Inside the lines, much was going on. Men
ran, trotted, and walked; joked, argued, and shouted. Tents were going
up, horses were being picketed; things were topsy-turvy. And of uniform,
some men possessed military hats only, others had on military shirts,
others military breeches; but the majority wore their civilian clothes.
Busy men were to be seen; but just as many loafed round. Outside the
quartermaster’s store, equipment of every sort was piled: all painfully
new. A score of men lingered round it, and there seemed to be four or
five unwilling sorters. In the middle stood the Q.M. with store lists in
his hands.
I passed up a line of tents with horses picketed on the left hand, and
at the top asked the way again of an individual balancing himself on a
tentpeg. He pointed to a large tent not far away, and stared hard after
me when I left him.
Outside the big tent was a notice—HEADQUARTERS FIELD ARTILLERY BRIGADE.
An orderly stood in the doorway, lighting a cigarette. Him I asked for
the Colonel. “D’you want him?” the orderly said. He pushed up the flap of
the tent. I stooped and went in. The tent was furnished with a table and
several chairs; at the table three officers sat. Table and chairs were
covered with papers and books, and all three men were writing. Round the
walls stood packing cases, filled to overflow with strange instruments,
odds and ends of harness, and signalling flags. I came to a full stop.
Two of the men went on with their work, but the third—the youngest of
them, a lieutenant about twenty—looked up, eyed me, and yawned. When he
had finished, he picked up pen again, and remarked casually: “What do you
want?” When he spoke, the other men stopped writing and lifted their
heads.
The centre man was a big man, and by cap and shoulder strap I knew him
as the Colonel. The third man was small and sharp featured, by rank
Captain—the Adjutant, I guessed.
“I would like to see Colonel Jackson,” said I.
The big man put down pen. “I am Colonel Jackson.”
I looked him over as he spoke. He was a middle-aged man—nearly fifty, I
thought, and rather handsome. His hair was turning grey, his complexion
was high, and I warrant he knew how to enjoy life. He looked me straight
in the face. A good soldier, I thought: a man worth following. The
Captain started writing, and only paused from time to time to run a pen
through his close-clipped moustache.
“Yesterday I received notice from the Commandant at Victoria Barracks
to report to you,” I began. “I volunteered, and have passed the medical
examination.”
“What is your name?”
“Lake.”
“Have you had any military training?”
“I am sorry, none; but I can ride and shoot.” And I added, “I hope this
won’t stand in my way. I am very anxious to get in.”
The Colonel drummed his fingers on the table a moment or two, and all the
while looked at me. In the end he spoke gravely.
“You know, Lake, a soldier’s life is a hard life, a very hard life—bad
food, the ground for a bed, exposure to all weathers, work all hours.
The officer is no better off than the man.”
“I have not rushed into it,” I said. “I have thought it over and hope you
will take me.” To this he answered nothing. “I have some horses,” I went
on, “which would suit a gun team. I shall be glad to give them if they
are of any use.”
He misunderstood me. “Oh,” he said, “we have enough now. In any case the
Government does not give a high price. What do you want for them?”
“I don’t want to sell,” I said. “I make an offer of them. They are plough
horses, and, should I go away, I shall not plough this year. I am glad to
offer them.”
“Lake, I don’t think there is any need for that. As long as a man gives
his own services, it is all that can be expected. Keep your horses. If
you join, when can you come into camp?”
“I can come now; but I should like first to go back to Gippsland. I have
a place there.”
“That can be arranged.” He turned to the lieutenant who first had spoken
to me. “Sands, take Lake to the doctor and afterwards swear him in.”
I noticed Sands got up rather hurriedly when the Colonel’s eye reached
him; but he recovered himself outside the tent. He pushed his hat on to
the back of his head, stuffed both hands in his pockets and led the way
all over the place. The doctor was not in his tent and seemed to have
died or deserted. We wandered about endlessly, without any obvious plan
of campaign. Now and then Sands would stop some one and ask when the
doctor had last been seen; and always he finished by swearing in a bored
kind of way. Then off we moved again.
At last we found ourselves where we had started—outside the big tent.
“Stay there,” Sands said suddenly, and disappeared inside. He came out
with a large printed paper, a book, a pen, and a bottle of ink. The
bottle of ink he balanced on a post, the pen he put between his teeth.
Next he began to open out the sheet; and the wind took hold of it, shook
it and wrestled with it; and he bungled it, crumpled it, and finished by
swearing again. But in the end he won, and we took up opposite positions
and made a start on our business. He asked endless questions, which I
answered, and we came to the oath. “Take off your hat,” he said. He
became solemn in a moment with an ease entirely his own and took off his
hat. Next he held out a Bible. I took it and we began the oath. The wind
blew, Sands mumbled; and there was difficulty in following what he said.
More than once he eyed me sternly, and repeated the sentence. But we came
through it safely, the signatures were made, the ceremony was ended.
There was still the doctor’s signature to get; but Sands was sick of me.
He pushed the paper into my hand, waved in the direction of the doctor’s
tent, and departed.
I journeyed anew after the doctor, and this time found him in his tent.
He was alone, reading a long letter and smiling over it. He asked what I
wanted, told me to strip, and went on reading. He read still when I was
ready; but presently put the letter away and started to tap me. He tried
my teeth, tried my eyes, said I would do, and, while I dressed, filled in
the papers.
I took the papers to the Brigade Office, and gave them to Sands. The
Colonel was there, talking to an officer I did not know. “Captain Knight,
I am giving Lake to you,” he said. “He will be coming on Sunday or
Monday; in the meantime he is going down to Gippsland. Make him out a
railway pass, will you?”
The captain swung round. He was a clean, rather well dressed man, with a
restless manner. “Yes, sir,” he said, saluting. He told me to follow him,
and marched off down a row of tents and across horse-lines, until we came
to a tent with a notice board in front. A sergeant-major and a couple of
clerks were inside writing: sundry other fellows hung round the door.
Knight bounced into the tent with me at his heels.
“This man has been given to us, sergeant-major. He wants to get down to
Gippsland to-morrow. Make a pass out, please.” He turned to me. “When can
you come, Lake?”
“Sunday or Monday,” I answered.
“Then come here Sunday morning. We have not much time, and you ought to
get in all the drills you can. I can’t wait. The sergeant-major will give
you your pass.” He went off at full speed.
I was given the railway pass, and left the tent with mixed feelings.
There was no drawing back; but—yes—I was glad. I walked fast, guessing
Ted would be bored, and in truth he was at the gate, passing time by
cracking his whip.
“I’m in!” I called out. Ted grinned and drew the reins together.
* * * * *
Next day I went home for the last time. Ted was with me, and we drove in
a hired buggy the eight miles from the station. Scottie, who burnt off
near the road, met us at the gate. The sun was shining; the day was very
mild.
We had come over long, rutty roads with scarcely a word spoken between
us, and when Scottie opened the double gates we turned in with as little
remark, following at a walk the track to the house. Here and there stood
up thick patches of hoary bracken; and charred logs lay this way and that
way to bar the path. While the plough lay idle, Scottie and I had thinned
and trimmed the wilderness on the hillside; but much still remained to be
done. At it I looked and said: “This is my last day here. When I return,
this will be clean and green with grass. I shall be glad; but I shall
remember affectionately times which have gone.”
Soon we were at the house. The dogs jumped at their chains and greeted us
frantically, so that I stepped down from the buggy and for the last time
set them free. We unharnessed the horses, taking them to the yards behind
the buggy shed; and while I stooped to pat the dogs, Ted walked a few
paces away, spread apart his legs, took off his hat, and scratched slowly
the centre of his head. I pushed aside the dogs and got up.
“You have a look over the place,” I called out, “and I’ll fix up things
inside. If I finish in time, I’ll come and look for, you; otherwise
you’ll find me here.”
He nodded in a dreamy way, and went on scratching his head. When finally
he came out of the brown study, it was to wander off at a snail’s pace
towards the La Trobe flats. I had waited by the garden gate for him to
say something, but he went off without a word and I made for indoors.
I threw open the kitchen door, the sitting-room door, the bedroom door,
the front door, and the sunlight tumbled into the house. Hat and coat
went on to the table, and that was all the ceremony before business. Out
came every drawer and open came every box; and in a heap on the floor
fell papers and old letters. One or two bills which turned up I filed;
all else travelled to the fireplace, where match and poker were sole
mourners at the funeral. It took time, for I was thorough, and in the end
it was too late to look for Ted. Instead, I went on to the verandah and
sat down on the step, looking towards the river. The sun shone over the
paddocks; but the afternoon had grown cooler.
There was little or no wind, so that things had become very still. A few
birds whistled to one another in the trees behind the house; but the
sheep were camped out of sight on the flats, and the bullocks fed in the
scrub far away. Across the river, small figures moved to and fro. The
Browns cut chaff by the willows, the Smithsons mended a fence by their
cultivation. Over the hilltop, down the road, ran children home from
school.
“Thus it was yesterday,” I said, “thus will it be to-morrow, but I shall
not look on. I watch this for the last time. My kingdom is passing into
other hands. A stranger will sit at the fire at night. A stranger will
read my books. A stranger will watch the rabbit-fence, will count the
cattle and muster the sheep. A stranger will hear the parrots whistling,
the jackass laughing, the magpie jodeling. A stranger will see the floods
rise and fall, will feel the heat of summer and winter’s bitter grip.
A stranger will mark the changing seasons and count the stars sailing
through the skies. Round and round Time’s wheel will go. So be it.”
After half an hour Ted wandered back. I chained the dogs up, kneeling
to say a long goodbye to them. Maybe they understood, for they barked
and scratched and jumped wildly. We put the horses in the buggy, and in
climbed Ted and I climbed after him. He picked up the reins and flicked
the whip across their shoulders, moving them forward at a walk. There we
were, following for the last time the track to the gate. Behind us the
dogs were crying.
Old Scottie waited at the gate to give me a dirty hand.
“Goodbye, Guv’nor,” he said. “Come back again.”
“Goodbye, and good luck, Scottie. Look after things,” I answered.
That done, we were through the gate, rattling down the road. Beyond the
rabbit-fence the sheep in the rape gazed up with stupid eyes; a turn, and
we were beneath the gums spreading vast arms above the river; another
turn, and we bumped over the wooden bridge, where dead wattle blossoms
fell upon us. Then I looked back for the last time—and next the trees
came between.