dead too quick to get shell-shock, I don’t remember anyone getting it on Gallipoli. Musta been later.’
‘Well, where did you go from there?’
‘Flanders. Now, I reckon hell is wet. I didn’t mind the heat or the flies—much. But that Flanders mud, slimy stinking corrupt mud with arms and legs and dead horses in it. I need another drink.’
Mr Butler, whose military service had been in the Boer War, was so interested that he had forgotten to keep the glasses filled. He remedied this instantly.
‘Yair, we was sent to . . . was it Marseilles, Cec?’
‘Yair. Issued us with a tin hat and sent us out to the Bridioux salient. Near Armentiéres.’
‘Yair, you’re right. That was just before Poziéres. We both got our tickets home at Poziéres, and that’s where your man would have got his shell-shock. Lots of us had it. July 20th. Worst shelling I ever been in—worse than Gallipoli, bigger guns, closer. Cec and me went over the top together and the machine-guns cut us all down. One bullet went straight through me chest, another through me thigh and into Cec’s leg, another in the left arm. Cec dragged me back through the wire. I should have been a goner.’
‘Least I could do, mate, after you kept the bullets off me,’ said Cec laconically, and Bert laughed.
‘I don’t remember nothing about it until I was in a clearing station and the doctor was telling Cec, “I’m sorry, he’s dead.” Cec went blue and fell over me, and the doc thought he had two corpses on his hands. He got the shock of his life when I swore at him. They sent us back to England.’
‘You remember what you said when we was in the ambulance?’ asked Cec. Bert chuckled. ‘He was lying there under about a ton of field dressings and he beckoned me to come closer and he said, “No fair, mate, those bastards are using live ammunition.” I nearly laughed meself into another heart attack.’
‘Yair, so they put us on a hospital ship. We stayed in London for a while until they said that me knee would always be dicky and I couldn’t march on it, and that Cec had soldier’s heart and might pop off any moment. Thanks a lot, you blokes, they said, you might as well go home. So we came home.’
‘And Poziéres?’
‘Bad,’ said Bert. ‘We saw ’em come into the hospital, before they sent the poor bastards off to the loony bin. Barmy. Some of ’em were deaf, dumb or blind, though they didn’t have a scratch. Some of ’em had visions. The shell-shock blokes couldn’t stand noise. They’d go off pop if they heard a truck backfire. But your bloke’d be all right out in the bush, there ain’t much noise bar the odd thunderstorm. If he was alive after the war then chances are he’s still alive. Well, that was the Great War. Roll up, roll up, and get your block knocked off. But we won,’ said Bert. ‘Australia will be there. Even if it was a capitalist plot, which it was. Eh, Cec?’
‘I still feel bad about it,’ said Cec softly. ‘Leaving them there. Our mates. On that damned cliff.’
‘Yair,’ agreed Bert. He drank his beer in silence.
‘Let us talk about something more cheerful,’ suggested Phryne. ‘How is the taxi business?’
‘Good,’ said Cec. ‘Since the waterfront is still on strike we’ve been working double shifts. The clients like the bonzer new cab.’
Later, as Phryne farewelled her guests at the door, Bert was struck by a sudden thought.
‘You be careful,’ he said seriously. ‘Them shell-shock patients could turn very nasty. And strong! If you need to find him, maybe you’d better take a gun.’
‘To defend myself?’
‘To put the poor bugger out of his misery. Beg pardon. Padre always told me me language was sulphurous. But you shoulda heard him when he fell in a shell-hole! ’Night, thanks for dinner.’ Bert and Cec left.
Phryne, shaken with horrible images, called for more port and sat down again by the fire.
Dot hung up the sunrise dress on her door, where she could see it
‘Well, where did you go from there?’
‘Flanders. Now, I reckon hell is wet. I didn’t mind the heat or the flies—much. But that Flanders mud, slimy stinking corrupt mud with arms and legs and dead horses in it. I need another drink.’
Mr Butler, whose military service had been in the Boer War, was so interested that he had forgotten to keep the glasses filled. He remedied this instantly.
‘Yair, we was sent to . . . was it Marseilles, Cec?’
‘Yair. Issued us with a tin hat and sent us out to the Bridioux salient. Near Armentiéres.’
‘Yair, you’re right. That was just before Poziéres. We both got our tickets home at Poziéres, and that’s where your man would have got his shell-shock. Lots of us had it. July 20th. Worst shelling I ever been in—worse than Gallipoli, bigger guns, closer. Cec and me went over the top together and the machine-guns cut us all down. One bullet went straight through me chest, another through me thigh and into Cec’s leg, another in the left arm. Cec dragged me back through the wire. I should have been a goner.’
‘Least I could do, mate, after you kept the bullets off me,’ said Cec laconically, and Bert laughed.
‘I don’t remember nothing about it until I was in a clearing station and the doctor was telling Cec, “I’m sorry, he’s dead.” Cec went blue and fell over me, and the doc thought he had two corpses on his hands. He got the shock of his life when I swore at him. They sent us back to England.’
‘You remember what you said when we was in the ambulance?’ asked Cec. Bert chuckled. ‘He was lying there under about a ton of field dressings and he beckoned me to come closer and he said, “No fair, mate, those bastards are using live ammunition.” I nearly laughed meself into another heart attack.’
‘Yair, so they put us on a hospital ship. We stayed in London for a while until they said that me knee would always be dicky and I couldn’t march on it, and that Cec had soldier’s heart and might pop off any moment. Thanks a lot, you blokes, they said, you might as well go home. So we came home.’
‘And Poziéres?’
‘Bad,’ said Bert. ‘We saw ’em come into the hospital, before they sent the poor bastards off to the loony bin. Barmy. Some of ’em were deaf, dumb or blind, though they didn’t have a scratch. Some of ’em had visions. The shell-shock blokes couldn’t stand noise. They’d go off pop if they heard a truck backfire. But your bloke’d be all right out in the bush, there ain’t much noise bar the odd thunderstorm. If he was alive after the war then chances are he’s still alive. Well, that was the Great War. Roll up, roll up, and get your block knocked off. But we won,’ said Bert. ‘Australia will be there. Even if it was a capitalist plot, which it was. Eh, Cec?’
‘I still feel bad about it,’ said Cec softly. ‘Leaving them there. Our mates. On that damned cliff.’
‘Yair,’ agreed Bert. He drank his beer in silence.
‘Let us talk about something more cheerful,’ suggested Phryne. ‘How is the taxi business?’
‘Good,’ said Cec. ‘Since the waterfront is still on strike we’ve been working double shifts. The clients like the bonzer new cab.’
Later, as Phryne farewelled her guests at the door, Bert was struck by a sudden thought.
‘You be careful,’ he said seriously. ‘Them shell-shock patients could turn very nasty. And strong! If you need to find him, maybe you’d better take a gun.’
‘To defend myself?’
‘To put the poor bugger out of his misery. Beg pardon. Padre always told me me language was sulphurous. But you shoulda heard him when he fell in a shell-hole! ’Night, thanks for dinner.’ Bert and Cec left.
Phryne, shaken with horrible images, called for more port and sat down again by the fire.
Dot hung up the sunrise dress on her door, where she could see it
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