Читать книгу The Map Of Honour - Max Carmichael - Страница 4

That night in the Sergeants’ Mess, the RSM bought Green a beer. ‘I hear you’re leaving us, Killer,’ he said as they took their first sips.

Green nodded. ‘Yes, but not to a battalion,’ he said bitterly. ‘What the bloody hell could Divisional Headquarters want with me, sir?’

The RSM grinned and tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. ‘Things are afoot, my son. I wouldn’t worry if I were you. I can’t say too much, but you can rest assured Monash won’t want to waste a man of your talents.’

The RSM was in fact referring to a rumour that General Monash’s 3^rd Division would shortly be bound for France. Since it’s raising in February 1916, the Division had spent a considerable time in England training, leading to other Australian formations claiming the Division was only thinking about going to France, a claim that had coined the Division’s nickname of “The Deep Thinkers.” ‘Don’t you worry, mate,’ the RSM concluded, ‘we’ll give ‘em bloody deep thinkers. You mark my words, Killer, Monash is behind your posting.’

Green was not convinced. ‘Then the General hasn’t got enough to do if he’s starting to worry about the postings for individual Sergeants!’ he retorted hotly.

The RSM laughed then drained his glass in one gulp. ‘Another?’ he asked.

Green nodded. ‘My buy,’ he said.

‘Not tonight,’ said the RSM. ‘Tonight, you keep your money in your pocket.’

Green mumbled an embarrassed thanks.

‘Mate, I don’t think you appreciate the impact you made at Gallipoli,’ the RSM began. ‘I for one would not be here if you hadn’t been around.’ The RSM’s face clouded momentarily as he remembered those early days at ANZAC Cove. He was a sergeant then, in Major Cook’s company, and he had been present when the infamous tinned peaches attack took place. ‘I remember that morning like it was yesterday,’ he murmured. ‘Cook was going to line us up again to call the role and the Turks would have shot the shit out of us again.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, RSM,’ a straight-faced Green responded.

‘Bullshit! After that first parade and knowing there was going to be another, I was so bloody frightened I didn’t know what to do. You were the only bloke I could talk to and you told me not to worry, that you would fix it. You did, too. The pity of it was you didn’t hit him hard enough.’

‘I still don’t know what you’re referring to.’

‘We needed your help and you came through for us.’

‘I’m glad someone came to your aid, but I don’t think I was in your sector at the time.’

The RSM grinned. ‘You’re a hard little bastard,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you admit to doing that bastard.’

Green shrugged. ‘Let’s have a drink,’ he said. ‘All this make-believe has made me thirsty.’

News of Green’s posting quickly spread and a party among the veteran sergeants and warrant officers developed. Someone produced a bottle of whisky, which prompted another to find a flask of green ginger wine. Beer, even though it was a local English brew, flowed freely and the party became a rather noisy affair. Songs were sung, each refrain bawdier than the last, and more and more drink was taken. None of the participants gave a thought to the fact that back in Australia, Green as an Aboriginal would not be allowed inside a bar, and that it would be illegal for him to drink alcohol. However, here in England, Green was one of them, a mate. This was not to say that the general attitude of the members of the Mess toward other people of colour had changed, but Green had endured the crucible of battle alongside them, a shared experience that had erased all the nonsensical, racially perceived differences they had grown up with.

On the other hand, Green could never allow himself to forget those same “differences” that existed back in Australia and elsewhere. He could not afford the luxury of basking in the reflected glory of acceptance by the men he had fought beside. There was always some young Digger newly arrived from home, who would object to taking orders from a black man, always another officer with similar attitudes as Major Cook’s. Still, he revelled in the friendships the war had provided him, and he knew he would be sad to leave this particular loud and boisterous group of men who he was proud to call his mates.

The party became a little rough and a game of “Mess Rugby” began. In the general mayhem that ensued, the walls of the building seemed to bulge under the impact of the opposing scrums. Numerous bloodied noses, some loosened teeth, and a broken table spoke volumes of the success of the game. At one stage, the Duty Officer arrived and pleaded with the RSM to quieten them down, but after a few well-chosen words from the RSM, the Duty Officer went away, and the party continued unabated. Green joined in all of these activities with almost exaggerated zeal, but in the end, the amount of beer he had consumed claimed him and he fell asleep at a table. With shouts of triumph, his mates carried him to his room and unceremoniously dumped him upon his bed. He woke briefly and attempted to make a speech to thank them, but the words were slurred and crazy and so he gave up. They cheered him heartily and then he fell asleep again. The party was over.

Morning found Green tired and irritable, and in the throes of a massive hangover. He was too ill to eat any breakfast; the very smell of the fried bacon wafting from the kitchen was enough to make him retch. He smiled ruefully, grateful he would at least avoid a day of range practice with the associated constant brain piercing noise of rifle fire.

The promised car arrived, and he threw his few possessions on to its rear seat and climbed into the vehicle beside the driver. ‘You know where to go?’ he asked the driver.

‘Yep.’

‘Okay, then let’s go.’

As the car passed the Guard House, the Old Guard, which consisted of Private Ellis and his mates, were about to go off duty and the next platoon rostered for guard duty were ready to take over. Military tradition demanded due ceremony accompany such an occasion, and the two formations, the Old Guard and the New Guard, were paraded on a cleared space in front of the Guard House to handover duties. The RSM was inspecting the New Guard, and as Green’s car passed by, he paused in his inspection and waved.

Overcome with a feeling of great loss, Green waved back.