Gallipoli Street (18 page)

‘Other mothers can make their own choices. My daughter is staying here.' Something in Catherine's tone forbade any further comment but looking across at her Veronica determined that this was far from over. In that moment she knew she would find a way to do it. Somehow she would get on one of those boats and go to her boys. Her knitting days were over.

Veronica woke from her dream in a sweat, taking a moment to bring herself back to the present. Jack had been in a maze and there were giant rats chasing him out but then, when he found his way to the open spaces, enormous mosquitoes swooped and attacked, tearing at him as he ran. She screamed but no one could hear her – she was locked in a cage far away.

She stood and dressed in the clothes she'd laid out, putting the last of her things in a valise as quietly as she could. She'd packed what she knew she would need and nothing more. Stuffing the much-read mail from her brothers, Dan and Jack in the pocket, she closed it and placed the note on her dresser.

‘They won't take you without a letter,' said a voice from the doorway.

Veronica turned, facing Catherine, her heart thudding.

‘I've written my own,' Veronica said, her chin raised as she clutched her bag.

‘I know you think I can't stop you, but I can. Dr Dwyer knows half the board. They'll never approve you.'

Veronica knew this was true. The Voluntary Auxiliary Defence or ‘VAD' had an enlistment age of twenty-three and older. But there was a way.

‘You could make it happen.'

Catherine folded her arms. ‘And why would I do that?'

‘Because I'll run away anyway, even if you don't.'

‘And where will you go?'

‘Queensland, Victoria…anywhere I can reapply. Whatever it takes, Mother…I have to go…' Veronica's hands shook and she felt the tears well in her eyes.

‘Why? Is it so terrible to stay here safe with us?' Catherine threw out her arms, encompassing the walls.

‘Yes!' Veronica cried. ‘I…I have to go to them. Maybe I could be near Tom and Mick – or if not, then
any
hospital – I can't stay waiting here any longer, not when our boys might need me. Not when I could be of use. Don't you see?' She wiped at her face. ‘It could be Iggy lying there or…or Dan –'

‘Or Jack?' Catherine said, her gaze pinning her daughter to the truth.

Veronica hesitated then broke down. ‘Or Jack.'

Catherine stepped into the room and gathered her close.

Veronica subsided, to sob in her mother's arms. ‘Oh, Mum, please let me go to him…please…I know he needs me.'

‘I can't lose you…' Catherine began to cry too, pushing back Veronica's hair and holding her face in her hands. ‘I can't.'

‘I'll come home, I will,' she promised and Catherine rocked her against her heart.

They held each other as the rose of dawn stained the sky. It had cost the admission of her greatest truth but Veronica knew her mother had heard her at last.

Three weeks later Veronica stood at the gangway of the departing ship and embraced her parents one last time.

‘Goodbye, my dearest pet.' Her father shook his head, tears streaming, and she could barely stand to let him go from her embrace.

‘My baby,' choked Catherine and Veronica clutched at her, wishing she could take her mother's strength and wisdom with her.

Pattie was there too, her eyes bright as she held Veronica close, whispering in her ear before she ascended the ramp.

‘Keep an eye out for a certain dashing Australian airman for me, won't you? And tell him his child seems to share his taste for adventure.' She laughed through her tears as the baby kicked between them.

Veronica picked up her bag, her initial steps resolute as she climbed towards the unknown but she paused halfway up the gangplank, staring at the enormous ship and feeling very much her paltry nineteen years. Veronica looked back at her mother, fighting the temptation to run back to the protection that at times had smothered her, but had always kept her safe.

Then Catherine smiled at her, pride and love in her gaze, and Veronica knew if her mother believed she could do this, then she believed it too.

Gallipoli, Turkey, June 1915

She was walking towards him, barefooted in the summer fields, trailing her hand across the long grass. Her dress was white and he could make out the shape of her as the sunlight filtered through the sheer material; and the look on her face showed him everything he had ever wanted her to
feel.

‘Jack,' she mouthed towards him.

‘Yes, darling?'

‘Wake up, ya bloody galah!' Simmo's boot kicked into his ribs and he blinked awake. ‘You and Bullseye are orderlies and I want me scran…and ya better hop to it before I shove my rifle up yer ass fer calling me darling!'

Iggy and a few of the others laughed heartily at this and Jack turned over, groaning. Being orderlies meant they were responsible for getting the ‘scran', or breakfast, a much-hated job. It meant running the length of the trenches down to the cookhouse and back, never an easy task.

‘You're on fatigue today too, so hurry back,' Iggy said, sending him a sympathetic grin. Jack rubbed his head, wishing he could go back to his dream.

‘Come on, Dan.' He poked him with his foot. If he couldn't dream about Veronica then why should he? Not that they got much sleep in this hell-hole. If the Turks weren't sending over grenades or picking up on their every move with snipers, the rats, lice and flies were there to do their best to make sure they were as tortured as possible.

Dan, or ‘Bullseye', as he'd been dubbed, met the news about being an orderly with about the same level of enthusiasm but soon they were off, ducking as showers of earth rained down from the Turkish snipers having some fun.

‘Oh they are gunna get theirs when we get back,' Dan said between clenched teeth as they flattened themselves against the wall, a bullet sending a tin sailing into the trench. He'd earned the name ‘Bullseye' over the past few months by applying his honed crow-shooting to sniper work, and bets were often placed on him and Iggy for marksmanship. The latter had also shown remarkable skill with the gun, much to his own surprise. Jack figured they were mates you were happy to have in a place like this, especially when shooting ability was one of the Anzacs' few strengths. They were at a constant disadvantage, located as they were right under the Turks' noses, and the defenders seemed to have an endless supply of grenades. The Australians had to make their own bombs out of jam tins.

They reached the cookhouse, already sweating in the morning heat, and Jack noted that the flies were thick on top of the billy tin.

‘Sure miss a decent cup of tea,' Jack sighed, flicking the buggers off, though they immediately landed straight back.

‘And some fresh baked scones with some real butter,' Dan sighed, looking upwards and pretending to pray before inspecting the contents of the scran. ‘Nup. Just bully beef and rock-chewers again.'

‘Think I might have to start putting these in the jam tins and see if I can soften them up,' Jack said, holding up a ‘rock-chewer' army biscuit and shaking his head. ‘My kingdom for something fresh!'

‘Simmo said he would grab me a fish when he went down swimming later. I'll ask him to get one for you too if you like.'

‘How does Simmo catch the fish?'

‘They get blown up from the bombs.' Dan grinned.

‘Fish bomb stew.' Jack shook his head. ‘Only in Turkey.'

They made their way back, cursing the occasional flying debris from the snipers.

‘Bloody hell,' said Jack as a sudden series of explosions shook the earth. Dirt rained down upon them and the scran went flying as both men flattened themselves against the trench wall, several sandbags falling from the top.

‘Look out!' Jack grabbed a sandbag and hugged it to his chest, launching his body across the trench on top of the live grenade. The explosion shattered through him, lifting him off the ground like a bucking mule before landing him hard back on the earth. Jack lay there, waiting for the blackness, but it didn't come. Instead someone was flipping him onto his back and Dan grabbed at him frantically in a cloud of dirt.

‘You…you alive?'

Jack barely nodded, the middle section of his body a fiery pit of pain, and allowed Dan to half drag him to the side.

‘Turks,' he panted, pointing to their right. Jack heard it too.

‘Allah! Allah!' The Turkish voices came closer and Jack tried to heave his gun onto his shoulder. It seemed to weigh ten times what it had moments before.

‘Ahhhhh!' roared Simmo, barrelling past them, bayonet first. He was closely followed by Iggy and the others.

Gunfire pitted the air, and Dan raced after them, Jack clawing his way behind. He rounded several corners, stumbling and clutching, his head swimming in a daze, then suddenly he was in it. Dan was already lying behind a crate, taking deadly aim in quick succession as the Turks came in over the top. Simmo fought like a wild animal, stabbing the enemy at close contact with his bayonet, and several others were in heated crossfire with some barricaded Turks around the bend. Iggy had picked off several of the enemy from behind a pile of sandbags and Jack collapsed next to him. He felt heavy and awkward but his heart pumped at him to keep going.

It was fast. He tried to make sense of it as bodies fell in the deafening noise and debris.

Then suddenly it all stopped. The shots petered out and it was still. It took a moment for Jack to realise, of course, as his heartbeat thudded in his chest and his senses tried desperately to search for any movement, but the raid had indeed passed. Simmo and the others began to walk back, kicking at the corpses to make sure they were dead. Jack tried to focus on their sightless eyes then closed his own, sickened.

‘Anyone left?' Iggy called.

A single shot rang out and a Turkish soldier fell next to Simmo from the edge of the trench above. They all crouched immediately.

‘Thanks, Bullseye,' said Simmo, staring at the man then back towards Dan, nodding.

Dan nodded back and Jack thought he looked like he wanted to be sick. Come to think on it, he felt the same way.

‘What the hell happened to you?' said Iggy, turning to Jack who was by now wheezing quite heavily.

‘Decided to take a nap on a bomb,' said Dan, shaking his head, still incredulous, as Iggy undid Jack's shirt and cut away the frayed edges with his knife.

‘Well, you've got to get some sleep around here somehow,' said Iggy as he worked. Over the past few weeks he had displayed some impressive medical skills, showing he had learnt a lot more during his invalid years than his father ever gave him credit for.

Jack knew his chest must be a pretty sight, judging from the grim look on Iggy's face, but he couldn't seem to lift his head to investigate.

‘Hey, where's me scran?' Simmo bellowed at Dan, remembering.

‘Hold it down up there,' said a voice from behind them as reinforcements arrived.

‘Sir,' they all acknowledged. Sergeant Blockley was gruff but respected by the men, who admired any officer who put himself alongside when enemy activity struck.

‘Any more up further?' he asked Simmo, scanning the dead bodies in the trench.

‘Don't think so, sir. One juz up there but we got him in time.' He nodded at the rim.

‘Right, move back you lot. You two, get these bodies out.' He pointed at two newly arrived men and the others retreated, glad to be relieved of that duty.

‘What's the verdict, Dwyer?' he asked Iggy, his eyes narrowing slightly at Jack's chest.

Iggy checked each of Jack's pupils, holding the lids apart as Dan hovered nearby. ‘Concussion, sir. And several broken ribs at the least.' Jack tried to comment but found his chest hurt like hell.

‘Grenade?' asked the sergeant.

‘Threw himself on one actually, sir,' Dan informed him. ‘Holding a sandbag. Saved both our lives,' he added, still looking shocked at Jack's brave action.