Call of the Kiwi (25 page)

Roly chewed his lower lip. “Of course not, Mr. Lambert, but the motherlan
d . . .
Bobby and Greg
. . .
”

“Bobby and Greg seem to have more to do with it than the motherland,” Tim remarked. “My God, Roly, I know you grew up with those boys and call them your friends. But Matt Gawain doesn’t care for them; they drink more than they work. We only hold on to them because there’s a shortage of workers. No wonder they were seized by the desire for adventure—the army is more honorable by far than being let go. But you don’t have to go with them, Roly. You have a secure position, everyone appreciates you, and a girl as good as Mary Flaherty is waiting for you to propose.”

“They say I don’t have any backbone. Nurse boy or queer boy, what’s the difference?”

Roly had always borne the nickname “nurse boy”—which he earned caring for Tim—with dignity. But the ridicule nagged at him. The work of a caretaker didn’t count for much among the rough boys on the West Coast.

“And now you’re going to risk your life for this nonsense?” Tim asked. “Roly, this is no harmless adventure; this is war. There’ll be bullets flying. Have you ever even held a gun? What does your mother have to say about it?”

“She’s angry. She says she doesn’t understand why we’re fighting since no one attacked us. So she thinks I ought to stay where I am. But she doesn’t see. She’s just a woman, after all.”

“Your mother will have to bury you if you fall, Roly. Assuming England makes the effort to ship dead New Zealanders home. They’ll probably bury you all right there in France.”

“I’ve never been to France. Sure, you can talk when it comes to adventure. You’ve already been all over Europe. But what about us? We’ll never get out of here. In the army we’ll see foreign countries.”

“Is that what they told you at the recruitment office? War is not a vacation.”

“But it won’t last long. Just a few weeks, they say. And we’re going to a training camp first, in Australia. The war may be over by the time we’re done.”

“Oh, Roly. I wish you’d told me sooner. Look, I don’t know what will happen, but I know mining and business; we’re preparing for years of war. So, please, listen to your mother and Mary. She’ll give you something to think about when you tell her about it. I’ll work on getting you out of your contract tomorrow.”

Roly shook his head. He looked determined.

“I can’t, Mr. Lambert. If I chicken out now, no one in town will ever look me in the eye again. You can’t do that to me.”

“All right, fine, Roly, I’ll get by without you. But not forever, you understand? You’ll be so good as to survive, come back, and marry your girl. Do I make myself clear?”

Roly grinned. “Crystal.”

4

P
eople packed the streets, waving and cheering at the soldiers as they made their way to the Dunedin harbor in unruly six-man columns. Roly O’Brien, Greg McNamara, and Bobby O’Mally marched cheerfully in the third row, prouder than they had ever been in their lives. Laughing, they pinned the flowers the girls of Dunedin tossed them onto their new brown uniform jackets.

“Didn’t I tell you it would be grand?” Greg asked, jostling Roly a bit drunkenly. Bobby had brought some whiskey to the assembly yard. Though alcohol was forbidden, that didn’t bother the freshly minted soldiers, most of whom were used to running wild. Except for a few who had tried to make it as gold miners, hardly any of them had ever held a steady job.

“Then at least you boys have practice digging trenches,” the lieutenant said when he asked the new recruits about their areas of expertise. Though Roly could have mentioned his experience as a caretaker, he kept it to himself.

The harbor was full of people who’d come to see their heroes off. Only a few—mostly tearful mothers and wives—were related to the men. The rest were cheering the soldiers heading off on their grand adventure. They admired the gleaming insignia of the ANZAC on the recruits’ wide-brimmed hats and alternated between calls of huzzah for Great Britain and taunts directed at Germany, which the recruits responded to with good humor. The embarkment was a peculiar festival. Since not everyone was able to find a place on deck to wave good-bye to their admirers, some sat with their legs dangling over the side. Roly was only just able to save Bobby—drunk with excitement and cheap whiskey—from falling in the water.

Jack McKenzie held himself above the fray. He had marched silently in the last row with no eye for the cheering crowd. All the commotion had already almost made him regret his decision. He had wanted to go off to war but seemed to have landed at the fair. While the others celebrated as the ship set sail, he stashed his few possessions in his tiny locker. Perhaps it had been a mistake to sign on to an infantry division.

Jack flopped down on his berth. He had secured one of the lower beds for himself. The primitive lodgings had been quickly outfitted with three-level berths meant to house nine men. They did not seem very secure, and Jack hoped no big fellow would be bedding down above him.

But he was to get no peace. Shortly after the ship had weighed anchor, just as Jack was hoping the waves would rock him to sleep, someone or something stumbled down the stairs. Two young boys, a blond, stocky fellow and a stick of a boy with curly red-brown hair, were supporting a third, who was slurring something to himself.

“He can’t be seasick already, can he, Roly?” the blond boy asked.

The curly-haired fellow rolled his eyes. “He’s just three sheets to the wind. Help me heave him into the second bunk. Let’s hope he doesn’t spew.”

Jack hoped the same. The men did not billet their friend directly above him, but next to him instead.

“He already did, and he looks like he’s at death’s door.” The blond looked nervous.

Curly felt expertly for his friend’s pulse. “Nah, nothing’s wrong with him. He just needs to sleep it off. Is there any water here? He’s going to have a hell of a thirst when he wakes up.”

“The tap’s in the hall,” Jack said.

The blond reached for a bucket and staggered out.

Curly thanked Jack, taking a look at him for the first time.

“Do we know each other?” he asked.

Jack eyed him more closely and had a vague recollection of him. He had seen the young man somewhere before, but not on the farm.

“You’re from Greymouth, right?” he asked.

Roly nodded. “You’re Jack McKenzie! Mrs. Lambert’s cousin. You paid us a visit a few years ago. With your wife.” Roly beamed as Jack painfully recalled his honeymoon with Charlotte to Greymouth.

Then he remembered: the boy had been the one looking after Tim Lambert.

“Were you able to just leave Tim like that?” he asked.

Roly nodded. “He’ll be able to get by for a few weeks without me. Probably better than your wife without you,” he grinned. But his smile disappeared as soon as he saw Jack’s anguished face.

“Did I, did I say something wrong, sir?”

Jack swallowed and shook his head. “My wife died not long ago. But you couldn’t have known that. What was your name again?”

“Roly, Mr. McKenzie, sir. Roland O’Brien, but everyone calls me Roly. And I’m very sorry, Mr. McKenzie, truly. Forgive me.”

Jack waved it away. “Just call me Jack. You can forget the ‘mister’ and ‘sir.’ I’m just Private Jack McKenzie now.”

“And I’m Private O’Brien. Isn’t it exciting, sir? Private O’Brien.” His blond friend had returned and placed the bucket next to the bed.

“This is Private Greg McNamara. And that fellow is Bobby O’Mally. Normally he’s not so quiet. He celebrated a little too much is all. Just think, Greg, this is Jack McKenzie from the plains. Mrs. Lambert’s cousin.” While Roly chattered cheerfully, he retrieved a canteen from his belongings, filled it up for Bobby, held it to the boy’s lips, and wet a handkerchief, which he laid on Bobby’s forehead.

Jack wondered why Roly had not signed up as a medic. Roly’s treatment of his afflicted friend was extremely professional, and he did not even bat an eye when Bobby threw up again, fortunately in a bucket.

Jack, however, had had enough of the stench of vomit, as well as the young men’s unclouded cheer. He muttered something about “getting fresh air” and made his way on deck, where celebrations were still under way. Jack headed aft and cast a last glance at the quickly receding New Zealand coast. Jack tried not to think of Charlotte, but as always it was useless. He knew that he would eventually have to stop pining for her every second of the day. But so far he had seen no way out.

Jack found the first night on board the improvised troop transport a living hell. None of his cabinmates were sober, which some of them made clear by getting up every few minutes, stumbling on deck, and throwing up into the sea. Others slept soundly, snoring and sniffling in every register. Jack fled on deck early the next morning and ran directly into the frustrated lieutenant.

“It looks like a pigsty here!” the man roared at him, and Jack could not exactly deny it. The farewell orgies of the day before had left in their wake a stench of urine and vomit, and piles of empty bottles and leftover food. “They call themselves recruits! I’ve never seen such an undisciplined bunch o
f . . .
”

Lieutenant Keeler spoke with an English accent. Apparently they had sent him from the motherland to supervise the training of the Kiwis. Jack almost felt sorry for him. No doubt the man knew how to train soldiers, but he looked fresh out of the military academy. Most of his subordinates were older and more hard-bitten than he.

“These boys aren’t exactly the flower of New Zealand’s youth,” Jack said with a lopsided grin. “But they’ll prove themselves on the front. They’re used to a tough slog.”

“Is that so?” the officer asked with biting sarcasm. “Lovely of you to share your extensive knowledge with regards to your countrymen. Naturally you consider yourself to be a cut above, do you not, Privat
e . . .
?”

“McKenzie, sir.” Jack sighed. He realized he had forgotten the “sir” in his first reply and knew that the man would take all his frustration out on him. “And no, sir, I don’t think myself a cut above.”

“Then prove it to me, Private McKenzie. Make this spic and span. In an hour this deck had better gleam.”

As the young officer marched away, Jack went in search of a mop and bucket. He struggled against a burgeoning anger. After all, he had sought something to keep him occupied, and there was water enough. As he was hauling his third bucket out of the sea, Roly O’Brien joined him.

“I’ll help you, Mr. McKenzie. I can’t sleep anyway. Bobby and that fellow from Otago—what was his name again?—John, are snoring up a storm.”

Jack smiled at him. “Just Jack, Roly. And by the looks of it, we’ll have to get used to the noise. The boys aren’t likely to stop anytime soon.”

“They don’t have any more whiskey.”

Jack laughed. “They’ll find fresh supplies in Australia. And in France. What do they drink there? Calvados?”

Roly frowned. He had clearly never heard of Calvados, but then he laughed. “Wine. Mr. and Mrs. Lambert drink French wine. Mrs. Lambert’s father sends it to them from Queenstown. But I don’t care much for the stuff. I prefer a good whiskey. Don’t you, Mr. McKenzie?”

Jack had come upon two more early birds and made no bones about recruiting them to swab the deck. Three more appeared shortly thereafter, and when the lieutenant returned an hour later, the deck was indeed gleaming. Still damp, but clean.

“Very good, Private McKenzie.” Fortunately the officer did not hold a grudge. “You may go to breakfast with your men. The galley is manned.”

Jack nodded while Roly attempted to salute the officer. He still didn’t quite have the hang of it, but he managed to wring a smile from the lieutenant.

“You’ll get it yet,” he mumbled, strolling away.

A dozen ships were already anchored when the
Great Britain
pulled into the bay at Albany, and many more joined them in the coming days until thirty-six troop transports had assembled, flanked by various battleships. Roly marveled at the gleaming cannons of the
Sydney
and the
Melbourne
, massive warships meant to protect the grand convoy.

“As if anyone would even dare to attack us,” he said. Like most of the other soldiers, he felt an irrepressible pride at the mighty fleet. The sight of the ships, the flags, and the many thousands of men in uniform assembled on deck for the departure even affected Jack. The sun shone, the sea lay gleaming blue and flat as a mirror, and the beautiful coast of Albany spread out behind them. Roly, Greg, and Bobby waved, beaming as the convoy set off. Jack felt an uncertain sense of relief. He had wanted to leave everything behind him, and now he finally had. He turned away from the land and looked toward the unknown.

After a few days at sea, the young Lieutenant Keeler called his men on deck. He had an important announcement to make. Since not all of the eight hundred people would fit on deck, and the lieutenant’s voice could hardly be heard by those further back, it took several hours for everyone to hear the news: Turkey had declared war on England, so instead of heading to France, the ANZAC would be deployed in the theater of the Dardanelles strait.

“Straight where?” Roly asked, confused.