Call of the Kiwi (29 page)

“He holes himself up and shits his pants in fear.”

This last sentiment was no lie. Roly stank of urine and excrement.

“Where’s your rifle, Private?”

Roly seemed not to understand the words. His rifle could no longer be found. It was likely buried under dirt and blood.

“Stand up and come with me; you’re under arrest. We’ll have to see what to do about you. If it’s up to me, there’ll be a drumhead court-martial. Cowardice before the enemy.”

The major pointed his gun at Roly, who reflexively put his hands up and stood at attention. He staggered off ahead of the officer. Jack would have liked to help the boy, but couldn’t think of a way to do so. He was too tired to think, too exhausted to do anything. He stumbled through the trenches with the other soldiers.

“Forty-two thousand,” someone said. “They say there were forty-two thousand. And ten thousand are dead.”

Jack felt no horror, and no triumph. He fell onto his billet and sank into sleep. That night no nightmares tormented him. He did not even have the strength to feel the cold.

As the sun rose again over Gallipoli, the victorious defenders assembled around hundreds of fires, spooning their breakfast and exchanging heroic tales. A few of them were already bathing on the beach. Although it was still chilly, the men wanted to cleanse themselves of the stench of blood and powder. The Turks did not shoot at the swimmers with their usual energy. Normally they halfheartedly shot at bathers, who, for their part, made a game out of submerging just before the bullets struck. But that morning the enemy was burying its dead. Though there was no official armistice—this was merely an act of humanity—the Australians and New Zealanders tossed corpses over the edge of their trenches and did not shoot at the Turks’ rescue units.

After seeing to it that the survivors of his company had gotten something to eat, Jack headed to the beach to look for Roly. He found the improvised brig in a tent on the beach, guarded by an older sergeant and two young soldiers.

“Who are you looking for? The coward? We’ve only just got him civilized today; yesterday he was completely off the rails, you know. I wanted to call a doctor, but they had their hands full. Now he’s back to his senses. He’s mortified and keeps trying to tell me something about a mine.” The sergeant stirred his tea jovially. “Something really must have hit him in the head.”

Jack was relieved, but it did not bode well that they were still holding Roly now that he was doing better.

“So what’s going to happen to him?” he inquired. “Major Hollande
r . . .
”

“He would have liked to shoot him right there and then. Cowardice before the enemy,” the sergeant replied. “Do you want some tea?”

Jack declined. “Can he do that? I mea
n . . .
”

The sergeant shrugged. “They’ll probably send him to Lemnos for a court-martial. It would be a bit of a waste to shoot him, don’t you think? I imagine he’ll go with a penal unit. Which amounts to the same thing in the end, but before that they can still dig some trenches in France.”

“In France?” Jack asked, horrified.

The man nodded. “They won’t have enough for a penal unit of just Aussies. Do you want to see him?”

Jack shook his head. It would do no good to speak to Roly. There was nothing he could say to comfort him. He had to take action before they took him to Lemnos. Once the proceedings got under way, there would be no way to stop them.

Jack thanked the superintendent and made his way to the field hospital.

“Commander Joseph Beeston—where do I find him?” Jack asked the first nurse he saw.

“He’s about to operate. The doctors have all been working round the clock. They’re all in that tent over there. Just ask for him. But you might have to wait. It’s chaos in there.”

Jack entered the tents where the improvised operating rooms were housed. A nurse was carrying out bloody bags. He fought the urge to vomit as he caught the mawkish scent of blood mixed with Lysol vapor and ether. The floor of the tent was covered in blood; the men cleaning it could hardly keep up. Doctors were working at several tables, where groaning and screams could be heard.

“Commander Beeston?” Jack tried his luck with one of the doctors, who could hardly be differentiated from one another in their surgical masks and aprons.

“Last table on the right, next to the mutt.” The doctor pointed with a bloody scalpel.

Jack recognized Paddy right away. The little dog lay in the tent’s furthest corner looking very agitated. His panting and trembling almost reminded Jack of Roly.

“Commander Beeston? Can I speak with you briefly?”

The doctor turned halfway toward him, and Jack found himself looking into exhausted eyes behind thick glasses. Beeston’s apron was smeared with blood, his arms bloody to the elbows. He seemed to be trying desperately to mend something in his patient’s intestines.

“Do I know you? Ah yes, of course, Private McKenzie. No, Corporal. Congratulations.” Commander Beeston managed a weak smile.

“I need to speak with you quickly,” Jack said. Hospital ships would be leaving for Lemnos soon, and someone might have the idea of sending the prisoners with them.

“All right. But you’ll have to wait. When I’m done with this fellow here, I’ll take a break. Relief must be coming from Lemnos; we can’t manage here any longer. Wait at the ‘casino,’ as they call that shack. And if you can, take Paddy with you. He’s about to collapse.” Beeston turned back to his patient.

Jack tried to draw the dog out from the corner, but it whined. Jack finally put a leash on Paddy and convinced the dog to follow him out of the tent. When Jack entered the primitive canvas shelter dubbed the casino, a young medical officer was lying asleep on a cot; another doctor took a long gulp from a whiskey bottle, splashed water from a washstand on his face, and then hurried out again.

Jack decided to wait in front of the tent and passed the time with a few obedience lessons for Paddy. The dog was soon following the commands with zeal. Jack briefly forgot about the trench combat the day before.

“Clever dog,” Jack said and suddenly felt a searing pang of homesickness. What had possessed him to leave Kiward Station, the collies, and the sheep just to dig himself in at the end of the world and shoot at strangers?

“You have a knack with dogs,” Commander Beeston said, when he appeared two hours later, looking even more exhausted than before. “I should have left Paddy on the ship. Yesterday, however.”

“Yesterday we all reached our limits,” Jack said, “some more than others.”

“Come in, come in,” Commander Beeston said, holding the entrance open for him and began searching for the whiskey bottle. He filled two glasses. “You’d like one, wouldn’t you?”

Jack nodded.

“Now, what can I do for you?” Beeston asked.

Jack told him.

“I don’t know. It’s true I owe you something, but cowardice before the enemy? I have no use for a coward here either.”

“Private O’Brien isn’t cowardly. On the contrary, after the battle at Cape Helles he received a commendation for bringing two wounded men out from enemy lines. And he likewise fought at the head when they stormed that godforsaken hill. But the man’s claustrophobic. He goes crazy in the trenches.”

“Our rescue troops must also go into the trenches,” Beeston said.

“And into no-man’s-land. No one else is exactly eager to do that, is he?” Jack asked. “Besides, you probably won’t want to employ him in rescue operations, an experienced nurse like that.”

Beeston furrowed his brow. “The man has medical training?”

A half hour later Commander Beeston formally requested that Major Hollander transfer Private Roland O’Brien to medical service.

“It would be a real shame to send him to a penal unit, Major. According to his friend, he’s a trained nurse. We can’t just throw him to the wolves in France.”

Another hour later, Jack McKenzie breathed easy. Roly was saved. Still, Jack wrote to Tim Lambert in Greymouth just in case. After that he wrote to Gloria. He did not want to burden her, and he did not know whether he should send the letter. But if he did not tell someone about the war, Jack knew he would go crazy.

7

B
y the time Gloria reached Sydney several months after leaving Darwin, she hated the whole world. She loathed the johns who used her without compunction—and then proved unwilling to pay extra for “special services.” She had drawn her knife more than once to force the men to pay. Small-town men, harmless when it came down to it, they usually backed down when the steel gleamed.

Gloria likewise hated the other prostitutes who were not prepared to accept a new girl into their midst. Her knife had come into play then too. The girls were much too jaded to react to simple threats, and most of them were better fighters than Gloria. Twice she found herself in the gutter, badly beaten, and one opponent robbed her of that day’s earnings to boot. Not that Gloria was real competition. The men only chose her when they wanted something unusual.

At first Gloria did not understand the connection, but then she realized that it was her shaved head that fascinated the men. Though she had feared initially that her radical hairstyle would hurt her business, the more deviant men found her smooth scalp irresistible. Thus Gloria shaved her head anew at the slightest growth of stubble.

Gloria also hated the honorable women and the shop owners from whom she bought her few groceries. She hated their smugness and their reluctance to help her. She had made it a habit to travel as a boy and transform into a woman only at night. She felt safer in men’s clothing and could more easily hide from the other prostitutes who used the daylight hours to hunt for their “vagabond” competition.

More than anything, however, Gloria hated the country that had used her up. Although accustomed to long distances, she couldn’t get over Australia. To reach Sydney from Darwin, she had been forced to work her way across thousands of miles, including the sparsely populated Northern Territory. Gloria had no eye for the beauty of the desert regions she traversed, often on foot or in the wagon of some sympathetic farmer or horny gold miner. She cared neither for the rock formations nor the strangely formed termite mounds and spectacular sunrises and sunsets.

By the time she finally arrived in Sydney, short, red-brown locks played about Gloria’s lean face. She had let her hair grow out again—because her papers identified her as Gloria, not “Jack”—and she bought two modest but respectable traveling outfits. Although she had to work longer for it, Gloria was determined to book a second-class room.

The first boat bound for New Zealand was headed to Dunedin, which was a lucky break for Gloria. She had hoped to avoid having to go to the North Island. Less pleasant was the fact that the
Queen Ann
would not weigh anchor for a week. Gloria struggled with whether she should spend the week as “Jack” in a shelter, thus saving money, or take a room for herself, using up the last of her reserves. She quickly cast aside the most lucrative solution of “working” for a few more days. Better not to take any more risks.

As the time grew near, Gloria found herself shaken by panic attacks. Would her great-grandmother still be alive? Had Kura and William perhaps sold Kiward Station out of spite for Gloria’s having run away? If they had, did she bear some responsibility for Jack and Grandmum Gwyn’s home being lost? Gloria hardly dared think of Jack. Would she hate him as she hated all men?

Gloria spent the time until her ship’s departure trembling and alone in a cheap hostel. She spent the last of her money on a carriage in order not to have to walk through the docklands, and then all but ran on board the
Queen Ann
. Gloria thought she might weep with relief when she was shown to her cabin, which she shared with an excited young girl traveling with her parents to New Zealand.

During the two-week crossing, Gloria took every opportunity to eat her fill, attempting to make up for the near constant hunger she had endured in Australia. Though she initially found it difficult to behave politely—having too often stuffed bread and cheese into her mouth before some stronger urchin could swipe it—the structured mealtimes and tidy dining room on the ship reawakened her memories of Oaks Garden and Gloria began to carry herself as she had then. She shuffled with sunken head to her place, wished those around her bon appétit without looking at them, and then ate as quickly as possible. If someone spoke to her, she answered monosyllabically. She succeeded masterfully at playing the role of the shy, well-bred girl. Only once, when she snuck through the ship’s ballroom toward her cabin and a young man asked her to dance, did her “other self” surface. She glared at him with such hatred that he almost fell backward, and Gloria even frightened herself. If he had touched her, she would have reflexively drawn her knife, which she still always carried with her.

And then New Zealand—Aotearoa—finally appeared before them on the horizon. From the ship she recognized the silhouettes of the mountains. Home. She was finally home. She had heard that some of the immigrants in her great-grandmother’s day had fallen on their knees and kissed the ground after reaching their new country alive, and she knew how they felt. She felt an overpowering sense of relief as the
Queen Ann
passed into Port Chalmers.

As Gloria stood on deck gazing out at her destination, she realized that she had no idea what exactly she would do when she arrived. New Zealand had always been her objective. But now what?

“Those traveling to Dunedin should take the train,” the steward informed the passengers. “The trains run regularly.”

“We’re not arriving in Dunedin?” Gloria asked.

“No, Miss, Port Chalmers is a separate town. But it’s easy to reach Dunedin.”

As long as one had more than a few Australian cents in her pocket. Gloria was in a trance as she walked down the gangplank and stepped onto New Zealand soil again. She wandered aimlessly along the water’s edge, eventually sitting down on a bench and staring out over the calm bay. She had so often imagined how she would rejoice when she finally reached New Zealand, but she felt nothing but emptiness. No more despair and no fear. But no joy either. It was as if everything in her were dead.

“Good evening, young lady. Can I help you with anything?”

Gloria started. Instinctively she wanted to feel for her knife, but she turned around first instead. It was a man, but in a constable’s uniform.

“No, I’m, I’m relaxing,” Gloria stammered.

The constable nodded, though he frowned as he did so. “You’ve been relaxing for two hours,” he said with a look at his pocket watch. “And it’s getting dark. So if you have someplace to be, you should hurry. And if you don’t have one, then please think of one. Otherwise I would have to come up with something. You don’t look like a port whore, but it’s part of my job to keep young ladies from having dumb ideas. Do we understand each other?”

She nodded. He was right. She could not stay where she was.

“Where do you belong, young lady?” the officer asked amiably.

“On Kiward Station,” Gloria said. “In Haldon, on the Canterbury Plains.”

“Dear Lord,” the constable said. “You won’t be able to make it there tonight, child. Isn’t there anything closer?”

“Queenstown, Otago?” she asked mechanically. Lilian’s grandparents lived there, though Gloria hardly knew them.

The constable smiled. “That’s closer, but not exactly around the corner. If you don’t know anyone in Port Chalmers—what about Dunedin?”

Dunedin. Gloria had written the name on envelopes a thousand times. Of course she knew someone in Dunedin. If she had not moved away, taken a different position, or married, that is. It had been a long time since she had last written to Sarah Bleachum.

“The Princess Alice School for Girls?” she asked.

The constable nodded. “That would do. It’s only a few miles down the road.”

“Good, I can walk there. Which direction is it? Is there a paved road?”

Again she provoked a frown from the constable. “Tell me, child, where did you come from? The woods? Naturally there are paved streets all around Dunedin. We’ll find you a carriage. How’s that sound?”

“I don’t have any money.”

The officer sighed. “I thought that might be the case. You look like you’ve seen hard times. How did you think of the school? Do you know somebody there?”

“Sarah Bleachum. A teacher.” She still felt numb and oddly unconcerned about where she would spend the night. Sarah Bleachum belonged to a different world.

“And what’s your name?” the constable asked.

Gloria gave her name.

“Very well, Miss Martyn. Then I propose the following solution. Around the corner here is the police station—now don’t look so scared, we don’t bite. If you don’t have anything against following me there, we could call up the Princess Alice School. If there really is a Miss Bleachum there who has a soft spot in her heart for you, she’ll no doubt take on the costs of a carriage.”

A short while later, Gloria was sitting with a cup of tea in the police station. After a few minutes on the phone, the constable turned to Gloria. “Yes, there is a Miss Sarah Bleachum there, but she’s teaching at the moment. Astronomy. Strange subject. I never would have thought that girls took an interest in it. The headmistress says that I ought to put you in a taxi and send you along anyway. They’ll cover the cost.”

Gloria set off in a roomy automobile. As they pulled up to the main building, Gloria was reminded of Oaks Garden, though the Princess Alice School was smaller and prettier architecturally, with bay windows and turrets built in the light-colored sandstone typical of the region. Gloria’s heart beat heavily as the car stopped in front of the steps. What if Miss Bleachum did not recognize her or wanted nothing to do with her? What would she have to do to pay for this taxi ride?

The driver accompanied her up the stairs and inside. She found herself in an entrance hall where an inviting fireplace kept out the autumn chill. An older woman appeared and smiled at Gloria.

“I’m Mrs. Lancaster, the headmistress,” she explained after paying the driver. “I’m eager to see who’s dropped in on us from Australia.” She smiled at Gloria. “Our Miss Bleachum is too. She doesn’t know anyone in Australia.”

Gloria was searching for words to clarify when she saw Miss Bleachum coming down the stairs. Her tutor had aged a bit, but it suited her. Holding herself erect and moving with firm strides, she appeared more self-assured than before. Her dark hair was tied in a knot, and she did not play nervously with her glasses when she saw the strangers in the foyer.

“A visitor for me?” she asked. Miss Bleachum looked over at the taxi driver first.

“I’m the one,” Gloria said quietly.

Miss Bleachum furrowed her brow and stepped closer. Even with her glasses she now had only mediocre vision.

“Gloria,” she whispered. “Gloria Martyn.”

Miss Bleachum looked confused for a moment, but then her eyes shone.

“I would never have recognized you, dear. You look so grown-up. And so thin—you look like you’ve been starved. But of course it’s you. My Gloria.”

Miss Bleachum embraced her.

“I’ve been so worried about you since you stopped writing,” Miss Bleachum said, running her hand over Gloria’s short, frizzy hair. “And your Mrs. McKenzie has been so distressed. I contacted her a few months ago to ask where you were, and she told me you’d run off. I always feared something like that might happen. But now here you are. My Gloria.”

Gloria nodded numbly. “My Gloria.” Miss Bleachum’s Gloria, Grandmum Gwyn’s Gloria. She felt something fall away within her. And then she leaned on Miss Bleachum’s shoulder and began to weep. First in short, dry sobs, then tears. Sarah Bleachum led the girl to a sofa in the entrance hall, sat down, and pulled her close. She held Gloria tightly pressed against her while the girl wept and wept and wept.

Mrs. Lancaster stood there stunned.

“Poor girl,” she murmured. “Doesn’t she have a mother?”

Sarah looked up and shook her head almost imperceptibly. “That’s a long story.”