Tiger Men (71 page)

Norm could have said he had a son who would turn two the next month. He could have told her his wife was pregnant. He could have pleaded baby Stephen and his unborn child as an excuse, but he didn’t. He sensed that would make no difference to the woman – just as it didn’t to him. The love and loyalty he felt towards his wife and son did nothing to assuage his sense of guilt.

Dipping a hand into the top pocket of her blouse, Prudence produced a white feather, which she thrust at him and which he automatically took. ‘That’s what we think of men like you,’ she said venomously. Prudence Farmer carried white feathers about her person at all times, not only to rallies but wherever she went, because you just never knew when you might need one. ‘Shirkers, the lot of you,’ she loudly declaimed, ‘shirkers and cowards, every one!’

Norm closed his fingers around the shameful symbol and walked off, cries of ‘hear, hear’ echoing behind him as Prudence rejoined Marge’s group of supporters.

The national outcome of the referendum proved to be a narrow victory for the No vote. The federal government’s drive for conscription had failed, this time around anyway: ‘Billy’ Hughes, a tough aggressive little man, was not one to readily throw in the towel.

The outcome of the vote had little bearing in the case of Norman Balfour, however. Prudence Farmer’s action had been enough. The white feather had tipped the balance. Norm had gone straight to the nearest recruitment centre that day. He’d signed up, knowing how deeply it would distress his wife, but knowing also that he had no option.

H
ugh Stanford was hospitalised in England to have his wounds tended. His chest injury healed well – the bullet had passed through the right side of his upper body without causing significant damage – but it took several operations to repair the shattered bone of his upper left arm, which the doctors had at first considered amputating.

In March 1917, after months of convalescence, he was finally declared fit for duty, but before returning to France he attended an investiture ceremony at Buckingham Palace, where he was awarded the Victoria Cross by King George V.

Hugh did not inform his father of the date of his investiture. Indeed, in an uncharacteristic and outright lie, he wrote to his father at Christmas saying that it was unlikely he would be presented with his award for at least another six months. He feared that, even with the difficulty of wartime travel, his father would find a way to attend the ceremony. Reginald Stanford would certainly wish to attend, and when Reginald Stanford wished for something he usually got it. Hugh did not want his father to be there. Hugh did not want anyone to be there.

The entire ceremony registered as something of a blur to Hugh. There were a number of them lined up to receive their medals, two English soldiers also receiving the VC, and to Hugh the military pomp and splendour of the ritual, together with the grandeur of Buckingham Palace and even King George himself seemed somehow unreal. As his citation was read out, all he could think was: ‘Did I really do that?’ He had no memory of his actions. The death of David Powell remained crystal clear in his mind. Everything after that was a blank.

Following the investiture, Hugh Stanford was promoted to the rank of sergeant and returned directly to the frontline. His left arm did not function particularly well, but this was not considered an overly serious incapacitation: he was right-handed after all, and a VC winner was bound to prove inspirational to the troops.

Hugh’s photograph, taken at Buckingham Palace on the day of his investiture and wearing his VC, made the front pages of newspapers throughout Australia, Hobart’s
Mercury
in particular.
HOBART’S HERO
, the headline screamed.

Reginald Stanford was bursting with pride, but he cursed the army. Why the devil hadn’t they given Hugh more notice? Come hell or high water he would have found a way to be at his son’s investiture. In fact when he’d received Hugh’s letter telling him the award would not be presented for a whole six months, he’d contemplated bringing his considerable clout to bear in order to rectify the situation. He’d resisted the urge, however, knowing that his son would be utterly appalled if he interfered. And now the army had changed its mind. They’d sprung the investiture on Hugh with virtually no notice. The fickleness of the military, he thought, damn their hide.

It did not for one moment occur to Reginald that his son may have lied. Hugh never lied. He toyed with the idea of lodging a complaint with his connections in military high places, and he most certainly had connections, but again for Hugh’s sake he decided against it.

Reginald Stanford had lent his full support to the war effort. Or rather, he’d been seen to do so. Patriotic duty, like philanthropy, was essential for a man in his position. He’d even donated an aeroplane – that is, the two thousand pounds necessary for the purchase of an aeroplane. During the early days of the war several barons of Australian industry had led the way in donating aircraft to Britain’s Royal Flying Corps. The Cattle King, Sidney Kidman, had even donated two, which Reginald had found unnecessarily excessive, but he’d quickly followed the trend himself. He would not be left behind in the patriotic stakes, particularly as Henry Jones had donated an aeroplane.

Poor dear Henry had rather cruelled his own pitch though, Reginald thought. Henry’s aeroplane had been delivered to the Royal Flying Corps with the IXL brand painted on both sides. So crude. They’d refused to accept it, of course, until the symbols had been removed. Henry had been quite miffed at the time. Reginald had pretended sympathy, but he’d found the episode amusingly typical. Henry was such a vulgar little man.

And now, in the patriotic stakes, no-one can touch me, Reginald thought as he gazed at Hugh’s picture on the front page of
The Mercury.
His son had been awarded the highest military honour a soldier could receive. No donation in the world could compare to that. The benefits to be reaped from the VC, for Hugh and also for the family name, were inestimable. All that was needed now was his safe return.

Reginald prayed daily for Hugh’s safety. Hugh was his bloodline, his one and only precious son, who would inherit his life’s work. If Hugh were to die Reginald’s own life would be meaningless.

Upon his return to France, Hugh found that due to the depletion of its numbers at Mouquet Farm the 52nd Battalion had been split up and the troops sent to other battalions as reinforcements. Gordie, Oscar and Harry – and now Hugh himself – had finally been forced to go their separate ways.

The war ground relentlessly on for a further eighteen months. The slaughter continued, fresh recruits were needed, and there was another bid by Australian Prime Minister ‘Billy’ Hughes to bring in conscription. Again a referendum divided the country, and again the
NO
vote prevailed, but this time with a slightly larger margin.

Then, finally in November 1918, ‘the war to end all wars’ was over. The British claimed victory, but the cost to both sides was staggering. A generation of young men had been wiped out.

Per capita, the Australians had suffered the highest casualty rate of any allied country participating in the conflict. With a male population of less than three million, Australia had lost close to sixty thousand men, and tens of thousands more had been wounded.

Gordie, Oscar, Harry and Hugh were among those who survived, but Harry’s older brother Norm was not. Norman Balfour had been wounded in action on the twenty-eighth of March 1918 during the German spring offensive at Morlancourt. He’d been taken to a casualty clearing station with gunshot wounds to the hip and stomach and had died the following day. Sergeant Norman Donald Balfour was buried at the Doullens Communal Cemetery, France, one month before his thirtieth birthday. He left behind a wife, and their three-year-old son and one-year-old daughter.

Some of the troops were sent home to Australia in October on what was amusingly called ‘1914 leave’. ‘1914 leave’ was granted to those surviving members of the AIF who had enlisted at the outbreak of war. The lads found it a bit of a joke that after fighting non-stop for nearly four years without leave, they should get a few weeks off when it was virtually all over. Word had got around that the war would end the next month anyway.

The survivors of the original 12th Battalion came home in dribs and drabs.

Gordie Powell and Harry Balfour arrived together, stepping off the ship from Sydney onto the docks of Hobart. God, but it was good to be back on home soil.

Gordie had quite a pronounced limp. He’d been wounded several times, although never badly enough to earn a respite in England. Considered a fine soldier by his commanding officer, Gordon Powell had been mentioned in despatches three times and had ended the war as a company sergeant major.

Harold Balfour, considered risky as leadership material even for one so experienced, had not achieved rank, but had been awarded the Military Medal for his action at Mouquet Farm in risking his life to rescue a comrade-in-arms while under heavy enemy fire.

The two were met at the docks by Max Müller, who’d driven up from the Huon to collect Gordie. Max had been home for well over a year now, and he’d insisted upon being delegated the job of chauffeur. He wanted to show off the prosthetic leg he’d been fitted with at the Fort Pitt Military Hospital in Chatham.

The boys’ reunion was hearty and boisterous as hugs were shared all round.

‘Look at that,’ Max said, ‘you wouldn’t even know, would you.’ He strutted about like a stocky bantam rooster. ‘Your limp’s worse than mine, Gordie,’ he said, and he was right.

Harry’s reunion with his father, Edwin, who’d driven down from Pontville to collect him, was a lot less boisterous, but even more fervent.

‘Welcome home, Harry.’ Edwin embraced his youngest son, holding him close, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. ‘It’s good to have you back.’ Edwin Balfour had aged. No longer the ruddy-faced farmer, he was now gaunt and in his eyes was the sorrow of a man who’d lost two sons.

‘It’s good to
be
back, Dad.’ Neither man needed to say any more.

Oscar was the next to arrive. Oscar O’Callaghan had been awarded the Military Medal for bravery under fire at the Battle of Villers-Bretonneux, and over time had reluctantly accepted the ranks of corporal and then sergeant upon the insistence of his commanding officer. That worthy had indeed been so impressed with Oscar’s skills that he’d suggested he remain in the army after the war and take up a military career. Oscar had given the matter no consideration at all. The army was far too much hard work. And anyway, he had plans.

‘I won’t be staying long,’ he announced to the family shortly after his arrival. ‘I’ll give it six months or so for things to calm down and then I’ll be heading back to France.’

‘Why the devil would you want to do that?’ his father, Col, asked.

‘I met a girl over there.’ Oscar ignored the look shared between his sister and his grandmother. ‘Her father’s rich, landed gentry, you should just see his farm. I’m told he’s a member of the French nobility.’

Eileen gave a contemptuous harrumph. ‘And you think French nobility’s going to be interested in the grandson of a convict, do you?’

She’d successfully halted him mid-stride. ‘Really?’ Oscar was surprised. ‘I didn’t know Grandpa was a convict.’

‘He wasn’t,’ Eileen said shortly, ‘I was.’

‘Oh.’ He appeared to give the matter a moment’s thought. ‘How colourful,’ he said.

‘That’s rather cruelled things for you, hasn’t it?’ Eileen replied with grim satisfaction. She was well into her eighties now, and crotchety; she’d decided it was time to leave this world.

‘Not at all, Gran.’ Oscar remained supremely confident. ‘In fact if I chose to tell Yvette, I’m sure she’d find it most interesting.’

‘As would her father, I’ve no doubt.’ In her ill-humour, Eileen found her grandson’s arrogance insufferable. ‘French nobility indeed,’ she scoffed, determined to puncture his ego, ‘you don’t stand a chance, boy.’

‘You never know until you try, Eileen.’ Oscar winked and gave her a roguish grin. ‘You just never know until you try, now, do you.’

She couldn’t help but return a flicker of a smile. He always knew how to win her around. The smile, the way he called her Eileen – dear God, he was Mick all over.

‘You’re a cheeky bugger, Oscar O’Callaghan,’ she said.

‘What about Mary Reilly,’ Caitie demanded.

‘What
about
Mary Reilly?’

‘You’ll break her heart.’

‘There’s not much I can do about that, regretfully.’

‘She gave you her photograph, Oscar. She’s been writing to you the whole time.’ Caitie felt the need to show a degree of outrage on behalf of the female sex, although she could see she was making little impression. ‘You do at least owe her a visit. Mary’s been waiting for you.’

‘Yes, she has, and that’s sad.’ Oscar wondered briefly whether young Ben from Perth might have survived. And he wondered briefly whether, if he had, young Ben might come looking for Mary Reilly from Hobart. That could be a nice happy ending, he thought.

‘But I’m in love, Caitie,’ he said, putting a hand to his breast. ‘You of all people know what that means. I’m in love and I must go where my own heart leads me.’

The autumn of 1919 brought the last of the old gang home. Hugh Stanford, who had been promoted to the rank of captain, had been at the mercy of the army’s public relations department, which had arranged for as many recipients of the Victoria Cross as possible to attend a series of official functions and publicity events throughout Britain. Then, upon his arrival back in Australia, the rigmarole had repeated itself all over again. Australian VC winners, as many as possible, had been called together for publicity purposes, first in Sydney and then in Melbourne.

By the time he was free to go home, Hugh was so fed up with the frenzy of photographers and reporters that he determined to arrive in Hobart unannounced. He telephoned his father with the date and details of his arrival. He was taking the overnight boat from Melbourne to Launceston on Friday, he said, and would catch the nine o’clock train to Hobart Saturday morning.