My Brother's War Read online

  Life in prison was grey. Grey walls, grey rocks in the quarry, grey floors, grey stew, grey light in the corridors, grey feelings. ‘Is my hair turning grey?’ Edmund asked the others one day, and they looked surprised. But in spite of his jokes, he knew Archie was right. The Army – and the government – hadn’t finished with him. There were bad times ahead. Would he be able to face them?

  Rumours and half-news filled the prison. Russia’s armies had collapsed, and the country was torn by revolution. The Germans were going to invade England by submarines. New Zealand troops were taking part in a huge attack in France. Edmund wondered if William was there. His mother hadn’t mentioned him in her letters.

  Then they began to hear about being taken to Europe.

  Dear Jessie,

  I’m writing to you at the hat shop (you can tell the others there that it’s a letter from a gentleman admirer if you like!), because I want to explain the things I said after you told me about Edmund’s letter from prison. And because I don’t want Mother to read this and be upset.

  I don’t believe I will ever agree with Edmund’s views about war. If everyone acted like him, who would fight the Hun? How would we stop other countries from behaving like Germany – and Austro-Hungary and Turkey? Dear Sis, sometimes there are nations or people who do evil things, and the only way to stop them is to fight.

  Edmund is not the only one who hates the idea of killing people. I hope I never have to do so. But I will if I have to, to protect our King and British Empire, our country, and you and Mother. Nearly all the chaps here feel the same way. They’d sooner be living their own lives, but they know they must do their duty.

  I’ve heard of men who hate war just as much as Edmund, and who refuse weapons, the way he does. But they are willing to put on a uniform and act as a stretcher-bearer. Or else they work in the pioneer battalions, making roads and building bridges. Why won’t Edmund do that? Because he won’t fight, some other man has to go in his place and run the risk of being killed.

  I don’t believe he is a coward, but I believe he is foolish and wrong. Am I ashamed of him? Yes, I’m ashamed of the worry he has caused you and Mother. I’m ashamed of what he has done to the honour of our family.

  I’m proud of you, Jessie. I know that Father would be proud of you if he were still alive. I wonder what he would have said about Edmund? I know that Mother wants us all to be at peace and forgive one another.

  But if I hadn’t signed up, I just wouldn’t be able to look people in the eye. And there are so many great chaps here, Sis. I can’t let them down. Look after Mother and yourself. I’ll write again as soon as I can.

  Your Loving Brother

  William

  William

  William hadn’t said anything untrue to Jessie. But he didn’t tell her how a lot of the soldiers training with him had volunteered for the Army mainly because they hoped it would be an adventure. He remembered using the same words when he wrote to his mother and sister after enlisting.

  ‘Joined up because I wanted to see the world,’ one of 3 Platoon told him. Another laughed: ‘I joined to get away from the wife.’ A third grunted: ‘The police arrested me for being drunk again. The magistrate told me I could enlist in the Army or go to jail.’

  One night as he lay awake and other chaps snored around him, William found himself wondering if all armies were like that. Even the Germans. No. No, the Huns were evil. Otherwise what were he and his friends fighting for? He sighed. He wished his father were still here to give him advice. What would he have said about his younger son?

  William had become friends with the red-headed Jerry. You couldn’t see much of the red now, thanks to the stubbly haircuts they’d been given. ‘You’ll be glad of those haircuts in the trenches,’ smirked the corporal who’d been at Gallipoli. ‘Makes it easier to find the lice.’

  Jerry had been a shearer before he enlisted and he’d never been further than the nearest town. ‘The blokes say we might get to London!’ he exclaimed. ‘I wonder if we’ll see the King? Do you think he wears his crown at home? And I want to see the Tower of London. They should lock all the conchies up there ’til the war’s over. Then they should have to lick the soldiers’ boots ’til they’re allowed out!’

  ‘Calm down, young feller,’ Jack chuckled. William said nothing. Jerry was a kind-hearted chap, under all his talk.

  Their training went on. More rifle practice. More bayonet practice and Mills Bomb practice.

  There was a scary moment when one of William’s 3 Platoon let go of a bomb’s wooden handle too soon, and it flew almost straight up in the air to land just in front of them. Everyone hurled themselves down in the dirt of the trench bottom, while the blast echoed overhead and slivers of metal whined past. Sergeant Molloy seized the thrower by his ear, pulled him up and growled, ‘Next time, my lad, we’ll tie you to the bomb and throw both of you at the enemy!’

  William enjoyed the shooting, although after every practice his ears rang and his shoulder hurt from the slam of the rifle butt recoiling against it. He didn’t enjoy learning to dig trenches, shovelling until there was a slit in the ground eight feet deep and five feet wide, with sandbags of dirt piled up in front for protection against enemy bullets.

  ‘They say – that in France – there are trenches – a hundred miles long,’ panted Herbert, as he and William and Jack dug and dug one day. Jerry, who was supposed to be looking through a periscope to make sure no enemy attack was coming, grinned down at them. ‘You’ll all be great gardeners when the war’s over.’

  Gardening made William think of Edmund. He said nothing, and dug harder.

  They learned to string barbed wire on wooden stakes in front of their trenches. It was nothing like the barbed wire William had seen on farm fences. This had iron blades as big as a man’s thumb.

  One afternoon, they all lay on the ground while machine-guns and rifles fired just a few feet above their heads. It was meant to get them used to the whine and crack of bullets through the air. Jerry lay and whistled. The rest of them lay and listened.

  Then they all jerked and stared as a man just along from Herbert, a tall, slim fellow who didn’t talk much, began gasping and shouting ‘No! No! Let me go!’ He started struggling to his feet, still yelling, while the bullets sped overhead. Three men dragged him down. Sergeant Molloy blew a shrill blast on his whistle; the firing stopped, and the man was led away. Next morning, his gear and he were gone from the camp.

  ‘Better off without cowards like that,’ one man muttered when they heard. But Herbert shook his head. ‘None of us know how brave we’ll be when the real thing comes.’ Thank goodness, William thought. Someone else feels the same.

  In the second month, they began practising attack skills. They swarmed up ladders out of their trenches when their platoon officer Mr Gowing blew a whistle, and rushed through clear lanes in their own barbed wire. They spread out into small groups, each man five yards from the next, so a shell would cause as few casualties as possible. Then they began advancing towards where the enemy would be.

  ‘Keep apart!’ NCOs yelled. ‘Fast walk! Bayonets ready! Scan the ground!’

  If it were a real battle, their artillery would be laying down a rolling barrage fifty yards in front of them, they were told – a wall of fire and flying steel, killing any enemy who tried to stand up in it, moving forward at the same speed as them.

  But since this was a practice, there was no real artillery. (‘Shells cost too much,’ grunted Jack.) Instead, there were a few soldiers walking along, fifty yards in front, waving red flags and shouting ‘Bang! Bang!’ As they advanced, rifles and bayonets held diagonally across their bodies, William heard a snorting sound beside him. It was Jerry, trying not to laugh.

  They did see and hear real artillery, though. The morning after their attack practice, they marched for two hours to a valley where four big guns stood pointing across a barren area of sand and scrubby bushes.

  For thirty minutes, they stood just behind the guns as th
ey crashed and bellowed, lurching back on their huge wheels after each shot, while the gun-crews swarmed around them, heaving the next shell into the breech, clanging it shut, checking the range and firing again. A mile away down the valley, geysers of dirt and smoke burst into the air.

  ‘These are just babies,’ an NCO said. ‘There are guns mounted on railway lines that can fire a shell thirty miles.’

  As the days passed, they became browner and fitter and more eager to do their bit. Over in Europe, the third winter of the war was ending. The newspapers described how water in shell-holes turned to ice, and how men in the trenches stood up to their knees in snow or icy slush. ‘It’s the Army way of cooling down hot-headed blokes like you,’ Jack told Jerry, who laughed.

  Just before they went home for their next leave, they practised a night attack. Flares rose and burst in the black sky, throwing weird red or green light over the ground. Machine-guns fired in the air, to make everything as realistic as possible. Men lost their way in the dark, got caught in barbed wire, tripped and stumbled, attacked their own side by mistake.

  ‘Surrender!’ voices shouted. ‘But I’m one of yours!’ other voices shouted back. ‘Hey, we’re over here!’ the enemy called.

  ‘If I were the Germans, I’d be terrified by what happened tonight,’ Sergeant Molloy snarled as they marched yawning back to camp at 2 a.m. ‘Terrified you horrible little men might want to be on my side!’

  The second leave was good. William worked in the garden, so there would be plenty of vegetables for his mother and Jessie after he was gone. ‘The peas are good this year,’ his sister said. ‘And the potatoes,’ went his mother. Neither of them spoke of the war.

  Friends and relatives visited again, but they didn’t fuss over him too much, and he was grateful for that. When one of Jessie’s tennis friends began to weep at the thought of William being killed or wounded, quiet, dark-haired Violet took the girl outside. ‘Thank you,’ William told her later.

  Violet looked at him and smiled. ‘I shall miss you when you’ve gone,’ she said. They were both silent for a minute. ‘Jessie and your mother are being very brave,’ the young woman went on. ‘We all admire them. We admire you – and your brother.’ William didn’t know what to say.

  His mother and sister had received a letter each month from Edmund while he was in prison. ‘He’s fit and well,’ Jessie said. ‘His jail sentence is nearly finished but he doesn’t know what will happen to him next. More time in prison, or in an army jail, he thinks. We couldn’t read parts of his letter; the censors had blacked them out.’

  William nodded. His foolish, foolish younger brother! Then he remembered Violet’s last words and was silent.

  Yes, it was good to be home, and he felt tears in his own eyes on the morning he left. His sister and mother were also trying hard not to cry. ‘We’ll be all right, my dear son,’ his mother told him. ‘Make sure that you are, too.’ Jessie hugged him hard. ‘Violet sends her best wishes,’ she said, and gave him a secret smile. Once again, William didn’t know what to say.

  In some ways, he felt as he had after his other leave. He was pleased to be back in camp. They’d trained and trained, and now they wanted to show what they could do.

  A major gave them a lecture on what New Zealand and Great Britain and their allies were fighting for. ‘We didn’t start this scrap,’ he told the rows of seated men in their khaki uniforms. ‘Britain came to the defence of gallant little Belgium when the Huns invaded there. Where Britain goes, the British Empire goes. New Zealand was the first country in the whole Empire to declare war on Germany. Doesn’t that make you chaps feel proud?’

  Actually, William felt embarrassed at the way the major went on. Beside him, Jerry and Herbert and Jack shifted on the hard wooden benches and stared at the floor.

  But they joined in the three cheers for King George V that they were ordered to give at the end. ‘Remember God is on our side!’ were the major’s final words. As they filed out, someone grunted, ‘I bet some German officer’s telling a bunch of Hun soldiers right now that God’s on their side.’

  Rumours and news kept flowing through the camp. ‘The Germans are moving all their troops west now the Russians have surrendered,’ went voice one. ‘They’re preparing to launch a huge attack.’

  ‘No, the Russian armies haven’t surrendered,’ went voice two. ‘They’re being taken on hundreds of ships to Scotland, and marching all the way down through England, so they can sail across to France and help crush the Huns.’

  ‘The United States are going to enter the war on Great Britain’s side,’ went voice three. ‘No, the United States are going to stay neutral,’ went voice four.

  ‘There are huge new aeroplanes landing soldiers behind German lines, so the Huns can be attacked from both sides,’ went voices five and six. William knew this last story must be false; aeroplanes would never be able to do that.

  Then came something that started even more rumours flying. Every soldier in camp was asked if he could swim. This could mean only one thing, everyone agreed. Very soon, they were going to be on a ship. The time for training had finished. The time for real fighting was about to begin.

  PART 3

  On Ship

  Dearest Ma,

  I don’t know if you will get this. I’m scribbling it in my cell, before I am shipped to Europe.

  How do I know I’m going there? Another CO was marched down to the wharf yesterday. Then they found they were a day early, and so they had to bring him back again! He told the rest of us what’s happening.

  We’d already guessed, anyway. The religious objectors were moved from the prison last week. They’re all going to work on a farm, somewhere in the South Island. Then, two days ago, Archie was taken away.

  When I came back from the quarry, his blanket and washing gear were gone. Nobody knows where he is. I think the Army and government realise what a wonderful speaker and thinker he is, so they’ve moved him to some place where he can’t make more people see the evils of war.

  Dear Ma, I suppose they will take us to the battlefield and try to make us fight. Will I do so? Never. My mind is absolutely made up.

  I’ll try to hand this letter to someone who can send it to you. Bless you, dear Ma, and you, my little (ha-ha!) sister. Tell William that I think of him with much affection.

  Your Loving Son

  Edmund

  Edmund

  He wasn’t taken straight to the ship. He was taken first to the same cold room with the long wooden table where he’d been given his prison uniform twelve weeks ago. His own clothes were handed back to him and he put them on. Then he was led to another room, where an escort of two armed soldiers and a corporal waited for him. Edmund hadn’t seen any of them before.

  A couple of prisoners shook his hand as he made his way back down the corridor. Jimmy, the old alcoholic, looked as though he was going to cry. ‘Be careful, sonny,’ he mumbled. ‘Be careful.’ None of the other COs were there; the prison was definitely keeping them apart.

  Once more he was marched through the streets. The gloomy stone walls of Mt Eden Prison dwindled behind him. How bright everyone’s clothes look, he thought. And mine feel so light! Even the men in their work clothes looked well-dressed after the prison uniform. His army escort seemed young: Edmund knew he’d grown stronger and taller while he was in prison.

  A couple of voices yelled out as he and the escort passed. ‘Conchie coward! Spineless traitor!’ Edmund remembered Archie’s reply to the prisoner who abused him: ‘Would you like me more if I went out and killed someone?’ He kept his mouth closed, but looked steadily back at everyone.

  His stomach lurched suddenly, as he saw a weeping woman standing and watching them pass. Ma! No. No, it wasn’t. How could it be? But just thinking of her and Jessie brought tears into his own eyes.

  At an army office fifteen minutes’ march away, an officer sat behind a table. Another major, a plump black-haired man about Archie’s age, with a crown on each shoulder. I might
not want anything to do with the Army, but I’m seeing plenty of it, Edmund decided. A folded uniform lay on the table, so he knew what was coming.

  ‘Stand to attention for the officer!’ barked the corporal. Edmund didn’t. Instead, he nodded politely to the major. ‘Good morning.’

  The officer didn’t return his greeting. Instead, he pointed to the uniform. ‘I want you to put that on, Hayes.’

  Edmund shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I will not.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t accept any organisation that orders men to kill other men.’

  The major slammed his hand down on the table so hard that the escort all jumped. ‘Have you no pride, Hayes? I have a son your age, and I’d sooner see him dead on the battlefield than have him shame his family like you!’

  Edmund felt his face go hot. But he kept his voice as calm as he could. ‘I do have pride – in the human race and in my conscience. I’m sorry your pride would let you kill your son in such a way.’

  The major’s face went dark with rage. ‘I have no time to waste with cowards like you. Take him to the cells!’

  It was another night of bread and water, a toilet bucket, a thin mattress and a single blanket. ‘What will happen now?’ he heard himself mutter out loud. Still aloud, he murmured, ‘Be a man.’ Yes, he thought. Be a very young, very frightened man.

  The following morning, before it was properly light, he was marched to the ship.

  Four soldiers escorted him this time, through still largely empty streets, past the clanging and hooting of the railway yards, down to the wharves. The man behind kept trying to trip him, so he would fall and look stupid. The first couple of times, Edmund thought it was accidental, then he heard a snigger.