Never Forget

Letters from Home- George Campbell 2nd/13th Battalion

Life within the garrison is different in its complexity. The men are on an island surrounded by three sides of forbidden lands and the harbour on the other. While isolated, we are not totally forgotten. In the dark of moonless nights, ghostly ships move slyly into the harbour carrying vital supplies in exchange for our sick and injured.

Being part of a large family has its advantages and there is hardly a mail delivery where I am left without at a letter. In my eyes, writing one letter to the family and receiving up to five isn't a bad deal. When our latest mail arrives, Dave leaves for a visit with the latrines. It is like the poor bugger has miraculously appeared on the earth to fight in wars. The whole time we have been together I cannot recall a solitary letter that he has received.

It comes as a shock to those in the tent when Dave's name is called and when he returns the look of disbelief on Dave's face when he sees the letter on his pillow is priceless. I immediately recognise the immature formation of cursive script as my sister's and wink knowingly at Dave. Bless her cotton socks; Avis has made it her mission to ensure that Dave will receive more than a care package.

Over the next week, I open one of my letters each day. It takes a lot of discipline not to read them all at once but I prefer to savour the contents of each before moving onto the next. Life in North Wagga exists without me. The eldest of the family, Jean, is now married to a widower. He is a family friend by the name of Bill Ovington. He owns the local store-'Ovington's'. Jean's marriage has made her an instant mother to his three daughters. There is a heavily censored letter from his father that tells of troops training at the Wagga showground and pontoon bridges being built on the river. The black lines over the writing and cut out phrases make the letter frustratingly hard to read. From enclosed newspaper clipping, direct from the Wagga Daily Advertiser, it is evident that my little brother Max remains a star competitor dictating the plays on the footy field. I wrap a piece of string around the letters and bundle them into the tin beside my bunk. Tomorrow I will open the envelope addressed with the flawless script of a teacher.

When I had suggested in one of my letters that Avis write to Dave, I had no idea of the impact it would have. The burly man who has been tough enough to survive one and a half wars, religiously sits at the end of his bed reading his letter each day. I wonder what Avis could have written that is so intriguing. Dave has started to refer to Avis as his 'little angel' and constantly pesters me about her interests and what she is like. It annoys me that Dave hasn't penned a letter in return and I know that Avis will be heartbroken. How can Dave be so fixated on a letter to read it daily and not feel compelled to reply?

"Dave you've read the letter from your so called 'little angel' every morning for five days and not once have you picked up a pencil to write back," I say, thrusting the letter into Dave's face. He ignores my words and his eyes drop towards the ground. I watch as crimson filters his cheeks.

"God dam you Dave how can you be so cruel? I know my kid sister and if she doesn't get a reply she'll think something bad has happened to ya. She's not use to people being so heartless."

"Just leave it alone," snaps Dave.

"I won't leave it alone when it comes to my sister. I was the one that asked her to write you and I won't see you sit back and hurt thirteen year old girl who has a heart of gold"

"What would I write to a little brat who writes about nothing but boys and make up?" Dave's throat constricts as he replies.

My voice rises as I face off with my mate,

"Little brat? When did my sister, your so called 'little angle' become a little brat?"

Dave screws the piece of paper into a ball and throws it to the ground. His shoulder knocks me with purpose as he pushes his way outside.

In disbelief, I retrieve the letter off the floor and with the palm of my hand attempt to wipe the creases away. I can see the care that Avis has taken in forming her joined letters. Boys and makeup doesn't sound like the sister I know but maybe she's grownup in the time I have been away. I read the letter- it tells the tale of the kelpie down the road getting fleas and chasing its tail trying to scratch. It tells of the grades she got in her maths test but nowhere is the mention of boys and makeup. I take a piece of paper and pencil and go to find Dave.

"So my cat had six babies?" I ask.

"If Avis said it did then it must of," replies Dave.

I decide not to push too hard. I already have my answer. Producing the Avis's letter, I read it to Dave.

Dear Mr Dave,

Is it alright for me to call you Mr Dave? George didn't tell me your surname. Yesterday we had Maths test at school. I'm not normally too good at Maths because I am too busy playing hockey but for this test I received 98%. I couldn't believe it when I saw the grade on the top of the page. We had a visit from the Kelpie down the road. Mum calls it a flea bag of an animal but I think it is very handsome. Anyway, I went to pat it and Mum was right because little fleas started jumping on my arm and that crazy dog started to go around in circles chasing its tail. It was quite sight.

I pause. Dave's face full of regret and his eyes avoid me. The letter concludes with Avis signing her name but I continue.

There is a boy down the road called, Sam, but I prefer to call him Samuel. He is very good looking and yesterday I applied...

Dave cuts me off.

"My little angel wouldn't give two quid to please a boy. Next you will be telling me she wears red lipstick."

I say nothing of Dave's being unable to read and write preferring him take the lead, which he eventually does after a minutes thought.

"You know, your Avis's letters are too good for one person and I find her writing although beautiful, hard to read. Maybe we should share them. You read them too me and then we can write her a letter. My writing is as hard to read as Miss Avis's, so you had best do the writing as well. But I would like to draw pictures. Do you think Miss Avis will like pictures of flowers and animals?"

"I'm sure she will Mr Dave," I reply.

*********

I wonder why it is that I put off all things to do with Sue. The letter in my hand is the last to open. I carefully slip a knife blade into the corner of the envelope and lift it open. My spirits lift as I catch the faintest hint of Sue's perfume. I have chosen a quiet spot looking over the harbour to read the letter. There is a ship docked at the wharf and activity flourishes below my perch. The supply ship came in three days ago. It has been unload and now waits for a moonless night to sneak back to whence it came.

RRRRrrrrrRRRRRrrrrrRRRR- The bombing raid alarm sounds just before the German dive bombers can be seen heading towards the harbour. Why now? Why now? Shoving my letter in my pocket I place my hard hat on my head and take cover behind some sand bags, sharing my hidey hole are two other men. All three of us lower our heads and block our ears as the bombing continues. With the backdrop of war and in the wake of a harbour being shattered I take out the letter. Placing it on the ground between my legs, I commence reading while the earth shakes in fear.

Dear George,

I cannot begin to find the words to express how sorry I am for the frightful way that I have treated you and have dismissed your feelings in order to protect my own insecurities. This my dear, has not been fair. I should have been stronger and embraced the time we had together when it was there. I saw your mother at Ovington's and she said that you well. Please accept my sincere sympathy in regards to Clive's passing. He was a fine young man and I always enjoyed working with him at the Young Anglican gatherings. I know you have a strong connection with your brother and this time must be impossibly hard for you. I pray for Clive's soul and your continued safety. I apologise if this letter is causes you distress but seek your permission to continue to write.

Yours Truly,

Sue

I nudge the soldier beside him and yell over the bombing, 'She cares, Sue actually cares for me.' The man unable to hear me let alone make any sense of the words nods his head in oblivious agreement.

NOTES

These events are fictional