Never Forget

The Wait

Clemence

The uncertainty is torturous and a second message knocks on the door less than 2 weeks later when I am alone at home- 'Missing in action believed dead'. My George has gone from missing in action to believed dead. How can they lose a man and not know where his body is? How can the army lose my George? I sit on the kitchen floor, rocking as my sanity withers. Tears stream down my face. I am holding my scapular reciting the prayer of serenity...'and the wisdom to accept what I cannot change'. These words ring over and over again in my head, in my heart and in my soul.

Avis finds me in this state when she returns home from school. Never have I allowed her to see me so small, so vulnerable. The war has finally won. I am ashamed that it has broken me into tiny shards that Avis doesn't know how to put back together. To Avis, I have always been the mother with an inner strength built on devoted faith; I am the one that people turn to in their time of need. The unrecognisable woman on the floor must scare my daughter, but she sits beside me and prises the letter from my hand. 'Missing in action believed dead'- Avis places her head into my lap and weeps. Life is so unfair, George her beautiful big brother who promised to teach her to dance is not coming home.

*********

Eventually, it is the papers that seal the fate of George Campbell and with no real answers, a cruel thread of hope tethers life to death.

Advice has been received by Mr and Mrs C Campbell of William St North Wagga that their son PTE George CAMPBELL, who was reported missing, is now believed to have been killed on August 17 at Tobruk. Earlier in the year a younger son Pte Clive Campbell was killed in action. George Campbell was a well Known Australian rules footballer, cricketer and tennis player.

(3 Sept 1941 The Argus Melbourne Vic)

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Keith

The hours turn into days, the days into weeks and the weeks into months. The day the postcard arrives is the same as any other. I am having my mid-morning cup of tea with my mother, a simple act that has become a ritual since George and Clive left to fight. I look up as my mother returns from the letter box. Her face is unusually lit in a way that I find hard to read. Her eyes hold sorrowful optimism and my brow creases as I try to fathom what news could stir such a swirl of opposing emotions. She places the card in front of where I am sitting and leans over from behind and hugs me. The black and white image of a tin hat propped by its rim against a white cross sends shivers down my spine. Before I read the name on the cross I notice how it is surrounded by so many others. The grave featured at the centre of the photo is bordered with a rectangular perimeter of concrete blocks covered with square tiles. It differs to the other graves that are simply marked by rocks. On the horizontal plank of the cross, I breath in as I read the words 'A.I.F, NX22020, D.O.D 22nd March 1941, Pte L .J. Campbell B Coy 21 PNR.BN'. The 22nd of March, almost a month before the siege I recall.

My mother points to Clive's grave, "George was there. See, he tended to Clive's grave just like he promised. I feel for the other poor boys buried in that foreign soil. They have no family to sit with them and pray. Don't the tiles make Clive's grave special, George did such a good job."

The past months have been hell for the family and I have witnessed my strong, capable mother slowly lose herself to become a person I hardly recognise. Clive's death has rocked her but the uncertainty surrounding George's disappearance has torn at her nerves to the point of paranoia. I study my mother trying to work out why she was holding herself together after seeing the proof of her son's death. Surely this should push her to the brink of despair.

"Turn it over Keith. It's from Jack Hudson of McPherson Street; remember he was transferred to 2/13th. He's in Tobruk. Read it Keith." Mum pleads.

My eyes scan the message and I now know the words have given my mother so much hope. I love seeing life back in her eyes but what use is there in building her hopes, when they will eventually plummet lower than ever before.

To Mr and Mrs Chris Campbell and Family,

This is a photo I had taken of Clive grave in Tobruk cemetery and would have sent it to you before only I could not get it develop also do not give up hope about George because I look everywhere for his grave but could not find some so he might be P.O War. So my deepest sympathy from your old friend and neighbour

Jack Hudson

What was Jack thinking? Doesn't he realise that his well-meaning gesture will play out like a cruel joke, filling my mother with an abundance of light where only flickering candle flame should be. Miracles are always possible and God knows if prayer is the key to such a phenomenon then both of my brothers will one day walk through the kitchen door. Watching my mother, I see the courageous woman she was before the war slowly destroyed her family. If Jack's postcard has jump-started a bit of life into the old girl then possibly, just possibly it isn't a bad thing.

**********

Across the road I spy the uniformed figure. I stop in my tracks and hold my breath. Surely it couldn't be? The man with his back to me is the correct height and stands in a very familiar way. I don't know how or when my brother got to Wagga but here he is as large as life. The traffic continues, monetarily blocking my view. I feel a flutter of urgency as the khaki soldier continues away from me. Frantically I holler 'George' across the road but George appears not to hear. The man greets a lady about the same age as my mother but perhaps a little taller and plumper. George bends down and kisses her on the cheek. She drops her bags of shopping and throws her arms around him. I am confused. Why would George be hugging this lady? Dodging the cars, I hasten my steps, drawing closer to the pair who is laughing at their conversation. Being able to touch my brother after all these months is a gift that I never thought possible. How excited the family will be when they see George. The youngest two will be ecstatic that their prayers have resulted in a miracle. I am only two feet from the couple when the earth's gravity drags me down and for the first time I understand what my mother means when she says the 'khaki ghosts' haunt her every time she leaves the house.

NOTES

The postcard from Jack Hudson is as described. The emotions it described are fictitious. George's army records show the confusion around his death and his body was never found