Never Forget

Christmas Day 1943- North Wagga

Bill Ovington

Waking to the screams of delight from the little girls, in the wee hours of morning brings a sense of comfort. Santa has delivered his gifts and the children have woken with childhood anticipation and wonderment. The days leading to Christmas have been busy in the shop. Jean and I have worked long hours serving the locals, who are using their precious ration vouchers to create a festive feast. It is planned that my in-laws (the Campbell family) will gather at Saint Mary's for the ten o'clock service and then as tradition dictates head to Chris and Clem's to open gifts.

This year there will be three empty chairs. Clive's laughter and badgering to head outside for a festive kick of the football will be missing, George won't be scolded by Clem for swinging the girls through the air as they dance their way through the crowded kitchen and Max...well, it is a shame that Max hasn't been able to pull off his promised visit but I will pass on his Christmas message once the gifts have been shared.

Max has put a lot of thought into his gifts, selecting items that reflect the interests of each family member and it has been quite an effort for me to secretly wrap and hide the many gifts without Jean finding them. The gifts are not exuberant but have been chosen with a great deal of love.

The sun has barely started to share its summer rays when the telephone in the shop rings. I roll over realising for the first time that morning that Jean is already up. If I listen carefully I can hear her shushing the children, trying to curtail their excited chatter. The phone keeps ringing and it becomes obvious that Jean is leaving it for me to answer.

Who can it be at this hour on Christmas day, I wonder, surely it can't be good news. Wrapping my dressing gown around my torso I glance towards the laughter at the back of the house as I walk towards the shop. Unsure of the nature of the message I am about to receive I pick up the hand piece.

"North Wagga Post Office," I begin.

"Err.. Hello Sir I have a message for Mr and Mrs Christopher Campbell of 'Gowrie', 21 William Street North Wagga from Minister for the army."

What the hell? My mind fights to regain composure and for what feels like an eternity my mind races. What has Max lined up for Christmas day? Has there been news of George? Over and over, I am flooded with possibilities, hurry up for Christ's sake man.

I have my pencil in my hand ready to scribe the message that I will eventually have to deliver to my in-laws. Finally, the voice at the other end starts,

"It is reported that late last evening, Acting Sergeant Max Campbell was involved in an accident and sustained a number of serious head injuries."

The calm and calculated voice holds no emotion. I recognise it as a voice that has grown accustomed to bearing of bad news and the delivery is a well-practised performance.

The pencil in my hand stands motionless, frozen in time. My heart is pounding like a woodcutter's axe and I hear the shallowness of my breath. I am glad that I am sitting because my trembling legs are not able to support the heavy weight that has just been placed on my shoulders.

"Oh, Jesus," I whisper into the mouthpiece, "Max is my brother-in-law, how bad are the injuries?"

A sharp inhalation is followed by a pause, while the voice at the other end falters. The carefully constructed and well-rehearsed script has changed and with an element of compassion the voice continues,

"I am sorry to have to continue with the rest of this message..."

At this point the pen in my hand takes on a life of its own, recording letters that form the words of a nightmare.

"It is with regret to have to inform you that at 0100 hours on the 25th December, 1943, that Acting Sergeant Max Campbell died as a result injuries sustained in an accident. An investigation into the circumstances leading up to the event has been initiated and findings are pending"

I have no idea how long I have been sitting there after replacing the receiver or how the call ended. My mind is struggling to come to terms with the events that have just transpired. Should I tell Jean or is it only right for Clem and Chris are notified first?

How could this happen? The boy was in Australia, for the love of God, it's Christmas day.

I decide not to take the white bicycle leaning against the wall. I am in no hurry and the walk, although only a few blocks, will give me time to work out what I will say when I reach my destination. I can see movement in the houses I pass. This is my community, these are my friends and now I am going to be the deliverer of news that will once again bring devastation my family.

There is an occasional child's laughter of as each household slowly awakes to the spirit of the day. Normally, this scenario would bring beauty to the world but today it only brings regret. I pause at the gates of 'Gowrie'. Through the front window I recognise the silhouettes and hear murmurs of conversation from the occupants. Drawing in a deep breath I slowly releases air through puffed cheeks then knock on the door. I step back and look down the road wishing that Jean will come running down the road, yelling to me that it was all a horrible mistake. God only knows that this family needs some Christmas magic. By the time Chris opens the door I am sitting on the porch. Chris walks and sits with me. The two of us sit there for a short time of infinity. One acutely aware that war has claimed another scalp while the other tries to determine what could be so devastating that his son-in-law can't look at him. In the end I lift my gaze to reveal moist red eyes, unable to find the words, I the press the letter into Chris' hand. For Chris it is now not a matter of what but who and for a split second I know he will allow himself to hope that George has been found alive - a Christmas miracle only found in books. Chris' eyes scan the letter and fall on Max's name. He lowers his head into his hands trying to hold back the emotions that have been taunted and stirred. Anger and confusion rises inside.

The front door opens, Clem wiping her hands on her apron sits beside Chris, pain already creeping across her complexion. Chris struggles to speak. How can he share such faith destroying news? What has his family done deserve such a dreadful run of bad luck? How are they going to survive the loss of a third son in less than three years? In the end he passes the telegram to his wife,

"It's Max, Love,"

"Nooooooo", the cry scatters the morning air startling both Chris and Clem.

Avis has followed her mother to the door and hearing the words, stumbles her way through the door and running towards the front gate. She throws herself past me. Feeling helpless and obsolete I have started to head home. Avis's screaming heartache continues as she runs down the street. Chris rises to follow her but Clem puts her hand on his knee and whispers,

"Let her be for now."

*********

Avis

I run and run, I must get away, I need to escape the pain. If I can outrun time, then reality will stop. Oh God, how can it hurt so much? Drained of breath my lungs ache from longing and exertion. I am lost in a place that I know so well. Using the last of my energy to stumble down the path leading to the church and lean myself against to cool red bricks. Not Max, not at Christmas, not ever! I weep out loud overcome with abandonment and dismay. Hearing the gate open and click shut I look up. The first of the parishioners has arrived for the service. I duck my head and cower into the corner that hides me from their eyes hoping for it to swallow me whole. I not ready to face the world.

*********

Jean

Curious about the early morning phone call and Bill's sudden departure, without even a word of goodbye, I enter the shop. At the desk below the telephone I locate the notebook that sits by the typewriter. It is just where I knew it would be. Bill's typing skills are too slow for him to type a message as it is dictated so he writes it first in longhand and then types it into a telegram for delivery. I see the latest message that Bill received and step forward to read it. By the time I finish I wish I hadn't.

NOTES

From Newspaper reports of the time I know that Bill was the one to deliver the news to the family. I have heard that one of the Campbell girls had fled after hearing the news. For the ease of characterization I made her Avis