MAY 19th 1915
•Gallipoli: Day 20•
"Morning Gentlemen! I've got mail!" Bluey announces, waving a handful of letters above his head.
We all look up from what we're doing, our eyes filling with hope of news from home.
"Don't get your hopes up George, I reckon your folks have forgotten about ya." Pete cackles.
18-year-old George glares at him, "Shut ya gob, they've written alright?!"
"Bloody hell Ned, your misses must write every day." Blue states handing Ned about 10 letters.
"You can Shut your gob too." Ned grins, opening the first letter from his precious Kate.
"Righto, one for Tommo, Billy, Spud, Dogger, Chook, Davey, George and Clancy." Blue hands me my letter, I grab it with a grin.
"Sorry Pete, none for you mate."
"Oh," Pete sounds disappointed, "no worries."
George tears at his envelope, eager to read his first letter. His hands move at lightening speed and he rips the paper from inside. His eyes scan the lines and his face falls almost instantly.
The few moments that we watch him read are torture. He's wiping away tears, that he's desperate not to show by the end of it.
"You know I love my mum, and my dad with all my heart but they never did treat me like a son." George sniffs, he shoves the letter into my chest and I take it gingerly.
"Dear George, we write to you under sufferance and filled with great disappointment. Sending our son to university to become a doctor was the ultimate goal for us and after all we've done for you, all the money we've paid, you've gone off to war like the disrespectful, unappreciative child you are. You've barley even started university you silly boy. Farewell George, Sally died by the way. From Dad and Mum." I read aloud before throwing it into the fire.
George's head rests in his hands, muffled cries coming from his chapped lips.
"Blimey, sorry mate." Chook pats his shoulder.
"It's not far, she's eighteen! No one deserves to die like she did." George bellows.
"How'd it happen?" Ned asks.
"She got sick a couple of months before I left, constantly bedridden from pounding headaches. We often had to take her to hospital because of them. These headaches would make her vomit and pass out, she started to deteriorate and I knew she'd die, everyone did, but she did promise that she'd wait for me to come home before she did." George caresses the picture of a young girl that he grips in his fingers.
We all fall extremely quiet, the quietest we've been since the day we landed.
"This probably sounds ridiculous but I think I really truely love her, I really do." I've never seen a bottom lip drop quite as low as George's.
I shoot him a sympathetic look and he gives me a slight smile.
"I couldn't imagine losing my Elsie, you're a brave man George, don't worry she'll keep you safe." I say, swallowing hard.
"Quite the wordsmith over here." Blue chuckles.
"Thanks Blue."
"Thanks Clancy, but I don't want to be a doctor, I don't want to be a son and I don't want to be a soldier." George replies, throwing the envelope into the fire, it's embers catching on the breeze and floating into the sky.
-
20 minutes later I'm ordered down the beach. I crave the adrenaline rush I get every time I make the trip down there. Walking down with my delivery of two empty bottles of something with a very poignant smell, I see George waiting for the all clear to cross what we call 'the firing line'. Crossing in front of the huge Turkish machine gun is our only option if we wish to get down to the beach.
"G'day George, all alright?" I ask, standing up beside him.
He doesn't respond.
"George?" I knot my forehead.
He draws a shaky breath before he steps in front of the machine gun, almost confidently.
"George what are you doing?!" I scream as the gun opens up and bullets pierce the chest of the broken 18-year-old.
George drops.
Falling back into the dirt.
His eyes open wide.
I stare at the scene before me, my heart races, the bottles drop from my grasp.
"Grab him and run." The soldier with the binoculars orders and I do exactly as he says.
I hoist George across the back of my shoulders, forcing the tears back down my throat. Blood from his chest trickles down my neck, soaking into my khaki tunic.
I run until I trip on a stone, landing on the ground with a thud. George's limp, deceased body rolls over my head and lays flat in front of me.
"Why'd you go and do that you idiot?!" I yell, grabbing out my pick and I begin to dig.
Just like we did on that first day.
Dirt flies behind me, and before I know it a six foot hole lies at my feet. I strip George of his pay book and dog tags, and place the photograph in his hand then the hand by his bleeding heart.
"What happened Clancy?" An unfamiliar voice asks softly.
"He'd just had enough." I mutter shakily. I hand the orderly the dog tags and the pay book, "he was 18 and his name is George Wilson." I explain.
"I know who he is, he's from Melbourne, I went to school with him." The orderly replies.
War turns boys into men and men into heroes.
Was George a hero?
Was he old enough the be a man?
-
He left very quickly our friend George, he was only 18 years old and he just discovered his Sally had passed away back home. All he did was step in front of a gun and just like that... he was gone.
I've been on Gallipoli for 20 days. That's 20 days of fighting for my country and so far all I've done is shoot aimlessly over the top of the parapet and recite poetry to men who I have put all my trust into.
Isn't it crazy how war works?
It forces men together, it gives every man a responsibility to keep their fellow comrades alive and every time one dies, I feel like I've failed them.
You can't keep them all alive Clancy, they tell me, they're right but I can't help but think of the man they were before the war stole them away.
I suppose this will all become normal soon enough, hopefully it's over soon, all of this.
Mustn't complain though, because I am certainly fortunate to still be able to laugh with my mates and race my brother.
Better get back to it.
I'm continuing to smile.
Write, if I don't lose this diary,
Clancy Taylor.