Armistice Day

Despite the bathing box huts, the beach stays deserted, like it's our own private oasis. I'm floating on my back, closing my eyes to the glare, feeling the water surround my skin, trying to think of nothing in particular. My efforts are in vain because I think of Will and Mary and Jack, and my family too, and now I think of Carmel, and then wonder about Susannah, who I know is floating about somewhere nearby.

"Alfie, do you think you might stay a little while longer?"

Her voice startles me, despite me knowing she's there, maybe because I was thinking of her this very moment. Without opening my eyes, I ask, "Stay? In Melbourne?"

"Yes, here in Melbourne."

"I do enjoy it here but I have family back in Queensland. And I made a promise to my mate to see his wife and tell her...his dying words."

"His dying words?"

"Yes, he...wanted me to tell his wife he loves her and to make sure she and their son are provided for." I can hear Will's voice in my head when I say the words and see his face.

Susannah nods. "Must be a difficult burden to carry. I wish someone from Cornelius' unit came and visited. Even to tell me he was...I don't know, tell me his death...counted."

"He did his duty," I say because I can't think of anything else comforting.

"Yes, I suppose he did." She's quiet for a moment, then says, "Mum tells me your lungs are damaged from German gas."

"They are."

"Sea air from the bay here should sooth them."

"Are you a doctor?" I say, opening my eyes, bobbing in the water not too far from Susannah, giving her a grin.

"No, but I've read the sea has many therapeutic qualities."

"So does lunch," I laugh, swimming towards the shore without saying another word, and she follows.

We eat jam sandwiches and scones and I produce a bottle of red wine, a French drop I found for a hefty price, while Mabel chews on a meaty bone and dozes in the sun beside us. Susannah talks about everything and nothing at the same time. At some point, she says, "I've started writing a book."

"A book? About what?"

"A novel based on Cornelius' letters. I'll make it fiction but it'll be our story. He was fresh out of training and they sent him straight into action. He never came back. I don't know any other details except apparently they were never able to retrieve his body."

"I'm sorry to hear," I say, gently as possible. "It wasn't uncommon over there, unfortunately."

She looks down, pensive, swishing wine around her glass like a whirlpool, then looks me in the eye. "Would you mind helping me, Alfie?"

"Helping you? With your book?"

"Yes. You could help me flesh out some details of what it was like over in the war, to make it authentic."

"I wasn't a pilot," I say, shaking my head. "Their experiences were different to us diggers."

"But surely you saw aeroplanes battling above you and experienced what it was like on the ground over there. Maybe Cornelius landed and tried to get back to the trenches?"

With a gentle smile, I say, "Maybe."

"Would you help me by telling me about the war?"

"I'd like to but I'm not sure it's anything you want to publish. It wasn't much fun and not the adventure we thought it might be when we volunteered."

She's looking at me again, her stare intense like she's trying to read my mind. "Why did you volunteer, Alfie?"

"Dunno. Adventure. Stupidity, perhaps." In my mind's eye I can see Will, Michael and Francis, their smiling faces and loud banter as I hand them each a bottle of beer I'd retrieved from where we'd placed them in the creek to cool one Sunday afternoon back in September of Nineteen-Fourteen. "Some mates and I heard another mate of ours, Arthur Coleman from our cricket team, was training with the Fifth Light Horse in Brisbane and over several rounds of drinks we agreed to join up together, hoping it might not be too late to train with Arthur. He shipped out before we arrived and was killed at Gallipoli."

Susannah shivers involuntarily when I mention of Gallipoli, the infamous battle scaring the national psyche more than all the battles on the Western Front, perhaps because it was our first real bloodletting of the war.

She takes time to recompose herself. "Cornelius mostly joined because he heard he could learn to fly. It was a passion he wanted dearly, often telling anyone about the time he'd witnessed the demonstration of an aeroplane at the Bendigo racecourse years before. His letters were full of excitement when he arrived in Europe, telling me about all the aircraft."

"Where I grew up," I begin to say, then stop. My mind is still with my mates, my eyes lost for a reference point, staring somewhere across the bay around the horizon, and when Susannah doesn't say anything, I glance to her, and she's staring into the distance too.

She meets my eye. "Go on."

"I live in a valley far from the big smoke. It's green and full of dairy cattle and sheep and tall forests of fine timber, and we're about as far from the rest of the world as you can imagine. We have a railway-line but I'd never seen a motorcar until I was signing up with my mates in Brisbane. And there was only a handful of those things about anyhow and I'd never even heard of an aeroplane. Before we knew it we were in the thick of the big stoush in France and Belgium where the machines were everywhere and all I could think about was either getting home or dying."

I say nothing more and neither does she for a while, then breaks the spell, perhaps searching for something to say. "Do you have a girl back home?"

"A girl?" I shake my head, avoiding her eyes. "No, not me. Only family."

"What about your friend's wife?"

"Mary's not family. She's a ring-in, came to the valley in nineteen-twelve with her family. Most boys wanted her but Will was the first and last fella she accepted a dance with."

"You were sweet on her?"

With a smile, I shake my head. "Not quite. I guess we were all sweet on her to begin with, but Will was me cobber and I never thought anyone more worthy of Mary. Most of us boys looked up to Will so his shoes are too big for any man to fill. So, tell me, since we're asking personal questions, what is it about Cornelius' family?"

She smiles. "You've been talking to Mum, haven't you? Cornelius' family despise me because I'm from the working classes and they think they should inherit his estate. Keep it in the family, that sort of thing."

"Why don't you sell and move back in with your mother? Or invite her to live with you?"

"Oh, no, we'd be at one another's throats. She never approved of Cornelius on account of who his family is either." She falls silent again, looking across the bay, then after a while she looks at me, saying, "Stay in Melbourne for a while, Alfie."

"I'm sorely tempted, but no, I can't..."

"We'll see," she says, cryptically. We sit for a while, looking to the horizon and beyond in silence, eventually packing our picnic, and she stands, holding out her hand. "Will you join me?"

Taking her hand, I too stand. "Join you? What do you mean?"

She smiles, tugging me a little closer towards the door of the hut. "Oh, Alfie, you're not naïve, are you?"

Susannah's beautiful and I'm so damn tempted. "Oh...um, this is not a good idea."

"You're not a prude, are you?"

"I think we should go for another swim instead."

With a shake of her head and a sigh, she smiles, lets my hand go and says, "You go, Alfie. I'll be waiting when you return."

~0~

"Did you enjoy the picnic?" Carmel asks.

"Yes, it was quite a lovely spot down at the beach."

"And the company was nice?"

I give her a smile. "Susannah's a lovely girl."

"She could use some company, if you were inclined to stay."

"I'm tempted."

"But..."

"But, I think I'd rather your company."

"Oh, no you don't, you cheeky joker. You want to go back to your family and your mate's wife."

"I need to see Mary but I don't think...," I falter, the guilty feelings overwhelming me when I think of Mary as anything other than my mate's widow. "Anyway, I'm going to the hospital in a couple of weeks and if I'm discharged I'll probably leave as quick as I can. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, I completely understand. But maybe you'll be back one day?"

"I'd come back for you," I say with a grin.

"Don't be silly, Alfie. But if you found yourself considering courting Susannah, I'd encourage you. Take her to Queensland and get her away from the grubby hands of Cornelius' family."

"I barely know her but she's a city girl. She doesn't strike me as the kind of woman who'd last long in the country."

"She's tougher than you think, give her a chance."

"If I were to court her I'd be wanting to spend my nights in your bed."

"No you wouldn't because you'd have a vivacious young woman to share your bed with instead and I wouldn't entertain the thought of allowing you back in my bed."

"And there's the other reason I've not considered courting her."

"You are a cheeky lad," she says, shaking her head.

Later our discussion is forgotten when Carmel and I fall into one another's arms. Yet I'm so exhausted by the day's activity we don't make love, simply holding one another, falling asleep before I know it. It's only in the early hours of the morning when the war invades my dreams, giving me the eternal nightmare, and when I wake I'm coughing again, gasping for breath with fire in my lungs. Carmel's soothing me while I wonder if I'll ever sleep through the night again.

~0~

Susannah visits almost every day now where previously she'd hardly visited her mother's house more than once a month. While she's about Carmel smirks at me and busies herself in the scullery or garden, making herself scarce. Susannah and I share endless cups of tea while she asks questions about the war, taking notes when I offer something she may or may not use.

I can't help feeling sorry for her because she's a widow at twenty-four, a childless widow too, and fears she may never marry again and have children. Overtime she tells me her husband was desperate to have an heir, a son, but they'd never succeeded, and not through lack of trying.

However, I suspect Melbourne will be flooded with returning soldiers and sailors in the coming year and I have no doubt Susannah will attract the attention of more than a few men willing to offer their company, for she is without question an attractive woman. And a considerably wealthy woman too.

Sometimes my mind wanders, thinking it'd make a great deal of sense to let Susannah deeper into my life, perhaps asking if she'd come north with me, or even remaining here in Melbourne. Yet it's Carmel who draws my attention each time and I wonder why. Perhaps because deep down I know I don't have to commit to Carmel.

Meanwhile, despite Carmel's hints for me to court her daughter, she's not forcing the issue either and perhaps she hopes nature will take its course. We've not made love since the picnic either and somewhat amusingly my mind often wanders to thoughts of making love with Carmel whenever I'm speaking with Susannah, resulting in a growing erection.

One evening I find Carmel sitting on the double ended chaise in the front room, as she usually does. The air is warm this late in spring and thus the fire remains unlit. I cross to the piano, sitting on the stool facing Carmel instead of the instrument.

"Is something up, Alfie?"

"Kind of is, yes," I say.

She shifts in the seat. "What's the matter?"

"I, ah, have a, um, a problem."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

I nod. "I'm not sure if I should bring it up, but I don't seem to be able to contain it. It's a growing issue."

She looks at me with a confused expression. "You're going to have to let it out."

"Yeah, I think so." I begin to unbutton my trousers. "This happens when I think about you."

"Gosh, Alife," Carmel gasps, "Don't get your thing out here! The curtains aren't even closed properly!"

"I'll fix them," I say, standing, my penis jutting out, stiff like a pole.

With a horrified expression, Carmel hisses, "Sit back down and put your thing away before the neighbours see."

Stuffing my rod uncomfortably into my trousers, I grin and whisper, "Opps, I'm sorry."

Carmel's now closing the curtains and blinds, then comes over to me. "Please don't ever display that thing of yours in my front window."

"Those neighbours will start their rumours."

"Yes they will, and old Mrs Curtis across the road might have a heart attack because she's always asking about you with great interest when I see her." Looking down, she's smiling again. "But I guess you've genuinely resisted my daughter's charms."

"Susannah is a charming lass."

"You sure you're not interested?"

"If things were a little different I might be, but no, it won't work unless she wanted to leave Melbourne, which she doesn't. The thing is, I miss our...evenings together."

"I miss them too," she whispers, sitting next to me on the long stool. "Now where'd you hide the lovely hard penis I told you to not to put on display?"

"Down here." And soon we're kissing and embracing, falling to the sheepskin rug and squeezing one another tight. Everything about Carmel feels glorious, her body taking mine, and we slowly build our rhythm where she's whimpering in pleasure, and I'm groaning, sweetly whispering into her ear, and not before long we're exploding with the lovely sensations we've given one another.

Eventually the clock chimes nine and we head to bed, making love again, hearing the clock striking ten before we're finished with one another on this second occasion.

~0~

A little over a week later I'm back in my uniform, at the hospital, surrounded by other soldiers, many are missing limbs, others coughing, and there's always men harassing the pretty young nurses, and even the older and not so attractive ones get plenty of attention.

"Corporal Graham?"

"Yes, I'm Corporal Graham," I say to the middle-aged nurse, giving her a smile. She's roundish and reminds me a little of Carmel, except this woman wears a no-nonsense expression and doesn't return my smile.

"Follow me, please."

The experience is like every other hospital check-up, the doctor inspecting me, including an extra-long examination of my privates as per usual, asking questions and making a handful of notes. He listens to my lungs, then abruptly tells me, "Your lungs are healing, but it will take quite some time. I'm going to discharge you from care, Corporal, because I suspect you may heal quicker in the warmer climate of your native Queensland. But take it easy with physical exertion."

"What about the nightmares, sir?"

"Yes, you will have to get used to those, I'm afraid. Not much I can do about them."

And with a signature, I'm free to go.

The strangest sensation comes over me when I leave the hospital. I feel like I've been released from chains, but also I don't know what to do with myself. For the past four years the Army's told me what to do every moment of every day and now in an instant I'm apparently free.

"G'day, Dig," someone says, clamping a hand on my shoulder, and I turn to face Pete the pilot, the man with the horrid burns down the left side of his face. "You look lost, like you don't know if you're coming or going."

I laugh, holding up my discharge papers. "I kinda am lost, the doc's discharged me."

"Fan-bloody-tastic!" Pete says with a huge grin. "At least one bastard's gonna get out of this place alive. Doc tells me to come back and see him in another month. Bloody be alright if I could meet a girl who'd put up with this battered and burnt head of mine."

"Mate, with a head like yours I can't believe girls aren't lining up for you, war hero and all!"

"Yeah, sheila's love battle wounds, or so they say." He laughs at our shared sarcasm before becoming serious. "No word of a lie, before the war I couldn't keep the girls at bay, but my love life's about as dry as a Pommy's bath towel these days. Not even the whores would touch me without a blindfold!"

I put my hand on his shoulder. "Tell me, are you coming or going?"

"Going, back to frosty manor. A little convalescent hospital run by a nice family wanting to help and keep us walking wounded from sin, with their airs and graces, bloody bible thumping wowsers. What about you, where you headed?"

"Train station. Gonna buy a ticket to Queensland."

"Half your fucking luck, cobber!"

"Shout you a beer, mate, if you want to join me for a drink?"

"Fucking ripper," he says, hand on my shoulder again. "Best offer I've had since...fucking nineteen-sixteen when some captain asked if I was scared of heights and would I consider joining the Flying Corps."

Wandering off, the city is brimming with ladies and gentlemen, horses with carts and several motorcars here and there. A helpful lad points us in the direction of the railway station where I buy my ticket north. After examining the cardboard stub for a moment, I slip it into my leather wallet and we walk back into the sunshine gracing the front steps as more people push by.

Close to the entrance there's a man propped up against the station's façade who I'd not noticed when entering the building, and he holds out a tin to passers-by, who mostly ignore him. The poor bastard has no legs and despite his scrappy beard he couldn't be much older than me.

We approach and he looks down at the ground, not meeting our eyes, but holding his tin out all the same.

"Hard times, eh, son," Pete says.

"Yes, sir, sorry, sir," the man replies, straightening a little perhaps because Pete is a Lieutenant and wearing his uniform and the man on the ground was clearly once used to following orders in the not-too-distant past like the rest of us. He smells, not too good either, but we don't shy away.

"Don't be sorry, Digger."

The man looks up with the look in his eyes; the look we all know too well, of shell shock and pain. "Turk mine took me legs in Palestine while some bastard back here took me misuses and kids..."

"The dirty bastard..." I whisper and the man looks away again. We drop a generous number of coins into his tin and I say, "We're looking for somewhere to drink, do you want to join us?"

Bloke shakes his head, looking down. When Pete talks, however, the man instinctively straightens his shoulders. "Can you point us in the direction of a good watering hole then?"

"Over there is as good as any." The man points to a stone building across the road, a sign over the entrance declaring it the Young and Jackson Hotel.

"Thanks, cobber, we'll get you something to drink."

The place is bustling and because we're both in our uniform several gentlemen offer to buy our first drinks, but first Pete and I buy a bottle each, running them back to the legless digger at the station. He thanks us and though Pete has indicated he's against his religious hosts, he kneels down and offers the man a prayer and writes the address of the convalescent hospital he's staying at on note paper from his wallet, handing it to the man, and we each give him several more shillings.

Back in the bar we clink our beer glasses together and say, "Bottoms up," before sinking them quick as you like.

An oil painting of a nude woman hangs on a wall. She's standing, body facing us, leaning with left hand on a rock which is covered in her blue dress, her right arm crooked with fist resting on her waist, and she's looking to her left, seemingly distracted. An inscription on the bottom of the painting's frame tells us her name is Chloe, and I can't help but see a passing resemblance to Susannah, however, from what I could tell by her swimming togs and being intimately familiar with her mother, Susannah's breasts are significantly larger than the girl's in the painting.

"Chloe's French," a gentleman says, nodding towards the painting with a leering grin, blowing smoke from a cigar. "You boys aren't the first soldiers to be beguiled by her charms. Fellas like you have written letters to her for the past four years, promising they'll come back to her."