SEP 29th 1915
Gallipoli: Day 158
Our dearest, most infuriating Clancy,
Three mobs of sheep were shorn last week. We missed your poetry at smoko and your precise classing. We had a few of the younger local kids from the football club come to help us in the shed, they learnt very quickly and were a lot of help but nothing's the same anymore without you boys running around, dancing with your horses or splashing in the creek. The farm misses you, and we do too.
Arthur is out of hospital now and is still feeling sorry for himself but he's a lot perkier now than he was at the beginning of the month. The doctors called it mental illness and suggested an asylum, I think that shocked the illness right out of our Art. I love your little brother with all my heart and it kills me seeing him the way he is. I need you boys home before I lose my mind.
I love you boys, and miss you more than anything else in the world.
Your always affectionate, forever loving,
Mum.
-
"So the air was clear and mystical, and the stars were shining bright, but my darling I missed no one more, than I did you that night." I exclaim, my comrades clap and whistle as I finish the poem.
We sit gathered around the tiny fire that crackles, sending swirling embers into the autumnal sky. Life is almost good in that moment of bliss, men laughing and sharing cigarettes, the tips glowing as they burn. I'm weary, but not weary enough to sleep, instead I rise again, my boots firmly in the dirt and demanding presence bringing a silence.
"So Gentlemen," I begin again, their eyes fixating on me. "I know how tough this bloody campaign has been on everyone and I know how much we've all been missing home and those blokes we've lost over the 158 days we've been here, so seeming as September ends in cuppla days, here's a poem by Henry Kendall to remind you all of home."
I clear my throat, as an even quieter hush falls over the crowd before me.
"Grey winter hath gone, like a wearisime guest, and, behold, for repayment, September comes in with the wind of the West and the spring in her raiment! The ways of the frost have been filled of the flowers, while the forest discovers, wild wings, with the halo of hyaline hours and the music of lovers." I proclaim, I see frowns shift to smiles.
"September, the maid with the swift, silver feet! She glides, and she graces, the valleys of coolness, the slopes of the heat, with her blossomy traces; sweet month, with a mouth that is made of a rose, she lightens and lingers, in spots where the harp of the evening glows, attuned by her fingers." Whistles come from the boys chapped lips at the mention of a maid and her coolness.
"The stream from it's home in the hollow hill slips in a darling old fashion; and the day goeth down with a song on its lips whose key-note is passion; far out in the fierce, bitter front of the sea I stand, and remember, dead things that were brothers and sisters of thee, resplendent September. The West, when it blows at the fall of the noon and beats on the beaches, is filled with tender and tremulous tune that touches and teaches; the stories of youth, of the burden of time, and the death of devotion, come back with the wind, and are themes of the rhyme in the waves of the ocean. We, having a secret to others unknown, in the cool mountain-mosses, may whisper together, September, alone of our loves and our loses." Feet shuffle beside me and a hand falls upon my shoulder.
"One word for her beauty, and one for the grace, she gave to the hours; and then we may kiss her, and suffer her face to sleep with the flowers." Ned's voice quotes along with me.
"Oh, season of changes - of shadow and shine - September the splendid! My song hath no music to mingle with thine, and its burden is ended; but thou, being born of the winds and the sun, by mountain, by river, mayst lighten and listen, and loiter and run, with thy voices for ever!" Ned and I complete the poem, smiles on our faces and our hearts so full.
For the first time after a recital, there isn't a single sound. Just pairs of eyes staring back at me, glistening in the moonlight as tears trickle down the cheeks of the rough men in front of me.
"I want to go home!" Dogger cries, pulling his hat over his teary eyes.
"I'm so sick of being here, stuck in this hole fighting blokes who don't want to be here either." Spud slams his fist into the trench wall.
"I was up in the hills above Dead Man's ridge yesterday, and one bloke had been lying there for days beside this Turkish fella, both alive and well, their legs had hit the same bomb and they couldn't get back home so they befriended each other and are on their way to hospital, it just proves that we shouldn't be fighting the Turks, they haven't done anything, it's the German's who need to be fought." Billy states, the sniper rests his rifle against the trench wall.
"We should help the POM's in France I say." Tom says.
"I agree, it's only going to get colder here and with limited supplies how the hell are we going to stay alive?!" I exclaim.
"We have to stick together boys, through absolutely everything, we've gotta get home, we have such amazing lives waiting for us when we get the fuck out of here, let's fight like true Australian's, lets prove we are heroes, and that we will be remembered in 100 years time." Dogger's serious voice echoes in our ears, our heart thump and we nod vigorously in agreement.
•TELEGRAM•
Darling, resplendent Elsie,
Home is just around the bend.
Love Clancy
YOU ARE READING
The Echo Of Youth
Исторические романы"I didn't realise that I could miss something as much as I miss my innocence." It's 1914, the world is at war, and it's unlike anything anyone has seen before. The men of cities and country towns are leaving for a cause much bigger than they realis...
