The Map Of Honour. Max Carmichael

It might well be a long way to Tipperary, he mused, but it was a bloody long way to Penola. He figured there was probably treble the small South Australian town’s population right here on the railway station platform.

       Hello, hello, who’s your lady fair,

       Whose’ the little girlie by your side?

      The unseen woman and her accordion accomplice had started another music hall melody and received similar attention to her last effort.

      Green worked his way through the crowd toward the train. He had no concerns that the train was the right one for him. The uniformed tide through which he waded was only going to one place—France.

      A station attendant using a megaphone was trying to marshal the uniformed passengers into carriages. ‘All aboard for Dover! The train will be leaving in ten minutes! All aboard please!’

      Green opened a carriage door and stepped aboard.

      A friendly West Midlands accent greeted him. ‘Here you go, Sarg. Give us your rifle and kitbag and I’ll put them up on the rack.’

      ‘Thanks.’ Green passed over his kitbag, but retained his rifle.

      The carriage compartment was crowded with soldiers of the Warwickshire Regiment. Green recognised their distinctive antelope-like hat badge. His kitbag had been thrown into the luggage rack and below it was an empty seat, so he sat down there. His unknown assistant, a very young British Private soldier, offered him a cigarette.

      ‘No thanks, mate. I don’t smoke.’

      ‘Coo well this is it eh, the great adventure! For king and country, hurrah!’

      The soldier seemed to Green to be hardly old enough to have enlisted, and he found the lad’s enthusiasm annoying. Yet he knew there had been a time when he had been just as keen. He had raced to the nearest recruiting station keen to “do his bit,” only to be turned away on the basis that he was “not substantially of European origin.” He hadn’t let that rejection stop him and he’d walked over sixty miles to the next town and enlisted there, claiming his dark skin was due to his mother being of Spanish extract. He had felt deeply ashamed at that subterfuge, not because he had lied to the army, but because he had been forced to deny his mother’s culture.

      His enlistment had infuriated his father. Green senior was not a man to be crossed, and his errant son knew full well that in disobeying his pater, he would be disowned and all family communication with his would be banned. In spite of this, he had received one letter from his mother, giving her blessing and telling him she loved him. After that letter, there were no more. He knew his father would have forbidden her to write and almost certainly would destroy any letter of his that arrived at the homestead. Even so, for a time he had written many letters home, but faced with the total lack of response, slowly and with deep regret, he gave up. He wondered if this Warwickshire youngster would face a similar situation with his family, or if anyone had told the young fellow that it was all a lot of crap, that there was no glory, and so far as Green could tell, the king and his country didn’t care what happened to their soldiers, so long as somebody else did the fighting. With this souring thought, he pulled his slouch hat over his eyes, and pretended to sleep.

      The youngster was not to be so easily put off and continued to fire questions at the disinterested Green. ‘You’re an Aussie, aren’t you? I’ve never met an Aussie before; are all of you black? I bet you were you at the Dardanelles? What was it like? Smashing, I’ll bet.’

      Finally, an older soldier from the same regiment intervened. ‘Come on, Smitty, leave the man alone. He wants to sleep.’

      ‘I only wanted to know…’

      ‘Well, you’ll find out soon enough; now put a sock in it. There’s a good chap.’

      ‘Young Smitty’s learned a whole lot already, ain’t you, Smitty?’ laughed another soldier in the compartment. ‘Ask him about that little bint he rattled last night, go on!’

      ‘Shut your mouth, Ormrod!’ cried Smitty angrily. ‘It ain’t none of your business!’

      ‘Might be her daddy’s thought if he finds you’ve put a bun in her oven!’

      There was general hilarity at this exchange, but the older soldier who had first tried to quieten Green’s young admirer was not amused. ‘Jesus Christ, boy! I promised your ma I’d look after you, and you’ve got into strife before we’ve even left Blighty!’

      The Guard’s whistle and a tumult of tearful farewells from the platform saved Smitty from any further rebuke. With the exception of Green, the occupants of the compartment crowded to the carriage window to wave goodbye.

      As the train gathered speed, most of its passengers sat in contemplative silence. Odds were that not many of them would make the return journey and perhaps with the exception of young Smitty and a few like him, they knew it.

      Green surprised himself, for in spite of young Smitty’s chatter and the uncomfortable conditions, he actually slept, waking only when the train began to slow at the end of the journey. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. The carriage was a hive of activity with the Warwicks hastily retrieving their gear and adjusting their uniforms.

      ‘Nearly there, Sergeant,’ said Smitty’s older keeper. Smitty was leaning out of the carriage window and cheering at people they passed.

      ‘How old is the lad?’ asked Green, nodding toward the enthusiastic Smitty.

      ‘Ah now, Sergeant,’ replied the older man, ‘that would be telling.’

      ‘Hmm, don’t you think he’d be better off out of it?’

      ‘Course I do! Listen mate, I’ve been doing this shit since 1914. His dad was my mucker; he got it at Mons, and I’ve been dodging bullets and whizbangs ever since. Course I’ve tried to talk him out of it, but it’s no go. He’s tried to join up three times before and each time we found him and brought him back to his ma. This time…well, let’s just say his ma gave up. So now he’s here.’

      Green shrugged. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me,’ he said. ‘I hope you both make it.’

      The train slowed to a halt.

      ‘Warwick Shire Regiment, fall in at the engine end of the platform!’ An unseen voice of authority called Green’s travelling companions away.

      ‘Good luck, Sarg,’ said young Smitty. ‘Might see you over there, eh?’

      ‘You never know,’ replied Green. He shook the lad’s hand and nodded to his minder. ‘Keep your heads down.’

      Then they were gone. Green picked up his equipment, slung his rifle, and stepped down from the train; the next part of his journey to the Somme would be by sea. He showed his movement order to a much harried Transport Officer and was pointed toward an already crowded ferry. Several hours later having endured a relatively smooth crossing of the Channel, the ferry berthed at the Calais dock.

      Green waited on the crowded boat deck while the crew positioned the gang plank.

      ‘Going all the way, Sergeant?’ a voice at his side asked.

      Green turned to find a British lieutenant standing beside him. ‘Just about,’ Green replied. ‘Where’s the train start from?’

      ‘Good Lord, you want to avoid that if you can,’ the lieutenant retorted. ‘If the bloody thing went any slower, it would go backwards! Besides, it damnably uncomfortable, cattle trucks don’t you know. My advice is to find a nice comfy supply column and hitch a ride. Only don’t get caught; they tend to take a dim view of people striking out on their own. Do your orders mention the train?’

      Green shook his head. ‘No, I just have to get to a place somewhere near Albert.’

      ‘There you are then; you’ve every right to look elsewhere for a mode of transport!’

      The gang plank was secured into position and soldiers