Page 9 of Summer in Greece

Arthur returned home on a few days leave every three months. He told us horrific stories when Mother was out of earshot. There was a haunted air about him in mid-December. We gathered together for a pretend Christmas Day. Mother, determined to spend every moment with her son, fell asleep in the chair after we’d swapped presents and eaten.

My darling Sissy was also home. She wore bright red lipstick and drew a black beauty spot on her jaw, which Father objected to, saying she looked common. She sat on Arthur’s lap and threw her arms around his neck.

‘Come on, Arthur, tell us what’s really going on?’ she said quietly. ‘Ma’s asleep, and you know we won’t breathe a word.’

He sighed, weary and depressed. ‘If it gets out that I’ve told you, they’ll execute me, you know that?’

Sissy and I exchanged a horrified glance, then nodded.

‘It’s the Gallipoli campaign.’ We frowned at him. ‘On the land and the sea between Greece and Turkey. Turkey’s on their side and we’re supporting the admiralty, allowing allied ships to pass through the Dardanelles. They’re desperate to capture Constantinople and knock Turkey out of the war, but it’s not going well. If it wasn’t for the Aussies, and Kiwis, we wouldn’t have hung on this long. Godawful trench warfare. Gas that literally melts your eyes and lungs. Bodies everywhere, wounded and dead. Trenches running with rats at night. The casualties are unbelievable.’

‘What? Real dead bodies?’ I said, unable to imagine such a thing.

‘Yes, Gertie, real dead bodies!’ I could hear the irritation in his voice. ‘That’s what the rats come for, running over us when we fall asleep in the trenches.’

‘Rats?’ Horrified, I couldn’t imagine.

‘Despite the rain, it’s so bloody hot there.’

I clasped my hand over my mouth and glanced at Mother. Oh goodness, if she had heard him use that language!

Arthur snorted good-humouredly when he realised he’d sworn, but then his face softened and a sad look came to his eyes. ‘Sorry, darling Gertie. You’re so innocent, dear sister. You wouldn’t believe how often I think of you when things get too bad. When the trenches swarm with flesh flies. When there are sheets of maggots. When everyone’s sick, shell-shocked, or suffering from trench foot.’ He stopped and stared, trance-like. ‘You see, we’re not really in this war for our country, Gertie, or for King George; we’re fighting for our mothers and sisters.’

We gazed at him, sadly silent until Sissy asked, ‘What about food, Arthur? What do they give you?’

‘The food’s infested, yet we have to eat. We’re all horribly weak, and tired, and so outnumbered we can hardly advance.’ He shook his head. ‘The situation’s impossible. They say half a million casualties have gone to the hospital sorting station on a Greek island. Lemnos, I think it’s called. Not too far away, but it’s understaffed and overcrowded. Now the rainy season’s with us, wounded men lay dying in the mud as they wait to be collected by British hospital ships.’ He sighed so deeply he trembled. ‘We’re all doing our best, but . . .’ He shook his head again. ‘It’s futile. We’re bound to retreat before New Year. If the worst happens, Gertie, I’ll remember how much I enjoyed this Christmas dinner. Promise you’ll toast me every Christmas in my absence, preferably when you set the figgy pudding alight and swig the brandy.’ He grinned at us all, his eyes bright with a sort of madness that I didn’t understand.

That was the last time I saw my brother, Arthur. When I woke the next morning, he’d gone already. He never came back. We learned he’d died of shrapnel wounds at the hospital he’d told us about on Lemnos, waiting for a ship to bring him home.

The telegram boy came belting down Lighthouse Lane ringing his bicycle bell. I’d never seen Father cry before. The silent tears that trickled down his face were more painful than my mother’s wailing as he pulled her tighter into his arms.

Sissy came home for a week.

In the misery that followed, we received a formal letter from the battalion adjutant which Father read to us all. Our darling Arthur was part of a thrust forward on the front line. We were told that his group of brave soldiers had become separated from the main drive and came under fierce shelling. The men had fought bravely.

Remembering the things Arthur told us when Mother fell asleep, I wanted to yell that it was all make believe. I was crying with anger to think he had died for me! My poor brother had been mortally wounded in the squalor of trenches that he himself told us swarmed with flesh flies and rats!

The letter went on in its polite, remorseful way to say that Corporal Smith suffered a severe head wound and was taken by hospital ship to Lemnos. Despite every effort to revive him, Corporal Smith passed away.

In the aftershock, I wondered if it was an error, perhaps our Arthur was still alive. ‘It’s a mistake,’ I whispered. ‘Father, surely he can’t be dead; the army must have made a mistake! So many people dying . . . such a common name, Smith.’

Father had trouble speaking, which somehow made me angrier. Sissy pulled me into her arms. ‘No, they have tags around their necks. There’s no mistake. But remember what he said, Gertie? He said it for a reason.’

I shook my head. ‘No, no! He can’t be dead, Sissy, he’s my brother! Brothers don’t die!’

‘Listen to me!’ she continued, shaking my shoulders before turning to our parents. ‘Mother, Father, when our Arthur was home, he said this: “If the worst happens, Gertie, I’ll remember how much I enjoyed this Christmas dinner. Promise you’ll toast me every Christmas in my absence, preferably when you set the figgy pudding alight and swig the brandy.” So come on, let’s pour a tot of brandy now, for everyone, just like Arthur told us to.’

When we had charged our glasses, Father said, ‘The toast is the last line of the letter. The adjutant assures us that: Corporal Smith has been a great asset to his country and a gallant and universally liked soldier.’

*

Sissy returned home from the munitions factory and, on her twenty-third birthday, she applied to join the Voluntary Aid Detachment. More than ever, she wished to become a nurse and soon signed up for training.

‘Promise you won’t go overseas, Sissy!’ Mother begged.

‘I promise, Mother. Many wounded soldiers have been shipped home and need help right here.’

Yet after a terrible battle on the other side of the Channel, my darling sister volunteered to nurse the wounded in France. She wrote every week and I kept all of her wonderful letters.