Half A Man

Tomorrow, sometime late in the morning, he knew he’d reach the Murrindindi valley. The papers for his newly purchased property were tucked safely in his pack and with him on the wagon were an old tent and his tools, building materials, wire, seed and dry provisions, enough to sustain him through the first few weeks. The road drifted down to a rough timber bridge and he knew he’d reached the first crossing of the Murrindindie river. He pulled off into a clearing by the creek then unhitched and hobbled his two new horses. Archie, a tall strong grey he would learn to ride and Sally, a pretty brown mare who would one day provide him with a foal. They were already his friends and he spoke softly to them as he hobbled them and turned them out to graze in the short lush grass by the road. He walked down to the gentle creek, stripped off and then waded into a sandy pool, gasping at the cold. Plunging under and washing off the dust of the long, tiring day then basking in the last of the afternoon sun, the breeze and the warmth drying him off. Finally in the fading light, ever aware of the danger of fires, especially in the dry early months of summer, he built a small slow fire and filled his belly with vegetable stew and the remains of yesterday’s damper, baked in the coals of his campfire. Then he boiled his billy, making strong, dark tea sharpened with the tang of a fresh gum leaf. He built up his fire then as bushmen had done for generations, sat gazing into the flames as the sounds of the night settled around him against the murmur of the creek. Finally, when his eyes would stay open no longer, he unrolled his swag and settled for the night. As he lay on his back, lost in the twinkling lights of the night sky, he let his mind wander back over all that had happened over the last long year. After his nightmare journey across the battlefields, he’d finally come to again in the safety of the field hospital at the rear of his lines. His chest was swathed in bandages, and he fought infection, only vaguely aware of Pete in the cot beside him, his right leg gone, his left leg covered in plaster. Days of half consciousness as he battled the rot in his body, the doctors and nurses shadowy, blurred figures as they bent over him. Pain and fever, only his will, his dreams and somehow, Pete’s presence, finally pulling him through. Then he woke one day with the fever finally gone to find Pete no longer beside him. He’d yelled and struggled, and tried to get out of bed until finally the nurses showed him a note that Pete had written him as they moved him to a rehabilitation centre. The doctor who treated them both said that Pete would make a full physical recovery but that he had become morose and withdrawn, only showing life when they told him that he and Tim would be separated. In the note Pete urged him to write as soon as he was able and that when he got home, he would make sure that the land Tim wanted was not sold. As Tim recovered he was moved to another hospital and then to a rest centre, gradually rebuilding his strength and the muscles of his wasted shoulder and arm, the jagged scars slowly fading. After months and months of recuperation he had rejoined what was left of his unit, ironically, just in time for the armistice and the long trip back home to Australia. Cheering crowds met them at the wharves in Melbourne and applauded them as they made their final, proud march through the streets of the city. Tim watched as the soldiers flung themselves into the arms of their families, their wives crying and laughing, the kids swept up into the arms of their fathers. And everywhere, pale watchers who waited in vain or paid silent tribute to their loved ones who would never return. Tim had no one to greet him and he stood back and watched, an empty ache inside him as he pushed through the crowds. There was nothing for him in the city now, most of his old pre war mates gone. Those who were left trying to rebuild their lives. Going back to work and struggling with the nightmares that would haunt them for the rest of their days.