This is a story I hope you enjoy about and young girl and an ANZAC she meets at a train station. For those of you who don't know, an ANZAC is a member of the Australia and New Zealand Army Corps, and a digger is slang for a soldier. I hope you guys enjoy, and as always, any criticism is welcome!
*I edited this to the advice of the reviewers below, to make some of the sentances make more sense and the ending less lame. Thank you, guys!!*
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When I cleared the door of the train, I never expected to see the ANZAC in full uniform sitting next to a man with a guitar at one end of the station. But there he was, his head bowed under the slouch hat, his clothing the same colour as that in the recruitment posters that hung half-ripped off the brick wall facing me.
The man beside him slowly strummed and sung, his voice breaking out above the early Brisbane traffic and customers with a version of Waltzing Matilda slightly more mournful than the original. The digger would grunt and nod his head sometimes, as if agreeing to the lyrics. One hand stroked the rough metal of a bayonet, fixed on the end of his rifle.
The train belched behind me and more black smoke swirled lazily across the sides. I quickly walked away lest the smoke put soot on my dress, which was not desirable on a young woman looking for a job. I quickly looked at my watch; it was still six in the morning, with three and a half hours to kill before the job interview. I sighed, and my arm swung down next to my side again, ruffling my dress. I smoothed it and looked back at the ANZAC. He was clapping the man with the guitar on the shoulder, who was packing up to look for a more crowded place.
The other man left, and the digger slid back against the wall, hands slung over his knees. Not at all the image of the straight-backed, proud Australian men on the recruitment posters or walking in the parade when the war ended.
Slowly, I walked up to him, holding my papers in one hand. I went over several possible greetings in my head before starting with, “What brings you up this early, soldier?”
He looked at my neat shoes, placed together on the pavement, then followed my yellow dress up to my face. He cracked a smile without showing any teeth, his grey eyes crinkling.
“Funeral,” he said, flashing me the letter. Of course. Everyone had a funeral to go to these days. I had my fathers to attend later today, getting a ride home with my cousin.
“Oh,” I said. I looked for something else to say.
“What brings you here?” asked the soldier.
“Job interview.”
“I’d think it’s a bit early for that,” he replied. He craned his neck to look at the clock above the ticket’s office. The large metal hand hovered over the five, the other on the six.
“Yes…” I said absently. “Starts at nine thirty.”
The digger nodded. “Sit with me for a while? Could get lonely before I have to leave, and that’s a good half hour away until I catch the train.”
Why not, I thought. “Sure,” I told the digger. Holding my dress around my legs, I sat against the wall next to him.
He continued to run his hands over the bayonet. His hands were rough, just like the slightly rusted metal looked. They had a few nicks and scars over them. I noticed that although he was in full uniform, he wore no metals. I knew that all the men that were in the war got at least the rainbow-ribbon medal. However, it was easy to tell that this man had been in the war. He had the same deep look. Not all of the diggers were great blokes, but in them you could often spot a young man that had grown a decade or two in a few years. I would add a ‘short’ in front of the years, but if time had passed in the war like it had back home, bad news reaching your ears every other moment and anxiety coming in waves off those with loved ones serving, the war had been anything but short. I cuddled my knees to my chest, thinking of my three brothers. Their photos were along the stairs, their eyes staring. Two of my brothers hadn’t come home. The other, James, had been grazed by a bullet and lost the top of his ear. We were lucky. He’s living with his wife now, who’s expecting.
“Is it used?” I asked suddenly, looking at his bayonet.
“Pardon? Oh. Ah. Yes. I used it.” He looked uncomfortable, and maybe a little sad.
“My brother uses his to stir paint, now-a-days.” I nodded to my self, and looked away. The tiled floors drew my gaze. A network of cracks in one almost looked like the face of a lion, and I could find other animals if I looked. The digger and I were silent for a long moment, and the longer clock hand moved until it was nearly at the two.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” said the digger, pulling a pack of tobacco and paper out of his pocket.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Thank you. Nothing like a good old durrie to calm the nerves.”
“The funeral you’re going to, were they a good mate of yours?”
Talking about funerals. Tactful. I scolded myself in my head.
“You could say that,” replied the man, with a bark of a laugh. I grinned at the laugh, despite myself; he looked instantly younger, more like the man he must have been before the war.
“He was a great mate, as far as they went. Brilliant.” He shifted his position, and the back of his slouch hat scraped against the bricks. The Rising Sun badge glinted.
“Can I tell you a story?”
His question was one I did not expect.
“It’s just… I have a story, and I feel like you’re the one to tell it to. Do you understand?”
Almost immediately, I stammered an affirmative. He smiled, again showing no teeth. His eyes were very grey, maybe a little brown. He sat back, lit the cigarette and put it in his mouth.
“This man was called Murray Cleats. When he joined the army, no, he was not a good friend to any man. He was selfish, and his thought-less comments lead to many hurt feelings and very sore hearts to many men. What was more, he did not care when he did do this to someone.”
His voice was harsh. I blinked at him talking such a way about who I presumed was the dead man, but I didn’t say anything and he continued.
“One day, the men decided to teach Murray a lesson. They took him, beat him hard and threw him into the loo, among the sewerage, where they said he belonged.”
I gasped quietly. This sounded nothing like the heroes the ANZACS were supposed to be! I didn’t want to really believe him. But men will be men, and this Murray did sound unfair and cruel. I tilted my head to one side a little, to free my ear of hair as to hear better.
“A man found Murray, picked him up, cleaned him, attended to and disinfected his wounds. Murray did not thank him for it; instead, when he was well enough, he spat at the feet of the man. He believed this man to be no better. Perhaps this man was fixing him just to kick him down again. Whatever it was he really thought, even thinking of any of the other men gave him a nasty taste just like the crap he’d been thrown into on his tongue. Excuse the language,” he added. I nodded at him.
“So, with no friends, thinking the world was against him, Murray got through his first battle with limbs still attached and heart still beating. Some of the other men died. Murray thought, good riddance. And while the mates of the men were mourning, he went and did a horrible thing.
“Murray doused the men’s tents in oil and set fire to them.”
I gasped again. Who was this Murray, to go doing such things to people? It wasn’t decent, it wasn’t right, and I was starting to think maybe this Murray was a bad person, for all he was dead.
“The men were devastated. Not only was it a loss of equipment, but the letters from their families were in there, as well as the paper to write back to them and pictures of loved ones from home. One of the sleeping men almost died, as he was in one of the tents. And Murray was looked on with hate from almost every person in the camp.
“The first man who had taken care of him, though, pitied. He took Murray, covering his mouth so he did not squeak or yell out or make any other sort of stupid noise and hid him. None of the other men could find him, and until things calmed down, Murray was safe.
“He sat in his hiding place, which was under the floor of the first aid tent. He hated the man for putting him there, where he could smell blood and sweat and was always muddy. However, he dare not go out until things had cooled. The man brought him food and water, and sneaked him out to piss and poo when he had to. But even though he owed this man his life, Murray still hated the man. He hated the man like he hated the world, and every person, animal or being in it.
“Murray was in many more battles, and survived each one. He found the man to be ‘Blue’, called that because of his red hair. Blue saved Murray’s life many, many times, but still hated him. Hated him with every second of life that he had.
“Soon, the war ended. Murray had only suffered one serious wound, and that was to his leg. He also had a broken wrist for some time, which became infected. That Blue fixed. Blue was a doctor, not a fighter, but he was a sensible man and would fight also. He was a real man, a real man of the country and he did the whole nation proud, although they may not know his name. A real Australian, was Blue.”
The digger sighed, and lifted his slouch hat to rub his sweaty forehead and checked the time. The long hand was partway between the four and the five. He grunted.
“Anyway, before the war ended, there was one last battle. Murray broke a few fingers and got a bullet in the back, but nothing that serious. The thing was, Blue had died. Blue had died a real death on the battle field, although there is nothing glorious about war. Nothing at all.
“Murray visited the body. It was under a sheet, what was left of Blue. And that night, just before he got on the ship home, Murray cried. He cried for the man who had, in Murray’s eyes, never done wrong. The man who had looked after him all those years in the war, although Murray went along with it kicking and screaming. Murray owed everything to Blue. And it had taken for the man to die to realize it.”
We sat in silence for a little while more, heads bowed. A tear ran out my eye, and I brushed it off my cheek, as I did the next one that came. But that was the extent of my cry.
“I have to go. It was very nice meeting you, and very nice talking to you,” said the digger. He got up and gave me a helping hand also. A hand like worn sandpaper. I would remember it.
I was confused about the story, but I think I got it. I said my goodbyes to the mysterious digger.
“Just remember to see what you have, when you have it,” he said. He jogged away. I couldn’t help but notice he was limping slightly.
And as the mysterious young digger jogged, I couldn’t help but notice the letter he held was addressed to a Murray Cleats, and signed Rebecca Earl. Rebecca Earl, daughter of your friend Keith ‘Blue’ Earl.
Tears started flowing freely down my cheeks. As the digger disappeared across the tracks, I slid back down the wall, not noticing the brick that tore little holes in my dress. I rubbed the tears away with the heel of my hand and looked at my resume. Would my father be proud of this? Would he be proud of what his daughter was doing?
I shook my head and in one, quick movement tore the sheets of paper in two, leaving them crumpled in a bin. I stood and looked out where the digger, Murray Cleats, had disappeared, and I smiled a little.
My father, Blue, would be very proud.
I ran to catch the early train home.
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~Durrie
