Homes Is A Strange Country - Chapter 31

BOOK TWO
THIRTY ONE
16^th September 1917, Bolton, Lancashire

   The dark red door of the second class railway carriage swung wide open across the platform, right in front of a small boy. Holding onto his mothers left hand, the eight year old skipped sideways to avoid the door and then swung back to glare  at the soldier in the strange uniform who was stepping out onto the platform with the aid of a walking stick. His mother pulled at his arm as she strode purposefully along the station platform. 'Come on son. Don’t stare 'she said, 'It’s rude'.

   The boy, in his short grey trousers and woollen coat, tried to walk alongside his mother to keep up with her but was fascinated by the soldier who by now had managed to step off the train. His head turned sideways to look over his shoulder at the soldier as his mother pulled him along. The soldier turned painfully to close the carriage door using the hand holding the walking stick, his left hand holding onto a khaki knapsack. The door clicked shut with a satisfying metallic clunk. He swung the knapsack over his left shoulder and leaned heavily on the walking stick in his right hand, looking along the platform at the receding sight of the small boy with his mother and the other passengers who had by this time overtaken him and were walking towards the exit of the station.

   It was the unusual sight of the slouch hat on the soldier’s head which had attracted the boy’s attention. Three years ago the formations of the Lancashire Pals Regiments in front of the town hall had been familiar and exciting to small boys, and grownups as well, but now those memories of patriotism had been replaced in the town by an uneasy feeling that the familiar news of death and injury were going to be a constant in their lives forever, or certainly for a long long time. Even as a child, the boy had been enveloped in the war fever and the patriotic atmosphere it had generated. He had been swept along with all the other children in the town as men were enlisted into the local regiments. He cheered with his pals on street corners when the lines of men in civilian garb were then replaced by lines of soldiers in uniform. Now, three years on, and amid the stories which had come back from those soldiers who had been fighting on the western front, there was a different atmosphere in the town. Too many widows had been created in the past years; too many horror stories of death and maiming had filtered back from the mouths of injured soldiers for most people to have the same bright untarnished view of the war. But a soldier with a slouch hat was something different, and the boy was intrigued. This was better than, and would have more schoolboy credence in the school yard tomorrow, than the night when the Zeppelin airship had bombed the Ormerod and Hardcastle Mill that night in September last year. For days the Bolton Evening News had been awash with photographs of Parrot Street and Kirk Street together with the mills themselves and the damage which the incendiary bombs had caused. The paper ran lurid stories of the raid and the casualties the raid had caused. But this was a different attraction.

   He tugged backwards against his mother’s hand as she walked along the stone station floor to the foot of the wide wrought iron staircase rising from the platform to the entrance and ticket hall of the station. 'Stop your tugging son,' she said to him
and gently increased the grip on his small hand. The boy did not notice, but simply increased the sideways hop step and jump gait as he struggled to keep pace with his mother, yet maintain half a turned head in the direction of the soldier now limping along the station platform. The soldier’s uniform fascinated him.

   The colour was familiar to him, as were the badges of rank and many of the regimental insignia of the Lancashire regiments. He was familiar also with the ranks of the naval personnel who sometimes frequented the town on leave. Bolton, being thirty miles from the sea, meant that the town was more inclined to send its sons to the army than navy, but there were some nonetheless. But this soldier’s uniform was new. For a second he wondered if this was a foreigner, someone not from England. There were no badges of rank on the greatcoat the man wore, but it appeared identical to those of other local soldiers whom he had seen. Other than the slouch hat, the only other sign that this was not an ordinary Lancashire regiment was the small rectangular two colour flash on his shoulder. The shoulder patch was comprised of two lines of colour, the top one blue and the lower one brown. This was new to him. The man had obviously been injured in the trenches of France. He had to be a hero. Not English, but a hero nevertheless.

   The boy pulled gently at his mother’s hand. 'Ma,' he said, 'Why is he wearing that hat with the side turned up?' His mother stepped onto the lower of the steps leading from the platform and as she did she turned slightly to her left to steal a glance at the soldier. A quick glance was enough for her to note the slouch hat and to establish in her mind the nationality of the solider. 'He’s an Australian' she said. 'Come on spadger, let’s get a move on'.

   At that moment a shrill blast of sound came from the whistle on the engine just as the soldier was walking by it. He flinched and looked to his left in surprise at the black engine, smoke curling from its chimney and a warm red glow issuing from the footplate. The train driver was standing on the footplate dressed in black trousers and a soiled black jacket. On his head he wore a black cloth cap with a shiny neb. The driver smiled and raised his hand in salute to the soldier. 'All right Digger?' he called to the solider. The soldier, George Kent, smiled and raised the walking stick in his right hand in a return salute. 'Fine thanks mate' he said and turned painfully to carry on to the foot of the staircase.

   The little boy turned excitedly to his mother tugging at her hand. 'Ma. The train driver called the solider Digger. Is that his name do you think?' he asked. His small round face was wreathed in both smiles and questions. Without breaking her stride up the steps his mother replied. 'No son. Australian soldiers are all nicknamed Digger. The train driver was just being friendly.'

   'Why are they called Diggers Ma?'

   'I'm not sure son. Perhaps because there is a lot of gold mining in Australia and maybe that’s why they got their nickname, digging for gold. Come on. We need to get the tram home.' She moved off to the opening at the front right of the station to find a tram for the rest of their journey home. The young boy obediently trotted on along his mother, the soldier forgotten for the time being.

   At the foot of the staircase George stopped for a moment to adjust the strap of the khaki knapsack on his left shoulder, and then started to walk painfully up the stairs. The gunshot wound he had sustained in his left leg was still not completely healed, and each footstep which jarred on the floor reminded him of this.

   The steps were wide and made of metal, allowing perhaps six people at a time to walk up or down them. He kept to the left hand side so that he could use the wooden handrail to supplement the assistance of his walking stick. At the top of the stairs he stepped to one side of the staircase to gather his breath and take a rest and look around the place to get his bearings. People overtook him, easing past him politely with smiles, as he held onto the banister at the head of the stairs. Some half turned to offer him a friendly smile, but most just carried on with their journey, lost in their own private world. Being English, their curiosity would not overcome their sense of privacy to allow them to stare at the stranger. Bags and suitcases jostled with overcoats and the occasional army greatcoat as people made their way off the station. George looked around and took in the two uniform clad porters, chatting whilst resting their elbows on small two wheeled hand trucks, used for moving passengers' luggage from taxicab to station and vice versa. The two men glanced at him for a second or two and then resumed their conversation. He was carrying only a knapsack over his left shoulder so would not be in need of any assistance from them, they thought.

   In front of George, the wall of the ticket hall was covered with an intricately carved wooden facade, covering most of the far wall. It was dark stained wood, inset with four arch shaped windows where one or two people were waiting patiently in queues to purchase their train tickets. Brass handrails set in the floor in front of the windows kept them in line and allowed some to rest on them if they wished. George could see a uniformed man crouched behind each of the half glass windows, ears bent forward to hear what the traveller was saying. To the extreme left and right hand ends of the entrance hall wide doorways opened onto the street outside. There were no doors on the doorways; metal shutters in the roof were used to close off the space during the times when the station was closed. George looked up to the roof space and saw the wide roller shutter mesh doors rolled up into the roof.

   On the street outside the station George watched trams moving along the roadway for a moment. His gaze moved along the street until he saw a name plate on the corner of a building at the end of the street. It said Trinity Street. He walked across the entrance hall and stood in the open doorway by the brick pillars holding the roof, in order to get his bearings. To his left was a large imposing church with iron railings protecting a burial ground which he could see to its side. The church had a square spire with a clock set into it, which George could plainly see from his temporary resting place in the doorway. From where he was standing it appeared that the building had been damaged. Had the damage been caused by an air raid he wondered. Scaffolding had been erected around part of the wall. He looked at the time on the clock face and then checked it against the square faced wrist watch strapped to his left wrist. They both showed that the time was almost three in the afternoon.

   Overhead, blue skies were cluttered with white cloud which moved gracefully high above as he left the shelter of the station wall. From the edge of the station roof, extending out towards the cobbled street over a taxi cab rank, a wooden canopy edged with a metal fringe hid most of the sky from his view. The sight of it brought to mind the station at Wagga Wagga in New South Wales, where his train had stopped on his journey from Sydney to Melbourne when he had first joined up. He walked across the cab rank housing a line of eight or nine hansom cabs, each pulled by single horses which were being carefully avoided by people walking into the station. One or two of the people gave him a curious stare as he made his way to the edge of the pavement. 'Diggers' were seldom seen this far from the English Channel, and it was obvious that his appearance possessed a novelty value he had not expected or experienced before.

   At the hospital in Weymouth, in the south of England, the sight of Australian army personnel was no longer a novelty, and few people in the town would have given him a second glance. The convalescent camps in the area were full of Australian troops recovering from their injuries in France. Here in this northern town it was different. The thought went through his mind that if he was to successfully accomplish the task he had set himself when he had first arrived in northern France, then the few civilian clothes he had brought north with him would have to be put to use, and he might have to supplement them with locally bought items. The cost of additional clothing would not present a difficulty for him. He had quite a lot of unspent pay which had accumulated during his service in France, together with the time spent in hospital. This had lain untouched, and together with the Foreign Leave Allowance he had been given prior to his departure from Le Havre would enable him to cover his costs of hotel and clothes more than adequately. He would need to find a men’s outfitter before moving far from any overnight accommodation he might find, or the whole point of visiting the town quietly would vanish.

   A pale yellow sun was shining through the clouds overhead and moving west, trying to convince itself that this was the tail end of summer. A policeman stood to his right and seeing him George slowly approached him, grinning at the strange blue helmet. Such a strange uniform, he thought, but familiar all the same from the English publications he had often seen at home. George stopped in front of the officer. 'Excuse me officer' he said. The officer turned to face him and smiled when he saw more clearly the Australian Infantry uniform the stranger was wearing. 'Yes sir' he said, eyeing the rising sun metal badge on the up turned wide brim of George’s slouch hat.    'Long way from home' he grinned warmly.

   'Yes, too true' George replied. 'I’m looking for a boarding house or a small hotel to stay for a few nights and wondered if you could help me.' The officer screwed up his face in concentration and half turned away, then turned back to face George. He paused and drew a long breath. 'Well, there are a few hotels in the town centre,' he said eventually, 'But if you are looking for something a bit quieter then you might be better off trying a boarding house, though some of the town centre ones are a bit rowdy if they are close to some pub or other'. George waited patiently for the officer to sift the information through his mind until eventually he said,

   'Well, you’ve got the Commercial on Newport Street, The Man and Scythe on Churchgate and the Pack Horse on the corner of Nelson Square.' He paused for a moment then added, 'I think the Man and Scythe might be a bit rough though' He paused for a second then added 'Oh, and then there’s the Swan just next door to the Man and Scythe. That should be alright. It’s in the town centre but it’s got a goodish reputation and it’s central enough for trams and such if you want to get around anywhere.' He folded his arms across his chest and regarded George with curiosity.

   'Which is the nearest one from here? 'George asked. 'My leg won’t put up with too much walking'. He glanced down and tapped his stick on the pavement. The officer looked down at George’s legs and the stick he carried. A look of sympathy crossed his face.

   'Got that in Gallipoli?' he enquired gently. Although Gallipoli was geographically thousands of miles from Bolton, everyone in England had heard the terrible stories of the campaign, and the fate of the Australian and British troops in Gallipoli. It had been one of the major stories which the war had produced, causing massive controversy in the national and local press when the tales of the slaughter there were made known to the public.

   George looked down at the pavement for a moment then coughed and cleared his throat before replying.

   'No', he said, 'I got this in France a few months ago. Been in hospital for a bit then got moved out the way, thank God. I’m over here in England for a few weeks holiday. When I get back to France I’m due to be demobbed due to my age, and the injury,' he added. He paused, and the policeman nodded his head.

   'I thought you looked a bit long in the tooth to be doing your bit' he said smiling. George looked down at the floor and grinned sheepishly. 'Thirty eight when I signed up. I should have known better, but I suppose like everyone else, I wanted to do my bit.' He paused as the memories of signing up in Melbourne passed quickly through his head. The pressure he had put on the recruitment officer, and the stories he had used to embellished his time and experience in the Melbourne Rifle Club had been successful in convincing the recruiting officer that the Australian Infantry could not manage without him. It had worked, and he started his service in the 6^th Battalion of the Australian Army at Broadmeadows camp on the outskirts of Melbourne.

   He paused and sucked in a lungful of the sooty air hanging around in the air in the vicinity of the railway station.

  'Should have kept my mouth shut shouldn’t I?' he grinned sheepishly. The officer smiled back at him ruefully.

   'We all learn by our mistakes don’t we?' he said. 'Anyway, you’ll be wanting to know how to get to the Swan won’t you?' George nodded his head and listened whilst the officer gave him walking directions to the hotel, adding in a few local drinking holes along the route which he thought the soldier might enjoy, given the opportunity. George thanked him and started to walk over the slight hill in front of the station down towards a junction which he could see at the foot of the hill.

   Trinity Street was wide, and seemed to run from the church away to his left, over a bridge in the opposite direction as far as another road he could see at the bottom of the bridge. It then appeared to continue away from him, on across the junction. He walked over the bridge and paused at the crossroads before turning left and continued on walking, following the policeman’s instructions until he came to another major road junction. The roads were wide and thronged with traffic. As he walked painfully along the pavements his head swivelled from left to right, up and down the front of the old strange buildings on both sides of street, which he saw from the street sign on the buildings was called Bradshawgate. He had quickly learned in Portsmouth, where he had landed from Le Havre that the names of the streets were normally of a uniform shape, and placed high up on the wall of a building at the edge of the street. Everything had been so new for him compared to the small towns he had lived in Australia, stranger even than the large cities of Sydney and Melbourne which he had visited. A thought had crossed his mind one day as he was walking along the impressive seafront of Portsmouth. Everything he saw from now on would be something he had never seen in his life before, the buildings, roads, people, carriages, steam trains; each time he opened his eyes he would see something he had never seen before. The glorious seafront which graced Portsmouth, the softly sweeping green hills where the hospital camp was situated on Chickerell Downs, he determined then that he would not waste one second of his time in England, and would take with him back to Australia as many memories as he could.

   He stopped to sit for a time on a painted wooden bench before a large statue of a man. George glanced down at the brass plate at the foot of the statue. It said 'Samuel Crompton,' and lay in an open square which housed a formal garden with hedges and a couple of trees. A path ran from the rear of the statue, where he was seated, to the back of the garden and a small hospital. In the middle of the garden was a tall gas lamp made of intricately decorated iron, and the whole garden was enclosed by a small stone wall on which was inset a small wrought iron fence. Occupying almost the whole of the right hand side of the square was one of the hotels he had been told about, The Pack Horse. The hotel looked very grand to George’s eye, with ornate brickwork and a large impressive front door on the side of the square and another side door on the front of the street. George immediately felt that not only was it out of his price bracket, but would be out of his social class. Being an Australian he had not the same respect or fear of the classes which England was subject to, but knew his presence would carry some level of difficulty with it. He did not want to stand out amongst others in the hotel, he wanted as much anonymity as he could find. George came from a working class background and knew that the anonymity he sought would not be served by causing people in the hotel to gossip about his presence. He immediately crossed it off the mental list of hotels he had to look at.

   It struck him that despite the disparaging remarks he had heard from the locals in Portsmouth, the town of Bolton was apparently quite wealthy. He had rapidly discovered in Portsmouth that amongst the few locals near the hospital whom he had spoken to make enquiries about the town, none of them had ever visited Bolton, but all were keen to point out that all the north of England was a dirty place populated by poor, ignorant working class people. It came as something of a slight shock to George to suddenly have this view challenged by a pretty ornate garden in the centre of a busy bustling town with at least one fairly grand hotel. Not at all what he had been led to believe or expect. Large green bushes and small trees flourished in the garden along with neat lawns laid with roses and flowers. Perhaps the previous month of almost continuous rain was showing its effect. On the other three sides of the square were office buildings with large open windows and what appeared to be a small factory of some kind.

   To his eyes, accustomed to the fairly new cities of Sydney and Melbourne, the town of Bolton seemed not only very old, but dirty, very dirty. Tramcars rattled their noisy way along the street on rails laid into the stone set surface of the roadway, people hurried in and out of shops and offices along both of the streets he saw. It was a far cry from the fields of northern France and the grimy wet battlefields, though the weather was little better than it had been in France.

   So far, the whole of the time he had spent in England had been equally as wet as northern France had been. From leaving France until he left for the north of the country, it appeared to him that England was a very wet place, with almost incessant rain. Having spent all his life in Australia it seemed incongruous to him that any one country could have so much rain. In Australia the rain came at specific times of the year, not like England, it seemed. During almost the entire year when he had been in Europe the weather seemed to have none of the seasons he had grown up with. Rain appeared to be the predominant season, though winter had also been cold in addition to the rain. Throughout the whole of August 1917 the rain had come down with hardly a day going by without a few hours of downpour. A common thread of complaint amongst the troops in the trenches and the camps of France was the weather, and the depression it brought with it. Mud and rain and more mud and rain appeared to be the norm. Fields were churned into indistinguishable map references of thick, sticky, mud. Woodland blown to firewood by high explosive artillery shells and mines, fences obliterated, and whole villages and hamlets destroyed almost to the point of invisibility. Men in the trenches, and men, women and children in the villages had been changed in an instant to red vapour by the shellfire.

   Through his countryman’s eye George could see that before the earth had been churned by gunfire and bombs, the land of northern France had been pretty and well cultivated, with numerous small family run farms dotted amongst the irregular green fields for as far as the eye could see. Now it seemed, the earth there was simply sprouting a silent crop of dead bodies and torn off limbs. The thought often went though his mind about what they were doing to the land, not only the men who were serving there and dying there, but the farms they were destroying and the woodlands which were being torn from the earth as though with a giants malevolent and careless hand. He knew that when he eventually returned home people there would not believe him, had it not been George who told them the story, of the weather and the scenes he had been witness to.

   It seemed an age since he had left Melbourne. In truth it had not been all that long. He left Port Melbourne on the RMS Osterley at the end of September 1915 along with thousands of his fellow countrymen. But now it was a dim memory. Almost every day it had rained, it seemed that his greatcoat and hat would never dry. It was not until he arrived in Rouen in northern France that he was able to fully dry out all his kit. He wondered with a grin if his walking stick would sprout growths of young walking sticks. It had to stop some time, didn’t it?