A short story by Craig Cormick
A shell explodes overhead. Bright. Like a star. It startles Private O'Connor awake. His eyes snap open wide. Staring around quickly. He sees the snow and icy mud of the trench. Sees Private Duigan staring at him. Like he's been staring at him forever. His dark face hidden in the late afternoon's gloom. Just the whites of two eyes regarding him.
Private O'Connor closes his eyes again. Holds his hands over his face. As if shutting out the world around him.
"Jesus", he says softly. "I was dreaming. Dreaming I was back at Gallipoli."
Private Duigan smiles and shakes his head slowly. "I'm not keepin' you 'ere am I?", he says. "You can go back any time you wanna."
Bloody Abo!, thinks Private O'Connor. He was starting to drive him crazy. Wasn't a man you could talk to. Not like one of his mates. Not like Mick had been. This bloke was always goading him. Always taking his words and turning them around and around until they meant something different from what he'd said.
He turns and peeps up over the edge of the shell hole they are sheltering in. Tries to see what is happening over in the Russian lines. There is some movement there, but it is too far away. And his eyes are done.
He slumps back and tries not to look at Duigan. He wishes he was bloody well done of him. Wishes he was done of the whole bloody thing. The war had been over six weeks already, and here they were in Russia. Fighting the bloody Bolsheviks. Or trying to. With no supplies. No reinforcements. No food. Nothing.
He'd been stuck in this shell hole for three days with Duigan. Sitting side by side. Shivering in the cold. Starving. Crapping and pissing in the frost. Waiting for something to happen.
He looks across at Duigan again. He's still staring at him. Like he's going to be his next feed or something. They'd fuck-all food left. Fuck-all water. And fuck-all interest in the war any more.
"Fuckin' war", mutters O'Connor.
"Anyway, what's Gallipoli got that this place 'asn't got?", asks Duigan.
Sarcastic bastard! "At least it was warm", says Private O'Connor. "Warmer than it'll ever get here in this fucking place. What's it called again?"
"Archangel", says Duigan.
Private O'Connor snorts. "Sounds like something from Christmas. Which must be any bloody day now."
"Tomorrow", says Duigan. "But that's good, eh — didn't they ever tell you the war would be over by Christmas?"
"Happy fucking Christmas then", says O'Connor and closes his eyes. He doesn't want to talk to him any more. It's like being in a trench with a bloody Bolshie. He was always going on about how the Russians are entitled to defend their own land. How they were invaded. Always going on about war and land. About the Turks at Gallipoli. The Russians in Russia. And about the bloody Battle for Bathurst! That was stupid! They'd fought over that.
He'd been telling Duigan about his ancestors. How his great-grandfather had fought at the Battle of Waterloo, under Wellington, and Duigan reckons that his grandfather had fought at the Battle of Bathurst under General Windradyne.
Of course he told him that it was bullshit. There was no such battle.
"Just cause you never 'eard of it, just cause it ain't written in any history books, don't mean it didn't 'appen", he said. And he reckoned that General Windradyne and his Wiradjuri tribe had fought the soldiers to a standstill around Bathurst for two years. He went on and on about it. All the names of the blackfellas who had been killed. Where they were shot or wounded. Like he'd read every bloody detail of it in some bloody book.
He told him it was a real battle that really happened, unlike this one they were fighting.
"What do you mean?", O'Connor had asked him.
"'aven't you 'eard? The 'igh command is denying our existence. Saying they never sent troops against the Bolsheviks. 'ad nothing to do with this mess."
Private O'Connor stared at him carefully. He looks around. Lifts his head slightly over the edge of the crater. Suddenly nervous. As if looking for another hole to crawl to. Another person to huddle beneath the bullets with. Then he looks back at Private Duigan, who says to him, "Better keep your lid down. The Bolshies seem to be getting ready for another assault."
Now Private O'Connor really seems worried. "How many bullets you got left?", he asks. Although he knows already. Doesn't really need to ask again.
"Three. You?"
"Two." Neither man needs to look into the breech of his gun to confirm it. They've been counting the bullets over and over like they had counted the few remaining tins of food.
Private O'Connor isn't even sure his frozen fingers will be able to work his rifle any more if he needs to fire it. The frost is too deep in his bones.
"Christ!", says Private O'Connor. Wishes he really was at Gallipoli again. It had been horrific — blood and dust and flies and diarrhoea and bullets and everything — but it wasn't anything as bad as this. And he had mates with him there. Like Mick. And when you had mates you could laugh away the fear. Talk it out of you.
"Can you see anything over there?", he asks. "You blackfellas are supposed to have pretty good eyesight. Mine's buggered. All this snow."
Private Duigan doesn't even raise his head. "I can see they're going to overrun us if they attack again."
Private O'Connor reaches into his tunic and pulls out a small notebook. Bent and worn. He opens it and, grasping a small pencil painfully in his shaking fingers, he begins writing.
Private Duigan watches him for a moment. Like he watches him each time he writes and asks the same question again. "Tell it like it really 'appened, eh?"
Private O'Connor doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, "I'm recording this for history". He huddles closer over his small book. The letters are awkward and ill formed. He doesn't really know what to write. More about the snow and pain and cold and despair. But he doesn't want to talk to Private Duigan. Is sick of him. Sick of the cold. Sick of the war. Sick to his stomach. Sick of everything.
And he wishes he was with his old mate Mick again. Even here in this frozen hellhole. They went through most of the war together. Best mates. In thick and thin. Laughing at danger and death whenever it crept up inside them. And just before the end he was killed. A falling bloody bullet of all things. Minding his own business, miles from the front and a bullet falls smack on his head. Dead. Just like that. Fired from his own side, they reckoned.
The pencil falls from his fingers. He tries to pick it up again, but his fingers won't work. He keeps trying. Finally picks it up and just holds it.
"What good you reckon them words are?", Duigan asks. "They won't turn back a single bullet."
"I've got to write it like it happened", says O'Connor. "Someone has to write it."
"Yeah. Gotta write up 'istory just as it 'appened."
O'Connor grits his teeth. Bloody Abo! Wishes he'd never told him that he was planning to be a history teacher before the war came along. He'd recited the list of English kings and queens going back five centuries to him.
Then Duigan says, "'ere, why don't you write that we invade the Russians' land and they lay down their arms and let us take it without a fight. Then it will become the truth, right?"
O'Connor doesn't even look at him. Bastard! He closes the book and closes his eyes again. Wishes he were back in the dream of Gallipoli. Fighting with Mick. Laughing away the cold and frost and hunger and fear and sickness and everything.
He opens his eyes and looks at Private Duigan. Stares at him staring back at him. The whites of his eyes bright in the gloom. He wants to tell him to fuck off. To go and find another crater to hide in. But he asks, "How does a blackfella end up here fighting Russians?"
"'ow does a whitefella?", he asks him back.
"I was volunteered. This or jail."
"What charge?"
"Mutiny. Refused to go up the line in France. A whole battalion of us."
"I never 'eard about that", says Private Duigan.
"Nuh. It didn't exist either. And what about you?"
"Same thing. Avoiding prison."
"Where?"
"Near Cowra."
"Cowra? On what charge?"
"Being black. The family is still there. They call it a reserve. But it's a prison camp. You can't do anything there. Can't get a job. Can't visit your relatives. Can't go to your own land. Can't do anything at all without a permit."
Private O'Connor looks at him. Carefully. Studies the white eyes in the dark hidden face. "Bullshit!", he says.
Private Duigan only shrugs. "You're right. If it's not in a 'istory book it never 'appened."
"But you're not even a full blackfella. Look at your skin."
"It's black enough to prevent me from getting a drink in a pub. Black enough to prevent me getting citizenship. But white enough when they want me to join the army."
"Then why did you do it?"
"Why did you?"
Private O'Connor shrugs. "I dunno." Then, despite himself, he keeps talking. Feels the fear growing out of him. Just a little. "I thought I used to know, like when the war started and all, y'remember what it was like? You just had to be in it. Defend the empire and all that. Y'know?"
Private Duigan shakes his head slowly. "No. I don't know."
"Well then why the fuck are you fighting?"
"Seems to me like I've been fightin' so long I don't remember why any more. But my people've been fightin' forever, eh? After this it'll just be somethin' else."
O'Connor doesn't know what to say. So he turns and looks over the edge of the shell hole. Keeps his head low. Watches the movement in the distance.
"They're up to something", he says.
"What'll ya do if those Bolshies overrun us?", Duigan asks. "They might get your book and write in it. What do you reckon they'll say? That we fought and died valiantly? That we were stupid enough to have volunteered for a job we didn't want to do? That we were poorly led and abandoned in the field?"
"Have a look over the top", says O'Connor. Ignoring him again. "Tell me what you can see."
"Oright", says Private Duigan, making a great effort of rolling over onto his stomach and carefully lifting his head to peer out across the frosty landscape. "I can see the past", he says, "and it isn't anything I ever want to go back to".
"What can you see?", Private O'Connor asks louder. He wishes again he wasn't in this shallow trench with this smart-arsed blackfella who keeps turning his words back on him. Thinks of Mick again. Wishes he wasn't dead. Feels the cold chill of fear creeping into his guts again.
"I think they're gettin' ready to charge", says Duigan softly.
"Fuck!", says O'Connor. The fear is so cold within him now he is shivering. He reaches down to the frozen mud, rubs some in his hands until it thaws a little, and then smears it over his face. Colour of the earth.
"Where your people from?", Private Duigan asks. "You suddenly look familiar. Maybe we're related."
O'Connor is about to tell him, before he realises Duigan is making fun of him. Again. And then he knows he can't tell him anyway. It was his ancestors who had cleared the land around the Bathurst area. About 100 years ago. During the reign of King George III. During his insane years. Cleared the trees and cleared the blacks. Shot at them. Pinned them down and shot them. Like the Russkies had them pinned down. He was right. When you thought about it, it was a war. But how did you tell a fella that that's what your ancestors did to his ancestors? Even a pain-in-the-arse Abo like Duigan?
"Ireland and England mostly", says Private O'Connor.
"No Russian blood?"
"No!"
"Pity, eh?"
And despite himself, O'Connor almost laughs.
Duigan turns onto his belly again and looks over the rim of the shell hole. Says, "D'y'know who'd I'd like to see chargin' over the field? All the whitefella generals and politicians who put us 'ere."
"Yeah", says O'Connor, and smiles now. "I'd sure as shit like to see them leading a charge against the Russkies."
"No", says Duigan. "No. I want to see them runnin' at us. Right into my gun sights."
"What is your problem?", asks O'Connor. Shakes his head a little. Works his rifle bolt back and forward slowly. Keeps it moving. Gotta stop it freezing. "You sure you know which side you want to fight for?"
"I think I can recognise the enemy all right", he says.
"You Abos have got a hell of a chip on your shoulder", O'Connor says. "And anyway, what makes you think the generals and politicians will desert us here? Deny we were ever sent here?"
"Why not?", asks Private Duigan. "Now the war's over they've got political careers to think of. Lots of promises to break. Lots of people to tread on. We'll just be unknown soldiers, lost in action."
"It's not always like that", says Private O'Connor.
"Always 'as been as far I can remember — and I seem to be able to remember back at least a few 'undred years."
"Well I reckon that sometimes you blackfellas write your own history to suit yourselves too", says Private O'Connor.
And Private Duigan smiles. Those white teeth in the darkness. "Maybe we do", he says. "So maybe we 'ave more in common than we realise." And he reaches into his jacket, pulls out some tobacco and papers, makes a thin little cigarette, lights it and passes it across to O'Connor.
Private O'Connor looks at it a moment. Then takes it. Inhales it deeply. Feels the smoke warming his lungs. Filling him with hope and something more he can't describe. Something like wanting to reach out and shake Duigan by the hand. Really grasp him tightly. Laugh and tell him that he's a miserable pessimistic bastard, but that if the generals and politicians would only stick their heads up high enough they'd both knock 'em all off. Both of 'em would. And he clings to that feeling like it is the only true thing left in the world. Their only way out of this mess.
But before he can say a word there is a distant faint whistle and the nearer rattle of a machine gun.
"Shit!", says Private O'Connor. And draws a sharp breath. "It's on!"
Private Duigan lifts his head a little, then drops back down in the shell hole. Reaches into his jacket and begins rolling another thin cigarette. He looks sideways at Private O'Connor and smiles. Bright enough to read by.
"Save your bullets", he says. "Get out ya little book and write in that instead. But you'll need to be quick."
"Write what?", asks O'Connor.
"Write our future, eh?"
[From Unwritten Histories, to be published by Aboriginal Studies Press later this year.]