Poetry & Short Stories

‘Shellshocked’

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With three short blasts of the whistle, my comrades and I rush over the top of the trench. Brandishing our rifles, we charge through No Man’s Land – a place full of coils of barbed wire, craters, and bloated corpses.

As we run towards the Turkish trenches, machine guns start spitting bullets at us. Dozens of my comrades fall.

I take cover by sliding into a crater.

Shells start falling, and the whole world shakes violently.

I lay in the crater like a coward, wishing I was somewhere else. My comrades continue charging, more of them falling to the machine guns.

A middle-aged Sergeant suddenly slips in beside me.

“C’mon, mate,” he says, grabbing me by the shoulder and lifting me up. “Push on. Push on!”

We climb out, but as soon as we straighten up, a bullet flies into my right leg. I stumble before falling.

Half the Sergeant’s head is suddenly blown away. Blood splatters everywhere. His body falls on top of me and pins me to the ground.

All I can hear are screams, the boom of exploding shells, and the whistle of flying bullets.

*

Plagued by nightmares ever since he arrived at Gallipoli, Robert Freeman wakes gasping for air.

It feels like the ground is vibrating from exploding shells, but he quickly realises that the ground is actually the floor of the steamship he’s on. The vibration is being caused by its engines. He’s sitting at a table in the ship’s small bar, an empty whisky glass in front of him.

Robert looks down at where his lower right leg should be. The bullet had shattered his tibia beyond repair, so it had to be amputated. He was subsequently deemed unfit for service and sent back to Australia aboard the hospital ship Kyarra.

Looking out the window, he recognises the ragged cliffs of the Tasman Peninsula. They should arrive at his hometown of Carnarvon – the once infamous Port Arthur penal settlement – very shortly.

He grabs his crutches and heads out to the open deck at the bow of the ship. Carnarvon is in the distance, surrounded by a dense forest of eucalypts. He can clearly make out the ruins of the penitentiary and the other convict era buildings.

After Port Arthur closed in 1877, Tasmania’s government subdivided the site and sold it at auction. Robert’s father, John, bought one of the plots of land and built a weatherboard cottage on it for his family. He named it Willow Cottage. It had an apple orchard out the back. Robert and his father would pick the apples when they were in season and sell them to the local townspeople. His mother, Abigail, would do household tasks.

The family’s life was a comfortable one, until the Great War came along. Robert, and his father went off to fight, leaving his mother behind.

Robert remembers how inhospitable Gallipoli was. Its ground was rocky, its vegetation sparse. Steep ravines were littered throughout the hilly land. Carnarvon, on the other hand, is hospitable. Even though it is hilly and rocky like Gallipoli, it has a lot more vegetation and gives off a more peaceful atmosphere.

As the steamship edges closer to Carnarvon’s jetty, Robert lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. Even though it’s nice to be home, his stomach is churning. How will his mother respond to him after such a long absence? How will he fit back into normal routines? Only time will tell.

*

Robert’s mother, a tall and slender woman wearing a full dark-grey skirt with a matching jacket and hat, is waiting eagerly for the steamship to dock at Carnarvon’s jetty.

For her, family is everything. She’d do anything to keep the Freemans together. When the war broke out, Robert and John insisted on enlisting. It was their duty, they said. Abigail had pleaded with them to sit out the war, but to no avail: they signed up anyway. When a telegram back in May informed her that John had been killed in action, she was so grief-stricken that getting out of bed and facing daily tasks seemed impossible. Robert was still alive, though, so she found solace in that. When she received his letter last week telling her he’d lost his leg and was coming home, she was relieved and overjoyed. Her son had been wounded, but at least he hadn’t been killed.

The ship eventually docks at the jetty, and the passengers start walking down the gangway. Abigail sees Robert straight away and notices the crutches and his missing leg. He also looks old, thin, and sad. This shocks her: he’d been a robust young man before he left for the war.

Robert sees his mother and approaches her. When they embrace, Abigail feels that there’s nothing of him – he’s just skin and bone! Weren’t his rations large enough? She buries her face in his bony shoulder and starts weeping.

*

Willow Cottage is a simple but comfortable home. It has a combined kitchen and dining area, and two bedrooms. The bathroom and laundry are in a lean-to at the back. It is first-class when compared to trenches, dug-outs, and army tents.

“You want a cup of tea?” Abigail asks as they walk inside.

“That’d be nice. Thank you.”

As his mother sets about making his tea, Robert heads to his bedroom. When he enters, he sees it hasn’t been changed since he departed for the war. Panelled in Tasmanian blackwood, it has a single bed, a bedside table, a wardrobe, and a dressing table.

Sitting on the bed, Robert opens his army pack and takes out the mud-stained diary he’d kept while fighting at Gallipoli. He fans the pages. Interleaved between two of them is a photograph of the whole family taken before the war. Robert stares at it for a few moments before putting it back and snapping the diary shut. He places it on his bedside table and returns to the kitchen, where his mother has just finished pouring three cups of tea.

“Thanks, Mum,” Robert says, taking a seat at the table.

“No thanks needed.” Pausing, she adds, “So, are you happy to be home?”

“I’m relieved, more than anything else.”

“I’m just grateful to have you safely home,” his mother says, blinking away a tear.

Robert looks down at his cup. He is relieved to be home, but it feels odd to be back. He hadn’t realised until today how accustomed he’d grown to living in dirty, rat-invested accommodation that smelt of rotting corpses. He takes a sip of his tea and forces a smile.

*

Dinner that night was vegetable soup, which tasted so delicious that Robert’s spoon was quickly scraping the bottom of the bowl. It was a first-rate meal for Robert, who’d survived Gallipoli on a diet of tinned bully beef, army biscuits, and plum and apple jam.

A hand suddenly touches on his upper arm. He jumps and falls out of his chair, his fists raised, his eyes wide.

“Robert, it’s okay, it was just me,” his mother says, her arm still hanging in mid-air. “I was just going to ask if you’d like more soup.”

“I’m sorry,” Robert says, covering his face with his hands.

His lips start trembling as he’s overcome with fatigue. Abigail rushes over to embrace him as he starts sobbing uncontrollably.

*

That night, Robert lays in bed, staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t want to go to sleep. If he does, he’ll have nightmares about the war.

He grabs his war diary and starts flicking through it again. His first entries are detailed, considered, self-conscious. His final entries are the exact opposite: they’re brief, less detailed, and lack depth. The very last entry, written on the day he lost his leg, reads: Early morning. Exhausted. Sick of being here. He closes the diary and places it back on his bedside table.

*

The next day, Robert ventures up to the Tasman Villa for a drink. He wants to escape the confines of Willow Cottage and spend some time catching up with the people.

The Tasman Villa was Carnarvon’s local guest house and bar. About half a dozen people are already inside, sitting on wooden stools. Tobacco smoke hangs in the air. Sawdust has been strewn over the floor to absorb spilt beer. Bottles of beer, wine, and whiskey line the shelves behind the bar.

Everyone turns their head as Robert enters. He recognises William Langford, whom everyone calls Old Bill. He’s in his seventies now. His hair is a silvery grey, and he sports a bushy moustache. He always wears brown tweed suits, and today is no exception. He used to be one of Port Arthur’s wardens back in the convict days. When the prison closed and the land was put to auction, he bought the Visiting Magistrate’s House.

“G’day, Robert!” Bill calls. “Back with us, I see. Come over and have a drink. Let’s have a yarn.”

“How are you, Bill?” he asks.

“I’m very well,” he replies, glancing at Robert’s crutches. “More importantly, how’re you?”

“Not bad.”

Robert orders a drink, and the bartender passes it over. Hoping Bill won’t ask him anything about the war, he takes a swig. He just wants to put Gallipoli behind him and settle back into normal life.

“I’m sorry about your father. He was a good man. He’ll be missed.”

“Thank you.”

When a hand suddenly grips his shoulder, Robert spins around and smashes his fist into the hand’s owner, who yelps and topples to the floor.

With his heart pounding against his ribs, Robert looks down at Victor Morris, a former soldier and the current mayor of Carnarvon. He’s a tall, lean man who likes to mingle with the townspeople.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Morris,” Robert stammers.

Victor is holding his nose. Robert notices blood trickling through his fingers. Images of a dirty, blood-stained land filled with rotting corpses flash across his mind.

“Here, Victor,” Bill says, holding out his handkerchief.

Covering his nose, Victor allows Bill help him up.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Morris. Guess I’m a bit jumpy.”

“It’s all right, Robert,” Victor manages to say.

*

Later, after Victor’s nose stops bleeding and is found not to be broken, he sits Robert down at one of the pub’s tables.

“I know you only got back from the war yesterday. War can do horrible things to a man, both physically and mentally. I know from experience. And it seems to me that the war has unfortunately affected you badly.”

Victor had fought in the New Zealand Wars in the 1800s, but has never talked about the conflict.

“I just want to settle back into normal life,” Robert says after a moment.

“That’s fair, but I don’t think you ever will. Not really. Physical scars are one thing, but you can also have mental scars that make it hard for you to feel content.”

“I don’t want to sit around remembering the war all the time. What I should do?”

“There’s no easy answer to that. I’d suggest taking each day as they come. Keep busy. Hopefully the worst of the demons will gradually fade away.”

Nodding slowly, Robert says, “That sounds like a plan. Might give it a go.”

If you or someone you know is suffering from mental illness, you can call Lifeline on 13 11 14, Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636, or the Suicide Call Back Service on 1300 659 467. For immediate assistance, call 000.

Author’s note

I would like to thank Maggie Veness, Ciaran Hogan, Veryan Hann, Heather Adami, and Wendy Tickner for proofreading this story and providing me with valuable suggestions and feedback.

I would also like to thank Susan Hood for answering my questions about Port Arthur / Carnarvon during the 1910s.

Bibliography

‘Shellshocked’ is a work of fiction. Its characters never existed. Having said this, the events and places described in the story draw heavily on historical fact.

For those interested, I found the following sources helpful during the writing of the story.

About the author

Callum J. Jones studied English, History, and Journalism at the University of Tasmania. He has written fiction and non-fiction for The Tasmanian Times since 2018. He can be traced by the smell of fresh coffee.

Follow him on Twitter (@Callum_Jones_10) and Facebook (@callum.j.jones.creative).

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