Read Online Territory by Judy Nunn - Free Book Online Page B

sky, ‘utterly fearless.’ A chip off the old block, he was thinking. A son any man would be proud to call his own. And the boy worshipped him. Always had.
    Jock recalled the barbecue at a neighbouring homestead when Terry had been barely ten years old. Asked how he wanted his steak cooked, the boy had loudly stated, ‘Same as the old man, rare and bloody, it’s the only way.’ Then, encouraged by his father’s delighted guffaw, he’d added, ‘Just cut its horns off and wipe its arse.’ He’d heard his father say it in male company on a number of occasions.
    The women had been disapproving, and Terence’s two younger brothers had ducked for cover, fearing their father’s wrath. But, far from angry, Jock had laughed fit to burst. ‘A chip off the old block,’ he’d proudly said to his mates when he’d regained his composure. ‘That boy’s a chip off the old block.’ He’d been saying it ever since.
    And now his son was a hero. Defending his country just like his father had. And, just like his father, he was fearless in the face of battle.
    Over the years, Jock had conveniently forgotten that he had never fired a shot in combat. He was a Gallipoli veteran and you didn’t get a more honourable war record than that. The truth was that Jock could remember, in the dead of night, climbing down the rope netting, full tackleon his back, and into the boats. And he could remember the boats being towed by the pinnaces away from the ships and then released near the shore. He could remember rowing with all his might. They’d chanted as they’d rowed and he’d concentrated on the heaving back of the man in front of him, just as he knew the man seated behind him was concentrating on his back. ‘Heave! two, three, four …’ They were a team, ‘two three four …’ Then all hell had broken loose. That was the last thing Jock remembered. The noise! The unspeakable noise!
    Then nothing but silence. He barely remembered the hospital ship. A month or so later, he recalled the English nurses and the crisp cotton sheets of the sanatorium, but all remained silence. Six months later, back in Australia, honourably discharged from the army on medical grounds, his was still a world without sound. It was nine months before his hearing started to return, and then only slowly.
    Jock had been sorely cheated. Like so many, keen for adventure, eager to fight a war, he’d been quick to volunteer, even at the age of thirty-three. He’d lied about his age and, as he’d looked every bit as fit and strong as the men ten years his junior who were enlisting beside him, no-one had raised an eyebrow. He’d suffered no guilt at leaving behind a wife with a three-year-old daughter and a new baby son; King and Country called, he said. And he’d revelled in training camp. He loved army life and the rigours it entailed, he was a natural soldier who ached for battle. And he’d never got to fire one bloody shot! He’d been cheated, all right.
    It didn’t help, after the war at Anzac Day reunions, when old army buddies said, ‘Jesus, Jock, you were well out of it, count your lucky stars, mate.’ At first he’d thought they were mocking him. But he soon realised they weren’t. ‘Bloody hideous war,’ they said. ‘Nothing noble about it, I can tell you.’ ‘You can stick the army right upyour arse, mate.’ They all seemed to be in agreement, but Jock did not concur one bit. A military life was a noble life and if a war was thrown in then all the better.
    He stopped going to reunions where he might meet disenchanted fellow veterans and, from the stories of others, he created his own history. But his was a noble history and his battles were glorious. Over the years, nobody, his wife, his four children, even his domineering father, ever doubted the veracity of Jock’s stories. Jock Galloway