Endurance Page 30

  In the late afternoon, three Bedouins were brought into camp. They told of a narrow trail which led eastwards out of sight of Nebi Musa down into the Jordan Valley. This was an opportunity to get behind the Turk lines. No one mentioned whether the arrival of three Bedouins was a propitious omen. Within an hour First Brigade, with the Bedouins in the lead, made its way in single file along a small wadi and disappeared into a narrow rocky canyon in the fading evening light.

  Again we stopped not much before midnight to rest horses and attempt to sleep. By this stage my backside and legs were in agony. A cold whistling wind was dampened by drizzling rain. My sleep was broken by the noise of horses breaking their rope lines and pickets and whinnying their disapproval of our resting place. But I know I slept because I twice woke from a dream of standing on board a departing ship surrounded by my equipment and watching two figures on the dock disappearing in the distance. One figure was my mother. The other, I think, was Jilloch.

  At 3.15 a.m., stiff with cold, I was glad to be up and on the move. To reach the plain below us we had to drop thirteen hundred feet of altitude in less than two miles of goat track, for that was what we were on. We descended through treacherous, slippery conditions which I would never have attempted in daylight. I relied entirely on the good sense of my horse and concentrated on staying in the saddle.

  An hour before dawn the Light Horse moved into positions behind the Turk trenches outside Nebi Musa. Patrols were sent out to scout along the road into Jericho. By daybreak word came back the Turks had abandoned their positions on the heights and retreated back through Nebi Musa and to the north and east of Jericho. An advance party of the First Brigade galloped into Jericho and succeeded in cutting off and capturing a number of Turk soldiers. To their horror, they found several buildings full of dead and dying Turk soldiers suffering from typhus and left behind in the haste of evacuation. The Turk army had crossed to the eastern side of the Jordan River, destroying bridges as they went. By this time our horses had been without water for thirty hours and we were fortunate to find a small stream near the town. Jericho had fallen without fanfare.

  ●

  A poor choice of evening bivouac in Jericho results in my sleep being disturbed by the groans of wounded Turk soldiers and typhus patients. I make plans for an excursion the next day to see the new frontline along the Jordan River and an Australian doctor offers to accompany me. In the cold air before daybreak, a Box Ford and driver take us east until I can see the distant dark reflection of the waters of the Jordan. From here we proceed on foot.

  Knowing the road will be enfiladed by enemy fire in daytime, I find a small grove of gnarled olive trees and have the driver park under cover with the car facing home in case a hasty retreat is needed. With stills camera and tripod over my shoulder, we set off down the road as the sky begins to lighten.

  I can see a patrol of some fifteen Light Horse to the south, on our side of the Jordan, and a smaller detachment to the north. We head towards the main group, who are only four hundred yards away, with the hope of including them in photographs. Suddenly the dirt sprays up behind us as a volley of rifle fire informs me these soldiers are Turk cavalry. My companion and I drop to the ground. The driver is still back at the car. From where I am crouching I yell to him to get the car out of range and back to Jericho. The noise of the car engine starting fills the still morning air. Unfortunately, the valley is now flooded in bright sunlight and the car and the great cloud of dust it creates is more than enough to attract the attention of Turk artillery batteries across the Jordan. The first ten-pounder shell lands well short. The second lands alongside the road, but again well behind the now-speeding vehicle. The commotion is the distraction we need. There is nothing for it but to abandon my camera. My companion and I take to our feet and sprint for cover, looking about wildly as we run. As I learned in Ypres, a fast-moving vehicle is a hard target for artillery, but it is still a few minutes before the driver makes it out of range. Meanwhile, we are in sight and in range, and there is no cover.

  In short time I am completely winded. Spying a patch of saltbush no more than a few feet high, we go to ground. The Turks know exactly where we are and continue their firing, but do not advance on us. We crawl under cover as far as we can. My heart races with the whine of bullets over our heads and occasional ping off nearby rocks. Peering through scrub I see the two sections of Turk cavalry join up, all the time watching intently for us. Perhaps fearing a trap, they do not come searching for us.

  Instead they use their artillery to flush us out. Shells commence falling where we have gone to ground. Our situation is perilous because in this countryside you can literally see for miles and there is little groundcover other than the saltbush and my precious wildflowers.

  As the ground warms up in the sun, I remonstrate with myself at my own foolishness. How could I have been so daft, so bull-headed, as to go off without checking and without an escort? To have come through Ypres and risk losing my life here, of all places! Meanwhile, the Turks are conferring and seem reluctant to come after us. To stand up means the risk of taking a bullet, so we lie where we are on the baking hot sand for almost two hours. The cavalry patrol moves on, but several of their number are still in sight. We tear up sections of saltbush, shove it under the back of our belts and holding up other bunches as a screen we wriggle backwards some hundreds of yards. I have plenty of time to study the anemones, narcissi and marguerites. Eventually we make it back to the road to Jericho, where we are picked up by a rescue party of Light Horse. I am hugely embarrassed, but have a story to tell.

  ●

  My time in Palestine was coming to an end. The photographs I had taken were needed for the AIF exhibition at Australia House, London, in May. One of my last commitments was to rejoin Captain Ross Smith at the First Squadron AFC for the promised opportunity to film a bombing raid. My memories of that day are a mixture of awe and regret: awe at the majestic grandeur of the Judean mountains bordering the rippleless blue of the Dead Sea, and regret that we were bombing Kerak—which, I discovered, was home to a twelfth-century castle built by Crusaders and besieged at one time by Saladin. It was a huge citadel perched on a hilltop, with impressive stone battlements and a moat on one side. It must have seemed truly impregnable in the twelfth century. But it had no defence against attack from the air. One after another, the Bristols dived on Kerak and released their hundred-pound bombs. Turk troops ran for cover as the bombs exploded on rooftops and in courtyards. Ancient masonry walls crumbled and smoke and dust rose heavenwards, soon obscuring the mountain top. Then it was our turn. The Bristol engine screamed as the plane descended at frightening speed. The bomb was released and, as the nose of the aeroplane lifted, my arms and shoulders were pressed down on the fuselage as I clung to my camera and wound the film through. Afterwards I felt very out of sorts in the mess as the pilots enthusiastically discussed the success of the raid and speculated on the number killed.

  Despite my original misgivings, Palestine had opened my eyes to a beauty unexpected. There was much more I would have liked to have seen and so, after an exhausting time cleaning and packing all my equipment, I was in a sombre mood as I shepherded my boxes on the train journey back to Cairo. In early March I returned to the Continental Hotel, where I had stayed on arrival and which had the benefit at least of being familiar. It had been commandeered by the British forces and was full of red tabs. Arriving from the train station I was ready to collapse, but there was a mountain of work in the darkroom and with military censors which I hoped to do in just over a week.

  Cairo was a hive of activity and rumours. The news from Europe was dismal. With Russia out of the war, the German armies from the Eastern Front had now arrived in France. The British advance had ground to a halt after the slaughter at Ypres. As a result, the Belgian coastal ports remained in German hands, and so its U-boat campaign continued. And how many more times could I run the gauntlet of the submarines? I became convinced from what I heard that I would never make it out of th
e Mediterranean. Even if I made it onto a lifeboat, I would almost certainly lose all my work. In a fatalistic mood, I decided, despite a shortage of film stock, to completely duplicate the cine film and make one complete set of photographic prints to leave with GHQ in Cairo.

  Gullett met me in Cairo and helped me deal with the censors. As a diversion we walked the ancient laneways of the old town, past the mosques, markets and bazaars, fruit vendors, wood-turners, jewellers and sellers of antiquities, ornate filigree and curios. After my two months in the desert, the noise, smells and colours of Cairo revitalised my senses. Camels overladen with sugarcane, olives and figs moved through crowds of Arabs wearing garments of every hue. The women, though, were dressed completely in black from their heads to their silver-braceleted feet, and all the time their eyes sparkling and darting mysteriously above their yashmaks.

  At Gullett’s insistence, I attended a ‘soiree’ hosted by Lieutenant Colonel Bourchier, who had led the Fourth Brigade in the charge on Beersheba. Bourchier introduced me to the usual gathering of red tabs and was especially gushing over my journey with Shackleton. Several guests were from the Bandmann Opera Company, which was then performing in Cairo. And so it was I met one of their lead sopranos, Miss Antoinette Thierault-Leighton. She was tiny, raven-haired with dark brown eyes and a silky olive complexion. Her girlish smile melted away my usual reserve. Our introduction was brief, but I was very taken by her, and when I learned the company was performing the following evening at the city’s Khedivial Opera House, I decided to go.

  Despite many trips to the theatre in London, I had never seen a production of The Yeomen of the Guard. Before I knew it, the applause was dying down after the final curtain and I had bluffed my way inside the stage door and handed over my card to be delivered to Miss Thierault-Leighton. I waited what seemed an eternity. It was very hot. All sorts of people came and went. No one paid any attention to me. The flowers which I had clung to throughout the performance were now very much the worse for wear. What if she had other fellows waiting for her?

  ‘Capitaine Frank ’Urley?’

  ‘Miss Thierault . . .’

  ‘Toni, please.’

  ‘Toni. I hope you remember, I was at Colonel Bourchier’s. Your singing was wonderful!’

  ‘Of course I remember. You were with Shackleton.’

  The Shackleton reputation proved of enduring value, despite the war. We stood facing each other until I noticed neither one of us was speaking and remembered what I had been rehearsing in my head.

  ‘I wanted to ask if you would join me for supper?’

  At this her face became thoughtful, and she was silent for several seconds before replying. ‘There is a small restaurant we sometimes go across the square.’

  That evening I forgot about U-boats and the war and was instead engrossed in my efforts to impress this young singer, made harder by her limited English and my complete lack of French.

  ‘I sing in English,’ Toni explained, ‘but my speaking is not so good. My tutors were Gilbert and Sullivan.’

  ‘I can think of none better. They are my favourite.’

  ‘And sometimes if I am excited I start speaking Urdu.’

  ‘Urdu?’

  ‘From India, where I was born.’

  Antoinette captured all that was exciting and mysterious about Cairo and the Middle East, with her French accent, dark hair and playful eyes. She was unlike the typical expatriate women of Australian or English society. There were a number of these very prim and proper matronly wives, who chaperoned their military husbands through the moral uncertainties of Cairo. Antoinette was a far cry from all this; she was cultured and captivating in a European way, and neither intimidating nor boorish. I became ridiculously infatuated with her and with the idea of her. At the theatre she held centre stage and all eyes were on her. Offstage she seemed carefree and vivacious, with no airs or graces. I was spellbound.

  I saw The Yeomen of the Guard again the following evening, and on this occasion was able to concentrate sufficiently to follow the story. Antoinette played Phoebe, who is forced to endure the affections of an oaf so as to steal the key to a prison cell. Phoebe contemplates matrimony:

  . . . of all the world of men, I wonder whom?

  To think that he whom I am to wed is now alive and somewhere!

  Perhaps far away, perhaps close at hand! And I know him not!

  Antoinette’s voice filled the theatre:

  Were I thy bride,

  Then all the world beside

  Were not too wide

  To hold my wealth of love.

  Again I waited backstage with flowers, frequently mopping my brow to stop perspiration running down to my shirt collar. I had that day purchased a new Light Horse uniform complete with cream jodhpurs, but it was proving uncomfortably warm. Almost an hour passed before a young cast member informed me Miss Thierault had left to attend another engagement.

  Undeterred, I sent a letter inviting her to lunch the next day at the dining room at Shepheard’s Hotel. There I sat, shifting awkwardly at a white-linen-covered table for two, pondering if the heat had affected me. I thought of Les Blake, whom I had dismissed as having gone woman crazy in the turmoil of wartime London. Having become fearful he would not survive the war, it seemed to me he had lost all discrimination. Had the same happened to me?

  My persistence had always been greater than my patience, and after half an hour I was rewarded by the arrival of Toni, dressed very simply compared to the gay costume of the theatre. She guided me through the menu, which she knew quite well, and questioned me about my family and my work.

  ‘And, Frank, after the war, what will you do?’

  I had given this little thought.

  ‘If my exhibition in London is a success, I would like to take it to Australia. My mother is there, I have not seen her for over four years. And I’ve never had a chance to exhibit my Antarctic photographs.’

  ‘And do you have moving pictures like The Somme? Last year, everyone in Cairo, they go to see this. More than see any musical.’

  ‘Yes, in London too people flocked to this film. They wanted to have an idea of the war. But it was shot away from the front and before the terrible battles of the Somme took place. My cinefilm is of the fighting at Ypres, but I have not had time to do editing or captions yet.’

  ‘Monsieur Bandmann says the moving pictures will put him out of business.’

  I chuckled at this. ‘Pictures without music would be poor entertainment, I think. They can’t compare to musicals and operas. The stage shows in London always cheered me up, even amid the worst doom and gloom.’

  Antoinette told me of her family but I struggled to follow it all.

  ‘My father was in French militaire and all the time we travel. I was born in Calcutta. I am the only children. Then, you see, we move to Casablanca, and now my father, he lives in Alexandria. My mother she is not alive. In Alexandria, after school, I am auditioning and Monsieur Bandmann he likes my voice and asks I join his company. So now I stay in Cairo.’

  We arranged to meet a few days later so Toni could show me her favourite parts of the city. In the meantime, Gullett and I pored over negatives and made our selection for the Light Horse section of the exhibition.

  By the end of that week, however, the stalemate in Europe had turned into a catastrophe. German reinforcements broke through in France and Flanders and recaptured all the Allied gains of the last two years of fighting. The Germans advanced through the Somme and occupied Pozières. Ypres and Passchendaele were back in German hands. I had persuaded myself that those killed at Ypres died for a purpose, but now it all seemed utterly senseless. What was the point of my photographs of the 1917 campaign when those gains were now lost, when the men in those photographs were likely wounded or dead? Who could bear to look at reminders of such wanton sacrifice? There was nothing to celebrate. Every image was mournful to me. The AIF London exhibition would surely be cancelled. It now seemed inevitable the war would run a few more years an
d I had no enthusiasm to return to the shellfire in France.

  I attended all Antoinette’s performances, and delivered flowers backstage both to see her and to discourage any rivals. Attendance to my photographic work suffered and Gullett lost patience after I failed to turn up on several occasions. He was more than a little rude I thought when Toni visited me at headquarters.

  I was so besotted, I found myself scheming opportunities of being together. Nothing else seemed important. The war filled me with dismay. Gullett and I were at odds editing my work. The London exhibition seemed a lost cause. I concluded that I was also very homesick, just as I was at the end of the Mawson expedition when I was asked to stay another winter.

  The feelings evoked those several days after my first meeting with Toni came from a part of me I scarce knew existed. I was aware I had been too long in the company of men. My experience of women was limited. In fact, I realised, I had spent several years not just without women friends but without any female society. Female conversation and lingering over a fancy hotel dinner were new experiences. But of what interest was I to Toni? It dawned on me to consider how others might see me. What did Toni think of me? For someone who had always cared little about the views of others, it was suddenly important that Toni should return my affection.

  Toni suggested we have morning tea at Groppi, a cafe off one of the main squares and a popular meeting place for the expatriate European community and well-to-do Egyptian society. I sensed all eyes were on us as Antoinette took my arm and the maître d’ led us to our table. Antoinette looked stunningly beautiful. I had just my one decent army suit, but Antoinette’s clothing was always new and always immaculate.

  ‘You have visited my theatre many times.’ Toni leaned forwards across the cafe table. ‘You should let me see you at your work.’

  Toni understood that I was almost always at work, in the field or in the developing lab.

  ‘I’m afraid you would be quickly bored. My work is quite solitary.’