A Field Near Pozieres.....by Keith Hansen .

August 2015
The air bit hard on the unshaven skin, with a crisp frosty edge, on the late July morning. The
battle had begun on the 23rd, near the town on Pozieres, in the Picardy region of Northern
France. Shells whistled overhead, whispering death in the ears of the kaki uniformed soldiers of
the 18th battalion, a unit formed in Auburn, Sydney in 1914. They had seen destructive action
Gallipoli, suffering tragic losses during the prolonged, futile campaign. The conflict came to an
end when giant Howitzer cannons, were brought forward, being able to blow a battleship, out of
the straights of Dardanelles.
I prayed that I would survive the barrage, being launched by the German Artillery. Clinging
to the red clay earth, clods fell onto my back slowly smothering me as the erupted soil
descended from heaven, rocks tearing into my flesh as flint razors, branches of dismembered fir
trees, slapping in wild frenzy. Landing on my rucksack, cushioning my fall, I prayed to god, that I
had survived the explosive onslaught.
I could see the other squad members covering a Lewis gun with burlap hessian bags, being
ready to repel a German infantry attack. Gas attacks had been forecast and the devastation they
expelled had everyone on edge. Not a calm before the storm, just a lethal softening up by high
explosion. The causalities from mustard gas attacks were staggering. Most who survived were
out of the trenches, if caught down low, the mustard gas settled on you, tearing your lungs
apart.
'Harry. Can you see forward across the trenches? Any Bosch reared their heads yet.' Corporal
Bakers voice boomed, from the lower wet sludge of the deep carved, clay trench. He sat on a
tea chest working a field radio that connected to field headquarters. Baker fiddled with the
controls as he wiped his long unshaven face with hankichef, a bandana he carried with him as a
keepsake.
'Jeeze, come in you moth-eaten bunch of Generals. The radio is off the air, the valves must be
rattled. Here we are, stuck in a field in France, waiting for a major assault and we're cut off from
the base.'
He turns and looks up to Harry and calls ' Private Martin, take the torch and follow the cable and
see where its broken. Take the joining tools and see what you can do.'
Harry takes the lamp, and crawls over the trench, keeping low a stray bullets whiz overhead. He
takes hold of the cable and moves towards the mist, bypassing a cow that lay dead, in the shell
pocked field. A green vapor descended upon him, and he began to cough violently. Wrapping his
bandana around his face he crawled back to the trench where Corporal Baker and his squad had
dug in. The green poisonous mist, of mustard gas filled the trench, with tangled bodies strewn
around. They had no time or warning to don their gasmasks.
'For the love of...oh hell. Anyone alive down there?' Harry yelled straining his ear, waiting for
a reply. 'Corporal Baker, should I take the radio?' No reply. Only silence against the roar of
gunfire deadened by the mist.
Suddenly as if the devil had commanded, the apparition of Satan to appear, gas masked
German came screaming over the trenches, fixed bayonets killing the stunned gassed soldiers
who lay in the pools of stagnant water that filled the crudely dug, clay earth trenches.
Harry thought, 'should I play dead, hoping they'll pass me by.' He rolled under a table where
an officer lay, killed by the initial barrage.
'No such luck.' He said under his breath. 'Best I get the bastards before they do me in.'
He reached for a revolver that was under his coat in a heavy leather holster. His last resort for
when he ran out of bullets in the Lee Enfield rifle that was covered in mud.

'Bloody gun could jam and explode in my hand. I'll take my chances with the pistol.' he told
himself.
Shadowy shapes of the Bosch infantry moved before him as ducks in a shooting range. His fired
within ten feet of the figure with the bayoneted. The figure spun as the rifle launched into the
air impaling the other German who stood alongside him.
'Now that was a doppelganger of a shoot.' Harry yelled as he emptied the chamber into the
cluster of enemy troops. They retreated not knowing where the fire was coming from. He had
them rattled, fearing they were caught in a crossfire, the grey clad Germans retreated, past the
barbwire, towards their own lines.
Harry fumbled with a handful of bullets, he dug out from his greatcoat pocket, and loaded into
the shouldering revolver.
'Lucky I brought you along. Dad said you would come in handy....a relic of the Boar war Uncle
Langford insisted I bring this to the battlefront in Europe.' Harry kissed the barrel of the
revolver, as if it were an angles forehead. A mock ritual he had learned from Uncle Langford,
who had survived the conflict in South Africa.
Harry collected his rifle and moved forward unable to breath as he lost consciousness.
He drifted far away on the cold damp earth where no soft grass grew. Only mud and blackened
soil. The turmoil of war.
When Harry came to, he remembered a shark lipped riverbank, down the South Coast of NSW,
near the farmlands of Nowra. Scarce few trees touched the cerulean blue sky, and yet he was at
home on the dairy farm, that John and Lucy Cook had built in the mid 1800's. They had arrived
from Liverpool about 1816 with scarce few belongings. Two saddlebags and Lucy brought along
an old green tin trunk.
Now he was in an army field hospital bed in Picardy. Over him hovered a nurse in a crisp
white uniform and assistants who were filling trays with water and washing faces.
This was very different to Egypt where any Army maneuver seemed to be hampered by a
chronic shortage of water.
He knew that he had been wounded in some way or manner. A man in a white frock coat and a
clipboard came over to him, towering as if he was about to deliver a judgment.
'Private Martin...service no 3143 ... you have been mustard gassed. You are very lucky to have
survived.'
'And the others.' He asked?
'Not so lucky at all. You only survived because you were out of the trench.'
'I was tracing the broken cable, the wire that connected the field radio' he blinked as if being
accused.' I was under orders to leave the trench.'
'Yes. Well those in the trench caught the full effect of the poison gas.'
'Are there no survivors?'
'I'm very sorry Martin.'
'All the others....no hope.'
The medical orderly shook his head and walked away sighing softly.
'Tomorrow is another day Mr. Martin.' The nurse said as she lifted his pillow under his head.
Youll be back on board soon enough. Your injuries are only minor.'
'You mean I won't be sent back home.' Harry asked?
'Oh no. Only rest and leave, in England. You'll have a lovely time over there.'
'For how long.' Asked Harry.
'Oh...long enough for ample dark brown ales an' hot roasts with Yorkshire puddings.' The nurse
exclaimed casting a smile and a wink on a rather handsome face. Even if wearied, by long hours

of duty in the field hospital ward, and a war, few could comprehend, the headlines claiming,
victory is near.
Stoke on Trent Hospital lay in secluded gardens, by a small winding river, towards the north of
London. Small boats, and the odd barge moved along the still waters, where willow trees
dipped branches into the shallow depths. Harry sat in a reclining chair, a long cane fishing rod in
his bandaged hand. Two other men and a woman sat nearby.
'Are you planning to spend the war trying to catch fish?' The rather plump woman in the blue
striped dress asked smugly, in an overbearing tone.
'No. I'm going to catch one and then multiply it into millions to feed the whole army.' Harry
replied.
'Is Harry your real name or just a nickname.' she asked rather dryly.
'Actually its Henry Albert. I'm named after kings.'
'Aye...for Harry and England. So to speak.' She added. 'Are you from England by any chance?'
'My grandfather is. An expat. Migrated from England in 1851. To Balart for the gold rush. You
know. The giant nugget. The welcome stranger and all that stuff.'
'Oh I see. So you're not of convict stock as ...well...many of you are, you know.' She grew stiff.
'Transported to the colonies, like the Irish. A rebellious lot, they are.'
Harry laughed at this and continued. 'My grandfather came from Old Virginia, United
States. Sailed to England and lived at Winchelsea the pirate town. South Coast near Brighton.
Now a tourist spot, for holiday makers, Winchelsea is. So I'm told.'
'Oh an American. Well its about time they stopped supplying the axis, our enemies with guns
and ammunition. Its a real affront to British decency I say.' she said rather nastily in a drawn
breath. 'They have no royal family in America. No loyalty, to the crown of Britain.
A fat man, puffing on a briar pipe, in a Harris Tweed jacket spoke up, as he was sitting
nearby in earshot. 'The real root of the problem is the Irish situation. House of Parliament won't
give into the Republicans demands in Ireland. They want a free state with home rule. Got the
American sympathys on their side.'
'Can't they reach a compromise? This for that, instead of tit for tat.' Harry said.
'Not that simple old boy. The establishment in Britain has to come down off their high horse
first.' the well-dressed man replied, filling his briar pipe with a plug of sweet tobacco.
'Well if you ask me, all the Colonies are asking too much of the Crown.' she snipped with a
ladylike voice. And after all the Americans are still part of the empire. Only Canada can face the
truth, after all is said and done. They've come forward to the battlefront, with troops and guns.'
'They have remained loyal.' said Harry again casting his lure into the river. 'Where I come from
everyone is very loyal to the rulers of the British Empire.'
'Yes. The sun never sets on our foreign lands.' She adds. 'By the way I'm Margaret Crompton.
Secretary of the local Monarchist League. You should all join you know. Show of strength.' She
exclaims in a rising voice.
'Pleasure to meet you. I'm Henry Martin from Darlington in Sydney.' He rises up to shake hands
and coughs. 'Don't worry. Not contagious, something I got it in the trenches. Caught the gassing
near Poitiers.'
'Sorry to hear that, boy. A very nasty business.' He paused and adjusted his bow tie.
'I'm Bejele Jarnbakker from South Africa, a farmer who is up here, in England on business, selling
livestock. The Boars are getting restless down in South Africa, once again. Civil war and all.' He
shrugged and waved his hands as South Africians are prone to do. 'There could be another
major showdown in Africa, to rival the conflict in Europe. The Belguims are mustering their

Africian troops, in the Congo, along with the British in Kenya. The Huns need the raw resources,
that Africa offers to their war effort.
They all sat in silence, by the tranquil riverbank, enjoying the sun filled afternoon. Across the
sky a blimp moved into position ready to spot enemy aircraft approaching from across the great
moat that sanctified the British Isles from the conflict in Europe, across the English Channel. The
tempest that raged, across the channel in Northern Europe, and yet they were safe here in a
garden much like paradise.
Jarnbakker drew his breath and spoke slowly. 'The real damage was done in Victorian times,
under her rule, the old dame, Queen Victoria, and her advisors would not see reason, to give
freedom to any of the dominions. Such as Ireland. Too close to home, for the establishments
liking!'
'I see, in the Times newspaper, it has been reported, that Ireland shall receive home rule. Under
certain conditions.' Harry interjected. 'That Southern Ireland remains part of British Dominion,
and the Northern Provence, Ustler, keeps to British rule.'
Jarnbakker added ' Irish home rule should sway the Congress in America to declare war on
Germany. Already the USA is mechanizing. The factories are building a mobile gun called a tank.
Three million troops could be raised, half the British Empire forces.'
The plump woman spoke in a loud voice 'From what I have read the trouble for America lies in
the Mexican lands. Maximillians old armies are being rearmed by Germany to retake Arizona
and Texas for the Hapsburg Empire.'
Harry and the South African looked at each other incredulously. Could another war front be
breaking out in the Americas? Africa had been on the boil for some time.
The colonies wanted independence from the European rulers, even India who were a core of the
British forces.
More aircraft flew overhead passing through the billowing dragon clouds that hung above the
haze of a shouldering landscape. A land at war and a time of trying to understand the
complexities of modern politics.

Harry returned to the continent the following month to join in the fray. The allies were building
up Goliath tanks more numerous by the day. Soon they would outnumber the Kaisers army ten
to one and poised to overthrow the Hindenburg line and bring the conflict to an end.
Standing on a field in the far corner of a disused farm Harry sat down onto a bench and opened
his mail. One letter came from his cousins in Kenya, who lived on a farm in Nahuru. His name
was Henry Tyson Pringle and he was born in the town of Mossman to the north of Queensland
in 1890. His brother Thomas Lynch Pringle was born into the farming family in 1891 and as they
grew they moved with the relatives to Bundaberg, a sugarcane milling town further south near
the port of Marybourgh. They had enlisted in WW1 as naive country boys, sailed off to Europe
and were given land grants in Kenya.
Dear Henry Martin
We hope you are keeping well and out of harms way in the battle zone in France and Belgium.
We heard of your escape from the debacle of Gallop which has been a great shock for the British
forces in Southern Africa where we now farm. There has been many troubles as the German
Monarchs are arousing the natives to rebel against the British rule and another Boer conflict is
insuring.
We have been given land grants by the British government as this is a very fertile country full of
good earth whereas Queensland was not necessarily so.

My wife Elaine has become very fulfilled with the promise of a rich harvest.
Thomas has lived up to his trade and is now mending and making saddles on the verandah of his
house in Nakuru which he shares with a native from Zululand.
She is very clever with her hands and seems to be of great benefit to the saddlemaking exploit.
We hope you send our regards to our halfbrother Ernie Garrick who lives at Litabella, outside of
Bundaberg. Keep well and do not hesitate to write and remember there is a bed waiting for you
here if you get down after the war.
Yours Sincerely
Henry Tyson Pringle
Harry folded the letter and placed it in his gasmask bag. This was against regulations. 'Oh well.
Time to get back to the squad.' he muttered to himself. He could hear voices calling to him over
the wasteland of the shell pocked field. Perhaps he really was a naive young man from Australia
who really had no idea of what the world could be about.
He followed the column of soldiers back into the village. On the train station a cafe was open
and Harry had French francs in his pocket. The interior of the station cafe appeared warm and
light, decorated in an art deco style. The chairs and tables had cast iron frames with marble
tops, mostly chipped from overuse. Two French soldiers sat at the end table playing cards and
pouring wine.
'Sit down if you please.' said the waitress. 'If you are quick you may order a small meal as the
kitchen is still open,'
Oh, very good. Is there steak available.' asked Harry placing his slouch hat on the table.
'Oh no...There duck and also calves liver.' she said crisply.
'The duck shall be fine.'
'It comes in an orange sauce with vegetables.'
'Oh fine. After the army kitchen food this will be a lifesaver.'
'Oh, so you have been to the front line. A call of duty.'
'Yes I have. A journey to hell for sure.'
'I shall place your order at once.' she turned and went into the back room. She returned with a
carafe of white wine.
'The cook asks you to have a glass of wine with him.'
'That will be good.' Harry said as she places the glass in front of him. 'Perhaps you will join me
also.'
'On no. I must not drink while working. I shall be sacked.' she sighed.
A bombardier who was sitting with the French soldiers came over to Harrys table. 'I am on my
way back to the gunnery position on the left flank. I shall make a toast to your good fortune.'
'And to yours also.' said Harry taking a mouthful of the fruity vintage.
The bombardier removed his pipe from a pouch and filled the briar with a large plug and lit it
with a tapered wick. I have heard the Americans are entering the war on our side. This could
push the Bosch far back.'
Yes. The house of Parliament in London has the bill for home rule for Ireland. It is when that is
settled that the Yanks will come in!' Harry smiled 'With a vengeance as Germany has been
America nemeses since the Napoleonic revolution.'
The bombardier shrugged. 'Its not a good history. Much of the situation now lies with France as
the Frankish tribes have been invading Germanic lands for much of modern history.'
They both drained their glasses and turned to the window and the large cluster of dark charcoal
clouds that had gathered above the somber ash green fields of Picardy. As the clouds broke a

large aircraft with a loud chugging motor emerged. Coming closer they could see the four
engines pulsating, one emitting a trail of fire and pitch-black smoke.
'Oh my word of hell. Is it one of ours.' asked the bombardier.
'If you hand me your field glasses I can tell you well enough.' said Harry.
'It's a Handly Page, one of our new bombers. Must be coming back from a raid over the
trenches!' Harry explained to the Frenchman and the waitress who had gathered by the
window. The majestic aircraft flew overhead a tail stream pluming exhaust from the revving
engines.
'You are from a vast land. The continent of Australia is so wide. Ten times the size of France.' the
waitress said as she cleared the table of the gold rimmed glasses.
'Not quite as big as France plus its colonies. They provide the resources for the industrial power
of the European nations.' said Harry.
'Is Australia not an industrial power, making much car and armourments.' she asked.
'Well not really so. There is a great deal of land. Though mostly arid except for the tropical and
coastal zones.' Harry said. 'The continent of Australia has been eroded away eons ago. Taking
the topsoil away and flattening high mountains.'
'So you have no mountains?' she said.
'Nothing that compared to the High Sierra Ranges of the European and American continents.
This is what catches the condensation, forms glaciers, melts and feeds the flow of the rivers.'
Harry added.
A small crowd had now gathered, some leaning in the window with ears strained.
'The constant flow of fresh water is the ingredient that allows the industrial manufacturing
power of the European and American powers. Without abundant water no large scale
engineering could progress.'
The Bombardier opened another bottle. 'So you have been to the Americas.'
'Yes, I worked my way on an Ocean liner apprenticed to a French pastry chef. Detroit city which
is on the Great Lakes is set to become the center of automotive industry in the world. Perhaps
along with Canada, which has only a small population as yet.
'And now Canada has joined the allied powers against the Axis.'
Yes Harry thought. The Great Lakes of North America does have the deepest and largest
resource of fresh water on earth. This is enough to make them the most industrialized force to
be reckoned with.
After hospital and rehabilitation at Stoke on Trent and even with at times a racking cough Henry
Albert was restationed to Northern France. Attached to a catering division his knowledge of
pastry chefing brought him to the attention of senior staff.
He became assigned to General Monashes field kitchen, preparing meals for the upper echelon
of the Australian High Command.
Late one afternoon French hunters returned attired in their national garb with a brace of freshly
killed hares. Six in all. They were plump from eating the new grass that grew on the rims of the
shell craters.
The 'chef de parties' or head cook as the kitchen staff called him. His eyes lit up with glee at the
prospect of freshly caught game on the officers table. He being a Picardy man by birth and
trained in the art of 'haughty cuisine Franois' he became very enthused as to demonstrate how
'Civet de Lievre ' Jugged Hare was created.
'First the hare is dissected into pan sized pieces which are rolled in pork lard. Sage and rosemary
are added along with crushed juniper berries. A short saut on a cast iron skillet and they are
ready for the jug or bath of stock and red wine.'

Beforehand the Breton kitchen hand had skinned the hares and hanging upside down in the
scullery the blood from the hares had been drained into an earthenware pitcher and put aside in
a 'cool room.'
A crowd had gathered around the cedar table to watch the master cook at work.
'Now when the stew of rabbit is cooking add half a jug of the blood mixed with arrowroot a stir
till the sauce thickens.' the rotuse Frenchman continued.
This is to be served with broiled potatoes and carrots and whatever vegetables there is to
muster.'
A round of applause and the crowd dispersed back to their assigned duties. Henry honed his
knife and began to cut the hare into pieces.
'We mostly eat rabbit in Australia, they are overrunning the farmland.' Henry said to Andre the
Picardy man who ran the kitchen. sixpence a brace is what the Rabbit cries when he brings
them down Redfern Streets on a dowel pole.'
'Oh yes Lupine! That is also a tender meat. Rabbit is much tastier than Hare. Not as gamie' in
taste.' Andre shrugged. 'In times of war who is so picky. Soldiers are lucky as to what you get to
fill the belly of the few.'
Henry nodded and continued on with his work.
The dinner function went well with General Monash, seated at the main trestle table. Guest of
honor 'Black Jack ' Pershing sat at head of the table. He had come to France as chief of
command, of the American troops. A veteran of the Mexican Border wars, he had a reputation
as a dead eye shot with a revolver.
'Jackrabbit! We used to serve this to the troops on our way to Texicana!' his voice was loud and
commanding. 'We called it Texas Boar.'
'I hope you are enjoying the meal? General. We are short on supplies so we must live off the
land.' Monash called from across the table.
'Good! Oh it makes me feel at home. Bring on the beans and rice.' Pershing replied in a dry
voice. 'An you got pumpkin on the side too. Down in Texas we feed pumpkin to the cattle to
fatten them.'
Even General Monash had to laugh at the last remark.
A reveler dressed as a devil celebrated "Walpurgris " The night an 8th century saint Walpurga
celebrates the arrival of spring. It had been remarked the grey clad figures who wore gas masks
did resemble that devil.
Black Jack Pershing viewed the battlefield from his telescope set on a tripod. He had taken the
Doughboys through Chateau - Thierry, Soissons and other places close to hell. Now he was in
the forest of Argonne and the German line was collapsing as the British and French tanks gave
support to his troops. Australian troops had joined ranks with the American 1st division and
were moving forward.
Thunder clapped the sky as Harry clawed into the earth beside the crudely parked kitchen truck.
Andre had joined his platoon on the mound and were firing rapid rounds at the German position
where a throbbing machine gun spat spinning lead at them.
Andre called from across the trench. 'Harry bring the box of ammunition up to us. The gun has
us pinned down. We can't fall back.'
Harry pulled the wooden bullet box onto a trolley they carried in the truck. He pushed with all
his might until he trundled the box across the field to the trench position.
'This should keep the Hun at bay for a while.' Harry said. 'Truth is we got them pinned and they
got us pinned.'

'To right Harry. Its a stalemate on both sides.' Andre took aim a fired a round into the German
trench. A grenadier rose up from the German trench to throw a grenade. Andre brought him
down with a single round sending the grenade into the trench below where it exploded amongst
the German troops.
'That would be the luckiest shot I've ever seen Andre. You've got them dazzled.'
'Or angrier than before. I heard a whistle. They are rallying for a charge.'
Andre was right. Over the trench top twenty German infantrymen screamed as they charged
towards the French position of eight troops. Harry took a rifle to arm and joined the others in
firing at the oncoming figures with bayonets ready. As they fired and watched the soldiers fall
more came behind them as if rising from the bones of the dead. Shells whistled overhead from
behind exploding into the path of the oncoming troops. Harry turned as tracks of a Bertha tank
tore at the ground behind them.
'Andre move before we are crushed.' screamed Harry as he grabbed mud splattered Frenchman
and pulled him to safety. The tank followed by infantry drove towards the German position over
running them. Eventually a white flag appeared and the stretcher moved in to save those who
remained alive. The tank pulled the kitchen truck from the ditch allowing Harry and Andre to
drive towards St. Mihiel. Harry sat behind the steering wheel, tense as breaking ice. He turned,
with a solemn grimace, said to Andre 'I believe this war is a myth, cynical disillusionment for
those who bear a grudge against anyone who you believe is planning your overthrow.'
'A great deal of this conflict, between Great Britain and Germany and her allies, is the fact
that since the industrial revolution, Germany has outpaced Briton as an industrial powerhouse,
rapidly becoming more technologically advance with a higher standard of engineering,' Harry
paused to brush the snow from his coat. 'With no so, a rigid class structure, Germany, towards
the end of the 19th century, let forward as a world power, establishing colonies in the South
Pacific and Africa. This is a great threat to the power of the British Empire.'
'Also to the French empire, and the Belgiums in Africa,' added Andre with a touch of malice.
We welcomed the time of war, as did the British, to destroy Germany as a world power. Also for
our defeat in the Franco Prussian war, where France lost the Alsace - Lorraine to Bismarck, with
his dreams of an expansionist empire, where again the Teutonic Knights would rule the earth. In
castles of glory.'
'Bismarck suffered from delusions of grandeur, where his holy empire would rule the world.'

'