The Heaven I Swallowed Read Online Free Page A

women, had not a chance of being damaged. I would not take Mary to see him, though. The soldier was naked, and while I had grown used to the detailed flesh of the fallen youth, it was not suitable for a young girl, no matter what her upbringing might have been. Instead, I stopped outside the cenotaph at the corner of the rectangular memorial pool reflecting tree trunks and stone columns. No one had thrown coins into this water.
    â€˜This is for the men who died in the war, Mary,’ I said.
    She was staring at the steps leading up into the tomb, as if she knew there was something inside she should not see.
    â€˜The poplar trees are grown from seeds brought all the way from France. To commemorate the soldiers who went off to fight. Men who died for their country.’
    â€˜Died for their country’ had such force when spoken out loud. Was Mary able to feel the pride, the honour of their sacrifice? A six-year-old at the end of the war, how much could she really understand? I had taught older girls, knew how to inspire them.
    â€˜The war awaits, as do I,’ I started to intone. ‘The fevered pitch, the savage cry, I stand upon the glorious brink, And try most vainly, not to think.’
    The beginning of one of Fred’s poems. Out loud, the rhymes sounded clumsy and trite. Mary said nothing.
    â€˜We should be heading home.’
    The shoebox, wet from Mary’s hands, slipped through her arms and her old shoes fell with a loud thud onto the ground.
    â€ 
    My dear Gracie,
    I am finally able to send word, although I am not sure when this letter will get to you. The boat trip was, as expected, awful but I will not offend you with revolting details, my sweetness. I have arrived safely in Port Moresby, that is all you probably want to know and I cannot give you any particulars of the plans ahead. If I did, you would find your letter blackened with the censor’s pen. I am as well as I can be and I think of you often.
    My time at Randwick has me used to all the waiting, the drills and the tedium of army life. I am not impatient to get to the real fighting. Some of the younger boys keep talking of the adventure ahead. I am not so naïve as to see it like that. I remember Dad’s tales of the Great War, they were enough to make me understand what battle will be really like and I am not sorry Dad passed away before this new threat, never hearing of the Japs on our doorstep. ‘We’ll show ’em’ the boys keep saying and make me feel like an alien. They are so sure of their bravery.
    Often, I feel guilty about the years I sat on home soil, still able to see you, when now I am reminded that men were dying for the Empire every one of those moments. (I talk of guilt and wonder what really made me transfer to active duty? Not love of Empire, or the chance to defend my homeland, but the simple fact that I would not be able to look the church congregation in the eye, for fear they would see my cowardice. Perhaps we cowards will go to any lengths to prove we are not.)
    I pass the time writing poems again like I did in England. I never showed you them because I was afraid of their mediocrity. Maybe I will send you some in the days ahead. I am terrified, of course, of the other men finding out. Already I have erased my university days from my history and have demoted myself from Bank Manager to Clerk for the sake of much needed camaraderie. Thankfully, I am not the only religious man here, besides the Chaplain, and I have a few men with whom to discuss the moral dilemma of taking life. Many times Private L. has quoted a headline from the Catholic Weekly at me: ‘Resistance to tyrants is obedience to God.’ It has become somewhat of a personal mantra for him—to the point, I have to say, of driving me a little mad, but I suppose it gives him solace.
    I have to believe the defence of my family is a Christian duty, though there are some here who would not agree with my leaving you in