Free For King and Country by Annie Wilkinson Page B

Sister would start on the dressing round, and with a bit of luck she’d choose Sally to help her. There was no theatre list today, but some patients
were moving on, and they were expecting a couple of new admissions.
    ‘You’re going to the convalescent hospital today, aren’t you, Lieutenant Hogan?’ she asked, for nothing more than to make a little polite conversation whilst she stripped
the bed he’d occupied.
    ‘The military convalescent hospital, yes,’ he said, in that broad Australian accent she found a little hard to follow. ‘Run along the lines of a prison, I’m told. Make
sure none of us escape.’
    Sally heard a snort, and turned to see Major Knox’s mouth turned down in an expression of derision. ‘Vewy necessawy, when they’re dealing with Austwalians. I don’t say it
of the officers, but the lower wanks have a nasty habit of wunning off.’
    ‘What did you say?’
    Knox’s sneer became more pronounced. ‘I said the Austwalians have a nasty habit of wunning off,’ he barked. ‘They’re the most undisciplined wabble in Fwance, and
they’ve no weason to be otherwise, wet nursed by their government as they are.’
    ‘My bloody oath, mate, you’re lucky you’re lying in that bed, or I’d . . .’
    Knox gave him a look of contempt. ‘Start a barwoom bwawl? Another thing our antipodeans are good at. But before you do, wemember that stwiking a senior officer cawies a severe penalty,
even for an Austwalian.
    Sally looked from one to the other, despairing of them. Did they never, never learn? Hadn’t they seen enough of death? Were they so fond of war that they had to start another one, in the
middle of the ward?
    Hogan leaned over Knox, and raised his fist, then changed his mind. ‘Ah, you’re not worth it. Just let me get out of here; I’ll be glad to get back to Australia. Australians
treat their men like men, and not like tin soldiers who’ve got nothing better to do than stand around waiting to be sent to the slaughter by some idiot Englishman. The Australian troops began
to see the light about the British officer class with Gallipoli, and what happened at Fromelles – and Pozieres and Bullecourt and Poelcapelle – destroyed any illusions they had left.
It’s not the Hun that the Anzacs are sick of,
mate
, it’s British staff, British methods, and British bungling.’
    ‘
Gallipoli
!’ Knox exploded. ‘Gallipoli was a minor sideshow! And we lost four times as many men as you. And at Pozieres the Austwalians were weckless enough to
diswegard German firepower and they paid the pwice. At Bullecourt they were incompetent. We’re at war, and in war orders have to be given, and obedience
enforced
, and the death
penalty concentwates men’s minds on the task in hand. An offence that gets our men shot wins an Austwalian a fwee passage home to Mother, and that’s bad for mowale among our twoops. A
few exemplawy executions among your men would be a
jolly good thing.
’
    Sally stared hard at Dunkley, silently willing her to do something to stop this nasty scene going any further. Dunkley met her gaze, and did nothing.
    ‘You’re the people who’re bad for
mowale
among your
twoops
, mate, and the Australians came to fight the Kaiser’s army, not to be killed by the bloody
English – and they came as volunteers in a war that hasn’t got much to do with Australia, when you think about it!’ said Lieutenant Hogan, the volume of his voice increasing with
his wrath. ‘The Australian people will never stomach conscription, and you’ll be whistling for volunteers if you try shooting any of the diggers. It’s clinging to your bloody
feudal, obsolete ideas of discipline that’s made the English Army so rotten it’s never achieved one successful offensive in the whole bloody war! Your idea of discipline is to teach men
to salute and then get them to kick a bloody football while they walk into enemy fire, you idiots! And the poor bastards have a straight choice between