There was a pretty girl working with her father behind the counter of a shop on the village square, around the corner from the 52nd Battalion’s headquarters. Frankie reckoned the girl might be fifteen or sixteen years old. She was a beauty, with her wavy red-brown hair tumbling around her face and down onto her shoulders. Her green eyes shone brightly at the sight of Australian soldiers who would find any excuse to come into the shop. But she was too shy to talk to Frankie and Taz, and every time they appeared she would quickly lower her eyes to ensure her father didn’t catch her looking at the young men from the other side of the world.

‘I’m game to ask her what her name is,’ said Frankie, always the boldest of the two, as the pair stood outside the shop. ‘Are you?’

Taz looked uncomfortable. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t know what to say, Frankie.’

Frankie rolled his eyes and led the way into the shop. ‘Come on.’

While the young girl and her father were busy serving customers, Frankie picked up a Belgian lace doily from the counter. Before long, the girl finished with her customer and, with a coy smile, took the doily from Frankie and commenced to wrap it in brown paper, tying it with string.

‘You’ll have to buy it now,’ Taz whispered.

‘I know, I know.’ Frankie fished out a handful of local money from his pocket and held it out to the girl.

Taking some of the money from his hand, she handed Frankie the small package.

‘It’s for my mum, back in Australia,’ Frankie said awkwardly. ‘The lacy thing, I mean.’ He didn’t even know what it was.

‘Ask her what her name is!’ urged Taz, whispering from the corner of his mouth.

‘All right, here goes,’ Frankie responded, before smiling wide and trying out the little French he knew. ‘Quelle is votre name, mademoiselle?’

The girl didn’t have a chance to reply – her father did it for her. ‘My daughter’s name,’ said the grey-haired shopkeeper, in almost perfect English, ‘is not for you to know, young man.’ He was a tall man with a massive chest and broad shoulders. He looked like he could lift a pile of bricks in each hand and then crush them.

Frankie paled. ‘Mister, I was just –’

‘You were attempting to flirt with my daughter,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘And using rather bad French, what is more. In this part of Belgium, young man, we speak Flemish, not French. I would suggest you go away and learn a little more about the country you are in before you again attempt to engage in conversation with a member of the local population.’

Frankie flushed red. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, before turning and hurrying out into the street.

Taz came out after him. ‘That went well,’ he remarked, smiling. ‘I could have told you about the Flemish, Frankie. Haven’t you been listening to the local lingo?’

Frankie shrugged. ‘It all sounds the same to me – French, Flemish. It’s all foreign.’

‘You two!’ a voice bellowed from across the street.

Turning, they saw Rait the Rat.

‘What do you want, Rait?’ Frankie responded.

Rait’s eyes narrowed as he stomped towards the pair. ‘Corporal Rait to you, Pickled Onions.’ He eyed the small package in Frankie’s hands. ‘What are you two up to?’

‘We just delivered a message from Lieutenant Blair to brigade HQ, Corporal,’ said Taz.

‘It was so flipping big, this message, it needed the two of you to carry it, did it?’ said Rait scornfully. ‘And you had to go via the shop?’

‘No, Corporal,’ said Taz, smiling weakly.

‘It was Pickles’ idea, I fancy,’ said Rait, glaring at them with hands on hips. ‘You’d lead the “Reverend” Dutton here astray, Pickles, there’s no doubt about that.’

‘“Reverend” Dutton?’ said Frankie, with a questioning face.

‘Didn’t you know?’ Rait came back. ‘Dutton’s old man is a Bible-basher back home. I was talking to the battalion chaplain, and he tells me he knows your old man, Dutton. They’re both in the same business. Isn’t that right?’

Taz nodded. ‘Yes, Corporal.’

‘Anyway, I don’t have time to gossip with you two. Get back to your tent and pack. The battalion’s just received orders to march at dawn.’

‘Where to, Corp?’ Frankie asked. ‘England, I hope. For a nice long rest.’

‘Not sodding likely, chum. The entire 13th and 15th Brigades are on the move south.’

‘The Somme?’ Taz asked apprehensively.

‘The Somme.’ Rait smiled. ‘The generals reckon Aussies can stop Fritz breaking through down there. So get a move on, the pair of you! Go on, look lively – sod off! At the double!’

With Rait striding along behind them, Frankie and Taz jogged along the cobblestoned streets to the field where the battalion was encamped.

‘Your old man’s a reverend, Taz?’ said Frankie as they ran.

Taz nodded.

‘Which team does he play for? The Micks? The Anglos?’

‘Methodist.’

‘He’s a Metho? Ah, that explains a lot about you, mate. They’re a strict lot, the Methos. Come to think of it, I’ve never heard a swear word cross your lips. Bet you don’t drink beer, either. Or play two-up?’

‘Nope.’

‘Crikey! What a boring life. Now you’ll be telling me you’re not interested in skirt.’

‘Steady on! The Methodist Church is all for marriage.’

‘I didn’t say anything about marriage, mate. I’m talking about a bit of fun.’

‘What opposites we are, Frankie Pickles,’ said Taz, shaking his head.

‘Yeah, but we’re in this fight together, mate.’ Frankie fell silent for several paces. ‘Crikey! The Somme! They say millions were killed down there the last time they had a big battle. A good thing I’ve signed my will.’

They trotted on in silence.

 

Both the 13th and 15th Brigades marched from Flanders to the Somme. The march took their battalions five days, carrying all their equipment on their backs. Once they arrived, they camped in fields near Amiens, the major town of the region, west of the River Somme, which gave the region its name.

Here, at a 52nd Battalion assembly, Lieutenant-Colonel Whitlam brought Frankie, Taz and their colleagues up to date on the situation. ‘Men,’ he began, standing on the back of a wagon, ‘on the twenty-first of March, the German Army attacked British lines on the Somme. Within hours, British defenders were either killed, captured or in retreat. In the past four years territorial gains by either side have been measured in yards. Now, the German advance can be measured in miles.’

Whitlam paused for this information to sink in. ‘As the British continued to fall back, German troops drove west as far as the town of Villers-Bretonneux, just sixteen kilometres from here. There, the advance was halted by the stubborn defence of troops including the Australian 13th Battalion.’

A cheer rang out from the ranks.

‘By this stage, the German Army’s success had been much greater and much more rapid than we believe even they expected. Jerry has paused to catch his breath and allow food, ammunition and reinforcements to catch up with the advance. That’s where we come in.’

There was a louder cheer.

‘You are among 150,000 Australians who have marched down from Flanders to stand in Jerry’s way. Since our arrival, I have seen French villagers fleeing from their homes, who, upon seeing Australian troops arriving, turned around and went back home again. The French firmly believe that you are going to throw the Germans back where they came from. And so do I!’

There were more cheers. And this time, they were deafening.

In the ranks, Frankie, looking at Taz, broke into a grin and declared, ‘Can’t let the Frenchies down, can we, mate?’