1919
Savige, to use an old espionage cliché, was a ‘burnt-out case’ when he boarded the ship in Bombay to return to Melbourne in early 1919. There would be no psychologist waiting for him at Port Melbourne docks. No plan for mental rehabilitation had been set in place by the army. He would have to face people at home, and he was in no state to do that.
So many conflicting thoughts ran through his mind on the eight-week voyage home. As he distanced himself from the various battlefields of Turkey, France, Belgium and Persia, he could not rid himself of thoughts of the good mates he had lost in all those places, along with so many people whom he knew slightly, or not at all. These thoughts did not sit well with his belief that he had been spared by his God, and with the promises of Psalm 91. There seemed no reason for the entire conflict – although he did concede that the 1st AIF had justified itself by becoming a big player in defeating an aggressive enemy, especially in the finals months of 1918.
Yet more than 60,000 Australian lives had been lost. Three times that many had been wounded or incapacitated in some way. The cream of a whole generation of Australian youth, possible future doctors, scientists, judges and prime ministers, had been destroyed or damaged.
Savige was one of the fortunate 170,000 who returned. They had life, but no amount of justification could salve the mental and physical wounds they had experienced in so many battles. Savige, and thousands of others, had suffered gas injuries that made them sound like severe asthmatics every time they drew breath. Men who had lost limbs were a common sight. There were others who were now blind or deaf, or both. Many had become alcoholics. Thousands were now chronic smokers, unaware that the nicotine addiction could well lead to cancers or heart conditions that would kill them 10 or 20 years before their time. Tens of thousands had mental health issues from which they would never recover. Still more would never again fit into the workforce.
They had all been part of a military machine that kept them floating on adrenalin until they were hardened warriors numb to killing. And when they came home they suffered further from interacting with loved ones and friends who had very little comprehension of what the soldiers had been through.
Savige had been shaken by his forced assignment as an assassin on Gallipoli. He had seen every one of his victims before he pulled the trigger. And when each bullet flew with unerring accuracy into the head or heart of a Turk about his own age, a little bit of Savige died with the human target. What bothered him more was that he had become used to killing. After the first 31 despatched from Sniper’s Ridge, he estimated that he had killed another 200 enemy fighters. It was a figure he kept to himself, even among fellow soldiers. He justified it as part of the business of war, but he could never shake off thoughts of the families of his victims.
The death of Mick Sunderland still upset him, probably more than that of any other comrade in the war. It was the first time he had taken stock of Psalm 91, and its promise that ‘A thousand shall fall at thy side’ but that he would be spared. After nearly four years on front lines in so many different regions, he had seen those thousand fall, and still he had come through – scathed, yes, but alive and with a fair chance of recovery.
Some of the close friends who had died were Ted Shepherd on Gallipoli; George Harriott and Tommy Godfrey in Flanders in October 1917; and Harry Fletcher in Montbrehain, France, in October 1918. There were countless others, whom Savige had seen as reliable friends – people he trusted, soldiers he wanted to be with in the trenches.
No matter what had befallen him, Savige was still a gregarious fellow to whom others gravitated. Yet his overload of compassion made it hard for him to take the demise of so many people he knew. He was going home; they were not, and they never would. Not even their remains would be left in Australian soil. This lonely, sad thought hit him hardest. With every kilometre he travelled further away from the killing fields, it depressed him more.
Other things made him angry – among them, the British commanders who had insisted on schemes that led to wholesale slaughter; and the Christian Armenians and Assyrians who had offended him with the senseless brutality they had inflicted on innocent Persian villagers.
‘They had acted like barbarians, not Christians at all,’ he wrote; ‘the teachings of the missionaries such as the good Dr Shedd and his wonderful wife, had been forgotten in a heartbeat, and morals and precepts for good feelings to others had been jettisoned.’1
Still Savige refused to give up on his God. He would never abandon his belief in a superior being, even though communism, which condemned such beliefs, had increased in popularity since the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917.
But Savige did register a shift in his relationship with his God. He was no longer the naïve, unquestioning believer for belief’s sake. He now said, simply and vaguely, that ‘beliefs change, principles strengthen’.2
These principles included supporting people less fortunate than himself, caring for children and embracing civic duty. The new Savige would pray less, and do more for his fellow citizens, especially those who had suffered from their war service.
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On reaching Australia, his first concern would be to pick up with his fiancée and his family. He knew it would be tough, no matter how they welcomed him.
Savige was aware he had changed. He had drifted from his strict Baptist precepts. He now drank, and heavily. He swore and he smoked. His base personality had not changed but the war had bent him and shaped him differently. He now had a cynical side that had never been evident before. It was a defence mechanism that allowed him to cope with the myriad shocks he had absorbed.
The gulf between Lilian and him had widened over the last half-year through his not receiving any word from her at all. He had not lost faith in their relationship, however, and it helped to know that many other soldiers in remote zones like the Middle East were not receiving any communication either. The missing written link made him even more vulnerable, even though he later learnt that a stream of letters had followed him around the battle zones and had ended up being returned to her. In them, Lilian had expressed her passion and undying love, which would have made a big difference to his mental state.
Writing into what appeared to be a void, he expressed his thoughts on the boat home: ‘What changes I will see in all of you and what you see in me will probably be surprising. Four years make a difference in one’s life.’3
Those four years away had seen him pack in 20 years of experience. He was 28 years of age, going on 48. Yet his health had improved sufficiently since Persia for him to look the part of a returning hero. In the last four weeks he had even begun a series of daily exercises, including sit-ups and press-ups that gave him a badly wanted firmness of frame and limbs. Yet he could not hide the occasional bout of breathlessness and fatigue.
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Savige reached Melbourne on 2 March 1919. His family, along with Lilian, looking stunning in a white dress and blue chiffon hat, waited at Wirth’s Park outside the city.
They watched as soldiers marched onto the parade ground. Savige was not with them.
They saw the transport cars and trucks that carried the wounded and sick. Savige was one of them.
When the soldiers were dismissed on leave – for they were still technically enlisted men – Lilian held her hat and ran to Savige, who, despite his issues, looked every bit the strong, lean officer he had become long before the war strains on body and mind caught up with him.
They embraced and kissed. He then greeted his family and was taken to his parents’ home for high tea. After that, Savige and his beautiful, loyal fiancée were left alone to make up for lost time.