MARISTS MEET ON AUSSI BATTLEFIELD.

MARISTS MEET ON AUSSI BATTLEFIELD (1992 – 2010)

Sociologists of dubious repute make the claim that Australia is the most secularised country in the world. Put in simpler terms, they are severe in their judgments on us. In fact they are asserting that we Australians are about as near to paganism as one could get. Or at least, they would claim that we are certainly not a religious people.

As a sociologist myself, I flatly reject that assessment. In fact I aver the opposite. From my perspective and observation I state with some passion that Australian (men) at least, must be among the most religious!! I can’t count the number of times when I have been in an RSL club  at night when a most impressive religious ceremony is played out. The lights dim, there is a sepulchral announcement with an immediate response from the hundreds, if not thousands of patrons. The cacophony of poker machines is stilled, billiard cues are placed on the green velvet, cutlery clatters on the tables, glasses are lowered, chairs are pushed back, and all stand quite upright and pivot towards a flickering red light. A profound silence descends. The ode is delivered over the PA, with the response

WE SHALL REMEMBER THEM.

 Then follows the heart rending notes of the Last Post. Then more silence. Briefly.

I have always been most impressed, even moved by this liturgy. I’ve also been surprised and at times, a little amused. It’s all in memory and honour of our “glorious dead” who still lie buried in some foreign field. At the multicultural Auburn with the impressive Gallipoli mosque just the other side of the railway line and a very heavy Asian component in the area, it struck me one night that there were more former enemies caught up in this ritual that true blue Aussies.

Certainly, our folklore features the Anzac story with great prominence. And, it must be admitted that we are a little peculiar in this regard- since Gallipoli was a tragic failure and even fiasco in some respects. So we do celebrate a defeat rather than a great victory. But it was in the blood and hell and horror of that failure that a national spirit was forged. As kids we clambered over old cannon in the parks, we heard the story, we saw the diggers marching. And in every little country town there is some dusty and even grand memorial commemorating the sacrifice of the community and the heartache that lived on.

Strangely, it was not till 1999 that I attended my first Dawn Service in

Martin Place

in central Sydney. What an experience that was! In the pale light, under drizzling skies, 1000s huddled in archways of the old GPO and around the simple cenotaph.  It was difficult to follow the speeches but you could almost feel the spirits wafting through and around. Rarely, have I felt such a profound and sacred silence.

As a teacher I waxed passionate and even eloquent as my lessons recalled the bravery and the price paid in the “Great War” and in WW2. Gallipoli always demanded the limelight while the fact that the price on the Western Front was much heavier and a great horror over four years.

 And so it remained until recently. I recall being most impressed when Prime Minister Paul Keating ceremoniously opened the grave of the Unknown Soldier in the War Memorial in Canberra. The soldier’s remains were recently brought, not from Gallipoli, but from an unknown battlefield in Picardy, Villers-Bretonneux. Why?  After reading the story of the Australia action there, I readily understood the reason.

In the back of my mind I filed away a wish, a dream that one day I might visit this hallowed place.

It was some years later that I got a rare opportunity. I actually was resigned that, after the grand adventure of Second Novitiate in Switzerland, in the mid eighties, with extensive sightseeing on the way, followed by a year in New York, that my number would not come up again for an overseas trip. Marvellous to relate I was selected to follow an arduous course in Rome, all in French, to start in January 1993. The invitation insisted that I would need some time in Paris to “smarten up” the French! And so I got to spend best part of two months in that magical city. That was my chance to make a sortie to the Western Front.  But I’d forgotten the name of the village! And so I visited the Australia Embassy. I was halfway through my explanation when the French lady cut in and said “ that’s Villers-Bretonneux”. I made plans.

I made an early start, leaving from Gard du Nord in the near dark. By the time I reached Amiens, this cold winter’s day shone with a clear blue sky. I was not well organised and so overspent my time, specially in the soaring, light-filled Cathedral, a masterpiece of glorious Gothic. That’s where I saw my first mention of Australian troops under a small statue of Joan of Arc. It warmed me to see we were mentioned. Much time was wasted in finding a bus station. Sadly, I knew nothing of the very efficient railway service. But the bus ride was quite fascinating as we drove through wonderful farmland that had been the scene of such hell. I was keen to catch the first glimpse of the cemetery. As we approached VB I noted a rounded hill with many decorative trees. That had to be my Holy Grail.

It was near midday when I alighted. Thinking I might have a few hours for the visit, I asked the driver when the last bus of the afternoon would be returning to Amiens.

 “One o’clock”!!  he replied.

 Surprised but unfazed I realised I would have to trust the Good Lord to provide and my own wits, and “superb” mastery of French to organise other options to get back to Paris that night.

And so I approached the sacred place in a sense of awe and reverence. I had resolved to spend several hours in “encounter” and then worry about getting back to Amiens. Also, I had been entrusted with a sacred duty by Br. John Luttrell of our community at Auburn. He wanted a photo, evidence of his uncle who had fought and died there. Surely it would be on the wall, wings that spread from the dominating tower at the highest point of the rise. There, thousands of names were inscribed.

As a pilgrim I walked in deep reflection up and down those rows of silent stone memorials. In a sense I said “g’day” to each of those diggers, mostly young and with an enormous lust for life but shattered and shot and now part of that gentle countryside. I made some discoveries:

• They weren’t all Aussies. Quite a mix of British, Canadian and a few Kiwis.
• So many stones had no names. “to an Unknown Soldier” was the inscription. In fact I learnt that more than 20% were never recovered , their remains scattered and buried under mud.
• While most had crosses that promised resurrection, there were also Stars of David..

I found it profoundly moving. All in all, some 50,000 Australians are buried on this Western Front. So much silent weeping in the south.

It was sunny and blue but cold and the hunger pangs were gnawing. Parking myself on a bench protected from a keen little breeze I unwrapped some healthy sandwiches and opened a small bottle of red. As I munched and took in the whole scene again, I let the sombre mood prevail.

It was time to record the event with my camera. I moved around to catch every angle and highlight some graves, like where a Murphy boy was buried. I climbed the tower which has commanding views over the surrounding and lush countryside. On this clear, blue day I was able to take the clearest of shots.

But I had a mission to carry out but there was a problem. Where would I find Cpl Luttrell. It was then I noticed there were a few gardeners trimming and clipping around the perimeter. I approached a likely helper and in flawless French I made my request, adding a few embellishments to get his full attention. I was less impressed by his first response as he was not fooled by that accent.

“You’re from Australia aren’t you?” That started a more relaxed conversation in English, as he was a Scot who had fallen in love with some fetching French girl, settled down and worked for the Commonwealth Graves Commission. Something moved me to reveal that I was a Marist Brother. Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather!

“Well, isn’t that a coincidence? I went to the Marist College in Dumfries”

So, there was no trouble in entering the little blockhouse where some of his mates were enjoying a smoko and yes, there in the book was the information I needed. About Cpl Luttrell and where he is buried. Well, he wasn’t buried, he was one of the “lost” ones, whose bodies were never recovered. But I did find his name on the great wall that reached out to embrace the rows of graves. I took shots that would bring John’s uncle back to Oz in some way.

By this stage, near sunset, I realised   I would have to make plans of some sort to get back to Amiens. It was a fifteen minute walk to the “bourg” of some 5,000 folk. I could see the church spire and was quite prepared to approach the “cure”, tell him a sob story of this beleaguered, abandoned missionary and so implore his help.

But then Mary, our Good Mother, intervened in a most marvellous way. It was near four and the sun was nearing the horizon when a car pulled up and a couple came walking up between the graves and then climbed the tower. It had to be my lucky day. “They must be Aussies” I thought. ”Who else would come this late in the day to visit.” I parked myself near the entrance to the tower. And listened carefully, expecting to be lifted to hear that unmistakable Aussi accent But I was taken aback to hear French. Nothing abashed I greeted them and asked if they wouldn’t mind taking a few photos with me pointing out the Luttrell name on the wall.

“Pourriez vous me prendre un photo?”

We were still chatting in French some hours later, as they drove me back to Amiens. But that was after a most remarkable chapter for this wandering Australian. I was practically embraced by the Fournier couple, who lived “la bas” in Villers Bretonneux!!! They just had to turn on the five star treatment for me. Even after near 70 years after The Australians had defended, lost and then won back their town from the Germans, there was this enormous affection and bond with Australia. So, they gave me a tour: the school and museum, built by Australians There were  streets : Rue de Melbourne, and others slightly transferred!! I found out the town was twinned with Robinvale in Victoria. ( Never heard of it!) As well, they introduced me to the Mayor, who proudly showed me the town hall panelled with Australian timber. There, proudly struck on high was the call: N’OUBBLIEZ JAMAIS LES AUSTRALIENS. Never forget the Australians. It was probably the time I felt proudest to be Australian!

Then, back to their very impressive residence for a celebration of cake and wine. It was all very stimulating. I even became a little brazen. I had noted a large aged gap in Monsieur and Madame. It must have been when Jacques has disappeared for a while that I got the story. His first wife had died and the children moved on, when he became sick and hospitalised. It was then that love blossomed anew with this attractive nurse, Collette. And

“Voila, c’est comment nous nous sommes maries”. Wonderful.

Around seven o’clock they provided a taxi service for me. What a miracle!

And so I reached Amiens to take the night train back to Paris. What a day!

But the story is not finished. I kept up a correspondence over the years, with Xmas cards and Anzac Days featuring. Then, some five years later, Collette writes to say she is touring Sydney with a group from VB and would like to link up again.  Fantastic! But the French was a little rusty and needed some brushing up. A few weeks of bashing the Berlitz cassettes again had me ready to meet Collette in Kings Cross. We found a comfortable bar and over a few drinks we shared the last few years. Later we joined the main party and enjoyed a very lively meal. I did note that Jacques was not present, but did not enquire. I was just so thankful that this added chapter had played out.

The story is still not finished. Over the years the correspondence dried up and Collette became a memory. But the flame flared in 2008. I was back in Paris on an assignment of gathering data for a movie re Marists Missionaries in Melanesia. Out of the blue came an inspiration: if you have a spare day, why not make another pilgrimage to VB? This time it was summer and it was so much easier using rail. In fact I will always be grateful to this obliging “station master” at Amiens who was just so pleasant and helpful when I ran into difficulties with a recalcitrant ticket machine. She practically put me on the train heading for VB. This time it was so much easier, except for the walking. My back was giving me trouble and so the 1 km walk to the town centre and the further 2 km to the cemetery was a challenge. It was only as I stopped to take a beer in a “pub” that I thought of the Fourniers. I approached a bunch of local men and asked if they knew of them. Frowns all around as they pondered. (Was it my antipodean French?) Then one asked ”Was he a farmer ?”

I was sure of that as he had retired back there in 92.

“Yes, I think he died some years back but his wife is still around?” my friend said.

I was delighted.

“Can you tell me where she lives?”

 No, he wasn’t sure. “Down that way” he said waving his hand vaguely.

“Many thanks mate”…I mean “Mille fois merci, mon ami!” I decided the project of meeting Collette was doomed as it was all so ad hoc.

I finished my beer and plodded the twenty minutes to the cemetery, struggling along on a grass fringe and being blasted by some heavy trucks. Again, I was awed by this sacred place as I wandered along the rows, greeting the “boys”. Again I took some photos and signed my name in the guest book with appropriate and profound comment.

Getting back to the train station was going to be painful; so I decided to be bold again. Thankfully, there was a mini bus, emblazed with BATTLEFIELD TOURS. I checked out the driver, a nice Englishman.

“Excuse me, but I’m having a bit of a problem walking back to the Station, any chance you’re going that way?”

“No problem mate, but you’ll have to ask those two ladies up there. They booked the tour.”

I can’t say how delighted I was to find they were from home, and had been WAAFs during WW2.

A little charm and blandishment did the trick. They dropped me off at the “pub” which meant only a short walk.

Now, it was on that walk that Collette slipped into my mind again. How sad would I be if I missed a heaven- sent opportunity to meet her again.

 Impossible.

But then fortune struck As I strolled back to the railway station, I saw my answer. There was a PHARMACIE  on a corner half way along to the station. Inspiration struck again.

“If anyone would know the family, especially if there was sickness, it would be the chemist” said I. Sure enough, after being referred to le patron by a pretty attendant, I struck gold. With some animation (because I was Australian) he took me outside and said

“It’s just down this street, at no 45 is where Madame Fournier lives”.

Almost breathless and a little apprehensive I walked down Rue Arsene-Obry. And there outside 45 so many memories came flooding back as I looked on this fine, stylish residence.

Would she really be there? How would she react to this surprise-shock visit? What will happen?

I walked to the door and knocked. I knocked again. Nothing.  I then noted the next door neighbours were placing a baby in the back seat casket. Obviously, they were going out. I approached them and they told me the disappointing news that Collette had gone a visiting as she always does this time each week.

  What a blow! The best I could do was to scribble a note and slip under the door, hoping she might make contact. It must have been at least a month later, when I was doing the Third Age course with some twenty very mature Brothers in Manziana outside Rome that I received a Christmas card from her. She explained about the passing of Jacques and wished me well. Reading  between  the lines I felt this was farewell and there would be no more contact. I was so thankful.

But it wasn’t quite the end of the affair. ANZAC Day 2009 there was a sudden flaring of friendship yet again.I had just arrived home at Daceyville after a strenuous walk from La Perouse to Henry’s Head.  It was quite a hot day and arriving home in a sweat I grabbed a cold beer and plonked myself in front of the TV. I was hoping to catch the last tattered ranks bringing up the rear in the annual march through Sydney. But that had finished, but I stumbled on something so much better. I was suddenly in some spectral land. It took me some time but I recognised that tower and wings. It was the dawn service coming directly from Villers-Bretonneux! I watched in utter fascination. It was only the second or third time that VB had grabbed some of the limelight. The earlier viewing of the Gallipoli service, attended by thousands, specially younger folk had claimed centre stage on the TV. Now we’d moved to France. Eerily the French and Australia flags were writhing slowly in a slight breeze. The eastern sky was tinged with red. It was not easy to gauge the crowd, huddling there in thick winter clothing. Then it became clearer that there were thousands. Little did I know that two of my friends were there, Janice and Jane. The ritual was impressive and I was impressed by the Australian MC’s  French! It came the time to lay wreaths. A long file snaked forward. As each Unit or Company was mentioned a representative moved forward to place a wreath. Again, unbeknown to me, the very first wreath laid, after the high ranking officials, was Jane’s whose uncle or grand uncle fought and died there.

I sat silent after it finished and thought “I must send a card to Collette”. With such motivation I bought an appropriate card and sent my message. But there was a hitch. I had lost the address. Rummaging around in my jumbled mind I recalled the number in the street, 45. But what was the name of the street?? I had almost given up when that good angel struck again. GOOGLE EARTH.

In a few minutes I’m on the internet and I Googled Villers Bretonneux, France. In a second there I am in a balloon over the town. Yes, there’s the cemetery and tower. I backtrack back to the Railway station. But what street is it. Suddenly, I recall the Pharmacie on the corner. I zeroed in. Yes, there it is. And following along and putting down the little yellow man I can survey the houses. Voila! I can almost knock on the door. And is that Collette watering the flowers??? The street is ARSENE OBRY!

I wonder what she thought when that card with kangaroo fluttered down from the skies.

There was no reply even after months. But that’s OK. I’m grateful for that wonderful encounter back in 1992 and the subsequent story that is all so precious.