Where the Line Breaks Read online

  Readers of the ebook edition of Where the Line Breaks are advised that the endnotes are intended to be read when they appear in the text, by clicking the link in each endnote number. But this choice (as with some things in life, though not all) is of course up to you.

  Michael Burrows was born and raised in Perth. When he was old enough to fend for himself, he ran away to London, where he currently lives with his partner. He wrote the first draft of this novel as part of his master’s degree at City, University of London. Where the Line Breaks was shortlisted for the 2019 Fogarty Literary Award.

  For Kate

  War ain’t no giddy garden feete – it’s war: A game that calls up love an’ ’atred both. An’ them that shudders at the sight o’ gore, An’ shrinks to ’ear a drunken soljer’s oath, Must ’ide be’ind the man wot ’eaves the bricks, An’ thank their Gawd for all their Ginger Micks.

  – C.J. Dennis, ‘The Call of Stoush’

  Hell, I’ve taken all the Turk can throw at me, An’ more. Would do it all again, like that, An’ more, to feel the sand of home beneath my feet, The waves out back, the bullets past my cheeks, My mates waiting on the shore.

  – The Unknown Digger, ‘Out Back’

  Always the same dream.

  He’s still on the rock.

  The sun rising behind the wall of khaki-clad men who advance past him. The countless boots. The endless rifles held at the same exact angle, tips of the bayonets rolling forward in a wave that extends as far as he can see, until they rise out of the trench, and another line takes their place. Scowling as they peer back at him. Actively running from him, distancing themselves from him as they jump up on the fire step and clamber up the ladders, climbing up the sandbags, the cliff wall, the wooden supports, their heads turned back to him with disgust in their eyes, pitying him, watching him blow his childish whistle before they step up and out into the unknown.

  And as the first wave vanishes, the next line turns, and the same faces peer back at him, judging him, shaking their heads.

  And the next line. Shaking their heads.

  And the next.

  Each line turns and he sees the faces of the friends he signed up with, the boys he trained beside, the men he joked and drank and swore and dreamed with: Brennan, Stokes, Collopy, Richardson, Morrow, even Tom and Robbie. Sometimes Red. And sometimes Nugget. As they fade, the noise starts, seamlessly merging with the tick of his watch. No change in tempo, no increase in speed. The steady tak tak tak of the machine gun; the relentless, ruthless, repetitive, jarring tak tak tak of mechanical bursts that ring in his head when he lies down to sleep. That constant awful tak tak tak that continues when he wakes in a cold sweat, his shirt stuck to his chest. The bullets thud thudding into the flesh of his mates in time with the tak tak tak of his heart.

  Identifying the Unknown Digger:

  Conclusive Evidence for the Composition of the Unknown Digger Poems by Lieutenant Alan Lewis, VC

  by

  MATTHEW L. DENTON

  B.A., The University of Western Australia

  M.A., The University of Western Australia

  A Dissertation Submitted to the Graduate Faculty

  of University College London in Partial Fulfilment

  of the Requirements of the Degree

  DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

  Supervisor: Professor Alistair Fitzwilliam-Harding

  LONDON, UK

  Em

  for believing in me

  Jessica

  for pushing me

  Alan

  for inspiring me

  ABSTRACT

  Imagine that you are tired, and far from home, weary from a long ride across a vast desert. You miss your family, your fiancée, your loved ones, the life you knew. Your life is one of hardship, constant movement, incessant danger. Interminable sand. Your life is one of orders, of repetition. Orders. Repetition. Orders. Repetition. Your life is not yours anymore. Your life belongs to your country, to your commanding officer.

  To the sand.

  You ride into a small village on the outskirts of the plains of Megiddo, a tiny ramshackle collection of dirty buildings centred around a well, the only source of drinkable water for miles. The town square is deserted. You dismount, and alongside your best mate, enter the largest building without backup. Your heart is racing, your thoughts are back home with your fiancée, the sea, the red earth of home.

  In the darkest recesses of the building, you are ambushed by Turkish soldiers. Pistol shots ring through the deserted streets. The clash of bayonet on scimitar. The eerie war cries of deadly enemies. You fight in the darkness, hand-to-hand, man to man. The numbers are against you, and so you fight harder. Your best friend is mortally wounded, and yet you continue to fight. You could run, and save yourself, like any ordinary man, but you are no ordinary man. You fight on, despite the overwhelming odds, and somehow, miraculously, you push your way back into the light, dragging your dying friend into the street, calling for aid, never giving up. And when anyone else would have retreated, when any normal human would have waited for reinforcements, for help, you instead plunge once more back into the melee, back into the darkness of the buildings, and into the pages of legend. You emerge once more, back into the light, dragging two young children, saving their lives. And still you plunge once more back into the darkness. What happens in those rooms will go down in history. The spark of a fuse. Your eternal sacrifice.

  For you are no ordinary man. You are an Australian hero.

  And though your life ends on that fateful day, your story continues in every Australian heart, every Australian mind, every Australian ideal.

  Only now, a century later, do we realise the other gift you left us: your words.

  Since their publication in Jennifer Hayden’s Poems of the Unknown Digger, the collected verses of the Unknown Digger have gained an esteemed position within Australian cultural consciousness, to rank alongside not merely the best known works of the various Australian writers and poets of the twentieth century, but, surely, anything produced by the renowned soldier-poets of the Great War. The poems of the Unknown Digger have captured the hearts and minds of the people of Australia in a manner that no published piece, before or since, has achieved. These poems have been recognised internationally as a paramount exemplar of literary achievement.

  Ever since the unearthing of this extraordinary compilation of poems, scholars of literature the world over have dedicated themselves to discovering the identity of the author through a combination of logic, reasoning, circumstantial substantiation, scholarly evaluation and speculation. Prospective creators have been proposed by Australian and international academics, the poems pored over for evidence, and their themes manipulated to reflect hypotheses. These propositions have been counterattacked with intent, and it is safe to say that for now, there is no established consensus, or even a leading candidate, for an author.

  In this dissertation, I will conclusively demonstrate that the author of these verses, whose identity has been concealed for seventy years, is Lieutenant Alan Lewis, Victoria Cross recipient. Alan Lewis, the legendary Light Horseman who sacrificed his existence to save the lives of others, is one of Australia’s greatest and most revered wartime champions. In this thesis I will prove, beyond doubt, that he is also one of Australia’s – indeed one of the world’s – finest poets.

  Alan Lewis is the Unknown Digger.

  This thesis will document, categorically, that Alan Lewis is the sole creator of these poems. In the subsequent chapters, through (1) a comprehensive consideration of the primary source materials available, (2) an exhaustive contemplation of his engagements throughout the assorted operations in which the 10th Light Horse were involved, (3) thorough investigation into his philoso
phical convictions and ideology as reflected in his war record and writings and, (4) through a careful analytical breakdown of the existing poems, I will confirm that Alan Lewis is the only possible contender for authorship.

  The mystery of the Unknown Digger has been solved.

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION: The discovery of the Unknown Digger poems, and their cultural importance within the prevailing Australian literary landscape

  Chapter 1: An examination of the circumstantial evidence for the authorship of the poems by Lieutenant Alan Lewis: Primary sources from Lewis’s movements through 1915–18 and the Unknown Digger poems

  Chapter 2: An analysis of the material evidence strongly indicating Alan Lewis’s authorship of the poems: Lewis’s wartime writings as primary sources for objective comparison

  Chapter 3: Ideological similarities in the poetry of the Unknown Digger as evidence for Lewis’s authorship: How Lewis’s service history and moral code compare and contrast with the Unknown Digger

  Chapter 4: Examining the previously unexplored implications of a potential Alan Lewis authorship on the Unknown Digger poems: The Lemnos poems and their potential to change everything we think we know

  Chapter 5: Further original evidence from the campaign in the Middle East demonstrating an Alan Lewis authorship of the Unknown Digger poems: The Lost Years as a source for contiguous postulation

  Chapter 6: Conclusive evidence and analysis of the primary sources and secondary confirmation

  CONCLUSION: Final thoughts on the legitimacy of Alan Lewis’s legacy, the importance of a unified theory of authorship, and acknowledgements

  INTRODUCTION: The discovery of the Unknown Digger poems, and their cultural importance within the prevailing Australian literary landscape.

  Ever since their discovery by the then-unknown academic Jennifer Hayden, neglected in the Irwin Street Building Archives at The University of Western Australia, the extant works of the Unknown Digger have touched on a nerve-ending of public feeling.1 The poems have grabbed the attention of the Australian community in a way seldom observed: they are venerated by the cultured and the uneducated, the wealthy and the underprivileged, and both conservative and liberal minds across the nation.2 Rarely has a body of work ‘captured the hearts and minds of a developing population as succinctly or profusely’.3 Part of the collection’s appeal, unquestionably, must be apportioned to the anonymity of the author and the mysterious circumstances surrounding the discovery of the treasured manuscript. But the true wonder of the poems lies in the candour of their writing, the ‘frank humanism of their wordplay’, the electricity conveyed by their imagery, and the astonishing way they so perfectly encapsulate the collective idealisation of a national identity.4

  The combat forces of the Australian Army, Navy and Air Force during the Great War are held in special regard by the Australian people. From their initial deployment as part of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC), and through the following disastrous campaign in the Dardanelles, the actions of Australia’s soldiers, colloquially referred to as ‘diggers’, are characterised as ‘the very embodiment of the Australian national identity’.5 For most Australians, including this author, the fundamental image that arises when envisioning ‘an ideal hero’ is that of the courageous young man shipped off to fight for a regent he has never seen, to a country he has never heard of, simply because ‘it was the right thing to do’.6 It is no exaggeration to conclude that the actions of these young men have helped us to articulate what we now think of as the entire Australian disposition.

  And yet, as fundamental as their actions have become in fashioning an image of what it means to be Australian, there is a distinct lack of primary evidence on hand to fully appreciate the perception. Scholars have scrutinised the letters and writings of the Anzacs, examining battle reports and injury lists, but the Australian wartime experience has always lacked the singular artistic representations of the British war experience.7 ‘War poetry’, those poems and dramatic writings written by the soldiers and civilian bystanders, actively romanticised the heroic actions of its participants and simultaneously disclosed the horrors of the conflict through British First World War poets Owen, Sassoon, Thomas, Rosenberg, Brooke, et al.8 There were a few bright lights when it came to defining the Anzac experience: C.J. Dennis with his ‘Ginger Mick’ poems, Leon Gellert, perhaps a few poems by Lawson and Paterson, but the list was short, and there was no poet to match or define the Anzac experience.9

  In October 1993, Jennifer Hayden found the poems that would swiftly come to define the ‘Anzac spirit’ and what it meant to be Australian. Hayden recognised the importance of her discovery immediately:

  … in the bottom of one of the last boxes in the archive, secured by a leather tie and covered in dust, I pulled forth a bundle of papers, faded by the sun, written in a stuttering, hurried hand. Imagine my surprise when, upon examination, I discovered I held in my hand the most beautiful, most touching, and – perhaps astonishingly – the most Australian poetry I’d ever read.10

  Regrettably, the author of Hayden’s collection of writing was unidentifiable. The poet she presented to the world was a hero without a face or name.

  It is the purpose of this thesis to definitively reveal the Unknown Digger to be Alan Lewis, VC. Unknown no more.11

  HOME. FEBRUARY 1915.

  The pub is heaving.

  Alan is unsteady on his feet. He avoids the puddles of piss out by the trees and pushes his way back inside, through the crowd to where he left Rose and Red.

  He spots them leaning on the bar, a dark stain of beer sloshed down Red’s newly tailored breeches, off his chops. Absolutely fuck-eyed.

  Not that anyone else notices. They’re all as drunk as Red. The room is a swirling mass of sweaty, uniformed men.

  Rose smiles at him as he emerges from the crowd, and beckons him into their little circle. She says something, but he can’t hear her over the din of the crowd.

  ‘What?’

  She leans in, her breath hot on his ear. Her dress is lacy white, but he can’t make out the pattern.

  ‘Red has very kindly offered to marry me.’

  ‘He what?’ Alan spins to his best mate, who is grinning manically on the bar. ‘You what?’

  ‘Relax,’ Rose places a hand on his arm. ‘I turned him down.’

  ‘She turned me down.’ Red is in his other ear, too close, too loud. ‘Said she’s waiting for the right man.’

  Rose hasn’t removed her hand from his arm. He can feel it, hot through his shirt.

  ‘I told her, I said, Rose, with a war on, you could be waiting an awful long time. We’d hate you to turn out an old maid.’

  Alan catches Rose’s eye and feels his cheeks redden. His hand creeps along the bar, closer to Rose’s fingers.

  ‘I need to piss.’ Red announces to the bar. ‘Think about it, Rose.’ He leaves with what he must think is a roguish wink.

  ‘We’ll be here,’ Alan says. Rose waves as Red elbows his way through the troopers. Once Red has disappeared into the mob, Rose turns to Alan and then looks towards the door.

  ‘Would you care for some fresh air?’

  ‘Shouldn’t we tell him?’ Alan cocks his head toward the mass of uniforms.

  But she’s already pulling him towards the bright light of the street.

  Her white dress gleams in the failing light, vanishing around the corner with her breathless laughter. The roar of the pub recedes. The evening breeze off the ocean makes the shadows cold.

  Alan turns the corner and almost bowls her over, gathering her up in his arms and spinning. They fall against the wall, the breath knocked from his chest making them laugh harder. A cry from the bar. Rose’s tiny hand clamps over his laughing mouth. Again, the faint cry of their names. He’s holding her, frozen in time down a darkened alleyway a few shops up from the crowded pub.

  His hands relax, and he lowers Rose to her feet. She peels her hand back from his mouth with care.

  ‘Freedom.
’ He sings the word, rolling it around in his mouth, sending inquisitive fingers down her spine.

  ‘For twelve more hours.’

  He pulls the sides of his mouth down in a mock frown, then grabs Rose’s hand and pirouettes her, flaring her dress out in a perfect circle – a blur of white in the gloom.

  ‘So, what to do with twelve hours?’

  He stops the spin with a little more force than necessary.

  Rose pokes a small pink tongue at him, and squeezes his hand. ‘Remember when we met?’

  ‘The Hat-Trick?’

  ‘Seems like a lifetime ago.’

  He grins. ‘Pav’ll be empty.’

  The offer hangs in the air.

  ‘Mr Lewis, without a chaperone, we would be completely alone. The very thought is scandalous.’

  He runs his tongue over his teeth. ‘I’ll race you.’

  He’s off before she can react, tossing a stack of empty wooden crates in her path and glancing back to see her smile.

  No doubt the whole town remembers the Hat-Trick, the first, and for now, only time the Under Sixteens had topped the league. He had been fifteen at the time, fielding at square leg late on the final day, the sun in his eyes, praying the ball wouldn’t find him. Sweat rolled down his nose. His muscles ached. The old foe – Marybrook High – needed three hundred to win and were sitting pretty at four for two-hundred-odd thanks to a captain’s knock from their bull of a senior.

  And then Red had come on to bowl his big loopy finger spinners, and all the fielders had taken a step or two back, expecting fireworks. Thing is, Red lived for those moments. He could always be counted on to make things happen, and as soon as the batsman attempted to lose it over the crowded pavilion it looped off the bat and landed easy as you like in the wicketkeeper’s gloves.