Book From This Blog

The Book:
http://www.blurb.com/books/6391531-australia-2015-dispatches-from-the-motherland

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1. Dispatch From the Qantas Lounge

Hello.  Mr. Precious?

Yeah, I am.

My name is Rod Stewart, calling from California.

California? 

Yes sir, I am trying to locate decedents of a man who served in the Australian army in World War One - at Gallipoli.  Records show him as a John Henry Precious.  Could he be your grandfather?

My father was at Gallipoli … William Precious.

Your father then? 

Right.  I’m in my nineties.

Well, Mr. Precious, I think I owe you, or more correctly your father, a thank you.  You see, according to the history books, I think your father once saved my grandfather’s life.  At Gallipoli.  In 1915.


And so starts another trip.  Another reason to get up and go.  This time, back to the birthplace of my mother, a country that remembers her father very well.  A country that had been a country only a few years, when my grandfather, Edward John (EJ) Howells, left his desk at the Office of Patents and Trademarks, to answer his King’s call to arms - and joined the Australian Army in 1914.

Armed with a thick ream of old documents and photos, we get ready to fly over the vast Pacific, toward Mr. Precious, and other appointments - including the head of Military History at the Australian War Memorial Museum - and a genealogist cousin too far removed to calculate.

This trip “down under” will hopefully fulfill a desire that is only burning hotter than when first lit while following Granddad’s horse prints to Gallipoli and Palestine.  I want to find and tell Granddad’s story, to his descendants - his great great grandchildren (and perhaps their kids) so they will know and remember him - and have a great grand time doing it!

Dispatches to follow as time and talent allows.

 - Packed n Stacked Stew

2 - Dispatch From LAX

Airplanes.  Is it possible that a family can get airplanes into their evolutionary DNA?  How can it be that my grandfather, father, two-and-half brothers, and me … all somehow evolved into airplane people? Not enough time since Kitty Hawk for some biological change - but all else certainly has. Orville Wright’s one-man plane, managed to stay airborne for a few seconds and fly 120 feet.  Our plane to Australia is longer than the first flight, is good for 17 hours - and holds more people than I will ever know.

This airport has evolved too.  When I first saw LAX, it was sometimes still called Mines Field - and the first jet airliner had yet to land.  My brothers and I watched the iconic restaurant theme building going up from our backyard, a yard that was soon engulfed by airport expansion - along with much of my boyhood ‘hood.  Returning years later, I looked down at that restaurant from my “office” - the LAX control tower. Today’s tower now looks down on it.  The original Los Angeles Hanger #1, that I walked past to climb stairs into my first airliner, is still there. It would easily fit inside the shopping mall that holds today’s international gates.

Granddad too saw remarkable changes.  WWI aerial photos of his men and horses in 1918 were taken from an English bi-plane - before the RAF was even formed.  After that war, Granddad joined Australia’s new force - an airforce - the RAAF.  Dad flew in the next war, Don and I took wing in Vietnam, then he went from fighter jets into an airliner cockpit. Bill also was an airline pilot - and kid brother Pat got his first job at LAX, and still works for USAir.

Only now has all this change produced the tools to let me contemplate all of this - to let me explore a tiny blink of history.  It is 111 years since Kitty Hawk, 100 since the start of Granddad’s war, and 50 from mine.  I now can use laptop libraries, video calls to the other side of the planet, huge planes to jet to anywhere from airports the size of cities, and … spell check.

-  Seatpocket Stew

3 - Dispatch From the Club

Our world is getting homogenized.  Airports are all the same, shopping malls everywhere are sporting the same labels, and hotels seem to vie for who can be slicker, shiner, glassier - producing just more of the same.  So, if you don’t want to have “home” when away from home, to find a place with a sense of place, it takes a bit of effort and skill - Jean supplies both.

Armed with a “Letter of Introduction,” she has us in a cartoon of a old stodgy British club - private of course.  The walls festooned with gilt-framed oils, yellowed photos and cases full of tarnished medals - reminders of long dead members and their exploits.  Past presidents have letters like DSO, OBE, KB after their names, and “Sir” before - honors supplied by kings named George and a queen named Victoria.

A snooker room, burl paneled phone booths (where one must retire to use one’s mobile phone). Rooms are tiny and bath floors raised to allow the in-suite plumbing to be added in the 20th Century.  Everything reeks of old, traditional, custom quality, and a continuance of the values of days gone by. I love it.  It brings back memories of Mother’s Victorian culture - a city girl from an Imperial capital.  I see the silver sugar bowl at breakfast and have to explain my mirth to Jean by telling Mom’s only “dirty” joke:

The matronly wife of the club’s president finally is forced to breach a delicate complaint to the club manager.  The ladies have noticed that the gentleman are coming out of the loo, and then using their fingers to place sugar cubes into their tea.  The manager agrees with her suggestion that tongs should be supplied to prevent this unacceptable situation from continuing.  Of course, the next day, the fingers were still being employed and she summons the manager in displeasure, demanding to know, “Why haven’t you supplied the tongs I asked for?”  He replies in deferential defense, “But I did madam.  They are hanging in the men’s room.”

Out the window, we can see Sydney Harbor Bridge - a riveted jumble of iron bars that together takes on the grace of its technological contemporary, the Eiffel Tower.  The bridge, the elevated train, the motorway and even this old club, now surround Sydney’s famous central dock, the Circular Quay.  None of these were yet built on May 10, 1915, when Granddad and his mates climbed a gangway to board HMAT (His Majesties Australian Transport) Euripides, and steamed away from Australia, bound for British Egypt, the Great War - and Gallipoli. 

Their lives, our world, would never be the same.

- Sugar-cube Stew


Once a jolly swagman carried his pack
And lived the free life of a rover.
From the Murray's green river to the dusty outback,
He waltzed his Matilda all over. 
Then in 1914, his country said, "Son,
It's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done."
So they pinned up his hat brim, and gave him a gun,
And off he marched to the war.

And the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As the ship pulled away from the quay,
Amid all the tears, flag waving, and cheers,
He sailed off for Gallipoli.
From “The Band Played Waltzing Matilda”
by Eric Bogle - Revised with permission

4 - Dispatch From the ACT

Like Washington DC, Canberra ATC (Australian Capitol Territory), was cut from unwanted land positioned between two competing parts of a new country.  ACT is home to the usually national buildings - Parliament, Archives and the Prime Minister’s Residence.  It is also home to one unusual building, a place of pilgrimage for this grandson - what they just call the “AWM,”  the Australian War Memorial. 

It has been 100 years since Australia landed troops at Gallipoli.  It was a birth moment for the new nation, just delivered from being a bunch of mere English colonies.  They were young and cocky and unlike all of the millions who got drawn into WWI, they were all volunteers - signing up for the usual male reasons - but also to prove their young nation had a proper place in world events.

They became known as ANZAC. It started as a dismissive British telegraph abbreviation for the Australian and New Zealand Army Corp, but it was soon taken up to become part of national identity and pride.  Every ANZAC is remembered as a founding father of their country.

My grandfather was one of those fathers.  I first became aware of that when I came here on R&R from Vietnam.  That was long ago, but as I aged  and became who I am, I have always been puzzled by why I turned out the way I have.  Nurture or nature, bred or raised, inherited or learned, luck or intent - don’t we all wonder?  Don’t you?  

Now I have the time and the means to sate those questions.  So again I walk back up the wide stairs, past the poppy covered bronze names, and return to this place built to remember those ANZACs who volunteered, who fell, and still fall.  I am chasing Granddad, and also myself.

- Returning Rod

5 - Dispatch From the Museum

Why is this history hunt so much fun?  Why are scavenger hunts, antique stores, flea markets, jigsaw puzzles, or easter-egg hunts fun?  Add in a NY Times Sunday crossword, a Friday sudoku, and … it just is.

Inside the research rooms at the Australian War Memorial, National Library, National Archives and State Library of Victoria, are rooms full of documents for us to digitally crawl through and even get our digits on.  Each small found piece fits into the next, and the whole puzzle sits on a table of their time's world events.

Even more fun are the interesting people that have joined us in the search - people who also love a good adventure story and historic novel - people that we would never have met had we been tourists without a cause, without a quest. 

So far: chatting with military academy cadets intently studying old battles; introduction to an ex MP, ambassador and Defense Secretary who is now director of the museum; a brilliant old research assistant working in the bowels of the National Library who looked up from his computer and dryly asked me, “Have you seen this 1943 photo of your mother in front of Buckingham Palace?”

And Craig, Cameron, Deborah and Fred, who all dug deep; a history professor who also knows her Aussie wines - and Ashley, who was our guide at Gallipoli in 2008, now the Head Historian.  He literally wrote the book on Gallipoli.

Seeing the physical artifacts in the beautiful AWM museum brings 1915-1919 back to life. At center stage of their new multi-millions WWI wing, is the surviving pontoon Granddad used to get across the Jordan River - to link Lawrence of Arabia’s Arab army with the allies charging out of Jerusalem - to capture Amman then Damascus - and put an end to the Ottoman Empire.

Jean finds other treasures - a couple of small oil paintings that show bridges important enough during the WWI that they were painted by the official illustrator - bridges we find were also built by Granddad.  My favorite is a warning sign from the engineers digging trenches and mines at Gallipoli - maybe from the very spot where Granddad fell and was almost carried to safety by Corporal J H Precious - who then fell himself. 

There is a diorama of the parched horses drinking after the desperate charge by the Light Horsemen to capture the wells at Beersheba - Arab wells that Granddad restored and got pumps going.  History, drama - and I am thirsty for more.  If you are:
 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oeuh4XZI7nk 

All this patrimony is displayed on top of the Memorial’s research rooms - giving everyone access to the documents and photos Australia has saved from those days - now a 100 years ago.

It is harder to sleep than usual - for me at least.  My head spins.  Jean is sawing 'em off.  Yesterday, she found a 1918 news clip that reports on my great-grandfather dropping dead in front of his house. His name was John, and he was a “painter.”  The address led to an item about his wife, Annie - my great-grandmother.  We then found that her maiden name was … Roderick.  Yes, this is fun.

- Roderick Roderick

6 - Dispatch From the Cricket

Jean has just managed to find us rooms for the first couple of nights.  A converted pool hall, named for a celebrated Aussie billiards wizard - just across the Yarra River and tracks from the Melbourne Cricket Grounds.

 Little did she know that our visit would coincide with Eagles concerts, World Cup Cricket matches, Chinese New Year - and the biggest event of all … an all-night city-wide street party called White Night Melbourne.  

No rooms at any price anywhere, and we couldn’t even keep our room at the Lindrum, above the pool table.  Leave town?

But cricket saved us.  Not THE cricket - the game with bat ball and sticky wickets.  A cricket - the one that came with 6 legs, cunning, bad timing, and operatic volume.  Ours was the Caruso of crickets.

He fired up as we crawled in to recover from White Night.  I crashed - but Jean went on the hunt.  He must be in the toilet area … or perhaps the tub. Couldn’t tell. Each time she moved, he shut up.  In the drain?  Up the vent?  She started moving furniture.  I started waking up.

What are you doing Honey? 
I think there is a cricket in here!
Cricket is that game they play here, like baseball.
Not THEE cricket!  AH cricket!  The bug kind!
Do they have crickets in Australia?
You’re the half Aussie, don’t you know?!!!
No.
No luck, no sleep and no option - down to the manager.

Now Matt, the manager, was cleaning the bar - this is not a big hotel.  He confirms that yes, both kinds of cricket can be found in Australia.  No, he had not had complaints about the bug kind of cricket before, only the fans of the other kind. 

When I objected to him just “spraying the place,” he shuddered - but promised to go up and find him.  The shudder was because Matt … hates bugs, fears bugs, and would do anything not to have to deal with a bug.  Matt is also frightfully conscientious, frightfully gay, and frightfully thankful when on hands and knees I see the cricket (the bug kind) attempting his escape under the bed.  A bit of TP on his little antennae and he is in my grasp.  Matt would have kissed me in gratitude had I not had a paper covered cricket in my hand.

Out the front door to a garden, Matt close behind - keeping me between the cricket and himself.  He jumps back when the paper is opened and Caruso hops to the ground.  Matt crept closer, held my arm and peered down at an admittedly big cricket, shuddered again, and pulled me back inside.

Not only did he find room for us to stay 3 more otherwise homeless nights - but free wine, free beer - whatever we wanted.  So we grabs a few hours sleep, Jean grabs a bottle of $100 pinot, I grabs a pint of White Rabbit Ale - and the new night begins.  Ending much later looking at graffiti in an alley, and pondering a deep philosophical question: 

Why are tears the only human byproduct that it is polite to discuss?

That still unanswered question produced that last disjointed ramble of an email, and now this explanation/apology.  Anything else, would not be cricket.

- exSterminator Stew

7 - Dispatch From the Stones

My ancestors were a tribal society who spent the cold Scottish winters burning peat while inventing whiskey, bagpipes and golf.  The summers were for stealing other clans’ cattle - and fighting.  They developed an simple way to tell who won and who lost a battle.

Just before the fight, each man would pick up one stone and make a pile.  After the fight, each would come back and remove one stone.  The stones that remained become a reminder of those who fell, a cairn, a monument. 

We still do it.  Solders’ gravestones roll over countrysides from Xian to Flanders to Gettysburg to Gallipoli.  None that fell at Gallipoli ever came back to Australia, many were not buried until the war was over - 4 years later.  They now have stones.  My grandfather, Lt. E.J. Howells, came Precious close to being one of those stones - one Corporal John Henry Precious, to be exact.

 

1915, late in September, Granddad and his mates were in their trenches underground - listening.  “Jocko,” as they called the Turks, was digging.  Tunnel under the enemy trench, pack in explosives, and blow him up.  Like submariners, each side would listen for their enemy digging toward them. With crude measurements and guesses, the Australians plotted the sounds of their enemy’s underground progress - then dug a long deep tunnel to intercept. We found the letter Lt. Howells sent from the hospital afterwards. Granddad had set off the charge himself.  He doesn’t remember much after, nor could have Cpl. Precious, but eye witnesses wrote:

They both made it through the war, and no record was found of them ever meeting again.  But I did find his grandson, Mr. Graeme Precious.  We went to the grave of Cpl. Precious to pay our respects and place a stone by his name - a ceramic poppy, the symbol of remembrance.

Since those Scottish cairns, the stone piles have gotten far larger.  162,000 Aussie stones were left overseas after WWI.  Only one body, a general (and his horse) were brought home.  In 1993, another, an Unknown Australian was exhumed and placed under the dome of the Australian War Memorial in Canberra - a building also made of stone.

 Melbourne too has a big pile of stones - the Shrine of Remembrance.  Inside are parchments with the names of all those who volunteered from the State of Victoria.  I asked to see Granddad’s and they obliged.  

He died just up the road in a veteran’s hospital.  He has no stone.  That will change.

- Stoned Stew

8 - Dispatch From Mother's Land

Me mum, as they say here, always spoke fondly of her hometown. Melbourne was the first capitol before they built Canberra ACT. More cosmopolitan, it has always looked down on bigger Sydney - like San Francisco does on Los Angeles, (a place Jean’s grandmother once warned they “don’t wear shoes down there.”)

Mom would have loved her Melbourne today.  They never ripped out the trams like SF, LA and Sydney did.  Largest system in the world now, and in the city center, rides are all free - go anywhere, just hop on and off.  Many old Victorian buildings are still in use - often just facades for modern enlargements.  One is the Rialto Building.  It had been the Commonwealth Patent Office, Granddad’s office, before and after WWI.  Built in 1891 during their gold rush era - when Melbourne was the richest city in the world - it is now half of the Intercontinental Hotel - saving 2 of these historic beauties.

 Mom would not recognize the hue of the citizens though.  “White Australia” was once official policy and Asians were legally excluded - like they once were in the US.  But now a turbaned Sikh might greet her with the familiar “G’day!” - or a Chinese, Malay, Arab - you name it. I don’t know the ramifications of the social, economic or such, but all these new tastes means Aussie food is not just a lamp chop and shrimp on the barbie anymore.  Each meal is better than the next with Melbourne said to have the best restaurants in Australia.  And tonight we are off to check on that statement again.  Trust but verify.

- Restaurant Rod

PS. Chatting with a local at dinner - turns out the Press Club, almost next door to our old pool hall hotel, is the original home of the Melbourne Herald newspaper.  This is where, in 1937, Sir Keith Murdoch hired a young reporter then sent her to London. She met a dashing Spitfire pilot just over from the States, fell in love and became my mom.  Last dinner in Australia will be in mom’s office.  Don’t you love happy endings!