Have you ever wondered how someone copes with the magnitude of grief? Of loss? Of another person moving on into the energetic world, leaving a bereft hole in the space and endless amount of time one wishes they’d fill? How do you find comfort in loss?
My grandfather comes to mind – not of my loss of him, that is a story for another day, but of his loss of his daughter. Perhaps there is something in my story about his loss that may resonate with, and in some way, help you or someone you know.
Grief is a journey of unknown duration
In 1969, Elizabeth Kubler Ross outlined a process, a graph, of the journey through grief. Much debated over the years, it is generally acknowledged that these five stages are recognisable, and recognised. However, they do not necessarily follow any order, and may occur over any length of time – including a lifetime.
In 2022, Healthcare Central published a discussion around the Kubler Ross’s five stages of grief, given the acronym, DABDA –
Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance
It is a path I discovered and found useful as I sought to negotiate my own losses, the first of which, as it happens, was my grandfather, five years before Kubler Ross published her insights.
My grandfather had no map for his grief
My grandfather’s lifetime preceded this publicly available knowledge that may have guided his journey through losses he experienced. (He was born in June 1897 in Midland, Western Australia and lived until 4 Feb 1965, aged 67 years.)
I recall a hymn, apparently his favourite. It is this, in all it’s archaic phrases, heavily doctrinal, and profoundly insightful words, that I believe he found solace when he tragically lost his little girl.
When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll; whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well with my soul.
Refrain: It is well with my soul, it is well, it is well with my soul.
2. Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come, let this blest assurance control, that Christ has regarded my helpless estate, and hath shed his own blood for my soul. (Refrain)
3. My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought! My sin, not in part but the whole, is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more, praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul! (Refrain)
4. And, Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight, the clouds be rolled back as a scroll; the trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend, even so, it is well with my soul. (Refrain)
Not having anything more than a light recollection that this was his favourite, I would hazard a good guess as to why.
He was a staunch Methodist, a churchgoer, together with his wife, Nora. They brought their three children – should have been four – up ‘in the church’. This phrase means, they attended church every Sunday, as part of their life: they served the community with their Christian faith as the rock-bed of their beliefs. In short, he saw and lived his life through the lens of his Christian faith.
I am not sure where I read it, or grew to believe that the original words of the hymn were penned and inspired by a father who lost his wife and children on a sea voyage. My recollections are modified in Wikipedia, a summary of which follows –
Horatio Spafford, who penned the lines, was a business man and hymn writer. His financial difficulties took their toll on his life but it was in his role as an evangelist, he planned a trip to England from America. On that trip, he tragically lost all four daughters, and almost lost his wife as they travelled ahead of him on the sea voyage. When travelling to join his wife, he passed the spot where his daughters died, and as a result these words were penned. A deeply tragic story.
“It Is Well With My Soul”, also known as “When Peace, Like A River”, is a hymn penned by hymnist Horatio Spafford and composed by Philip Bliss. First published in Gospel Hymns No. 2 by Ira Sankey and Bliss (1876), it is possibly the most influential and enduring in the Bliss repertoire and is often taken as a choral model, appearing in hymnals of a wide variety of Christian fellowships.[a]
When sorrows like sea billows roll
In my imagination, I see the prospect of my grandfather’s version of coping: he may well have found resonance in this hymn. Harold, my maternal grandfather, lost a daughter, the youngest and last of his four children, at barely 18 months old. Even though I cannot imagine the loss, the words, “when sorrows like sea billows roll” resonate with me for my grandfather after the loss of his little girl. She died from an inoperable hole in the heart.
Captured moments
As a parent, I know the fear of the possibility, whether one’s child is a baby, or is a grown adult, I know how the fear of prospect of loss tore at my heart at the times they arose. Losing a child, at any stage in life, is traumatic.
Rewinding time
If I could go back in time, I would ask my grandfather, how did you cope? How did you manage losing a brother-in-law while your wife grieved the loss, while she carried the child who became my mother? How did you manage, barely four years later, losing your fourth baby, only eighteen months old?
I cannot though.
Furthermore, in his generation, emotions were not freely expressed. As loving as he was, in my recollections, he may have been a closed book when it came to talking about matters of the heart. Hence, I imagine an outlet in the words of this hymn, sung from the depths of one’s soul, giving a measure of release.
All is not lost
Spafford’s hymn creates a positivity. I can understand the hymn in the context of the Christian teachings that are integrated into my upbringing. That of faith in God, of belief in Christ’s redemption and how these beliefs can bring comfort. Also, the belief that, in the long run, there is the day of resurrection – when all souls go to be with God and it is then that he (Spafford) will be reunited with his loved ones. I read and grasp how he longs for the day when he will join his loved ones, when the trumpet sounds for him.
Emotional freedom
Today there is greater freedom amongst men to express their emotions openly. The road is long to full acceptance by society in general, and by men themselves, but it is happening.
It would seem that, for Spafford and possibly for my grandfather, grief was something he/they lived with every day. It shows that, for some, there is no ‘finality’ of grief. There may be an acceptance of the loss, and with it, a capacity to move forward. And that is okay.
My way forward
Today, my beliefs are simply that we move from the human form to being purely energetic: that reconnection as pure energy is what happens after death. In having lost my parents and grandparents, I can and do connect with them now. It does not short-circuit resolution of the emotional loss, but it does bring immeasurable comfort.
That is how I find comfort in loss.
Faith Jeanette with her brother
NB: Please check out this link for further insights on coping with grief, should you feel you need it, or know of someone you love who may find it helpful.
It rains cats and dogs during the night. Sunday morning dawns, bleak, damp and with a chill in the air that bites to the bone. Where’s the sunshine? We scrabble – or is that scramble – for ideas.
Do we go for our planned Sunday outing in the rain, or not? Prevaricating over breakfast, a decision is made. Let’s see what the sky says later in the morning.
In the meantime…
A newly acquired Scrabble game begs to be opened. It’s been waiting a week now. Perfect! We spend two hours or so discovering new words, and using old ones.
A word of explanation
We decide to break a rule and allow dictionary checking so long as the proposed word is declared before Dr Google’s Scrabble Dictionary is consulted. Fingers crossed we hope the online dictionary gives approval.
It’s fun being creative with spellings. We laugh about potential discoveries from absurd combinations, and eyes twinkle in surprise at some that prove to be real words. Always, in the background of these checks is hope. Hope that the letters in our hand will dwindle more quickly, or that the new word will magically give us that brilliant score.
Is there an official Scrabble dictionary?
According to my search on Google, there’s numerous ‘official’ Scrabble Dictionaries. There is “an Official Scrabble Players Dictionary or OSPD, a dictionary developed for use in the game Scrabble, by speakers of American and Canadian English. Merriam-Webster, Inc. Merriam-Webster, Inc.”
I count no less than 12 ‘official dictionaries’ on Amazon! There’s a plethora of words to choose from! Just so long as they are acceptable as Australian English!
In my childhood home, I remember a massive tome of words, our very own Webster Dictionary having pride of place. I believe my brother laid claim to it years ago.
I am amused
We each grew up in households that played Scrabble. I suspect mine played less often than my partners did. He recalls playing ‘quite a lot’ in his teen years. We each grew up with different applications of the rules, and this is to his advantage. He sees words in ways my mind is not yet attuned to. Quite simply, in our games, we could place a word on the board – one word. We usually saw it linked to a letter.
My partner sees letters create a word that links up with other letters to create more than one word. He meshes words together! It is an easy skill for my partner. I need a scrabble board of words to show you what I mean! This inbuilt habitual way of seeing the board and his ability to create great scores amazes me.
Cheat!
We each used to play online Scrabble for a while. My partner is so darn good at finding words and matching letters to create two or more words in the one ‘go’, that he was accused by his online players, of cheating. I can assure you; he doesn’t cheat! He doesn’t need to!
An hour or so later, it’s game over. I add up my remaining letters and boost his score by five points. He doesn’t need the extra. He’s won by a rather large margin!
Family fun
I like board games. Lots of family fun nights. Monopoly, Squatter, Scrabble and Yahtzee are just a few I recall as a kid and still play. Holidays were our fun nights for games.
My other option on a rainy day is to read a book, a solitary choice. You can check out some here. Today’s game of Scrabble was simply good fun. We hit the target. It turned a drizzly kind of morning into sunshine.
We hit the target 🙂 Picture_ Pexels
What do you do on a rainy day? Please let me know below or by clicking here and scrolling to the end of the post.
9 am start. Pick me up from the Smash Repairs? he asks.
When? Oh, 9am? Okay. Where?
He tells me, again. The local Smash Repairs.
Why is he going to the local smash repair workshop?
He’s getting the ugly slash of a dent removed from his almost brand-new all-wheel-drive. In fact, the entire boot is being replaced. $4K! For a dent! $500 excess! It’s expensive parking in our local grocery store car park. Too-narrow car bays, too little room between this side and that to reverse in or out. Unknown perpetrator of the car wound has left his or her mark. Argh!
Okay. 9am. I pace myself. Alarm for 7.15. Yes, it takes me an hour to wake up, and half an hour to get ready. It means a window of about five minutes or so to ‘get there’, the repairs workshop, where I am to dutifully collect from the roadside.
His pride and joy for low key camping trips. Once pristine, now at the smash repairs.
What? Now?!
He calls out – ‘see you there’. It’s 8.30! It’s 5-7 minute drive, just down the road! I’m still naked, freshly showered, putting on my face in the bathroom.
You’re leaving too early! (He always does. Why didn’t I factor this in?!)
‘See you when you get there’, I hear.
The muffled sound of a diesel motor gurgles into life. Muffled because it is in the carport and I am in the bathroom.
I never quite got the sound of non-petrol cars. Once upon a childhood time, when I was a farm girl, diesel sounds belonged to tractors, trucks, heavy duty farm vehicles. Anyway, his choice, diesel I mean – and to leave at, what is now, 8.31.
I do not, read again, do not hurry – to get to the Smash Repairs!
It’s chilly, crispy, borderline winter cold. As I pull up curbside, a large slither of guilt oozes its way into my heart. I don’t like being in the cold. Neither does he. He’s been standing, waiting for my 3 minutes past 9, late, arrival.
Belt up!
It took a few minutes to cross the highway
He explains his early arrival. As do I, why the 3-minute oversight. Too much traffic on the highway I had to cross.
He explains. He likes to arrive early to talk about the work to be done, pay the excess and…
I don’t really care! For me, if I have a 9 am start it means I arrive at 9am! At which time I discuss the job, and ‘pay the excess’, and…
We laugh. We poke our tongues out at each other. Mirth sparkles from his gentle brown eyes. Rarely annoyed over anything, he suggests breakfast ‘out’ in the same breath and space as I am turning my petrol-run hatch toward my already pre-chosen – already thought about it – breakfast out, direction. “Snap”! We laugh again.
Choose a different way
‘Don’t go that way!’ I do. I know the shortcut via a lane. “Pretty Lane” it’s called. Because it is. A lane lined with Aussie bush. A shortcut between the light industrial, smash repairs, tire replacements, auto fix-it businesses and ‘A Patch of Country’ café in the heart of the local shopping zone. The zone where the culprit pinged his car.
I’ve avoided the highway I had to cross earlier. I’ve bumped my hatch over the curb into and out of the lane. We’ve enjoyed the patch of winter green bush, with its rich grass trees wearing their skirts and slender gums that create a canopy. We skirt a roundabout or two and park near the cafe.
Grass trees and Aussie bush…a summer’s take of our winter scene
Smashed Avocado or not?
Our chosen bacon and egg sandwich with toasted ciabatta and salmon eggs Benedict without avocado café is a quaint, old original farm house. Complete with wood paneled walls, galvanized iron roof and wide wooden floor board verandah. It is a little patch reminiscent of country life with a modern menu of almond milk flat whites and cappuccinos on a sun-warmed verandah. Or, it’s where you can enjoy inside warmth amidst local artisan’s crafts, available for purchase. A quaint place, with excellent service, country-style friendliness and waitresses (or should I say waitpersons?) with smiles and laughter that radiate into this early spring-like morning.
We smile across the table, indulging in the retirement privilege of breakfast out. Of a late or early morning start to the day – whatever we permit ourselves to call it after 9am.
Or was that 8.31?
I’ve written about other mini adventures in my own backyard here, and about being a local tourist here.
ANZAC Day took on a depth of meaning when I learned about my great uncle, Patrick McGuinness who died as a result of critical wounds in Villers-Bretonneux, France. While always aware of those who paid the ultimate price, it was only a few years ago that I learned about my great uncle’s sacrifice. It was a deeply emotional occasion when I sought to honour him by taking part in a parade in my local area.
Peter Terpkos, the author of the article, is a keen family historian focussing on those who served in the World Wars. He wrote the following article on Patrick McGuinness after innumerable hours of research: I’d be surprised if there’s anything he’s not uncovered! The article and map are a precursor to a biography which I look forward to in the near future.
IN HONOUR OF PATRICK McGUINNESS
51st BATTALION AIF
CENTENARY ARTICLE – ANZAC DAY 2018
By Peter Terpkos
Patrick McGuinness was born on the 26th of April 1878 in the town of Euroa in regional Victoria. His parents were Irish immigrants Ellen McGuinness (nee Twomey) and Hugh McGuinness Snr, Hugh being a prominent member of the Euroa community. Patrick was the second youngest of 12 children and lived at ‘Birchell Cottage’, the family home located at 29 Templeton Street, Euroa.
Patrick attended Euroa State School No 1706 and was educated under the instruction of teacher Mr Murray. He left Euroa to attend boarding school at the South Melbourne College (S.M.C.) where he received his Secondary education. The South Melbourne College buildings were located at the time at 225 Banks Street, across the road from the South Melbourne Town Hall. They were demolished in 1905 to make way for the future South Melbourne Police Station built later in 1928, which stands on the site today.
The South Melbourne College was a very well-known private school and regarded as the most notable in Victoria. It enjoyed a ‘stand out’ record for academic achievement like no other and assumed a leading position on matters of equal opportunity. It was reputed to be a place where both girls and boys could compete for studious excellence on equal terms. Mr John Bernard O’Hara was the Headmaster at the time and is described as being an excellent, inspirational teacher and schoolmaster. John O’Hara was also a well-regarded poet and published his most popular work “Songs of the South” in 1891, during the time of Patrick’s attendance. Under such tutelage, Patrick completed his matriculation examinations in November 1894, which was successfully announced in The Argus newspaper (Victoria), on 3rd January 1895.
Amid 1895, Melbourne and greater Victoria were still suffering the effect of the 1893 banking disaster, and the economy remained in a state of deep depression. The Victorian gold rush was a distant memory and a great number of people simply packed their belongings and left Victoria for a better life elsewhere. Indeed, Victoria lost more people through emigration during the period 1891-1906 than it had gained in the preceding 30 years during 1860-1890. With the sharp decline in population also came a contraction in demand for community services and in just five short years, 347 Victorian state schools closed its doors. As a young man who was aspiring to become a school teacher at the time, the prospect of remaining in Victoria was not favourable for Patrick. Then on the 3rd December 1896, Patrick’s father passed away in hometown Euroa, the end of a major chapter in the McGuinness family history.
Western Australia on the other hand, was experiencing an economic boom like never before. Significant gold finds at Kalgoorlie and Coolgardie in the early 1890s attracted the recently unemployed workers from Eastern States in their thousands. The population of Western Australia exploded from 47,000 in 1890, to 179,708 in 1900, to over 300,000 by 1910. Over the same period, Perth went from being a quiet town of 16,700 residents to become a prospering city of 92,138. Besides the mine workers themselves, a sharp influx of middle class families arrived to fill new administrative roles in Perth. With it was created a sudden and significant demand for school teachers. To compound teacher shortages, changes to qualification prerequisites for school teachers were also introduced. Assessments made against the new benchmarks found that out of 409 teachers employed within Western Australian government schools in 1897, 94 were deemed to be unqualified.
In answer to the critical demand for school teachers in Western Australia and the allure of better prospects, Patrick migrated to Perth and arrived in Fremantle in mid-late May 1897. A minor incident concerning his arrival was reported in The West Australian on 26th May 1897, page 2, under Fremantle Police Court Hearings 25th May 1897. The article reads:
“PREFERRED A SLEEPING CAR – Edward Back and Patrick McGuinness, charged with being unlawfully on the premises of the Railway Department, gave as an excuse that they did not care to walk about a mile to their camp from the railway station. They arrived from Perth by the late train, and preferred to spend the night in a sleeping car at the station yard. Their slumbers were, however, disturbed, and their sleeping apartments changed by the agency of a police constable. A fine of £1 was imposed in each case.”
On a light note, one of Patrick’s former colleagues recalls a story about Patrick’s arrival in Fremantle as published in The Southern Districts Advocate (WA) on 10th February 1919, page 3. The article extract reads:
“… Pat and a chum on similar mission bent, duly arrived at Fremantle, and early in their peregrinations about the port they noticed a railway truck, or wagon, forming portion of a rake about to bedespatchedto the Great Southern, and on the side of which was marked in big chalk letters – WAGIN.
“Bedad, Pat!” said the chum, “it’s about time we came over here to teach these duffers something. Look at the way they spell wagon.”
The town of Wagin happens to be a significantly sized agricultural centre, located in central part of South-Western Australia.
On the 5th June 1897, Patrick was appointed Assistant Teacher at Perth Boys School, located at James Street in Northbridge, Perth. The old school building is a significant landmark today and current home of the Perth Cultural Centre. Patrick was extraordinarily active in amongst the school community and it seems that during this time, his opportunities were boundless. He is noted as participating in the first ever game for the Education Department Cricket Club held on 27th November 1897 in Highgate. Over the years, he took part in many interschool sporting events from acting as a field supervisor, to sitting on judging panels to being a competitive participant when this was required of teachers. He was also a member of the Teacher’s Literary Society and presented papers on two of Lord Alfred Tennyson’s poems titled “Oenone” and “Titonus” at the James Street School on the 18th November 1898.
On the 4th April 1899, Patrick attended the first ever Annual Conference of the State School Teachers Association, being one of the 19 delegates present at the meeting. Patrick was in a unique position of bringing youthfulness to the delegation. Over the next few years, he would grow further in the role of representing young teachers. During May 1900, he was again listed as one of the 20 delegates to attend the 2nd Annual Conference of the State School Teachers Association. He was also present at the very first meeting of Assistant Teachers held on 18th February 1901, where it was agreed that the Western Australian Assistant Teachers Union would be formed.
Sometime shortly after in early-mid 1901, Patrick returned to Melbourne, Victoria and played one game for the St Kilda Football Club against Essendon on Saturday 22nd June 1901. The match was held at the East Melbourne Cricket Ground, being Essendon’s home ground at the time. The ground had a very distinctive feature whereby it sloped downhill towards the nearby railway line. The Round 9 game was a loss for St Kilda, with the final score being 19.22 (136) for Essendon and 4.5 (29) for St Kilda. Overall, 1901 was not a good year for the fledgling St Kilda Football Club who finished the season in last place on the ladder. Patrick was known as “Paddy” at the club albeit he promptly returned to Perth Western Australia, after his one and only match with them.
After his brief hiatus, Patrick returned to his post as Assistant Teacher at the Perth Boys School. His work on the committee of the Assistant Teachers Union resumed and Patrick became the Honoured Secretary in the following year of 1902. He was subsequently appointed President of the WA Assistant Teachers Union for the year 1903. His involvement on the committee of the State School Teachers Union also continued where he again sat on the board of delegates for the 4th, 5th and 6th Annual Conferences during 1902, 1903 and 1904 respectively.
Teachers’ Union Committee, November 1903, Patrick McGuinness, (back row, first left)
After serving for 6 years at Perth Boys School, he started a new position as Assistant Teacher at Cottesloe Primary School, located on the corner of Venn and Keane Streets, Cottesloe. He remained at this school for two years before he took on the role of Assistant Teacher at Midland Junction Primary School in early-mid 1905 where he spent the rest of that year. Patrick then worked at Highgate Primary School as an Assistant Teacher in 1906 before returning once more to Perth Boys School in 1907.
In 1908 at age 30, Patrick sought to progress his career by becoming a Head Teacher at one of Western Australia’s “Bush Schools”. By this time, the population expanded into Western Australia such that numerous small settlements existed in regional areas everywhere. The Education Department of WA serviced these areas by setting up small, one-room schools at each location. These were known as the “Bush Schools”. Patrick left Perth in 1908 and assumed the position of Head Teacher at Lucknow School which was located on property at 1112 Bendering Road East, Kondinin WA. He worked there for three years until taking a position as relieving Head Teacher at Port Hedland School for a short period of time, very early in 1911.
By mid-1911, Patrick became Head Teacher at Kurrawang School, located midway between Kalgoorlie and Coolgardie. Kurrawang was a newly gazetted “woodline” town where principally, its inhabitants were tree cutters and railway employees, all working to support mining operations in Kalgoorlie. Whilst some timber produced was used to support mine shafts, the majority was burnt as fuel to power steam-driven equipment for mining and the making of potable water. Daily life at Kurrawang was notoriously difficult and particularly so for women and children living in the town at the time.
With the outbreak of World War One in 1914, Kurrawang saw a decline in population as workers enlisted in the Australian Imperial Force and their families left town. The Kurrawang school population went from a consistent number of over 20+ students in 1912, to less than 10 by 1916. Despite the hardships of the town, Patrick was at the forefront of school social arrangements, acted as town spokesman on certain occasions and was overall, a much loved personality and avid contributor to the spirit of the small community. On 15th July 1915, Patrick presided over “an enthusiastic meeting” to garner support for donations to be made to the West Australian Day Fund, an initiative purposely set up by the Western Australian Government to provide community support for sick and wounded soldiers.
After five and a half years serving as Head Teacher at Kurrawang School, on the 4th January 1917, Patrick enlisted in the Australian Imperial Force and went into Blackboy Hill Training Camp in the foothills of Perth, Western Australia. Patrick was aged 38 years old and nine months at the time. He was sorely missed by his former students, including Ada G. Arnell who mentions Patrick alongside her relatives when she wrote to the Editor of The Western Mail on 17th May 1917, letter published in “Our Letter Bag” on 15th June 1917, Page 37;
“… My two uncles are still in France, and another one going into camp this month. He is married and has a wife and two little children. Our schoolmaster (Mr McGuinness) has gone to the war. …”
On the 12th February 1917, Patrick was given the rank of Private and was assigned to the 16th Battalion 25th Reinforcements. His Service Number was 7508 and he was posted into the No 22 Training Depot on the 12th June 1917. On the 1st August 1917, Patrick was promoted to the rank of Corporal and reassigned to the 11th Battalion 27th Reinforcements on 26th September 1917. The moto of the 11th Battalion was “Deeds Not Words”. At this time also, Patrick’s service number was changed to 7932. Shortly after, the 11th Battalion 27th Reinforcements were relocated to Broadmeadows Training Camp in Victoria, where they underwent final medical examinations there on 9th October 1917.
On the 30th October 1917, Patrick embarked with the 11th Battalion 27th Reinforcements from Port Melbourne aboard the HMAT A60 “Aeneas”. At the time, Patrick’s rank changed to “V.O.” (Voyage Only) Corporal. The “Aeneas” was a former A Class passenger ship built in 1910, weighing 10,049 tonnes and on lease by the Australian Commonwealth from its owners, Ocean Steam Ship Co Ltd (Blue Funnel Line).
On the 27th December 1917, Patrick arrived at Devonport in the United Kingdom and disembarked. At this time his rank reverted back to Private and they marched into Sutton Veny Camp. Sutton Veny was a major training camp and the last preparatory area before being sent the Western Front. At Sutton Veny, he was put into the 2nd Infantry Training Battalion along with the rest of his unit as a temporary allocation while stationed at the camp. From the end of February 1918 through to the end of March 1918, Patrick’s health varied somewhat as he struggled with bronchitis. He received treatment at Sutton Veny Hospital where he stayed on two occasions over that month.
On the 1st April 1918, Patrick departed from Dover and the United Kingdom, arriving later that day in Calais, France. There he was temporarily stationed at the 4th MBBD (Base Depot) Camp. At this time, the A.I.F. Command saw it necessary to reassign Patrick and his unit to become reinforcements to the 51st Battalion in the field, instead of the 11th Battalion as originally intended.
On the 4th April 1918, Patrick left Calais and arrived at the 51st Battalion Head Quarters in the field on Saturday 6th April 1918. Here Patrick was accepted into the battalion (taken on strength) and assigned to one of the four platoons of “A” Company, each platoon consisting of 40 or so men. The motto of the 51st Battalion is Latin, “Ducit Amor Patriae” or otherwise translated to mean, “Love of Country Leads Me”. The 51st Battalion was at the time occupying a support line at Buire-Dernancourt. The Australians in the area were in defensive positions and had shown great resilience in holding out against a major German attack over the previous two days.
By the 7th April, the German attack was called off and the Battalion marched its way to Corbie, reaching it during the night of Wednesday, 10th April 1918. Here, located on the Somme River over the next few days, the 51st Battalion received much needed rest. The men were bathed and re-equipped with new clothes and equipment. Whilst based at Corbie, men of the 51st Battalion were sent out in daily working parties from 14th April 1918 onwards to construct trench defences between Ancre and the Somme, a distance of approximately 6.5km. The Allies were expecting another major assault from the Germans at any time. Meanwhile, the men enjoyed some respite while at Corbie either training, working or enjoying local hospitality in all its forms.
On the 21st April 1918 at 10.15am, the infamous Red Baron (Manfred von Richtofen) flew along the Somme River whilst in a dogfight and crashed just north of Corbie. After flying through a hail of bullets fired by Australian troops on the ground, von Richtofen’s plane landed just 400m away from the post of Lieutenant Wood, who was in command of the 51st Battalion’s No 2 Platoon from “A” Company. Lieutenant Wood immediately sent out men from his platoon to guard the wreckage until it was relieved by troops from Brigade HQ.
On the 22nd April 1918, the 51st Battalion left Corbie and marched out to Querrieu, a small village located North of the Somme River along the Albert-Amiens Road and some 12km behind the front lines. At 11.30pm on 23rd April 1918, an intelligence report was received stating that a large scale enemy attack was imminent and expected to take place in the early hours of the following morning. Then at 3.15am on the 24th April 1918, the Germans laid down a heavy artillery bombardment in vicinity of the 51st Battalion with such increasing intensity that by 4.15am it became a chorus of continuously bursting cannon shells, holding out relentlessly for several hours. At 5.50am, the 51st Battalion was put on notice that all men needed to be ready to move out at a moment’s notice. By 7.45am, it was observed rather curiously, that no enemy assault troops followed behind the bombardment.
The 51st Battalion Commanders found out soon enough though, that the situation was dire indeed. With the assistance of a gas bombardment and tanks, the Germans had instead focussed their attack on Villers-Bretonneux to the South and successfully expelled the British troops garrisoned there. The very first ever tank-versus-tank battle also took place during this attack. The Germans now controlled the higher ground at Villers-Bretonneux and overlooked the downhill terrain to the west, all the way to Amiens, which put the Allies at a strategic disadvantage.
At 11am the 51st Battalion received an order from Brigade Command to dump their new packs and blankets and march out to an area located 1.4km South East of Blagny-Tronville, located almost 13 km away on the West side of Villers-Bretonneux. The men moved out at 12pm, arrived and bivouacked at 4pm. At 7.30pm, the 51st Battalion HQ received orders to prepare to take part in an immanent counter-attack on Villers-Bretonneux later that night.
The counterattack was to be a three pronged affair, with all troops emanating from West of the town site. The first part of the attack was for British troops earlier that evening to clear out and hold the wooded area, just west of town. The second move was for the Australian 15th Brigade to work its way around the fields to the north of town and the third being for the Australian 13th Brigade to come around fields to the South in similar manner. The intention was for the 13th and 15th Brigades to meet up on the east side of town, encircle it and cut it off from the main German force. The 51st Battalion was part of the 13th Brigade, and so being part of the attack on the Southern side of Villers-Bretonneux. Unbeknown to the Australians of the 51st Battalion, British troops failed in their attempt to clear out the woods earlier that evening and the Germans still held it in force.
The sun had set at around 7.50pm and a brief shower of rain fell at 8pm. The near half-moon, was covered over by clouds. Last equipment checks were carried out and at 8.30pm, the men started on their long, silent march toward the jump-off line marked out by tape laid over the ground. By 9.53pm they arrived at the tape where “C” Company arranged itself on the left, closest toward the wooded area with “A” Company on the right. “B” Company came up behind in support and “D” Company was held back in reserve.
The men were very simply instructed to ignore the woods on the left, head straight for Monument Wood on the other side of town and be there by 11pm. The assault was launched at 10.10pm and very soon after, machine gun fire coming from the woods to the left made it obvious that they were not in fact cleared at all. The Germans had no less than five machine gun nests set up in the tree line, one for every 100m for a distance of 500m. The Australians of the 51st Battalion were caught out in the open and not only taking enfilade machine gun fire from the left but also machine gun fire from positions at the front. Flares were continuously set off by the Germans to assist with visibility for the machine gunners, while enemy shells burst sporadically all around them. The line of advance laid out before them was swept continuously by multiple lines of luminous tracer rounds. Progress was impossible.
German machine gunners in the woods had simply waited until the Australians were well and truly in the open and then poured machine gun fire upon them from less than 150m away. On the far left, “C” Company bore the brunt of machine gun fire first, with Lieutenant Sadlier’s platoon of 42 men reduced to just 3 within the first 50m of advance. On the withering of “C” Company so quickly, “A” Company managed to progress only a little further along the line of advance before it too was hit in full force. “A” Company was decimated in an instant and this is when it is likely that Patrick McGuinness received a bullet wound in his left hip.
The 51st Battalion were sitting ducks until in that moment, Lieutenant Sadlier and Sergeant Stokes from “C” Company led a mad rush to the machine gun nests in the woods almost singlehandedly. All five were cleared out and Lieutenant Sadlier received a Victoria Cross for his actions, while Sergeant Stokes received a Distinguished Conduct Medal. A well-known oil painting by Will Longstaff depicts their attack on the machine gun nests in the tree line at Villers-Bretonneux. The effect of these guns were so devastating that the 51st Battalion managed only to reach half-way to its objective before being relieved out of line. Of the 230 ordinary ranks from “A” Company who advanced from the jump off point the night before, only 48 remained present to answer roll call the following morning.
Villers-Bretonneux Map
In the early hours of 25th April 1918, ANZAC Day, Patrick was collected by stretcher bearers who administered initial patching and first aid care before taking him behind the lines to the 25th Field Ambulance Post for an assessment of his condition. The 26th April 1918, Patrick’s 40th birthday, was spent in transit taking him from the 25th Field Ambulance Post to the 55th Casualty Clearing Station (C.C.S.) where he was then immediately put on a train for urgent evacuation to the 47th General Hospital in the coastal town of Le Treport.
Patrick arrived at the 47th General Hospital on 27th April 1918 where hospital records confirm that he was suffering from a serious flesh wound and badly fractured pelvic bones. Despite receiving frequent attention from the Consulting Surgeon on duty, Patrick’s condition did not improve and he passed away from acute septicaemia on the 6th May 1918. Patrick was interred at Mont Huon Military Cemetery located at 2 Rue Albert Edward Dixon, Le Treport, France. His grave reference is Plot 6 Row H Grave 11B.
Patrick McGuinness’s Headstone at Le Treport, France.
“LEST WE FORGET”
Acknowledgements:
This article was prepared by the Author based on private research notes held by the relatives of Patrick McGuinness. The Author can be contacted by email at ptmail@y7mail.com
Featured image: Canberra War Memorial, J Scammell. Map: Peter Terpkos.
When I was about ten years old I played in a huge cubby-house in the back yard of our home. My brother, who was a couple of years younger than me, and I, used to set up the interior as rooms mimicking a real home. We created spaces for a kitchen, a lounge room, a bedroom, and a bathroom. In true playful fashion, as only a pretend home allows, we changed the floor plan at will, and I sometimes frustrated my brother with requests to shift the kitchen from one end of the huge space to the other and replace it with the lounge room, and so on. We partitioned the rooms with fabric as curtained walls, possibly on stretchy wires, the sort used, once upon a time, for lightweight curtains.
The cubby is in the background. My mother and her sister are behind my brother who is in the foreground with a friend behind him. My younger brother has his back turned and that’s me, photo bombing!
I had three dolls: Sophia, Pollyanna and Mary Anne. With my brother, we played at being mothers and fathers. I’d rock my babies to sleep in wooden cots and make-shift beds. Of course, the babies (dolls) all came back into the main house afterwards, to be safe from the cold, damp winter nights, or from the excessive summer heat. I recall the heat generated by the roof. From memory, I think the roof was actually old lino flung over wooden supports! It made the cubby into an oven and reduced the time we could play in it during the long, hot summers in the central West Australian wheatbelt.
What was our cubby made from?
The great things about our cubby-house was the size. It was big enough for a car to have fitted in – because it had been a car crate. Long gone are the days since cars were delivered in crates such as this one. I don’t ever recall seeing a car in one, but I am told, on good authority, that our divine space, made from planks of wood, with a window and door cut into the side, and with a pitched roof added, was indeed the means of transporting a new vehicle to either the owner or the business from which a new owner could purchase it.
Image courtesy of site mentioned above.
When I Googled ‘car crates’, I only found one image that remotely resembled the skeleton we played in. It concurs with the practice of transporting cars by Ford, according to an article aptly named Crate Expectations by Nigel Mathews, who claims ‘the combination of wooden shipping crates and automobiles date back to at least 1908’, and that ‘The practice of shipping cars in wooden crates continued until the mid-1960s.’ It may, therefore, have carried the Model T Ford my grandparents owned, and if not, clearly someone else in the district had purchased a car, otherwise it would not have arrived on our farm, sixteen miles from the nearest town, to be converted into a cubby-house that gave many years of pleasure.
My Rockery Garden
Outside the cubby, in an effort to resemble a true home, I had my own garden rockery. Occasionally I’d plant some flowers or rely on hardy succulents surviving lack of water. These leftovers from my mother’s garden occasionally burst into a vivid display like in her garden beds. Sadly though, I never acquired the green thumb my mother had and a few tough cacti and a plant with the inglorious common name of ‘pig face’ were the only survivors in the hardened soil. Much later I learned of other hardy plants, like daisies, lavender and a purple papery flower, as in the images below!
Inside the cubby, I had a child-sized kitchenette. Smaller than actually appropriate for the size of the cubby house kitchen, it nevertheless was more than adequate for our make-believe purposes. On this kitchenette I placed my tiny cups and saucers, plates and cutlery, all of which intermingled with overlarge offerings from the main house. My tiny kitchenette was thick with coats of chipped, pastel green (or was it red?) paint. It had tiny cup hooks, a shelf and cupboards below. I suspect it was the same one my mother used in her childhood.
The tiny dormice on the cups, saucers and plates seem stuck in time and certainly in my mother’s memory banks. They provided hours of childhood play for her many years before I used them. She ‘oohed’ and ‘ahd’ when I discovered the tin in the spare bedroom where I sleep when I visit her.
A single setting of the tiniest cup and saucer brought my own ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’, as I recalled a set of gold painted china that was my very own.
I see myself in my cubby, at our child-sized wooden table and chairs, some with dolls seated on, serving tea and cake. The cake or biscuits were real, the tea, rather watery. Fingers were held out in grand fashion and with man a giggle! Afterwards, the cups, plates and saucers were washed in a large green enamel bowl which I still own,dried and hung on their hooks or placed back on their shelves.
It was, in fact, a perfect playground, teaching my brother and myself how to keep house, redecorate, enjoy tea parties. and so on, having fun while doing so!
Grandchildren and their Cubby-houses
I wonder how many children today enjoy a special cubby-house space, and items to with it.
I create temporary cubbies with my younger grandchildren – rugs over chairs, hideaways in huge cardboard boxes and so on.
On a property in the hills we inherited a cubby-house that stood the test of time, until the roof leaked and floor boards gave way. Hours of fun were had by the grandchildren in this space with old pots and pans, kitchen cabinets and mini items.
My older grandchildren liked the freedom of repainting the cubby-house to make it their own.
What has this to do with a vintage tin?
I found the tea set wrapped in soft cloth in an old tine. I will pass these onto my granddaughter in due course. Right now, they belong with other pieces of memorabilia until memory is played out. When the time is right to relinquish them, maybe for play, I’ll bring them out again.
All the items are packed away for safe keeping. I plan though, to bring them out when the children visit over the Christmas break and hold a tea party.
Please feel free to share about your memories at the end of the post. If the comment box is not visible, click here:
It’s time! Recently I began my journey of sharing family stories: I shared what I’d captured in writing and photos about my mother’s life with members of the family. Her request to withhold sharing her stories until she after she passed on has been honoured.
Questions around making family stories available to the wider circle, and ultimately to the wider community, is knowing what to write, where to draw the line in what is shared and when to publish.
Stored treasures to write about
Tough decisions
Shortly after my mother passed away, I wrote a short piece testifying to an energetic approach that helped both my mother and myself manage those last challenging months. It was a tough call, having responded to a request to write it and being entrusted to let it go forward to publication, to unexpectedly heed a clear and loud message from my ancestors to not publish.
You see, at first, I thought it was fear. Fear of putting self out there. Fear of what others might do with my story. Fear of not being understood. And not knowing how to handle all that, I pulled back. Yes, I’d been burnt before. This response predominated, yet it was much deeper. Sharing one’s life story and those of others is a journey of trust.
Honouring Values
In fact, it wasn’t fear at all. After deep reflection on why I prevaricated, it was honouring my mother’s wish for privacy, something that unfolded with increasing awareness in the days following her passing and my decision to hold back. In part it is called grieving. It is also called honouring family values. An incredibly private family, it is a wonder I am even writing this! Let alone thinking I’ll publish it!
But the time has now come. As poorly written as the memories of my mother are, (I could offer several excuses for that), they are nevertheless, precious memories. I know that she read and re-read what I wrote: they reminded her of who she was, of the life she had lived, of her input into life. They are now shared within the family, where they matter the most.
My mother walks along a historical path in her home town.
What happens from here?
It is now time for me to move forward by looking back. How on earth does one do both at the same time?!
Naturally reflective, I like to learn from the past. As I enter an era heralded by a number I am loathe to disclose but glad to have achieved, I know I have more years behind me than ahead of me! It is time to write the stories, share them with family and prospectively publish them. That is my goal.
I’m now ‘keen as mustard’ to write my stories
Where will I find my stories?
My 50 crates of family history stored in a shed in our back yard need to be distilled into family stories that I can pass on to my children and grandchildren. Over the years I created both wonder and disappointment in family expectations to participate in family gatherings, collect history and so on. I’d wax and wane with enthusiasm.
Capturing other people’s lives on paper or in making sense of photos of people long gone was far less important than current matters. I was caught up in raising my own family: I just wanted to live my own life. Even so, my mother relentlessly fed me family history from a young age. Now, I am, in fact, deeply grateful. Oddly, now that she is gone, I am more able to focus on writing about the photos, memorabilia and stories that I can share from memory and uncover from research. I guess it comes down to having more time to do so.
I have made inroads and I am now writing, once again. I’ll share the process. I’ll share snippets, photos, possibly some of the stories, along the way. Wish me well on my journey.
CS Lewis Quote “… we write in order to understand”
I had the good fortune to hold a lengthy discussion with a neighbor recently who quoted this phrase by Marcus Aurelius:
“Do not act as if you had ten thousand years to throw away. Death stands at your elbow. Be good for something while you live and it is in your power.”
How does one make one’s life count?
Simple expressions of one’s values are sometimes overlooked. The privilege of being a grandmother, for example; and wind that back to the privilege of having two children, two daughters, raising them to be good citizens, good parents to their own children. Obvious and natural ways to ‘be good for something’.
Being good for something starts within
Fulfillment within the family structure may be sufficient for some, in that it brings joy, fulfillment and a deep sense of calm and peace for many. Yet, being good for that ‘something’ that one can do beyond the immediate family is often a yearning within.
Being good to one’s own self first is a prerequisite to expressing a ‘greater’ life purpose should one feel called to do something that reaches beyond the family.
Being good to self involves self care in all its nuances. Without a firm footing of self knowledge it is often difficult to choose an appropriate way of serving others that truly resonates with who one is. This is a journey, though, and learning who one is and giving expression to that person often evolves along life’s path.
How does one express that something that is beyond one’s immediate self or family?
Being good for something may well be expressed in what is called a greater sense of purpose, an act of service to others. The expression of that may change during one’s lifetime, as it has in mine.
– a position in the workplace, outside home such as
– a chosen profession;
– serving one’s country;
– being creative – sharing one’s wisdom through writing or the arts.
The list is endless, especially if looked upon as embracing any aspect of life.
From the harried days of all that my chosen profession of teaching involved, I now find that something in –
Slowing down in life, sufficiently to smell the roses;
Enjoying a child’s laughter in all its innocence;
Being present in conversation with anyone I am talking with – that is, not being distracted by surrounding noise such as the chainsaw in the neighbour’s backyard!
Silencing mind chatter
Ignoring my phone, except for actual calls or messages
Having a tea-party with my granddaughter;
Confiding over coffee with a good friend.
What about a greater sense of purpose than such trivia you ask?
As for a greater sense of purpose that rattles around within, asking to be identified and expressed, what is that? What replaces the profession that one no longer finds fulfilling,or has outgrown? what is it ‘beyond family’ that I could embrace, that would impact a greater number of people, perhaps in one instance. How can the present moment be filled to embrace many (people) rather than one at a time, or just a few?
Not all of us are ‘called’ to a ‘greater’ purpose – for, in my view, there is no greater nor less than! What is, is. (This point could be debated, depending on how one looks at it.)
Sometimes though, there is a knowing, an inner notion that there is more, that one can reach more people, that is sparked within. One knows that there is an opportunity to do more and that the something (more) is within one’s power.
As I explore this awareness, this sense of knowing, this notion, I realize I am fulfilling it. It is within my power to write. And what I write is being published, and it is therefore reaching more people than just one.
Why write? Why is that my ‘more’?
I’ve a love for words, their nuances, the fun of language. For many years I played with learning other languages, though now I can only boast a mere word or two. In keeping with my post in the link below, I have now recommenced writing, and hope to uphold that which I began several years ago. I hope too, that my goal in sharing aspects of my life in my writing will resonate with those who need to hear the messages contained within.
I invite you to leave a comment below about your chosen ‘something’ that you hope or know will leave a mark on this world. (If the comment box isn’t visible, please click on the title of this blog.)
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Check out aspects of my early background here: https://louiseallan.com/2017/07/10/susan-dunn-my-reading-and-writing-life/
It’s been over a year since my grand-kids stayed overnight. Gosh! How they have grown and changed! First of all, my now almost 6-year-old grandson is so much more vocal, keen to know about this and that, and really takes in the new experiences being offered, even on the trip between his home in suburbia and the house in the hills. Amongst the many things se shared, he soaked by learning about vineyards and the origins of wine; white painted fences around paddocks that contained horses and the beautiful Australian Banksias both in the bush and median strips.
Keen to explore the acre on which the hills home is built, our grandson runs happily between spaces, exploring where the fishpond was last time he was here, discovering only one laying hen, the companion having died some time ago, and now only two birds in the aviary.
Her Destiny was to become part of our household. Lovingly renamed Dusty.
Other discoveries include the new two-year old kitten-like cat, the addition to the household after our two previous went to cat heaven within a short space of time only a few months prior to his visit. “Destiny”, her cat-haven name soon became Dusty, as for some reason a two-syllable name is much easier to call! Our grandson remembers Dusty’s predecessors, Smooch and Pixie. It seems as though they smile from cat-heaven as they watch their playful newcomer and our grandson in the space they once shared.
A cosy place shared by Pixie and Smooch.
Given the passing of three family pets, the subject of grave sites and death arose quite naturally. It’s no mean fete, however, to navigate the topic of death and burial with a young child. I take my hat off to our grandson’s father who plans a visit to a cemetery to see the sites of family members who served in the war. In my mind, and not intended as approval, but rather as simply a great way to ease into a difficult topic, this will build on a foundation already begun in the passing of my grandson’s great grandmother. It will, perhaps, lead to an understanding of where one is ‘laid to rest’ or buried, should that be the chosen destination of one who passes on.
Maui, so named because he barely uttered a real meow, and we’d just returned from a holiday that included the island.
Do you think there is a need in our society to be more open?
The whole concept of death and dying needs to be addressed in our society, in my view. As my grandchildren deal with the notion of their own grandmother ‘being old’, ‘having wings’ (arms that lack muscle strength!) and being unable to keep pace with their energy, I am comfortable with discussions that open the doorway to increased understanding. At some point, it may, indeed it very probably will, become relevant to introduce the notion that not only the older generation are the ones who die, that death may call one ‘home’ at any age. But that concept is yet to be introduced: the day for such a discussion has not quite arrived.
Not guilty! Hmm!
Your thoughts?
When do you think it is a ‘good’ time to open discussions with a child about death and dying?
How would you or have you gone about it?
I invite you to share your thoughts in the comments below.
(If the comments box is not visible, please click on the blog post title and it will appear at the end of the post.)
