Dear Miss Ross,
We are sorry to inform you . . .
The only worthwhile thing that came out of all the extra work I had put in was that I sailed through my finals and was awarded with a first-class honors degree when the graduation results were announced. But I was still no nearer to getting myself to England.
In desperation I telephoned the British High Commission and was put through to the labor attaché. A lady came on the line and informed me that with my qualifications there would be several teaching posts on offer. She added that I would have to sign a three-year contract and be responsible for my own travel arrangements—nicely worded, I considered, as I still wasn't able to afford the trip to Sydney, let alone the United Kingdom. In any case, I felt I would only need to spend about a month in England to track down Guy Francis Trentham.
The only other jobs that were available, the lady explained the second time I called, were known as "slave traders." These consisted of positions in hotels, hospitals or old people's homes, where you were virtually unpaid for one year in return for your passage to England and back. As I still had no plans for any particular career and realized this was virtually the only chance I might ever have of getting myself to England and finding someone I was related to, I called into the labor attaché's department and signed on the dotted line. Most of my friends at university thought I had taken leave of my senses, but then they had no idea of my real purpose in wanting to visit Britain.
The boat we sailed to Southampton on couldn't have been much of an improvement on the one the first Australian immigrants took coming the other way some one hundred and seventy years before. They put three of us "slave traders" to a cabin no larger than my room on the university campus, and if the ship listed more than ten degrees Pam and Maureen ended up in my bunk. We had all signed on to work at the Melrose Hotel in Earl's Court, which we were assured was in central London. After a journey of some six weeks we were met at the dockside by a clapped-out army lorry which took us up to the capital and deposited us on the steps of the Melrose Hotel.
The housekeeper allocated our accommodation and I ganged up with Pam and Maureen again. I was surprised to discover that we were expected to share a room of roughly the same size as the cabin in which we had suffered together on board ship. At least this time we didn't fall out of bed unexpectedly.
It was over two weeks before they gave me enough time off to visit Kensington Post Office and check through the London telephone directory. There wasn't a Trentham to be found.
"Could be ex-directory," the girl behind the counter explained. "Which means they won't take your call in any case."
"Or there just isn't a Trentham living in London," I said, and accepted that the regimental museum was now my only hope.
I thought I had worked hard at the University of Melbourne, but the hours they expected us to do at the Melrose would have brought a combat soldier to his knees. All the same, I was damned if I was going to admit as much, especially after Pam and Maureen gave up the struggle within a month, cabled their parents in Sydney for some money and returned to Australia on the first available boat. At least it meant I ended up with a room to myself until the next boatload arrived. To be honest I wish I could have packed up and gone home with them, but I hadn't anyone in Australia to whom I could cable back for more than about ten pounds.
The first full day I had off and wasn't totally exhausted, I took a train to Hounslow. When I left the station the ticket collector directed me to the Royal Fusiliers' Depot, where the museum was situated now.
After walking about a mile I eventually reached the building I was looking for. It seemed to be uninhabited except for a single receptionist. He was dressed in khaki uniform, with three stripes on both arms. He sat dozing behind a counter. I walked noisily over and pretended not to wake him.
"Can I 'elp you, young lady?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.
"I hope so."
"Austral fan?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"I fought alongside your chaps in North Africa," he explained. "Damned great bunch of soldiers, I can tell you. So 'ow can I help you, miss?"
"I wrote to you from Melbourne," I said, producing a handwritten copy of the letter. "About the holder of this medal." I slipped the piece of string over my head and handed my prize to him. "His name was Guy Francis Trentham."
"Miniature MC," said the sergeant without hesitation as he held the medal in his hand. "Guy Francis Trentham, you say?"
"That's right."
"Good. So let's look 'im up in the great book, 1914–1918, yes?"
I nodded.
He went over to a massive bookshelf weighed down by heavy volumes and removed a large leather-bound book. He placed it on the counter with a thud, sending dust in every direction. On the cover were the words, printed in gold, "Royal Fusiliers, Decorations, 1914–1918".
"Let's have a butcher's, then," he said as he started to flick through the pages. I waited impatiently. "There's our man," he announced triumphantly. "Guy Francis Trentham, Captain." He swung the book round so that I could study the entry more carefully. I was so excited it was several moments before I could take the words in.
Captain Trentham's citation went on for twenty two lines and I asked if I might be allowed to copy out the details in full.
"Of course, miss," he said. "Be my guest." He handed over a large sheet of ruled paper and a blunt army-issue pencil. I began to write:
On the morning of 18 July, 1918, Captain Guy Trentham of the Second Battalion of the Royal Fusiliers led a company of men from the Allied trenches towards the enemy lines, killing several German soldiers before reaching their dug-outs, where he wiped out a complete army unit single-handed. Captain Trentham continued in pursuit of two other German soldiers and chased them into a nearby forest, where he succeeded in killing them both.
The same evening, despite being surrounded by the enemy, he rescued two men of his own company, Private T. Prescott and Corporal C. Trumper, who had strayed from the battlefield, and were hiding in a nearby church. After nightfall, he led them back across green terrain while the enemy continued to fire intermittently in their direction.
Private Prescott was killed by a stray German tracer bullet before he managed to reach the safety of his own trenches. Corporal Trumper survived despite a continual barrage of fire power from the enemy.
For this singular act of leadership and heroism in the face of the enemy, Captain Trentham was awarded the M.C.
Having written out every word of the citation in my neatest hand, I closed the heavy cover and turned the book back round to face the sergeant.
"Trentham," he said. "If I remember correctly, miss, 'e still 'as 'is picture up on the wall." The sergeant picked up some crutches, maneuvered himself from behind the counter and limped slowly to the far corner of the museum. I hadn't realized until that moment that the poor man only had one leg. "Over 'ere, miss," he said. "Follow me."
My palms began to sweat and I felt a little sick at the thought of discovering what my father looked like. I wondered if I might resemble him in any way.
The sergeant hobbled straight past the VCs before we came to a row of MCs. They were all lined up, old sepia pictures, badly framed. His finger ran along them—Stevens, Thomas, Tubbs. "That's strange. I could have sworn 'is photo was there. Well, I'll be damned. Must 'ave got lost when we moved from the Tower."
"Could his picture be anywhere else?"
"Not to my knowledge, miss," he said. "I must 'ave imagined it all along, but I'd swear I'd seen 'is photo when the museum was at the Tower. Well, I'll be damned," he repeated.