LIFE SO FULL OF PROMISE: FURTHER BIOGRAPHIES OF AUSTRALIA’S LOST GENERATION

 Historian Ross McMullin is the author of numerous books and is best known for his work on Australia’s famous fighting general Pompey Elliott. In more recent times, Ross McMullin has researched and brought to life again many who risked their lives in Australia’s war in 1914-18. Their stories tell of the times and the courage and variety of Australia over a hundred years ago. To reflect on the second of his books on these lesser known figures, in Life So Full of Promise, Ross McMullin addressed The Sydney Institute on Wednesday 11 October 2023.

LIFE SO FULL OF PROMISE: FURTHER BIOGRAPHIES OF AUSTRALIA’S LOST GENERATION

ROSS MCMULLIN

Life So Full of Promise is my second multi-biography about Australia’s lost generation of World War I, following Farewell Dear People, which was published in 2012. Both books contain a collection of interwoven family stories about extraordinary Australians who had become unknown. Each story establishes the outstanding prewar potential of one of the main characters, describes what happened to him during the conflict, and underlines the profound consequences for his nation as well as for his family in the aftermath.

With the families and friends of the main characters also conspicuous in the narratives, Life So Full of Promise emulates Farewell, Dear People in providing insights into the experiences of Australians in the period before, during and after the war — whether they were combatants or civilians, or soldiers’ wives or parents.

The Pockleys

A lot happens in the stories, so this talk will just scratch the surface of what’s in the book.  First up is the sprawling family saga of the Pockleys. Frank Pockley was a distinguished ophthalmologist who lived at Wahroonga with his wife Ellie and their five children. Frank supervised the construction of a grand residence, called Greystanes, at Wahroonga, and his children grew up there. The eldest was Phyllis, and the youngest was Nell, while the middle three were all boys — Guy, Brian and Jack.

The brothers went to school at Shore. Brian excelled in the classroom and at sport. He was the star of the family. He achieved better results in his junior matric exams than any Shore student had ever recorded, and, as an exceptionally swift runner, he excelled at rugby as well as athletics. He won the Shore athletics championship with a record points tally, and led the rugby team superbly through an undefeated season that enabled Shore to win the schools’ championship for the very first time.

In the photo of that premiership team, which I’ve included in the book, Brian is in the middle holding the football, while in the back row are his brother Jack and the Pockleys’ close friend Jack Massie, who was already arrestingly tall and on his way to becoming the most versatile top-level sportsman Australia has ever known.

Brian Pockley was distinguished not only by his outstanding achievements. His temperament was also revered. He was ethical and diligent, but he was also amiable and considerate, engaging and companionable, helpful and obliging. Unassertive and unpretentious, with unostentatious charm, he was a high achiever without being driven. The headmaster of Shore declared that Brian was “as near to my ideal schoolboy as any boy in my experience”.

His unusually endearing personality ensured that he was also immensely popular at university. He graduated in medicine with honours, he continued to excel in athletics, and his dashing pace resulted in a series of thrilling tries for University’s rugby team that led to his selection at interstate level for New South Wales.

Sydney Hospital selected the best graduates for its resident doctors, and Brian began work there in 1914. A few months later, when international tensions erupted in Europe, no one in Australia was keener to be involved in the looming conflict than Brian Pockley. He was so keen that he raced out to Victoria Barracks in Sydney to volunteer before Britain had even declared war — that is, before there was a war for Australia to be in. Soon enough, though, Britain did declare war, as a result Australia was involved, and Brian was appointed as a doctor in one of the Australian forces that was quickly formed.

Everyone here will have some familiarity with Australia’s main force, the AIF, which later became involved at Gallipoli and the Western Front. But early in the war a separate, lesser-known Australian force was created, the Australian Naval and Military Expeditionary Force, or ANMEF. It was to depart as soon as possible to destroy German wireless stations to Australia’s north. Brian became one of the ANMEF’s doctors.

The ANMEF leaders complacently decided that a very small force was all that was needed to go ashore at New Guinea south-east of Rabaul to deal with a German wireless station that might be there. They presumed that enemy resistance would be non-existent or minimal. Brian was chosen to accompany them as their doctor.

They went ashore on 11 September 1914 (that is, only a month or so after Australia became involved in the war, and more than seven months before Gallipoli). It proved a much tougher assignment than expected.

The way inland was along a narrow track with thick jungle on both sides. Germans and New Guineans were waiting to ambush them from concealed positions. The Australians, instead of presenting themselves as a convenient target along the track, decided to try to force their way through the jungle, which proved very difficult. Shooting began, and a sharp skirmish ensued. Pockley the doctor was up ahead with the advancing Australians. With a captured German soldier bleeding dangerously from a wounded hand, Pockley expertly amputated the hand on the spot without an anaesthetic. He then heard that an Australian had been wounded, went back to look for him, found him, confirmed that he was dying and looked after him as best he could, and then set off along the track back to the fighting up ahead, only to be shot and fatally wounded himself. He died shortly afterwards, aged 24.

The reaction to his death was unique. No Australian casualty in the whole war was mourned more deeply than Brian Pockley. This was partly because of his own special qualities, partly because it occurred so early in the war when there had not been years of heavy casualties to transform perceptions, and partly because of the particular circumstances, in that he was a non-combatant who was presumed not to be vulnerable, but he had in fact given his protective brassard (or badged armband) indicating his medical role to the sturdy stoker who carried the wounded man back that Brian had treated. The stoker had queried this, but Brian had selflessly insisted on relinquishing his brassard. When this became known in Australia, Brian’s father Frank, together with Brian’s best friend (who was to become a High Court judge), and numerous other admirers declared that such a gesture was absolutely characteristic of Brian. Brian Pockley became a household name in Australia, with the manner of his death widely known, but he is long forgotten today.

A quick whip through other elements of the Pockley story that I haven’t time to dwell on this evening:

* Brian’s sister Phyllis married a British naval officer, and became extremely anxious about her husband’s perilous exploits in the North Sea, with good reason because they were startling     

* Brian’s parents split up shortly before the war, which had profound ramifications for the family

* Brian’s brother Guy decided that he would never speak to his father Frank again, and he was relentless — softening a grudge was not in his repertoire

* When a bohemian Scandinavian blonde disrupted the Pockley family after the war, Guy evidently concluded — incorrectly — that Frank had been the father of her children, and Guy even arranged for one of them to be removed from the Shore school

* In a separate development, Brian’s closest confrere during his medical course was sensationally shot dead in Sydney when he seemed on the verge of being selected for the Australian Test cricket team

So a lot does happen in the stories, and they are pretty eventful.

Brian’s younger brother, Jack Pockley, was an admired AIF officer who also died in heroic circumstances. When he was hit he directed the stretcher-bearers to take away a wounded sergeant first, and when they returned to Jack they found him dead. He was 26. The brothers had died 3½ years apart, but parallels were understandably drawn about the similarly selfless circumstances of their deaths.

There are two distinctive memorials to the brothers in the Shore school chapel, the Brian Pockley memorial window and the magnificent Jack Pockley memorial organ. There’s a poignant photo in the book of their father, long after the war, alone in his den surrounded by photos of his loved ones. Most of them he had lost in one way or another.

Norman Callaway

I’d now like to talk about Norman Callaway. Norman’s background was starkly different from Brian Pockley’s. While the Pockleys were affluent, the Callaways were not. While the Pockleys were urban, the Callaways were rural. While Brian Pockley grew up in an imposing North Shore mansion, Norman Callaway lived in a basic weatherboard cottage on the edge of town. While Brian’s parents were invited to select dinners attended by patrician governors, this was an inconceivable milieu for the Callaways. While Brian’s father was an instinctive political conservative, Norman’s father co-founded a branch of the Labor Party. While it was routine for the Pockleys to go to university (provided they were male), this was unthinkable for the Callaways.

Norman grew up in the Riverina at Hay, a town founded on the Murrumbidgee River, with his parents and his sister, Jessie. Parents of young children had a relentless dread of the danger the river posed. Drownings happened disturbingly often. They included, in the Callaways’ time there, one of Norman’s cousins, one of his teachers, and a nephew of a Victorian premier.

The Callaways were very keen on sport, and Norman emerged as a highly talented cricketer. His parents decided to move the family to Sydney in 1912 to give young Norm the opportunity to develop his cricket and see how far his talent could take him. He progressed rapidly in Sydney. Playing for Paddington in the first-grade competition, his first game was against none other than Victor Trumper, the legendary batsman who was probably the most adored Australian athlete of all time, and in his third match 17-year-old Norm made an arresting breakthrough century of high quality that attracted rave reviews.

Norm progressed so rapidly that he was soon seen as a candidate for higher honours and, only 15 months after he left Hay, he was 12th man for New South Wales in February 1914 when he was still only 17. Before the following season Norm’s family moved from Paddington to nearby Waverley, so he had to change clubs and play for Waverley.

My Callaway story covers a number of facets affecting cricket and cricketers during this era. Listing a few of them very briefly, they include:

* The bitter split between Australia’s Test players and the administrators seeking to control them, which culminated in the withdrawal of six top players from the 1912 tour to England

* The prolonged fierce stoush that erupted between Australia’s Test captain and one of his fellow selectors, which did not end until others intervened when the captain seemed poised to pitch his antagonist through a third-floor window — what do you reckon today’s media would make of that!

* And the invention of a new kind of deception for bowlers, which came to be known as the googly or wrong-un

What I’ve done with Callaway is what I’ve done with all the main characters in both my lost generation multi-biographies, and that is to put myself in their shoes as much as possible. With Norman, I’ve aimed to illuminate what it’s like to be a talented cricketer who is striving to play at the highest level because he sees the national game as the way to make a fulfilling success of his life. What’s it like to have to handle the inevitable ups and downs? What’s it like to face the fastest bowling without the protective equipment we take for granted these days? What’s it feel like to be in form and on top of the bowling? What does it feel like to be in form and on top of the bowling, yet make a lamentable error and get yourself out?

In February 1915, when Norman was 18, he was selected to make his debut at first-class level for New South Wales against Queensland. His captain was Charlie Macartney, the remarkable virtuoso whose admirers were claiming he was not only the finest batsman in Australia but perhaps even the best in the world. Queensland batted first, and were all out for 137. In reply New South Wales were in big trouble at 3/17 when Norman came in. He was initially careful, which was appropriate in his team’s situation, but later unfurled a series of glorious strokes as he raced to a brilliant century. Callaway and Macartney had a record partnership of 256, and Norm turned his superb debut hundred into a double-century, before he was eventually dismissed for 207. I should repeat the essence of this exceptional feat. He came in to make his first-class debut at 18 years of age with the score 3/17, and he proceeded to make 207.

This wonderful innings was rapturously acclaimed. It was not only the score itself, which was hailed as the world-record score on first-class debut, but also the way he made it — not via crude slogging aided by plentiful luck, but by a succession of authentic, stylish cricket strokes of the highest quality. And the comparison with Macartney, the commanding dasher who was known as the Governor-General, was extraordinary.  

Macartney was renowned for his aggressive exploits of dazzling stroke-play, someone who routinely scored more quickly than his batting partners. Not with Callaway, though. When Norman had progressed into his forties, and felt he had his eye in, the 18-year-old novice said to Macartney that he felt capable of accelerating. “You go right ahead, I’ll keep my end up,” said the Governor-General.

Callaway’s acceleration was so rapid that he raced from 48 to 85 in six overs while Macartney scored just three singles. Norm’s first fifty took him 67 minutes, which was good going in the circumstances with his team in trouble, but his second fifty lasted only 27 minutes. He proceeded well beyond his century in the time that Macartney took to reach fifty. There were extenuating circumstances with Macartney feeling a bit seedy, but Callaway’s brilliance was a revelation. A new star had emerged who was widely seen as a future Test champion. As one newspaper observed, “Callaway’s masterful and brilliant batting against Queensland caused more talk and excited more outside interest than anything that has happened in cricket for some time”.

Some admirers were so thrilled by Norm’s special feat that they arranged for it to be commemorated by a unique trophy. The inscription says: “Presented to Mr Norman Callaway by a few admirers in recognition of his world’s record score of 207 by a colt on his first appearance in first class cricket”.

However, everything changed for Norm when casualties at Gallipoli began to rise. The New South Wales Cricket Association responded by abruptly cancelling first-class cricket. Its Victorian equivalent wanted matches to continue, but the New South Wales administrators were adamant. They insisted that cricketers should be in khaki, and maintained this attitude explicitly. Players like Norm were under constant pressure. It was reiterated in a variety of implicit and explicit ways that volunteering was the right and manly thing to do.

The Callaways had moved to Sydney to see how far Norm’s cricket talent could take him, and it had all proceeded wonderfully, even better than they could have hoped. But the war — and the attitude to it adopted by the New South Wales cricket administrators — had transformed everything. Norm had been deprived of his cherished cricket goal, and he was under relentless pressure. He decided to enlist in 1916.

His parents evidently didn’t want him to, because he lied about his age. He said he was 21, whereas in fact he had just turned 20. Norm’s parents and sister Jessie all lived to at least their late eighties, and none of them gave the impression to others that Norm had enlisted from ardent patriotism or king-and-country sentiment. Indeed, if he had been imbued with such views, he would presumably have enlisted earlier.

Callaway had a very grim ordeal in the 19th AIF Battalion. He arrived at the Western Front in time for the 1916–17 winter, which was the most severe in France for decades, and he endured the worst of the Western Front for several months. His unit was then involved in the second battle of Bullecourt, where the performance of the higher leadership — both British and Australian — was poor, and the 19th Battalion suffered the consequences. Private Norman Callaway, like so many others, was killed.

The sense of loss was profound. Norm’s parents and sister never recovered. But in his case, because of his cricket potential, the sense of loss extended far beyond his family. Cricket pundits and fans were devastated. Analysts repeatedly lamented that Australia had lost a budding champion.

A relative of the Callaways told me that when he was a teenager in the 1960s he spoke to Norm’s sister Jessie about Norm. The way she talked about Norm made a big impression on him. She spoke in excited and affectionate terms about how talented Norman was, how wonderful it would have been to see him fulfil his destiny, and how distressing it was when he died. Cricket had been important to her because it was important to him. She enjoyed it because he was so good at it. Jessie was enthusing about her brother and his rare skill as if her fervent delight was something fresh and vivid, yet he had perished half a century earlier.

Norman has a unique place in international cricket heritage. No one else has scored a double-century in his only first-class innings, and no one else has come close to his career average of 207. However, he is practically unknown today. He should be better remembered.

Murdoch Mackay

Another conspicuous example of Australia’s lost generation is Murdoch Mackay from Bendigo, who was widely known as Doch. His famous grandfather, Angus Mackay, was a minister in Victorian governments. Doch’s father, George Mackay, was the Bendigo Advertiser’s outstanding editor for decades.

Doch was a precociously brilliant student. He began his law course at Melbourne Uni when he had just turned 16, and completed it by coming top in final year, attaining a first-class honours degree, winning the prestigious Supreme Court Judges Prize, and becoming eligible for the Master of Laws degree, all having just turned 20. The law professor concluded that in almost two decades at Melbourne University he had taught no abler student.

During his final year at university, Doch met 18-year-old Margot Watson of Elsternwick. Margot had two sisters — Kath was older, and Nell was younger. Doch was attracted to Margot and the Mackays became good friends with the Watsons. Doch quickly became head over heels in love with Margo, and he was emotionally open so he had no qualms about frankly saying so. A few months after meeting Margot, he wrote her a letter assuring her he was in love with her. Margot, unfortunately for Doch, did not reciprocate with the same intensity. She liked him, and was flattered by his ardent interest, but she was not willing to close off her options with an exclusive commitment when she was only 18. Doch had to remain patient, and resort to playing a long game to win her over, which he found increasingly difficult. There’s a photo in the book of Doch with Margot and Nell shortly after 20-year-old Doch accomplished a notable sporting feat when he top-scored with a fine innings for Bendigo in its match against the touring England Test side.

Having completed his articles, Doch began as a barrister, and did not take long to distinguish himself. After only two years at the Bar, he was briefed to appear in one of the most notable cases in Australian legal history, which became known as the Wheat case. His interest in politics was confirmed when he involved himself in the 1913 referenda campaign, addressing meetings and writing articles. He also served in the militia for several years.

When World War I, began Doch had been in love with Margot for four years and was still waiting for her to commit. He told her that he had to join the AIF, being a fit and trained officer who believed in the appropriateness of Australia’s involvement, or his self-respect would never recover. He insisted, and she accepted, that this in no way signified any lessening of the intensity of his feelings for her. There’s a lot in the book about the vicissitudes of their relationship. The prospect of his imminent departure with the AIF seemed to galvanise things for Margot, and she agreed to their engagement, and then in May 1915, only a week before his ship departed, they hastily decided to get married.

Doch was in the 22nd Battalion, initially as a captain and later a major. He proved to be an outstanding officer — brave and decisive, inspiring and selfless. He was also the battalion’s champion letter-writer, renowned for the hours he devoted to long love-letters to Margot.

The 22nd Battalion occupied the trenches opposite Johnston’s Jolly on the second ridge at Gallipoli from September to the evacuation, and the book covers Doch’s experiences from their tense arrival at Anzac to their nerve-wracking departure. They returned to Egypt, and were then transported to the main arena, the Western Front, where the 22nd was used in various roles and front-line circumstances that the book describes.

In July 1916 the 22nd, like other AIF units, was transferred to the Somme, where Doch and his men took part in two big battles near what used to be Pozières. The first was a disastrous failure overall (though successful on the left, where Doch was), but when they tackled the operation again it proved a success, thanks primarily to Doch’s outstanding leadership. No less an authority than the official historian, Charles Bean, declared that Mackay’s brilliant leadership at a critical stage enabled the Australians to attain with this victory their most momentous success of the whole Somme campaign. This was remarkable praise, but thoroughly deserved. However, while Doch was displaying this superb leadership he was killed. Weeks later Margot received a remarkable farewell love letter, which Doch had arranged for an AIF friend to send her if he died.

There are few more conspicuous examples of Australia’s lost generation than Doch Mackay. Some of those who knew him best felt he could well have become prime minister. As with the other stories, the book covers other interesting characters and episodes:

* There’s a lot about Doch’s mother Mary, who was a prominent Bendigo identity renowned for her charitable activities, her political activism, and her dynamic leadership of the Red Cross at Bendigo during the war

* Doch’s younger brother Eric, who was with him at Pozières, became a doctor and the first Australian to win the Ireland tennis championship

* Doch became involved in a fierce dispute between two of his AIF superiors that bizarrely culminated in a formal court of inquiry conducted at Gallipoli shortly before the evacuation, an extraordinary episode that is practically unknown today

* And I unexpectedly discovered while researching the Mackays that one of them, a keen cricketer, was selected in an Australian Test team to tour England, but did not go, and for a surprising reason

* There’s also a lot in the book about Margot’s sister Nell Watson and her fiancé Mac Gibbs, a medical student and VFL footballer, who was killed in France shortly before Doch Mackay.

Researching the book

I’d like to finish with a story about the research for Life So Full of Promise. Retrieving these forgotten lives that are unknown today involves immense research, as you’ll appreciate. With Doch Mackay I was naturally curious to try and find out what happened to Margot after Doch’s death. Might she have had a longer life than Doch, perhaps much longer? Maybe I could find out more about Doch from people who knew her?

What I found out was that Margot became Mrs S. Hill of London. This was not a very encouraging discovery for a Melbourne-based biographer, and I felt pessimistic about my prospects of finding out more about her. “Good luck with that”, I remember thinking. But I had a go. Hours of genealogical research began to pay dividends. It gradually became evident that Margot and her second husband, Solly Hill, had a daughter, who was known as Judy. Moreover, Judy had married a naval officer from Western Australia who was based in London during the Second World War, and after the conflict they had settled in Australia.

Further ferreting revealed that not only was Judy apparently still alive at an advanced age, but also residing in a Melbourne suburb. This seemed incredible after my pessimism about ever being able to connect with Margot. Even better, when I visited Judy, I found that she had retrieved a black tin box for me containing everything Margot had kept about Doch, including his arrestingly frank letters. The contents of the box proved to be remarkable, the richest private treasure trove I’ve ever encountered in more than four decades as a biographer, and enabled to me to write about the ups and downs of the Doch and Margot relationship.

Moreover, discovering that Margot’s second husband was Solly Hill was a personal jaw-dropper as well, because I knew that Solly was already in the Norman Callaway story. When Norman made his first-grade debut aged 17, and the match began with Norm and his Paddington team-mates taking the field while the legendary Victor Trumper came out to open the batting, Trumper’s opening partner was none other than Solly Hill. So, this was one of those classic small world connections that you sometimes come across as a researcher.