How would you feel if you were told that you do not exist?
Owing to a razor left behind at a gruesome crime scene being identified as his property, Private Donald Miller, of the 19th Battalion, fought for four years —fighting through asylums and convalescent homes— to prove that he was alive.
One morning, a Watson’s Bay ferry boat deckhand found a trail of blood leading from one of the toilets, with more blood traces down the side of the boat. This started a mystery as no body was ever recovered. Police were called. The story made the newspaper headlines. A woman came forward, identifying that razor as belonging to her husband, Don Miller.
Meanwhile, months later, when No. 279, Private Donald Miller did return from the war, he hurried to the Blight Street Pensions Office, asking why they had stopped his pay. They informed him that he was dead – “he’d committed suicide on a Watson’s Bay ferry, they said, and there was nothing to argue about”.
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When the Ceramic sailed away for Gallipoli in 1915, Private Donald Miller was farewelled from the wharf by his new wife. During the war he gained an inside knowledge of the “Turk” in the sweltering heat of the Peninsula, and then went to France and found another Hell.
In June 1917, he was sent back to Australia with gas and shell shock. After a lengthy spell at Randwick Hospital, he passed out into civilian life with a pension card in his pocket — but a store of domestic trouble in his mind. He had found a new burden awaiting him. He had returned home to find that his house had been sold; his wife and young daughter were missing.
He left Sydney, heading north and in January 1918 he heard of the suicide on the Watson’s Bay ferryboat, and that the name of the deceased was Donald Miller. His interest was piqued when he discovered that his pension had been stopped! He hurried back to Sydney to the Blight Street Pensions’ Office asking why they had stopped his pay. They informed him that he was dead. He’d committed suicide on a Watson’s Bay ferry, they said, and there was nothing to argue about. Officialdom reigned. “The army records are never wrong, you are a pretender — a man after a dead man’s pension.” They threatened to call the authorities.
Knowing full well that he was Miller and wondering why ‘fate’ had played him this scurvy trick, he set out to discover how the dead man had been given his name. He found that the fatal razor had been identified by someone as belonging to him, although it didn’t! Miller is positive on this point, but it is not mentioned in police records of the tragedy, nor do Repatriation authorities know anything about it.
Miller became enthusiastic in his campaign to prove himself to be Miller, but he was driven to Randwick Hospital. There he was asked if he really meant it, when he said he was Miller. He assured them he did, and was taken to a convalescent hospital, where he stayed till November. One morning he was given leave as he wanted to consult his solicitors in connection with his domestic tangle. When he reported back at the home he was whisked away in a motor ambulance to Callan Park.
Through the intervention of a friend, he was released. The next four months he spent at Woy Woy; but, contracting influenza, he was moved to quarantine. Finally admitted to a Red Cross Home, he was given work in the kitchen of the Randwick Hospital.
For six months he worked, then, under the stress of the effects of shell shock, and domestic worry, he broke down. He was transferred to Broughton Hall, a rest home attached to Callan Park. It was now December, 1919. His disability appeared to be paranoia, which may be traced to loss of memory, not uncommon in shell-shocked soldiers. He filed for divorce, granted by Mr. Justice Gordon, on June 24, 1920.
When he came to get his war gratuity, he was again assured he was dead and was referred to the ferry boat incident for confirmation. They refused to entertain his application, but he insisted he was no impostor.
In October 1921, he was admitted to Lidcombe State Hospital, where he gave his name as “Harry Burrows,” fearing that if he told the truth they would send him back to Callan Park, which they did. That was his haunting fear.
In this place he was positively identified by Father Clune of Marrickville, who had been attached to the 19th Battalion, as being the Donald Miller whom he knew at the war. He recognised Miller — the man who answered the rollcall as Private 279, and who had regularly attended Mass on the battlefields every Sunday conducted by Father Clune.
Authorities grudgingly admitted that he was not dead, but the deepest mystery still surrounds the events that started the trouble. It will probably always be a mystery — a Repatriation mystery.
Miller’s wife remarried several weeks after having her husband legally declared dead by suicide. She sold the family home and disappeared with her child and new husband.
Given that DNA testing and forensics were not at the level they are today, could that blood have been pig’s blood? How did “Miller’s razor” get onto the ferry boat?
Miller never found his wife or child.
Trish Skehan.
Source
Sailors’ and Soldiers’ Parliament – Man who wasn’t dead, strange case of Private Donald Miller tragic fight through asylums to prove it Argued His Own Existence in the Flesh – Smith’s Weekly (Sydney, NSW : 1919 – 1950) – 4 Feb 1922
