The Commandant sits in his office, in front of the twin flags of Great Britain and Australia, with a portrait of the King between them. Watching him. Unsettling him. He knows that men like Sergeant Gore salute that picture more readily than they ever salute him. He has Sergeant Gore on the task of trying to find out if Hans Eckert had any enemies. He was one of the few internees who had had his own cell, even though that had only been a temporary measure. He had been a businessman in Melbourne before the war, though not an exceedingly wealthy one, so there were many more likely victims of extortion than him. He was an active member of a few of the internees’ societies, and frequented one of the Alpine cafes outside the walls often.
The Commandant decided he would have the cafe monitored for any indications of trouble there—but he doubted that would result in anything. There was nothing like being watched to evoke good behaviour, he knew. Also, the camp committee were generally quick to report any problems within the camp—and how they’d solved it—before he was ever aware of it.
But he doesn’t wish to go to the camp committee with this. That left the possibility of unnatural sexual acts, that Herr Eckert may have been either involved in, or caught up in. He was aware that the sins of self-abuse were rampart in the prison—though no one would ever admit to it—and he knew that several men had been caught in Holsworthy Camp performing unnatural acts on other men. There were even reported cases there of men working in small groups, holding a victim down and sexually assaulting him in turn. But if you treated men like beasts, they would surely act like beasts.
Could such a thing happen here though? And if so, how could it have led to such a brutal murder? The man’s throat had been ripped out as if giant claws had done it. There had been no other marks on him. No sign of being held down by a group of men. No damage to his clothing. Or was it simpler? A warning to others that this too would be their fate? If so, he thought, he had rendered it ineffective by removing Herr Eckert’s body. And if that was indeed the motive, what might he have driven the attacker or attackers to do next to make their point?
And that thought, he finds, is more unsettling than the stern gaze of the king behind him.
The day passes slowly and by early evening Arno is once again making his way around the walls of the prison. He has thought carefully about Doctor Hart’s words, and has decided that he must keep all the men safe from whatever other nightmares might emerge from the walls, and to do that he cannot let anything interfere with his routines.
He stands at the southwest watchtower where he had been standing that morning, looking up at the guard in the watchtower above him, waiting for the daylight to come. But now he is waiting for the light to fade. Already it is growing late and he can see the sky dimming and can see the colour going out of the granite stones about him.
He looks up to the watchtower above him. The guard is silent there now. Obviously looking out across the bay. Watching the sun set. Staring at the blooms of colour spreading across the horizon and the water—that Arno will never see. Paying no attention to life within the prison walls. Perhaps blotting it out altogether.
Arno knows the guards often drink in the evenings. Several have been caught and disciplined for it. But they continue to do it. It is in their brutish nature, Herr Herausgeber claims. But Arno knows that the German internees also have their own hidden stills. He looks up and wonders if the guards in their watchtowers ever consider that they are prisoners too, confined to their small wooden boxes up on the prison walls.
He reaches out and touches the stone wall now, trying to feel the stirring of anything in there. He holds his arms out wide, pressing his body flat against the cold rock. He stays there so long he feels the chill of the stone enter his body, as if he is slowly turning to stone himself.
He stays, pressed against the stone wall, until the dinner bell sounds and then he peels himself away, not having detected any danger, and makes his way to the hall to join his fellow internees. They will be safe this night, he thinks.
The Dark Knights are gathered on the small beach on the ocean side of the headland. They are wearing dark clothes with their faces darkened, just like a raiding party would dress. Metal trimmings have been removed from their uniforms, and Private Strap has even put his socks over the outside of his boots. Told the others he did it when he was a youngster. Said it really worked to soften your footsteps.
The others are not inclined to laugh at him until they see how Sergeant Gore reacts. Maybe there is some sense in his idea. But maybe not. The men stand together rubbing their hands briskly. It is a little chill tonight, though not as chill as it would be in France they know. It snowed there. Something they can only imagine.
“I’d kill for a smoke,” says one private.
“And the Sergeant would kill you if you lit one,” says another. “Every sniper for miles would see it.”
“What snipers?” the first asks.
“The Sergeant’d be worry enough,” says a third.
They all agree.
One of the men, peering at his watch in the darkness, unable to really see the time, says, “Okay, I think it’s time.” The men exhale and turn to face the small cliff before them. They remember the stories the Sergeant has told them of how he’d landed under the Turkish cliffs at night. How they’d struggled ashore with packs and animals and woke every Turk on the peninsula with the noise of it. And how, if only they’d sent a raiding party ashore to silence the sentries, the army would have strolled right across the peninsula the next morning.
That’s what they were training for now. Night attacks. Learning how to sneak up on an enemy soldier and silence him quickly and quietly.
“In teams of two,” says the private with the watch. “Who’s going first?”
“We are,” says Private Gunn, and indicates Private Strap. Thinks maybe the padded boots might give them some advantage. Thinks that even though he was always a bit of a dill at school at South West Rocks he might really be onto something.
“You first,” he whispers, and sends his old school chum on ahead of him. The two men reach out to the cliff and begin slowly making their way up. It is hard going. The stones slide out from beneath their feet and they scrabble for hand holds on the few clumps of grass and small bushes. Trying to be quick. Trying to be quiet. Wishing they could shout out just how fucking hard this was to their mates behind them.
But they know the Sergeant is up there ahead of them somewhere, standing in the shadows. Waiting for them. By the time they reach the top of the small cliff they are panting heavily. “Shit, that’s some work,” says Private Strap. Private Gunn can only nod his head in agreement. He’s done in. But he knows that was the easy bit. They’ve now got to crawl up the slope ahead, through the bushes, to reach the marker stick that the Sergeant has stuck in the ground there. And that is where Sergeant Gore will be waiting for them.
“You go that side and I’ll go this side,” whispers Gunn. “If we split up one of us might stand a better chance.”
“What about numerical supremacy?” asks Strap.
“I think this one calls for rat cunning,” says Gunn, and starts picking his way through the brush, bent double. It is too dark to see properly and he nearly trips over twice as he walks. He hears the sound of every branch and leaf he steps on and wishes he had put his socks over the outside of his boots too. He wonders how close to the marker stick he’s gotten? Decides to risk lifting his head for a look. He stands up slowly and looks about. It takes him a moment to see where he is. Too far to the left. He wonders where Dougie Strap is? Wonders if he’s closer to the marker stick than he is? Then he hears the soft footsteps behind him. The dill is following him!
But it isn’t Dougie Strap. He’s already been taken out of the game. It’s Sergeant Gore and he has Private Gunn around the throat again. Pulls him up close to his body. Holds the bayonet against his throat. Then against his stomach.
“One
—two!” he whispers. “You’re dead. Now be a good boy and sit down and shut up and wait for your mates to come along.”
Dinner in the old prison is mutton and potatoes. As it was the night before. And after the tables are cleared, the men begin getting the hall prepared for that night’s concert. Benches are turned around. The floor is swept. Curtains are brought down over the small stage while men struggle with the backdrops and stage sets. The kerosene lamps are filled, then dimmed a little. When all is ready the men begin taking their seats. It will be another full house performance. Like it always is.
There is a chalkboard that announces tonight’s performance will be a ‘Surprise Item’. The men like that. They have probably seen the play performed already, but the thought of a surprise keeps them tense. They tap their feet eagerly on the floor, fidget and talk to each other, speculating on what the play will be. They wonder which women roles might be in it. Wonder what they will be wearing. Wonder how they will look.
Eventually the orchestra gathers on their seats in front of the stage. The men in the hall wait patiently for them to tune their instruments. They know the orchestra are good and certainly better than any they have heard in Brisbane or Adelaide or South East Asia. Herr Schröder, their conductor, has forged the many amateur players into a first-rate concert orchestra. They only have 23 players and lack some essential instruments, but he is a talented arranger, and a skilful conductor, and often has them playing as if they were the Berlin Philharmonic themselves.
The internees’ favourites are Beethoven and Wagner, but tonight, when the orchestra strikes the first notes it is apparent this is a new piece. The men in the audience smile and some shake their heads a little in pleasure. As the first bars play some of the men mumble, “Mozart.”
“Ah—Mozart,” some of the others agree. It is a light and lively tune and several of the men dance their fingers to the music and then stand and clap heartily when it is done.
Herr Schröder then turns to the hall, bows low, stands up and announces, “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.” Then he turns back to the orchestra, lifts his baton, holds it there a moment and then flicks it down quickly. The orchestra comes in on the beat and the combined instruments surround the hall with a thick tapestry of music. All the internees are smiling now. Some are rocking their heads to the music. Others have their eyes shut tight, trying to evoke memories of previous evenings when they might have attended concerts, dressed in their finest suits, with a pretty woman or their wife on their arm.
When the piece is finished the men once more rise to their feet in applause. Some wipe tears from their eyes and look around at the men about them and see the same emotions on the faces there. They keep clapping. They have no need to say anything.
Herr Schröder then directs the orchestra’s exit and then Doctor Hertz comes out onto the stage, wearing a familiar harem outfit, heavily-disguised by multiple veils. He is Scheherazade! This was one of the doctor’s early ideas—and the men warmed instantly to the thought of the captive bride who has to tell stories for 1001 nights to win her freedom.
Some nights Doctor Hertz plays Scheherazade, and some nights, if he is in the play, another man takes her role. She is always heavily veiled so it doesn’t matter. The men sometimes have to work hard to guess who it is under the veils and ample padding, and the following day’s conversation at the breakfast table would often be conjecture, or small bets, as to who it had been—with the men having to wait for the doctor to arrive and tell them. Others choose not to know, preferring to believe it was a real woman there before them.
Scheherazade performs a short twirling dance for the men, her arms wind-milling around her gracefully. Then she stops and turns the other way. Then her arms freeze in a position, held out from her body. They remain motionless there for a few heartbeats, then the hands slowly bend at the wrists and glide back towards her body like small birds—and embrace her. Then she removes one single veil and drops it to the stage, and announces, “Tonight’s story is one whose title I shall not reveal—but I am certain that it is a story well known to you all.” Then she too bows and leaves the stage.
The men fidget in their chairs, eager for the curtain to rise.
Private Simpson, one of the few guards who is a war veteran, stands in the eastern watchtower looking out into the darkness over the prison and beyond. He can see the distant lights of the township of South West Rocks and wonders if there is going to be another dance there at the Royal Hotel this Saturday? He is listening to the sounds of the orchestra floating out of the hall. It isn’t too bad, tonight, he thinks, but he prefers the marching stuff. This music jumps around like a night insect or something. Not his taste at all. You couldn’t even dance to it.
The last dance he had been to was a real ripper. The local sheilas weren’t too bad. A bit big and beefy for his tastes—but friendly enough to a man in uniform. Those guards on leave would always come back with stories about who had gotten a root and who hadn’t. Like they were returning from a raid and telling how many Huns they’d bayoneted. The Sergeant was always telling them not to stir up troubles with the locals by getting into the knickers of the sheilas, and warned them that if they did they’d have to be ready to marry them, or face up to their brothers and fathers. But Private Simpson was country-born and he knew that if a local sheila fancied you then you had a fair chance of getting her on her back. Especially if you’d served overseas. Even more so if you could get her to think you were just about to be sent over.
He leans against the wall and smiles a little. He’s used that line a few times himself. Had some local farm girl pressed up against the wall of a dark barn, running his hands up and down her dress. All over her. Christ, he thinks, it’s been a while though, and he could do with another root soon enough, regardless of what the sergeant reckoned.
It isn’t natural for so many men to be without women for so long, he thinks. It has a way of bringing out the beast in you. But maybe that’s what the top brass wanted, to encourage you to fight.
Still it wasn’t natural. No wonder the internees carried on the way they did. Then he had a sudden thought—maybe the Sergeant was scared of women. He’d met a few blokes like that. Most of them were a little mad, and he was a mad bugger alright. War did that to some blokes, he knew, sent them right over the edge. Only a small handful of the guards had been over there and knew that though. Some had been at Gallipoli or in France, and then been deemed unfit for further service and had been sent home. Home to this. Like that crazy bugger Private Cutts-Smith. He had a dangerous streak to him, like that scar on his face was a warning to people that he was to be left alone. And who bloody knew what he might have been like before the war?
It was Simpson’s lungs that had copped it. A gas attack in France. That was bloody something that didn’t bear remembering. And he reckoned his ears had suffered a bit too. Or at least he tells the sergeant that every now and then when it appeared he hasn’t responded to an order quick enough. The Sergeant was sometimes a bit softer on those who’d been over there. Sometimes.
He looks down at his watch. It is too dark to see. He lifts the cover off the lamp by his feet and peers at it again. 8.50. Over three hours still to go. He covers the lamp again. They aren’t meant to have too much light in the towers. It makes you go night blind and then you couldn’t see a thing out there. Not that he reckons there is ever going to be anything much to see.
But the Sergeant had given all the men a lecture this week about extra vigilance. Told them that military discipline has to be upheld. Told them they should never take things for granted. Told them to be ever alert.
Alert for what? Private Simpson wonders. He pulls out his tobacco pouch and rolls a small cigarette. Thin and bent. He lights it and draws it in slowly. Then holds it down below the rail where it won’t be seen. That’s what a fellah needs. A smoke now and then. He coughs and wheezes and has to wait a minute to get his breath back. He wonders if his lungs’ll
ever be right again. Takes a deep breath of the chill night air then takes another small pull on the cigarette.
This is better than the front, he thinks. A smoke and bit of music. The tune isn’t to his taste, but it’s alright. When he first got posted here he was determined to hate the internees. He imagines he could sit up in the tower and snipe at them down in the yard. They were the enemy. Huns! But it was hard to maintain that. None of them were soldiers. They’d never fired gas or bullets at him. And a lot of them seemed pretty lonely and miserable themselves.
He coughs again and then unbuttons his top pocket and pulls out a small flask. Takes a quick sip. Just a small one. The Sergeant has warned them about drinking on duty—threatened disciplinary action to anyone caught. But what kind of a guard would he be if he wasn’t able to even see the Sergeant stomping around the prison yard? Then he takes another pull on the cigarette. He smiles to himself and looks out into the darkness of the headland. It is so dark out there in the bush that a hundred men could be sneaking up on them and they’d never know it until they’d reached the walls.
The thought makes him peer into the darkness. And for a moment he thinks he sees a dark shape moving there. A man running, bent low. Or maybe an animal. He stares harder. But there is no other movement.
He shakes his head and turns back to look beyond the prison, far off towards South West Rocks. Yeah, he could do with a dance this Saturday. A few cold beers. Maybe a few more. Some local sheila pressed up close. Getting his end in. He hears the music stop and the internees burst into applause.
Cripes, what a fuss, he thinks. And you couldn’t even dance to it.
The men are staring into a forest. Heavily wooded and dark. There is a short bird-like trill in the air that rises and fades. Then a dark figure is seen moving behind the trees. Just a vague outline. Stooped and menacing. Then it is gone. They listen for the bird call again, but there is nothing. Just the dark stillness of the woods. It makes them uneasy. They look for movement.
The Years of the Wolf Page 5