by Hill, David
The artillery sergeant was back by the battered, olive-green jeep. Once again, guns rumbled in the distance. A couple of gunners were loading boxes into the back. ‘Extras for the blokes at the front,’ said Sergeant Barnett. ‘Hop in, lad.’
Then someone else arrived, talking urgently. It was Sa-In, panting, face anxious as he struggled to find words. ‘Please? I go, too?’ Sergeant Barnett shook his head, began to say something, but the Korean boy kept on. ‘My parents. I find. Please?’
The sergeant hesitated then shrugged. ‘All right. We leave in one minute.’ The boy bowed, and hurried to where the little girl, Yong Mee, had appeared and stood watching. He spoke low and urgently to her.
‘Like I said, he keeps looking for their mother and father everywhere he can,’ Sergeant Barnett muttered to Russell. ‘Hopeless, I reckon.’
Sa-In seized his sister in a hug, then came trotting back to the jeep, where he squeezed among the boxes and a tarpaulin in the back. Yong Mee waved as they headed off.
Smashed or leaning power poles lined the potholed road. A few cottages, with shattered walls through which Russell could glimpse smashed boards and bits of furniture, stood in the middle of fields. Gun pits and supply depots were everywhere, surrounded by walls of sandbags. A group of Koreans, children as well as women and men, were loading twisted pieces of metal into a wheelbarrow. ‘They sell it for food,’ Sergeant Barnett told Russell.
An old man with a wispy beard limped past. One leg of his muddy white trousers was torn and blood-stained. Behind him came a group of women, some leading children by the hand, others carrying bundles on their heads. Russell was aware of Sa-In behind him, staring hard at everyone they passed.
‘What’s it like in the front lines?’ Russell asked, clinging to the dashboard as the jeep jolted over frozen ruts.
Sergeant Barnett steered them onto a slightly smoother stretch, then had to slow and pull over for a truck with UN in big white letters on its side.
‘Well, they’ve got cookhouses and bunkhouses and even hot showers in some places. They’ve got helicopter landing pads, and they get mail and fresh supplies brought up nearly every day. All home comforts.’
He steered the jeep around a crater that had destroyed half the road. ‘But less than a mile away, there’s whole armies of Chinese and North Koreans, ready to come screaming and charging at them if anyone gives the order. Not a place for anyone with bad nerves.’ The sergeant paused. ‘Now, where do we go?’
They had reached a crossroads. A burned-out truck lay half-capsized in the ditch. More Koreans were clustered around it; Russell glimpsed another wheelbarrow like the one he’d seen earlier. A grove of blackened trees stood nearby. As the jeep slowed, Russell could hear gunfire rumbling ahead once more, louder and closer now. A shiver ran through him.
‘Sa-In?’ said the sergeant. ‘Could you ask if they know where the artillery observers are?’ As the boy looked blank, the man put imaginary binoculars to his eyes, went ‘Boom! Boom!’ and added, ‘Major Davies’.
‘Yes, sir.’ Sa-In started levering himself out from among the boxes.
The sergeant sighed. ‘I’m not “sir”, remember?’ The Korean boy went ‘Sir?’ and Sergeant Barnett sighed again. ‘Never mind.’
The wiry figure hurried over to the people by the truck. Arms began pointing, some one way, some the other. Russell shivered, and pulled his duffle-coat closer around him.
Sa-In came back. ‘Them say – over here.’ He pointed to the left.
Sergeant Barnett gazed across the bleak, torn land. ‘All right, we’ll try that.’ The boy stood looking around, too, as if he hoped someone would appear from the frozen waste. ‘Jump in, Sa-In. Pull that tarp over you. It’ll help keep you warm.’ The sergeant pointed to the stack of folded canvas in the rear of the jeep. ‘Tarpaulin.’
‘Tarp-lin.’ Sa-In repeated the word as if he couldn’t really believe it. ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Sa-In, and clambered into the back again, dragging the canvas over his legs.
They started along the road to their left. Someone had been working on this stretch, too, so for a few minutes they drove briskly past more smashed farmhouses, more trucks overturned or burned, more gun pits. But these gun pits were empty. In fact, this whole part of the land was strangely deserted: no troops; no moving vehicles; no civilians. Only the rumble of gunfire, almost continuous now, coming from somewhere ahead.
In spite of his coat, Russell was still shivering. He hugged his arms across his chest.
The sky was dull and lead grey. A drop of rain appeared on the jeep’s windscreen. Then a second one. Not rain: snow.
The sergeant spoke again. ‘Okay, son. I knew your uncle.’
At first, the words made no sense to Russell. He sat, watching the landscape in front. A group of people had appeared, about a hundred yards away. Civilians by the look of them. He could feel Sa-In leaning forwards to watch.
He realised Sergeant Barnett was still talking.
‘… just the way you were standing, back there after your lot arrived. I suddenly knew who you reminded me of.’ He paused; Russell said nothing. ‘Trevor MacKenzie was your uncle, wasn’t he?’
Russell didn’t speak. He couldn’t; his throat felt squeezed shut. He swallowed, managed to nod, blurted, ‘Y-yes.’
‘Thought so. I was talking to your petty officer back there, and he knows. But he doesn’t think many others do. You’ve kept it quiet.’
Another nod from Russell. He was still struggling to speak.
‘Why? Thought you’d be proud to have a hero for your uncle.’
The civilians were just thirty yards away now. The jeep bumped towards them. More flakes of snow made star shapes on the windscreen. Finally, the words seemed to burst from Russell’s throat. ‘He wasn’t a hero. He was a coward!’
He knew Sa-In was staring at him from behind. The other boy must have heard the anger, even if he didn’t understand the words. Sergeant Barnett kept his eyes on the road. He didn’t seem surprised. They slowed to a crawl as the group of people plodded past, bent and exhausted.
‘Thought you might be feeling that way,’ the sergeant said when the way ahead was clear again. ‘So what do you know about how he died?’
‘He ran away.’ The words poured from Russell now. ‘He ran away and hid among the refugees. I found it in a letter from the army. He was a coward! He kept trying to hide till he was killed.’
Movement to their right. Tanks, six or seven of them, churning across the bare land, tracks flinging clods of dirt into the air, engines roaring. Last time Russell had seen tanks, he’d trembled with excitement. Now he hardly noticed them.
Beside him, Sergeant Barnett spoke again. ‘It didn’t happen that way.’
‘It did!’ Russell sensed Sa-In flinch at his shout. ‘It was in the army letter. My … mum never told me, but I found out! He was hiding among the civilians and the Germans killed them. He was—’
‘Listen, son. Listen!’ the sergeant’s voice was raised, too. A tank bucked across the road in front, gun swinging skywards. ‘Look, I was there – in that area, at the time. I was an artillery observer for the British Army, attached to an infantry battalion. There were Kiwi infantry on one side of us. Top fighters. Your uncle was infantry, right? A captain?’
‘Lieutenant.’ Most of the tanks had crossed the road. Even above the roar of their engines, Russell could hear that the firing up ahead was louder. The rattle and crack of small-arms fire mixed with the booming crash of artillery.
‘A lieutenant. That’s right.’ The sergeant’s hands held the steering wheel. The final tank began bucking across the road. ‘He’d been operating behind the enemy lines – you knew that?’ He didn’t wait for Russell to reply. ‘The Italians had surrendered, the Germans were retreating but still fighting. There were Italian refugees all over the place. Homes destroyed, families trying to escape, people lost and wounded. You’ve seen the same thing happening here.’
Yes, he had. He was seeing it again now. A man a
nd woman had struggled up from a ditch ahead, where they must have been sheltering or hiding, and came hurrying past the jeep, faces haggard and frightened. Sa-In called to them, began speaking urgently. They listened, shook their heads, scuttled on.
‘Your uncle was crossing the front lines almost every day. The Germans were shooting in one direction. Our boys were shooting in the other. He was under fire every place he went. Does that sound like a coward?’
Suddenly, Russell couldn’t speak again. He shook his head once, stared across the broken land. The snow had stopped, but the sky still pressed down, dark and threatening. The tanks had disappeared. The jeep moved on, bouncing past a line of empty trenches.
‘Some of the Italians were helping your uncle,’ Sergeant Barnett said. ‘They hid him; they gave him food. He found out where most of the refugees were, and he radioed back info to our guns, so we didn’t fire on them. I was the artillery observer, remember? So I saw all his messages. The Germans knew there was someone operating behind their lines, and they were hunting for him. If they found him, they’d have shot him there and then, and anyone helping him.’
The firing ahead was almost continuous now: a swelling rumble that came from every direction. Sergeant Barnett didn’t look at Russell. He seemed to be staring into his own memories. He spoke more quietly.
‘Our side was planning a major assault. Your uncle was ordered to pull out, to come back and rejoin his unit, so he’d be safe when the attack came.’ The sergeant went silent again.
Russell knew what was coming. But he heard himself ask. ‘He – what did he do?’
‘He refused the order. He deserted.’
Seventeen
A howl from above and behind them. Four planes flashed past, heading towards the front lines. They were no more than fifty feet from the ground. Another group of refugees, hurrying towards the jeep, scattered in all directions, throwing themselves on the snow-streaked earth. The aircraft vanished over the low ridgeline in front, but the din of their passing hung in the air. It was ten seconds or so before the guns could be heard again.
‘Why?’ The sergeant spoke again. He still didn’t look at Russell; he was concentrating on steering a way through the refugees as they stumbled back onto the rough road. Women and children wept; everyone looked exhausted. Sa-In called something to them, and they gazed at him blankly. ‘Why do you think he deserted?’ Sergeant Barnett asked.
The words ‘because he was a coward’ formed in Russell’s throat. But he didn’t speak them. He didn’t know what to say or what to think.
The sergeant said nothing for a few seconds, then ‘I don’t know why, either. Nobody does. But it wasn’t because he was frightened, son. He wasn’t running away.’
They moved on. The road had narrowed to a rutted, twisting track. More burned or broken-down vehicles lay next to it. More empty gun pits. It looked as if something had charged through, smashed everything in sight, then swept on. Sa-In huddled silently in the back seat. Russell knew he was listening to them.
‘I’ll tell you what I think happened.’ As Sergeant Barnett spoke, Russell looked straight ahead, not wanting to meet the man’s eye. ‘I think he wanted to save those people. The Italian ones who’d put themselves in danger helping him. Saving them was more important to him than his side advancing a few miles. From what I saw and heard of him, that’s the sort of bloke he was.’ The sergeant gestured at yet another straggle of stooped figures trudging past them, glancing up and shaking their heads as Sa-In called to them. ‘If he was in this war, he’d be helping these people, as much as he possibly could.’
It was true, Russell knew. But he heard himself begin, ‘The army said—’
‘The army said what they had to.’ Sergeant Barnett didn’t raise his voice. ‘They said what the facts seemed to show. He did refuse to carry out an order. He did desert.’ The sergeant paused for a moment. Off to one side, Russell glimpsed more aircraft speeding towards the front line. ‘After it was over, my unit moved through the area where your uncle had been killed. It was still full of refugees, who’d been trying to get away. The Germans had put some of their artillery there before our advance. They knew we were less likely to shell or bomb places with a lot of civilians in them.’
Another pause. ‘From what I heard from our blokes and the people there, our air force had identified an enemy artillery position. There didn’t seem to be any civilians close by, so they attacked. Then, right when the second wave of our planes started diving in, this guy comes charging out of a half-ruined school just twenty or thirty yards to one side of the German guns, waving a Union Jack above his head. It was a few seconds before they saw him – there was anti-aircraft fire, and bombs, and machine-guns blazing away in all directions. The moment they noticed the flag, they pulled out, radioed for instructions. No-one seems to know what happened to him.’
Russell made himself speak. ‘He was – he was killed.’
Sergeant Barnett nodded. ‘Yeah. But nobody can tell if it was bombs or shells or bullets that did it. The only thing they do know is that he was trying to save lives when it happened. Turned out there were twenty or thirty refugees sheltering in that school. Mostly families with kids.’ He glanced sideways at Russell. ‘Like I asked before, does that sound like a coward?’
Once again, Russell tried to speak. He tried to shake his head. He couldn’t say anything, and he seemed unable to move. Instead, with the jeep now edging forwards through another press of fleeing people, and with the rumbling and crashing of war rising all around them, he knew he was crying.
They’d stopped after a while – he didn’t know how much time had passed. The road around them was empty of people once more, but Sergeant Barnett sat still. He seemed to be listening. Then Russell heard it as well: the new sounds off to both sides. Artillery, firing fast now, the different explosions merging into a rolling roar. Heavier crashes and booms that sounded like bombs. The yammer of machine-guns. Whatever was happening in the front lines, it was heating up. He rubbed his sleeve across his eyes.
The artillery NCO put the jeep in gear, and moved slowly on. ‘I’m going to find out what’s happening,’ he said, as they rounded a bend. ‘I’m not taking you two up there if there’s some sort of problem. I’ll ask these blokes.’
Russell gazed ahead, and saw that two other jeeps were stopped by the side of the rutted track. Half a dozen soldiers in steel helmets stood by them, talking.
‘How about—’ Russell’s voice wasn’t steady. He swallowed, and tried again. ‘How about the major?’
‘Major Davies knows what he’s doing. He can look after himself. Anyway, he’ll bite my head off if I get you two into strife.’
One of the soldiers in front had stepped into the road, and was holding up a hand for them to stop. His shoulder flashes were black, yellow and red vertical stripes. Spain? No, Belgium. Everyone’s in the UN, thought Russell.
Sergeant Barnett stopped, got out, and began talking. Shoulders shrugged and fingers pointed. Russell dragged in one … two deep breaths. He wiped his sleeve over his eyes again – and around his nose. He didn’t feel ashamed that he’d wept, but he had to stop now. If anything was going to happen, he wanted the Taupo blokes to be proud of him.
And he had to work out how he felt about his uncle, after what he’d heard. Should he tell his mother? What proof did the sergeant have, anyway? And there was that letter from the War Graves Commission: the army had said …
But he knew that what he’d just learned was true. It fitted. It made sense. His uncle had deserted, all right. He was guilty of that. But he wasn’t a coward. He never had been.
As Russell gazed across the wintry land, a glow of warmth began to build somewhere inside him.
This was the Uncle Trevor everyone had talked about. The one he’d wanted so much to be like, till that far-off afternoon and that letter. With no warning, a weight seemed to lift from his heart. Everything was different now. Everything was changed, and that included him.
Russel j
umped and nearly yelled as a hand touched his shoulder. Sa-In: he’d almost forgotten the figure in the back, huddled under the tarpaulin.
He turned, and the Korean boy was watching him. ‘I hear – sorry. Your father die?’
Russell shook his head. ‘My uncle.’
Sa-In looked puzzled. ‘Un-cull?’ Russell almost smiled. ‘My mother’s brother.’
The other boy murmured to himself. ‘Un-cull. Uncull. Is marry to Aun-tee?’
‘Yeah. Sometimes. But my Uncle Trevor wasn’t married.’ He’d heard his mother talking to a neighbour about that one time – how she didn’t know if it was better or worse that there was nobody who could help her remember her brother.
The dark eyes watched him. ‘Is sad if fum-family die.’
‘Yeah.’ Russell felt tears prickle in his own eyes again. ‘Yeah, it is.’
He gazed ahead, at where Sergeant Barnett and the Belgian soldiers were bent over a map spread out on the bonnet of a jeep. The rumble of guns went on. He turned again to the Korean boy. Only Sa-In’s head and shoulders showed above the tarpaulin. ‘How about your own parents? Your father and mother?’ Sa-In gazed ahead. He spoke quietly, slowly, searching sometimes for words. ‘We live small town. My father is teacher. English teacher, so I already knowing – know some.’ He smiled. ‘Father say I sound like bottom in class. Then North armies attack. And South armies attack them back. There is – is battle near our town. People escape. At – in night-time, bombs land in our street. Houses fire – burn. Father go to help. Mother and Yong Mee and me – I – start to leave. Mother go to find Father. We have not seen again.’ He sighed, turned his head away, then said, so softly that he could hardly be heard, ‘I look. I look.’
Russell was silent. He remembered watching the first refugees, on that boat and on the roads, and thinking that they were cowards who had run away, that he didn’t want to know. Another thing he felt differently about now.