Sunset Ridge

by Nicole Alexander

  Smudges of exhaustion circled the fading irises and highlighted the curved lashes; the tender face recalled images of cherubs. Grasping the boy by the shoulders, Dave pulled the dead weight into an upright position against the trench wall. He imagined it to be someone else’s hand when his own reached out and closed the still-warm eyelids.

  ‘Cartwright, isn’t it?’ Captain Egan asked, nodding towards the dead soldier.

  Dave looked up at the officer. The captain had a bloody cut running the length of his cheek and his uniform bore the white-chalk remnants of his recent burial in the dug-out.

  ‘Yes, sir. Matty Cartwright was his name.’

  The captain shook his head, writing the name in a notebook.

  ‘They shouldn’t have let him join up, sir.’ Dave searched Cartwright’s pockets. Most of the men carried a final letter; a few brief lines to loved ones in case their time came. ‘No letter, sir.’ He patted another pocket. ‘Nothing. Oh, hang on.’ The paper was un-bloodied despite the black-red liquid oozing from the gaping wound in the boy’s chest.

  ‘Well, hand it over, son.’ Captain Egan unfolded the wad of paper and studied the extraordinary likeness of the dead boy. Cartwright was immortalised in crayon. ‘Is this your work, Dave?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I did it as a favour. He was a mate and he wanted a sketch as a present for his mother.’

  Captain Egan stared at the drawing.

  ‘You’ll send it back like he wanted, sir?’

  The captain folded the drawing. ‘I’ll see she gets it.’

  All along the trench, men righted themselves, checked the wounded and regrouped in case of a counterattack. A number of soldiers were tasked with making running repairs to sections of the damaged trench; others carried the dead further along the trench system to where they would be collected by a work detail and taken away for burial. Captain Egan trailed this latter grisly task, noting down the names of the dead and ensuring the men were kept busy. Stretcher-bearers reached their section and quickly ascertained the worst cases. Bow-legged, with backs and heads bent to escape a canny sniper, they collected the injured. Dave willed himself to movement and joined his brothers, who were stacking bodies. Harold collected the remains of a hand: he held the lifeless flesh mid-air until, at Thorny’s suggestion, they watched it sail through the air into no-man’s land.

  Bile rose in Dave’s throat and he vomited into the dirt. Someone slapped him on the shoulder and asked if he was all right. Dave nodded and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  ‘N-now I’ve seen everyth-thing.’ Luther nudged Thaddeus in the ribs. Coming towards them were two stretcher-bearers, a field doctor and a great mangy dog.

  ‘American Field Ambulance,’ Harold explained. ‘They’re handy blokes.’

  ‘And the dog?’ Dave asked. They had heard the stories of animals attached to battalions, but many were mascots and few lasted long on the front-line.

  As they talked, the Americans passed, stopping a few feet away to tend to other wounded. The dog trotted up and down the trench, snuffling the ground and sandbagged walls with interest. At a bend in the trench where a pile of dead bodies awaited collection, he gave a single bark and sat patiently on muscular hind legs.

  ‘Well, hurry up!’ the American medic yelled at them from where he tended a soldier with a gunshot wound. ‘If the dog says there’s a live one, there must be.’

  The Harrow boys exchanged glances with Harold and then rushed to the pile of corpses. Gingerly they turned each of the five men over and checked for signs of life. There were limbs missing, and the deadly crossfire technique of the German maxim gunners had shot one man almost in two.

  ‘Jesus,’ Harold uttered, ‘they all look buggered to me.’

  Squeezing between their legs, the dog smelled each prone body and then placed a large paw on the leg of one of the men.

  Thaddeus held his palm above the bloodied face. ‘God’s holy trousers, he’s breathing!’

  They carefully but quickly pulled the soldier free and stood back as the medic knelt by the man’s side. The soldier’s coat was swiftly unbuttoned and the shoulder wound prodded. The doctor rolled the man onto his side.

  ‘Bullet’s still in there. Missed his heart.’ Placing a field dressing over the wound, he rose.

  The dog shook his hairy body from head to tail. ‘Good job,’ the captain praised, patting his companion.

  Dave fell on one knee and hugged the animal. Despite the stink around them, the smell of the dog reminded him of home. ‘Hey, he’s got an identity disc around his neck. It says Antoine Chessy.’

  ‘They’re enlisting dogs now!’ Harold said, rubbing at his cheek stubble.

  ‘Keep safe, Antoine,’ Dave said quietly, running his hand along the dog’s back as more stretcher-bearers arrived. Noticing the rank on the American’s uniform he asked, ‘Is he yours, Captain?’

  As if understanding their conversation, the dog looked up. The captain only smiled. ‘I wish,’ he answered, before following his men to another section of the trench.

  The dog disappeared around the next bend as sporadic artillery fire continued to sound across no-man’s land. In the all-too-few moments when the gunfire eased, the brief silences were filled with the groans of the wounded.

  ‘There are men out there.’ Harold’s palm slid up and down the magazine of the Lewis gun.

  ‘Haig’s standing orders say no rescues,’ Dave replied as he scratched at Matty Cartwright’s dried blood on his face. ‘Besides, we tried it once and Egan nearly tarred us he was that mad. He threatened to write us up on charges.’

  Thaddeus gave a snort of disgust.

  ‘B-bugger Haig,’ Luther retorted. ‘I h-haven’t l-laid eyes on him since this b-bunfight started. I didn’t come all th-this way to listen to our b-blokes die.’

  Thaddeus quickly organised a rescue party, comprising himself, Luther and Trip and Fall. The latter were passing along the trench with bags of lime, throwing handfuls of the stuff on blood and flesh, their approach advertised by the blaspheming of diggers who found themselves either kicked or inadvertently bustled aside. The brothers dropped the lime on the duckboards at Thaddeus’s order.

  Thaddeus cuffed Dave on the shoulder. ‘You stay here. If the worst happens – well, three of us would be a bit hard on Mother.’

  Harold positioned the Lewis gun and scanned no-man’s land. The enemy soldiers were clearly visible in their trenches. ‘It’s too risky, we should wait till dark.’ He looked directly at Thaddeus as diggers positioned their rifles along the earth wall. There was a mumble of agreement from some of the assembled men.

  ‘Bollocks,’ Luther replied. ‘You l-lot cover me.’ Scrambling over the top of the trench, he waved a filthy rag in the enemy’s direction.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Thaddeus muttered, cocking his rifle. He peered through the rifle sight, scanning the scarred, open terrain as his brother walked into no-man’s land, the handkerchief fluttering in the cordite-filled air. ‘You cover the right, Dave. I’ll do the left.’

  ‘We’ve got his back, Thaddeus,’ Fall and Trip answered in unison.

  Dave took a deep breath and steadied himself. There was movement in the German trench, movement across no-man’s land. Bulbous rats scurried around purulent corpses. He tried not to think of the rats or the Germans or the odds of Luther surviving such a reckless action. Everything would be all right. Please let Luther be all right.

  Harold patted his tin helmet. ‘That boy never was one for worrying about consequences.’ He ran his hand across the barrel of the Lewis gun. ‘Be ready, my lovely.’

  All along the trench, men took aim, watched and waited. ‘It’s Chopper Harrow,’ someone remarked.

  Luther walked carefully through the dead, dying and injured. Hands reached to pluck at his legs, men raised themselves upwards before falling back into oblivion, and at every carefully placed step the
cries of the maimed carried him onwards. Occasionally a lone shot rang out and a spray of dirt rendered Luther motionless. Fritz was having a bit of fun. In a single window of silence the wind carried a plaintive voice: ‘Don’t forget me, cobber.’

  The forty men in Dave’s section of the trench lifted their rifles as one in response.

  Captain Egan rolled into the front trench, anger furrowing an already lined brow. ‘Who is it?’ he snapped.

  ‘Luther, sir,’ Thaddeus replied.

  ‘I should have bloody well known it would be one of you Harrow boys.’

  Two hundred yards out Luther was met by Fritz, his own scrappy bit of material wrestling with the rising wind.

  ‘Well, I’ll be,’ Captain Egan muttered. ‘Stand to, stand to,’ he called along the line.

  ‘They already are, sir,’ Thaddeus replied. His finger was poised on the trigger, the rifle’s line of sight centred on the flag-waving Fritz. ‘If the worst happens,’ Thaddeus hissed at Dave, ‘cover me. I’ll not leave him out there.’

  Dave held his breath to steady his aim.

  Captain Egan drew his pistol. Across the field of battle, German heads popped up all along their trench.

  The two men stood a foot apart, silhouetted by haze and debris, their bodies melding together in a shimmer of sunlight. Dave watched the two lone figures, squinted upwards into an uncaring sun and waited. Minutes later Luther and his counterpart walked their separate paths back towards armies that prayed to the same God.

  ‘Bloody idiot,’ Thaddeus chastised, pulling Luther down into the relative safety of the trench.

  ‘Holy Ghost!’ Harold exclaimed, clapping Luther on the shoulder.

  ‘Th-they’ve agreed to l-let us get our w-wounded and dead, sir,’ Luther addressed the captain. ‘And I agreed th-that Fritz could get th-theirs.’

  ‘Did you, now?’ the captain responded.

  Luther held his gaze.

  Captain Egan grunted. ‘Well, then, you men, you heard him. Get yourself into working parties of four. Wounded first and then the dead. So, you were out there for long enough, Harrow – have a nice little chat, did you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And are you going to share this friendly conversation with the rest of us?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I said it was a l-lovely day for a w-war, sir.’

  Egan appeared stunned. ‘You said what?’

  ‘I said it was a lovely day for a w-war, sir.’

  ‘I heard you the first time.’ Captain Egan shook his head. ‘Go on, then. Get going, the lot of you.’

  ‘What did Fritz really say, Luther?’ Dave stepped carefully between the fallen bodies strewn across the ground as they scoured for wounded.

  Luther lit a cigarette and spat a shred of tobacco from his mouth. ‘I th-think he said,’ he answered softly, ‘th-that he w-wanted to go home.’

  When the last of the injured and the dead were carried off the scarred dirt to await stretcher-bearers, the men collapsed into the trench. For long minutes they simply sat, arms dangling by their sides, smokes clinging to dry lips as stretcher-bearers moved to and fro. One damaged digger, laid out on a canvas stretcher, was set down for a moment by Luther’s side. With difficulty he lifted a bloody hand. Luther clasped it strongly.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t forget me, cobber,’ he muttered before being carted away.

  Thaddeus took a sip of water and ran the edge of his harmonica across his tongue. When he placed it to his mouth, the first few strains were shaky but recognisable. It was ‘My Darling Clementine’.

  Luther arched his neck so that the earth wall of the trench was firm against his skull. Very slowly he rocked to and fro. ‘Hey, Dave. You got th-that p-picture on you? You know, th-the one of the river?’

  Dave fumbled about in his uniform. The sketch was dog-eared and torn in places but it clearly depicted the four of them in their old fishing spots by the Banyan River.

  Harold cleared his throat. ‘Jeez, that’s a beauty. Good on you, Dave.’

  The men were silent as the sketch was passed around to the strains of the harmonica.

  ‘Do you have more of these?’ Thorny asked.

  ‘He’s drawn half the battalion,’ Thaddeus elaborated, ‘and everything in between.’

  Luther ran the blade of his tomahawk against a sharpening stone. ‘Regular ar-artist, he is. He’ll go w-without rations t-to carry his sketchbook.’

  ‘You know,’ Harold began, ‘you’re like a big bush spider.’ He studied the drawing. ‘You wind us up in your sticky web and hold us fast. I can almost imagine we’re back there.’

  ‘Put me in your drawing, will you, Dave?’ Thorny asked quietly. ‘I’d like to be there too.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ Dave agreed.

  ‘Pipe down with that music,’ Captain Egan called from the mound that was his dug-out. ‘We don’t need a whizz-bang landing on our heads.’

  Thaddeus gave a defiant squeal on the mouth organ and hunkered down to rest.

  In no-man’s land the strains of an answering harmonica floated unexpectedly across the barren landscape. Then it too was silenced. Dave closed his mind to the morning’s images and narrowed his thoughts to the only things worth remembering: Luther’s bravery and a great mangy dog named Antoine.

  Thaddeus waited at the entrance to the dug-out. Unlike the men’s cramped hole in the ground, it was reinforced with timber and spacious enough to accommodate a table and chairs. Two camp bunks were pushed hard against a rear wall; dirt fell onto them intermittently from the low ceiling. At the table a seated Captain Egan read the note the messenger had presented and ran a finger across what appeared to be a map. Above him a kerosene lantern hung from a timber beam. The vibrations from the intermittent shelling caused the lantern to swing to and fro.

  ‘Very well, tell the brass we’ll move out after dark.’

  The messenger saluted, leaving Thaddeus alone with the captain.

  ‘Drink?’ Captain Egan asked, beckoning him forwards.

  Two rats were fighting on top of one of the cots. With barely a glance in their direction the captain flung a book at the rodents, which quickly took flight. ‘That’s about the best use I’ve found for the rule book.’ He poured rum into stubby glasses and offered one to Thaddeus. ‘Sit, Harrow.’ He took a sip and then, placing the glass down, folded the map of the battlefield and tucked it into a leather compendium. ‘Well, we’re to be relieved tonight.’

  ‘What, already?’

  Captain Egan drained the glass of rum. ‘Five days, Harrow; we’ve been in the front-line for five days – nine if you count the time in the support trench. Although we’ve little to show for our efforts, the Germans have been constant in their defence.’

  ‘They are well dug in, sir.’ Thaddeus studied the contents of the glass in his hand. The days were blurring together, broken only by a tin of bully beef and the endless monotony of sitting uselessly in their trench until the next engagement with the enemy. And still the guns fired, shuddering both man and land until Thaddeus doubted he would ever again sit tranquilly without expecting some type of torment to rage down on him.

  ‘Harrow?’ the captain frowned.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘I said that I’m promoting you to sergeant.’

  Thaddeus accepted the grimy envelope and enclosed stripes and saluted Captain Egan. ‘Thank you, sir.’ His advancement came at a cost. The previous sergeant was dead.

  ‘At ease, Harrow. Have a seat. You’ve a cool head in battle, which is more than can be said for your brother Luther.’

  ‘He’s a damn good soldier, sir.’

  ‘Relax, Sergeant, I’m not disputing his fighting qualities, merely making an observation.’

  ‘The men would follow him anywhere, sir.’

  Captain Ega
n nodded. ‘You as well, Harrow.’ The chair squeaked as he crossed his legs. ‘We’re on furlough for a week. I asked for two but it appears we’ve been drafted for a work detail.’ Pouring a splash more rum for both of them, the captain slid the platoon mail across the desk. ‘I’ve also received orders that Harold Lawrence is to be transferred across to us, as well as the three other men that were part of the temporary relief.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Captain Egan sat forward. ‘We don’t bring petty arguments to war, Sergeant.’

  ‘No, sir,’ Thaddeus agreed, swallowing the remains of the rum. He gathered up the mail, unsurprised that the captain knew that he and Harold were barely on speaking terms. War hadn’t changed Harold. He was just as arrogant. Thaddeus could have forgiven him for his attitude regarding Corally, but they had fought twice and while Thaddeus had been prepared to right the situation, Harold wasn’t. It was as if they were kids again, bickering over who had the best sling-shot or who could run faster. The competitiveness that had always marked their friendship now served to pull them apart. The worst of it was that Thaddeus was not one to be beaten either, but now they were in the thick of things he simply wasn’t interested in confronting his old friend. There were other things to worry about. All Thaddeus wanted was to survive the war and make it home to Sunset Ridge with his brothers.

  Dismissed, he left the dug-out and passed the word along that they were to be relieved at dark. It was quiet this morning and the men were lined up along the wall of the trench. Some wrote letters home, others cleaned equipment. Dave sat sketching the mongrel dog that had sniffed out the wounded digger. The animal was depicted sitting in the trench, the identity discs dangling from his neck. Luther, airing his bare feet in the sun, was heating a tin of bully beef over a small makeshift fire, careful to fan the smoke so as not to give away their position. Thaddeus passed the mail to Trip, who quickly sorted through it and began to hand the letters out. Dave was the first recipient.

  ‘Let’s hope they don’t get lost,’ Harold quipped in reply to Thaddeus’s information. He sat on a munitions crate cleaning the Lewis gun. Beside him, Thorny set lice alight on his arms with a cigarette. ‘A month or so back we waited eighteen hours for our relief to show. Got lost, didn’t they, Thorny?’