“Sah…!” The NCO responded enthusiastically, coming immediately to attention and presenting a salute before executing a text book about face and marching off at speed.
“You’ve no doubt already guessed as to the purpose of the officers accompanying me this evening,” Bennett observed in a dry tone as all four of them entered the nearest of three long, narrow, single-story buildings and made their way down the central corridor inside. I have the pleasure of introducing Colonels Solingen and Murray: these men will be your ‘aides’ – shall we say? – for the time being. I don’t believe you’ve met…?”
“No sir,” Thorne conceded, throwing a nod of greeting to both men as they walked side by side. The fact that the gesture was met with stiff disinterest from Solingen was as telling to Thorne in that moment as was the wry, almost sneaky grin that accompanied Murray’s nod in return, as if the man had intended to wink but thought better of it at the last moment. “Colonel Solingen’s reputation does precede him however: deputy chief of Defence Intelligence, I believe?”
“Correct, sir,” Solingen nodded, speaking for the first time in icy tones and a sneer that almost verged into insubordination. “Predominantly involved with internal operations, if you take my meaning, but I’ve made it my business to be well-versed in all of the department’s matters. Can’t really say too much about that otherwise… you understand, of course…”
And he really sounds like he gives a shit about that…
“Of course, colonel,” Thorne acknowledged with a saccharine smile, playing the game for the time being and ignoring the fusillade of derogatory and in some cases quite politically incorrect epithets his inner voice was now hurling at the officer beside him. All the same, he filed away the man’s overtly hostile reaction for later consideration.
Colonel Francis Xavier Solingen barely topped five-foot-eight and perhaps seemed even shorter due to the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders and the deceptive length of his torso in comparison to his legs. A forty-seven-year-old veteran of the First World War, he’d spent most of the 1930s on the Reserve of Officers, inactive and listed at the rank of major. As war in Europe had broken out in 1939 and the Australian armed forces had again began to expand, he was one of many officers who’d found their reserve status changed back to active duty.
Dragged from a high-level post within a Sydney accounting firm to take up his commission, he’d been posted to Army Intelligence in recognition of his flair for administration and investigative work as a high-level accountant. Two years later, he’d been promoted twice and assigned as Deputy Chief (Internal) of the newly restructured DIO (Defence Intelligence Office) and as unofficial liaison between the DIO and the War Cabinet in Melbourne.
“I don’t believe I’ve met Lieutenant-Colonel Murray either,” Thorne ventured cautiously, not sure what reaction he was likely to get, “although I must say, your name is somehow familiar to me.”
“Harry, sir… please call me Harry,” Murray suggested with a very casual grin that went a long way to winning Thorne over instantly. “Erstwhile of the 26th Battalion out of Townsville, but I’ve been reassigned since it went over to the AIF back in September. Reckon they’ve been tryin’ to work out what to do with me… ‘til you came along, at least. Looking forward to working with you, sir…”
“You too, colonel….Harry…” Thorne added, correcting himself quickly and managing a smile of his own.
It was only then that he made an effort to actually look at the man, walking as he was slightly behind Solingen and a little to the left. Looking to be in his sixties at least, it was clear enough from the ‘fruit salad’ of service and award ribbons on his chest that he was also a World War One veteran, however it was only at that moment that Thorne was able to see them clearly.
Right at the top left of what was clearly a distinguished service record, it was the small, crimson ribbon at their head that caught his eye, complete with its tiny representation of a stylised cross in bronze. There wasn’t a member of any Commonwealth military force the world over who wouldn’t recognise that award instantly, and it was at that point that something finally fell crashing into place within his mind.
“Harry Murray…!” He exclaimed, halting momentarily as the group stopped with him. “Lieutenant-Colonel Harry Murray…!”
“That’s me, sir,” Murray grinned again, almost bemused by the reaction but enjoying the spectacle all the same.
“The same Lieutenant-Colonel Murray awarded the Victoria Cross for action at Gueudecourt in Nineteen Seventeen, along with an absolute shitload of other bloody letters tacked after your name…?”
“Well, I don’t like to blow me own trumpet, sir,” Murray began, chest puffing out with pride as Solingen rolled his eyes in the background, “but that sounds like me, yeah. Didn’t realise I was famous.”
“Your war record reads like the script from a bloody war movie, colonel,” Thorne almost gushed, losing all pretence of superior rank as he filled with awe. “How many other soldiers landed at Gallipoli as a private and ended the war as a bloody major…?”
“Aw, probably more than you’d think, sir, but I appreciate the compliment…”
“It seems you have a fan, Murray,” Solingen observed with arms folded across his chest, far too open in his derision as Thorne momentarily flashed a sharp glare in his direction.
“Gentlemen, I do think this kind of conversation might be better served at another time,” Bennett pointed out in frustration, also noting Solingen’s tone and making a note to discuss it with the man later, in private. “Let’s get on, shall we… it’s been a long day of travelling for all of us and I, for one, would like to get some rest.”
“Of course, sir,” Thorne conceded, throwing a second death stare at Solingen as he stalked off after Bennett and receiving one of blank disinterest in return. “An excellent idea…” It was already painfully clear that he was going to have problems with the man, just as it was already equally clear he and Murray were likely to get on famously.
Well, bugger me… ‘Mad Harry’ himself…!
You’re telling me, Thorne answered, silently this time in deference to not having himself labelled as crazy along with disobedient. Who’d have thought…?
Born in December of 1880, Lieutenant-Colonel Henry William “Harry” Murray VC, CMG, DSO & Bar, DCM was often described by historians as the mist highly-decorated infantry soldier of the First World War. Refusing a commission and instead enlisting in Perth in 1914 as a simple private, he’d landed at Gallipoli on 25th of April, 1915 with the rest of the ANZACs. Wounded several times during the campaign, he was evacuated to Egypt twice – once due to wounds and once because of illness – and both times returned to Gallipoli upon recovery, at least once avoiding orders to return to Australia because of his injuries.
From Gallipoli he’d followed with the ANZACs to the Western Front and had continued to make a name for himself as a born soldier, rising through the ranks quickly to have earned a promotion as Major (Temporary) at the war’s end. During his years of service he was awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal, the Distinguished Service Order (twice) and finally, the Victoria Cross for actions in France in February of 1917. Added to this were several instances of being Mentioned in Despatches, something that in military parlance was significant in itself even if those reports did not actually lead to any formal decoration.
Returning to Australia, he’d eventually settled down to raise a family and graze cattle in Queensland, where he’d remained until war had again been declared in 1939. Considered too old by that time for service with the 2nd Australian Imperial Force, he’d instead been given command of the 26th (Militia) Battalion at Townsville, only to be eventually relieved due to his advancing age as the unit was officially commissioned into the 2nd AIF in September of 1942.
With thick, greying hair and a similarly-coloured moustache, there was no lack of fire in the man’s eyes still despite his 0age, and it was quite clear to anyone taking the time to look that there was
an intensity behind them that spoke volumes of his experience and strength of character.
As keen a student of Australian military history as any man, Max Thorne was familiar with the exploits of the wartime enigma that was Harry Murray, and even he would’ve been willing to admit he felt more than a little awestruck in the presence of a man who’d given such fine service to his country. That being said, he wasn’t about to allow Solingen to get away with insubordination because of it, and he too filed away an intention to ‘discuss’ the matter with the colonel at a later time, although not necessarily with the same consideration as Bennett for a private setting.
“Now, Solingen and Murray here will be acting as your aides, as I’ve already said,” Bennett began again as they were all seated at a dining table within the officer’s mess sometime later, each man with a tray of non-descript but otherwise quite serviceable food in front of them. “They’ll be accompanying you to assist in whatever capacity you require,” he added, “but – and I’ll make no bones about this – they will also be expected to remain in contact with myself and the War Cabinet, and they will be reporting on the progress of your activities on a daily basis.”
“Sir, is that really necessary?” Thorne ventured, keeping tight rein on his tone so as to keep himself out of more trouble. “I’m back in Australia now with absolutely no intention of going anywhere for the foreseeable future... surely I can’t get up to much back home…”
“You’d think so,” Bennett replied drily with a shrug and a half-smile. “Canberra does recognise however that you are an incredibly resourceful individual,” he continued, not at all sounding like he was giving a compliment, “and nowhere is this talent so readily on display, it seems, as much as it is at times when you’ve been finding ways to either circumvent or undermine authority or in some cases, such as what was witnessed in North Africa in September, disobey orders completely, to the detriment of the nation as a whole, as we’ve already discussed… regardless of the fact that those actions did indeed potentially save hundreds of lives…” he added quickly, forestalling anything Thorne might have attempted to say in his own defence.
“Any argument is academic anyway at this point, as your current orders are quite clear: rest and recuperation, with no operational activity for at least six to eight weeks as prescribed by medical authorities advising the Cabinet.”
“Six to eight weeks…?” Thorne repeated, incredulous. “By a doctor who’s never even examined me…? Sir, this is ridiculous…! Captain Donelson is currently stuck on Ambon with a bloody Japanese invasion force headed her way! As you said earlier, the war can get along quite nicely without me for a while… it’s possible however, that Captain Donelson may not. There’s no way I can simple sit around, twiddling my thumbs, while she and other fellow Hindsight personnel are left stranded in what is soon likely to become a combat zone.”
“Believe me, Max, I do recognise the difficult position this places you in,” Bennett conceded with genuine sympathy. “I understand that there’s a friendship that exists between you and the captain on both a professional and a personal level. You’ll be more hindrance than help however, if you’re not able to make effective decisions due to fatigue, strain or injury.” He fixed Thorne with a knowing gaze. “Your Hindsight officers are extremely competent soldiers and tacticians in their own right: give them some credit to be able to function in your absence. The officers and men of the Australian military in general are also well-trained and competent, and they too can almost certainly make reasonable decisions without the added input of Max Thorne. I can tell you right now that HMS Kanimbla has already been despatched from Darwin and is enroute to Ambon as we speak. She will be evacuating all wounded personnel, along with Captain Donelson and party and that bloody infernal device they’ve managed to collect along the way.” He released a long sigh before adding: “Does that sound like reasonable action to you…?”
A thousand conflicting responses whirled around in Thorne’s mind, none of them particularly helpful, and he had to admit that he could feel a headache brewing that could quite likely grow to migraine proportions without the assistance of some kind of aspirin or paracetamol in the very near future. And although the nagging doubts at the back of his mind refused to completely mollified, even he was forced to admit that at least Canberra had been quick to react to news of Kormoran being put out of action and had developed a suitable response.
“Yes… yes, sir…” he surrendered eventually, releasing a long, frustrated sigh of his own. “I understand…”
“General, if I might make a suggestion…?” Murray piped up, seated to Thorne’s left and holding a fork laden with roast beef in one hand.
“Be my guest, colonel,” Bennett nodded, interested to see where the unexpected interjection might lead.
“Well, sir, if my research is correct, this ‘Hindsight’ team the air vice-marshal belongs to has a secondary development unit down at Carson’s Airfield… maybe we could divert there tomorrow? At least then the air vice-marshal will be able to be involved in his own projects rather than just be stuck here or in Darwin, sitting about with those thumbs twiddling. Idle hands and all that, sir…?”
Bennett thought carefully about the idea, liking it on face value and seeing the merit of it from exactly that point of view. Thorne, for his part, was as surprised as anyone at the suggestion, however unlike Bennett, he was for some reason vaguely suspicious of an idea that seemed far too palatable. As he glanced across at Murray, one eyebrow slightly raised, he received a curt nod in return that he would lay money on was accompanied by a wink that was so fast it was almost missed.
“I can’t see anything wrong with that...” the general declared after a moment’s thought, directing a dubious glare toward Thorne. “Just make damn sure you get yourself some rest… understood?”
“Loud and clear, sir…!” Thorne nodded, even managing a weak smile. “I’ll make sure I’m on the next flight down there.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Solingen cut in, glaring at Murray the whole while as if suspicious of a set up. “I’ll speak to Flight Ops this evening as to whether any flights are available: I’ll commandeer a truck and driver if I have to.”
“Excellent…!” Bennett exclaimed, very pleased now that immediate responsibility for Max Thorne had temporarily shifted on to someone else’s shoulders, for better or worse. “Let’s eat then, shall we, before our meals are completely cold.”
Murray’s room was two doors down from Thorne’s inside one of the small ancillary huts that acted as officer’s quarters. He found the colonel there some time after lights out, quietly reading a week-old Queensland country newspaper by the weak light of a bedside lamp.
“Mind if I come in…?” He asked from the doorway, making a show of softly rapping his knuckles on the door jamb.
“Of course, sir… take a seat,” Murray offered, tossing the paper onto the bed and sitting up properly in uniform trousers and plain, white singlet.
“I just wanted to say thanks for your help earlier,” Thorne began, taking the offered chair that sat beside the bed. “I was getting the distinct feeling I was fighting a losing battle there for a while…”
“Never mind the colonel, sir,” Murray grinned, immediately deducing exactly what he was getting at. “I’ve served with him here or there in this war and the last one, and I can say from experience that he’s got a few axes to grind that have nothing to do with you.”
“Issues…?” Thorne probed, interested to find out more about a man who might potentially become an obstacle in the near future.
“You could say that, sir,” Murray admitted, pulling a face. “Good soldier – don’t get me wrong – but he wasn’t happy when they turfed him after the Great War. Seen it before: blokes that think they’re career army don’t take it well when they’re told their services aren’t required any longer. If they’d kept him on, he might’ve been a general by now, and I’ll bet money it burns him up thinking about it. I gather he did well for h
imself in Civvie Street as an accountant or something, but I don’t reckon that means much to him when you stand it against his military service.
“The bloke was always a bit of a stuffed shirt, if you ask me,” he shrugged, continuing, “but that’s just my opinion. I don’t think he likes the fact that you’ve only been in the service for a couple of years and you already outrank him either. They didn’t tell us what you were doing before your commission, but he found out enough to show that you kinda appeared out of nowhere over in England and walked straight into a staff officer’s rank. I don’t think FX likes that…” He added, referring to the man by his initials only, as Thorne would later discover was common for others referring to Solingen when not in his presence.
“Ahh…” Thorne acknowledged, thinking perhaps he saw more of the reasons behind the man’s overt antagonism now. “I suspect it probably annoys the shit outta him that he now has to nursemaid me into the bargain…”
“I reckon that’d be a fair assumption, sir,” Murray agreed with a grin of his own. “Me, on the other hand…? Well, I read the reports of what you did over in North Africa and the first thing that occurred to me was that this was an officer who cared about the men under him. Too many still think the ORs are just cannon fodder, to be sent up the front for ‘King and Country’ without any thought to the fact that the men under them have mums and dads and wives and kids who need ‘em just as much as their country does… families who need ‘em to come home when it’s all over.”
“Exactly what I’d expect of a mustang,” Thorne observed with a knowing smile.
“‘Mustang’, sir…?”
“It’s an American military term,” Thorne explained quickly with a chuckle. “It refers to an officer who’s originally been promoted up from the non-commissioned ranks.”
“Reckon I don’t mind that, sir,” Murray conceded with a chuckle of his own, “although maybe brumby might be better over ‘ere…”
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 67