Fire Eye

by Peter d’Plesse

  Both recognise it at the same time. A tall, flat metal shape in faded military-green paint contrasting with the irregular pattern of the undergrowth. In spite of having experienced twenty-six crash sites, Jed has never lost the excitement of the first sight of wreckage hidden among the bush. Each is a memorial to the courage of long-dead young men who gave their lives in combat.

  The weathered twin tails rear up proudly toward the foliage of the trees, aged and worn but still demonstrating the potential energy of flight. On the side of the fuselage partly hidden in the shadows, is still visible the faded, white painted star of the United States Army Air Force. Adjusting his eyes to the play of sunlight and shadow, he can see the starboard wing reaching out into the trees, the shadowy bulge of an engine and, hidden in deeper shadow, the dull, long shapes of propeller blades. With a practised pilot’s eye, he sees the blade nearest the ground bent back at the tip but not twisted, evidence the engines had been shut down prior to the forced landing.

  He can sense Alex behind him, standing in awe at the sight. “Bloody hell!” she manages to say.

  The power of what rests in front of them shuts off any further communication. The shadowy form of the aircraft lurking under the trees is a ghost from a long forgotten past. They stare at the apparition, a time capsule of history.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Decker is feeling pretty good with Joe’s news about finding the tracks of the bitch and the headmaster. He takes a walk, working a pattern around the vehicles in the most likely direction the headmaster would have stashed a wheel. He couldn’t have carried it far, unless he put it down and rolled it but the marks would be easily visible. Decker eventually finds it stashed in some low bushes behind a fallen log. Bastard isn’t as smart as he thinks, Decker chuckles to himself. He relishes the realisation he has outsmarted the prick and now has transport any time he wants.

  Things are looking up. He savours the challenge of paying the bitch back. Doing it easy would never have been as much fun as this game of cat and mouse. It is the very reason that when it comes to payback, a knife is better than a bullet, strangling is better than a knife and burying alive is even better still. Dragging revenge out and having a personal touch gives far better memories to relish. He never doubts he will come out on top. None of them is as good as him in the long haul. When it comes to the crunch, no one can match him.

  It has been like that all through his life. He remembers the look on Johnny’s face as the back hoe dumped the last load of dirt on him. It was classic! The bastard got what he deserved for trying to play silly buggers. Once Decker got out of jail he did that one pretty quick. He is prepared to bide his time with the bitch, but payback is coming. He savours the experience. He will only use a bullet to disable her. After they finish toying with her, ultimate pleasure will come from looking into her eyes as he finally strangles the life out of her. He will stop just in time and bring her back for a few repeat performances. Revenge with hands-on, personal contact. Memories forever!

  Lying in his swag, the thoughts give him a hard on. He relishes the feeling, stroking himself to the point of climax then backing off, enjoying the sensation of being on the tantalising edge of satisfaction. He will save it for the lying, deceitful, conniving bitch! He holds himself balanced on a knife edge until he hears sounds of movement as Jesse wakes. He lets the feeling subside, knowing it can be fired up on demand when the time is right. He unzips the swag and rolls upright, stretching and flexing to regain full movement.

  Putting on his boots, Decker stirs Jesse awake with his foot. “Time to rise,” he announces in a booming voice that carries over to Joe and Brad curled under blankets on the other side of the camp.

  They could have run during the night, but Joe understands his little brother could not have taken the pace. He would have fallen to the white fella’s guns, just like so many of his ancestors. Joe knows that playing the game is their best chance and he plays it to the full. Rolling into a standing position, Joe puts his hands over his kidneys and leans back to stretch himself. He looks over at Decker with an innocent expression on his dark face that camouflages his true intelligence. “A new day boss! A good day for tracking!” he yells across at Decker with pretend enthusiasm.

  Decker acknowledges with a nod and walks off to check the location of the wheel he has hidden. As long as he has that, only he has transport. He aims to keep it that way. It won’t take long to change the wheels and get mobile. With that thought, he goes over to the Patrol, picks up the jack and stashes it with the wheel, just in case. While Decker is covering his bases, Jesse gets out of the swag, drops to his knees to blow the slumbering coals into life and throws twigs and timber on the fire to fuel it into flame. It doesn’t take long to get breakfast going for him and his dad. He doesn’t even consider the black fellas. They are a different breed. They simply don’t compute in his awareness. They are there to do a job and easily disposable.

  Joe sees they are excluded from breakfast but hasn’t expected anything else. He can pick up tucker during the day. Only Little Britches worries him. He can’t eat with his broken jaw and only the soup has made it past his pained lips in the last day. There isn’t much Joe can do apart from keep Brad alive by playing the game, so he picks up the water bottle, cradles his brother in his arms and dribbles water into his mouth. Brad tries to grunt his thanks but Joe hushes him into silence, accepting the look of love and gratitude in his brother’s eyes.

  He watches Decker come out of the bush and head over to the fire to throw eggs, bacon, beans and bread onto a plate, crouching down to eat next to Jesse. Bad bastards, Joe thinks, Mean and unpredictable with no feelings for other people. In his mob, people are important. Even though they have their problems and fights, family and the mob are the foundation of a good life. These two only care about themselves. He can see they get pleasure from other people’s pain and the sense of power it gives them. He decides that meekness will do him no good and calls out across the fire. “We should move soon! Make good use of the day!”

  Decker tucks the last of the bacon into his mouth, taking his time to respond. He knows the black bastard is right but doesn’t like being told what to do. Still, he needs the fucker and everything hinges on Joe’s tracking skills. When he finally responds, there is just a hint of grudging respect toward Joe. Decker knows he has skills well beyond what he will ever acquire. It is something he never expected to admit.

  “Ready in five,” he calls back as he finishes the last of his bushman’s breakfast. He considers the logistics of the day, feeling a sense of pride that he can plan into the future and cover all the bases. “We’ll be gone tonight and probably back late tomorrow. If we’re out another night, don’t worry Jesse, just stick to the plan,” Decker says quietly to his son. “Whatever happens, just do what I told you to do. I need you and your rifle to do the job.”

  Jesse feels a wave of pride wash through him. His dad trusts him and built the plan around him. He is determined to fulfil the trust and not let his father down. “You can rely on me Pa,” he responds with passion and claps his hand on his father’s shoulder. It is the first physical contact in a long time.

  Decker claps Jesse on the shoulder in return. “You’ll get your payback,” he promises as he gets organised for the safari. A safari of people-hunting! The thrill and expectation send a shudder through his body. He is looking forward to the coming days.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Jed finally breaks the awed silence. Slipping his knife back into its scabbard he steps forward toward the wreckage of the Mitchell bomber. Alex follows and watches Jed ponder the situation.

  “What are you thinking?” she asks.

  “This is a B-25C. As far as I know, the entry hatch into these is in the belly in line with the trailing edge of the wings,” he replies thoughtfully. “Later models had gun hatches on the side of the fuselage that would have been big enough to climb through. This one only has a top turret and tail guns.”

  “Fat lot of good a bell
y hatch is when the thing is sitting wheels up in the dirt! How do we get into it?”

  “Let’s have a look around,” he replies.

  He bends down to get under the wing, hacking vegetation away once again with his knife. Alex crouches down to follow behind as they move toward the nose of the aircraft, buried in a tangle of scrub. They chop, slash and pull the scrub aside with their hands to clear a path.

  Jed stops to inspect the side of the aircraft under the cockpit while Alex fights her way toward him. “Your grandmother was a bit of a looker.”

  “What are you talking about?” Alex emerges from the tangled bush to stand beside him.

  Jed points to the nose art on the side of the aircraft. The paint is faded, but still visible. A woman lying back, one hand fluffing up her hair and the other draped along her leg. Her knees are drawn up seductively and she cradles a bomb between her thighs. “And your granddaddy had a cheeky streak,” Jed adds as he points to the script under the picture—‘Eve’s a’comin’. He gives a devilish laugh.

  “I can read your thoughts, don’t even go there,” Alex announces. “Keep them to yourself.”

  Jed starts to open his mouth.

  “Don’t.”

  Jed keeps his mouth shut. He moves on but mutters, “Great artwork.”

  A clod of dirt scores a direct hit on the back of his head.

  They work their way around the nose, under the port wing and then around the twin tails back to where they started from. Alex brushes the pieces of bark, leaves and twigs off her clothes and out of her hair. “What do we do now?”

  Jed considers his reply. “This is a war grave and a valuable aircraft, so I’d prefer to respect it and do as little damage as possible.” He sees the split skin of the fuselage along the belly but it isn’t big enough for an adult to climb through. “The glazing in the nose was damaged in the impact so I suggest we squeeze you in through the framework so you can climb into the cockpit and open the pilot’s canopy for me.”

  “Me! Go in first! On my own? What if there are snakes in there! Why don’t you go in? You’re the great adventurer!” Her tone is sharp.

  Even in his state of anticipation and excitement, Jed senses there is something serious going on behind her response. The cogs in his brain turn slowly as he analyses the problem. It isn’t really about snakes, he realises. Now knowing her turbulent history, Jed thinks Alex wants to feel secure and not exposed to unnecessary and avoidable risks. She’s tough and a fighter, but also wants a man to step in and protect her. It must be a hard internal conflict to balance for a woman like her. There is also the emotional impact of finding Karl. His mouth engages, slowly and carefully. “I’m sorry about that idea Alex, it’s probably not the best one I’ve had. Let’s have a look at the pilot’s canopy and see if we can get in there.”

  An apology of any kind is the last thing Alex expects. It catches her by surprise. She feels guilty about provoking the response, but Jed is already moving around the nose to the pilot’s side so she responds with a simple, “Thanks.”

  Jed pulls some short, thick branches over to the aircraft and leans them against the fuselage just below the canopy, being careful not to harm the sexy woman cradling the bomb, and prepares to climb. He turns to her and says, “I should have thought things through better. Forgive me.”

  Once again, Alex is surprised by Jed’s apology. It is the last thing she expects but she is secretly pleased. Maybe he is learning a few things along this journey and perhaps so is she. “Get up there!” she says, nodding agreement with a hint of a smile.

  Jed accepts the response and turns to climb the branches. It isn’t that high and he braces his boots for a firm foothold, reaches down for his knife, inserts the blade into the front of the canopy frame and levers gently but firmly. To his surprise the canopy slides back far enough for him to get his fingers into the gap and push it backward. It is stiff and catches in places but eventually slides all the way back. He mentally acknowledges the discipline of the pilot who had the presence of mind to unlatch it prior to the forced landing.

  He looks down into a cockpit time capsule. Insects and other creatures have colonised various corners and decades of dirt, dust, leaves and other debris have found their way in through the smashed nose glazing. He sees a 1940s cockpit with leather seat cushions, black instrument panel and instruments with white painted lettering. His eye is caught by the red emergency bomb release handle at the top centre of the panel and the red placard just under it with its speed restrictions still readable. The throttles are closed, the propellers feathered, mixture levers fully lean, master switches and fuel all turned off. Again, Jed is impressed. Karl must have kept his cool even under immense pressure.

  Lifting his right leg over the edge of the cockpit, Jed places it on the pilot’s seat. It reminds him of his own aircraft with its sliding canopy. He grips the edge of the canopy and lifts his left leg onto the seat, twisting around to squeeze into the cockpit, then stepping down to crouch in front of the throttle controls between the pilot and co-pilot’s seats.

  Down in front of the pilot’s seat are the empty eye sockets of a dirty, yellowed skull staring back at him. It lies forlorn, surrounded by other dark bones among a dirty tangled mass that must be the mouldy, rotted remains of a uniform. He looks over to the right where a gap under the instrument panel leads into the bombardier and gunner’s compartment in the nose. Further to the right another skull stares back at him, also surrounded by an assortment of bones and rotted material. The left side of the skull is partly blown away.

  As he casts his eyes over the instrument panel and the ruined compass, he can visualise the cannon shell smashing through the fuselage to blow a piece out of the co-pilot’s skull before destroying the compass. He looks back down into the empty eye sockets of Karl Kilchelski. You did a bloody good job, he acknowledges, giving a silent salute of respect, one pilot to another.

  “What’s taking you so long?” Alex calls out.

  “Sorry Alex, just looking around. Are you ready for this?”

  “Why, what’s up?”

  “Karl is here, what’s left of him. And the others!”

  “Oh my God!” Jed’s words are like a slap to the face. She is silent for a while before responding. “This is what I came for, even though I never really expected it. I can’t go back now.” She begins to climb the log. Grabbing the edge of the canopy, she copies Jed and steps over onto the seat, squeezing through the gap and sitting with her chin on her knees facing Jed.

  She sees his eyes flick down to her left and follows the movement. Staring into the empty eye sockets, stunned, Alex feels a wave of emotion begin to well up inside her. Tears run down her cheeks. There is nothing she can say.

  Jed leans forward and thrusts his hand into the tangled dark mess. His fingers pick out a metal disc and chain. Lifting it clear, he spits on it and rubs it clean with his thumb. He looks carefully at the disc, squinting his eyes as he tilts it to catch the light. “Zero one nine six four seven six,” he reads out. “The zero shows he is an officer, the second digit, one, shows he is a volunteer and the third digit, nine, shows he comes from the West coast of America, which includes Montana,” Jed explains quietly. “You have found Karl Kilchelski.”

  Alex continues to look down at the remains of her grandfather. A final tear runs down each cheek.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Decker is fighting the urge to drive Joe on faster. At times progress is rapid but every now and then Joe stops, then scouts around to stop again, staring at the same patch of ground. He tilts his head from side to side, steps back and then sideways and stares at the ground again. A couple of times he even walks slowly around in a circle, tilting his head from side to side. Joe is careful and thorough. Few white men would appreciate how he plays the light, looking for a bent piece of grass, a disturbed pebble or a barely discernible scrape on the surface of the rock. He maintains the direction, even past a false trail that has been laid to lead them off in another direction. />
  “You sure you’re on their trail?” Decker asks with barely concealed impatience. It’s on the tip of his tongue to end the question with ‘nigger’ or ‘abo’ but he is too smart for that. He doesn’t care about Joe’s feelings, or in fact anyone’s, but he needs Joe’s skills. To Decker’s mind, the skills of an animal, not a human being.

  Joe enjoys Decker’s discomfort. He is deliberately drawing it out, turning the journey into a pantomime of the Aboriginal tracker. It is partly Joe’s sense of humour coming out but he wants this white fella to feel uncomfortable. It is small payback for what he has done to Little Britches. Plus, he is also buying himself time to think. “This white fella’s pretty good,” he replies, looking sideways at Decker and waving his hand at the ground. “One o’ the best I seen,” he adds deliberately to needle the white man.

  That is exactly what Decker doesn’t want to hear. Joe relishes the flash of unease on his face. “You on their trail? You sure?”

  “Sure man!” Joe responds, sizing up Decker’s poorly concealed concern. “You want these people pretty bad?”

  “None of your bloody business,” Decker spits back. “Just do your job!”

  “I can see when a man wants sump’n bad. You want ’em bad. Maybe I want sump’n bad too!” He turns to follow the trail and leaves Decker to ponder what he just said, having talked around the subject in Aboriginal fashion, not addressing it directly like Westerners do.

  It takes Decker a few minutes to work out that Joe might be hinting at something. “What do you want Abo?” This time Decker can’t resist the derogatory term, but Joe doesn’t respond to it.

  White man and black man are separated by vast differences of culture, values and experience. Both are intelligent, although they use their intelligence for different purposes. While only one of them acknowledges it, they are fronting up to each other chest to chest, doing the male thing. There is no woman involved in this confrontation, only ego, brotherly love and a clash of cultures.