So saying he led on across the cattle grid and up the gentle slope. As the road curved out of sight of the highway he stopped.
“This will do,” he said. There was a side track there and only short grass. He walked down the track twenty paces and stopped. Roger limped down to join them. Packs and webbing were dumped. Roger sighed with relief and flopped down to lie on his.
“We will need water,” Peter said.
“There is a creek just down there. It might have some,” Graham said.
“Let’s have a look,” Peter agreed.
Graham looked at the others. “Roger, you and Steve collect some firewood while we check the creek. Give us your water bottles,” he instructed.
“Stuff the firewood,” Roger groaned. He closed his eyes and shivered. Carefully he eased his limbs, fearful of cramp. He seemed to be trembling in every muscle. His body felt like one huge mass of throbbing aches.
For five minutes Roger just lay with his eyes closed. Stephen disturbed him when he threw down an armful of deadfall near him.
“Come on Roger. It will be dark soon. Don’t just lie there like a slug!”
Roger opened his eyes. With difficulty he bit back a retort but still felt hot resentment. Slowly he sat up and hauled himself to his feet. Stephen had already walked away. A glance around showed that the sunlight only tinged the top of the cloud on the mountain across the pass. There was also some cloud on the peak to the north of them but overhead was clear blue sky. Evening was definitely upon them and Roger felt a distinct chill in the air. He hobbled off down a gentle slope to where he could see some deadfall near the old railway.
Almost in tears from the effort he dragged back a sizeable dead branch, just as Graham and Peter returned from the creek. Stephen came in with another armful of sticks at the same time.
Graham put down the water bottles he was carrying. “There is water in the creek. Not much, just a trickle, but it smells and tastes OK,” he said.
“I’ll light the fire,” Roger offered. Stephen did not dispute this but dumped the sticks and went off with Peter and Graham to collect more. Roger limped around collecting tinder and tiny sticks for kindling. Then, with stiffness in seemingly every muscle, he knelt and cleared a space on the dirt track. The sticks and logs were sorted into piles of different sizes. A small pyramid of twigs was constructed over a handful of She-Oak needles and gum leaves. One match set this aflame. Roger crouched beside it to carefully add pencil thin sticks and to fan the flame with his hat.
The fire accentuated how dark it had become. Graham and Peter returned and added more sticks to the pile. From out in the darkness Stephen chuckled loudly then called, “Well, I’ve found it. We can all go home now,” he said.
“Found what?” Peter asked.
Stephen walked into the light grinning. With a flourish he held up a huge bone about half a metre long and so thick he could not get his fingers around it. “The Thigh Bone of St Joris.”
This produced a shout of laughter from them all. Even Roger thought it a good joke. It was so obviously a bone from a dead cow that it did not bother him.
Stephen tossed the bone aside and dusted his hands. “Will we eat first or put up hutchies?” he asked.
“Hutchies,” Graham answered. “We won’t feel like it later.”
“I don’t feel like it now!” Roger groaned.
“Why bother?” Peter asked. “There are stars coming out.”
“That cloud on the mountain could build up,” Graham cautioned.
They set to work clearing sticks and rocks from between trees selected as suitable for erecting the plastic shelters. It was nearly dark by then. As the shelters were being tied to the trees Peter bent down and picked something up.
“Sorry Steve. We have a problem,” he said. He held up another large bone. “We have another Thigh Bone for St Joris. One must be a fake. How will we tell which is the authentic one?”
“Ass!” laughed Graham.
“No. Ox,” Stephen corrected.
They all laughed.
As soon as the two hutchies were pegged down the boys returned to the fire and sat down. Roger undid his bedroll and sat on it. Then he unlaced his boots.
“Ah! That’s better,” he sighed as he pulled off his socks.
“Phew! What a pong! Put them on again Roger,” Stephen cried.
Roger ignored him and gently massaged the toes and soles. To his surprise there were no new blisters but his feet were certainly red and tender in places. “My poor feet! How far have we walked today? Must be thirty kilometres,” he said.
“A bit over,” Graham replied.
“At least it is all down hill tomorrow,” Roger said.
“Don’t forget old ‘Baldy’,” Peter reminded.
Roger swore, but only half-heartedly. He felt immensely pleased with himself as the realization dawned on him. ‘I have walked more than thirty kilometres!’ he thought. And he had kept up all day! ‘I will make it through the hike now!’ he told himself. As he rummaged in his gear for food he began to hum happily.
Darkness set in. Apart from the occasional vehicle on the highway they seemed to have the world to themselves. A gentle breeze sprang up. It developed into a very pleasant evening. Only as he was finishing his desert did Roger feel cool enough to put on his pullover.
He ate a huge meal:-Chicken soup, Rice and Savoury Mince, Milo, Peaches and Condensed Milk, more Milo, then a chocolate and another cup of Milo. He slowly relaxed and, while his muscles trembled from time to time, he did not suffer any cramps.
The friends sat around the fire talking for a while but all were tired. By 8pm Roger was yawning. Soon after that he excused himself and moved his gear and bedding into the hutchie he was sharing with Graham. Ten minutes later he was asleep.
CHAPTER 24
THAT TIME OF MORNING
Roger hardly stirred all night. So soundly did he sleep that when he woke he found his left arm had ‘gone to sleep’. As he blinked in the darkness he found he was shivering with cold and was half out of his sleeping bag. He snuggled down to get warm and checked his watch. It was 05:25. Time for another hour’s sleep he decided; but then found that sleep would not come. To add to his exasperation Graham lay beside him, breathing the slow, steady breaths of deep sleep.
Roger shifted position. He lay on his side and adjusted his pack to make it a more comfortable pillow. But the more he tried, the more wide awake he became. Equally annoying was a growing and persistent urge to go to the toilet. After ten more minutes Roger gave up. He crawled quietly out and pulled on his socks, tipped his boots upside down to check for scorpions or spiders, then pulled them on. He laced them tight and gingerly stood up.
To his surprise he felt stiff but not too sore. The air was quite chilly so he added his field jacket. It was still dark but a faint lightening in the sky indicated dawn was not far off. The low, dark shape of Peter and Stephen’s hutchie was just visible between two nearby trees. The fire had burned itself down to grey-black ash.
After retrieving his toilet paper from his pack Roger walked quietly up to the gravel road. He paused to listen. Not a sound; not even wind in the trees. The air was completely still and there was a light mist. He stared up and down the grey ribbon of road.
‘Which way? Right or left?’
Right, he decided. There was a bit of a thicket near the cattle grid which was well away from the camp and offered some privacy, Roger being sensitive about such things. He walked that way, his boots crunching on the sand and gravel. Once across the grid he made his way among the She-Oaks and ferns a few metres off the road to do his morning business.
While he squatted there it grew rapidly lighter. The sound of a car coming from Herberton along the Highway disturbed the stillness. Roger watched its headlights flicker through the trees. It raced past and out of sight up towards the pass. Silence settled again as the vehicle went over the crest.
Roger had finished and was buttoning his trousers when he heard the quiet crunch o
f footsteps coming from the direction of their camp. He looked and could just make out two figures in the misty half-light. Was it Graham and Peter? Or Stephen and Peter? In the gloom he could not tell. Still adjusting his clothing he walked out onto the gravel road and stopped in surprise, a cheerful greeting left unsaid.
Two armed men in dark uniforms were at the grid. Both men carried rifles. The front one was looking down watching his footing but the one behind saw Roger and cried out in alarm.
Roger froze in shock. His mind took in the weapons, webbing, dark green trousers and jacket and a green cloth forage cap with some sort of badge on it. He saw the first man look up, his eyes and mouth open in surprise. Then the second man cried out again.
“Soldat!” he cried as he threw up his weapon.
‘KSS!’ Roger’s mind shouted. In panic he threw himself sideways. His eyes registered a flash from the rifle. The sharp crack of the bullet was overlaid by the duller bang of the weapon going off. At the same moment there was a loud cry of fear, followed by a scream.
Roger rolled into a low ditch among some ferns as another bullet tore through the undergrowth beside him. His whole being gripped by terror he yelled, “Graham! Graham! Peter! KSS! Help!”
There was a thumping and rustling noise near the fence and another scream of pain. Roger glimpsed the first man writhing on the cattle grid. The second had dived for cover into the grass beyond the road.
To Roger’s immense relief he heard Graham yelling. “Roger! Roger! What’s going on?”
Roger saw the man in the grass jerk his head round in surprise at the sound of shouts from his rear. There was another piercing yell of agony from the first man, who was still in a struggling heap on the grid. Roger scrambled behind a log. He was on the edge of panic.
Again he yelled, his voice cracking with near hysteria. “Graham! Help! Two armed men. Be careful. They’ve got guns.” His voice went high pitched on that last bit and he flushed with shame. As he shouted he saw the second man spring to his feet and look his way. For a moment Roger dissolved in terror as the man swung the rifle round. Then the man ran to his companion and reached down to haul him to his feet. This provoked an even shriller scream of pure agony.
There were more yells from Graham and the others and Roger heard their boots thudding through the bush. The second man heaved at his companion who had now slumped unconscious. Failing to free him, the second man darted fearful glances towards Roger’s hiding place and over his shoulder, then released the injured man and fled. Roger glimpsed him bolting up the slope through the She-Oaks.
Dark figures flitted through the trees from the direction of the camp, then vanished as Graham ordered them to take cover. “Roger! What’s going on?” he called.
Roger tried to reply but his voice quavered too much and he had to pause and wipe spittle and sweat from his mouth.
“Th...Th...There are two men...with g..guns. One has run up the hill to your left. The other is here at the grid. I think he’s hurt himself.”
This was confirmed by the man emitting a loud groan and calling angrily after his companion in a foreign language.
Kosarians?
“Keep down!” Graham yelled. “What is he doing Roger? Can you see?”
Roger was shaking with fright and did not want to look but he raised his head. He saw the man’s rifle lying on the road at least a metre from his clawing hands. The man groaned again then called out. Then he swore; or it sounded like it to Roger.
There was a rush of boots and Graham appeared at the fence. He went under it in a diving roll and was on his feet and running in an instant. Passing Roger he scooped up the rifle and kept on going, to dive behind a tree on the other side of the track.
“I’ve got his rifle. Wait a minute while I work out how to use it,” he called.
Roger let out a great sigh and shuddered. He wiped cold sweat from his eyes and crouched, ready to run. His eyes searched the bush in all directions for any sign of more of the men. The man on the grid moaned again and curled up.
Graham called: “Can anyone see or hear the other man?”
“No,” Roger croaked in reply.
“Steve, you watch back towards our camp and up the slope. Roger, you watch out towards the highway and down the slope. Pete, you come and search this bugger. I will cover you,” Graham ordered.
Graham moved into a kneeling fire position among the ferns near the grid. Peter rose from the grass twenty metres away and walked forward. He approached the man very cautiously and looked all around before bending down to start searching the web equipment the man was wearing.
Peter looked up. “He’s fainted. He’s got his leg jammed in the cattle grid. I think he has broken it.”
“Get his webbing off and search his pockets, quickly,” Graham ordered. He looked around in momentary indecision, then turned to Roger. “Roger, help Peter. Empty everything out of his pockets and put it in a plastic bag or something.”
Shakily Roger got to his feet. He licked his lips and wiped sweaty palms. He felt chilled and was shivering all over. Despite his fear he found himself walking toward the man while half his mind rebelled. The reality of it was only now sinking in. ‘Search a man!’ he thought. He had been trained to do it and had done it often enough on cadet exercises but this seemed quite different.
Peter called out as Roger reached him. “I can’t find any other weapons, only a pocket knife. There is live ammo in these basic pouches though,” he said. He pulled the webbing off and tossed it to the edge of the road near Graham.
Reluctantly Roger knelt and felt the man’s shirt pockets, every nerve tensed for flight. He forced himself to unbutton the pockets and to push his fingers inside. With shaking fingers he scooped out a pencil, notebook, pen, some coins and a compass from one pocket and a wad of folded papers and a notebook, all in a plastic bag, from the other. He placed these on the ground.
Peter pointed to the man’s shirt collar. “Look at those badges,” he said. Roger looked. Two rhomboid shaped gold lozenges, each with a small silver ‘pip’ in the centre, were pinned on, one on each lapel.
From where he crouched behind a tree Stephen called, “KSS?”
Peter shook his head and picked up the green cloth peaked cap from the dust. “Don’t think so. This bloke is all dressed in green, and look; this badge on his cap. It is a gold eagle with a crown on it,” he said.
Roger stared at the badge. The eagle had its wings bent down, just like the one on the cover of the History Book. His pulse raced with interest. “Kosarian Royal Guard,” he said with certainty.
“Could be.”
Peter emptied a map pocket on the man’s trousers: map, toilet paper, an Aide Memoire book. Roger dug in the right trouser pocket and fished out a dirty handkerchief and some coins. Then he felt in the man’s right map pocket. The man moved and emitted a groan.
Roger sprang back.
Stephen chuckled. “That was good Roger. Do that again!”
“Get knotted!” Roger retorted, his heart hammering a frantic tattoo.
“His leg is broken alright. Badly by the look of it,” Peter observed. “Let’s get him out. Give us a hand Steve.”
Peter tossed the man’s wallet down to join the other belongings littering the road. Roger pulled out the plastic bag he kept his toilet paper in and began placing the items in it. Stephen joined Peter while Graham remained crouching on guard, holding some sort of black automatic rifle similar to an AK47.
As Peter and Stephen tried to lift the man by his arms he woke up. His eyes rolled around and a ghastly moan escaped from his lolling jaw. The boys nearly dropped him in fright. The man’s face looked horrible, all pale and sweaty. As they tried again the man groaned in agony and slumped into unconsciousness.
“We can’t lift him. His leg is caught,” Peter cried. “Help us Roger.”
Roger put down the plastic bag and moved to the grid. He then saw just how badly the man’s leg was broken. It was snapped below the knee and was twisted almost a
t right angles. He had to nerve himself to kneel and grab the injured member. With trembling hands he guided it up between the steel rails of the cattle grid while Peter and Stephen lifted.
“It’s out,” he called, feeling so nauseous he thought he was going to black out. They dragged the man clear of the grid and stretched him out on the road.
“Phew! Broken alright,” Stephen whistled.
“Just as well he was out to it,” Peter commented. He knelt and felt gently along the twisted leg. The unconscious man moaned and thrashed feebly.
Graham walked over to join them, his eyes still searching the bush in all directions.
“What are we going to do?” Roger asked.
“Let’s get out of here before that other bloke comes back,” Stephen suggested.
Peter shook his head. “This joker needs hospital treatment,” he said. “We can’t just leave him.”
“Bugger him. Leave him for his mates,” Stephen replied.
Roger’s conscience rebelled at that. “We can carry him out to the road and wave down a car,” he said. “Then we could get him to hospital in Atherton.”
Peter nodded. “Or Herberton. There’s a hospital there too I think,” he suggested.
Graham looked around. “We have to call the police too,” he added. He paused for a minute and scanned the surrounding bush. Then he spoke firmly. “Pete, you and Steve carry out First Aid. Splint the leg and make him comfortable. Roger, you sort out what we have found. I will keep guard.”
That suited Roger. He didn’t want to touch the injured man again. He was still trembling with shock but at least his heart rate had slowed.
Graham moved into a kneeling fire position at the base of a large ironbark and faced up the hill. “What happened Roger?” he asked.
“I’d just gone down there for a crap,” Roger explained. “I was finished and as I walked back onto the road these two blokes came along.”
Stephen snickered. “Just as well you’d had your crap before you met them,” he called. Roger flushed with embarrassment. It was too true to be funny. He remembered the moment of stark terror when the second man had raised his rifle and fired. Then he remembered the humiliating experience in the jungle at Mobo Creek. In response he just gave a wry grin and pretended the jibe didn’t hurt.
Behind Mt. Baldy Page 24