by Peter Watt
He found the company commander, Major Cooper, in a hollow stretch of ground behind their lines. He was deep in conversation with one of his platoon commanders, but as Tom approached he dismissed the young lieutenant.
‘Sergeant Duffy,’ Major Cooper greeted in a warm tone. ‘I want to congratulate you on your leadership. I had a report from one of the other platoon commanders about how you took over after Mr Sullivan was wounded and used your initiative to mount a counterattack to clear the field. Well done.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Tom said, pleased that he had received recognition from the company commander.
‘I will be mentioning your action in dispatches when I file my report.’
‘Thank you sir, that is very kind.’
‘Kind nothing,’ the major dismissed. ‘You should have been commissioned a long time ago. Captain Jack Kelly put your name forward for officer training in England, but . . .’ The company commander’s voice tapered away.
Tom finished his sentence. ‘But I’m a blackfella and it would not be right.’
‘Bloody army system decides at levels well above mere company commanders and battalion CO’s,’ Cooper said with an edge of bitterness. ‘At least you know the feelings of the battalion’s officers. When a spot comes up for company sergeant major your name will be at the top of the list.’
Tom nodded and turned to leave.
‘Sergeant,’ said Major Cooper, ‘Before you return to the platoon I would like to ask you about Corporal Smithers.’
Tom was immediately on the defensive. The rule was that you did not speak ill of any other NCO in front of commissioned officers, despite how much you might loathe them.
‘Was Smithers in control of his section during the action?’
‘As far as I could see,’ Tom lied.
‘And you consider that his wound was serious enough for him to be evacuated?’
‘Maybe in his mind,’ Tom replied lamely.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Cooper said. ‘That’s all, Sergeant Duffy, and once again, good show.’
Tom turned without saluting as such a practice in the field could bring an officer to the attention of any lurking sniper. Once outside he almost tripped over Corporal Smithers lying on a stretcher awaiting transport back to a hospital. No doubt he would have seen Tom talking to Major Cooper and guessed what they were talking about.
‘What did you say to the boss?’ Smithers asked angrily.
‘Nothing that concerns you,’ Tom replied.
‘You told him I shirked my duties, didn’t you, you black bastard.’
Tom felt his blood start to boil. He wanted to smash the brass butt of his rifle into the man’s face.
‘Sergeant black bastard to you, Corporal Smithers,’ Tom snarled. ‘Remember your rank.’
‘I’ll settle with you one day.’
The corporal’s words followed Tom back to the trenches, and for some reason he knew that the threat was not an idle one.
Captain Matthew Duffy of the Australian Flying Corps knew that his chances of surviving were next to nil. He was putting his Nieuport single-seat biplane through all its paces to shake off the six German fighter planes manoeuvring to shoot him down. The air fight was taking place over the fields north of the ancient Palestinian town of Jaffa. Matthew quickly recognised the enemy aircraft as being the German Albatros biplanes not unlike to his own Nieuport in design. The Albatros, however, had two 7.92mm machine-guns fixed forward, to his single .303 Vickers mounted on the nose of his little fighter plane.
It had all started so casually with a call at breakfast in the camp mess that a German reconnaissance aircraft had been spotted over his squadron’s airfield. Matthew had scrambled to intercept the enemy plane but it had turned and fled north, with Matthew hot in pursuit and anticipating his first kill in aerial combat for the war. For a long time he had been flying photographic missions in inferior aircraft, but at last he was in the cockpit of a much revered fighter plane. He had not been able to tell whether the enemy aircraft was being flown by a Turkish or German pilot, but it did not really matter; all that mattered was that he bring down the Albatros.
Matthew had kept up his pursuit and had hardly registered that he was flying deep in enemy territory until he had spotted the enemy airfield. His dreams of glory had soon turned to horror as he’d watched the six Albatros rising up from the airfield to meet him.
All his instincts told him to retreat, but a voice in his head told him to stand and fight. Maybe going on the offensive would catch the enemy aircraft by surprise and give him a tactical advantage. He pulled on the stick to rise higher into the cloudless blue sky and rolled over to put the sun behind him as he wheeled around to attack the first enemy aircraft. His tactic worked. He could see his adversary turning his head frantically to locate the Nieuport that had suddenly disappeared from his view. Too late, the enemy pilot realised that the Nieuport was behind him. Matthew armed his Vickers and fired a burst into the tail of the aircraft only fifty yards ahead of him. He could see from his tracer that his short burst had been successful; the pilot slumped forward and his aircraft rolled over and began to nosedive for the ground below.
Matthew had barely seconds to realise that his first kill might be his last as he had exposed his own six o’clock to the next plane that had risen from the airfield. Tracer rounds flicked through his right wing, punching holes in the treated canvas. The plane shuddered. Instinctively, Matthew rolled away from the line of fire to see a third enemy aircraft flash past his wing, barely avoiding a collision. Matthew knew that his own aircraft did not perform well in a fast dive, so he rolled over and, on levelling out, used every ounce of the tough little aircraft’s strength to rise even higher in the sky. Looking over his shoulder he could see that the five remaining aircraft were below him but jockeying to get on his tail. He knew it was madness but he pushed the nose of his aircraft over to dive at one of the enemy planes separated from his wing of attackers. Gun blazing, Matthew could see his tracer raking the aircraft below from tail to nose and he swept past it just as its fuel tank exploded, engulfing the pilot.
Turning his head to locate the remaining four enemy planes, Matthew could see the fireball of a pilot clambering out of his cockpit to throw himself over the side, plummeting to his death. Matthew felt a twinge of sympathy for the man. He himself always ensured that he had a pistol close at hand to shoot himself should his plane catch fire with no hope of landing safely. Better to die quickly from a bullet than burn in agony as your plane went down.
Two aircraft confirmed, Matthew thought as he levelled off to climb once more. But the enemy planes had anticipated his move and dropped down below his own aircraft to angle up, firing from below, where he could not bring his fixed gun to bear. All Matthew could do now was outfly his opponents. Handling these fragile war birds was a skill he had honed over many years and now he needed all of that skill. He quickly checked his fuel and pressure gauges and then he heard a disconcerting sound coming from his engine. It would alternatively cut out and then roar into life.
‘God, not now!’ Matthew groaned. A bullet must have done some damage to his engine. According to his compass he was heading in the direction of his own airfield, and when he swivelled his head to see what was happening behind him, he noticed that of the four remaining aircraft only one had peeled off to pursue him, while the others were returning to their airfield. Both aircraft were fairly evenly matched in speed and all Matthew had to do was keep at least the half-mile gap between them to stay alive.
Suddenly the engine choked then spluttered into silence. The whistle of the wind through his wire struts and the distant drone of the enemy aircraft was all Matthew could hear. As he went into a shallow glide he desperately fought to make the engine come alive. He succeeded for a second or two, then it died once again. Matthew knew he had no other choice, besides crashing, other than to glide to the enemy airfield and land there. By doing so he would avoid death but would be taken as a prisoner of war of the Otto
man Empire.
Cursing, Matthew used the intermittent starting and stopping of his engine to limp towards the enemy airfield. His pursuer sensed that his plane was in trouble and when Matthew flew abreast of the Albatros he could clearly see the leather-helmeted and goggled enemy pilot. German, Matthew thought, signalling with his free hand that he intended to land and surrender. The enemy pilot waggled his wings to indicate that he understood and took up a position behind Matthew as he nosed down for a landing.
A curious crowd of pilots and ground crew were rushing from tents and pits as Matthew, his engine spluttering and coughing, brought the Nieuport to flop down with small bounces along the airstrip. He passed Turkish soldiers sporting big moustaches and almost friendly smiles – it was not every day they captured a intact enemy aircraft that could be repaired and put back in service for their own air force. Behind him the pursuing aircraft landed and taxied. Matthew could see the enemy running towards him and it was only a matter of seconds before he would be forced from his cockpit to surrender.
For a moment he reflected on what he would take into captivity with him. He looked down at the photo tacked up next to his knee. A pixie-faced young woman smiled back at him. It was the photo of the woman he had fallen in love with while serving further south in the Sinai. The beautiful and mysterious Joanne Barrington had used her role as a neutral American archaeologist to gather intelligence for the British government against the German–Turkish forces in Palestine. Joanne and Matthew had briefly been lovers, but Joanne had disappeared from Matthew’s life after being captured by the Turks and ransomed to her extremely wealthy family in the United States. Matthew had also learned that she had returned home pregnant with his child. He had written to her but his letters had been returned unopened.
Angrily, he flicked over the ignition switch and was stunned to hear his engine roar into life without any sound of the spluttering interference. The first enemy soldier had reached his aircraft and was yelling to him in Turkish. Matthew could see that he was a huge man and was already gripping the edge of the bottom wing. Without hesitation Matthew gunned the engine; his aircraft picked up speed, leaving the startled enemy behind. They had seen how his plane was in trouble when it landed and now, as if by a miracle, it was hurtling down the strip with its tail already in the air. The Turkish soldiers often referred to the Nieuport fighter plane as the instrument of Allah, and the stunned Turkish soldier Matthew had left in his wake must have thought that was true after the engine’s miraculous burst of life. The German pilot who had followed Matthew down the runway had turned off his engine and was now desperately attempting to get it started again for the pursuit.
Matthew’s aircraft rose gracefully into the air and he pulled his stick to gain altitude, avoiding a burst of anti-aircraft fire. He held his breath, hardly daring to believe that he had escaped. God knew how, but the engine was performing magnificently and he was soon up to his maximum speed of one hundred miles per hour.
He flew low for the first few miles in the hope that he would not be seen from above by any enemy planes. At one stage he was so close to the ground that when he crested a hill he found himself in the midst of a Turkish cavalry encampment. Startled men and horses scattered everywhere. Matthew’s heart almost stopped beating when he saw that he was level with the men on horseback flashing past him. The plane shuddered as its tail skid collected a clothes line hung out at the end of the campsite. Trailing washing he clawed for altitude and the clothing eventually spun away to the arid lands below.
Suddenly bullets tore into his fuselage. He craned his neck around to see who was firing at him. It was the Turkish fighter plane flown by the German pilot. The German had closed the gap when Matthew’s plane had collected the washing. Matthew groaned – there was not much he could do now; he’d run out of manoeuvres. As a last resort, he wondered whether he could find a cleared, level area to land his plane. He had done that once before during this campaign and survived. He turned his head and that’s when he saw them.
‘Bloody beauty!’ he shouted. Three AFC Nieuports had appeared at his twelve o’clock high and were racing after the Turkish aircraft, which had now wisely broken off the attack on Matthew to defend itself against the new threat. When Matthew stared out across the nose of his plane he could see his airfield through the blur of the propeller. He had survived, and with his first two kills for the war. Three more would make him an ace.
When Matthew brought his Nieuport to a halt at the end of the strip he could see his ground crew running towards him. That was all Matthew remembered until he awoke hours later in the hospital tent. He had collapsed under the mental strain of flying, fighting and trying to stay alive.
‘Are you feeling better, old chap?’ asked the squadron medical officer.
Matthew eased himself onto his elbows and felt the dull throb of a headache. He was thirsty.
‘Got any water?’ he croaked.
The medical officer, who had once had a country practice in a South Australian village, passed Matthew a tumbler of heavily treated brackish water to drink. Gratefully, Matthew gulped it down. ‘Intercepted Turk radio signals confirmed that you shot down two of their Taubes,’ the doctor said. All enemy aircraft were referred to as Taubes by the Australian flyers, regardless of their actual manufacture. ‘Well done.’
‘I just got lucky,’ Matthew said. ‘Not my day to go west.’
‘Well, the CO wants you to debrief him and it will be your shout in the mess tonight,’ the doctor said with a smile. ‘I’m discharging you.’
‘Thanks, doc,’ Matthew said, easing himself from the bed. His limbs felt heavy but his head was clearing. ‘I’ll get over to HQ now and give my report.’
As he made his way slowly to the HQ Matthew halted for a moment to gaze across at the horizon now sheltering under the blaze of a setting sun. There was a strange peace in this troubled land which he was coming to love. He knew that if he survived the war, this country would always call him back.
3
The sun was setting over the scrub-covered plains of Glen View; already the first chill of the coming winter was in the air.
Giselle Macintosh loved this time of year; at last the sweltering heat of summer had passed, and sleeping at nights was comfortable again. She sat in her chair on the verandah of the sprawling station house, shelling peas for tonight’s roast. The peas had been grown in her own vegetable patch, watered by the towering windmill that pumped up from the creek. Her toddler son, David, was covered in dirt. He was outside, playing with the local Aboriginal boys, sons of the property’s stockmen and their families. David would need a bath before he went to bed, Giselle thought idly, dropping the shelled peas into a colander.
Since she and David had been exiled to the remote family property by her hated brother-in-law, George Macintosh, Giselle had actually found a peace beyond any Sydney could offer with all its hustle and bustle. She still missed her beloved Alexander, killed in action on the Western Front barely a year ago, but somehow the grief was more bearable out here. She’d lost her much admired father-in-law, Patrick Duffy, too, but she was grateful that her mother had been able to move out here with her. Karolina Schumann was living on the mission station adjoining Glen View. Giselle was puzzled by the fact that her mother had chosen to live in sin with the Lutheran pastor, Karl von Fellmann, although her mother never spoke about the relationship and Giselle did not ask. It was a strange affair, especially because she and her mother were Jewish.
In the distance Giselle could hear the Aboriginal stockmen calling to each other as they brought in their horses to be unsaddled. It was a soft and pleasant banter in a language she was attempting to learn. The stockmen and their families lived a mile from the homestead in their own camp, and Giselle sometimes attended to their medical needs there. They were paid in the basics of flour, sugar, beef and tobacco, and Giselle thought they seemed satisfied with that. Still, she knew the intrusion of the whitefellas, first with their sheep and then with their cattle, had d
isrupted their nomadic way of life forever, and very few in the district remained outside the station’s influence. The only exception was old Wallarie. His home on the sacred hill was shunned by even the European stockmen, most of whom respected the beliefs of their indigenous colleagues. The years had brought Wallarie a reputation as a mystical man not to be crossed lest he become vengeful.
Giselle smiled when she heard her son chattering in the simple words of a child in the local Aboriginal language. He was a very bright boy and already had a rudimentary grasp of German, which was the language his doting grandmother talked to him in at night. He spoke some English too, but with a Scottish brogue picked up from the station manager, Hector MacManus, and Giselle’s family servant, the tough Scottish former soldier, Angus MacDonald. Both Scots vied for the little boy’s attention and played a role as de facto fathers in his life. Although very young, David could already sit astride a horse and occasionally use some of the bad words of the stockmen, picked up when he was allowed to join them around the yards. Needless to say, his grandmother and mother chastised him severely for the use of such profane and blasphemous language.
‘Come inside, Davy,’ Giselle called.
The little boy reluctantly broke away from the game of throwing miniature spears at an empty bully beef tin. He was covered in dust and Giselle wondered if Karolina would bathe him tonight. Giselle had to oversee the portion of prime beef roasting in the oven with vegetables, to be served to the hungry men invited to the dining table tonight. There would be the two Scots and a couple of the station hands, and business would be discussed as the gravy jug was passed down the table; later the whisky bottle would come out, along with mugs of hot, sweet tea.
Later that night, after dinner had finished and the men had gone back to their quarters, Giselle took out the two letters the postman had brought today in his horse and sulky. The man drove the long stretches between the isolated cattle stations of central Queensland, delivering the precious cargo of letters and parcels.