Beyond the Horizon

by Peter Watt

  6

  Villers-Bretonneux had been taken by the Australians after bloody fighting.

  Sergeant Tom Duffy was pleased at the news but it didn’t change anything for him and his men. It seemed that the war would go on forever. Under cover of darkness he and five other men of his patrol had the mission of reconnoitring beyond their trenches for enemy activity. They were looking specifically for enemy listening posts, and already they had spotted the dim outline of earthworks and could hear the thump of stakes being driven into the ground.

  Corporal Dan Frogan crawled to Tom’s side. ‘The stone quarry seems to be a bit off to our left,’ he whispered. ‘Pretty bloody obvious the Hun are digging in.’

  Just as the corporal made his observations two enemy machine-guns opened fire, sending fiery tracers over their heads. Tom’s fingers dug into the earth as he pressed his face deep into the wet grass. The machine-guns ceased firing and Tom guessed that they were simply sending a message to keep away, rather than actually identifying his patrol’s location. The message worked.

  Tom glanced at the luminous dial of his fob watch. It was near 2 am, time to return to their lines to report what they had seen out in no-man’s-land. He quietly sent word to his men that they were returning to their lines.

  Back in the trench they were met by the battalion intelligence officer, a captain keen to hear what they had located in the night. Tom briefed the IO.

  ‘Good show, Sergeant Duffy,’ he said. ‘Give the lads a good hot cup of tea and stand them down for the night.’

  Tom knew that his men were exhausted; they badly needed a good night’s sleep, but that was hard to find in the trenches. Hopefully the German artillery 4.2’s would leave them alone and not send over the deadly shells that exploded shrapnel and poisonous gas among the men huddled in the trenches.

  Tom had hardly furnished himself with a mug of hot tea when the company sergeant major found him. ‘Tom, you lucky bastard,’ he said in the dark. ‘You and your platoon are being relieved for some leave. Effective as from 0600 today.’

  ‘Thanks, sir,’ Tom responded, hardly daring to believe the news. At last a break from the front line, away from the terror that they all lived with every moment out here. ‘Where are we having the leave?’ he asked, taking a sip from his tea and the CSM mentioned the name of the rest area. Suddenly, all Tom’s weariness evaporated. He was getting leave in the village near Juliet. Tom’s spirits soared. The one true reason for living would be in his arms before the sun set tomorrow.

  *

  Where the warm winds of spring prevailed in Europe, the cooler autumn breezes blew down Market Street in Sydney. George Macintosh had received a note to meet with Inspector Jack Firth in front of the Dymock’s bookstore.

  ‘I am a busy man,’ George growled when Jack Firth arrived five minutes late.

  ‘So am I,’ the policeman snapped back. ‘I have a murder to investigate, not to mention the matter of a certain file getting into the wrong hands. How about we go for a stroll.’

  They began walking down the street. Horse-drawn wagons and automobiles clattered by; a sudden wind whipped up a newspaper that had been used to wrap fish and chips, slapping it against George’s leg. He shook it off irritably.

  ‘The inspector general has the file on that bloody Schumann woman,’ Jack said. ‘It raises questions I think we both don’t want asked or, worse, answered.’

  ‘It was you who deviated from your regulations,’ George answered. ‘The matter does not concern me.’

  Firth stopped in his tracks. ‘It has everything to do with you and your attempt to control all your bloody family’s companies. Remember, I was working on your orders.’

  ‘I paid you well,’ George replied coldly. ‘It is up to you to settle any matters that might prove embarrassing – to either of us.’

  ‘Yes, well, not so easily done,’ Jack said, staring at a ragged boy peddling newspapers on a corner. ‘You know very well that if we don’t stop this right now, it could lead to a treason charge for you. We still hang traitors, you know.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ George asked, acknowledging that if the police detective were to be found out for his illegal activities, they might be traced back to him. They were both in a jam.

  ‘I’ll need more money – a lot more money.’ Jack frowned. ‘Getting rid of troublesome questions requires friends in the right places.’

  ‘Talking of which,’ George said, ‘I have a troublesome problem of my own to get rid of.’

  Firth drew out a packet of cigarettes and lit one, blowing smoke into the air. ‘You’re a successful businessman. I’m sure you can find your own means of dealing with it.’

  ‘Not so easy,’ George said, lowering his voice. ‘My dead brother’s wife went and had a child, and my damned father stupidly named that child as a partner in the family companies when he turns twenty-one.’

  Firth glanced sharply at George. ‘What are you saying?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘A house in the best suburb and a contract to work for the Macintosh companies on a generous salary for the rest of your life,’ George said.

  ‘Seems to me you’d be expecting something pretty big for all that,’ Jack replied, puffing on his cigarette. ‘If I remember rightly, your brother’s son would be around two or three years old by now. Sounds to me like you’re talking murder.’

  George watched the police detective very closely for any signs of a betrayal. ‘With your contacts on the streets you must know someone who could do the job very discreetly.’

  Jack did not answer straightaway but stared at the newspaper boy selling the next list of war dead and wounded. ‘Like the man I set you up with last year who coincidently sails to America just when your sister gets killed.’

  ‘I really don’t think you want to know about that,’ George said.

  Jack took a long puff on his cigarette and dropped the butt on the footpath, grounding it with the heel of his boot. ‘I might be a bent copper, Mr Macintosh,’ he said, ‘but murdering kids is something that even I will not do.’

  ‘I‘m not asking you to commit the act itself,’ George said. ‘Children have accidents all the time. If you can organise that for me, I promise to do my best to make that file disappear forever.’

  The detective stared hard at George. ‘You make the file go away, and keep your promise to set me up in a fancy house with a cushy job, and I’ll consider your offer. But all I’ll do is find the right person; then it’s up to you. And don’t forget that bloody Sean Duffy will be watching you – that kid meets a sudden end and he’s going to be immediately suspicious.’

  ‘I have thought of that,’ George answered. ‘It’s time Duffy had an accident of his own.’

  ‘Not so easy when you consider that Griffiths watches his back day and night,’ Firth countered. He seemed to think for a moment. ‘Isn’t the kid way up in Queensland in the sticks? It’ll be hard to get to him out there; they’re a close mob in the bush, and a stranger will stick out like the proverbial.’

  ‘Giselle could be lured to Sydney with her son,’ George said quietly. ‘I am sure my wife would be very happy to have her best friend come down for a visit.’

  ‘Right, you do your bit, Macintosh, and I’ll do mine. My missus will appreciate a new house. It might get her off my back for all the hours I work. Just remember, we’ll both swing if anything goes wrong.’

  George felt a flood of relief. He had ways to ensure that the file concerning Karolina Schumann was lost permanently. Certain politicians could make it go away; they had a lot to hide from the newspapers themselves. Consorting with underage prostitutes was never good for a politician’s career. George had gone to great lengths to entrap key figures in the government, inviting them to special parties at his private venues. It was easy to procure the underage boys and girls from the slums of Sydney, where destitute mothers and drunken fathers accepted the money without asking questions about the fate of their children. George’s hidden photographer was
able to collect plenty of evidence as to the twisted pleasures of certain politicians and government officials.

  The detective walked away, leaving George to contemplate how he could convince Louise to invite Giselle to Sydney for a visit. Louise knew there was no love lost between him and Giselle; in fact they hated each other. If he were to suggest a visit for no particular reason, Louise would be immediately suspicious. Maybe George’s own son’s birthday could be used as an excuse. Donald was about the same age as David, and George knew that Louise and Giselle would jump at the change for the two boys to spend some time together. Naturally George would pay all expenses for Giselle and her son to travel south; maybe they could stay for a holiday.

  Smiling, George made his way back to his office in the city.

  The village was straight out of the pages of a book about medieval Europe, Tom thought as he jumped from the back of the truck that had brought his platoon from the railway station a few miles away. Spring flowers added dashes of brilliant colour to the little gardens and window boxes, while the sun shone in the sky and water sparkled from the old water fountain in the village centre. Tom’s heart beat unsteadily when he saw the fountain; this was where he had first met Juliet carrying a basket of fresh eggs for sale to the villagers and cafés.

  The men of his platoon tumbled from the truck with kitbags and rifles over their shoulders, milling about like excited schoolchildren on an outing. Their slouch hats immediately identified them as Australians and Tom could see the expressions of pleasure on the faces of local shopkeepers. The Aussies were paid better than their Tommy comrades, and Tom could also see the uniforms of their Canadian cousins already in town on leave. There was a special bond between the colonial troops. Still, Tom breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the stern-faced, red-capped British military police eyeing the newcomers to the village. The troops might be friendly, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be brawls. The men were wound up tight as springs; add alcohol to that and there was sure to be a fight or two at some time during their leave.

  In his bad French, Tom asked an old man sitting on the edge of the fountain where he could find Mademoiselle Joubert. The old man removed his pipe and looked disapprovingly at the handsome Australian soldier. He pointed it down the street and replied, ‘At the schoolhouse where she is the teacher.’

  Tom thanked him, slung his kitbag over his shoulder and set out for the schoolhouse, which he found at the end of the street. He paused outside and listened to the sweet note of children reciting their times tables, smiling when he heard Juliet correct them.

  Very carefully, Tom edged open the main door to look inside. Juliet was standing in front of about fifteen children ranging in age from six to ten. For a moment he stood drinking her in, the love swelling in his chest. Suddenly a little girl at the back of the class began giggling, causing Juliet to glance at the door. The expression of pure delight on her face lit up Tom’s world beyond anything he had ever experienced before. Juliet said something to the children and they began tumbling past Tom, eyeing him with some curiosity.

  ‘Oh, Tom, I have missed you with all my heart and soul,’ Juliet said, rushing into his outstretched arms. Her short dark hair had grown some since he’d seen her last, but her dimpled, cherubic face was still the same. The tears flowed on Tom’s chest as she tried to laugh and cry at the same time.

  ‘Hello, old girl,’ Tom said softly, embracing her as if she might suddenly disappear like in all the forlorn dreams he’d had lying in the bottom of a freezing wet trench, snatching what little sleep he could. ‘I have missed you more than you could know,’ he replied.

  Juliet finally broke the embrace to gaze up into his face. ‘How long will you be able to stay?’ she asked, wiping away the tears. ‘Forever?’

  ‘Two days’ leave only,’ Tom replied glumly.

  Juliet’s face fell, but then she rallied. ‘My parents are visiting the next village while you are here. You will have to take your billet at our farm. I can cook you a real meal, and we can sit together in the garden and admire the flowers.’

  ‘Is there anything else we can do?’ Tom asked with a gentle laugh. ‘As much as I love your French flowers.’

  ‘Oh, I am the village schoolteacher and that would cause a scandal, but billeting a brave ally of France is acceptable. I will be finished my classes in an hour and I will give the children an early break, which I know they will not object to. We will walk to the farm together on such a beautiful day.’

  ‘I could wait here and just watch you,’ Tom suggested, but Juliet shook her head.

  ‘That might cause people to talk,’ she said. ‘Better you be with your friends until then.’

  Reluctantly, Tom took her advice and after another crushing embrace and long kiss left her to gather together the children.

  Tom walked away as if his feet were not actually touching the ground.

  Corporal Smithers watched Duffy with open curiosity. What was the black bastard up to?

  Smithers had been granted wound leave before his return to the battalion and had already spent a day in the village. The men had greeted him cordially enough and two of his closer comrades had invited him to share a drink at a café.

  Smithers went to the old stone building on the main street where the café was situated. He entered the cramped, smoke-filled room and spotted his mates. The three men were fortunate to find a table vacated by some Canadian soldiers, and bottles of wine – which the Aussie called plonk – were served.

  ‘Bloody rather have a beer,’ said the first soldier, Mick.

  ‘Stop your whining,’ Smithers said. ‘This stuff will get you pissed faster than beer.’

  The second soldier, called Bluey because of his red hair, nodded his agreement and swilled back the wine, which he had to admit was a step up from any wine he’d drunk in the past.

  ‘Has that bloody blackfella been spreading rumours that I was not badly wounded?’ Smithers asked.

  ‘Not that I know, Corp,’ Mick said, and looked to his comrade. ‘You heard anything, Bluey?’

  ‘I’ve heard nothing from Sergeant Duffy,’ Bluey shrugged, topping up his glass tumbler with more wine. ‘He keeps to himself.’

  ‘I seen him going to the schoolhouse a while ago,’ Smithers said. ‘As far as I know there’s a pretty young sheila teaching there. Why would that black bastard go to the schoolhouse as soon as he gets off the truck?’

  Bluey was intent on getting very drunk, but something Corporal Dan Frogan had said to Tom whilst they were driving from the station came to mind. He had overheard them discussing how fortunate it was for the leave to be in the village where Sergeant Duffy’s girl resided. ‘I think the schoolteacher might be his sheila,’ he said.

  ‘That so?’ Smithers said. ‘From what I hear, you boys have to return to the battalion late tomorrow, while lucky me has another twenty-fours. I might just acquaint myself with the village schoolteacher – she might be able to teach me about the birds and bees.’

  Bluey and Mick glanced at their section leader, who was smiling in a frightening way, but they said nothing – they were just here to get so drunk that they forgot the war even existed.

  Tom sat on a bench outside Juliet’s family home and gazed at the cows grazing in a green, flower-adorned paddock. In this piece of heaven it was easy to think the war was over. No sound of guns in the air, no constant fear, no cries of the wounded and dying, and he was clean and dry after a hot bath prepared by Juliet in the kitchen. He sipped a glass of red wine while Juliet sat beside him darning a pair of well-worn socks she had retrieved from Tom’s kit bag.

  ‘If only the war was over,’ Tom sighed, ‘I could take you home to Queensland and you would be the queen of all you surveyed.’ She would be too. He hadn’t told her yet but he had a fortune stashed away in an Australian bank account, thanks to an earlier opportunity to seize a fortune in diamonds. All he had to do was survive the war.

  Juliet continued to darn the sock. ‘You could leave the war,�
� she said quietly.

  ‘Desert, you mean,’ Tom replied. ‘I have heard that a few of our blokes have hopped the bags and are living out in no-man’s-land with Huns who have also had enough of the war. It’s tempting but the platoon needs me.’

  ‘I need you,’ Juliet said, glancing up from her work. ‘Oh, Tom, so many young men will never return to those they love.’

  ‘The way some in my army treat me, I wonder why in hell I do stick it out,’ Tom growled, remembering the snide remarks behind his back about being a blackfella. But he consoled himself with the thought that not all those he led felt that way. Most of his men would die for him, as he would for them. ‘No, I’ll stick it out and do my best to stay alive. And when it’s over I’ll come to your father and ask for your hand in marriage.’

  ‘You have not asked me for my hand, Tom Duffy. I think that you presume too much,’ Juliet said sternly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tom said, feeling a little alarmed. ‘I guess that I kind of thought –’

  ‘It is traditional in my country that a man first raise the idea of marriage with the woman,’ Juliet continued. ‘It may be different in your uncivilised country.’ Then she burst out laughing. ‘I am only teasing you, my love.’

  Tom looked sheepish. ‘Juliet, I know we haven’t had much time together, but I also know that I love you more than any other person alive.’ He felt Juliet’s arm link with his and he could smell the fresh scent of her body as she snuggled close to him. ‘I apologise for my presumption. I think I’ve been living for too long in a world where life is short and brutal. I love you and would hope you might consider being my wife when this war is over.’

  Tom held his breath. He hardly dared believe this beautiful, intelligent young woman would even consider marrying a rough and hardened soldier like him.

  Juliet broke into a warm and loving smile. ‘I have loved you, Tom Duffy, from the day we met. I will allow you to go to my father and ask permission as soon as you can,’ she said, a tear welling at the corner of her eye.

  ‘I don’t have a ring for you,’ Tom mumbled, still hardly believing that his whole future had changed in this moment. ‘I will have the finest ring in France when I next have my leave,’ he added with some optimism. ‘I know a man who can help me.’