The Cadet Sergeant Major

by Christopher Cummings

  Costigan said, “What about Kate O’Brien? I reckon she would be a ‘goer’.”

  Peter winced inside and feared it showed on his face. Graham inadvertently twisted the knife by agreeing. “Yeah, she’s certainly a hot number. But I think she would be very choosy and hard to get. But I’ve heard she goes all the way; and that she can be a real bitch when she is crossed.”

  Bert agreed and added, “That’s what I’ve heard too. You want to watch out Pete. She’s got her eye on you.”

  Peter flamed with embarrassment. “Oh she has not!”

  “She has. You are too busy to notice,” Bert replied emphatically. “I’d watch out if I were you. They are cunning creatures, women. They lure you in then trap you.”

  Peter laughed, hoping it didn’t sound too hollow. The grin on his face felt like a mask. To his relief Costigan moved the conversation on. He said, “I tell you who does, and like the proverbial rattlesnake; and that is Erika Goltz.”

  “That will do Staff,” Lt Hamilton cautioned.

  “Yes sir. But she does. I’ve heard she does it for anyone as long as they pay and...”

  Graham spoke up, his voice firm. “She might. And if she does it at cadets I want to know!”

  Lt Hamilton rolled over and scowled at them. “That is enough of that sort of talk. You are just being boys full of boasting and optimism. Most of the girls are good kids with high morals and they don’t play up. Now lie down and get what rest you can. It is twenty one hundred. They should be starting soon.”

  As though on cue the radio crackled to life. Bert answered it then said, “The first patrol is moving now.”

  Lt Hamilton nodded. “OK Staff, you and Bert head off and get the Fisherman’s fire going. Take all your gear with you. CSM, you take over radio watch.”

  They began to pack up. Peter lay back, his heart thudding and palms sweaty. The nightmare had begun! He lay with his back to the fire and stared wretchedly out into the darkness.

  The CQ and Bert headed off into the night. The other three lay quietly. Lt Hamilton dropped off to sleep. Peter tried to but couldn’t. He just lay there feeling scared, guilty and miserable. On the other side of the river he saw the headlights of a vehicle go down the bank and vanish under the other end of the bridge. ‘That will be the OC’s Rover,’ he decided. That did not help. It was to Capt Conkey that he would have to answer. ‘God, I’m a Judas!’ he berated himself.

  The radio crackled again. Graham answered. It was the OC reporting he was in position. Graham told him that the Fisherman and Mario were on their way. He added another log to the fire.

  Peter rolled over. “I will take over the radio if you like.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. I can’t sleep.”

  “You still feeling a bit crook?” Graham asked.

  “A bit,” Peter agreed. Just saying it made him want to throw up. Graham accepted his offer and lay down. Judging by his breathing he was asleep in minutes. Peter sat and stared moodily into the fire.

  Time dragged. Peter lay on his back and looked up at the concrete structure of the bridge. He noted large logs jammed around the top of the pylons. ‘It must really flood when it does,’ he thought. He listened to the traffic sounds, noting they were much less frequent; a vehicle every ten or fifteen minutes instead of every five. A curlew began its mournful wail out on the river bed. The sound sent icy little darts up his spine into the base of his skull. ‘Lost souls doomed to wander forever,’ it made him think.

  A pig grunted up in the Anabranches. Peter’s fear was now fully aroused, almost a physical presence. It also created a practical worry. ‘I hope those pigs don’t rip up the dummy or the camps.’ He shrugged. There was nothing he could do. ‘So what do I do about Kate?’ He began the endless debate again.

  The radio crackled. ‘That is Capt Conkey’s voice, Peter thought.

  The OC called again. This time it registered in Peter’s brain. ‘I am the radio piquet. He is calling us. Gosh! I must have fallen asleep!’ He sat up and picked up the handset.

  Capt Conkey spoke as soon as he acknowledged. “The first group have crossed the river. You and the CSM go and light the Cowboy’s fire and move to your positions, over.”

  “Roger Sir, over.” Peter swallowed. It was time! ‘My time of testing,’ he thought. He wished he’d had the courage to tell the OC he was scared. Perversely that made him proud of the compliment. ‘Graham and I have been chosen for the hardest bit’. It made him speculate whether the OC was considering him as a potential CUO. He hoped so. It was a strong ambition. ‘I think my chances are good,’ he told himself. ‘Or they were. He won’t want me as a CUO when he finds out about Kate.’ That was bitter ashes in the mouth.

  Reluctantly Peter stood up. He shook Graham.

  “Time to go.”

  Graham was up in a moment, wide awake. They rolled up their bedding and strapped it into their packs. Lt Hamilton rolled on his back and began snoring.

  “Should we wake him up?” Graham queried.

  Peter shook his head. “No need. The patrol will do that.”

  They hauled on their webbing and packs then set off, torches in hand. Graham took the lead. He strode unhesitatingly into the tangle. Peter took a deep breath and followed. Once in the Anabranches it was all that Peter had feared. The flood channels were so dark that their torch beams seemed to make it even blacker on the periphery of their vision. It also felt colder. Peter began to shiver and told himself not to be silly.

  Graham lit the Cowboy’s fire. While he fanned it into flames Peter shone his torch around. Nothing appeared to have been touched by the pigs. They waited till the fire was well alight. More logs were piled on to keep it going. Graham then switched on his torch again and set off along the flood channel.

  “Cripes it’s dark!” he commented. “I hope we don’t meet that big pig tonight.”

  “Amen to that,” Peter agreed. He had begun to silently pray. Fear of death seemed to grow in him minute by minute, the deeper they penetrated into the thickets.

  They threaded through the flood channels to the Wild Boar Wallow. Graham’s torch beam swept around the clearing. Red eyes glowed, blinked then vanished. Some small animal scampered off into the rubber vines. The torch beam lit up the dummy.

  “It looks very realistic at night doesn’t it?” Graham asked. He was clearly enjoying himself.

  “The pigs have been busy,” Peter commented, shining his torch on fresh pig rootings in the soft mud.

  The friends did not pause at the dummy but continued on to the Bunyip Billabong. As Graham shone his torch along it a large black bird took off with a squark which made Peter’s heart leap into his throat. Something crashed around in the undergrowth up on the high bank to the left. There was a soft splash. In the beams of their torches ripples could be seen spreading across the black water.

  “Holy Moses!” Graham said excitedly. “This is bloody great. These kids will wet themselves.”

  “So will I!” Peter added. Graham laughed and continued walking.

  They followed the path through the thorn thicket along the top of the bank and soon arrived at the Pig Hunter’s camp. The kitbags lay there untouched. Graham dropped his gear. Peter hesitated then berated himself for being a coward. Summoning up his resolve he said, “I will go and make sure everything is ready at the ruin.”

  “Fine. I will get this fire going,” Graham replied cheerfully.

  Peter took out his compass, picked up the kitbag and set off. His torch beam showed a clear path up through the thorn trees and he made himself walk quickly. Only when he reached the ruin did he stop and shine the torch in all directions.

  “No sign of the bull. That is something,” he told himself.

  A lizard scuttled on the dead leaves. Peter jumped with fright. He cursed himself for being such a weakling. In the edge of the torch beam he noted the dangling legs of the ‘body’. In the dark it looked terribly realistic. He shivered violently and forced himself to face his fears.


  ‘Stop it you fool! It is only an exercise. After all, you have seen several real dead bodies.’ His mind ran back over the ghastly sight of the body Roger had pulled out of Lake Tinaroo only three months earlier; and of the dead Kosarians who were shot on the Herberton Range.

  His mind seemed to dredge them all up in a parade of terror. Peter had even witnessed several people suffer violent deaths, had come close to it himself; but somehow this was different. He wasn’t normally superstitious or introspective but now something in his sub-conscious seemed to have taken over. Icy fingers seemed to grip the back of his skull. He knew he was scared to the depths of his soul.

  With an effort he calmed himself. Then he deliberately turned off his torch. ‘I must conquer this,’ he told himself. ‘And I need to see how things look in the dark.’

  For several minutes he battled with his fears. He just stood and allowed his eyes to adjust to the starlight. While he waited to get his night vision he listened. The air was quite still. The hum of a distant motor came from the highway. A distinct change in its tone indicated when the vehicle went onto the bridge. A night bird hooted away to his left.

  The black tree trunk, crumbled chimney and the ‘body’ hanging on the rope looked so spooky that Peter trembled.

  “It gives the right effect alright,” he said. “Exercise Bunyip Ghost eh! Are there such things as ghosts?” He tried to push the thought back into his sub-conscious. It was a topic he did not normally consider. After thinking about it for a few seconds he admitted it was probably out of fear that there might be such things. Then the idea came back to mock him insistently.

  Feeling both ill and anxious Peter stirred himself into action. After walking to the tree he hid his pack, hat, webbing and the kitbag behind it. Next he dug out the ghost costume, the instructions and the cyalume stick. He donned the costume then had to fumble to get the notes out. The cyalume was ‘cracked’ and shaken vigorously. It began to emit a greenish glow which made it just possible to read the notes.

  Peter rehearsed stepping out from behind the tree several times. Then he read his notes aloud. This he found quite difficult as the eye holes were not quite large enough and were a fraction too close together. He also found that being under the sheet muffled his hearing and induced a very claustrophobic feeling of not being able to see or hear what might be creeping up on him.

  Unable to bear the tension he hastily pulled the costume off and stood against the tree, trembling slightly. Behind him a curlew began its mournful cry. Peter shivered and looked fearfully around. He tried to push thoughts of death and ghosts out of his mind- and failed.

  “Think of nice things,” he told himself. ‘Kate. I wonder how Kate is getting on? Her patrol should have started by now. They might even be at the grave. Grave!’

  The flickering glow of Graham’s fire attracted his attention. Then a mischievous idea came to him. “Bloody Graham! He’s having a whale of a time while I crap myself. I will sneak up and give the bugger a fright.’

  Peter tossed the idea out at once, but it crept back in. ‘I will,’ he decided.

  CHAPTER 23

  BUNYIP GHOST

  Peter pulled on the Ghost costume, stuffed his notes and the cyalume into his pocket, and began walking slowly down towards Graham’s fire. He walked carefully to avoid treading on sticks and dead leaves but his vision was so poor that within ten paces he had snagged the flowing sheet on a thorn bush. He had to back up and fumble for a minute, during which he pricked his thumb.

  “Ow! Bloody thing!” he muttered. He went to suck it but there was no opening for the mouth. Still muttering he gripped the costume into a tight bundle around his body and continued his stealthy journey.

  As he got closer to the fire Peter could see Graham sitting beside it feeding on progressively larger sticks. He had his back half-turned to Peter. A few more thorns temporarily retarded Peter’s advance before he became firmly hooked somewhere down on the hem. He backed up and bent to free it, his fingers questing carefully for the offending thorn.

  In doing so another thorn snagged Peter’s right shoulder. “Blast!” he murmured. He tried to get free but found that he seemed to be caught up whichever way he moved. Unable to get free he decided it would have to do. He was still a dozen paces from Graham, who still had not noticed him. Peter eased the cyalume out of his pocket and held it up near his chin under the sheet, straightened up as well as he could, and uttered a mournful wail.

  Graham sprang up in alarm to stare in his direction. Then he swore. “Bloody hell Pete! You gave me a bloody fright. Don’t do that again. I nearly had a bloody heart attack.”

  “Sorry,” Peter replied. “I was just testing the gear. Anyway, at least we know it works. Now come and help me. I’m all hooked up in this blasted thorn tree.”

  Graham laughed. “Serves you bloody well right. I might just leave you there,” he said. But he walked over to help. “I tell you what, it looks good as a special effect.”

  At that moment the bull bellowed, a loud, trumpeting snort of rage. To Peter it sounded very close and very angry. He struggled to tear free but only managed to snag himself more. The bull roared again, its challenge echoing through the night. Peter changed tactics and began trying to wriggle out of the costume.

  “Hold still!” Graham cried, shaking with laughter. “The bull isn’t near us. It is back near the pig wallow. It can probably smell Denton.”

  Peter stopped struggling and allowed Graham to unhook him. It took several minutes and a couple of scratches. Freed at last, Peter hauled the costume off and walked to the fire.

  “What time is the first patrol due here?” he asked as he sat down. He saw by his watch that it was midnight.

  Graham pulled out his notes. “Half an hour. Zero zero thirty.”

  “Then they must be somewhere in the Anabranches now,” Peter surmised.

  “Probably. Near the body most likely. That may be what the bull is making a fuss about,” Graham replied.

  At that moment the bull sounded again.

  “Speaking of which!” Peter commented. They both laughed and speculated on how the cadets must be reacting. They sat down, Graham on his field jacket.

  “Not very cold,” he said.

  “No, not really,” Peter agreed. “What order do they arrive in, do you know?”

  Graham shrugged. “The platoon commander first, that’s all I know.”

  The bull bellowed again.

  “Further that way, away from the river,” Graham said, pointing.

  “The first patrol must have scared it.”

  Graham grinned. “Not before it scared them!” he commented. They laughed.

  Something went ‘plop’ in the water behind Graham. He sat up abruptly then grinned again. “And that scared me! I reckon this is the creepiest place I have ever been. They could make a real good horror movie here.”

  “Yes. Don’t talk about it,” Peter agreed. He wished Graham would shut up. The skin on his skull felt as though it was shrinking. He shivered. A flicker of light caught his eye.

  “There’s a torch. Here comes the first patrol. I’d better move.”

  Peter stood up, gathered his costume and moved back into the night. He moved slowly on the compass bearing with one arm up to shield his face. The fire had ruined his night vision so he felt like a blind man groping his way into nothingness. Slowly his night sight returned and he increased his pace but he was still only a hundred paces from the fire when he heard voices.

  Peter looked back but only got glimpses of flickering torches and movement around the fire. Graham’s voice came to him clearly as he began his act. Peter continued on. Back in position at the Burdekin Plum tree he stared into the darkness in all directions. He was very reluctant to pull the costume over his head. A cold breeze seemed to blow on the back of his neck.

  “Imagination,” he told himself. He pulled on the sheet and stood practicing his lines. Then he became bored and impatient. He yawned and shifted from foot to foot. “What
is keeping them?” he muttered. He peered around the tree. The glow of the fire was just visible but nothing else.

  Then Peter froze in fear. Something was moving near him- and it was slithering.

  Snake? His brain raced. His torch was in his pocket so he hastily pulled it out. He pointed it at where the sound seemed to be coming from. It was only a few metres away. His thumb moved onto the button.

  ‘I shouldn’t,’ he told himself. ‘The light will spoil the act.’ He hesitated, ears straining. ‘Safety first,’ he decided. But still he paused.

  Then he heard another noise. A twig snapped. The patrol was approaching. Peter waited with every nerve straining. Sounds of muttered voices and the stealthy trample of dead leaves indicated they were close. Still unsure if he had heard a snake or not he waited. The voices came closer.

  Then he saw them: five slightly blacker shapes moving near the chimney. Peter bit his lip, slid the torch back into his pocket and took a grip on the cyalume. He watched a person walk slowly over towards the dim shape of the body. A pencil torch clicked on, lighting up the dangling ‘corpse’.

  “E-e-e-e-e-e-k!”

  Coralie Bates screamed. Peter jumped in fright. All the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The patrol cried out in alarm. More torches came on and shone on the ‘body’.

  “It’s only a dummy,” came Parnell’s voice.

  “I can see that- now!” CUO Bates snapped back.

  Allison spoke from near the chimney. “Ooh! I nearly died of fright when you screamed CUO Bates,” she said.

  Kate’s voice came from just the other side of the tree. “You gave a good scream yourself.”

  Peter’s heart leapt and thudded. Kate! He didn’t want to scare her.

  Parnell stepped closer and swept his torch up and down the body. “He’s been hanged,” he said. “There is a note. Let’s see what it says.”

  The patrol crowded closer. Kate stepped past almost within arm’s reach. Parnell kept his torch on while CUO Bates began writing in her notebook, Allison holding a second torch for her. Peter licked his lips and rehearsed his opening lines in his head. He trembled with nervousness.