Fireshadow

by Anthony Eaton

  ‘You don’t have to. Stay a while. You want a beer?’

  ‘You have beer?’

  Vinnie nodded towards where the creek burbled in the darkness.

  ‘Chilled by nature.’

  ‘In that case, as long as you’re offering . . .’

  Helen eased herself down beside the fire, and Vinnie clambered through the shadows, retrieving another two cans from the cold, black water.

  ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Thanks. You look after yourself okay. Do you do this a lot?’

  ‘This?’

  ‘Camping. You seem to have it all under control.’

  Vinnie shrugged. ‘Don’t have a lot of choice. I’ve always been pretty good at lookin’ after myself, though.’

  ‘So why here?’

  Vinnie looked at her. Her face, half turned to the fire, picked up the red hue of firelight, and the blackness of the shadows.

  ‘It’s . . . a bit personal.’

  ‘You run away?’

  ‘Yeah. But that’s not my worry. Mum and Dad never gave a shit about me before . . .’

  The silence of the night fell between them, until Helen spoke. ‘Before?’

  ‘I was in a car accident. With my sister. She was killed. That’s how I got . . . all this. I guess I’m just trying to get myself a bit straightened out, you know? I’m pretty messed up.’

  ‘Do you miss her?’

  ‘Yeah. Of course. She was always lookin’ out for me. But that’s not why I’m here.’

  ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘Nah. I ran ’cause, well . . .’ A branch in the fire burst into popping sparks, interrupting him. Vinnie shook his head slightly. ‘Shit, I’m carrying on like an idiot.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘Whatever. What about you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah. What brings you and Grandad all the way out here to the middle of the bloody bush? You can’t leave me wondering, you know. I’ll suspect the worst.’

  ‘Nothing too sinister. A history project.’

  ‘History?’

  ‘Yeah. My grandfather spent some time in the POW camp here during the Second World War and he wanted to see the place again.’

  ‘Is that where you were this morning?’

  ‘Yeah. It took ages to get there and back again – he moves pretty slowly.’

  ‘What did he think of it all?’

  ‘Don’t know. He doesn’t say too much. He spent about an hour sitting on an old foundation and then we left again.’

  ‘He didn’t look around?’

  ‘No. Didn’t seem interested.’

  ‘Weird.’

  ‘Not really. He’s not a young man. I think he just wanted to see the place. He wants to go back again tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d like to meet him.’

  ‘Come across in the morning and I’ll introduce you, I should warn you though, he can be a bit bad-tempered, especially with strangers.’

  ‘Ah, well then, we’ll see tomorrow, eh?’

  ‘Sounds like a date.’

  ‘Probably the only one I’m likely to get in the near future.’

  Helen threw a strange look in his direction. ‘Why?’

  ‘Look at me. I’m not exactly Mr Universe.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, what girl’s gonna be interested in me now? Looking like this.’

  ‘Plenty of them. You seem like a nice bloke.’

  ‘Yeah, with a face like half a prune.’

  ‘That shouldn’t matter.’

  ‘Come on, you telling me you’d go for a guy with this sort of damage all over him?’

  ‘If I knew him and I liked him, yeah, I think I probably would.’

  ‘I reckon you’re lying. People aren’t like that. Women especially.’

  ‘I don’t know what type of girls you’ve been hanging out with, Vinnie, but you should give some others a chance.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘No, not whatever. You can’t simply write yourself off to the rest of the world just because you’ve had some bad breaks lately.’

  ‘Bad breaks? Look at my bloody face, will you?’

  ‘I’ve seen your face. I don’t mind it.’

  Vinnie stared hard at her, trying to make up his mind whether she was making fun of him. ‘In that case, how about dinner?’

  Helen laughed, breaking the tension. ‘Sorry, you’ll have to work a bit harder than that to get a date with me.’

  ‘See? Told you. You’re just like the rest of them.’

  ‘No, Vinnie, I’m not.’ She drained the rest of her can and stood to leave. ‘But I reckon you are. See you tomorrow.’ Walking away, she seemed to melt from firelight into darkness.

  September 1943

  The signal for evening rollcall echoed between the buildings and back into the camp from the tree line. Erich, excused by the doctor’s brief nod, stepped out into drizzle. It was almost dark and the parade area was lit in the pale glow of overhead lamps. The dispersed light turned the men into rows of ghosts, their features sunk into skeletal hollows and pools of darkness. Sodden greatcoats hung limply and disguised bodies.

  In these conditions, rollcall always took longer. One of the guards would move along the lines, from man to man, double-checking the identity of each prisoner against the name called by Thomas – a precaution against a substitution, covering for an escape.

  Not that escape seemed to be a huge consideration. In Erich’s third week, the sirens had sounded and search parties dispersed, hunting for two men who had failed to return from their work assignment. Within a couple of hours the two had appeared at the camp gates, wet, cold, muddy and miserable. They had become disoriented in the forest on their way home and walked in the wrong direction for several hours until they came across a familiar track. Stutt had given them each a week in detention.

  None of Erich’s camp-mates seemed interested in the idea of escape, and Erich was too nervous to broach the subject. In any case, from what he remembered of his geography, Australia was a long way from anywhere.

  ‘Pieters.’

  It was so unfair. So wrong that he should have ended up here, where there was not so much as an opportunity to return home, even if he managed to find a way out from the enclosure.

  ‘Pieters!’

  On the other side of the fence, the forest still pressed in, thick and black, on the camp. If he were able to get to the other side of it, he still wouldn’t know in which direction to head off. The roads would be too dangerous, too exposed for a man in a German army uniform.

  ‘Pieters!’

  A hard slap stung across his face, cracking wetly in the silence, dragging Erich from his musings. Guard Thomas, young, pimpled and angry, stood directly in front of him, one hand holding the clipboard loose at his side, the other still raised to strike.

  ‘You bloody answer me the first time I call your name, understand, Fritz?’

  Several of the men stiffened at the taunt, but none moved. Erich stared into the straw-coloured eyes and held silent.

  ‘I’ve got better things to be doing than wasting my time chasin’ up and down just ’cause you’re havin’ a bloody day-dream. You get me?’

  When Erich didn’t answer, the young guard’s hand flew again and Erich felt the salt tang of blood tickling his mouth.

  ‘I asked you a question. Do you understand?’

  ‘That will do, Thomas.’ Stutt, having broken from his place at the front, stepped across and seized the guard’s hand before he could strike Erich again. ‘I think that you have made your point quite clear. Erich will apologise. Erich?’

  Meeting the senior officer’s eye, it was clear that the request was really an order.

  ‘I apologise for inconveniencing you.’

  ‘Sir
!’ snarled the guard.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I apologise for inconveniencing you, sir.’ The guard’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

  ‘I don’t believe you have been commissioned quite yet, Thomas.’ Stutt’s quiet interruption raised a gentle snigger from the men standing nearby. ‘I think Erich’s apology will be sufficient for us not to have to report this incident to the camp commander, don’t you?’

  Thomas refused to back down.

  ‘If he tries this again, I’ll assume that he’s covering some type of escape attempt and . . .’

  ‘If you strike one of my men again, Thomas, I’ll assume that you are not familiar with the terms of the Red Cross guidelines for the treatment of prisoners of war.’

  For a long moment the young guard and the older German officer stared at one another through the drizzle before Thomas wheeled and stalked back to the front of the parade, consulting his soggy list as he did so.

  ‘Reichman!’

  ‘Ja!’

  Five minutes later the parade was completed and the men dismissed. Erich made to head straight towards his hut, but was intercepted by Stutt.

  ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Why didn’t you answer him?’

  ‘It was a mistake, sir. I was not paying attention.’

  Stutt regarded him for a long moment.

  ‘And what were you thinking about that is so interesting it makes you fall asleep during rollcall?’

  ‘Home, sir. Of my family in Stuttgart.’

  The lie seemed to satisfy the commanding officer. He relaxed a little.

  ‘That kind of thinking is fine for when you are in your bunk at night, Pieters, but the rest of the time you will need to remember that there is still a war on.’

  Pathetic, thought Erich. Couldn’t the man see how ironic it was? That kind of advice coming from a man who had made himself into nothing more than an Australian lap dog?

  ‘You need to be a little careful around Thomas, Erich.’

  ‘Why is that, sir?’

  Stutt glanced quickly about.

  ‘He is not the most stable of young men.’ He reverted to German. ‘Even the other guards keep him at a distance.’

  This was true. Most of the other guards were either veterans of the first war, serving out their time here in the bush, or were recently returned from the fronts in Europe and Africa to recover their nerves somewhat before they were demobilised. Most were old and war-weary. Among them, Thomas clearly stood apart.

  ‘He didn’t serve overseas, Erich. Not actively, anyway.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Again, the nervous glance around.

  ‘I shouldn’t tell you this, Erich, but after tonight you probably need to know. He was injured before he completed his training.’

  ‘What kind of injury, sir?’

  For the first time during the conversation, the hint of a smile creased the commanding officer’s face.

  ‘A gunshot wound. To the foot.’

  Erich fought back the urge to laugh. Everyone knew what that meant.

  ‘So he is a coward?’

  In his own division, several men had shot themselves deliberately in the feet and legs during training, in attempts to escape the war. They had been tried as traitors. Stutt made a non-committal gesture with both hands.

  ‘Possibly, but from what the other guards tell me, it was a genuine injury. This is why he was not drummed out of the army.’

  ‘So then he is just incompetent.’ The idea that Thomas might have shot himself in the foot accidentally was even better than that of him as a coward.

  ‘Also possible. In either case, you need to remember one thing, Erich.’

  ‘What is that, sir?’

  ‘This young man could well be very dangerous if he decides to. There’s no bully worse than a coward, and no man more dangerous than one with damaged pride. You should steer clear of him if you can, because I get the impression he doesn’t like you much. Now get yourself across to the hospital and, if the doctor hasn’t gone back to his hut for the night, have that cut on your lip seen to.’

  Stutt made his way off towards the mess, where boisterous laughter probably marked a retelling of the evening’s parade, and Erich, wiping at his face, trudged back towards the hospital.

  And from the deep shadows cast by the far wall of the mess hut, Guard Thomas watched him go.

  Ten

  Vinnie

  For some unaccountable reason Vinnie’s gut churned as he picked his way up the terraces to where Helen and her grandfather waited. A few moments earlier, when he’d noticed them making their slow way out for the day, he’d not hesitated in raising his arm and calling. Now, climbing towards them, he could see impatience in the old man’s stance and wondered if the invitation from the night before was still open.

  ‘Vinnie. Hi.’

  Helen also seemed ill at ease. Something in the way she glanced nervously at her grandfather, and the nervous moistening of her lips suggested thinly masked apprehension.

  ‘Are you going to join us?’

  ‘Yeah. Thought I might. If that’s okay?’

  Vinnie shuffled his feet, acutely aware of the gaze searching him. The old man’s body was gnarled with age, but his eyes, blue and unwavering, suggested none of the watery senility Vinnie had seen in other old men.

  ‘This is my grandfather. Doctor Pieters.’

  ‘G’day.’

  No hand was offered, none expected. All that filled the silence was a continuing appraisal. For long seconds, even the constant restlessness of the bush seemed to fade. Scar tissue itched as it felt itself scrutinised, and Vinnie tried not to scratch at phantom nerve-endings.

  ‘Shall we go, then?’ The man’s voice; deep, strong and accented, held none of the tremolo of age. He didn’t wait for the consent of the two younger people but wheeled on his heel in a slow, military turn and started into the dim forest.

  Behind his back, Helen offered a wan smile before following. Vinnie hesitated. At the bottom of the slope the security of his camp site called. It would be easy to slip back down and spend the morning in quiet, secure solitude, unconcerned about the judgment of an old man. A few steps along, Helen stopped and turned, and with another smile and a shake of her head she drew Vinnie onto the path and into the darkness of the bush.

  Progress was slow, set by the pace of the retired doctor. On occasion they would arrive at some small obstruction, a tree or branch fallen across the path, and would have to wait for Helen’s grandfather to negotiate the difficulty. At first Vinnie reached to assist, an instinctive gesture, but Helen had caught his eye and gestured don’t.

  ‘Did you sleep all right?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. A little restless in the middle of the night, but I’ve been finding it pretty easy to sleep out here.’

  ‘It’s sort of hypnotic, isn’t it? Lying at night and just listening. The first night freaked me out, but I’m used to it now.’

  The old man made no attempt to join the conversation and Vinnie and Helen restricted themselves to inconsequential chat. They stopped to rest at the bridge beside the pool where Vinnie had considered his reflection. Sitting, Vinnie was again uncomfortably aware of Helen’s grandfather examining him.

  ‘What happened to your face?’

  The bluntness stung more than the question. Helen frowned but said nothing, leaving Vinnie to respond.

  ‘I was in an accident.’

  ‘Did you burn?’ The German accent revealed only detached curiosity.

  ‘I . . .’ Words deserted him. Vinnie stood, trembled, prepared to flee.

  ‘Grandfather,’ Helen gently chastised, ‘it’s not a question you should ask.’

  The old man shrugged. ‘Why not? I am a doctor. It seems clear to me that the boy ha
s been burned. I am curious, that is all.’

  ‘It’s not something that he likes to discuss.’

  Through this Vinnie stood, acutely aware of the instinct calling him back into the tree-closed protection of the path behind. There was something else, though. A tiny spark of ingrained knowledge that kept him rooted. If he left now, if he ran, then part of him would always be running.

  ‘It’s okay.’ His voice rang strange in his own ears. ‘I’ll be right.’

  Even through the conversation with his grand-daughter the old man’s gaze hadn’t wavered, but remained steady on Vinnie. Now, for the first time, Vinnie returned it, meeting the doctor’s stare directly.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied, ‘I burned.’

  ‘Ah, then.’ The old man looked away, up the path towards the old prison camp. ‘We shall continue onwards?’

  Helen fell into step alongside and touched Vinnie on the forearm, her voice low.

  ‘I’m sorry about that. He tends to confront people when he first meets them.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  And, in a moment of startling revelation, Vinnie realised that it was.

  ‘People are gonna want to know about it, aren’t they? I guess someone had to ask sooner or later.’

  ‘Exactly my point.’ The old man didn’t even glance back towards them. ‘It is far better to have these things out in the open from the beginning, I am thinking.’

  Vinnie threw a brief grin at Helen.

  ‘His hearing’s pretty good too.’

  ‘As good as ever.’

  Emerging from the trees, the trio followed the slight uphill path to the gate arrangement at the edge of the old prison camp site. Vinnie was aware of a strange new lightness within, of having faced and beaten a demon, perhaps one of many. A couple of black cockatoos flitted towards the tree line, oblivious to the three people below.

  A thin breeze quivered and again Vinnie was struck by the different stillness that pervaded here.

  ‘It’s a strange place.’

  Abruptly, Helen’s grandfather stopped.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Can’t you feel it? There’s an atmosphere here that’s, I dunno, something different from the camp site, anyway.’

  A bushy white eyebrow lifted itself on the old man’s forehead.