by Peter Watt
Tom shook his head. It was impossible. The unexpected appearance of the bird was nothing more than a coincidence and yet he remembered Wallarie’s last words about listening to his Nerambura blood. Had the old warrior flown from the hill as an eagle? As Tom stumbled down the track he attempted to tell himself the great bird was nothing more than just that. But still . . .
After Wallarie watched the young man walk away, he closed his eyes to dream. He could see the plains below drenched in the blood of the current owners but the image was not of this time. He knew that he was seeing the death of many of the Macintosh and Duffy clans. He had not assured his visitor that he would live when he went as a warrior to fight in the whitefella war. Only the ancestors knew a man’s fate, but Wallarie suspected that Tom’s ability to stay alive would depend on his skills as a warrior. He did know that the good would die with the bad and Glen View would become a place of grieving. Just as it had a half century before when his people had been slaughtered by the whitefellas who came to seize the lands he still roamed.
PART ONE
1916
1
Lieutenant Colonel Patrick Duffy was approaching his fiftieth year, having served in three colonial wars for the British Empire. Tall with broad shoulders, he still had the patrician appearance of a man who inspired confidence in those he led. As a battalion commander, he had brought his men off the beaches at Gallipoli a few months earlier and his competence and concern for his men there earned their respect.
Now, as he leaned against the damp parapet of the trench, scanning the no-man’s-land before him with a pair of field glasses, he wondered if they would continue to respect him after hearing the insane orders he must deliver to his company commanders. Briefed by the brigade commander at a gathering of battalion COs, he had raised the question of adequate artillery support for the planned assault on the formidable German entrenchments a mere 500 yards away. The answer he received made the tactic appear suicidal, although he as an officer could not reveal his personal opinions to the men he would lead in the attack.
He could see a plain of knee-high grasses, nurtured by the rain and sun of the northern summer, sweeping towards a gentle rise etched with the outline of entrenchments along the high ground in front of him. The sea of grass covered the scars of battles from the year before when the British army had suffered terrible casualties on the German-held ground. Now it was the Australians’ turn to assault the German trenches.
Only hours earlier Patrick had been behind the Australian lines, basking in the warmth of a beautiful summer’s day, listening to the lazy hum of bees as they buzzed around fields of red poppies and watching butterflies flitting among pastures of blue wild flowers. The lush green grass dotted between neatly defined fields clearly impressed those men of his battalion who had worked the harsh lands of Australia, while the cleanliness of this countryside paradise was a sharp rebuke to his Gallipoli veterans, who were still living with the memory of flies, dust and, when the dust had gone, the biting cold of the peninsular winter.
As Patrick stepped back into the trench, his boots squelched in the glutinous clay. The stench of wet soil, cordite, decomposing flesh and human waste permeated the muggy air. Now he was away from the land behind the lines and had gone from heaven to hell in a matter of a few short miles.
‘What do you reckon, sir?’ Patrick’s second-in-command asked. Major Fred Higgins had once been a solicitor practising with a well-known Melbourne firm before being commissioned into the army. Like Patrick, he had served with his local militia before the outbreak of war and, like all the men waiting that day, he was a volunteer.
‘It’s bloody flat terrain and the Huns have the only high ground worth a pinch of anything,’ Patrick said, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘If we cross that bit of ground without a truly devastating bombardment from our guns then we can expect the worst.’
‘They must know that at divvie level,’ Major Higgins said, glancing around to ensure that their conversation was not being overheard by any of the soldiers near them in the trench.
‘They don’t ask the opinions of mere battalion commanders,’ Patrick sighed. ‘It’s time to call in the company commanders for a final briefing.’
‘Righto,’ Major Higgins replied. ‘I will have them report within the hour.’
‘Good show.’
For a moment Patrick was alone in the trench, a rare moment to reflect. How different this time and place were to what they had known fighting the Turkish troops of the Ottoman Empire. His men had rejoiced in the countryside so wonderfully different from what they had known on the narrow beach and rugged gullies of the peninsula. Unlike Patrick, they did not dwell on the fact that, since 1914, this very land had seen the death and maiming of men on a scale far beyond their experiences in the Dardanelles campaign. Here was massed artillery capable of smashing whole divisions in a day, and barbed wire entanglements that stretched from the cobblestoned beaches of Belgium to the snow-capped mountains of Switzerland. No, this campaign was huge. Patrick felt some nostalgia for the trenches he left behind at Anzac Cove but well knew that the extent of a soldier’s world on the battlefield was limited to the bit of earth that he could see and walk over; all else mattered little to the soldier with rifle and bayonet. He only knew terms like flanks, fronts and sectors. They had no bearing on his personal survival on that patch of ground that lay before him and which he must cross. Within the hour, Battalion Commander Patrick Duffy would be briefing his younger company commanders on their roles in the attack to be launched against what Patrick suspected was a well-entrenched and armed enemy. He fully knew that after the attack there would likely be many faces missing from his debrief – maybe even his own.
The company commanders assembled in battalion headquarters behind the lines. It was a sharp contrast to the trench line only a mere couple of miles away where Patrick had his forward tactical HQ. Young girls were selling gingerbread to his soldiers scattered about in their companies and the blue of the cornflowers in the fields contrasted sharply with the red geraniums in the windows of the picturesque stone cottages of the local farmers. He issued his orders which in turn would be filtered down to the platoon commanders and, finally, to the section commanders. Each and every soldier would be aware of his role in the upcoming attack on the German lines, and quartermasters set about issuing the extra equipment of shovels, hand grenades, bullets, sandbags and bandages needed in the operation.
‘Mr Duffy,’ Patrick said as his company commanders rose from around the earthen model that had been constructed to scale to display what was known of the enemy’s fortifications. ‘A word with you before you rejoin your lads.’
Sean Duffy, a young good-looking man in his late twenties, paused. He had been a solicitor in Sydney before being commissioned into the Australian Imperial Forces and was also a distant relative of Patrick. He had first served as a platoon commander at Gallipoli before taking over the dead company commander’s position as acting OC. Patrick was supposed to replace him with a major from reinforcements but had been deliberately remiss in doing so. After Gallipoli the former solicitor had been decorated for bravery with a Military Cross and the men followed him for his competent leadership. He had been outstanding in his role as acting company commander, although he wore the rank of a lowly lieutenant.
‘Sir,’ he acknowledged with just the slightest frown.
Patrick looked him up and down with an expression of annoyance. ‘I see that you have reported to my O group not properly dressed,’ he said sternly, forcing himself to suppress a smile.
‘Sir?’ Sean replied, puzzled by the remonstration.
‘You are not wearing the rank that has been gazetted and which was received in orders at my headquarters yesterday.’
Confused, Sean stared as Patrick reached into his trouser pocket to produce two star-like pips. ‘Congratulations, Captain Duffy.’
Sean accepted the pips that would now make three on each of his epaulets but glanced up at Patri
ck with concern. ‘These do not mean that I lose my company?’ he asked.
‘No, Captain Duffy,’ Patrick replied. ‘You remain to lead your men until those up top decide to send a replacement company commander.’
The position was normally held with the rank of major and Sean was still one rank below. Patrick not only respected his subordinate but was also very fond of him. A couple of years earlier Sean had acted in his legal capacity to assist Patrick’s estranged daughter, Fenella, in matters concerning the murder of a well-known Australian actor. Patrick also suspected that Sean had fallen in love with his daughter but the two men had never spoken directly of his feelings. Now a bond had been forged between the two men separated by age and rank but united by a common blood in the rugged hills and ravines of the Gallipoli peninsula.
Patrick’s beloved daughter was now making a name for herself as an actress in the American film industry. He had two other children – sons, but so very unalike. His youngest son, Alexander, was a major posted to a training battalion in Australia, while his eldest son, George, remained a civilian managing the vast financial empire of the Macintosh family of which Patrick was the head, despite retaining his family birth name. ‘I am also sending one of the reinforcements from Brigade to your company HQ,’ he added. ‘His name is Jack Kelly and he is a South Australian who, I believe, had a colourful life in and around Papua and German New Guinea before he enlisted. Corporal Kelly is fluent in German, as it appears his mother was one of those many Germans we have at home. He has not seen any action yet, but his record is very good and I am sure he will prove useful if we take any prisoners.’
Sean would have liked to ask his commander his opinions on the forthcoming battle but refrained from doing so as he knew it would be inappropriate. ‘Sir, thank you for the promotion,’ he said instead. ‘I have a feeling that you had something to do with it.’
‘Not at all,’ Patrick lied with a smile. ‘You well and truly earned it but it will not get you out of further officer training at Staff College in Blighty. But that won’t be until we finish our job in the stunt tomorrow. Now, go and join your company, Captain Duffy, and good luck.’
‘Thank you, boss,’ Sean replied, saluting his CO in the relative safety of the HQ. It was not a practice done in the field since it would inevitably draw attention to officers, who could be marked for elimination by enemy snipers.
As Patrick watched the departing back of his acting company commander, he wondered why he had not shared the news that came in the same set of orders delivered to his HQ, informing him that he had been gazetted to the rank of full colonel. Although it was an honour, he also knew that the promotion probably meant that he was slotted for a staff job in the divisional headquarters. Leaving his battalion was akin to being forced to relinquish his family. At least he still had command of his men in this attack on the formidable German lines.
That night the skies burst and the deluge pummelled all below. As the artillery could not register its targets on account of the lack of visibility, the attack was delayed. For soldiers waiting to ‘hop the sandbags’ this only meant more time to dwell on what lay before them. They shivered and cursed the soaking they were receiving in the forward trenches.
When the next day dawned a heavy mist lay across no-man’s-land. From the high ground overlooking the Allied lines a senior German officer scanned the ground to the trenches where he knew the Australians were located.
‘Will they come today?’ a subordinate but still senior officer from the German regimental staff asked.
‘No,’ General Major Kurt von Fellmann replied. ‘The mist obscures their gunners’ means of observation. But they will come when the mist clears. I think tomorrow.’
He stepped off the fire step and into a deep, well-constructed trench to speak with his intelligence staff. They had been thorough in their battlefield assessments, observing the extra ammunition being brought forward as well as sandbags, scaling ladders, duckboards, shovels and picks – all activities that warned of an attack.
‘We can expect a preliminary bombardment that will alert us to the attack,’ he said wearily. ‘Then they will come.’
All the staff officers clustered about the brigade commander nodded in agreement before he dismissed them.
‘I believe a distant relative of your family commands a battalion in the English lines, sir,’ the German colonel said quietly.
‘Yes, Colonel Patrick Duffy,’ Kurt replied. ‘I met him a couple of years ago when I was on a visit to our Pacific territories. He is a good man.’
Kurt had learned from an intelligence briefing by his staff of some of the names of opposing commanders, and was startled to see Patrick’s name among the enemy. Had it come to this when relatives, albeit distant, should try to kill each other? Almost two years of war and the butcher’s bill was beyond the imagination of even the most pessimistic commanders. But he knew the answer. On both sides of the barbed wire military leaders were caught off guard by the development of weapons beyond their experiences fighting colonial wars against native peoples. The tactics used then were obsolete now.
‘Do you think that we can hold our ground?’ his assistant, a junior officer whose family lived in the province of Saxony, asked only to receive a reproving look from his commander.
‘We will hold and I daresay the British will suffer terrible losses crossing no-man’s-land,’ Kurt answered. ‘All we have to do is keep our heads during their inevitable artillery bombardment and man the parapets when the first of the enemy emerge from their trenches. The rest will result in the usual bloody list of dead – more their side than our own.’
Satisfied, the subordinate officer did not ask any more questions and both men made their way down the trench. Kurt found himself reflecting on the next twenty-four hours and hoped that Patrick would not be killed leading his men. Despite the fact that they were sworn enemies, he was still a man he liked and respected.
On the other side of the world a former German consulate staff member sat playing chess in a cold and draughty tent. Maynard Bosch had been detained by the Australian government just after the declaration of war in 1914 and interned in a camp west of Sydney at a place called Holdsworthy. Over time, the small town of ramshackle structures and tents surrounded by wires and wooden towers had settled into a civilian community of men, women and children deemed to be enemy aliens. Although the German-descended civilians and nationals were not ill-treated, the conditions they lived under were spartan. To relieve their monotonous lives under the barrels of the tower-mounted machine guns the internees soon organised social groups and even shops to cater to their needs.
It was winter in the southern hemisphere and yet the cold was not as bad as might be found in faraway Europe when that season descended in snow and sleet. Maynard Bosch had befriended a Lutheran pastor, Karl von Fellmann, whose parish lay in central Queensland on a property called Glen View. The pastor had buried his dead wife in the red earth of his mission station and, from what Maynard could discern, the Lutheran man of God had no intentions of ever returning to the Fatherland. This was surprising to Maynard as he knew the pastor had a twin brother who was a highly placed officer in the Kaiser’s army. But von Fellmann seemed content to sit out the war until the day he could return to his mission station, where sometimes lived an old Aboriginal the pastor often spoke about as his spiritual brother.
But Maynard Bosch had no intentions of sitting out the war while the Fatherland was struggling to win in Europe. Prior to 1914 he had been active in intelligence gathering and now vowed to do as much as he could to help his country – even from the confines of an internment camp.
‘Your move, Pastor,’ he said, bent over the slab of wooden plank they had marked up as a chessboard in an improvised carpentry shop. The pieces had been carved from local timbers by a skilled craftsman and were a work of art. They could have been sold to the guards for a good price but were more valuable helping pass the time in the camp.
‘You have checkmated me, my
friend,’ Karl replied, glancing up from the pieces still left on the board. ‘I think it is time that I should retire.’
Bosch rearranged the chess pieces as the Lutheran pastor stood with a sigh and stretched his weary limbs. Karl bid his chess opponent a good night and left the tent for his own at the end of the row, passing the pinched faces of women and children sitting quietly outside their abodes to take in the startling display of stars on this still, cold night. He greeted them warmly and they returned the salutations to the man they all respected for his gentle ministering to their spiritual and temporal needs.
Maynard Bosch waited for his friend to leave and when he was satisfied that Karl was well away, slid open a false bottom in the chessboard, revealing a thin compartment containing sheaves of paper. The papers each were scrawled in fine copperplate – information gleaned by Bosch’s contact on the other side of the wire. He read carefully through the notes he had been delivered and immediately started making notes of his own, turning what looked like random observations into strategic intelligence. The information on Australian politics had been gleaned from a source beyond that available to the newspapers and touched on some very sensitive areas.
Bosch would need to distil the copious observations into succinct briefings for his superiors in faraway Berlin. While he could do this very competently, transferring the information halfway across the world was a different matter. But he already had in place a clever means of delivery. As a spymaster he had established his network and felt well pleased with himself for his foresight and skill. Although he was seemingly impotent to alter the course of the war, sitting in his tent within the wire fencing of a prison camp, he was still fighting for his country and some pieces of his intelligence could help kill Australian troops, allies of the English, on the distant battlefields. Von Fellmann’s regular visitor acted as a liaison between him and the outside world, bringing in the collected intelligence and taking out the encoded reports. Bosch wondered what the man with the strong convictions would say if he knew his friend was using him to carry out espionage activities. Bosch shrugged. He was also acutely aware that if he was discovered in his present capacity as an intelligence gatherer – a spy – he would surely be executed by the Australian government, and so too would anyone proved working with him.