To Ride the Wind

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To Ride the Wind Page 5

by Peter Watt


  This was a place of spirits best avoided and now Wallarie sat under the night sky filled with a myriad of stars. In this forbidden place by the once-sparkling river course, the waters were now muddy from the hooves of the Glen View cattle, and the bleached bones of the slaughtered trampled into the red earth hid the horror of the atrocity ordered by the long-dead Scottish squatter Donald Macintosh.

  Uneasy, Wallarie had lit a camp fire. He waited in the flickering light for another sign from the ancestor spirits. In the moonless night a curlew wailed its eerie song, causing the old Aboriginal warrior to clutch his hardwood nulla for protection.

  He waited but nothing happened. He heard only the splash of a fish in the muddy waters and the night sounds of the bush creatures all around him.

  Wallarie began to sing in a low chant, words in a language that only he now knew. When he was gone the language would disappear forever from the earth. As he sang his trance-like song, he was aware that the stars had cast a light on the creek and when he gazed into the waters he saw what the ancient peoples who had roamed the land wanted him to see. Wallarie smiled, just as the stars above turned in a slow circle overhead to herald the coming dawn. An act had been played out in the great wheel of life. A young man of mixed blood related to his own was on the path to close the circle. Wallarie knew that Tom Duffy could not see his future but through the eyes of the ancestor spirits Wallarie could. Little did the Macintosh and Duffy clans know it but the young man in far-off Townsville was being guided by the ancient ones.

  3

  Captain Sean Duffy huddled beside the shrapnel-torn body of a young Australian soldier at the bottom of the forward trench. They had not even commenced their assault on the German lines and already the casualties were piling up as both enemy and their own artillery shells ripped through the heavily congested jumping off trenches occupied by the Australians. He had experienced artillery bombardments before at Gallipoli but nothing to the extent he was now enduring. The sound was deafening, muffling the screams of helpless men being torn apart by red-hot shrapnel balls and shards of exploding shells.

  Beside him crouched Corporal Jack Kelly, clutching his bayonet-tipped rifle. Sean had forgotten the itch of lice and the ever-present stench of the clay trench. He realised that he was terrified, and fought with the last of his sanity to retain control. He was aware that he had wet himself and was close to defecating with fear. His hands shook when he removed his fob watch to check the time. It was 1530 hours but, in the European summer, a long way from nightfall.

  ‘Over the bags in ten minutes.’ The order was shouted in Sean’s ear and when he glanced up from his huddle he saw the face of his commanding officer, Patrick Duffy, who placed his hand on Sean’s shoulder reassuringly.

  An artillery shell exploded on the lip of the trench, showering the men below with clods of earth. Men fell back screaming in agony as the shrapnel shredded their bodies. Sean was aware that Patrick was staring down at him with an expression of concern. ‘Get your company ready, Captain Duffy,’ he yelled. ‘They need you.’

  Sean shook off his fear for the moment. He could see a corporal watching him, ashen-faced, and understood that he was not the only one experiencing the crippling fear as they huddled helplessly under the terrible barrage. Despite his terror he knew that three young platoon commanders and their respective men looked to him for leadership. This alone forced Sean to rise to his feet. ‘Ten minutes before we go over the bags,’ he yelled at the top of his voice, and the word was passed down the trench, amid the earth shaking of the barrage on their lines.

  And then it was time.

  ‘Over you go!’ Sean bellowed, and his men rose from crouching positions to scramble over the sandbags with bayonets fixed. Between them, his men carried sacks full of hand grenades, picks, shovels and even scaling ladders for the assault on the heavily entrenched enemy. Sean found himself on his feet, gripping his revolver at the end of its lanyard and glancing to either side to ensure his men had come out of the trenches. They had. ‘Follow me!’ he called out.

  He had placed himself with his forward platoon and was accompanied by his company sergeant major and Jack Kelly. Corporal Jack Kelly was still beside him as he had the task of remaining with company headquarters to act as an interpreter for any Germans they may capture. Now there was no going back, Sean thought grimly. They had a job to do and it lay a mere 200 yards away across a field of tall grasses being thrashed by bullet and shrapnel. If hell had a French name it must be Fromelles, Sean thought as he staggered forward.

  From the dominating feature known to his enemies as the Aubers Ridge, General Major von Fellmann watched the Australian and British troops spill out of their trenches. From intelligence reports, he knew that his distant relative Lieutenant Colonel Patrick Duffy would be leading one of the battalions. The major scanned the churned-up no-man’s-land between the lines. He could see tiny figures advancing bravely through shell and machine-gun fire.

  ‘Australians,’ he murmured, but loud enough for the clutch of officers beside him to hear.

  ‘How will they perform?’ he was asked by the less senior officer who was also watching the advance.

  ‘I suspect as well as the Canadians and South Africans we have faced in the past,’ Kurt von Fellmann replied. ‘The British colonials are all volunteers and have a character that makes them adapt to war very well.’

  Kurt turned to the officer. ‘Ensure that communications with our reserves is kept intact at all costs,’ he said, knowing that they may be critical in any possible breakthrough of his forward defensive trenches. ‘Even if you have to crawl out there and check the telephone wires yourself.’

  The officer saluted and hurried away to organise a party to check the buried telephone lines had not been cut by artillery fire from the enemy positions, leaving Kurt alone to resume surveying the assault on his lines.

  ‘Colonel Duffy,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘I pray that God will spare you in your foolish venture.’

  But God was asleep that day and the carnage had begun as if orchestrated by the devil.

  The German staff officer located the regimental runner behind the lines and passed on the message to their signalmen to keep a check on the lines, ensuring that they remained intact. The staff officer did not know the runner but history would one day record him as the devil incarnate. His name was Adolf Hitler and although many of his countrymen were soon to die, he would survive the terrible battle of Fromelles.

  The machine gun firing from high ground tore through the ranks of Sean’s company. His company sergeant major, a former British army NCO, had bullets rip through his legs, chest and jaw only a few yards from Sean. In the blink of an eye the CSM shuddered, fell and remained still. The loss of the man who had survived the Dardanelles campaign came as a shock to Sean, who had convinced himself the strong, solid professional soldier could never die. All around him others fell; some screamed, some died silently as bullets cut through them. The 200 yards might well have been two miles. Time lost meaning and the rapid beat of his heart and laboured breathing of his lungs were the only sounds Sean could hear as they advanced at a rapid walk.

  He could now actually see the enemy standing at their parapets, firing rifles and tossing the long-handled grenades in swirling arcs through the air towards the clusters of soldiers attacking them, and he felt numb from the tension of waiting for the bullet or shrapnel meant to kill or maim him. His company headquarters was now reduced to himself, Corporal Kelly and a private who was also his runner. In a brief lucid moment he attempted to assess the situation and became aware that he could no longer see the platoon that he had attached his company HQ to. Even his runner seemed to have disappeared, leaving him and the South Australian corporal alone, facing the zigzag of German forward trenches. Sean was hardly aware that he had not fired his revolver although he could hear and see Corporal Kelly stopping to aim and fire at the head and shoulders of the German infantry on the parapets before them. His accurate fire appeared to b
e telling as men disappeared whenever Jack Kelly fired.

  The artillery bombardment had succeeded in tearing apart barbed wire directly in front of Sean’s company and those of his men who survived were able to clamber into the German forward dugouts where savage hand-to-hand fighting ensued. Both Sean and Jack found themselves tumbling into a trench and when they were on their feet realised that they had become well and truly separated from the rest of the company. Bodies of German soldiers lay in heaps around them, mutilated by the explosive artillery shells that had fallen among them. One or two were still alive but not in any position to pose a threat. Jack laid down his rifle and immediately hefted out two hand grenades from the bag he carried. The primed bombs were in his hands as he sought about for enemy troops. The dugout had a right angle turn at its end and suddenly a German appeared, wielding a wicked-looking medieval club with nails embedded along its length. He was a huge man and charged at Jack and Sean. Jack had placed his rifle on the bottom of the trench to arm himself with bombs, and was now virtually helpless against the huge German.

  Sean flung out his arm and emptied his revolver into the charging German, who fell dead at Jack’s feet. Without hesitating, Jack pulled the pins from the grenades and hurled them around the corner of the trench. Screams of wounded men followed the twin explosions. Jack snatched up his rifle and advanced along the trench to peer cautiously around the corner where he saw the victims of the grenades either dead or badly wounded. The scent of blood filled the air along with the acrid smell of cordite. A section of German soldiers spilled from a dugout doorway that led down to concrete-reinforced shelters. Jack let out a roar and charged the Germans emerging from their bunker. He caught the first in the chest with the end of his bayonet and pushed him back into the entrance, forcing the men following him to reel back. Heaving with all his might, Jack extracted the bloody bayonet and stepped back as a volley of rifle fire ripped from the bunker door.

  Before Jack could react, three determined soldiers rushed through the entrance to confront him. Without hesitation, he charged them, skewering a second soldier through the throat. The falling man caused the rifle to be pulled from his hands and the Australian immediately picked up an entrenching tool that lay close by. Using it as part-club, part-axe, he fell on the two remaining German soldiers, who had been unable to bring their rifles to bear on him in the enclosed space. The edge of the swinging shovel caught one of the enemy in the arm, eliciting a howl of pain from the soldier, whose arm had been partly severed. The man behind him had been able to bring up his rifle and thrust at Jack with his own bayonet, forcing Jack to trip. He dropped the shovel and fell onto his back. For a moment he could clearly see the features of the man about to kill him and noticed that he was not young. Maybe in his forties, Jack thought, as he waited helplessly for the bayonet to take his life. But suddenly the German crumpled as the top of his head was smashed, despite the protection of his helmet. A stray bullet – friend or foe – had saved Jack, who scrambled to his feet, retrieving his rifle from the dead soldier with a grunt and extracting the bayonet from the man’s throat. He was aware of a Maxim machine gun rattling off long bursts only feet away, around another corner of the trench. Jack fumbled in the bomb bag for another grenade, pulled the pin and hurled it through the air. It exploded but the machine gun only hesitated for a moment before pouring more death into the ranks of still advancing Australians. Jack knew that the only way to silence the deadly gun was to personally kill the crew that manned it. Once again he advanced down the trench, stepping over the bodies of the men he had killed. When he rounded the corner, he saw two Germans crouched behind the belt-fed machine gun, focused on spraying the advancing Australian infantry. Jack charged, this time using his rifle like a club, and fell on the machine-gun crew with adrenaline-pumped savagery. He smashed at the helmeted heads and then reversed the rifle to slash and stab with the already bloody bayonet.

  Gasping for air, Jack stood back to see that he had killed both men who now lay in their own blood at the foot of the trench. He yanked the heavy weapon off its tripod and placed a grenade under it. Jack knew that he did not have time to strip the weapon to render it useless and hoped that the grenade would damage it enough to make it inoperable. After pulling the pin, he retreated quickly before the bomb exploded. He peeked around the corner of the trench and could see that the explosion had partially twisted the weapon. Satisfied he had put the weapon out of action, he retreated further down the trench to see Captain Sean Duffy sitting with his back against the earthen walls of the trench, weeping like a child. Jack Kelly had only heard about so-called shell shock and guessed that Captain Duffy had been broken by the terrible slaughter of his company.

  ‘Sir,’ he said softly, reaching down to help Sean to his feet. ‘Sir, you have to get a grip of yourself.’

  Sean did not respond, his empty pistol still clasped in his hand. He buried his head between his legs and continued sobbing.

  It was unnerving to Corporal Kelly, who glanced up and down the short trench for any signs of an immediate threat, but for the moment they were alone among the dead and badly wounded German soldiers. ‘Sir, you have to snap out of it.’

  Sean looked up at Jack with a grimy tear-stained face and blank eyes. Only a few feet away a German soldier groaned in his agony from the shrapnel wounds to his face, chest and stomach. A soldier tumbled over the lip of the trench and fell down beside Jack and Sean. He was Australian and had the rank of sergeant. Jack recognised him as the sergeant from one of Captain Duffy’s platoons.

  ‘We have cleared about twenty yards of the trench next to this,’ he gasped, his eyes wide with adrenaline and fear. ‘What do we do, skipper?’ he asked Sean who stared at him blankly.

  ‘The boss is recovering from a bomb blast,’ Jack said, hurrying to explain the apparent lack of response from his company commander. ‘His last words were for us to hold any ground we take until reinforcements come up.’

  The platoon sergeant glanced at Sean and then with a questioning look at Jack.

  ‘You sure, Corp?’ he asked suspiciously, eyeing the tears streaming down Sean’s face.

  ‘Bloody right, Sarge,’ Jack answered. ‘Just let the skipper get his breath, and he will tell you himself.’

  The sergeant accepted Jack’s explanation but was not totally convinced. He slithered over the edge of the trench and returned to his platoon commander to relay the company commander’s order to hold their ground.

  Jack turned his attention back to Sean who had stopped crying and even had a serene expression on his face. ‘You know where you are?’ Jack asked, crouching in front of Sean.

  ‘Not home,’ Sean replied. ‘I think that I have been asleep and have gone to hell. How long have I been like this, Corporal Kelly?’

  Jack was relieved to hear his commander actually philosophising on their predicament. It meant that he was slowly coming out of his almost catatonic state. ‘Not long, sir,’ Jack replied. ‘I think you got a bit of a bump on your head.’

  Sean slowly focused the reality around him, vaguely remembering firing off his revolver into a giant of a man in a grey uniform who had been intent on clubbing them to death. He flipped open his revolver, removing the spent cartridges to reload with fresh rounds. ‘I am sorry that I let you all down,’ he said. ‘I don’t think there is much of the company left to apologise to anyway.’

  Jack did not reply. From what he remembered of the advance he knew the company commander was correct. It had been a disaster despite the fact that the survivors had actually been able to get into the German forward trenches. Even a lowly corporal knew that a half-hearted counterattack from the enemy would easily drive them out of the trenches they had captured. It had all been for nothing, he thought bitterly.

  ‘I think that we should join the rest of the company in the trench next to us,’ Jack prompted gently.

  ‘Good idea, corporal,’ Sean responded, getting unsteadily to his feet.

  Machine-gun and rifle fire still cracked all
around them mixed with the earth-shaking explosions of the occasional deadly artillery round landing nearby. They were far from safe despite their minor victory. Cautiously they eased themselves over the edge of the trench and slithered along the ground now devoid of vegetation and into a trench filled with the remains of his company mixed among the dead of the enemy.

  The platoon sergeant who had received the order from Jack greeted them, looking hard at Sean when he did so. ‘Good to see that you have recovered, skipper,’ he said. ‘I guess it was you who knocked out that Hun machine gun that was doing us so much grief.’

  Sean did not reply as he was confused as to what the sergeant was telling him. Before he could gather his wits one of his platoon commanders, Lieutenant Wilberforce, made his way along the captured trench to report. The matter was dropped as Sean was more interested in assessing their current situation. Around him, his men lay against the sides of the trench, smoking, attempting to nap or just staring with a faraway look at the darkening sky above, while the battle continued to rage around them along the front between the two armies. For Sean’s remaining men the only war they knew was the immediate earth and sky they could see. The strategy of generals was of little interest to their thoughts of immediate survival.

  It soon appeared obvious that there would be no reinforcements to bolster the trenches they had captured and to remain where they were would only mean certain death or capture. In the dark of the night Sean Duffy led his handful of men back across the grassy plain to the relative safety of the trenches they had left only hours earlier.

  Colonel Patrick Duffy had been given a corner room in a Flemish farm house to lodge his HQ. He had pored through the post battle reports and grasped the magnitude of losses his battalion had absorbed in the futile attack against the better-entrenched German forces. He contemplated the letters he would have to write to the families of the officers he had lost from the battalion and knew he would be busy. Down the chain of command similar letters would be composed by junior officers for the men that they had lost.

 

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