by Peter Watt
The baby had stopped crying and George pondered his son’s future. He would ensure that Donald had every advantage so he would naturally take the reins from him one day. But there was also the matter of his brother’s brat and under the terms of his father’s will he had an equal claim to the family enterprises. That his damned brother should go and marry a Jewess and breed, he thundered to himself.
George rose from his leather chair and made his way to the door of the library. David and his mother were a problem he would deal with at some other time.
*
Processed in the early hours of the morning, Karolina found herself behind the barbed wire of the internment camp. When she was released to her quarters she was met by the Pastor von Fellmann.
‘Oh, Karolina, it is so tragic to see that they have returned you to us,’ he said. ‘I did not think this day would happen again.’
‘It is good to see you again, Karl,’ Karolina said with a tearful face, thinking of the separation from her grandson. ‘But I am satisfied being among our people.’
‘Come,’ Karl said, taking her by the elbow. ‘I have made a pot of coffee and I am sure that after your ordeal you will welcome a strong brew.’
Gratefully, Karolina allowed herself to be guided to Karl’s tent where he had made himself comfortable with a few items of home-made furniture. He sat her down in a rickety chair and poured her a mug of coffee, sweetened with sugar.
‘The commandant is a good fellow and told me that you were to be expected this day,’ Karl said, sitting opposite Karolina, nursing his battered tin mug in his hands. ‘Herr Bosch has asked me to inform him of your return to us.’
‘Herr Bosch,’ Karolina said with a note of unease. ‘When did he ask?’
‘About an hour before I was able to welcome you,’ Karl replied, sipping his coffee. ‘It would be expected that your friends here would be glad to see you.’
Karolina blew gently on her coffee. She was exhausted from the ordeal of being transferred and processed into the camp but she was also aware that her internment might be construed as her failing in her mission to assist the espionage efforts of her government. Why she felt uneasy about meeting with Bosch was a mystery to her but a tiny seed of doubt was growing; she was now a person suspected of betraying their activities. She tried to shake off the rising paranoia, explaining to herself that she was wrought with fatigue.
She was aware that Karl had taken her hands in his. ‘I am being selfish when I say that it is good to have you here,’ he said softly. ‘I found the camp empty whenever your short visits were over and you left to return to your daughter’s home.’
Karolina looked down at his hands wrapped around her own. Tears welled in her eyes and she withdrew her hands to fumble for a handkerchief. Dabbing her eyes and bowing her head, she said softly, ‘Oh, Karl, if you only knew what I had to do . . .’ She trailed away, realising that by confiding in her friend of her espionage activities she would be drawing him into being a conspirator.
‘Do you mean what you have done for the Fatherland?’ Karl asked.
Karolina looked up sharply. ‘You knew!’ she gasped.
‘I would have had to be the biggest fool not to know what transpired between you and Herr Bosch,’ he said. ‘I have always feared for your safety.’
‘I revealed nothing to the Australians,’ Karolina said. ‘They asked – but I refused to name anyone.’
‘I believe that you are the kind of woman Germany can be proud of,’ Karl responded. ‘But, if it meant your life I would prefer that you told all to the Australians.’
‘It did not come to that,’ Karolina said, shaking her head. ‘They did not threaten me. For some reason I was allowed to remain with my daughter and grandson for a short time until last night when the police came for me. I do not understand what is happening. The policeman who initially arrested me let me go. I suspect that he is working for a Mr George Macintosh – brother-in-law to my daughter – and an evil man.’
Karl stood and walked to the flap in his tent to gaze out at the recently established little town within the wire going about its daily business. Some instinct told him that Karolina’s life may be in jeopardy; there would be those in the camp who might consider her a traitor who would inform on them. He turned to gaze at her.
‘I would like it if I visited you often,’ he said. ‘Just until you settle in.’
Karolina could see the concern in his tanned face. ‘Thank you, Karl,’ she said. ‘That would be good.’
Suddenly Karl noticed Bosch standing with two men at the end of the street. They were staring intently in his direction, and the Lutheran pastor did not like the expressions he saw on their faces.
Second Lieutenant Jack Kelly, newly commissioned and returned from officer training in England, huddled against the cold. The field was bathed in the glow of German parachute flares drifting through the night sky to light up the snow in red and green shadows. It was April but the northern winter had not given up its white cloak.
‘Bloody freeze the balls off a brass monkey,’ his batman muttered beside him, eager to finish the recon mission and return to the relative safety of their lines. ‘What’s that village over there?’ the private soldier asked, gazing westward to the dim silhouette of a church spire against the night sky.
‘Bullecourt, I think,’ Jack replied.
There had been so many alien names in the advance on the Hindenburg Line through France. Jack only remembered the little village’s name because, as a platoon commander, he had ensured he was able to identify landmarks in the area of his platoon’s operations. What he saw now worried him – a gradual rise leading into a re-entrant and a lot of open ground. From a tactical point of view it was a nightmare for infantry to cross; they would be exposed to artillery and small arms fire in the open.
He had also seen the name of the village on a big map at Brigade HQ when he had been summoned by the brigade commander. Mere second lieutenants did not usually find themselves in the company of brigadiers but this time Jack had been pleasantly surprised to recognise the face of Patrick Duffy in his newly appointed position.
Jack had waited outside the farm house, seconded by the army to use as its headquarters until he was ushered in to meet the brigade commander. Patrick stood in front of a large map with its crayon squiggles in blue and red marking positions and units – both friendly and enemy. Jack saluted and Patrick returned with a wave of his hand in the lazy manner of officers.
‘Mr Kelly, I just wanted to personally congratulate you on your promotion and award of the DCM,’ he said. Jack thanked his brigade commander although wondered why he would be summoned when it was normally the battalion CO who delivered the congratulations.
‘I know that you are probably wondering why I have had you report to me,’ Patrick said quietly, not wanting to be overheard by the soldiers and officers manning the HQ. ‘You have truly earned your commission and I expect to see you acquit yourself well with your command,’ he continued. ‘But mostly I wanted to personally tell you that at Fromelles your actions warranted the award of the VC. It was my fault that you were not suitably recognised and I apologise for that.’
‘Sir, I was only doing what I was trained for,’ Jack countered quickly. It was unheard of for a brigadier to apologise to a lowly officer or soldier, but Jack admired this man for his honesty and the ability to recognise a mistake. Jack had not expected anything for silencing the German machine gun.
‘You also were loyal to your superior officer at the time,’ Patrick continued. ‘I hope that your own men give you the same loyalty.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jack responded. ‘I was fortunate in getting a few old hands I soldiered with before the promotion.’
Patrick nodded. ‘Well, Mr Kelly, good luck to you and your men.’ He thrust out his hand to take Jack’s. ‘I think that the two best commands a soldier can have are a platoon and a battalion. Brigades are okay, but one becomes somewhat isolated from the camaraderie of the men around you. I wil
l see you when I see you.’
As Jack stepped back a few curious looks were cast in his direction from more senior officers in the brigade HQ.
That had been two days ago, and now Jack crouched in the snow behind a stand of low brush, scanning the fields before him. Other than the German flares being a reminder they were within rifle shot of the enemy, the night was relatively peaceful; it was as if the war no longer existed. Jack instinctively touched the top pocket where he carried a fading photograph of his wife and son living back in Adelaide. His son had been born while he was overseas and now all he wanted to do was just survive to be able to hold his son in his arms. He would be two years old now, Jack thought, his mind wandering from his mission for a moment. The crack of a bullet passing overhead soon snapped him back to reality.
‘Think it’s time we went home,’ Jack said to his batman, who was already on his belly wriggling rearward.
Two days later Jack led his platoon as part of the brigade attack on the German trenches. They were supposed to have the newly invented English tanks supporting them to crush the vicious barbed wire entanglements piled up in front of the German lines, but the tanks proved to be ineffective, either breaking down or being knocked out by artillery fire.
Jack found himself on his side hacking at the wire with his bayonet, attempting to cut through the resilient material. Along the stretch of wire frontage he could see that his men were using their bayonets or wire cutters to make a gap to rush through. All the time he could hear men screaming or grunting as machine-gun bullets ripped into their bodies as they were tangled in the barbed wire and exposed to the merciless fire from the enemy trenches. In the early hours after sunrise blood quickly turned the white snow red across the battlefield swept by snow flurries and a bitter cold. Even as an officer responsible for approximately thirty men of his command, Jack had little concern for the grand strategies and tactics of those in headquarters, plotting their battle far behind the trenches and out of immediate danger. The war that he and his men fought was on the ground they could see and against the enemy occupying that piece of the world. To survive meant defeating the enemy on that little patch of earth and, at the same time, staying alive. That the names of the places he fought would likely become the talking points of military historians in the years ahead was of no concern to him. He desperately wanted to finish this operation and go home to his family, and the same hope was shared by his men.
To one side he could see Lance Corporal Tom Duffy urging his section on. Jack guessed that the section commander, a corporal, was out of the fight and Tom had taken over. He was directing his Lewis gunner to put down suppressing fire on a group of Germans foolish enough to momentarily expose themselves about twenty yards away on the other side of the wire. Jack’s batman, a private soldier slotted for a section commander’s promotion, cursed and swore – then began to pray. Jack could feel the barbed wire tear at the back of his hands, cutting them in deep scratches. He joined his batman in the cursing – but not the prayers. Blood splashed Jack’s face and he blinked. The batman had ceased praying and when Jack turned he could see that a bullet had hit him in the face. The dying man had not been able to scream; he stared at Jack with imploring eyes. Jack felt a surge of nausea at the sight of the hideously maimed soldier and struggled in his pack for a battlefield bandage for the horrific wound, but his batman jerked as another bullet took him through the tin helmet, closing his eyes forever.
As Jack looked away he had a sneaking suspicion that a marksman had targeted his section of the wire. Although Jack was an officer he preferred to arm himself with a rifle instead of relying on the pistol issued to officers. Not only did it make him less conspicuous but it was a better weapon in hand-to-hand combat.
In the overwhelming din of the battle, Jack could see Tom Duffy on the other side of the wire. His section had been able to cut through and Tom rose into a crouching position to rush forward with his bayoneted rifle extended, all the time screaming unintelligible words. Jack watched him safely sprint through a hail of bullets as if protected by some god of war. His dash had taken the German defenders on Jack’s small front by surprise, and now Jack took advantage of the success.
‘C’mon boys!’ he yelled at the top of his voice, rising from the snow. ‘Up and into ’em!’
What was left of his platoon followed him through the small gap Tom had opened and they tumbled into the trench where Jack could see the lance corporal fighting for his life against the German troops massed to resist the attack. It was vicious fighting where no quarter was asked, and none given by either side. Fighting with sharpened entrenching shovels used like medieval axes, knives, bayonets, knuckledusters and their hands, soldiers of either side screamed, yelled or died with a grunt of surprise. The Australians were masters of bayonet fighting and soon forced back the German defenders, clearing their stretch of trench. In retaliation the Germans retreated to shower them with the distinctive stick grenades. Men went down but Jack could see that along his section of the assault they were slowly winning, so long as their breach was reinforced by others in the company. In a very brief respite, the bodies of friend and foe were piled to provide a barricade in the narrow, deep trench. Jack knew the enemy would inevitably mount a counterattack and also knew that his platoon would not be able to hold the ground they had captured without company support.
‘Private Gould,’ he said, snatching one of his soldiers by the shirt. ‘Get back to the OC and tell him we have broken through. Tell him that the platoon needs support.’
The soldier stared at his commander and Jack could see that he was in shock. He shook him and repeated the message. The soldier nodded, then scrambled over the parapet and the edge of the trench to make the dangerous journey to the position in the assault he knew was company HQ. Under intense fire he was able to find the company commander surrounded by a group of soldiers pinned down by small arms fire. They were at the edge of the barbed wire and had not broken through.
‘Sir, Mr Kelly sent me to tell you that we have breached the wire about fifty yards to the right. He says he needs the company to bring up more ammo and men to stop the Huns.’
The company commander was visibly shaking and seemed to ignore everything around him so the runner repeated his message.
‘What?’ the company commander snapped. ‘We are going to fall back,’ he yelled. ‘Not possible to get through.’
‘Mr Kelly is in the Hun trenches,’ the soldier reiterated. ‘If we get reinforcements we can move onto the next objective.’ The soldier from Jack’s platoon could clearly see that his company commander had lost it but this did not surprise him. He was hated by one and all in the company for his officious manner and incompetence.
‘Tell Mr Kelly that he is to withdraw his platoon and provide covering fire for the company’s withdrawal.’
‘But . . .’
‘But nothing, Private,’ Major Hartford yelled hysterically. ‘Just tell Mr Kelly to obey my orders.’
The runner turned and in a crouching sprint was able to cover the fifty yard distance to the break in the wire. He dropped to the wooden duckboard floor of the trench.
‘Major Hartford says we are to pull back,’ he gasped, attempting to suck air into his lungs. ‘He says that we are to provide covering fire for the company’s withdrawal.’
‘You told him that we had made the breakthrough?’ Jack questioned with a frown.
‘I told him, boss,’ the runner answered.
‘Damn the bastard to hell!’ Jack exploded. He was about to declare the company commander a yellow gutless dingo when he remembered he was now an officer and such things could not be said in front of the men who were now looking to him for leadership.
Snow whipped his face and blood was rapidly clotting on the wounded. Jack looked wearily up and down the stretch of trench they had captured. He could stay and fight or relinquish what had cost him so many of his men’s lives to win. His platoon objective was the next line of German trenches but without the company
in support they would all be slaughtered. Prisoners had been taken and he had his own wounded to consider. He could see the expressions on his men’s faces. They looked as if their souls had long left their bodies and they had gone to hell. The whole bloody show had been a fiasco, he thought. Just another waste of good lives to achieve nothing.
‘Pass the word that we are pulling back,’ Jack said wearily. ‘We are to move by sections.’
‘Hardly enough of us to make up a section, boss,’ Lance Corporal Duffy said. ‘What do we do with the Huns?’
Jack stared at the five Germans sitting in the trench in their heavy, grey greatcoats. ‘It is your lucky day,’ he said to them in fluent German, surprising the prisoners. ‘I am going to let you live, but if you attempt to recover arms and fire on us as we are leaving, I will personally come back and cut your testicles out.’
A senior NCO among the German prisoners grinned weakly at Jack. ‘I have not yet fathered children, Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘We will respect your orders.’
‘What did he say?’ Tom asked Jack.
‘He said he wants to bear your children,’ Jack replied, leaving Tom puzzled at the joke.
Within minutes, those wounded able to walk made ready and the couple of soldiers unable to move without help were provided with mates to carry them. The withdrawal went off well back to company HQ, where Jack saw Major Hartford arguing with a soldier Jack guessed was a runner from battalion HQ.
‘What is it, sir?’ Jack asked his commander.
‘The bloody fool has sent a message up from the CO that we are to advance to the second line of Hun trenches, but you can see that it is impossible. It seems we are now down to around one third strength.’
Jack knew absolute fear when he saw it, and he could see it in his commander’s eyes as he stumbled over his words, crouching low in an almost foetal position.