by Peter Watt
‘Maybe you should hold here with a couple of men to act as a link with BHQ,’ Jack said, barely able to restrain his contempt for the man who was supposed to provide leadership. ‘I can push on with the rest of the company and send back a runner to keep you up to date with our progress.’
For a moment Major Hartford stared with unseeing eyes at his platoon commander, but slowly comprehended the suggestion.
‘A good idea, Mr Kelly,’ he finally replied. ‘You take the men forward.’
Jack rallied the survivors fit enough to continue the assault. He chose to return to the trench he had abandoned and wondered at the reception he would receive from the German soldiers they had left behind. Warily, the men went over the top but found the trench deserted, only the dead and dying having been left behind.
‘Lance Corporal Duffy,’ he called.
‘Yes, boss,’ Tom replied.
‘You are now my acting CSM,’ Jack said with a grin. ‘But don’t expect to draw a sar’nt major’s pay.’
‘Yes, boss,’ Tom replied with a serious expression. ‘I will do my best.’
Jack issued brief orders to his men, redistributed grenades and ammunition from the dead and wounded, and they clambered over the rear of the German trench to advance into hell. It was around 7am and Jack wondered why he was not seeing supporting artillery falling on the German lines, but he was not privy to the decisions being made in a confused situation well back from the edge of the battle. German fire continued to pour into the Australian ranks and, in his concern for the few men he had left, Jack had long forgotten his fear of dying. When the bullet or shard of shrapnel found him his worries would be over, Jack accepted with the soldier’s sense of fatalism. To the men that he led it seemed that their commander had ice in his veins. They were supposed to think that, despite the fact Jack Kelly, former gold prospector born in South Australia and who worked in the tropical jungles and mountains of exotic Papua and New Guinea, was barely in control of his fear.
‘Boss!’ Tom called. ‘They’re coming!’
Jack’s attention was drawn to a grey line of German infantry slowly, and some what reluctantly, advancing across the snow towards his outnumbered company.
‘Back into the trenches!’ he yelled.
He took his men in a sprint back to the trench they had vacated, dropping down on the bodies of those they killed earlier. He knew that the Germans would counterattack and also knew that he was short on men and ammunition. Jack scrambled to a makeshift parapet to observe the advancing force of grim-faced soldiers wearing the distinctive coal scuttle tin helmets. His job now was to coordinate his thinly stretched defence. His men were firing into the advancing ranks with rifles and Lewis guns, attempting to keep the Germans out of grenade range. Jack moved along the line with encouraging words and, when he was standing behind Tom Duffy calmly firing his Lee Enfield, Jack noticed that with each shot, Tom dropped an advancing enemy soldier. Jack admired the young man’s deadly accuracy. Jack’s two Lewis guns were firing a lethal enfilading cone of death into the German ranks and a couple of enterprising soldiers had heaved a German Maxim gun into position to rake the advancing troops. It was a murderous fire and he could see the advancing ranks falter under its effects. If they were close enough he would order the use of hand grenades, and if those failed it would come down to fixed bayonets and hand-to-hand fighting. Instinctively, Jack touched the photograph of his son and wife in his top pocket.
The German line ceased its advance and turned to withdraw. No-one cheered. The men simply stared into nothing, trying to light cigarettes with hands that trembled so badly the task was impossible. Even Jack dared not attempt to plug his pipe lest he betray his fear with his own shaking hands. He knew from experience this was just the beginning of a battle that before it was over would take the lives of so many good, young Australians.
16
It was cold at the edge of the Sinai desert. Captain Matthew Duffy stood at the entrance to his tent, holding a mug of hot tea. He stared at the activity on the airfield with the frustration of being grounded. When he had attempted to explain his mission over the Arab village to his CO he had received a hostile reception.
‘I am afraid that I would like to believe you,’ his CO had replied. ‘But until I receive evidence confirming that your mission was authorised by London, as you say, then I have no choice but to ground you. I must also caution you that you are to remain within the lines. You are free to join in the mess but say nothing of why you were late returning to the squadron. That’s all, Captain Duffy.’
Two weeks later the words still echoed as he watched his comrades take off and land on the dirt strip while all he could do was write letters, take his time as duty officer, and drink mugs of tea and coffee. Matthew’s ground crew were a little more sympathetic. They had a close bond with their flyer and knew that it was not just the grounding that had caused him to look so depressed; it had to be something more.
They were right. Matthew could hardly sleep, wondering about Joanne’s fate in Jerusalem and frustrated that he seemed impotent to do anything to ascertain her whereabouts. Asking for leave was out of the question, as was setting off across the desert to make his way to the ancient city now occupied by the Turkish army. He was about to return to his tent to complete a letter to his mother when his eye caught a tall figure wearing the distinctive dress of a light horseman striding towards his tent. Matthew blinked, wondering if he was suffering some kind of hallucination.
‘God almighty!’ he roared, dropping his enamel mug and rushing forward. ‘Bloody hell!’ he said, coming to a stop in front of Trooper Randolph Gates, whose slow grin spread from ear to ear. Grasping each other’s hand, they stood staring for a moment.
‘Good to see you are still alive,’ Randolph said. ‘How have you been?’
‘What in hell are you doing impersonating an Australian soldier?’ Matthew asked, punching Randolph in the shoulder.
‘It’s a long story. I don’t suppose you flyer types have a stock of half-drinkable coffee for a Yank masquerading as a Canadian by any chance? If you do, I will tell you everything.’
Matthew led the American back to his tent where he dug into his private supply of precious food items including the jar of coffee sent by his mother and some biscuits made of treacle and oatmeal. He pulled up his one and only folding chair for Randolph, and sat on his camp stretcher while Randolph cradled the jar of coffee he had just been given as a gift and drank the tea Matthew had one of his passing ground crew fetch from the mess. Over the mug of tea, Randolph filled Matthew in on his life from the USA to his present posting as a member of the Australian Light Horse. He explained how he had to leave Australia one step ahead of the law and had wrangled a position with the Light Horse in Egypt when he was able to prove his ability to ride, shoot and handle horses.
‘I asked around and found someone who thought you might be here. My squadron commander is a pretty good bloke and gave me leave to visit as we are only a couple of miles away.’ Randolph said. ‘I also heard that you were in a bit of trouble.’
Matthew stood and stretched his legs in the small confines of his tent. A cold, bitter wind howled outside, flapping the canvas with the crack of a gunshot. He pondered telling his oldest friend the truth and decided that they had shared sensitive secrets before. Matthew related the events that had taken place at Saul’s settlement and his love of the American woman.
‘So, the gay bachelor has finally met his match,’ Randolph said with a smile.
‘How about you?’ Matthew countered, and saw the smile disappear.
‘Not since Nellie,’ Randolph replied in a pained voice, and Matthew knew not to ask any further. ‘My philosophy is that it is best to avoid any permanent relationships until this god-damned war is over. What are you going to do about finding Miss Barrington?’
Matthew gazed out through a slit in the entrance to his tent. ‘We are so bloody close to Jerusalem,’ he said. ‘If only I could fly there and search for her.�
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‘I heard some scuttlebutt that we might be the first into the city,’ Randolph said. ‘The Turks are on the ropes and falling back.’
‘I hope that you are right,’ Matthew said, still staring out through the small space of the flap. They had been deep in conversation for a long time. The sun was already making its way to the western horizon. Randolph also could see that it was time to return to his unit and shook hands with Matthew, promising to return if his squadron was still in the area. The light horseman was hardly gone when a corporal from the orderly room poked his head through the flap.
‘Sir, the CO would like to see you at HQ immediately.’
Matthew thanked the clerk and tidied himself for the meeting. It had to be important to be summoned, and it was with some trepidation that he made his way in the gloom of the coming night to the kerosene-lit tent of the CO, who gestured for him to step inside. The tent was large enough to accommodate the tables and chairs for the administration of the flight, and its sides were covered in maps and clipboards with signals and operational orders.
‘You wished to see me, sir,’ Matthew said, giving his CO one of his best salutes.
The Commanding Officer rose from his chair and returned the salute.
‘Well, Captain Duffy, it appears your story was true,’ he said in a friendly voice. Matthew felt a huge weight fall from his shoulders. He had feared a court martial and then being sent home in disgrace. ‘I have just had a signal delivered from Cairo stating that you had been temporarily detached to carry out a top secret mission authorised by the War Office in London. Needless to say it says little else but it has been signed by Mr Winston Churchill. I only wish the bloody English government had the courtesy to inform me that they would be using your services – just damned good manners to do so.’
‘In defence of the War Office, sir, it was a bit of an impromptu show and if I may ask, sir, how did the War Office know of the mission?’
The aristocratic-looking Australian pilot commander stared at his subordinate officer. ‘How the devil would I know, Captain Duffy?’ he replied sarcastically. ‘I am just a mere colonel.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ Matthew answered dutifully. But he experienced a surge of hope. Joanne had not cleared the mission with London before he had been involved, and for London to know of it being carried out they would have had to have heard from their agent after she had left for Jerusalem with Saul’s son. It was not much, but at least it was a small hope that she was alive.
‘As you can deduce, Captain Duffy, you are returned to flying duties, active as from now and no longer confined to the lines,’ the CO said. ‘I don’t know all that occurred on your mission as you have rightly kept mum, but I suspect the bloody British will probably give you a gong from the way they praised your cooperation. In the meantime, I would like to say that I am pleased to have one of my best and most experienced pilots back on full duty.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Matthew answered with real feeling of gratitude.
‘There is nothing else for now so join your brother officers in the mess and ensure that you are fit to fly tomorrow,’ the CO said, resuming his chair behind his wooden table piled with paperwork. ‘We are going to be busy supporting the Light Horse in their advance so pass the word on that all my pilots are to be at an O group oh four hundred sharp.’
‘I will, sir,’ Matthew said, snapping a salute and turning on his heel.
He marched out of the HQ tent into the night of sleeting, cold rain that had crossed the airfield. At least now the chains had been taken off he felt that he was in a position to being one step closer to Joanne – wherever she was. He remembered an expression Saul used. It was almost two thousand years old: next year, Jerusalem. Matthew prayed that he would soon reach the city of three faiths.
Major Alexander Macintosh had stared out the window of his carriage at the bleak, snow-covered fields on his railway journey to a small French village behind the Allied lines. From there he was taken by a motor truck to divisional headquarters to meet his father. It had been well over two years since he had last shaken Patrick’s hand, when he embarked for Egypt, and then onto the shores of Gallipoli. At the time Alex had bridled at not being posted with his father on active service, but now all that was in the past.
The truck delivered him to an old chateau that had seen better days. Uniformed soldiers in clean dress stood guard and passes were carefully checked before entry was allowed into the building where tactics were being planned for troops miles away in the snowy fields of France and Flanders. He knew the soldiers hated the bitter cold for more than itself; artillery shells were designed to explode upon impact with the frozen earth. In the mud many were buried before exploding, mitigating the effectiveness of shrapnel to spread and tear men apart. But in winter the soldiers cowering in trenches experienced the full effects of a shell releasing its lethal shrapnel balls or fragmented casing.
At a clearing station nearby rows of wounded men were lying outside the makeshift surgery. Alex noticed a medical orderly dumping severed arms and legs into a pile awaiting burial. He shuddered. It was his first sight of what lay ahead in a war where technology had developed to make the most of killing or maiming.
‘You can wait here, sir,’ an immaculately dressed NCO told Alex. Soldiers and officers moved smartly about inside the once grand house as well as outside in the gardens now going to ruin from lack of attention. ‘Brigadier Duffy is currently in a meeting with the divvie commander.’
Alex took a seat in the foyer but was forced to stand many times, saluting the high-ranking officers passing him by with important expressions on their cleanly shaved faces, although they hardly gave the Australian major a second glance. After a half-hour wait Alex was overjoyed to see his father stroll into the foyer, alongside a colonel whose somewhat less-than-looked-after uniform denoted him as a field commander. Alex stood up, saluted and waited. His father’s expression bespoke his love and pride.
‘Colonel, if you will excuse me for a moment,’ Patrick said, not taking his eyes from Alex. ‘My son has just arrived.’
The colonel nodded and walked away. Patrick so badly wanted to crush his son to him but he was well aware that military protocol did not condone such behaviour between a brigadier and major. Instead, he extended his hand and gripped Alex’s with as much force as he could.
‘It is good to see you,’ he said, barely able to keep the tears from his eyes. ‘How is Giselle and my grandson?’
‘They are well, Father,’ Alex answered quietly. ‘It is good to see you.’
‘We do not have much time as I have to return to the brigade,’ Patrick said, reluctantly releasing his grip on his son’s hand. ‘I have organised a posting for you to one of the companies in the best battalion I have. It seems that a vacancy has arisen with one of the company commanders being sent home, a Major Hartford. Apparently a victim of shell shock, I have been informed.’
Alex was startled by the news that he was stepping into the boots of a man who had commanded nearly a hundred men but had succumbed to breakdown under fire. He thought only soldiers suffered shell shock – an officer had a duty to set an example – and realised that he had a lot to learn about combat. ‘Thank you, Father,’ he replied. ‘You do not know how much the posting means to me.’
‘Be careful what you wish for, Alex,’ Patrick cautioned as they walked towards the main entrance. ‘I know that you are a fine officer but you have to experience what those poor, bloody men are suffering out there before you know just how much you can take before you lose your mind.’
It was a sobering sermon and Alex knew his father was concerned for him. ‘I am sure that the brigade commander is a damned good soldier and will see to it that we stay safe,’ Alex replied with a mischievous smile.
‘Your old man will be looking forward to hanging the sword over the mantelpiece after we go home,’ Patrick sighed. ‘This is definitely my last campaign.’
‘Well, you have me and, in time, little David to carry on
the family tradition,’ Alex said when they stepped outside where a car and driver awaited Patrick.
‘I pray that this war will be the last we ever have,’ Patrick said, taking the salute from the driver holding the door open on the former French taxi. ‘You can ride with me back to Brigade HQ before continuing to your new home in the battalion.’
Alex stepped into the back seat beside his father. It was strange. All his father talked about was the grandson he had yet to hold in his arms. He did not mention George or his other grandson at all; it was as if they did not exist. Never before had Alex felt as close to his father, even when they lapsed into silence. They drove along a road clogged with horse-drawn wagons, artillery pieces and files of men with rifles shouldered, trudging in lines towards what Alex ascertained was not thunder but the sound of the big guns booming out across battlefields. So this was it, he thought. Real war.
‘We have arrived,’ Patrick said, breaking the silence.
Alex alighted from the car to a strange odour on the chill evening air. It was a mix of cordite and blood.
The man kept to the shadows as he trailed his target. It was a busy Saturday night in the city and the war was a long way from the bright lights of the swank hotels catering to the needs of wealthy patrons. Louise Macintosh was easy to keep in sight as she was unaware that she was being tracked.
George had first attempted to dismiss the idea that his wife was having an affair. He had his women whenever he desired and now she had provided him with his heir. But his male ego began to speak to him and it was time to discover who she was meeting.
The private investigator made his way across the street busy with automobiles and horse-drawn wagons until he reached the footpath where Louise stood as if waiting to meet someone. The investigator leaned against the front of a sandstone building with his hands in his pockets, appearing to be just another larrikin on a night out. Before long a man using a walking stick and striding stiffly made his way to Louise. The investigator could not help but let out a soft whistle. He did not need to attempt to identify the mystery man as he already knew him from appearing to give evidence in the courts of law. He was the solicitor Sean Duffy, and the last the private investigator knew of him was that he had been wounded overseas and decorated for his courage.