‘O’ course th’ are. But mebbe if I just put some iodine on that.’
The boy flinched as the yellow stuff dripped down his cheek, then gestured further down the trench. ‘Smithie got it in the stomach last night. But you can’t take him, can you?’
Jack shook his head. ‘Not on the donk.’
‘That rules out Blue and Charlie too, then.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Don’t think Charlie’ll make it down anyhow.’
Jack peered through the trench’s shadows. Three more men lay on the dirt. Two seemed to be unconscious. A third stared at the sky, muttering.
‘How about you, cobber?’ Jack looked at a young man slumped against the wall, a bandaged foot in front of him.
‘Not him.’ The first boy’s voice was curt.
‘Why not?’
‘’Cause he shot his own foot, didn’t he? He’s yellow. Lets his mates carry on while he tiptoes back to Blighty.’
Jack peered into the gloom again. Now he looked for it he could see the letters daubed in blood on the youth’s forehead—LMF.
Lack of Moral Fibre. That’s what they wrote on the foreheads of men who tried to run, who screamed and shivered instead of fighting. Or men like this, who had shot their own feet in an attempt to get away from the war.
The young man stared up at him with desperate hope.
Jack shrugged and looked away. Let him rot then.
‘Hey, Spud, you feel up to a ride with the man and the donkey?’ asked the first boy.
‘Reckon I could.’ The drawl came from a thin, long-legged man sitting propped up against the mud wall of the trench, his arm bound to his chest with a bit of torn shirt. Another piece of the same shirt covered one eye and the top of his head too. He tried to rise. Jack stuck a practised shoulder under his arm before he could fall. ‘Think you can make it out of the trench?’
‘No worries about that.’ The boy with the bloody cheek gave a half smile. ‘We’ll all give him a push. Good thing you’re skinny, Spud.’
Jack smiled back. ‘Like a long match with the wood shaved off, he is. Right, I’ll climb up first then reach down. You lot heave from below…’
Spud glanced again at the lad sitting by himself at the other end of the trench then looked back at Jack. ‘Think he can hop down to the cove if you give him a hand?’
Jack stared. Help a coward? The young man looked up, his face white under the dirt and blood. ‘Please. They…they say bullets won’t touch you or your donkey. I—I’d be safe with you, wouldn’t I?’
‘Blimey, listen to him. Still bloody whining—’
The boy got to his feet awkwardly. ‘I won’t be a trouble. Please.’
He limped down the trench, stumbling with pain and eagerness as he moved past the other wounded men.
No one helped him.
Jack bit his lip. Part of him wanted to leave the boy here. It wasn’t right to reward his cowardice with a trip home. But the boy looked like a dog who’d been whipped so much it could only cower in a corner. There’d been a dog like that at one of the Sailors’ Rest Homes, beaten till it could no longer face the world.
This lad had been through no more than any other on the plateau. But Jack couldn’t get the picture of the dog out of his mind. And the bloke Spud had stood up for him too.
‘Righto.’ Jack climbed the ladder again. His head cleared the top of the trench just as a shell whizzed past, sending the dirt flying almost by Duffy’s tail.
Someone yelled, ‘Look out!’
The boy with the bloody cheek laughed. ‘He’s Simpson, ain’t he? Bullets don’t touch Simpson. He just whistles and the bullets fly the other way. Come on, Spud, let’s get you up.’
Jack reached down and grabbed Spud’s uninjured wrist. The man managed each step of the ladder by himself, but the effort exhausted him. He collapsed on the other side of the trench as Jack grabbed his waist, and half hauled, half lifted the man onto Duffy’s back.
Was he going to make it?
The initial dizziness seemed to pass. Spud sat erect, his long legs splayed on either side of Duffy’s back, his feet dangling on the ground.
Now for the coward…
The boy was climbing up the ladder and out of the trench unaided, though the pain in the shattered foot must have been extreme. He rolled himself over the lip of the trench, then forced himself to his feet. He hopped over to Jack. ‘I—I’m sorry.’
Jack glanced at him briefly. ‘I’ll take you. But I don’t have to listen to thee whinge.’
The boy lifted his arm tentatively. Jack flung it across his shoulders. He’d help the lad back to the beach, but that was all.
They began to walk, Duffy on his four thin legs, Jack on his two. The young man hopped, stumbling on Jack’s other side. Each time a shell came near he flinched. But the boy cried out only once, as an explosion shattered dirt across their faces.
‘Is—is there any shelling on the beach?’
‘Some.’ Jack turned to Spud. ‘You all right there, cobber?’
Spud nodded.
Blast the other lad. They had to go even slower because of him. More time for Johnny Turk to get them in his sights, all out in the open like this. If Spud gets another on the way down I’ll bash the soft lad’s lights out, thought Jack, glancing at the boy again.
And yet…
They made it to the gully. But they were like ducks on a pond here, with the Turkish snipers up above them, and no chance with the hopping boy to duck and weave.
‘What—what will they do to me?’
Jack didn’t answer.
‘They’ll be able to tell I shot my own foot, won’t they?’
‘Aye. There’s precious few gets it in the foot unless they did it themselves.’
‘I—I didn’t think.’
‘Nay, I don’t suppose tha did.’
‘Not his fault.’ Jack started. It was the other man, Spud.
‘Both his brothers caught it, first day here. Billo here held the younger till he died. Guts spilling out like a bucket o’ worms. That’s why he did what he did.’
The boy nodded, defiant. ‘No one left but me. Dad died four years ago. Just Mum and Dorothy now…’
Jack said nothing. Faces flickered in his memory, setting off a sudden gust of longing that made his stomach clench. ‘I’m all me mum and sister got as well. Just Ma and Annie ‘n’ me.’
‘Dorrie’s only three. If they don’t get me wages they’ll have nothing…huuuuuhhhh…’
For a moment Jack thought that the boy had tripped, then saw the blood bloom like a rose on his thigh.
Artery.
He shoved the boy down so he lay flat, grabbed bandages from his kit, forced a pad onto the welling wound, then strapped it down. Small—a nick from a scrap of shrapnel maybe or a splinter of rock—but in a bad place. Or a good one, depending on your point of view.
The boy was lucky. Lucky Jack had been there or he would’ve been a goner. Lucky in another way, too…
‘They won’t think thee did this to thyself, matey. Tha’s safe now.’
‘You’ll be right, Billo.’ Spud’s voice was gentler.
‘Tha can’t walk now. Or hop none either. I’ll take Spud here down to the cove and come back for thee.’
‘You really will come back?’
‘Aye, lad.’ To his surprise his own voice had gentled too. ‘I’ll be back for thee.’
CHAPTER 21
The Donkey
Gallipoli, May 1915
Everywhere they went they knew him now. The donkey found it strange. The humans had known him back home, too, of course. But who took any notice of a donkey?
These days men shoved crumbled bits of biscuit at him or handfuls of grass, or even bunches of flowers—the red poppies or pink anemones that still bloomed in strange corners of this dug- and shot-up world. The grass and flowers tasted of dust and sometimes blood and also of the stench that covered the land now: the smells of too many humans; of sickness and decay. But the donkey ate the offerings anyw
ay. It was good to be patted, to be loved. And he was always hungry, too. The wearying slog up and down the gully left little time to eat.
Even the mules were used to him. They whickered as he approached, and he gave his call back—Hee haw!—but softly, because by the time they reached the mule line he was thirsty, and calling grated on his throat.
They had just dropped their last passengers for the night back at the first-aid station down on the beach. Somehow the donkey always knew when the Man with Kind Hands had decided that this trip would be their last, when, even with a willing heart, your legs could take no more.
Now the donkey plodded back, wishing it were easier to push his hooves through sand, smelling the mules and their hay and good fresh water. The donkey lifted his head. There was another scent too.
Hee haw!
A donkey! For a moment he thought it was the female he had met before. But it had been a long time since he’d seen her or the man who had led her.
He sniffed again. This donkey was a different one.
He lifted his head. Hee haw! Hee haw! Hee haw! Hee haw!!!
The cry came back across the sand. Hee haw!
The donkey pushed his hooves harder into the sand. The Man with Kind Hands laughed. ‘Found a friend, eh lad?’ He raised his voice. ‘What ha’ we here then?’
One of the brown-skinned men ran forward. ‘Another donkey for you, Bahadur.’ His strong brown hand scratched the donkey behind the ears. ‘She will give this little one a chance to rest, perhaps, even if you will not.’
‘Hear that, Duffy, me boy? A girlfriend for thee. Let’s ha’ a look at her then.’
The new donkey had her back to them, her nose in the hay. She turned, still chewing, annoyed at the interruption.
‘Look at the face on her then! Sorry to intrude, tha majesty, but mebbe tha’d consent to take a stroll up Shrapnel Gully?’
The newcomer twitched her ears at her fellow donkey, then turned back to her food.
‘Tha’d think she were the Queen of England! Not fat old Victoria. The other one, what were her name? Come on, lass. Thou and me’s got work to do.’
‘But Bahadur, it is late. You need to sleep, to eat…’
‘Give me a ham buttie then, and a cuppa char…all out of ham butties? I’ll settle for the tea then, so long as it’s hot and sweet. Or even wet, come to that. Thanks lad, that’s grand. Now then, Queen Elizabeth, let’s thou and me get to know each other, eh?’
A few days ago he would have been afraid if the man left him. But somehow now he was sure the man would return, just as all the men up on the hillsides were so sure he would come back to them.
So the donkey chewed his hay as he watched the man and donkey vanish into the darkness. Now and again they reappeared, as the strange lights lit up the gully for a moment. The donkey bent his head again. It was good to rest.
CHAPTER 22
Jack
Gallipoli, May 1915
It was night, one of the crazed nights of Anzac Cove, lit by shells and sparks, the shrieking and explosions so much part of life now that you only noticed it in the rare moments of quiet. Jack glared at Queen Elizabeth in frustration. ‘Come on, tha bleedin’ donkey…Pardon my French, Padre.’
The chaplain smiled wearily. ‘No need to apologise. She’s tired, I suppose.’
‘Nah. Just thinks she’s too good for the rest of us, don’t tha, tha majesty?’
The silky donkey glared at him, then looked longingly back towards the hay, further down the beach at the mule station.
‘It’s good of you to take me up with you.’
‘Don’t mention it, Padre. Reckon some of the men up there could do with a kind word or two. Make them feel they’re not forgotten like.’ He tugged at Queen Elizabeth’s lead rope again. ‘That’s if we can ever get the old girl moving.’ He shook his head. ‘Padre, would tha mind moving down the beach a way?’
The man looked at him curiously. Jack grinned. ‘This donkey has been tied up with some mules and I reckon she’s learned some of their habits. I’ll have to speak to her in Hindustani and I’d hate thee to think I was swearing.’
‘I’m sure that—’ The man broke off as a harried corporal trudged up the beach towards them.
‘Sorry, Padre, been looking for you. There’s a boy down at the boats—not much chance he’ll make it. He’d like to speak to you.’
‘Of course.’ The chaplain glanced at Jack. ‘Perhaps I could come up with you later, or tomorrow?’
‘Too right. Any time you like, Padre.’
Jack lifted his hand in a wave. A good bloke, the Padre. Pity there weren’t more like him. ‘Come on, girl. Or I’ll take a switch to thee.’ He held up the thin length of wood warningly. He didn’t like using it—he hated hitting an animal. But, unlike Duffy, Queen Elizabeth needed more than coaxing at times.
The donkey twitched her ears at him, annoyed. She began to stalk along the sand, not even looking at him now, as though it was all her own idea to take a stroll, not his. Jack shrugged, and followed. As long as the animal was moving…
He picked his way through the boxes on the beach, Queen Elizabeth on the lead behind him now. The once-empty sand was a maze of cartons of bully beef or biscuit, ammunition packs and medical supplies.
Over the gunfire, a whistle screamed across the sky. The shell shattered a pile of empty boxes nearby. Shreds of wood and paper scattered down like gritty snow. Jack glanced behind at Queen Elizabeth, and grinned. The big donkey’s head was still held majestically high as she continued to place her feet daintily among the wreckage. She was so different from Duffy with his perpetually humble look, as he gazed down at his hooves.
Few stretcher-bearers worked by night—it was too easy to stumble and let the wounded fall. But Queen Elizabeth had proved sure-footed even in the darkness. The yellow flashes from the shells were enough to light her way, and Jack’s too.
This would be his second trip tonight. He’d worked with Duffy until just after dark. Now the small donkey was back with the Indians, chomping the mules’ hay. He was glad that Duffy had the chance of a rest now he had Queen Elizabeth. As for him…he could manage one more trip tonight maybe, or two if he could keep his eyes open. Then he’d spread his jacket on some of the mules’ hay and get some shut-eye till just before dawn, when the animals always woke him with their hawing.
A couple of hours’ sleep seemed to do him these days. Sometimes he wondered at his body, at how it just kept on going, long after the other stretcher-bearers had slumped with exhaustion. But mostly he just accepted it.
It was a gift. Life itself was a gift these days. You took what comfort you could: the way the night sky opened up in a haze of stars in a brief lull in the brightness of the shelling; that first gulp of a mug of tea, strong enough to melt a spoon; or the pad of the donkey’s hooves behind you. Though Queen Elizabeth never butted him in friendship, the way Duffy did. No, Her Highness did her duty, but she was blowed if she’d make friends with a commoner.
‘Ee, that’s me, lass. Common as muck, me. Come on, give us a grin.’
The donkey ignored him, placing her hooves as though she was climbing up to her throne.
He rubbed her nose affectionately. ‘Come on, give us a grin or I’ll sell tha and buy a dog. What say thee to that, eh?’
They were passing the first wall of sandbags now, at the start of Shrapnel Gully. The donkey pulled towards it, hoping for a rest, but Jack hauled her back. ‘No, tha don’t. Thou can have a rest when we get back and tha’s done a decent night’s work. Trust royalty to shirk, eh? A dog wouldn’t be trying to skive off all the time…Mebbe I should sell thee and buy a puppy…’
He raised his voice above the noise of the shells.
‘Daddy wouldn’t buy me a bow-wow! Bow wow!
Daddy wouldn’t buy me a bow-wow! Bow wow!
I’ve got a little cat
And I’m very fond of that
But I’d rather have a bow-wow
Wow, wow, wow, wow
&nb
sp; ‘We used to have two tiny dogs
Such pretty little dears
But Daddy sold ’em ’cause they used
To bite each other’s ears
I cried all day, at eight each night
Papa sent me to bed
When Ma came home and wiped my eyes
I cried again and said
Daddy wouldn’t buy me a bow-wow! Bow wow!
Daddy wouldn’t buy me a bow-wow! bow wow!
I’ve got a little cat
And I’m very fond of that
But I’d rather have a bow-wow
Wow, wow, wow, wow.’
He glanced back. The donkey gazed down her nose at him, her expression so superior that he laughed aloud.
‘Don’t like my singing, lass? Tha mind thy manners, clever clogs…’
A shell exploded below them—a big one, so bright that for a moment he could see the sea, like black glass, and even the white ruffles of the waves. Then it was gone again. The night shut itself around them.
‘Come on lass, we…’
The donkey fell.
For a moment Jack thought that she had stumbled. Then he realised she was shaking, great heaving tremors that went on and on. Her big eyes stared at him whitely, full of terror and pain.
‘Eee, lass…’
He ran his hands across her body, vainly looking for the wound. But what good would it do if he found it? He could bandage her up, but there was no way he could get a wounded donkey down to the beach, no way he could tend her here. Impossible to leave her suffering, too—
Then suddenly it was over. She gave one last great pant, just as he found the sticky blood along her side.
He stood and wiped his hand slowly against his trousers, staring down at her, then bent and closed her eyes.
He couldn’t just leave her there. But what choice had he? Every second he stayed here exposed in the gully made him an easier target. Impossible to shift her, impossible to dig a grave for a donkey here among the rocks. Impossible to do anything but sketch a brief salute, and trudge back down.
His footsteps sounded lonely against the rocks. How long had it been since he’d walked alone, without a donkey at his side?
The Animal Stars Collection Page 7