Beyond the Horizon (16 page)

With the matter weighing on his mind, George made his way to his club to meet with a knighted member of the civil service. Sir Hubert had long filtered money into his favourite political party from George in return for government contracts, and he had taken a commission on those contracts. Ironically, Sir Hubert had promised George a knighthood for his charitable causes in support of the war effort. George did not like the man and knew the feeling was mutual, but the club gave them an opportunity to discuss business at what from the outside looked like a casual meeting.

George found Sir Hubert, a greying, nondescript man in his fifties, sitting back in a comfortable leather chair, reading the newspaper while armed with a gin and tonic.

George took a chair adjacent and ordered a Scotch from the waiter hovering nearby.

‘I see that damned German Jew, Monash, has been promoted to command the boys in France,' Sir Hubert said with a snort of disgust. ‘It was bad enough that the King saw fit to knight him earlier this year. Sir John Monash, what will be next? At least he has a good second in command with Blamey.'

‘Speaking of knighthoods,' George said quietly, ‘is there any word about my being on the list to be submitted to the King?'

Sir Hubert put down the paper and looked at George. ‘Old boy, you know that is a confidential matter.'

‘How much?' George countered bluntly and the senior public servant scribbled a figure on a cardboard coaster, handing it to George, who read the sum and frowned. ‘That bloody much,' he said.

George was silent for a while, then he sighed. ‘I'll find the money. The Macintoshes have a family tradition of knighthoods. My great-grandfather was the first knight in the family, and I think it's only right that I re-establish that tradition for the sake of the Macintosh name.'

Sir Hubert nodded. ‘Your great-grandfather was a man with an enviable reputation in the colonies. Knew how to deal with darkies and forge an empire in this country.' Sir Hubert did not elaborate as he might upset the moment by mentioning the scandals he had heard concerning the parentage of Michael Duffy, a Papist who had tainted the Macintosh blood line. But that was in the distant past and the Macintosh family was once again a pillar of Protestant virtues. Any taint of Irish heritage had been washed out by strong Macintosh blood.

‘The money will be transferred to the usual account,' George said. ‘It will be done before the end of next week.'

‘Good,' Sir Hubert said. ‘I'm sure your money will see to it that the family tradition is maintained.'

George felt a touch of exhilaration. Sir Hubert was virtually saying that the deal had been done and the announcement would be made at the next gazetting of the honours awards.

‘Well, Hubert, old chap,' George said, throwing back the fine Scotch in the crystal glass, ‘I must leave you.' With that, George rose and made his way out of the club. As he stepped onto the street a cold wind gusted rain into his face. He lowered his head and pulled up the collar of his expensive overcoat, making his way to the waiting car.

If only everything could be bought as easily, he thought as the chauffeur held open the rear door for him. Yes, he could pay for his nephew's murder, but purchasing that killing was a very risky business indeed.

15

A
lthough the pitch-black night was warm for late summer, the ground was sodden from recent rain. Sergeant Tom Duffy was shivering uncontrollably as he gripped his rifle at the battalion jump-off line. He knew his nerves were stretched almost beyond the point of sanity, and he waited in dread with the rest of the battalion for the order to attack. He was thankful that in the dark no one could see how his body trembled and the sweat clung to him. The nagging thought that he would die this day had gone from a whisper to a roar, but there was no one he could tell of his fear for he was the man they all looked to for courage.

Tom was truly alone. For weeks he had pleaded for emergency leave, but with the big push coming his request had been denied. Juliet's fate had occupied his mind to the exclusion of everything else, and a letter he'd received from her parents had confirmed she was missing. They had accused him of being responsible for their daughter's disappearance and he'd received no more letters from the Joubert family.

The drone of Allied aircraft overhead helped suppress the noise of the big lumbering metal tanks moving into position, and only the occasional enemy flare swooshed up to illuminate the battlefield. Machine-gun fire came across in return but fortunately without inflicting any casualties on the men crouching with their weapons, awaiting the order to advance.

Tom had carried out his duties to ensure the men of his platoon were properly equipped for the attack on the German lines, and now he had a brief moment to reflect on what lay ahead of them all. On his inspection before midnight he noticed how many fresh faces were in the ranks, watching him eagerly for some sign that they would survive their first encounter with the horrors of an assault across open ground. These were the same fresh young men who had expressed their fears when they'd arrived two weeks earlier that they might miss out on any action as the rumour was that the Kaiser's army was on the run. Well, this day they would learn the hard way that the German soldier was second to none, and that every inch of ground taken would come at a high cost to the Australians.

Tom glanced at his watch and noticed that it was near 4am. A thick fog was rising all around them, cutting visibility to around twenty yards. Tom fought to stop the trembling. How much more could he take? He knew that to the men under his command he was some kind of legend, and it was said that if you stuck close to the sarge you would get through the war alive. How wrong that had been, Tom thought bitterly. So many faces had come and gone, and he had not got off scot-free himself. He had been wounded but not badly enough to be sent back to Blighty.

Sound was muffled in the fog but Tom heard the rustle in the wet grass behind him. He turned to see Lieutenant Sullivan crawling up to him.

‘That you, Tom?' Sullivan asked, groping along the ground.

‘Yeah, boss,' Tom replied and Sullivan was beside him.

‘Are you ready?' Sullivan asked.

‘As ready as I can be,' Tom said. ‘Maybe this fog will help hide us when we hop the bags.'

‘I bloody well pray so.' The platoon commander slipped his water canteen from his belt and took a swig, and then offered it to Tom, who shook his head. ‘Orders came through that I'm to be sent back to a training battalion in England after this push,' Sullivan said, tucking the water canteen into his belt. ‘The good news is that the company commander has nominated you to go with me. They need experienced senior NCOs to help train the new troops waiting to come over. I thought you might like to know.'

For a moment Tom digested the wonderful news – an opportunity to leave this hell behind for a training camp with good food, soft beds and no whiz-bangs howling overhead. Only a fool would say no to that.

‘I wish I could accept,' Tom said. ‘But maybe Sergeant Paddy Bourke might be a better bet than me.' Tom knew that by going to England he would be too far away to search for Juliet when the time came for him to be due extended leave.

‘God almighty, man,' Sullivan exclaimed, ‘why in hell would you decline an offer like that?'

‘Personal reasons, boss,' Tom answered, leaning on his rifle and staring ahead.

‘Well, I'm not going to ask but I suspect it has something to do with a matter of the heart. At least the members of the platoon will be pleased to have you stay on, and God knows they need you.'

‘Thanks, boss,' Tom said and Sullivan reached over to grip Tom's shoulder. ‘Good luck, old chap.'

‘You, too, boss,' Tom replied and Sullivan slithered back to the main body of the platoon. A few minutes later Tom was able to calm himself enough to join the platoon waiting anxiously. It was a quiet time among them, a time to think about their own mortality. Some prayed silently, while others just sat on the grass and waited.

Then, around 4.20am, the big artillery guns opened up behind them, signalling that the battalion was to advance with fixed bayonets through the thick fog towards the enemy. Tom rose from the wet grass and the others followed.

‘Follow me, boys,' Sullivan said, and they moved out in an extended line. Behind them they could vaguely make out the creaking sound of the tanks following, as shells poured overhead to soften up the waiting German soldiers.

So thick was the fog that the outermost sections of the platoon were out of sight, swallowed by the thick damp air within seconds of leaving the line of departure.

Their artillery rounds were landing to their front in a creeping barrage which helped shield them from enemy retaliation, and Tom was surprised to see that the machine-gun and rifle fire from the enemy was sporadic and unfocused.

The grass squelched under his boots as he walked, staying close to his platoon commander and keeping his eye on those soldiers nearby so that they did not get lost in the fog.

The ground shook and Tom felt the heat of an enemy artillery round exploding not far away. He sensed that the Germans were merely firing haphazardly as they could not see them advancing.

‘Spread out,' Tom shouted, but few regarded the command. The instinct to be close to another human under such terrible circumstances was very strong. ‘Don't bunch up.'

All the time through the artillery and small arms falling on them the Australians advanced, until after around a quarter of a mile the lips of the German entrenchments loomed up at them out of the mist.

Tom reached for a Mills hand grenade, pulled the pin and lobbed it into the trench ahead. He watched it explode and heard the cries of distress from its victims. Along the line others of the platoon were doing the same, and Tom was surprised to see that the Germans only had a meagre few strings of barbed wire as defence.

Seeing movement above the parapet, Tom squeezed off a shot and saw the head disappear with a jerk. With a fierce yell Tom charged the trenches, ready, like those who followed his lead, to carry out a vicious hand-to-hand fight to the death. But the German soldiers dropped their weapons and raised their hands. Tom ordered those close to him to round up the prisoners and get them back to their own lines as quickly as possible, nominating soldiers he knew were not likely to shoot the prisoners as soon as they were out of sight.

‘See how bloody young they are,' Corporal Dan Frogan said. ‘The Huns are scraping the bottom of the barrel now.'

Tom glanced at a German soldier not far from where they stood and noticed the boy did not look much older than sixteen. He was shaking and his eyes were wide with fear. Tom looked away. ‘Do we have any casualties?'

‘All accounted in my section,' Dan replied. ‘We were bloody lucky.'

Tom saw Lieutenant Sullivan making his way along the trench towards them. ‘Any casualties to report?' he asked.

‘Not from Corporal Frogan's section,' Tom replied and saw the relief on Sullivan's strained face.

‘None from the rest of the platoon either,' Sullivan said. ‘But it seems the other companies have not been so lucky.'

As Sullivan spoke a machine-gun opened up from their front, pouring bullets out of the fog now starting to lift. None could see where the gun was firing from, but they located the direction of the sound.

‘I have orders that we are to hop this trench and continue advancing,' Sullivan said. ‘The Hun firing on us will have to be our next objective. Sergeant Duffy, assemble the men, and on my whistle blast we go over again.'

Tom quickly sorted out the platoon members and passed on the directions. In a minute or two the whistle shrilled the advance. Tom took up a position not far from Dan's section and they went over the rear of the German trench to move in the direction from whence they had heard the German machine-gun, now fallen into silence.

Suddenly it chattered into life again and all Tom remembered was nothing at all – not even the pain as the bullet took him in the head. Dan Frogan saw Tom crumple into the earth, and although he knew the procedure was to leave any man who had fallen, he disregarded the rule and rushed to Tom, who was now lying on his back, arms outstretched. Blood oozed from his head.

‘Stretcher-bearers!'

Then Dan was hit as the unseen machine-gun sought out targets in the fog, as the platoon continued to advance into the sunrise.

‘He's been head shot,' the voice drifted to Tom. ‘A waste of time taking him back.'

‘You bloody take him back or I'll shoot you lazy bastards myself,' another voice said, but Tom did not recognise the voice. The world around him was slowly fading into a peaceful world without care – except for the throbbing pain in his head. A voice was calling to him from down a long tunnel and somehow Tom knew that voice and was confused. The voice was so very distant and yet within hearing and it seemed to be a voice of his own blood.

Then all went as black as death.

Tom was suddenly awake, but was now completely confused as to where he was, and why he was looking into the face of a man wearing a white mask. A thumping sound shook the world he was in and he could see other faces hovering over his own – all wearing white masks and peering down at him. They would occasionally speak, and Tom wanted to answer but the words made no sense and the blackness came again. Glimpses of uniforms, and sounds of steam hissing; the smell of coal soot and the clatter of combustion engines. When he woke next he was aware of a smell of salt water, and the cool, crisp sheets beneath him.

‘More water,' a gentle female voice said and Tom sipped the clear liquid while a hand rested on his forehead.

‘His temperature is down,' the female voice said while Tom fought to remain conscious. But something called to him to return to the world of the dead where he was met by a spirit being. Time had lost all meaning.

‘Tom,' the spirit being said, ‘remember who you are.'

For some reason Tom sensed that the spirit being who met him in the corridor of light was an old black man with a long white beard shot with grey hair. Tom did not know who this man was, but it was as if this other world was better than the one when he opened his eyes. The terrible, crippling fear he had once known was gone and all he wanted to do was to remain here in the arms of eternal peace.

It was semi-dark and a smell of blood came to Tom. His eyes were open and he blinked, focusing on a high white ceiling. The sounds drifted to him from all around; coughing, whimpering and even sobbing.

‘Hey,' Tom called weakly, and waited to see what would happen next. A ghostly figure glided to him from out of the dim light and bent, taking his wrist. Tom saw the angelic face of a young nurse, holding a fob watch and staring intently at it.

‘How do you feel?' she asked, glancing up at him. ‘You finally have a strong pulse.'

‘Where am I?' Tom asked.

‘You are in a military hospital in England,' the nurse replied gently. ‘This is the first time in a month that you have been fully conscious and able to speak.'

‘Month,' Tom echoed without any sense of time. ‘What happened? Why am I here?'

‘When you were brought in we didn't know what to make of it. Your vital signs were strong, and we were able to get you to swallow food and water but you didn't respond to any stimuli,' she said, lifting Tom's head gently and sliding a pillow under it, so that he could drink from a glass.

In the dim light of the ward he could just make out other beds and patients and guessed it was late night or early morning. He felt so weak that he had trouble moving his arm to support the glass the nurse held to his lips. ‘I don't remember what happened to me. I don't remember anything about myself,' Tom said after a sip of water.

‘That is to be expected,' the nurse said. ‘You had a traumatic head wound – you were shot in the head – and the doctors had to replace part of your skull with a metal plate.'

Tom reached up to touch his head and felt a great swathe of bandages. How was it that he could remember nothing of the incident – or even who he was? He just knew that his name was Tom – because this was what the old black man had called him in the other world.

‘I don't know who I am,' he croaked in despair.

‘You are an Australian army sergeant, Tom Duffy,' the nurse said, taking a chair by Tom's side. ‘You are a hero, and from what I was told by your friend, Corporal Frogan, a man who is sorely missed by his comrades.'

‘Frogan,' Tom repeated with a frown. ‘I don't recognise that name.'

The nurse took his hand. ‘Doctor Mendelson will be very pleased to hear that you are back with us. He is a remarkable man and does wonders with cases such as yours. He pulled your scalp over the head wound; when it's healed, you won't even see a scar because it'll be covered by your hair – once it grows back, of course.'

Tom frowned. He was utterly confused.

‘Now, you must rest and I must continue my rounds,' the nurse said, rising from the chair and leaving Tom wide awake to stare at the ceiling, desperately seeking through the dark corners of his mind to find the bits and pieces that defined him as a human in the living world. Nothing came to him; the past was a blank and the present a frightening reality.