Beyond the Horizon (17 page)

Tom was still awake when the ward woke up with the clatter of bedpans, meals being served and men waking and talking to each other across the polished aisle and between beds.

‘So yer finally awake, cobber,' said a voice from the bed beside him. ‘The boys bet you wouldn't make it, but I figured you would, so I clean up today, thank you very much. I'm Sergeant Wilson Blackler from Mackay,' he continued. ‘I copped a back full of Hun shrapnel at Mont St Quentin and I've been here since.'

Tom turned his head to see a pale face grinning at him. ‘Sergeant Tom Duffy apparently . . . I'm not sure where I copped my wound . . . or where I'm from,' he said hesitantly.

‘You must have lost yer memory,' Wilson Blackler said. ‘I seen it before in a few of the boys when they went down with shellshock. It'll probably come back to you in time.'

Tom turned his head to stare at the patient lying in the bed on the other side of him. A sheet was drawn up over his face and the figure underneath was deathly still.

‘Young Clarry died last night,' Wilson Blackler explained. ‘He'd been stitched up by a Hun MG at the Somme Canal a few weeks ago. We never thought he's make it. They'll take his body away soon enough.'

That morning Tom sat up and ate a bowl of porridge, and after breakfast was visited by a doctor in a white coat. He was a short man with spectacles and thinning hair.

‘How do you feel, Sergeant Duffy?' he asked, looking at his clipboard. He was accompanied by a gaunt, stern-looking woman wearing the uniform of a senior nurse. ‘I am Doctor Mendelson.'

‘Other than feeling weak, I feel fine,' Tom replied.

‘I was informed by the night nurse that you had regained your senses, and that is a miracle in its own right,' the doctor said. ‘I was also told that you have lost some of your memory.'

‘I get snatches of memory, but none of it makes any sense,' Tom said. ‘Like flashes in the mind.'

‘That is a start,' Mendelson said, scratching a note on his board. ‘I am going to have you shifted to another ward, where we can work on getting you back on your feet, and also on getting your memory back.'

Tom nodded, wondering what he would find in his past. He had had flashes of mud, blood and uncontrollable terror, which made his body tremble violently. He wasn't so sure he wanted to recover his memory.

That night Tom slept and a dream came to him of a cave and an old, bearded black man watching him with sad eyes. In his mind Tom could hear words echoing of a mission he had in life. What mission? Tom asked, but the dream faded and he woke up shivering.

The next day his recuperation began. He was transferred to a ward with more mobile patients and, with the help of a nurse, he sat up by himself. He felt the world tilt around him and his head pounded so hard he thought he might vomit. He struggled to stay upright, until the nurse gently laid him back down again. The next day it was slightly easier, and he placed his feet on the ground. It took a while, and a great deal of pain and discomfort, but eventually he could walk with the aid of a cane out into the gardens of the English manor house that had been converted to a recovery centre adjacent to the hospital. Slowly he started to put on weight. He pushed himself to work out with dumbbells after the bandages had been removed from his head and after a couple of weeks Tom felt his physical strength return – but not his memory. His old companion continued to haunt his dreams, until Tom ascertained that the cave was in a semi-arid place when the old man soared his spirit with his own over a sea of stunted scrub on red soil plains.

‘Your dreams are extremely important,' Doctor Mendelson said to Tom one day. ‘They may be glimpses into your past and may even assist us to recover your memory.'

Tom was about to say that they were not dreams but something more. But to say so would only infer that Tom had not only lost his memory but also his sanity, so he kept the thought to himself.

When Tom returned to the ward there was a man, a corporal, waiting for him.

‘Tom, you old bastard,' the stranger said. ‘I always knew you'd come good.'

‘I'm sorry,' Tom responded, ‘but do I know you?'

‘Dan Frogan,' the stranger said and the grin turned to a sad smile. ‘The nurses said you might not remember me. But that's okay. Give it time, old cobber, and it'll all come back. You and I copped it together, but all I got was a bullet through the shoulder, which was bloody good as it got me a Blighty. The whole mob back at the battalion will be pleased as punch to hear I saw you in good shape.'

‘You must be the Corporal Frogan I was told about. I'm sorry I can't remember you, but I'm sure I will, in time.' Tom apologised.

‘How about we go for a walk,' Dan said. ‘It's a bit chilly outside, but hospitals give me the creeps.'

Tom nodded, grabbed his khaki greatcoat, and the two men wandered out into the garden, which was littered with rusty coloured leaves that had fallen from the trees. They walked in silence until they came to a bench and sat down.

Dan produced a silver flask from his pocket and handed it to Tom. ‘Just a little something to take away the nip in the air.'

Tom unscrewed the lid and took a mouthful of strong whisky; it felt good – it warmed his body. He passed the flask back to Dan, who followed suit, taking a long sip of the fiery liquid.

‘Enough to bring back a few memories,' Dan said but Tom looked blankly at him.

‘I know I sound a bit stupid,' Tom said eventually, staring out at the garden. They had it to themselves; everyone else was inside, out of the cold. ‘But tell me about the two of us.'

Dan shook his head sadly. ‘Old mate, you and I survived some of the worst the Hun could throw at us over the last couple of years. You never spoke about your past in Queensland, but when I first met you in the old battalion, you were the best sniper we had. You used to work for Captain Jack Kelly until he got transferred, and then you were promoted to platoon sergeant. We've seen platoon commanders come and go, but you and I made a bloody good team.' Dan handed the flask back to Tom, who took another drink.

‘Did I ever speak about a cave in Queensland?' Tom asked.

‘Not to me – but maybe to Juliet,' he replied.

‘Juliet,' Tom frowned. ‘Who's Juliet?'

‘You don't remember Juliet?' Dan looked sideways at his old comrade. ‘God almighty! You really do have a bad case of memory loss. How could you forget the woman you were going to marry?'

‘I don't remember her,' Tom replied bleakly.

‘Ah, well,' Dan said, ‘I suppose that will come with time. I bloody well hope so.'

The two men sat in silence, huddled in their greatcoats against the chill. Eventually it began to spit with rain, and the matron came looking to bring them in out of the approaching storm.

She stood over the two men on the bench. ‘If I did not know better I would suspect that you have provided one of my patients with intoxicating alcohol, Corporal Frogan,' she said sternly.

‘Er, sorry,' Dan mumbled. ‘I was just going. Being sent back to France tonight, to rejoin the boys. I'll see you when I can, Tom,' he said, rising to his feet and slipping the silver flask in his coat pocket.

The matron looked down at Tom, who remained staring at the sky torn by a bolt of lightning and followed by the crack of thunder. The matron could see that he was trembling.

‘Come along, Sergeant Duffy,' she said gruffly. ‘I don't want you catching your death out here.'

Tom returned his attention to her words and stood stiffly to follow her back to the ward. The sleet and thunder had for the moment drawn him back to a place where death came in a loud flash to rip men's bodies apart, splattering the churned-up mud with entrails, blood and body parts.

16

T
he great rotating fan overhead made a clicking sound. Captain Matthew Duffy lay back in a comfortable leather chair and waited patiently in the foyer of the Cairo Hotel. It had been over three weeks since he had returned to Jerusalem with Saul Rosenblum, and after reporting to Allied HQ had once again been outfitted in an AFC officer's uniform, which Matthew had had to pay for. Matthew had expected to be sent directly back to his squadron but he had been diverted to Cairo for an intelligence debriefing.

A man dressed in the uniform of a British major strode across the marbled floor of the hotel foyer straight towards Matthew. Matthew rose from his chair and raised his right hand in a lazy salute, and the British intelligence officer returned the military compliment.

‘Captain Duffy, I presume,' Wilkins said without offering his hand. Matthew immediately sensed hostility in the English officer.

‘Major Wilkins,' he answered.

‘I pray that you have fully recovered from your ordeal,' Wilkins said. ‘I only wish Miss Barrington had been so fortunate.'

At the mention of Joanne's name Matthew felt the now familiar pain of grief. He was surprised to see in the British officer's eyes outright anger. ‘I am sure that you knew of our relationship,' Matthew countered. ‘So you will also know that I have strong feelings about what occurred out there.'

‘You cost me the life of a very talented agent and a personal friend,' Wilkins said.

Matthew's guilt was like an open wound. ‘I would never have allowed Joanne to rescue me if I had known what she was up to,' he said. ‘If I'd been able I would have traded her life for mine without any hesitation.'

Matthew's sincerity obviously touched the British officer, whose hard expression softened just a little. ‘Miss Barrington was the most extraordinary woman I think I will ever meet, and I am just as responsible for her death as anyone. Maybe I should be directing my anger at myself for allowing her to take on a mission behind Ottoman lines. It is a decision I regret very deeply.'

There was nothing Matthew could say.

‘Normally, you would have returned directly to your unit, but we need to know about the Turkish officer who took you prisoner,' Wilkins said eventually.

‘Captain Barak?' Matthew said. ‘Why do you need to know about him?'

‘That is a question I cannot answer,' Wilkins said. ‘But I think you would have noticed the man spoke fluent English. I don't know if you knew that his mother was English, and that his father was with the Turkish trade delegation to purchase our warships – before the outbreak of hostilities. Captain Barak grew up in England and attended the best schools. That is all I can say about him.'

‘He's working for you,' Matthew said bluntly, but Wilkins did not reply. ‘Too bad I didn't know that when I had the chance to escape by my own means.'

‘We couldn't get a message to him,' Wilkins said. ‘If I had, Joanne might be alive today.'

Matthew shook his head in despair. Intrigue had always been a part of Joanne's life but it had not helped her in the end. ‘A bloody shambles,' he muttered.

‘Joanne confided in me that you are the father of her children,' Wilkins said sympathetically. ‘I am glad they still have a father.'

‘I intend to visit them as soon as this bloody war is over,' Matthew said.

‘That may be more difficult than you expect,' Wilkins said. ‘Her father holds you responsible for all that has gone wrong in his daughter's life – including her death. He is a very powerful man, with contacts in our government, and probably a more dangerous enemy to you than the Turks. I expect him to stop at nothing to prevent you ever seeing your children.'

‘That does not surprise me,' Matthew answered. ‘But I am not a man without means myself. All I have to do is survive this war, and then I will see to my son and daughter. Joanne would have wanted that.'

‘Good luck,' Wilkins said. ‘From what Joanne told me, I believe she would have wanted you to meet your children.'

‘I'm surprised to hear you say that, sir,' Matthew said. ‘I would have thought that under the circumstances you would have sided with her father.'

‘Let's just say that I am not impressed by rich Yankee bankers throwing their weight around in my war,' Wilkins replied, and held out his hand. ‘You have done your duty and I must share the responsibility for Joanne's death. You will be returning to your squadron in Palestine on tomorrow's boat out of Cairo, but I think it will not be the last time we meet. You, after all, are the only one in the Allied command who has personally met with Captain Barak.'

With that, Matthew saluted the British major and watched him stride out of the foyer and into the hot Egyptian sun.

The next day Matthew steamed for Palestine and rejoined his squadron. He was met with back-slapping from his fellow pilots on his miraculous escape from Turkish captivity and that night they celebrated his return in the officers' mess. He was glad to be back – he felt at home with these men – but he was subdued; he could not celebrate his life when Joanne had lost hers.

He and the rest of the Allied forces were unaware that General Allenby had carefully planned an all-out assault on the Turkish armies remaining in the Holy Land and the plan would prove to be brilliant in its execution. The British general had used deception to mass his forces and aimed to launch a lightning attack on the Turkish coastal flank, breaking through and rolling up what remained of the Ottoman defences. He would use his cavalry forces to speed towards Nazareth and the Upper Jordan region, in order to cut off the southern line of retreat of the Seventh and Eighth Turkish armies around Nabulus. From there the Allied cavalry were to make contact with the Arab guerrillas at Deraa and, by doing so, close the enemy's retreat via the eastern railway. If the plan succeeded, the Ottoman Empire was finished.

By a strange quirk of fate the main fighting would occur in a place with a name well known to many Christians. What was to come would be known as the Battle of Armageddon.

Captain Matthew Duffy would come to know the name well in the next few weeks.

Sergeant Tom Duffy stood to attention before the hospital's board of three medical officers. Weeks had passed and still his memory had not returned, but strangely his knowledge of military life had not been lost. Although he could not remember people or his past, he had proved he could still handle any weapon put before him and demonstrated his knowledge of tactics and military protocol.

‘Remarkable, Sergeant Duffy,' said one of the senior military doctors – a major – as he flicked through the file on the table before him. ‘I see you have badgered a training battalion nearby to assess you on your soldiering skills. It seems that your former platoon commander gave you some help, although I gather you do not remember him.'

‘Yes, sir,' Tom replied. ‘I was informed by a former NCO of my platoon that I might find Mr Sullivan at the camp, and he agreed to have me assessed before being paraded here this morning.'

‘However, the decision as to whether you return to active duty must be made by this board and must take into account your physical fitness and your mental state,' the major cautioned.

He looked at Tom. ‘You know, with the wound you received you are entitled to be shipped home and honourably discharged for your services to King and Empire. Your awards of the DCM and MM certainly prove your courage and many would say that you have done more than your bit for the war effort. To ask to return to France, and your old unit, borders on madness when any rational man would jump at the chance of going home. But when I also look at the decorations you have been awarded, I think I might understand why you would want to return to your comrades.'

‘Yes, sir,' Tom answered dutifully. ‘I have heard that the Hun is on the run, and I want to be with the boys of my battalion when the victory comes.'

The major glanced at the doctors either side of him and they nodded.

‘I am going to approve your request to return to active service,' the major said, scribbling a signature on the file in front of him. ‘And commend you for your obvious courage. Good luck, Sergeant Duffy. Your release papers will be processed today and, all going well, you will be taken to London this afternoon to embark on a ship for France where you will rejoin your unit.'

‘Thank you, sirs,' Tom said and saluted smartly, turned on his heel and marched from the room.

Outside the room he thought about what he had done. A sane man would have jumped at the opportunity to be shipped home, but Tom knew that if he was to find his past he must return to the war he so badly wanted to avoid. There was one name that haunted him – Juliet Joubert. He could not remember what she looked like, or any detail of their relationship, yet he somehow knew she was very important to him. As for home – all he knew was that it was somewhere in the Australian state of Queensland. Perhaps after the war he would be able to retrace his life back from the place where he had enlisted. But for now he was returning to a world that he had lately remembered in his worst nightmares of exploding shells and men hanging dead and shattered on the terrible strands of barbed wire.

Tom returned to the ward to pick up the few personal items that had been brought in with him and there he was approached by the stern matron.

‘I have come to wish you well, Sergeant Duffy,' she said. ‘Doctor Mendelson would like to speak with you before you leave us. He will see you in his office now.'

Tom thanked the matron whose dour expression, he knew, belied a great compassion for the wounded men she tended, and for her nurses. Tom finished filling his kitbag with an issue of new uniforms and made his way to the doctor's office. He knocked and was told to enter.

‘Sergeant Duffy,' Doctor Mendelson said, looking up from the copious papers scattered on his desk. ‘I have been informed by the medical board that they have released you back to active duty – despite my objections. I think that I should close your file with the medical conclusion that you are totally insane.'

Tom shifted uneasily. He had grown to like and respect this small Jewish doctor, and could see in his face both disapproval and sadness. ‘I have to go back, sir,' Tom replied feebly. ‘I think my memory will come back if I am exposed to old comrades and cobbers.'

The doctor tapped his desk with the end of a pencil and motioned to Tom to take a seat. ‘I have had the opportunity to evaluate you both physically and mentally, and I have to agree that, in theory, you are capable of resuming your duties with your regiment. But I feel there is a deep reason for you not remembering your past. It may be, as I have seen in many other patients, that you do not wish to remember the conditions you have lived under for the last few years – that is perfectly understandable – but it seems odd that you would be so determined to return. I think something else has disturbed you, something else has made you want to forget.'

The doctor sighed, placed the pencil on the desk and stared for a moment at Tom. ‘I wish you well, Sergeant Duffy. God knows that we need soldiers like you to end this war, but I fear what will happen to you all once it is all over. I do not think you will be able to return to the same life you knew before the war, or that many people will ever understand the horrors you have experienced. I pray you survive your return to the fighting, and that you find what you're looking for in France.' He paused and rubbed his face. ‘I suppose I should let you go and finish getting your clearances from here.'

‘Thank you, sir,' Tom said, rising, and snapped a salute, surprising the army doctor.

‘Not many of my patients have ever saluted me, Sergeant Duffy,' he said, ‘but thank you.'

Tom left the office and made his way to the great entrance, passing stretcher-bearers bringing in new patients. He stepped out into the sleeting rain and strode along the driveway past ambulances and rows of green hedges. It was late September and he was about to return to hell.

Within the week Tom found himself moving up from the rear areas to his old battalion now stationed at the village of Frisse. He was met with enthusiastic greetings from many of the men. Although Tom could not remember them, he smiled and acknowledged their back-slapping and kind words of support. They were sympathetic as they had heard that their beloved Sergeant Duffy had lost his memory.

‘You might not recognise me,' a tall lanky sergeant said to Tom as he searched for company headquarters. ‘I'm Paddy Bourke. I heard you put in a good word for my promotion to sergeant.'

‘Hello, Paddy,' Tom replied, a little bemused. ‘Pleased to hear it – I'm sure you deserve it.'

‘The company commander's glad to have you aboard again. He said he wanted to see you as soon as you returned, so I'll wander along with you and show you where our HQ is,' Paddy said.

‘Any idea where I might find Corporal Dan Frogan? He came and saw me when I was in hospital and gave me a bit of news about the battalion,' Tom said.

Paddy Bourke slowed to a halt. ‘I'm sorry, Tom, but you wouldn't have got the news yet. Dan went west a week ago. Hun sniper got him when he was on a courier run. I know he was a good pal of yours.'

Tom felt his blood grow cold. If there was anyone who knew about Tom's past, it was Dan Frogan, and now he was gone. ‘Bloody shame,' Tom muttered and continued his walk to the company HQ with mixed feelings. How was it that he did not feel the pain of loss? He knew he and Dan were close friends, yet he felt nothing.

Paddy Bourke showed Tom to what was once a village shoeshop and was now occupied by his company's staff. He was met by the company clerk and he handed over his transfer documents.

‘Boss wants to see you, Sergeant Duffy,' the clerk said, pointing to a room just off the small foyer of the shop. ‘Good to have you back.'

‘Thanks,' Tom said and lifted his kitbag.