Sunset Ridge (13 page)

Snob laughed. ‘You'll chop it, will you, b-b-bandicoot? Come on, boy, every time we have a bit of a scuffle your brother suddenly appears to save you. No, you won't chop my finger off because you're afraid and you can't fight. You're just like that older brother of yours. You know his best mate clobbered him one this afternoon? He ended up in the medical tent with a busted nose, and that runty young brother of yours was there to hold his hand.'

‘L-liar,' Luther accused.

‘I dare you to cut my finger off. I dare you.' Snob held up his hand, extended his forefinger and rested it atop the paling fence.

Luther ran his fingers across the leather sheath covering the blade of his tomahawk.

‘Well, come on, b-b-bandicoot. I haven't got all day.'

Saliva gathered in Luther's mouth. He pulled the tomahawk free of his belt as Snob extended his finger on the splintery upright post. He was grinning like an alley cat.

‘That's what I thought. You squatters' kids are all the same: cowards, cold-footers, the lot of you. Holed up on your spreads dodging the war.' Snob spat on the ground. ‘Well, not me, I ain't no coward − I'm joining up this week.'

Luther's insides curdled. An image of Corally's sea-green eyes swirled before him. The blade of the tomahawk flashed across the air, slicing neatly through the flesh and bone just below the knuckle.

Snob Evans stood in stunned silence for the barest of seconds before letting out a howl of pain. ‘My finger!' Snob screamed. ‘You cut my finger off!' The severed finger lay on the upright post as blood seeped across Snob's shirt where he clutched the maimed hand to his chest.

Luther jammed the tomahawk back in his belt and did the only thing possible: he ran. He took the winding back way past buildings and tents, his boots kicking up dirt and sticks, his breath coming hard as he ducked under tethered horses and past clusters of chatting men. His whole body buzzed. He had to tell Corally. He imagined pearly white teeth as she smiled at his news, her slim hand slinking into his. Guessing Corally would be back near the marbles ring trading her less precious balls for anything of equal value, Luther battled want with duty, until reluctantly he zigzagged between tent pegs and headed for the sheep pavilion.

‘Where have you been?' Dave asked as he nearly collided with his brother at the entrance to the pavilion. ‘We're ready to leave and I've been looking for you everywhere. Mother and Father are furious.'

Luther eyed the rolled red ribbon in Dave's hand. ‘N-not second p-place again?' he complained. ‘How c-can a m-man keep w-winning year after year? You'd reckon th-that th-they'd give someone else a t-turn. B-besides, our fleece deserved to w-win.'

‘Come on,' Dave urged, pulling Luther behind him. ‘That's not the worst of it. Thaddeus punched Harold and Harold belted him back.'

‘What?' Luther instantly recalled Snob Evans's taunt. ‘W-what about?'

They ran past the handicraft pavilion. ‘I don't know. Thaddeus isn't talking but he's got a busted nose.'

‘A b-busted n-nose?' Luther replied, muttering apologies when he nearly ran into two women. They cut across the main showground thoroughfare towards a side entrance, where exhibitors could park their drays.

‘Yes, and Mr Lawrence and Father had an argument about it as they were loading the piano and Mother took to weeping.'

‘Hell. Where are they now?'

‘Waiting for us. The piano has been loaded and there's a newspaper photographer wanting to take a picture of us with the piano. Father only agreed to it because Cummins'll be getting his picture in the paper again too.'

They ducked under the fence, skirted a row of horses and ran past a family with a bedraggled group of youngsters tiredly bringing up the rear. Among the collection of wagons, drays and two-seater sulkies, a small crowd had gathered around the Harrow dray, the piano sitting aloft. A moustached man with a notepad was talking to G.W. Luther squeezed through the onlookers and stopped a few feet from his father, who immediately crooked a finger beckoning him forward. All of a sudden Luther didn't feel that cutting off Snob's finger or missing the fleece presentation was a smart idea. The reporter was closing his notebook.

‘Well, what's
your
excuse?' G.W. was in Luther's face, his breath sour. A few feet away their mother dabbed carefully at his brother's face. Splats of blood dotted Thaddeus's shirt front and his nose was highlighted by a blue-green tinge. Drawing Dave from the safety of the crowd, Lily positioned him next to Thaddeus in front of the piano-laden dray. A photographer fiddled with a tripod, a black cloth over his shoulder.

‘Well, speak up, boy,' G.W. persisted.

Looking his father squarely in the eye, Luther apologised for missing the fleece presentation, as a chorus of voices started to yell his name. He imagined the sting of his father's leather strap. ‘I-I had a fight with S-snob Evans,' he explained as the onlookers turned towards the commotion. ‘He's b-been c-calling me a b-bush b-boy b-bandicoot for years and fighting m-me every t-time I go to t-town. He's b-been –' Luther searched for the right word, one that would appeal to his father's sense of family honour, ‘ungentlemanly t-towards C-corally Shaw.'

G.W. didn't blink.

‘H-he c-called me a-and Dave and Th-thaddeus c-cowards.'

‘Cowards!'

Luther thought that old G.W. might explode.

Looking behind him, Luther saw the local copper, Mr Raymond Evans and a couple of townsfolk walking determinedly towards them. ‘There he is,' the baker yelled, increasing his pace.

‘H-he dared m-me t-to cut his f-finger off with my t-tomahawk.' An image of severed flesh flashed into Luther's mind. ‘S-so I d-did.'

‘You
what
?'

The photographer, ignorant of proceedings, steered Luther by the shoulder towards his two brothers. The picture was snapped just as Raymond Evans and the constable arrived. Luther looked at the half-circle of people gathered around them and spied Corally. She stood next to Julie Jackson, who looked astounded.

‘What were you doing with her?' Thaddeus asked Luther, his voice nasal and clotted.

Luther barely heard him as he gave Corally a crooked smile.

 

 

 

 

Verdun, France
September 1916

Dear Mama,

We have reached our destination. Ours has been a long trip on foot interspersed by periods of travel via train and at one stage a lorry. Everywhere we go we pass soldiers and automobiles, lorries and trains loaded with men and munitions. The scale of this war must be very great indeed. Antoine and I have found our little free time much taken up writing letters on behalf of others. Most of the farmers who have enlisted cannot read or write and this is equally true of some of the villagers we have met. I must admit we have prospered from your education because we manage to barter goods for our services – wine and cigarettes – although Antoine says I shouldn't be telling you such things.

Roland is with us. I'm sorry that he escaped, for we wished him to stay by your side while we are away. He bounded up behind us not three hours after we left the farm, and he was greeted with much enthusiasm by most of the men when he joined our platoon. Our commander has classed him as a comfort dog, and certainly to date he has been very good for morale. We wondered if he would be allowed at the front when we go into battle, and I have it on authority that a blind eye would be turned in Roland's regard. I must say, Antoine and I are very pleased at this news.

For the past few nights we have been billeted in a barn on the edge of a village not far from the front. Both Antoine and I were very surprised, for the straw was not fresh and there are fleas and any number of small spiders that enjoy feasting on the men as they sleep. Roland has suffered heartily, however this morning we carefully wiped him down with a rag soaked in petrol and managed to ease his itches for a time. Last night we ventured into the village for a drink and had to leave our seats when a group of our countrymen entered the establishment. I cannot tell you how badly they smelled, Mama. The raw stench of them was something to behold, yet their uniforms appeared reasonably clean. We learned later that they were on leave from Verdun. Although we were told that the smell was the stench of death neither Antoine nor I paid much heed to the comment. The villager I queried was complaining of a stolen pig, and food is indeed in short supply.

I guess you would have planted the first plot of potatoes by now. I hope Lisette is a comfort (Antoine thinks she may well make a fine wife for one of us but I'm not in that much of a hurry). Well, I must turn in; tomorrow we head to the front-line. We will join part of the great defensive surrounding Verdun and we are very proud to be part of such an undertaking. Although we are fifteen miles from danger we hear the big guns blazing day and night. It appears the Germans have howitzers that have been nicknamed ‘Big Bertha'. Our captain tells us that such guns can fire a single one-tonne shell nine miles, and by the great noise that shudders the very air we breathe I am beginning to believe him.

The Red Cross is here, and one of the medics has offered to post mail for us. Wish us God's speed, Mama, for we go to do our duty.

Your loving sons,

Francois and Antoine (and Roland)

PS Enclosed is a photograph of myself and Antoine taken while in Paris on leave. What a wondrous city – but I will save our sightseeing for another letter.

 

All around them, men moved back and forth, righting equipment, checking the injured and carrying away the dead. The soldiers were unrecognisable in the dim light. Their features were taut and their eyes hollow. They went about their tasks efficiently as they cleared away debris and tended to the wounded, their emotions betrayed by the odd trembling hand or a voice touched by a faint tremor. Some of the injured moaned softly; a few screamed out in pain; others simply accepted their fate and faded away into the dank earth.

Roland was scarcely noticed amid the aftermath of the battle. He walked carefully between the soldiers. His progression halted as the odd man reached out distractedly to pet him or tweak an ear. Occasionally a resting soldier would call him over and hug him tight.

‘Rest easy, Roland,' Louie Pascal said softly as the great dog halted at his side. ‘I have seen your masters. I am sure they will return.' Louie tried to sound hopeful even though Francois and Antoine were yet to return from no-man's land. The area of land that separated the two armies was controlled by neither side and divided by a barbed wire fence. Here the countryside was pitted from shellfire and littered with the debris of war: guns, spent cartridges, wooden crates and bodies. Louie squatted beside the dog. Roland licked his hand. ‘I think you have a sixth sense, otherwise you would be howling like last time. Remember, when your boys got lost out there for many hours?' Louie nodded over his shoulder. ‘But they returned then, as they will return again.' He followed Roland's gaze as a French bulldog barrelled past. Weaving through clusters of men, the dog raced along the trench to where the officer in charge stood with a ragtag group of soldiers. The dog stopped at the officer's feet, sat obediently and waited for the cartons of cigarettes to be removed from the strapping about his body. With the precious cargo unloaded and a brief pat given in thanks, the bulldog was off again, his muscly legs striking the soft soil in an ungainly stride as he began the trek back behind the lines to the supply depot. A gash on the dog's flank glistened with blood.

‘Back to work, eh, Roland?' Louie said tiredly. Standing, he watched as Roland took a step backwards, squatted on his hind legs and then sprung up onto the trench wall. The dog gained purchase on the sandbags rimming the top and scrambled over and into the dark.

Louie whistled softly. ‘Come, boy.'

The dog turned briefly towards him.

‘Damn mongrel, he never listens to anyone,' another voice commented.

Louie whistled again. ‘He's never gone out onto no-man's land before.'

The rain had begun during the night, a soft mizzle that threatened never to stop. Louie squinted across the forbidding territory as a pall of smoke drifted across the battlefield. An acrid smell carried on the breeze as Louie watched the dog pad out across no-man's land. The artillery was silent for the moment and across the narrow space between the two warring battlelines Louie could hear the soft moans of the wounded. The voices told of suffering and despair, and of the desperate hope of being saved. He watched Roland spin the length of his body, momentarily disorientated by the need surrounding him. The voices carried clearly across the terrain to merge with the wounded who lay beyond the barbed wire.

Roland continued across the battlefield. Bodies lay strewn across the charred ground, and in the places where they were piled too thick to avoid, he trod gingerly among them. Men with stretchers were picking their way through the dead and wounded, while parties of soldiers joined the search for survivors. The men moved low to the ground, wary of being picked off by a canny German.

‘Anything there, boy?' a Frenchman whispered.

Roland looked up from the fallen men he had been sniffing and whined.

‘That's what I figured,' he replied, drifting away.

The dog cocked his head sideways. It was still a few hours until dawn and fighting had broken out again to the right of their position. Artillery fire rang across land that had once been a field. Decapitated trees were silhouetted against arcs of light, as flares lit up the area. When the big guns began again Roland cringed, stopping near the rim of a crater. The stench of blood was strong, the scent of death stronger. A tangle of men littered the dank interior. Lifting his head, Roland sniffed the air.

A shell hurtled overhead and Roland flattened himself lengthways next to a dead soldier, burying his muzzle in the ground.

‘Roland, is that you?'

The dog pricked his ears and sat up. Francois' expression was grim. A wounded Frenchman was partially slung across his back and he dragged another by a bloody wrist.

‘You could be shot, you silly mutt.'

Roland bounded over the fallen soldier, gave a single bark and rested large paws on his master's thigh.

‘Shush, boy.' Francois carefully lowered the soldier he gripped by the wrist to the ground and ruffled Roland's head before adjusting the man he carried. ‘Antoine is fine. He's helping one of the wounded. I need you to stay here, with him.' He nodded to the wounded soldier lying motionless on the ground and patted Roland. ‘Stay.'

Roland glanced at the man he had been tasked to stand guard over, at the upturned earth and strewn men, and began to follow Francois.

‘Stay.' Francois waved a palm at him.

Dropping his head, Roland returned to sit by the man's side as his master merged into the dark. A few minutes later a flare illuminated the pitted, twisted landscape. He craned his head in an arc as the light sheeted the sky. By his side the wounded soldier groaned. He whimpered in solidarity and licked the man on the face. Blood shone on his tunic near the shoulder. The fine spray of rain gradually intensified. Soon splats of rain were hitting Roland's nose and he peered skyward as the water began to seep through the hair on his back.

‘Help me.'

The words were barely audible. Roland turned in the direction his master had taken. Another shell ripped overhead and then another. The hair on his back quivered. The big guns were firing in earnest and they appeared to be getting closer. Each strike shook the ground, the vibrations rippling through his body. The soldier gave a rasping cough. Rifle-fire peppered the ground nearby and in an instant Roland was sprawled across the wounded man, the wet warmth of blood matting the soft hair of his belly as he tried to protect him. A shell landed nearby, spraying them with dirt. Then a whistle sounded.

Roland sniffed at the Frenchman. Rifle-fire continued to buzz over the land and then there were fierce yells as hundreds of Frenchmen charged across the open ground. Carefully latching his teeth onto the injured man's tunic near the neck, Roland clamped his jaw shut. Digging his hind legs into the dirt, very slowly the dog began to drag the man back across the soggy ground towards the safety of the French front-line.

Each step tore at the dog's jaw muscles and sent ripples of pain down his legs. Every movement was shadowed by shell-fire and hampered by the fallen. Roland reached a shell crater and dragged the man down its sloping walls to safety as the bombardment increased. A filthy hand reached out from the gloomy depths and the unconscious man tumbled to safety, then the same hand reached for Roland and with one quick movement tugged him deep inside. Roland began to slide to the bottom where a stinking sludge awaited. Inches from the crater's pit, the man caught him by the collar.

The dog bared his teeth.

Antoine turned to Roland, his hand outstretched, moisture clouding his eyes. ‘My friend,' he cried out softly, ‘my old friend.' He pulled the dog roughly against his chest. ‘You'll be all right, boy. I think we will have to sit this one out, though.' He hugged Roland as the sky lit up and the ground shook fiercely. Dirt rained down from above and around them as the edges of the crater crumbled. Antoine shielded Roland's face from the flying dirt as the rain caused rivers of filth to run down his own.

Hours later Antoine stirred. Roland's nose was pressed against his cheek, the dog's warm breath reminding him of the farmhouse and their adventures along the edge of the stream. He turned, expecting to see Francois snoring next to him. Instead there was a wounded soldier. Antoine held his hand over the man's face. The puffs of air against his palm signalled life. If he had not seen it with his own eyes Antoine never would have believed that Roland had saved the man's life. Yet it was his dog that had appeared out of the chaos of battle, determinedly dragging the unconscious man into the same crater he had been blasted into.

Antoine's ears still rang from last night's explosion. He had been lucky not to be injured. He scrambled up the side of the shell hole and peered over the rim. The land was damaged beyond repair. Great gaping holes filled his vision, smoke layered the air and the ground was littered with dun-coloured shapes. Antoine blinked, rubbed his gritty eyes and tried to imagine the field that had once existed in place of this hellhole. The first streaks of dawn speared weak sunlight across his field of vision and he grew ill at what he saw: the dun-coloured shapes covering the ground were men, hundreds of men. The mass of bodies, both French and German, were motionless, their uniforms covered in drying mud.