Sunset Ridge (40 page)

 

Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia
August 1917

The chair on the veranda was empty. Placing the morning-tea tray on the side table, Lily noted the missing walking stick and the open gate. The postal rider had come and gone in her absence and the station mail was sitting on the foot stool along with the latest edition of
The Illustrated London News
, its pages fluttering in the breeze. Black-and-white photographs of the Western Front flickered back and forth. Lily stayed the moving pages, her hand coming to rest on a picture of a duckboard stretching endlessly through a decimated landscape of splintered trees, cratered earth and a cloud-tumbled sky. Beneath it was another photograph depicting great plumes of earth spiralling skywards; the caption beneath said one word, ‘Messines.' For a moment Lily felt as if she were staring at a vision of hell. Never had she seen such a soulless place. If this was France, it scared her. The name Messines lingered like an unforgotten nightmare and she slowly realised where she had heard the word before. David, her youngest, had written of it. He had been there. All three of her boys had been there.

Lily lifted white knuckles to her lips. ‘My boys,' she whispered. ‘What have I done?' The pages of the magazine continued to flip in the breeze. It was not as if she was unaware of the danger, but seeing the images of the place her boys fought stunned Lily. Sitting heavily on the foot stool, she considered the months leading up to their desertion. In the end, agreeing with G.W.'s overzealous reaction to Luther's crime had not protected any of them from the war. In fact, it had had the opposite effect, and now the hell to which they had run was presented to her in gritty black and white. Where had her mind been these past months? What had she been thinking? If they wanted so desperately to go to war, surely it would have been better for them to leave with her blessing. Lily thought of the letters written to her beloved boys. In hindsight they were terse and not worthy of her. In fact, if anything happened to Thaddeus, Luther or Dave, Lily would be hard put not to blame herself or her husband.

‘G.W.,' she called out. The words went unanswered. ‘G.W.?' The open gate beckoned. Lifting her skirts, Lily ran down the gravel path.

‘Are you all right, missus?' Cook stood on the veranda, angular elbows stuck out at right angles to her body. ‘I saw Mr Harrow earlier in the library. I did ask him if he wanted a hand with that big book he had, it being so heavy, but he waved me away.'

‘What book?' Lily asked impatiently.

Cook shunted narrow shoulders towards the sky. ‘It was the bible, the one with the big silver latch on it. I put it away when he'd finished with it.'

At the gateway drag marks were visible. ‘I will have to go and look for him. I can't understand why he's gone beyond the back gate.'

‘I'll keep an eye on the time, missus. If you aren't back in an hour I'll come looking.'

‘Very well,' Lily agreed.

She followed the trail made by her husband, cursing the thin house shoes she wore. The fine leather emphasised every pebble and hole in the uneven ground but she dared not waste time in changing them. Visions of her husband shuffling along and stumbling into a pothole pulled her onwards. Heaven forbid that he should fall and break a bone, or worse. She left the house paddock behind and walked swiftly, following the drag marks in the dirt. If she tried very hard Lily could almost forget the things G.W. had said to her the day he crossed the boys' names from the family bible, even if she knew that he had meant them.

The bush was quiet. Clumps of trees bordered the track G.W. had followed, the direction taking Lily away from the river and the homestead and into low scrubby bush and belts of trees that towered like guardians. The stables lay through the adjacent house-paddock fence, and beyond that the homestead roof glimmered in the distance. A knot of concern lodged in Lily's stomach as the vastness of the land bore down upon her. As far as she knew, all the men were out checking the livestock on the western boundary, which left three women and her missing husband the only people in a ten-mile radius. Lifting her skirts in annoyance, Lily swore that it was time to stop playing the lady of the manor. Voluminous skirts and pretty shoes belonged to another life and it was time she embraced her changed circumstances. Ahead lay the track that wound to the station cemetery. Lily pushed on, wondering what to do if she found her husband injured.

The track curled past a stand of spindly needlewood trees. At the next bend she spotted G.W. He was sitting on a log beneath a tree, staring at the rows of headstones through the wooden fence. He looked up on her approach.

‘My dear, what are you doing out here?' she asked.

He turned back towards the cemetery as if seeking guidance from the relatives buried within.

‘I could have driven you out in the dray if you had told me.' Lily sat down next to him and lifted a comforting hand, but he shifted away before she could touch him.

‘Walk, needed to walk.' The words were halting, like a child unused to speech.

‘It was the pictures, wasn't it? The ones of France? It looks just horrid.' Lily waited patiently for agreement. When it didn't come she watched a line of ants traverse the dirt track at her feet. ‘I never would have agreed to your punishment, G.W., had I not thought it might keep them safe, keep them away from the war.' Kangaroos bounded through the grass. They reached the track and, seeing their path blocked, steered sharply away from the fallen log and its occupants. ‘We made the wrong decision. We were too hard on them. We placed our need for control, our disappointments, above them.'

G.W. remained silent.

‘If anything happens to them I'll never be able to forgive myself.'

‘They would have gone anyway.' The words were spoken excruciatingly slowly. G.W. struggled upwards and shuffled to the cemetery fence. ‘I would be there too if I could.'

‘Are you telling me that you are more angry that they disobeyed you than the fact they enlisted? Heaven forbid, G.W., what kind of father are you?'

There were eight Harrows interred within the fence G.W. leaned upon. Men, women and children had lain together undisturbed since the last burial some twenty years ago. He pointed at the gravesite marking his own father's resting place. ‘I am my father's son.'

A shiny black crow flew from a tree and settled on a crumbling headstone. Lily shivered. ‘We should start back if you have rested enough.'

With him shaking off her offer of assistance, they began the long walk home. G.W. refused to rest, punishing his body into keeping up a steady pace and telling Lily to walk on ahead and leave him be. She was tempted to do just that.

‘Manager?' G.W. puffed.

‘Mr Taylor?' Lily reached for her husband as he stumbled and then regained his footing. He waved away her outstretched hands. ‘He's doing a reasonable job, I think, but I wasn't sure if he was experienced enough. I couldn't find any references. I did mention that to you?' A blank stare suggested no memory of the event. ‘I wrote care of the address in the ledger and I'm hoping I'll be able to find a previous employer who can vouch for Mr Taylor's suitability. If not, I think I will advertise for someone more suitable.'

G.W. struggled with a single word. ‘Good.'

‘Perhaps I should ask Mr Taylor to speak with you now you are feeling a little better? Certainly your strength has improved. It's quite a walk you led me on this morning, my dear.'

G.W. tapped a finger against his throat.

‘Well, I quite understand if you want to wait until your speech improves, but it really is coming along extremely well.'

With the walking stick in one hand, G.W. persevered on the rutted track for ten more minutes before begrudgingly taking Lily's arm. They met Cook at the house-paddock gate, the whinging housemaid Henrietta by her side.

‘We just went for a walk,' Lily said a little too brightly in response to their questioning stares.

‘We aren't prepared for calamities, you know, missus, not when there aren't any menfolk about to help,' Cook stated.

G.W. grunted and briefly lifted the walking stick, waving it through the air in annoyance.

‘Well, everything is fine,' Lily reassured. Cook and Henrietta were useless beyond their paid professions, and even their work attitude was questionable. Lily knew that if a tragedy did ever befall them it would be she who would have to saddle a horse and ride into the village for assistance. ‘Let's not stand here talking,' Lily told them. ‘You two go on ahead before we all expire in this heat. Mr Harrow and I will be fine.' The two women walked back towards the homestead, obviously pleased that nothing more was expected of them.

What a fool she was, Lily thought sadly, casting a glance at the man who now leaned so reluctantly on her arm. Her boys were at war and her marriage was deteriorating. Everything was far from fine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flanders, Belgium
August 1917

The Menin Road led out from the ruins of Ypres. Constant shelling by both sides had turned the area into a wilderness of decimated trees, craters, churned-up earth and piles of rubble where villages once were. The concussion was shocking. The screaming of shells, the banging and crashing of the big guns and the great spurts of flame were beyond imagining. Dave waited with the rest of the men for the order to be given to make the dash along Hellfire Corner. By the side of the road facing the Germans, great lengths of hessian had been erected in an effort to camouflage the movement of troops, supplies and munitions. It made little difference. The enemy's guns battered the road continually. Dave wet his lips. Ahead, horse-drawn artillery wagons raced towards them as shells spiralled overhead.

‘Come on, come on.' Thaddeus willed the approaching wagon to safety. The low chant was taken up by the men around them.

The first empty wagon passed them at a gallop in a rattle of squeaking timber and leather. The driver urged the team onwards, his slouch hat pulled down over his brow, his body bent low over the reins. The horse's ears were flattened, the look of terror unmistakeable in the whites of the animal's eyes.

‘Jesus,' Luther muttered.

Another wagon sped by.

Dave swallowed. The men were restless. Once the artillery wagons were through, they were next. His legs felt like jelly. ‘I can't do it, Luther.'

‘Sure you can. You just put your head down, Dave, and run. Run l-like the w-wind.'

‘Besides,' Harold said laconically, ‘there are thousands of blokes behind us who will run over you if you don't.'

It was true. Dave had seen hundreds of soldiers travelling towards Ypres. The surrounding area was awash with Allied troops as they were disgorged from trains, trucks, wagons and requisitioned village buses, while others arrived on foot en route to the front-line.

They watched as the third ammunition wagon traversed the road. Halfway along the long hessian wall, a shell made a direct hit. The wagon was speared up and onto its end by the force of the impact. There was no movement from man or animals once the dust settled.

Dave found himself caught up by the forward movement of the men. Soon they were running along the road, heads down, as shells buzzed around them. Spurts of dirt signalled how close they were to death. He tried to keep up with Luther and Thaddeus but instead found himself stationed between Harold and Thorny. Snatches of this new environment sped by; hessian, wrecked wagons, artillery shells, the bloated carcasses of horses and dead soldiers lined the road. A few fortunate men had their last resting place marked by a cross or an upturned rifle stuck into the ground, sometimes with a steel helmet on top.

By late morning they had left the plank road, which veered to the north-west, and were in a newly dug trench. The men were in good spirits. They had cheated death again and the relief showed itself in ribald jokes as they drank water and talked of the engineers and soldiers who had gone before them to cart timber, construct roads and dig trenches. Dave was beyond such idle banter and he noted that Harold too had distanced himself from everyone save Thorny.

‘I don't like it,' Harold said. ‘There are fortified farms out there with blockhouses, concrete pillboxes for machine gunners, underground bunkers and barbed wire.'

‘We'll be right, mate,' Thorny placated. ‘Besides, you promised me that you'd see me through this bunfight safe and sound, so how about I return the favour?' The two friends shook hands.

Dave squirrelled back against the trench wall and, tugging off his helmet, turned his skin to the sun. The Allies had been fighting around Ypres since 1915 and they still hadn't made much of a dent. This was it, he reckoned. Having survived Hellfire Corner, he doubted his luck could hold out forever. They had got in, but would they get out again? Putting pen to paper, he began to write.

I've done my best but I think my time is nearly up. Many fine men – mates – have gone before me, so I know that should I not make it home I will be in fine company. I wonder now if I should have accepted Captain Egan's commission and become a war artist. At least then I would have paid tribute to the gallantry I have been witness to. But then who but those who have seen what we have seen would understand the horrors we have witnessed? If I do make it home to Australia, I will never speak of the war again. No one should know of the hell we have seen.

It's strange, but I see death as a smudge on the horizon, like a storm hanging out to the west of Sunset Ridge. The smudge grows in size daily like a new world waiting to be discovered yet it remains at bay, waiting, marking time. I sense its presence but I find myself lost in the immensity of an event beyond comprehension. At this very moment I know that none of us sitting in this trench will ever be as strong and as fit and as brave as we are now, and we will never have this moment again. Our mortality makes us fearless yet it takes us to our death.

Dave scanned the words, signed his name and dated it. Now his thoughts were on paper he needed to be rid of them, but he also wanted to share them, to know that one person on earth knew his mind beyond the narrow trench he inhabited. It was not the type of letter a son sent to his mother. From his sketchpad he tore out the drawing of the war dog with the Frenchman's tags around his neck and, folding it carefully, included it with the letter. Then he addressed it to Corally Shaw.

 

Crawling on his belly, Dave scrambled like a dung beetle beneath a clouded moon. The last he had seen of Luther and Thaddeus was when they had attacked a German machine gunner in his pillbox minutes earlier. The two brothers had rushed forward under cover from Harold's Lewis gun, Luther managing to drop a number of grenades through the observation slit in the brick fortification. Dave manoeuvred his way over and between the dying, the dead and the decomposed. A German flare went up illuminating the wrecked landscape and he tumbled into the partially blown-up pillbox. Heart pounding, he listened for others who may also have sought refuge there, carefully slipping his knife free of its scabbard. He could hear ragged breathing. The blade of the knife glinted as the moon escaped the clouds overhead.

‘He's dead.'

The muffled Australian voice startled him. ‘Harold? Is that you?' He pulled away a sandbag. Harold squatted in the far corner, Thorny in his arms. Two dead Germans, one with a familiar slice to the neck, confirmed Luther's part in the action.

‘Holy hell, Harold, I thought you were Fritz. Are you wounded?'

‘My leg's gone to sleep.'

Dave peered over the shattered wall of the pillbox. ‘We'll have to make a run for it. Come on, Harold.'

‘I can't leave Thorny,' he replied.

‘He's dead, isn't he?' Dave said gruffly. There was no time to waste.

‘Of course he's dead. We're all dead.'

‘Not yet we're not. Come on,' Dave implored.

‘You just don't get it, cobber. It's just a matter of time. We're the decoy. Wipe out those bloody Australians, the Pommies are saying, make use of them first. We're just cannon fodder. Cannon fodder, and they're calling us murderers back home.' He held up a pistol, his hand shaking. Dave realised Harold's nerves had got the better of him.

‘I've got this luger. I took it off Fritz, and I'll use it too, I will. I'll shoot you first and then Thaddeus and Luther and I'll do myself last. It'll save us all from being blown apart, put us back in charge of our own lives. Don't worry, I'm a good shot. You know I'm a good shot. That's why I'm a gunner and I've killed some men, haven't I?'

‘Yes, Harold.' Dave felt his own guts churn as he slowly reached out his hand and gently placed it on the pistol and lowered it. ‘You have.'

‘It's the only way, Dave.' He hugged Thorny. ‘He cried, you know. He said he was scared of dying. Can you imagine?' He smoothed the thumb thickness of Thorny's eyebrows with a patient finger. ‘I told him he wouldn't be alone for long, that we'd be with him soon enough, and he smiled, he did. He smiled.'

Dave peered over the wall again. The artillery was still raging; whizz-bangs were skyrocketing overhead. Soldiers were rushing past them,
their
soldiers. He slid back beside Harold. ‘Our boys are retreating. Like I said, mate, we'll have to make a run for it.'

Harold grabbed the front of Dave's tunic. ‘You're a good shot. I've seen you. You could have been a sniper.'

Dave loosened Harold's grip. ‘Can we talk about this back in the trench?'

‘I want you to kill him. I want you to kill the German that did this to Thorny.'

‘Harold, you'll never recognise him.'

‘Sure I will. He was young and weedy looking with an egg-shaped skull. I would have got him only that he came from behind after Luther took this position and Thorny flung himself between him and me. He died instead of me and
I promised him that he wouldn't die
. You've gotta do it, Dave. I can't hold a pistol anymore. My nerves are shot. I can barely manage the Lewis gun.'

‘Sure,' Dave agreed, ‘I'll do it. Now let's get out of here.'

‘I'm staying for just a bit longer.' Harold glanced briefly at Thorny before turning glazed eyes on Dave. ‘Now piss off back to the trenches.' Very slowly he raised the Luger and pointed it at Dave's chest.

‘Okay,' Dave agreed. ‘Give me a minute.' As Harold tucked the pistol into his tunic, David punched him in the face, once, twice. ‘Jeez.' He shook his hand in pain, Harold was out cold. He reefed Thorny's identification discs from around his neck and checked his pockets. There was a picture of a young woman, a baby tucked under each arm, and the sketch Dave had completed of him while they were on furlough. For a second he contemplated the drawing, then he pocketed the few possessions and tried to lift Harold's arm across his shoulder.

‘Holy frost, not Harold?' Luther jumped down into the pillbox. His tunic and hands were covered in blood.

‘He's only knocked out, but Thorny's gone.'

Thaddeus dived in beside them as machine-gun fire peppered the entrance. ‘N-not the best place for a chinwag, fellas.' Assessing the situation, he heaved Thorny over his shoulder. Luther draped Harold across Dave's back and lifted the Lewis gun. ‘Make a run for it. I'll c-cover you.'

Thaddeus hesitated.

‘Don't pull rank on me now, brother.'

Luther opened up the Lewis gun on the enemy as his brothers scrambled over the shattered wall. Supporting fire came from his left and right flanks. He backed up carefully, lobbed a grenade for good measure, and then ran like a rabbit, zigzagging across the open field as he followed his brothers back to the trench.

 

‘How is he?' Thaddeus squatted beside Luther and Dave. They were in an elbow of the trench with a makeshift piece of canvas slung overhead and empty munitions crates as seats. The rain bowed the canvas above them and Luther stuck a rifle butt against the sagging material, forcing the water to cascade over the sides.