Beyond the Horizon (12 page)

Karl took the reins and urged the horse into motion. The horse knew its way in the dark and walked on easily. They had not been travelling long when Karolina gasped.

‘Over there!' she said, pointing in the direction of the bumbil tree silhouetted against the stars. ‘I saw someone.'

Karl turned to stare into the dark and now he too could see the outline of a man standing and holding a long spear.

‘Wallarie,' Karl murmured and brought the sulky to a stop, clambering over the side and striding towards the solitary figure.

‘Hello, Pastor, you got any baccy?' Wallarie greeted.

Karl came to a stop before his old friend. ‘We have been worried about you,' he said, restraining himself from grasping the old warrior and giving him a hug.

‘I bin all right,' Wallarie replied with a smile that exposed his nicotine-stained teeth.

‘You need to come with Mrs Schumann and myself to the mission house and have a good meal – and some tobacco.'

‘Can't do that,' Wallarie replied. ‘Dunno why, but ancestor spirits telling me no.'

Karl ignored his superstitious talk of spirits. ‘Why did you come?' Karl asked. ‘I know that it takes a lot to get you to venture out in the night.'

‘Bad dreams about black water and
debil debils
,' Wallarie replied. ‘Dunno what they mean. Making me worried something bad goin' to happen.'

Karl could see that the old man was worried, but he didn't know how he could help him. He could hardly start talking to him about Sigmund Freud's interpretation of dreams. ‘Everything is worse in the dark, old friend. I wish you'd come home with me and eat. We can talk there, in front of the fire.'

Wallarie frowned. ‘Maybe I go and dream some more,' he said. Then he turned and walked away, leaving Karl wondering whether he had been a figment of his imagination. There was always something eerie about the old warrior.

‘It was him, wasn't it?' said Karolina as Karl resumed his seat and took the reins.

‘It was Wallarie,' Karl confirmed. ‘It has been a long time since I saw him last.'

‘What did he want?'

‘He wanted to talk to me about a strange dream he was having,' Karl said, flicking the reins. ‘He said that he was dreaming about dark water.'

Karl heard Karolina's sharp intake of breath and glanced in her direction. She had her hands up to her face and even in the dim light of the sulky lantern he could see fear etched in her features. ‘What is it?' he asked in alarm.

‘The dream of dark water,' Karolina said, staring ahead into the darkness. ‘I was speaking with Giselle tonight, and we both said how recently we had both been plagued by a disturbing dream of water. And now you say that the Aboriginal is having the same dream.' She turned to Karl. ‘This could not be coincidence. What does it mean? I feel it has a terrible link with death – yet I cannot say why.'

Karl shook his head. ‘It is just a coincidence,' he said softly. ‘Wallarie is always babbling about strange things. Dreams do not predict our future. Only God can do that.'

‘But the dreams?' Karolina said. ‘It cannot be a coincidence.'

She fell into a deep silence and did not say another word all the way home.

*

In the sacred cave Wallarie sat before his small fire as the flames brought alive the ochre paintings on the walls depicting the life of his now dead people. Wallarie knew that he had annoyed the ancestor spirits by disobeying the command to stay away from the Europeans, and he accepted their punishment. He was going blind, his vision slowly blurring until eventually his world would be filled only with darkness.

Possums rustled in the treetops outside and the musty smell of ages permeated all corners of the cavern. This was a place where only men should enter. Wallarie began chanting his song, staring at the flames dancing small corroborees for him. After the constellations had wheeled across the southern skies he saw the dark water mixing with the flames. As he continued to stare beyond pictures of flames and water he saw a distorted face flowing with the water. Wallarie did not know the man's name but he had seen him before when he had flown on the night sky to a place far to the south. He had known then that the man was evil and now the meaning of the water became apparent.

A dingo howled from far away and its call brought the old warrior back to where he was in the world of living men.

‘Bloody ancestor spirits,' he mumbled softly lest they hear him. ‘Bugger a man around. Could have told me before.'

He knew that he had a duty to go to the pastor and warn him about a man who would bring death. But would he believe old Wallarie? He hadn't seemed too concerned when he'd tried to talk to him about the dream. Besides, the old warrior would have to find a way of delivering his warning without causing the dreaming spirits to become angry again; if they took his eyesight away after last time, who knew what they'd take away next time. Those ancestor spirits, they were such an easily annoyed mob.

11

T
he weeks of being confined to battalion HQ had been frustrating for Tom. The battalion had been pulled back behind the front line to conduct training, so at least they weren't in the thick of things without him. The regiment had had reinforcements sent up and for the platoon it had generally been a quiet time away from the horrors of the fighting.

But the lull fooled no one as the soldiers watched their officers hurrying backwards and forwards to brigade HQ for orders. This was simply a preparation to return renewed to the fighting. The German army had spent itself in its spring offensive and had fallen back on old defensive lines. There was even an optimism among the Allies that the Kaiser might be feeling the strain of the newly arrived American army entering the fray with fresh troops and an enthusiasm not yet blunted by the realities of trench warfare.

It was the height of summer and Tom sorted through a pile of newly issued gas masks while his platoon sat around a short distance during a break in their lessons on the use of the Lewis gun. The field was now dotted with drying flowers and browning grass as the sun beat down on the rolling fields. Birds could be heard above the distant thump of artillery shells, which reminded the men at rest that the war was always ready to welcome them back to hell.

Tom picked up a mask, searching quickly but thoroughly for any faults. He was diligent in his work as he knew the user's life might depend on its efficiency. He was being assisted by Private Dean, who had been detached from his section to carry out battalion duties for the day.

The young soldier passed Tom a mask. ‘At least this got us out of a route march, Sarge,' he said, gazing over at the rest of the platoon. They had all been on a long training march and were now having a lesson from a young second lieutenant who had recently joined the battalion. It was obvious that Tom's platoon were humouring the young officer, whose keenness had not yet been dampened by the harsh realities of combat. The Lewis machine-gun had been the company's constant companion, and all knew it as well as any tool they had ever used.

‘Who's your section commander now?' Tom asked, rejecting a mask that he found to have a hole in it.

‘We got Lance Corporal Paddy Bourke,' Dean answered. ‘I'm sure he'll get his second stripe when he takes over from Corporal Smithers.'

‘You got a good man there,' Tom said. ‘He'll look after your lot.'

‘When you coming back to the platoon?' Dean asked.

Tom took out a pipe, stuffed the bowl with a plug of tobacco. ‘How about we take a smoko break?' he said to Dean, who was pleased to have a time away from the tedious but essential task of checking gas masks, even though he didn't smoke. Both men sat down on the drying grass and gazed across a paddock where fat cows grazed behind a low stone wall.

‘You did well back a few weeks ago when the Hun almost overran us,' Tom said and he could see Dean grow warm with his praise.

‘Thanks, Sarge,' he mumbled, ducking his head. ‘I know it's not my place but I don't think you tried to kill Corporal Smithers,' he blurted out. ‘I told the investigating officer that I saw Corporal Smithers cowering in the trench during the attack, but the adjutant didn't put that in my statement. I wouldn't have held it against you if you had done away with him anyway. He's a real bastard, that one. The things he was saying about you had to be lies.'

Tom puffed on his pipe, watching the smoke curl away on the hot air of the midday sun. ‘What was he saying about me?'

‘Well,' Dean squirmed, realising that he had started something now.

‘C'mon, Private Dean, what was Corporal Smithers saying about me?'

‘Well, that when we last had leave in the village, your fiancée was sleeping with him behind your back,' Dean replied awkwardly.

‘A bloody lie,' Tom scoffed, but he could not forget the sight of Juliet waving to him tearfully as the truck drove away, and Smithers standing behind her, grinning with malice. The letters he had written to Juliet had not been answered, and that worried him. Something was wrong, and he only hoped it was the French mail system.

Both men were still sitting when Tom spotted the regimental sergeant major marching towards them. They jumped to their feet and stood to attention. ‘Are you satisfied that all the masks here are ready for use, Sergeant Duffy?' he asked by way of greeting.

‘Yes, sir,' Tom replied. ‘Those over there failed the test.' He pointed to a much smaller pile of discarded masks.

‘Good,' RSM Pink said. ‘Private Dean, you are relieved of your duties here and are to report back to your platoon commander. As for you, Sergeant Duffy,' the RSM said, ‘you are to report immediately to BHQ. Ensure that you are spick and span as you are to report to the commanding officer. So make sure your boots and brass are polished. I will be parading you within the hour.'

Tom did not need to ask why he was being paraded before the CO. At last it was time for his case to be heard.

The adjutant sat in a foldaway field chair in the corner of the CO's office while the battalion's commanding officer pored over his final report, flipping through statements. The adjutant sat very still as he watched his CO ruminating on what he had written in his summary.

‘You are satisfied that your findings are correct?' the CO finally asked.

‘Yes, sir,' the adjutant replied. ‘I feel that Sergeant Duffy should be considered for a court-martial on the charge of attempted murder.'

‘Hmm,' the CO sighed, looking up at his adjutant. ‘We're going back into the lines in a few days. All I have to add to your report is my concurrence on your findings, and the Sergeant Duffy matter will be handed over to the provost marshal.'

‘That is where the matter belongs, sir,' the adjutant said. ‘I feel sorry for the man. It is not his fault that he was born with a stroke of the tarbrush in him. From what I have heard, the black blood makes them unreliable and shiftless. Besides . . .'

‘Besides, how do you explain that Sergeant Duffy was awarded a DCM when he was actually recommended for the VC?' the CO finished for him. ‘But then again, how do you explain that his platoon commander's report is on my desk recommending Sergeant Duffy for a Military Medal for his actions in the last bash by the Huns?'

The adjutant squirmed at the obvious rebuke from his CO. ‘I am sorry, sir, but I can only base my findings on the evidence placed before me and what is known of the Aboriginal people.'

‘I understand that, adj,' the CO said. ‘As you are aware, I trust your judgement. Send Sergeant Duffy in.'

Tom was waiting at attention outside the office door of the CO in the company of the RSM, who stood stiffly to attention with his swagger stick tucked under his arm. Tom noted that there were no soldiers to escort him away if he was to be charged. Not that their absence necessarily meant he wasn't facing a lengthy time in a prison.

The door opened and the adjutant poked his head out. ‘March Sergeant Duffy in, RSM,' he commanded.

Barking his orders, the RSM led Tom into the CO's office, where Tom snapped a smart salute on the orders of the RSM and remained stiffly at attention before the CO's desk. Tom was aware that he was sweating and his heart was beating too quickly.

‘Stand Sergeant Duffy at ease, RSM,' the CO said quietly and the RSM barked out the order. Tom relaxed only slightly, and hoped that his trembling knees would not give way under him. From the corner of his eye he could see the adjutant standing to his left just behind him, his hands behind his back.

‘Sergeant Duffy,' the CO said, ‘a thorough enquiry into the matter occurring a few weeks ago between yourself and Corporal Smithers has been conducted. The adjutant, as the investigating officer, has given me his report, which is now on my desk.' He tapped a close file. ‘He has concluded that there is enough evidence to have you charged with attempted murder and it is up to me to sign the report and concur with his findings.'

Tom legs shook and his palms began to sweat. His whole future hung in the balance. The CO had paused and Tom could see that he was deep in thought, clearly struggling with some sort of problem. Finally, he spoke.

‘Sergeant Duffy, based on my personal knowledge of your contribution to the battalion, and that of Corporal Smithers's reputation as well . . . Also based on the purely circumstantial and inconclusive statements of witnesses, and the rather strong support from your own officers and RSM Pink, I am not going to concur with the adjutant. Instead, I am going to recommend that you return to your role as platoon sergeant under Mr Sullivan. I am going to initiate an investigation into the possibility that Corporal Smithers's wound was self-inflicted. I am sure that the adjutant will nominate a suitable investigating officer in that matter. That is all, RSM. You can march Sergeant Duffy out and return him to his platoon duties.'

Tom felt as though his legs really would give way under him now.

‘Yes, sir,' the RSM barked, snapping a smart salute and delivering new commands at the top of his voice to Tom to salute, turn about and quick march from the office. As he left, Tom caught a glimpse of the adjutant. He looked stunned.

The door was immediately closed behind him and Tom felt the heavy weight of the investigation fall from his shoulders.

‘Well done, Tom,' the RSM said quietly and accompanied the goodwill with one of his rare smiles. ‘The CO knew what he was doing, and when I get my hands on that maggot, Smithers, he will wish he were dead.'

‘You know I never shot him,' Tom said.

‘I knew that,' the RSM replied. ‘Wouldn't have put in a good word to the CO if I didn't think you were innocent, would I?'

‘Thanks, sir,' Tom said. ‘It'll be good to be back with Mr Sullivan and the boys. I've missed them.'

‘Well, Sergeant Duffy,' the RSM said, returning to his gruff demeanour, ‘if I find any of the gas masks you passed as fit today are faulty, I will have your guts for garters.'

Tom grinned. ‘Thanks again, sir,' he said and turned to march away.

He was welcomed back into the platoon with broad smiles and slaps on the back.

‘The boys are glad to have you back,' Dan Frogan said.

‘Despite the fact I'm a blackfella,' Tom replied with wry smile.

‘They don't see you as anything but a bloody good NCO. The men trust your judgement and courage, and don't you forget that,' Dan said fiercely.

‘Sorry, Dan,' Tom replied contritely. ‘It really is good to be back.'

‘We go up tomorrow morning,' Dan said, changing the subject. ‘Mr Sullivan wants to have a briefing with you in half an hour at platoon HQ.'

Tom nodded and stared off across the fields. They were pitted here and there by craters caused by German long-range artillery attempting to disrupt the rear-echelon areas. The firing had been random and the battalion was lucky enough to escape its effects. Not so a small herd of cows that had scored a direct hit and now lay swelling black under the summer sun.

Tom was seriously worried about Juliet's silence. He wished he could seek emergency leave to visit her but he knew that it would not be granted because the battalion was about to move up into the front lines. Even if he were to be granted leave, he didn't want to let down his cobbers. Tom reflected on the fact that he thought of the men as cobbers. Back in Queensland he would have not gained the same respect from the Europeans he came into contact with, but in hell, race had little meaning, and men only judged you on your ability to keep them alive. Heaven was returning to Australia with Juliet as his bride, but he was concerned that he would always be labelled as a blackfella and looked down on by the whites. If only they knew he was wealthier than half of Queensland put together, Tom thought with a savage satisfaction. Maybe wealth would wipe the smirks from their faces.

With a sigh, Tom rose and made his way to the platoon HQ for the briefing. He found Lieutenant Sullivan squatting over a map.

‘Sergeant Duffy reporting, sir,' Tom said.

Sullivan glanced up and broke into a broad smile. ‘Welcome back, Sergeant Duffy,' he said and rose to extend his hand. ‘We have missed your company.'

Tom accepted the outstretched hand. ‘Good to be back, boss.'

‘Pull up some grass,' Sullivan said, resuming his position hovering over the map marked with many lines in red, black and blue indicating trench systems and terrain.

Tom squatted over the map and both men stared at the picture it presented. ‘At 0100 we move out to our positions here,' Sullivan said, using the mouthpiece of his pipe to point to the position on the map. ‘We take this route,' he indicated it with his pipe, ‘and we have to be in position before first light.'

Tom nodded. As the senior NCO his secondary role was to assume command if the platoon commander was in some way put out of action. He therefore had to be aware of the tactical situation as if he were in command himself.

Sullivan glanced at him. ‘Thought you might like to know that Corporal Smithers has been listed as AWOL from the hospital. He up and left when he was informed that there was going to be an investigation concerning his possible self-inflicted gunshot wound.'

Tom was not surprised that the man had deserted. Despite his intimidating size and vicious nature, the man was a coward.

‘At least it's a chance to promote Lance Corporal Paddy Bourke to command his section. What do you think of that idea?'

‘Bloody good decision,' Tom replied. ‘Paddy has proved his worth many times.'

‘Good,' Sullivan said, returning his attention to the map. ‘I'll call him up and present him with his stripes after dinner tonight, when the platoon is assembled. I just wanted to hear what you thought, before making the decision.'

Three days later the men of the battalion knew they had walked once again through the gates of hell. This time they were joined by an American infantry regiment receiving its blooding among the Australian veterans.