Beyond the Horizon (3 page)

‘Thanks, boss,' Harry said, matching the steely grip. ‘I'll get back to you before the case is heard if I get anything else.'

‘Good man,' Sean said, and watched as Harry Griffiths left his office. He had only been gone for a moment when young Michael Hopkins put his head around the door.

‘Mail for you, Major Duffy,' he said, walking into the office and placing an envelope on Sean's desk. Sean could see that the young man was bursting to tell him something.

‘You look like the cat that got the cream, young Hopkins,' Sean said.

‘I've been accepted, Major Duffy,' the young man burst out excitedly. ‘I start my training next week.'

‘The solicitors' admission board?' Sean replied in a puzzled tone. ‘I thought you had a year left to go on your articles.'

‘No, Major Duffy, I've been accepted for the army. I'm going to get a chance to do my bit like you did.'

‘How old are you?' Sean asked sternly.

‘Eighteen, sir,' Hopkins replied, and he looked as though he was starting to regret sharing his wonderful news of enlistment.

‘If I remember rightly, Master Hopkins,' Sean said, ‘you are only seventeen.'

‘Sir,' he pleaded. ‘I need to do my bit for the country. I know I lied about my age but I think you would have done the same thing in my place.'

Sean stared at the young clerk; he was little more than a boy, really. He knew him as a bright, hard-working young man with an assured future in law. But what he saw standing before him was a bloody, bleeding soldier screaming for his mother as the red-hot shrapnel tore away his flesh. Sean swayed unsteadily in his chair, gripping the edge of his desk.

‘Are you ill, sir?' Hopkins asked but Sean shook his head. He had the power to derail the enlistment, but he could see the age-old eagerness in him to prove himself on the battlefield. Sean knew that would disappear pretty quickly when the first shells and bullets tore into those around him, and possibly into the clerk himself. Young Hopkins would see the futility of it all then. He would realise there was no glory – just the ever-present fear of being maimed or dying.

‘I should report you to the recruiters,' Sean said in a tired voice. ‘But knowing your eagerness to get yourself shot, you would probably run off to enlist elsewhere.'

Sean glanced down at the letter on his desk. It was from Captain Matthew Duffy, his distant cousin, serving with the Australian Flying Corp in Palestine. Hadn't Matthew enlisted well underage for the Boer conflict, and been baptised in war at the bloody and vicious siege of Elands River almost twenty years earlier?

‘Master Hopkins, when you get to the front, make sure that you listen to your platoon sergeant and do everything he says if you want to come home in one piece,' Sean said eventually. ‘I will raise a toast to your safe return.'

The young man slumped with relief. ‘Major Duffy, I don't know how to thank you.'

‘Just keep your bloody head down and come home in one piece,' Sean said.

‘Thank you, sir,' Hopkins said. ‘I'll make you all proud of me.'

Sean was not a religious man but he prayed to any god who would listen to keep young Hopkins from being killed.

2

S
ergeant Tom Duffy felt a hand on his back and turned to see that his platoon commander, Second Lieutenant Mike Sullivan, had returned. There was little opportunity for discussion with the crash of rifle and machine-gun fire interspersed by the blast of hand grenades, but Tom knew that Sullivan's return meant he could relinquish command to his senior office. Tom nodded and returned to scanning the grey shapes appearing and disappearing before their lines.

The situation was desperate. The deadly attack did not appear to be faltering, despite the determined resistance by the Australian diggers. Many of the German stormtroopers had already closed the distance, enabling them to rain hand grenades down on the defenders in the trenches.

From the corner of his eye Tom saw one of the German grenades cartwheel into the trench and land a short distance from where he stood on the firing parapet. Instinctively he flung himself to the bottom of the trench to avoid presenting a large target for the shrapnel. The grenade exploded and Tom could hear muffled screams and groans from some of the men of his platoon who had taken the brunt of the explosion.

Corporal Smithers's section had taken the blast, Tom realised, assessing the damage to the defences. Among the wounded was Second Lieutenant Sullivan, whom Tom liked and respected, despite the fact that he had only taken command of the platoon two weeks earlier.

Tom scrambled to his feet and moved towards the wounded officer, who sat holding one hand to his face. Tom could see blood running between his fingers. Already Sullivan was groping for his field dressing. Tom knelt to assist Sullivan with the bandage. Without a word, Mike Sullivan removed his hand to reveal that his jaw had been shattered and his forehead peppered with debris picked up by the blast. Tom tried not to look into the man's pain-racked eyes as he expertly wrapped the jaw; as he did so he could hear the officer attempting to tell him that he was now in command.

‘Got it, boss,' Tom replied, guessing what the officer was attempting to say.

When he had finished, he moved on to examine two other soldiers who had taken shrapnel. Their wounds were not severe and one of the wounded was Corporal Smithers, who had a small wound to his chest. It was only a flesh wound as the heavy material of his uniform had absorbed the impact of the metal fragment.

‘You're all right,' Tom said. ‘Get back on the firing ledges and take command of your section.'

Smithers was lying at the bottom of the trench and he glared up at Tom. ‘I'm wounded,' he said. ‘I need to be evacuated.'

Tom could hardly believe what the man was saying. They were fighting a desperate battle for survival and Smithers was whining about a very minor wound. ‘Get up, you gutless bastard, and take control of your men,' Tom snarled. ‘Worry about your scratch when this is over.' He grabbed Smithers's collar and forced him into a sitting position.

The hate in the NCO's eyes was evident as he struggled to his feet, shaking off Tom's grip. Both men suddenly became aware that the crescendo of small arms and exploding grenades had faded.

‘They're running,' a voice whooped from nearby, and Tom stepped up to the parapet to see that the killing field before them was deserted, only the dead and wounded left behind. ‘Hop the bags and advance!' Tom roared.

There was an awkward hesitation until Tom, followed closely by Corporal Frogan, scrambled over the lip of the trench to expose themselves to any counter-fire. The men followed their platoon sergeant with fixed bayonets in a skirmish line, towards the woods where the German storm-troopers had disappeared.

Tom was acutely aware that he had placed the platoon in a dangerous situation, but he had gambled that the Germans were demoralised and on the run. No gunfire challenged their cautious advance and after a short journey across the field they entered the gloom of a thick wood. Here they found wounded German soldiers who quickly surrendered. They had been left by their comrades in their haste to re-establish a defensive line further back.

Tom ensured that the prisoners were stripped of their weapons and given first aid where possible. Those who could walk were ordered to carry their own wounded on improvised stretchers. In all they had captured fourteen enemy soldiers who could prove to be valuable to Allied interrogators behind the lines.

As they were returning to their lines Tom noticed that Smithers was not among those who had followed him over the top. It seemed he had already been evacuated. Tom felt a surge of anger. Bloody coward!

He glanced around at the men who had returned to the trench and noticed that, as usual, the violent action had taken a toll on their bodies and souls. Some attempted to light cigarettes with trembling hands, while others just leaned against the wall of the trenches staring at nothing. Private Dean was vomiting and when Tom approached he looked up and mumbled that his breakfast must have been off.

Tom placed a hand on his back. ‘It gets easier,' he said, but his words rang hollow. He dared not light his pipe as he knew that his hands would shake just as badly as those of the men he now commanded.

In the distance the war continued with the crash of artillery shells and the chatter of machine-guns. Tom's war had been restricted to a tiny section of the front line; both sides fought as though every inch counted; was that what this war was all about – a few inches gained here, a few lost there? He noticed that some of the prisoners were showing signs of intoxication and smelled strongly of wine. When searched they'd had mostly captured food stock in their possession. It seemed that the enemy were starving and the greatest prize they could capture was food, not territory.

‘The OC wants to see you,' Dan Frogan called out to Tom. ‘Just got the message from the company runner.'

‘Thanks, Dan,' Tom replied, shouldering his rifle. ‘You look after the boys while I'm gone.'

Dan nodded and Tom set off to find the communications trench that would lead back to company headquarters.

He found the company commander, Major Cooper, in a hollow stretch of ground behind their lines. He was deep in conversation with one of his platoon commanders, but as Tom approached he dismissed the young lieutenant.

‘Sergeant Duffy,' Major Cooper greeted in a warm tone. ‘I want to congratulate you on your leadership. I had a report from one of the other platoon commanders about how you took over after Mr Sullivan was wounded and used your initiative to mount a counterattack to clear the field. Well done.'

‘Thank you, sir,' Tom said, pleased that he had received recognition from the company commander.

‘I will be mentioning your action in dispatches when I file my report.'

‘Thank you sir, that is very kind.'

‘Kind nothing,' the major dismissed. ‘You should have been commissioned a long time ago. Captain Jack Kelly put your name forward for officer training in England, but . . .' The company commander's voice tapered away.

Tom finished his sentence. ‘But I'm a blackfella and it would not be right.'

‘Bloody army system decides at levels well above mere company commanders and battalion CO's,' Cooper said with an edge of bitterness. ‘At least you know the feelings of the battalion's officers. When a spot comes up for company sergeant major your name will be at the top of the list.'

Tom nodded and turned to leave.

‘Sergeant,' said Major Cooper, ‘Before you return to the platoon I would like to ask you about Corporal Smithers.'

Tom was immediately on the defensive. The rule was that you did not speak ill of any other NCO in front of commissioned officers, despite how much you might loathe them.

‘Was Smithers in control of his section during the action?'

‘As far as I could see,' Tom lied.

‘And you consider that his wound was serious enough for him to be evacuated?'

‘Maybe in his mind,' Tom replied lamely.

‘That's what I thought,' Cooper said. ‘That's all, Sergeant Duffy, and once again, good show.'

Tom turned without saluting as such a practice in the field could bring an officer to the attention of any lurking sniper. Once outside he almost tripped over Corporal Smithers lying on a stretcher awaiting transport back to a hospital. No doubt he would have seen Tom talking to Major Cooper and guessed what they were talking about.

‘What did you say to the boss?' Smithers asked angrily.

‘Nothing that concerns you,' Tom replied.

‘You told him I shirked my duties, didn't you, you black bastard.'

Tom felt his blood start to boil. He wanted to smash the brass butt of his rifle into the man's face.

‘
Sergeant
black bastard to you, Corporal Smithers,' Tom snarled. ‘Remember your rank.'

‘I'll settle with you one day.'

The corporal's words followed Tom back to the trenches, and for some reason he knew that the threat was not an idle one.

Captain Matthew Duffy of the Australian Flying Corps knew that his chances of surviving were next to nil. He was putting his Nieuport single-seat biplane through all its paces to shake off the six German fighter planes manoeuvring to shoot him down. The air fight was taking place over the fields north of the ancient Palestinian town of Jaffa. Matthew quickly recognised the enemy aircraft as being the German Albatros biplanes not unlike to his own Nieuport in design. The Albatros, however, had two 7.92mm machine-guns fixed forward, to his single .303 Vickers mounted on the nose of his little fighter plane.

It had all started so casually with a call at breakfast in the camp mess that a German reconnaissance aircraft had been spotted over his squadron's airfield. Matthew had scrambled to intercept the enemy plane but it had turned and fled north, with Matthew hot in pursuit and anticipating his first kill in aerial combat for the war. For a long time he had been flying photographic missions in inferior aircraft, but at last he was in the cockpit of a much revered fighter plane. He had not been able to tell whether the enemy aircraft was being flown by a Turkish or German pilot, but it did not really matter; all that mattered was that he bring down the Albatros.

Matthew had kept up his pursuit and had hardly registered that he was flying deep in enemy territory until he had spotted the enemy airfield. His dreams of glory had soon turned to horror as he'd watched the six Albatros rising up from the airfield to meet him.

All his instincts told him to retreat, but a voice in his head told him to stand and fight. Maybe going on the offensive would catch the enemy aircraft by surprise and give him a tactical advantage. He pulled on the stick to rise higher into the cloudless blue sky and rolled over to put the sun behind him as he wheeled around to attack the first enemy aircraft. His tactic worked. He could see his adversary turning his head frantically to locate the Nieuport that had suddenly disappeared from his view. Too late, the enemy pilot realised that the Nieuport was behind him. Matthew armed his Vickers and fired a burst into the tail of the aircraft only fifty yards ahead of him. He could see from his tracer that his short burst had been successful; the pilot slumped forward and his aircraft rolled over and began to nosedive for the ground below.

Matthew had barely seconds to realise that his first kill might be his last as he had exposed his own six o'clock to the next plane that had risen from the airfield. Tracer rounds flicked through his right wing, punching holes in the treated canvas. The plane shuddered. Instinctively, Matthew rolled away from the line of fire to see a third enemy aircraft flash past his wing, barely avoiding a collision. Matthew knew that his own aircraft did not perform well in a fast dive, so he rolled over and, on levelling out, used every ounce of the tough little aircraft's strength to rise even higher in the sky. Looking over his shoulder he could see that the five remaining aircraft were below him but jockeying to get on his tail. He knew it was madness but he pushed the nose of his aircraft over to dive at one of the enemy planes separated from his wing of attackers. Gun blazing, Matthew could see his tracer raking the aircraft below from tail to nose and he swept past it just as its fuel tank exploded, engulfing the pilot.

Turning his head to locate the remaining four enemy planes, Matthew could see the fireball of a pilot clambering out of his cockpit to throw himself over the side, plummeting to his death. Matthew felt a twinge of sympathy for the man. He himself always ensured that he had a pistol close at hand to shoot himself should his plane catch fire with no hope of landing safely. Better to die quickly from a bullet than burn in agony as your plane went down.

Two aircraft confirmed, Matthew thought as he levelled off to climb once more. But the enemy planes had anticipated his move and dropped down below his own aircraft to angle up, firing from below, where he could not bring his fixed gun to bear. All Matthew could do now was outfly his opponents. Handling these fragile war birds was a skill he had honed over many years and now he needed all of that skill. He quickly checked his fuel and pressure gauges and then he heard a disconcerting sound coming from his engine. It would alternatively cut out and then roar into life.

‘God, not now!' Matthew groaned. A bullet must have done some damage to his engine. According to his compass he was heading in the direction of his own airfield, and when he swivelled his head to see what was happening behind him, he noticed that of the four remaining aircraft only one had peeled off to pursue him, while the others were returning to their airfield. Both aircraft were fairly evenly matched in speed and all Matthew had to do was keep at least the half-mile gap between them to stay alive.

Suddenly the engine choked then spluttered into silence. The whistle of the wind through his wire struts and the distant drone of the enemy aircraft was all Matthew could hear. As he went into a shallow glide he desperately fought to make the engine come alive. He succeeded for a second or two, then it died once again. Matthew knew he had no other choice, besides crashing, other than to glide to the enemy airfield and land there. By doing so he would avoid death but would be taken as a prisoner of war of the Ottoman Empire.