Sunset Ridge (34 page)

‘Got room for another at this party?' Harold slammed into Thaddeus, the Lewis gun gripped tightly in his hands. Beside him the red-haired Thorny grinned, clamping an unlit cigarette between his lips. ‘They're giving us a fair kick up the you-know-what today.'

‘We'll k-kick 'em right b-back,' Luther growled.

The dug-out was hit in the first two minutes, collapsing the entrance and trapping its occupants. Amid the heavy barrage, Luther and Thaddeus pulled away dislodged sandbags before digging fiercely at the piled dirt. Fall and Trip joined them, digging with their bare hands as shell-fire grazed the tops of the trenches. Captain Egan was pulled free, and Thaddeus smacked him hard on the chest to get him breathing again.

‘I'll live,' the captain spluttered.

When the barrage finally ceased five minutes later, Fritz attacked in earnest. The enemy was well entrenched and the crossfire from the machine guns kept the Allied trench subdued.

‘Waste of ammo,' Luther snorted as he crouched against the trench wall. Bullets slammed into sandbags and whizzed over their heads. Amid the noise, two distinct bombs could be heard. ‘Grenades,' Luther said loudly as a battle cry went up from in front.

‘Someone's having a go!' Thaddeus yelled.

Captain Egan took a quick look through his field glasses. ‘Two German machine-gun nests have been blown.'

Dave watched as the Australian front-line charged across no-man's land. His stomach tightened in anticipation as he gripped his rifle. Next to him Thaddeus and Luther were staring at Captain Egan, waiting for the order to attack.

‘We've got to give them a hand, sir,' Thaddeus yelled.

Captain Egan lifted his whistle and blew.

Hopping the bags, they rushed towards the front-line trench as Germans swarmed the area. They shot, stabbed, punched and slashed at the oncoming invaders, only to be pushed backwards by a fresh wave of artillery fire and dead and wounded Australians. Harold, perched to one side rattling his Lewis gun, did his best to protect retreating Australians, Thorny replacing each empty magazine cartridge oblivious to his own safety. Finally the enemy retreated and the remaining Australians fell back into the trench.

‘It's a grand war this one, Thorny.' Harold spat dirt from his caked lips, and rested against the trench wall. ‘The side that wins will have the most dead.'

Thorny looked at his cigarette. The tip of it had been shot off. ‘Light?' he asked casually.

Dave felt an insistent tugging at his body. There was something warm and wet on his skin.

‘Is he all right, d-do you th-think, Thaddeus?' Luther asked.

His brothers were patting him down, checking for wounds. Dave noticed that Luther's tomahawk was slick with blood.

‘Had the wind knocked out of him, I reckon,' Thaddeus replied. Picking up Dave's helmet, he dropped it on his head. ‘You might try and keep that on,' he admonished.

All along the trench system the call for stretcher-bearers rang out. Slightly concussed, Dave examined the lifeless soldier by his side. It was not the first time he had been saved by fate. Over the last few weeks men had been blown to bits in front of him, effectively shielding him with their own flesh and blood. But this time it was different. Dave knew this particular digger well.

Smudges of exhaustion circled the fading irises and highlighted the curved lashes; the tender face recalled images of cherubs. Grasping the boy by the shoulders, Dave pulled the dead weight into an upright position against the trench wall. He imagined it to be someone else's hand when his own reached out and closed the still-warm eyelids.

‘Cartwright, isn't it?' Captain Egan asked, nodding towards the dead soldier.

Dave looked up at the officer. The captain had a bloody cut running the length of his cheek and his uniform bore the white-chalk remnants of his recent burial in the dug-out.

‘Yes, sir. Matty Cartwright was his name.'

The captain shook his head, writing the name in a notebook.

‘They shouldn't have let him join up, sir.' Dave searched Cartwright's pockets. Most of the men carried a final letter; a few brief lines to loved ones in case their time came. ‘No letter, sir.' He patted another pocket. ‘Nothing. Oh, hang on.' The paper was un-bloodied despite the black-red liquid oozing from the gaping wound in the boy's chest.

‘Well, hand it over, son.' Captain Egan unfolded the wad of paper and studied the extraordinary likeness of the dead boy. Cartwright was immortalised in crayon. ‘Is this your work, Dave?'

‘Yes, sir. I did it as a favour. He was a mate and he wanted a sketch as a present for his mother.'

Captain Egan stared at the drawing.

‘You'll send it back like he wanted, sir?'

The captain folded the drawing. ‘I'll see she gets it.'

All along the trench, men righted themselves, checked the wounded and regrouped in case of a counterattack. A number of soldiers were tasked with making running repairs to sections of the damaged trench; others carried the dead further along the trench system to where they would be collected by a work detail and taken away for burial. Captain Egan trailed this latter grisly task, noting down the names of the dead and ensuring the men were kept busy. Stretcher-bearers reached their section and quickly ascertained the worst cases. Bow-legged, with backs and heads bent to escape a canny sniper, they collected the injured. Dave willed himself to movement and joined his brothers, who were stacking bodies. Harold collected the remains of a hand: he held the lifeless flesh mid-air until, at Thorny's suggestion, they watched it sail through the air into no-man's land.

Bile rose in Dave's throat and he vomited into the dirt. Someone slapped him on the shoulder and asked if he was all right. Dave nodded and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

‘N-now I've seen everyth-thing.' Luther nudged Thaddeus in the ribs. Coming towards them were two stretcher-bearers, a field doctor and a great mangy dog.

‘American Field Ambulance,' Harold explained. ‘They're handy blokes.'

‘And the dog?' Dave asked. They had heard the stories of animals attached to battalions, but many were mascots and few lasted long on the front-line.

As they talked, the Americans passed, stopping a few feet away to tend to other wounded. The dog trotted up and down the trench, snuffling the ground and sandbagged walls with interest. At a bend in the trench where a pile of dead bodies awaited collection, he gave a single bark and sat patiently on muscular hind legs.

‘Well, hurry up!' the American medic yelled at them from where he tended a soldier with a gunshot wound. ‘If the dog says there's a live one, there must be.'

The Harrow boys exchanged glances with Harold and then rushed to the pile of corpses. Gingerly they turned each of the five men over and checked for signs of life. There were limbs missing, and the deadly crossfire technique of the German maxim gunners had shot one man almost in two.

‘Jesus,' Harold uttered, ‘they all look buggered to me.'

Squeezing between their legs, the dog smelled each prone body and then placed a large paw on the leg of one of the men.

Thaddeus held his palm above the bloodied face. ‘God's holy trousers, he's breathing!'

They carefully but quickly pulled the soldier free and stood back as the medic knelt by the man's side. The soldier's coat was swiftly unbuttoned and the shoulder wound prodded. The doctor rolled the man onto his side.

‘Bullet's still in there. Missed his heart.' Placing a field dressing over the wound, he rose.

The dog shook his hairy body from head to tail. ‘Good job,' the captain praised, patting his companion.

Dave fell on one knee and hugged the animal. Despite the stink around them, the smell of the dog reminded him of home. ‘Hey, he's got an identity disc around his neck. It says Antoine Chessy.'

‘They're enlisting dogs now!' Harold said, rubbing at his cheek stubble.

‘Keep safe, Antoine,' Dave said quietly, running his hand along the dog's back as more stretcher-bearers arrived. Noticing the rank on the American's uniform he asked, ‘Is he yours, Captain?'

As if understanding their conversation, the dog looked up. The captain only smiled. ‘I wish,' he answered, before following his men to another section of the trench.

The dog disappeared around the next bend as sporadic artillery fire continued to sound across no-man's land. In the all-too-few moments when the gunfire eased, the brief silences were filled with the groans of the wounded.

‘There are men out there.' Harold's palm slid up and down the magazine of the Lewis gun.

‘Haig's standing orders say no rescues,' Dave replied as he scratched at Matty Cartwright's dried blood on his face. ‘Besides, we tried it once and Egan nearly tarred us he was that mad. He threatened to write us up on charges.'

Thaddeus gave a snort of disgust.

‘B-bugger Haig,' Luther retorted. ‘I h-haven't l-laid eyes on him since this b-bunfight started. I didn't come all th-this way to listen to our b-blokes die.'

Thaddeus quickly organised a rescue party, comprising himself, Luther and Trip and Fall. The latter were passing along the trench with bags of lime, throwing handfuls of the stuff on blood and flesh, their approach advertised by the blaspheming of diggers who found themselves either kicked or inadvertently bustled aside. The brothers dropped the lime on the duckboards at Thaddeus's order.

Thaddeus cuffed Dave on the shoulder. ‘You stay here. If the worst happens – well, three of us would be a bit hard on Mother.'

Harold positioned the Lewis gun and scanned no-man's land. The enemy soldiers were clearly visible in their trenches. ‘It's too risky, we should wait till dark.' He looked directly at Thaddeus as diggers positioned their rifles along the earth wall. There was a mumble of agreement from some of the assembled men.

‘Bollocks,' Luther replied. ‘You l-lot cover me.' Scrambling over the top of the trench, he waved a filthy rag in the enemy's direction.

‘Bloody hell,' Thaddeus muttered, cocking his rifle. He peered through the rifle sight, scanning the scarred, open terrain as his brother walked into no-man's land, the handkerchief fluttering in the cordite-filled air. ‘You cover the right, Dave. I'll do the left.'

‘We've got his back, Thaddeus,' Fall and Trip answered in unison.

Dave took a deep breath and steadied himself. There was movement in the German trench, movement across no-man's land. Bulbous rats scurried around purulent corpses. He tried not to think of the rats or the Germans or the odds of Luther surviving such a reckless action. Everything would be all right.
Please let Luther be all right
.

Harold patted his tin helmet. ‘That boy never was one for worrying about consequences.' He ran his hand across the barrel of the Lewis gun. ‘Be ready, my lovely.'

All along the trench, men took aim, watched and waited. ‘It's Chopper Harrow,' someone remarked.

Luther walked carefully through the dead, dying and injured. Hands reached to pluck at his legs, men raised themselves upwards before falling back into oblivion, and at every carefully placed step the cries of the maimed carried him onwards. Occasionally a lone shot rang out and a spray of dirt rendered Luther motionless. Fritz was having a bit of fun. In a single window of silence the wind carried a plaintive voice: ‘Don't forget me, cobber.'

The forty men in Dave's section of the trench lifted their rifles as one in response.

Captain Egan rolled into the front trench, anger furrowing an already lined brow. ‘Who is it?' he snapped.

‘Luther, sir,' Thaddeus replied.

‘I should have bloody well known it would be one of you Harrow boys.'

Two hundred yards out Luther was met by Fritz, his own scrappy bit of material wrestling with the rising wind.

‘Well, I'll be,' Captain Egan muttered. ‘Stand to, stand to,' he called along the line.

‘They already are, sir,' Thaddeus replied. His finger was poised on the trigger, the rifle's line of sight centred on the flag-waving Fritz. ‘If the worst happens,' Thaddeus hissed at Dave, ‘cover me. I'll not leave him out there.'

Dave held his breath to steady his aim.

Captain Egan drew his pistol. Across the field of battle, German heads popped up all along their trench.

The two men stood a foot apart, silhouetted by haze and debris, their bodies melding together in a shimmer of sunlight. Dave watched the two lone figures, squinted upwards into an uncaring sun and waited. Minutes later Luther and his counterpart walked their separate paths back towards armies that prayed to the same God.

‘Bloody idiot,' Thaddeus chastised, pulling Luther down into the relative safety of the trench.

‘Holy Ghost!' Harold exclaimed, clapping Luther on the shoulder.

‘Th-they've agreed to l-let us get our w-wounded and dead, sir,' Luther addressed the captain. ‘And I agreed th-that Fritz could get th-theirs.'

‘Did you, now?' the captain responded.

Luther held his gaze.

Captain Egan grunted. ‘Well, then, you men, you heard him. Get yourself into working parties of four. Wounded first and then the dead. So, you were out there for long enough, Harrow – have a nice little chat, did you?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And are you going to share this friendly conversation with the rest of us?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Well?'

‘I said it was a l-lovely day for a w-war, sir.'

Egan appeared stunned. ‘You said
what
?'

‘I said it was a lovely day for a w-war, sir.'

‘I heard you the first time.' Captain Egan shook his head. ‘Go on, then. Get going, the lot of you.'

‘What did Fritz really say, Luther?' Dave stepped carefully between the fallen bodies strewn across the ground as they scoured for wounded.