The Cadet Sergeant Major (24 page)

A pig grunted up in the Anabranches. Peter's fear was now fully aroused, almost a physical presence. It also created a practical worry. ‘I hope those pigs don't rip up the dummy or the camps.' He shrugged. There was nothing he could do. ‘So what do I do about Kate?' He began the endless debate again.

The radio crackled. ‘That is Capt Conkey's voice, Peter thought.

The OC called again. This time it registered in Peter's brain. ‘I am the radio piquet. He is calling us. Gosh! I must have fallen asleep!' He sat up and picked up the handset.

Capt Conkey spoke as soon as he acknowledged. “The first group have crossed the river. You and the CSM go and light the Cowboy's fire and move to your positions, over.”

“Roger Sir, over.” Peter swallowed. It was time! ‘My time of testing,' he thought. He wished he'd had the courage to tell the OC he was scared. Perversely that made him proud of the compliment. ‘Graham and I have been chosen for the hardest bit'. It made him speculate whether the OC was considering him as a potential CUO. He hoped so. It was a strong ambition. ‘I think my chances are good,' he told himself. ‘Or they were. He won't want me as a CUO when he finds out about Kate.' That was bitter ashes in the mouth.

Reluctantly Peter stood up. He shook Graham.

“Time to go.”

Graham was up in a moment, wide awake. They rolled up their bedding and strapped it into their packs. Lt Hamilton rolled on his back and began snoring.

“Should we wake him up?” Graham queried.

Peter shook his head. “No need. The patrol will do that.”

They hauled on their webbing and packs then set off, torches in hand. Graham took the lead. He strode unhesitatingly into the tangle. Peter took a deep breath and followed. Once in the Anabranches it was all that Peter had feared. The flood channels were so dark that their torch beams seemed to make it even blacker on the periphery of their vision. It also felt colder. Peter began to shiver and told himself not to be silly.

Graham lit the Cowboy's fire. While he fanned it into flames Peter shone his torch around. Nothing appeared to have been touched by the pigs. They waited till the fire was well alight. More logs were piled on to keep it going. Graham then switched on his torch again and set off along the flood channel.

“Cripes it's dark!” he commented. “I hope we don't meet that big pig tonight.”

“Amen to that,” Peter agreed. He had begun to silently pray. Fear of death seemed to grow in him minute by minute, the deeper they penetrated into the thickets.

They threaded through the flood channels to the Wild Boar Wallow. Graham's torch beam swept around the clearing. Red eyes glowed, blinked then vanished. Some small animal scampered off into the rubber vines. The torch beam lit up the dummy.

“It looks very realistic at night doesn't it?” Graham asked. He was clearly enjoying himself.

“The pigs have been busy,” Peter commented, shining his torch on fresh pig rootings in the soft mud.

The friends did not pause at the dummy but continued on to the Bunyip Billabong. As Graham shone his torch along it a large black bird took off with a squark which made Peter's heart leap into his throat. Something crashed around in the undergrowth up on the high bank to the left. There was a soft splash. In the beams of their torches ripples could be seen spreading across the black water.

“Holy Moses!” Graham said excitedly. “This is bloody great. These kids will wet themselves.”

“So will I!” Peter added. Graham laughed and continued walking.

They followed the path through the thorn thicket along the top of the bank and soon arrived at the Pig Hunter's camp. The kitbags lay there untouched. Graham dropped his gear. Peter hesitated then berated himself for being a coward. Summoning up his resolve he said, “I will go and make sure everything is ready at the ruin.”

“Fine. I will get this fire going,” Graham replied cheerfully.

Peter took out his compass, picked up the kitbag and set off. His torch beam showed a clear path up through the thorn trees and he made himself walk quickly. Only when he reached the ruin did he stop and shine the torch in all directions.

“No sign of the bull. That is something,” he told himself.

A lizard scuttled on the dead leaves. Peter jumped with fright. He cursed himself for being such a weakling. In the edge of the torch beam he noted the dangling legs of the ‘body'. In the dark it looked terribly realistic. He shivered violently and forced himself to face his fears.

‘Stop it you fool! It is only an exercise. After all, you have seen several real dead bodies.' His mind ran back over the ghastly sight of the body Roger had pulled out of Lake Tinaroo only three months earlier; and of the dead Kosarians who were shot on the Herberton Range.

His mind seemed to dredge them all up in a parade of terror. Peter had even witnessed several people suffer violent deaths, had come close to it himself; but somehow this was different. He wasn't normally superstitious or introspective but now something in his sub-conscious seemed to have taken over. Icy fingers seemed to grip the back of his skull. He knew he was scared to the depths of his soul.

With an effort he calmed himself. Then he deliberately turned off his torch. ‘I must conquer this,' he told himself. ‘And I need to see how things look in the dark.'

For several minutes he battled with his fears. He just stood and allowed his eyes to adjust to the starlight. While he waited to get his night vision he listened. The air was quite still. The hum of a distant motor came from the highway. A distinct change in its tone indicated when the vehicle went onto the bridge. A night bird hooted away to his left.

The black tree trunk, crumbled chimney and the ‘body' hanging on the rope looked so spooky that Peter trembled.

“It gives the right effect alright,” he said. “Exercise Bunyip Ghost eh! Are there such things as ghosts?” He tried to push the thought back into his sub-conscious. It was a topic he did not normally consider. After thinking about it for a few seconds he admitted it was probably out of fear that there might be such things. Then the idea came back to mock him insistently.

Feeling both ill and anxious Peter stirred himself into action. After walking to the tree he hid his pack, hat, webbing and the kitbag behind it. Next he dug out the ghost costume, the instructions and the cyalume stick. He donned the costume then had to fumble to get the notes out. The cyalume was ‘cracked' and shaken vigorously. It began to emit a greenish glow which made it just possible to read the notes.

Peter rehearsed stepping out from behind the tree several times. Then he read his notes aloud. This he found quite difficult as the eye holes were not quite large enough and were a fraction too close together. He also found that being under the sheet muffled his hearing and induced a very claustrophobic feeling of not being able to see or hear what might be creeping up on him.

Unable to bear the tension he hastily pulled the costume off and stood against the tree, trembling slightly. Behind him a curlew began its mournful cry. Peter shivered and looked fearfully around. He tried to push thoughts of death and ghosts out of his mind- and failed.

“Think of nice things,” he told himself. ‘Kate. I wonder how Kate is getting on? Her patrol should have started by now. They might even be at the grave. Grave!'

The flickering glow of Graham's fire attracted his attention. Then a mischievous idea came to him. “Bloody Graham! He's having a whale of a time while I crap myself. I will sneak up and give the bugger a fright.'

Peter tossed the idea out at once, but it crept back in. ‘I will,' he decided.

Peter pulled on the Ghost costume, stuffed his notes and the cyalume into his pocket, and began walking slowly down towards Graham's fire. He walked carefully to avoid treading on sticks and dead leaves but his vision was so poor that within ten paces he had snagged the flowing sheet on a thorn bush. He had to back up and fumble for a minute, during which he pricked his thumb.

“Ow! Bloody thing!” he muttered. He went to suck it but there was no opening for the mouth. Still muttering he gripped the costume into a tight bundle around his body and continued his stealthy journey.

As he got closer to the fire Peter could see Graham sitting beside it feeding on progressively larger sticks. He had his back half-turned to Peter. A few more thorns temporarily retarded Peter's advance before he became firmly hooked somewhere down on the hem. He backed up and bent to free it, his fingers questing carefully for the offending thorn.

In doing so another thorn snagged Peter's right shoulder. “Blast!” he murmured. He tried to get free but found that he seemed to be caught up whichever way he moved. Unable to get free he decided it would have to do. He was still a dozen paces from Graham, who still had not noticed him. Peter eased the cyalume out of his pocket and held it up near his chin under the sheet, straightened up as well as he could, and uttered a mournful wail.

Graham sprang up in alarm to stare in his direction. Then he swore. “Bloody hell Pete! You gave me a bloody fright. Don't do that again. I nearly had a bloody heart attack.”

“Sorry,” Peter replied. “I was just testing the gear. Anyway, at least we know it works. Now come and help me. I'm all hooked up in this blasted thorn tree.”

Graham laughed. “Serves you bloody well right. I might just leave you there,” he said. But he walked over to help. “I tell you what, it looks good as a special effect.”

At that moment the bull bellowed, a loud, trumpeting snort of rage. To Peter it sounded very close and very angry. He struggled to tear free but only managed to snag himself more. The bull roared again, its challenge echoing through the night. Peter changed tactics and began trying to wriggle out of the costume.

“Hold still!” Graham cried, shaking with laughter. “The bull isn't near us. It is back near the pig wallow. It can probably smell Denton.”

Peter stopped struggling and allowed Graham to unhook him. It took several minutes and a couple of scratches. Freed at last, Peter hauled the costume off and walked to the fire.

“What time is the first patrol due here?” he asked as he sat down. He saw by his watch that it was midnight.

Graham pulled out his notes. “Half an hour. Zero zero thirty.”

“Then they must be somewhere in the Anabranches now,” Peter surmised.

“Probably. Near the body most likely. That may be what the bull is making a fuss about,” Graham replied.

At that moment the bull sounded again.

“Speaking of which!” Peter commented. They both laughed and speculated on how the cadets must be reacting. They sat down, Graham on his field jacket.

“Not very cold,” he said.

“No, not really,” Peter agreed. “What order do they arrive in, do you know?”

Graham shrugged. “The platoon commander first, that's all I know.”

The bull bellowed again.

“Further that way, away from the river,” Graham said, pointing.

“The first patrol must have scared it.”

Graham grinned. “Not before it scared them!” he commented. They laughed.

Something went ‘plop' in the water behind Graham. He sat up abruptly then grinned again. “And that scared me! I reckon this is the creepiest place I have ever been. They could make a real good horror movie here.”

“Yes. Don't talk about it,” Peter agreed. He wished Graham would shut up. The skin on his skull felt as though it was shrinking. He shivered. A flicker of light caught his eye.

“There's a torch. Here comes the first patrol. I'd better move.”

Peter stood up, gathered his costume and moved back into the night. He moved slowly on the compass bearing with one arm up to shield his face. The fire had ruined his night vision so he felt like a blind man groping his way into nothingness. Slowly his night sight returned and he increased his pace but he was still only a hundred paces from the fire when he heard voices.

Peter looked back but only got glimpses of flickering torches and movement around the fire. Graham's voice came to him clearly as he began his act. Peter continued on. Back in position at the Burdekin Plum tree he stared into the darkness in all directions. He was very reluctant to pull the costume over his head. A cold breeze seemed to blow on the back of his neck.

“Imagination,” he told himself. He pulled on the sheet and stood practicing his lines. Then he became bored and impatient. He yawned and shifted from foot to foot. “What is keeping them?” he muttered. He peered around the tree. The glow of the fire was just visible but nothing else.

Then Peter froze in fear. Something was moving near him- and it was slithering.

Snake? His brain raced. His torch was in his pocket so he hastily pulled it out. He pointed it at where the sound seemed to be coming from. It was only a few metres away. His thumb moved onto the button.

‘I shouldn't,' he told himself. ‘The light will spoil the act.' He hesitated, ears straining. ‘Safety first,' he decided. But still he paused.

Then he heard another noise. A twig snapped. The patrol was approaching. Peter waited with every nerve straining. Sounds of muttered voices and the stealthy trample of dead leaves indicated they were close. Still unsure if he had heard a snake or not he waited. The voices came closer.

Then he saw them: five slightly blacker shapes moving near the chimney. Peter bit his lip, slid the torch back into his pocket and took a grip on the cyalume. He watched a person walk slowly over towards the dim shape of the body. A pencil torch clicked on, lighting up the dangling ‘corpse'.

“E-e-e-e-e-e-k!”

Coralie Bates screamed. Peter jumped in fright. All the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The patrol cried out in alarm. More torches came on and shone on the ‘body'.

“It's only a dummy,” came Parnell's voice.

“I can see that- now!” CUO Bates snapped back.

Allison spoke from near the chimney. “Ooh! I nearly died of fright when you screamed CUO Bates,” she said.

Kate's voice came from just the other side of the tree. “You gave a good scream yourself.”

Peter's heart leapt and thudded. Kate! He didn't want to scare her.

Parnell stepped closer and swept his torch up and down the body. “He's been hanged,” he said. “There is a note. Let's see what it says.”

The patrol crowded closer. Kate stepped past almost within arm's reach. Parnell kept his torch on while CUO Bates began writing in her notebook, Allison holding a second torch for her. Peter licked his lips and rehearsed his opening lines in his head. He trembled with nervousness.

Then Kate turned and shone her torch directly on him.

“E-e-e-e-e-e-e--i-i-i !”

Kate's scream was so loud and high pitched that it seemed to echo in Peter's skull. He jumped in fright again. All the others screamed or cried out as well. There followed a moment of stunned silence. The echo of the screams washed around the valley. Some large animal went crashing away through the undergrowth further along the Anabranches. A dull thunder of hooves told of cattle stampeding somewhere behind Peter. Cockatoos began to screech and cackle in trees beside the billabong.

“Holy shit!” Parnell ejaculated. He shone his torch on Peter. They all did. He was dazzled and blinded. With an effort he managed to speak, aware his heart was pounding furiously.

“I...I am... the ghost of...(of who?)” he stammered. He faltered and raised his notes and the cyalume stick.

Kate shrieked, “Peter! You bastard! You frightened ten years growth out of me.” She was obviously very angry, reacting to the fright.

“I'm sorry,” Peter replied. “It's in the script.” He waved the notes.

“It's bloody silly! And I hate it,” Kate screamed. “I don't like being scared.”

CUO Bates stepped forward. “Calm down Kate. We all got a fright. It is only an exercise.”

Parnell chuckled. “You are lucky she doesn't scream like that every time you meet her in the dark Sgt Bronsky,” he said. Peter's mind was stunned. ‘What does he mean by that? Does he know, or is it just a joke?'

Allison interrupted, her voice irritable. “Let's get on with it. I'm cold and I'm tired.”

“Yes,” CUO Bates agreed, silencing Kate's grumbles. “What is your message Peter?”

Torches were redirected. Peter read his note sending them to the Mule Driver's camp. The patrol went into a huddle to set their compasses.

“Donkeys eh!” Parnell said. “You'll like that Kate.”

“Shut your mouth Parnell, or I'll scratch your eyes out! Keep your filthy comments to yourself,” Kate spat.

Peter again felt fear grip him; as well as curiosity. Was Parnell making a crude pass at Kate? Did he suspect she might be willing? A lance of savage jealousy speared through Peter, driving out the fear. But he said nothing.

CUO Bates looked up from adjusting her compass. “Stop your innuendos Lance Cpl Parnell.”

“Innuendo?” Parnell quipped. “Is he an Italian?”

“That will do!” Peter snapped. He was quivering with emotion. He wanted to reach out to Kate; to hold her; to comfort her. But he did not dare hint at caring, much less even touch her little finger. In spite of the cool night air he found he was sweating profusely.

CUO Bates nodded. “Thank you Sgt Bronsky. Now, torches off. We will wait a few minutes to get our night vision.”

While they waited they told Peter about some of the incidents earlier on the exercise. It was clearly an adventure to them.

“Alright. Let's go,” CUO Bates said. “See you later Peter.”

Peter mumbled goodbye, then stood in silent anguish and watched them shuffle off into the gloom towards the river. He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes before the next group were due. He pulled off the costume, placed it on his pack and walked quickly down to Graham's fire.

Graham heard him coming and greeted him.

“Hi Pete. That must have worked well, judging by the screams.”

“They frightened the living daylights out of me,” Peter replied. “I reckon they must have woken every living thing for miles around.”

“All the way to the highway bridge I'd say,” Graham said. He chuckled. “It caused a rare old stampede up the way.”

They sat beside the fire and discussed the incident. Peter's nerves calmed down slowly and he began to appreciate the funny side of it. He became conscious of a chill on his back as the sweat cooled.

“Do you know who the next group is?” he asked, turning his back to the fire.

“Yes. I asked CUO Bates. She gave me the ‘Order of March'. It is Ten Section, Eleven Section, Twelve Section then the remainder of HQ led by Sgt Griffin.”

Peter smiled. “Who will be following his nose!”

They both laughed. Neither liked Griffin; and Peter thought he was an unco-ordinated dill who gave all the sergeants a bad name.

“Here come the next group,” Graham said.

Peter rose. “See you in a while.” Quickly he made his way back to the ruin. Once there he dug out his field jacket and shrugged it on, then pulled on the costume. He stood behind the tree and wondered how Cpl Scott's section would react.

He need not have worried. At the edge of the ruins they spread into line and all turned their torches on. The ‘ghost' was seen before they discovered the ‘body'.

“You are supposed to read the note first,” Peter said, pointing at the dummy.

“Yeah, OK,” Cpl Scott replied, walking over to it.

Cadet Bragg shone his torch on Peter. “Are you supposed to be a ghost?”

There was a chorus of jeers from the rest of the section. “No Braggy, he's supposed to be a fairy!” one said.

The patrol seemed to take it all in their stride. Peter read them his information and Cpl Scott copied it down. They vanished into the night, Bragg asking what a mule was.

Peter returned to Graham's fire. Graham was heating water for coffee. “This is for you if you want it,” he offered. Peter gratefully accepted the warm drink. The air was now quite cold. Graham was disgustingly cheerful. He cracked three donkey jokes in a row. Peter wasn't amused.

“Cheer up mate,” Graham said. He checked his watch for the tenth time. “This next lot are taking a long time. It's been over half an hour now.”

“Who are they? Eleven Section didn't you say?” Peter asked.

Graham groaned. “Oh no! Bloody Dimbo Doyle. I suppose the silly bugger has got lost. Bloody hell! How could you get lost following those instructions!”

They discussed Dimbo's more famous navigational feats for a while. Then, to Peter's consternation Graham asked, “Pete, do you like Kate?”

‘Here it comes!' Peter thought. ‘He's heard something and he wants to check.' “Yes. Yes I do,” he admitted, bracing himself for worse to come.

“She is pretty alright,” Graham said thoughtfully.

‘Get it over with!' Peter's mind cried. ‘Shoot me now! Don't drag it out!' He managed to mumble, “I think she is beautiful. I've been thinking of asking her for a date after camp. But I'm not sure if she is the right girl for me.”

Graham nodded and stared into the fire. “I know how you feel. I've been thinking the same thing about Allison.” He then discussed whether he and Allison were compatible; and what his chances were.

“It's none of my business really,” Peter relied after listening for ten minutes, “But I don't think she is the girl for you. I reckon Margaret is the one. She is just right for you. And she loves you.”