by Mandy Magro
All seemed quiet, the villagers going about their day without incident so far. Gunfire was a constant soundtrack and these past few days of silence were, in a bizarre way, a little unnerving. The weather was taking a turn for the worse. Wind whipped the endless dust into little whirly-whirlys as a storm rolled in from the east. Dean pulled the camouflage-patterned bandanna from around his throat up over his mouth to block out the dust and grit. A brightly painted jingle truck drove past, the decorations of bells, tassels, flags, bottles and just about anything else the Afghans could get their hands on attached to every inch of it making one hell of a racket. An odd-looking man sat on the back with an AK-47 in his hands. Dean cautiously watched it pass, keeping his senses alert, but honestly, how was he meant to tell the difference between law-abiding Afghans and the Taliban when everyone had a gun, even children?
Scrawny cows and chickens wandered aimlessly about, the animals’ faeces everywhere, along with humans’. A donkey brayed and a family of scraggy goats trotted through the centre of the village. As he walked along with Indy beside him, Dean regularly scanned the tops of the mud-brick walls, expecting at any moment to see a Taliban pop his head over the side and open fire. Women covered from head to toe in burqas would glance warily at him from beneath their veils, and little girls would occasionally peek out at him from behind young boys’ legs, some of them with the most piercing green eyes he’d ever seen. Dean would quickly look away; making eye contact with the women was forbidden.
He knew that despite the best efforts of the Australians and Afghan National Army to keep the enemy at bay, some of the people walking around would be undercover Taliban trying to get a close look at the soldiers and their gear, but all of them stayed at a safe distance. Dean had an extra advantage – he’d found most Afghans were scared shitless of dogs. Muslims believed dogs to be dirty and would recoil in fear if Dean went too close to them with Indy. It was a good thing if someone was being unruly, he could just point Indy in their direction and they would instantly behave, although bizarrely enough, dog fighting was a common pastime in Afghanistan. Owners would cut off their dog’s tails and ears to deny the opponent dog something to get a hold of with their teeth. It was such cruelty, and it sickened Dean to his stomach every time he thought of it. He didn’t know what he’d do if he came across a group participating in such a gruesome sport.
The blazing sun made him a little weary and Dean sat down on a low mud brick wall, the forty-odd kilos he was carrying easing a little as he did so. On one leg was strapped a Glock and three magazines in a holster, on his other was a first aid kit containing dressings, QuikClot powder to slow bleeding, painkillers and swabs. He carried ten 30-round magazines for his Steyr and a couple of grenades in his combat vest and under that was his body armour. In his backpack he had enough rations for both himself and Indy for the two-day trek back to Camp Baker, wet weather gear, ten litres of water, night-vision goggles, sleeping bag, bivvy bag, Leatherman, camera, torch, spare collars and leads for Indy, and two spare green and gold squishy balls.
Ruffling Indy’s head affectionately, he unclipped her leash and then filled her portable bowl with water from his CamelBak before taking a big glug of it himself. The last thing he wanted was for her, or him, to suffer the hideous affects of heat stress. Indy drank thirstily, her tail wagging eagerly. Running his hands through her mottled blue and white coat he searched for fleas, ticks, sores and other external parasites, a daily routine. Satisfied she was all good, Dean nodded and a quenched Indy obediently lay down beside him. Resting her head on her paws, she stared back at him through tired eyes, the black patch around her left eye reminding Dean of a pirate. He knelt down and stole a few moments to gently massage her paws; the hours spent walking took a toll on her soft pads. ‘You’re a good girl, Indy. I couldn’t get through it out here without you. Love ya, buddy.’
Indy closed her eyes, just content to be here with him, and was asleep in seconds.
Dean sat back on the wall and then dragged out a ration pack, not having high hopes for what was inside. Usually, the food they were given would be better suited to being thrown at an enemy’s head than for taste-bud pleasure. He smiled as he read that the pack contained beans, one of the few meals he actually enjoyed. Retrieving his tiny fold-out tin stove, he put it on the dusty ground then placed a white pill of hexamine in it, waiting as the compressed fuel heated a tin canteen mug of water for a brew. He used his Leatherman to open the sachet, allowing himself a brief moment to imagine tucking into a juicy T-bone steak with mushroom gravy and all the trimmings down at his Edens Edge local. His mouth watered cruelly, his deprived taste buds craving the succulent flavour. His treat after this would be the squishy melted Caramello Koala that was stuffed in his pocket, and he’d also saved a few butternut biscuits for Indy. Thank goodness for his sister sending him care packages, the biscuits, chocolates, DVDs, magazines, photos and proper coffee worth more than gold.
A shuffling of feet from behind him sent Dean reeling around, his rifle at the ready, only to be met with the piercing emerald eyes of a little Afghan girl no older than eight. He smiled down at her and she smiled shyly back, her finger pointing at Indy, who now sat fully alert, assessing whether this girl was a threat. Dean quickly reassured Indy the girl was okay and the dog relaxed, resting her head back down on the dirt. He pointed to Indy, miming to the little girl. ‘Would you like to touch her?’
The girl nodded slowly. Dean squatted down, cautiously taking the little girl’s free hand, the other one shoved apprehensively in her mouth. It was very unlike an Afghan, especially a child, to come so close to a dog, and part of him couldn’t help but wonder if it was a trap – the Taliban often used women and children as lures. He glanced around suspiciously, not seeing anything out of the ordinary, and then focussed back on the little girl’s angelic but grubby face. Smiling, he watched as she very warily stroked Indy’s coat, giggling as Indy nuzzled her hand with her black nose and then swiped a wet tongue up the girl’s cheek. She relaxed and sat down in the dirt, gently wrapping her little arms around Indy’s neck and then snuggling her face into her fur. Indy responded by showering the girl with more doggy kisses, the girl’s adorable laughter filling the air. Dean chuckled along with her.
The magic moment was broken as the child’s mother anxiously called her daughter back, two smaller brothers staring wild eyed at Dean from behind the woman’s legs. The girl hesitated, gazing at Dean and then back at her family. Reaching into his pocket, Dean pulled out the squishy Caramello Koala and placed it in the little girl’s hand, and then pointed in her mother’s direction. ‘You better go back now, little one. Enjoy the chocolate.’
‘Tashakur,’ she said, beaming, before running off in the direction of her mother.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replied softly. Dean knew she was saying thank you, and it melted his heart, intensifying his yearning for children of his own – one day. He loved children and his nephew, Max, meant the world to him.
From the safety of her mother’s arms, the little girl grinned at him and he grinned back, a bond formed between them in only a matter of minutes. The child’s innocence was so refreshing in a country where warfare reigned. It was an intense moment for Dean, because the little girl reminded him of why he was fighting this damn war: for her freedom to live a life without constant fear, something every child should be entitled to. And it gave him a sense of purpose, and made him feel empowered, like he was suddenly reenergised to face this war once again without crippling fear. Please, God, keep her safe.
Stepping from the chartered civilian cargo plane and onto Australian soil for the first time in four months, Dean felt himself fill with elation. He was home, alive, and in one piece, unlike some of the other diggers from his regiment who had returned home without limbs, or even worse, in coffins. As he strolled up the tunnelled walkway of Cairns Airport, his belly filled with butterflies as he thought about his family. How was Dad going to be? How big was Max? Was Kimmy’s hair still blonde, or had she
changed it like she often did? What was the homestead going to look like now his mum wasn’t around to keep it “homelike”?
The security doors swung open and there was his sister, Kim, her eyes flowing with tears as she ran into his open arms. She held him tightly, as though she was afraid he was going to blow away. He picked her up from the floor and spun her around, overjoyed by being able to finally embrace her. They kissed each other’s cheeks repeatedly, smiling through their tears as they excitedly said their hellos. Not far behind, five-and-a-half-year-old Max stood shyly beside his grandfather’s wheelchair. Dean’s father’s face was weary, but his lips smiled softly. Tony’s fragility shocked him, but Dean hid it well as he put Kim down, kissed her a few more times on the cheek and then stepped towards his dad. Why the old bugger wouldn’t wear his prosthetic leg was beyond Dean, but he wasn’t going to harp at him about it now. Kim had asked him to try to talk their father into wearing it, and he was determined to achieve that before he went back to war. But he knew, before they could help him, Tony had to first want to help himself.
‘Dad, it’s good to see you, old fella,’ Dean said, smiling. The men shook hands while Kim enticed a timid Max from her leg.
Tony Lockwood nodded as he squeezed Dean’s hand. Then, blinking quickly, he looked down to the carpeted floor of the arrivals lounge. Composing himself before Dean had a chance to look closer, Tony’s jaw tightened and his gold-speckled brown eyes held his son’s gaze. ‘And you, Sage. It’s really great to have you home, son.’
Dean swallowed down the lump in his throat and then leant in, wrapping his arms around his dad’s slumped shoulders. Tony lifted his right arm and gave Dean a few good hearty slaps on the back. Seeing his dad so down and out was devastating, his amputated right leg a heart-wrenching sight, but Dean was just thankful that his dad was still here with them.
Turning his focus to Max, he knelt down to the carpeted floor, ruffling his nephew’s wild head of curly black hair. ‘Hey, buddy, you remember me, don’t you?’
Max stood steadfast, not saying a word while staring wide eyed at Dean.
Kim joined Dean at Max’s height, gently rubbing her son’s back. ‘Of course you do, Max, it’s Uncle Dean.’
Dean carefully held out his arms, not knowing what else to do, and Max fell into them, burying his head in Dean’s shoulder and sobbing. ‘I missed you so much, Uncle Dean. I was so scared you weren’t going to come home.’
Dean tightened his arms around his treasured nephew as he stroked the back of Max’s head. How Max’s father could have walked away from a child as loveable as this was beyond him. ‘Of course I was going to come home. I’d never leave you.’
Max pulled back, sniffling. ‘Love you, heaps, Uncle Dean.’
‘Love you too, buddy.’
Kim stood wiping her eyes with a sodden tissue. ‘Right then you three, let’s get home and catch up over the roast dinner I’ve got cooking, followed by some homemade apple pie and generous lashings of cream.’
Dean licked his lips, grinning like a Cheshire cat. ‘Them there are magic words, sis.’
Pushing the wheelchair, and with Max sticking close beside him, Dean collected his luggage and they headed out into the glorious North Queensland summer’s day. He glanced up in to the azure sky, silently hoping his mum was looking down on them, and wishing she could somehow miraculously heal his dad’s dying soul. His close-knit family was reunited – if only for a couple of weeks – and he was going to make the most of every second before he had to return to war.
CHAPTER
4
The balmy ocean breeze wafted through the open French doors, stirring the sheer white curtains in Summer’s top floor bedroom. The deep drone of the fishing yacht pulling away from the Miltons’ private dock travelled in with it and roused Summer from her deep sleep Last night the boys had finally decided to head out for an early-morning fish. They’d been talking about throwing a line in for days and Summer was starting to think they’d never follow through with their promise of catching dinner. The fact that her room was still dark meant that the boys hadn’t slept through their alarm today, like they had the last three mornings in a row, and it also meant she and Fiona finally had the house to themselves for a good part of the morning. Hallelujah!
With the purring revs of the yacht fading away, Summer snuggled further into her feather doona, thrilled they could finally have some girly time and enjoying the distant sound of the waves as they crashed against the shore, one of the most glorious sounds in the world. Marcus had been very touchy-feely the past couple of days, making her feel a little on edge whenever she was around him, and his constant invasions of her personal space were beginning to grate on her nerves. Just because she’d slept with him years ago didn’t give him the right to touch her whenever he felt like it. Huffing, she squeezed her eyes shut, wishing that sleep would take her into its clutches for another hour or two. Three late nights in a row had left her feeling a little weary.
After tossing and turning for what felt like forever, and unable to go back to sleep, Summer gave in. Rolling over, she grabbed her mobile phone, illuminating the screen to see what time it was. Five-thirty, the perfect time to head down the beach for some yoga and mediation before it began to fill with happy holidaymakers. It was always nice to have the beach to herself and at this time of the morning it was almost guaranteed. Afterwards she’d enjoy a cleansing day of fruit juices, sushi and salads, and maybe even a wheatgrass shot – or three. Since she’d arrived, she’d been munching pizzas, chocolates and basically anything unhealthy she could get her hands on but today all that had to stop, the dull headache behind her eyes warning her to curb her cravings. If she wanted to be a yoga instructor and teach people how to have a clean and healthy lifestyle then she had to be a perfect example. Besides, she always felt better when she looked after herself – full of energy and vitality.
Half-heartedly sliding out from the silkiness of her satin sheets, Summer switched on the light, almost blinded by the sudden brightness. Blinking furiously, she rummaged through her drawers in search of her exercise gear before yanking it on and heading into her en suite to brush her teeth. Standing in front of the mirror, she smartened herself up, brushing her blonde hair into a tight ponytail before applying a little gloss to her lips. Feeling slightly more human, she smiled at her reflection then switched off the bathroom light and padded happily towards her bedroom door.
By the time Summer had rounded up a hyperactive Fonzie and stepped out the back door, it was nearing dawn, the sun hinting its arrival as peachy hues stretched out across the gradually lightening sky. A few stars still clung to the emerging powdery blue, their normally razor-sharp edges swiftly fading. Strolling down the steps to the beach, Summer chuckled at Fonzie, his little tail wagging so enthusiastically he could barely walk. Every step he bounded down he would stop and look back at her, as if to say ‘Hurry the hell up!’, his dark eyes and floppy, oversized ears adding to his undeniable sweetness.
Reaching the shoreline, she flicked off her thongs, savouring the feel of the fine white sand as it squished between her toes. The powerful scent of salty sea air invigorated her as she took a few deep breaths. Fonzie gave her one last look, the entire thirty centimetres of his muscular body quivering with excitement as he yapped insistently.
Summer waved him towards the water. ‘Go on, in you get, buddy!’ Amused, she watched his silhouette skedaddle towards the ebbing ocean, the fearless pooch diving into the water with reckless abandon and disappearing momentarily beneath the foam. From a pup, Fonzie had adored the ocean and he had a bad habit of swimming out too deep, meaning Summer usually had to dive in to rescue him. She jogged after him, the sight of the rising sun taking her breath away as it slowly inched between the gap of what she could only describe as heaven and earth.
Settling down on the sand with a towel-wrapped wriggling bundle of dog in her arms, Summer quickly dried Fonzie off and then ordered for him to sit beside her and stay put. Fonzie obeyed, asl
eep as soon as his drooping eyes closed, totally exhausted after ten minutes in the shallows. It always amazed her how much fun he could have with a piece of driftwood.
Summer sat for a few minutes, her eyes softly closed as she took deep, calming breaths and silently repeated her mantra: I will always forgive, never judge and aim to be kind. Her body slowly eased into a relaxed state and she gently opened her eyes, stretched her long legs out from under her, and then stood, deciding on the Salute to the Sun sequence, feeling it was fitting given the surroundings. Inhaling, she raised both arms above her head and then swan-dived forwards before completing a standing lunge. Then she went into downward-facing dog, effortlessly into plank and on to the cobra pose, the motion of her breathing driving the movement of her body into, through and out of each of the poses. Finally coming back up to standing, she raised both arms in the air and brought her hands to her chest in mountain pose, taking a few calming breaths before beginning the sequence again.
Thirty minutes later, Summer felt a blissful peacefulness wash over her as she sat staring out at the ocean, the sun’s warmth bringing goose bumps to her skin. Transported by the exquisiteness of the sunrise, she made a promise to herself to do this every morning. It was a glorious way to start the day. And as always, the yoga session had achieved what she desired and her headache had vanished. She’d much rather do yoga than pop a pill to remedy an ailment. She’d never tried pot or – heaven forbid – the harder stuff and she never would. A classmate at uni had died after taking ecstasy and the event intensified the fear Summer already harboured of drugs. Why take something that could kill you? No, her body was a temple, and that’s how she liked to treat it.
