Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “Two weeks of heat wave with no rain, hot north winds over sixty miles an hour, and that day the temperature hits a record high of over one hundred and fifteen degrees Fahrenheit! There was no fire where my mum lived, but the ambient air in the city that day was so high she almost burned her hand on her own front doorknob! Aside from the bloody desert we’re standing in right now, soldier, do you have any concept of how hot that really feels…? Easy to imagine here surrounded by nothing but sand dunes and rocks and bugger-all else, but I’m talking about your home… your mum and dad’s home… the local pub… the grocers ‘round the corner… So many families lost… entire towns wiped out…firestorms sweeping across an entire state at speeds faster than a man can run.

  “You stand there, born in a country where a forest fire needs to give a week’s notice so they can dry the bloody trees out first, and you want to tell an Aussie that a bushfire’s ‘no big deal’…?” That last question was bellowed with such intensity that a faint spray of spittle flicked from his lips, and even Lloyd was so taken aback he gave Thorne’s hand a gentle squeeze of warning that again went unnoticed. “Think like that and there’ll be a ‘war’ on all right…” he snarled finally, running a free palm briefly across his lips and chin “…and the bloody Germans will be the least of your fuckin’ worries ...mate…!”

  Silence fell over the group then, the only sound the soft crackling of wood burning inside the drums. No one dared speak. No one dared break the terrifying power of the spell the Australian air force officer before them had created. Many of the Australians present were from farming or country backgrounds and understood all too well the devastating power of a bushfire unchecked. Even those from the cities mostly had family or some other association with the land. Those from the State of Victoria remembered well enough the events of Black Friday, 1939 – an event that although it had resulted in a comparatively lower loss of life, had burned out a far greater total area of the state roughly equivalent in area to the entire country of Wales.

  There wasn’t an Aussie present – of Realtime origin or otherwise – who could possibly have remained unaffected, and to have an officer strike such a chord within their minds with words of such intensity affected all of the greatly. The effect – to a perhaps lesser extent – was also felt by many of the other troops present, particularly those of the two prototype tank crews they’d been working so closely with for so long.

  Eileen caught Evan’s eye in that moment, her expression matched by the clear mouthing of the silent question ‘What the fuck…?’, to which Lloyd had no response of his own other than a bewildered shake of his head and faint shrug of the shoulders. Painful memories of the loss of his family in the Black Saturday fires of 2009 had flooded the young man’s mind in the seconds following CPL Mackenzie’s remark about rebuilding after the ’39 bushfires, yet even so, Lloyd too was stunned by the sudden and intense reaction it had elicited from Thorne. In spite of his own internal anguish, even Evan had to admit it seemed inexplicable and excessive.

  After a moment or so, the tensions that were already high finally boiled over. Silence became words of anger and frustration that crystallised into arguments between small groups of British and Australians, while those few present of other Commonwealth nationalities either tried to mediate or elected not to become involved. There was nothing physical as yet, but as the volume and intensity of those localised confrontations began to grow, the general feeling was that outright conflict might not be far away. Thorne stood his ground, his own rage at anything and everything well and truly fuelled and daring anyone to challenge him as some small, mostly-unheard part of his subconscious struggled valiantly to offer some modicum of sensibility.

  It was then that he first heard the banging sound. Softly at first, it grew in volume as it pushed to the forefront of his and everyone else’s consciousness. Loud, slow and methodical, it must have been just a few seconds but seemed like an age before it captured the attention of everyone present, all eyes finally turning in that direction.

  Beside one of the burning drum fires, Jimmy Davids stood with legs spayed apart for stability, swinging a long piece of scrap two-by-four and smashing it against the side of the drum itself. He ceased his slow, relentless hammering as he finally realised that the general sounds of argument had died down and that he had captured the attention of every man present. As usual, Angus Connolly stood beside his commander in unquestioned loyalty.

  “There’s none of us here that haven’t experienced loss or tragedy of one form or another, air vice marshal,” he began loudly, propping the piece of wood against the ground like some oversized walking stick. “It might be a bushfire…” he conceded with a grimace… “You mentioned London too, and there’s plenty more who’ve suffered because o’ that mess, right enough… The young fella over there with the mouth’s a dopey bugger at the best o’ times, its true, but he’s also got his mam and two sisters still livin’ – hopefully – in Occupied Yorkshire right now, so you might want to go easy on him all the same…” He paused, as if a variety of mixed emotions were struggling simultaneously within his mind at that moment.

  “You asked me a few days ago about Slough…” he continued, the name of that town galvanising the British troops all around him. “Well, I’ve no doubt from the reports you’ve read that you’re already well aware of what a piece o’ shite all that was. The weakest point in the German lines ‘round London, if ‘weak’ is a word you could ever use for those bastards, and we had just fifteen tanks and a company of men to cross the Thames and break through to Reading. Matildas… Cruisers… all they could spare so we could get Edward out…”

  The mention of the King’s name sent a chill through the crowd: there wasn’t a soul present who didn’t know at least the basics of the story behind the failed Slough Breakout and the death of Edward VIII.

  “They tore us to pieces, of course: tanks and ‘eighty-eights’ enough to wipe us out ten times over. I was one of just ten men that got through, and all o’ them on foot,” he continued, his voice as empty and lifeless as his eyes in that moment. “Lost my tank and everyone in it ‘cept for Angus here… he pulled me out as it burned, but there was no time for the rest…” he shrugged. “They gave me a nice, shiny medal for it… gave one to all of us who survived… and for what…? For a King who died a few hours later anyway of wounds suffered during the battle…” There was cold bitterness in his words now. “Angus knows better now: he’ll never drag me from my tank again…”

  The effect of those words on Max Thorne was profound indeed. Any rage he’d been trying to maintain drained completely away at that point as the enormity of that terrible defeat was carried through to him in those hollow words of suffering. By coincidence, both he and Lloyd had sat down to watch the movie Jaws on Thorne’s laptop a few days before, and the manner in which Davids had delivered his last sentence left both immediately in mind of the shark hunter, Quint, so ably played by actor Robert Shaw.

  The monologue describing his survival of the sinking of the USS Indianapolis and the subsequent horrors of massed shark attacks while awaiting rescue was chillingly memorable, as had been the dark determination to never again put on a life jacket because of the experience. Both men shared a pointed glance in that moment as each recalled the same, vivid movie scene.

  “Tempers have been a little high here, Mister Thorne, don’t y’ think,” he continued, forcing a brighter tone into his voice as he lifted the lump of wood and allowed it to tip into the fire in a small spray of sparks and ash. “Talkin’ about startin’ ‘wars’ between Brits and Aussies now...? That was a thoughtless remark by the young fella there, I’ll grant y’, and if there’s a bit of punishment to be handed out later on, our boys will no doubt show him the error of his ways, but I doubt there’s any need for such extremes: the man’s name’s Hatcher after all… not ‘Jardine’.”

  There was a ripple of delayed laughter that spread through the ranks of both Australian and British troops at the mention of that name
. The 1932-33 Ashes Test Cricket tour of Australia had been almost a decade gone now, but memories were long on both sides regarding the controversy of the England team’s use of ‘Bodyline’ bowling tactics, and the name of the English team captain was as infamously recognisable as one of their own family.

  “Now I’m a Union man meself, bein’ the fine Welsh lad that I am…” he began with the hint of a smile.

  “Pontypridd…!” Another lilting, Welsh voice of Rhondda Valley origin called from somewhere near the back of the crowd.

  “Iechyd da…! That’s the spirit, boyo!” Davids called back, grin widening as he raised his can in salute and another faint chuckle broke out across the group. “…So I’ve no love for cricket and that’s the truth…” he continued on as if there’d been no interruption “…but I seem to recall all that silliness bein’ the only time England ever came close to being ‘at war’ with the Antipodes. Now, normally I’d be thinkin’ ‘good luck to ‘em… let ‘em fight it out amongst ‘emselves…’” the cheeky grin crept back across his features at that point and that irrepressible part of Max Thorne’s psyche that was utterly irreverent recognised the signs: that the punchline was coming. “…And then when they’re all done, and there’s none left in charge of England but a few old Dukes and some bugger from the MCC who was late getting into Lords for the ‘battle’, all us good Celtic lads that are left will just take over and put rugby back at the top, where it should be…” He shrugged, then added: “‘Course, Jerry getting to Whitehall first has put a bit of a damper on me grand plans now, and I was thinkin’ – purely in the interest of me own thoughts of world domination, y’ understand – that maybe instead ‘o fightin’ each other right now, maybe we’d be better served settin’ our sights on the bloody Germans...?”

  The absurdity of it all was such that in their generally-drunken state, the majority of those present couldn’t help but laugh out loud, Lloyd and Donelson included, and in spite of himself, even Thorne was fighting to suppress a smirk that was grudgingly trying to force itself upon his outward demeanour. He had to hand it to the man: the young Welsh officer knew a thing or two about how to defuse a situation. He was also quite happy at that point to quickly push to the rear of his mind any recognition of the fact that his own actions had directly contributed to almost causing a brawl.

  “Always preferred League myself,” Thorne called out after a few seconds’ pause, deciding it probably better to join in the banter than stand aloof now that tensions were notably thawed.

  “And here was I thinking you were a sensible man, Mister Thorne!” Davids jeered in return, nodding imperceptibly in approval and recognition that sanity was now likely to prevail. “League indeed…! Here I am revealin’ me evil schemes, and all this time we’ve a fifth columnist in our midst! For the love of God, make yourself useful will y’ and play a bloody song for us all!”

  “It’s another song you want, now?” Thorne grinned broadly, happier to go with the flow now as his remaining anger had finally subsided. He then turned to Lloyd and whispered softly: “You right, mate? Think we can give ‘em another tune?”

  “I’m all right,” the lieutenant replied with a bemused expression, the emphasis on the sentence intentionally ignored by the other man rather than passing unnoticed. “I think another song would be an excellent bloody idea.”

  “We’ll give ‘em Gift of Years, I think…” Thorne continued, deciding to also not notice the slightly irritated tone behind the younger man’s words that was clearly directed his way. “That one should work nicely.” He picked up his guitar and turned toward the crowd, addressing them once more as he lifted the instrument’s supporting strap over his head and shoulders.

  “This one is a song from my time…” he declared openly, not really caring who did or didn’t know exactly what that might mean. “It was written by a fine singer/songwriter by the name of Eric Bogle… a Scotsman by birth and an Aussie by choice…” He paused for a moment as Angus and one or two other Scots cheered at the mention of their heritage. “Imagine if you will a time far in the future as an old digger comes back to the shores of Gallipoli one ANZAC day to remember his fallen mates…” he paused again, this time as the emotion of the song he was about to sing swept through him momentarily. “This one’s called The Gift of Years…”

  He sat down on the crate once more as Lloyd readied his own instrument, any irritation or concern forgotten now, replaced only by measured concentration as he watched Thorne intently, ready to play and taking his lead from the man beside him. The song began as a few simple, melodic notes, and Lloyd joined in the background as Max Thorne began to sing.

  Well, old friend, here I am

  I told you I'd be back

  And as usual mate, I'm bloody late

  Its seventy-five years down the track

  For the last time here I stand

  In this familiar foreign land

  Back with the mates I left behind

  Fixed forever in their time

  And of all the ghosts of all the boys

  Who haunt this lonely place

  Only one of them wears your cheery grin

  And your Queensland joker's face

  When I drown in old and bloody dreams

  Of helpless young men's dying screams

  I feel your hand give my arm a shake

  And your voice say "steady, mate"

  And the country that you died for, mate

  You would not know it now

  The future that we dreamed of mate

  Got all twisted up somehow

  The peace that we were fighting for

  The end to stupid senseless war

  So it couldn't happen to our kids

  Well old mate, it did

  But thank you for the gift of years

  And the flame that brightly burned

  For the time you bought and the lessons taught

  Though often wasted and unlearned

  "Lest we forget" cry the multitude

  As if I ever, ever could

  So forgive an old man's tears

  And thank you for the years

  It was a simple song, one originally written in recognition of the seventy-fifth anniversary of ANZAC, and those present, soldiers every one, couldn’t help but be affected by the sentiment expressed. The so-called ‘Great War’ – the ‘War to End All Wars’ – was still a recent memory for the older men among them and even those present born too young to remember much had nevertheless seen its lingering legacy in the shattered, hollow expressions of their veteran fathers… those fortunate enough to have had theirs return home at all from the battlefields in France, Belgium, Gallipoli or Palestine. There were many who wiped self-consciously at a tear or two by the end of the song – Thorne himself included – and the atmosphere was such that a solemn feeling of respectful remembrance fell over the group rather than any attempt to shatter the moment with applause.

  For his part, Davids stood back to one side and watched in something akin to mild awe at Max Thorne’s ability to capture and influence the minds and emotions of those around him. The man had flaws – that was obvious enough – and his erratic temper had almost caused a scene there. He certainly had an ‘appreciation’ of alcohol that was bordering on unhealthy, and yet… and yet, all the same, Davids had to admit that you just couldn’t help liking the man and feeling inspired by him.

  There was a freshness and intensity in his eyes that made you want to believe what he was saying, regardless of how fantastic or unbelievable it might sound, and he backed it up with a clarity and conviction regarding his own actions and direction that seemed to dare anyone to stand in his way, and do so at their own peril.

  “Will that satisfy you for a song, Mister Davids…?” Thorne called out, standing once more and grinning broadly as he wiped gently at the corner of his own eye.

  “Aye, that’ll do right enough, I think,” Davids replied, nodding his appreciation and raising his can once more in salute. “Lest we forget…!�
��

  As one, the rest of the group, Thorne included, raised their own drinks in solemn agreement and came partially to attention out of instinctive respect for those fallen who’d gone before them.

  “Lest we forget…!” The words were chorused back at him in return, and in that moment any prior thoughts of fighting, anger or disagreement finally dissipated entirely.

  13. Machinations

  Joint Services Fighter Weapons Training Group

  Las Vegas Army Airfield, Nevada, USA

  October 2, 1942

  Friday

  At around the same time Thorne’s song finished and the collection of tired, drunken men began to wander off back to whichever tent or swag the called home, Colonel Jack Davies stood at the south-western end of Runway 03L/21R and watched his students fly past in staggered formations of lead and wingman, the smile on his face almost rapturous in its appreciation.

  The Las Vegas Army Airfield had originally started out in 1929 as a small, dirt airstrip operated by the Western Air Express, running Contract Air Mail Route #4 between Los Angeles and Salt Lake City. Used as a training field for the Army Air Force through the ‘Thirties, its name had changed to McCarran Field during that time and was officially purchased by the City of Las Vegas in January of 1941 and subsequently handed over to the US Army Air Force later than same month. Army engineers had moved in immediately and construction had commenced on administration and support buildings, hangars and hardstands, a 3,000-man barracks and two parallel, asphalt runways, each over three thousand metres in length.

  Jack Davies was no stranger to the airfield, or to the 18,000 square kilometres of Nevada Test and Training Range of which it was a part. As he stared about the area now, he allowed himself a thin, wry smile. That had been many years ago (by his reckoning) and even more years in the future (by just about everyone else’s). It had been called another name then – a name it might now never have in this reality – and Davies had been a fresh-faced lieutenant the first time he’d arrived for training at what would eventually come to be known as the USAF Warfare Center. He’d returned many times since, both as a student and – later – as an instructor.