Graham listened to this with approval. “Well done. What did you do then?” he asked.
Roger gestured to the truck. “Cadet Arthur suggested parking the truck across the road and claimed he knew how to drive. Well, he got it started but something went wrong. He claims his foot ‘slipped orf the clutch’ and it went roaring backwards, turning as it did until that large rock stopped it.”
Roger led the way to the rear of the truck and Graham examined the vehicle. The tail lights and back were well and truly smashed and the big truck now quite blocked the creek crossing.
Graham moved back to the cab. “Could we get it going do you think?” he asked, opening the driver’s door. He didn’t know much about vehicles and the ignorance bothered him.
Roger shook his head. “Not a hope. The radiator’s dry and she was overheating,” he replied. The smell of oil and hot water dripping onto the dust emphasized his words.
“Pity! We could have loaded everyone on and driven to town to the police,” Graham said.
Roger, who’d been feeling very pleased with his exploits suddenly felt very silly.
Graham didn’t rub it in. “Never mind. I’m sure we’ve given those rats in the camp another headache. They must be feeling trapped and wondering what by.” He then went on to describe what had happened on Mast Hill.
Roger grinned approval. “What will we do now sir?” he asked.
Graham made up his mind. “Two things. One is to work out how to contact the police to get help. They should be here by now. I don’t know why they aren’t. The other is to hit these mongrels again. That will remind them we are here and might stop them giving Morrow and Anderson too hard a time if they think retribution is at hand. I think a bit of pressure will make this gang disintegrate. The storeman doing a bunk indicates that.”
Roger agreed with this. ‘I think we he should maintain this roadblock,’ he added. He explained that he had all his cadets in a group and was confident no-one could sneak up on them. “We can pull out and RV at the junction of the Canning Track and Gravel Road if any serious threat developed. And we can meet the police when they arrive too,” he said.
Graham agreed. “Ok, Roger. I’ll leave you here then. I’ll take Hodgins and go back up the hill to see how Miss McEwen is. Stay here unless you are pushed out even if you hear action elsewhere. I might not be able to get back to you before things happen.”
The two friends unconsciously reached out and patted each other on the shoulder. “Take care mate.”
Graham then led Hodgins back through the dark bush towards Whaleback Hill. As he walked through the dark bush Graham felt an extraordinary sense of well-being and happiness. He found that being the commander and able to make his own decision and plan the battle as he thought best gave him an incredibly intense feeling of satisfaction.
Fifteen minutes later Graham halted half way up the snout of Whaleback Hill to get his breath. Despite the cool of evening there was no wind and he was sweating freely. As he halted, with Hodgins a few metres below audibly puffing, he could clearly see the lights at the Mining Camp. There were lights in most of the buildings as well as street lights and security lights. A glow from behind Mast Hill and the line of knolls indicated the location of the open-cut mine. There were also lights at the hangar and shed at the airfield. The lights both annoyed him because they made it harder to see in the dark but also they gave him an idea.
Grinning at his thoughts he went on up, tired leg muscles protesting at every step.
“Halt!” It was Margaret. She went through the challenge and Graham answered and then puffed up to where she sat amongst the boulders with Cadet Nelms beside her.
“Can one of each pair sleep?” Margaret asked. She was exhausted herself and Cadet Nelms, who was a year younger, was even more worn out.
Graham wanted to say no but common sense said yes. After explaining what had happened at Roger’s roadblock he plodded wearily up to the cliff top and stopped. From there he looked out. The lights of Charters Towers formed a glow on the horizon and in all the rest of the world there was just a vast spread of black empty bush with one lonely light at a cattle station or farm a good dozen kilometres off. It made him feel very much alone.
It was 2015 when Graham reached the hollow where a cheerful little fire glowed. It seemed the most welcoming thing he’d ever seen. Walking towards it he’d been torn between worry about its glow being visible on the trees and relief at returning safe. He decided morale was more important than safety for the moment but he did check that there was a sentry watching back along the hill.
This was Rebecca. Elizabeth lay asleep on the grass beside her. Lt McEwen was also dozing but roused herself when she heard his voice. Cpl Sheehan, LCpl Halyday and Cadet Lawson were cooking. Hodgins flopped down and leaned back on a rock.
Graham dropped his webbing. “Make us a brew and something to eat Hodg while I write orders,” he said. He’d never before used a cadet as a batman but in his fatigue he suddenly saw with great clarity the need a platoon commander had for someone to do such tasks for him. Hodgins groaned but sat up. Then LCpl Halyday offered to do this so Graham sat beside Lt McEwen, lowering his tired body down with a groan.
“How are you feeling Miss?” he asked.
Lt McEwen gave a faint smile. “I’ve got a splitting headache and feel like I am just one huge bundle of bruises but I am bit better,” she replied. She had clearly been desperately worried. “What have you been doing? What was all the shooting?” she asked.
Graham described the action and his motives. Lt McEwen shook her head and then groaned and held it. She looked even more battered in the flickering light of the fire and confessed she had been sick and vomited up a cup of tea. “I don’t think I’ve got a broken rib but there’s certainly some bad internal bruising,” she said.
Graham felt his anger rise again.
Lt McEwen looked at him. “We can get out of here now. I can walk with a bit of help,” she said. She wasn’t prepared to give up her responsibility, sick as she was. A deep sense of apprehension gripped her and she wanted all the cadets hidden safely off in the bush somewhere. ‘It is obvious Graham wants to fight,’ she thought. ‘And I will not allow this wonderful young man to bear the burden alone,’ she told herself, although it was obvious he could - and if need be - would. “Where is the best place to go?” she asked.
Graham felt a sharp stab of disappointment that the action might be over. Then he felt another prickle of emotion- this time from his conscience telling him he should not be risking cadet’s lives. He nodded and after biting his lip replied. “Somewhere in the bush across the river near the road to Charters Towers Miss. Then we can meet the police,” he replied.
“Are the police on their way?” Lt McEwen asked.
Graham shook his head. “I don’t know Miss. I expected them to be here by now. I thought company HQ would have told them where we are. We radioed HQ we were coming here and they acknowledged the signal.” Then he paused and shook his head. “But it was in code and in veiled speech. I just said we were going to the Black Pig’s Lair. They might have misunderstood.”
“What if they don’t know?” Lt McEwen asked.
“Then the problem is contacting them. We seem to have three options there. One is the radio. I take it you’ve been trying that?”
Lt McEwen nodded. “Every fifteen minutes. No reply.”
“Maybe they are still held prisoner by the crooks?” Hodgins suggested.
Graham shrugged. “So another option is to walk back to Canning Junction. It’s only twelve kilometres and I’m good for that. We could just stick those security blokes up and let the OC take over, or use the phone at ‘Canning Park’ homestead. Another is to walk to Charters Towers but that’s a good seven or eight hour walk and I don’t know what we might meet on the way.”
As he said this Graham’s mind went back two years to that awful night at Stannary Hills when he’d walked fifteen kilometres in the dark with a broken arm to save his friends
from the gang of crooks using the old mines as a hideout. This was his third night in a row of walking but he was as fit as he would ever be and was confident of his ability to do it.
Lt McEwen frowned. “You think going back to the company then? Who? Not just you on your own? The platoon couldn’t do it. Some of these cadets must be exhausted,” she said.
“Yes, Miss, I know. I’d have to take a couple of the fittest. Sh...sh...stop talking! Listen!”
They all sat silent. Graham met Lt McEwen’s eyes. There was no mistaking the sound. An aircraft!
CHAPTER 35
THE AIRFIELD RAID
“Put out the fire!” Graham ordered. Putting down the cup of coffee he had just begun to sip, he grabbed his rifle and scrambled up the rocks to the highest point of the hill. But he need not have hurried as the aircraft was still a fair way off and he had been joined by some of the others by the time it was close. Lt McEwen tried to get up but Rebecca urged her not to try and she lay back, groaning.
Graham scanned the star speckled sky hoping to catch a glimpse of the aircraft. “Can’t see him. No lights. That’ll be our man alright,” he said. He felt a surge of satisfaction and began to tingle with excitement. His watch said 2030hrs. Again he scanned the sky to the east but only the aircraft’s engines betrayed its progress
The machine came in from the North East and flew over the Mining Camp. As it did it ‘blipped’ its engines twice.
“I wonder if he’s got radio communications?” Graham asked aloud. No one answered. The aircraft went much higher than their hill as it passed. It then circled around to the South East.
“They’ve turned on runway lights, look!” LCpl Halyday cried. They all turned to stare at where two rows of white lights had suddenly appeared to mark the runway on the plain below.
“He’s going to land!” Cpl Sheehan said. That was obvious from the sound of the aircraft’s engines. The aircraft’s landing lights came on and momentarily swept the hill, dazzling them. Then the aircraft lined up for its landing. It was clearly visible now as a twin engine aircraft, low wing monoplane.
Graham gripped his rifle tightly. “Bargheese will be down there! He’s going to get away! And he’s got Morrow and Anderson,” he muttered. The thought caused him to grind his teeth in frustration and for a second he considered shooting at the aircraft as it settled over the tree tops onto the dirt strip below.
Then a better idea came to him. “We’ve got to stop that plane taking off! It’s our only chance,” he cried. He looked around. With him were Cpl Sheehan, Halyday and Hodgins. ‘They are all were armed and are good for another patrol,’ he decided. Rebecca had now joined them and Graham turned to her.
“Rebecca, tell Miss McEwen we are going to raid the airfield. Tell Cpl Lake as well so that her sentries know,” he instructed. Graham then quickly gave instructions. “Cpl Sheehan, you and Halyday go and cut their electricity - shoot the insulators on the power line. Use a torch to aim by if you have to. Go down the front of the hill to do it. Then wait beside the road to the airfield where it crosses the gully we went down this afternoon. Hodgins, you come with me. You set fire to the fuel and I’ll deal with the plane. Come on!”
Rebecca was appalled. “Shouldn’t you get Lt McEwen’s permission first?” she queried.
Graham knew with guilty certainty that he should be he was determined. ‘If we go fast we can do this before she forbids it,’ he thought. “Just tell her,” he snapped then set off down the rocky slope. Rebecca again protested but Graham wouldn’t listen and kept on going down the hill at breakneck speed, jumping from rock to rock and slithering down as fast as he could go. Already the aircraft was taxiing back towards the hangar. ‘If those crooks have their act together they could be airborne within minutes,’ he fretted.
Graham was gambling on some confusion on the enemy’s part; and on them not expecting a second raid on their airfield. He also wondered if the aircraft needed refuelling after a long flight across the Coral Sea. As he hurried down the rocky slope he fell heavily and bruised his buttocks and left wrist and this made him slow down to a more sensible pace as the aircraft stopped in front of the hangar near the damaged Cessna. He knew the others were following by the sound of rocks rolling down, boots slithering on loose pebbles, swearing and general clatter.
As the aircraft’s engines cut, leaving a sudden silence, Graham stopped and called back, “Ok, take it slower. They’ll hear us otherwise.” He continued on down at a careful walk, oblivious to aching leg muscles and dry throat. The fact that the aircraft had switched off its engines gave him hope. He could see people moving between it and the hangar but not how many. He tried to put himself into Bargheese’s mind. Had Bargheese gone on to the airfield from Mast Hill? Or had he returned to the camp? Was he forewarned of the plane’s exact time of arrival? Had he spoken to it on the radio? Was he even now down at the airstrip? Where were Morrow and Anderson?
By then Graham was at the bottom of the hill and he walked as quickly as he could across the flat ground towards the fuel drums. He wasn’t quite sure what he would do when he got there. After crossing the small gully just above where the airfield track crossed it he walked up the slight rise beyond. As did he slipped off his safety catch and waited for Hodgins. Of Sheehan and Halyday there was no sign.
Graham realized he hadn’t reloaded after the sunset battle and wasn’t sure how many rounds he had in the rifle, or even if he had a live round in the breech. As he prided himself on trying to be a good soldier this galled him. It was a risk he couldn’t afford. So he crouched and eased the bolt back while Hodgins looked at him enquiringly. The metal was cool and greasy and there was a bullet in there, a live thing of deadly reality in his fingers. Carefully he eased the bolt shut again and realized his heart was beating furiously. He had to swallow to speak.
“Just checking. Got your breath?” he said.
The aircraft’s motors suddenly roared into life. ‘Blast it! Too late!’ he swore. Jumping up he ran forward out of the trees onto the grassy verge near the rows of a dozen or more silver painted 44 gallon fuel drums.
The aircraft’s headlights came on, luckily not pointing straight at them. Graham stopped and looked hard towards the hangar and shed. “Go for the drums,” he called above the roar of the motors. In the starlight he saw a lot of people milling around at the front of the hangar. Of course! The illegal immigrants. Graham grinned. ‘They are in for a rude shock!’
The aircraft began moving slowly, almost side on to him and towards the fuel. Then it stopped and Graham heard shouts and there was a shot from near the hangar. It wasn’t at him. Heart pounding furiously he looked. It was at Hodgins who was lying in grass a few centimetres high, halfway to the drums. The aircraft’s engines began to rev.
Now or never!
Graham knelt and aimed. He had a clear shot at less than a hundred paces at a motor and no danger of hitting anyone in the aircraft.
Bang!
The heavy rifle thumped into his shoulder and a tongue of flame shot out the barrel. Graham wrenched the bolt back and reloaded then fired again, aware that he was in the open and must be visible.
‘That second bullet hit something,’ he thought. Determined to stop the aircraft he reloaded and fired again. The aircraft began to turn away out towards the runway and one of the motors started making a rattling noise. The turn presented the aircraft’s tail and a good silhouette of its port engine. Graham fired again. Then he aimed at the port tyre, a fat black lump rolling directly away from him, and fired again. He was aware of other shots too. At least one went near him. Others were fired by Hodgins and there were some from behind him.
His rifle was empty. Graham turned and ran back twenty paces and threw himself flat. As he did the world went black.
All the lights, except on the aircraft, had gone out. Good old Cpl Sheehan!
The aircraft was turning again, left, and was now going away port side towards him. Graham could still get a good clear sight. He fumbled at a clip of 5 ro
unds, rammed them into the magazine and loaded, then aimed at the port engine and fired - then at the port wheel again. The plane’s lights went out but it kept moving. After that he did not dare fire for fear of hitting someone. But it took an effort of willpower for his conscience to overpower his excitement.
It was quite dark and Graham looked towards the hangar for any sign of people coming his way. As the aircraft went off beyond the buildings and the noise of its engines was muffled he became aware of screams and shouts from near the hangar. ‘The illegal immigrants in a panic from the sound of it,’ he thought. There was another shot from there but who it was aimed at he had no idea. He checked his rifle and lay listening to the aircraft as it taxied off to the far end of the airstrip. It would be getting ready for its take-off run. For a mad moment he considered running out onto the edge of the runway to shoot at it but then had a mental vision of the aircraft then crashing in a ball of flame. It helped him regain self control. He had no desire to murder anyone, least of all Cadet Morrow. ‘I will have to let the crooks get away,’ he told himself.
Ball of Flame! Holy Mackerel!
There was a ball of flame! It erupted nearby with a mighty whooomph! Graham glimpsed a startled Hodgins, stunned by the success of his own handiwork, standing match in hand and mouth agape. The fuel dump was alight. Then Hodgins turned and ran. A bullet cracked towards the moving cadet from the hangar. Graham got a vivid impression of a line of staring black faces, mouths a line of even blacker holes and white eyes shining in the firelight, and of several white men in white or blue shirts. He couldn’t tell which. He didn’t care. To cover Hodgins he fired a shot into the corrugated steel shed near their heads. These all snapped in his direction simultaneously. Then there was a mad scramble and no one in sight.
Graham glanced back at the roaring fire just as a fuel drum exploded in a vicious fire ball. He felt its fiery breath even 50 metres away and as another drum was flung high into the air with a flaming trail of smoke and liquid fire he got up and bolted.
The Cadet Under-Officer Page 36
