by Peter Watt
Then the vision was gone and Wallarie snapped open his eyes to find himself once again by his fire. He had seen the evil and knew that it threatened his world and that of his friends at Glen View.
For a long time Wallarie reflected on what his dream meant. He had visited a debil debil; one of those evil spirits that lived in the night – and which were to be avoided at all costs. He did not know who the debil was and thought it must be one of the Christian debils Pastor von Fellmann had tried to teach him about. Maybe he should talk to the pastor and ask him what it meant. But the Pastor von Fellmann was a man who said debils were in another world, and so he could not have visited one while he was still alive. So it would not be any good talking with his old friend about the dream.
Wallarie sighed, rose with some effort to his feet and went in search of some more dry timber to throw on his fire. He was careful not to stray far from the light of his campfire as the curlews began their sad wailing song. It was well known that the evil spirits of the dead were out there in the dark and even Wallarie was not immune to their magic. Maybe the meaning behind his vision would come when the sun rose once again across the dry scrub plains and the heat rose to warm his old, scarred body.
8
They came staggering back, across the colourful flower-spattered field, arm on the shoulder of the man in front of them, rags wrapped around their eyes, led by a soldier who could see. Sergeant Tom Duffy paused. He was ensuring the platoon had their allotment of supplies from the company quartermaster, which was his primary role now that the platoon commander, Lieutenant Mike Sullivan, had returned.
‘Poor bastards,’ the CQM muttered. ‘Bloody gas attack on our work party down in the valley.’
Tom did not comment. He had seen it all before, and he just thanked God that it had not been him. Many of the men in the column would be temporarily blinded, but some would be blinded permanently, depending on how much gas they had copped.
‘Any of your lot with the work party?’ the CQM asked.
‘No, thank God,’ Tom replied. ‘They’re back here a bit, waiting to go up as soon as I sort out the requisition for their kit.’
‘Like to cut off the balls of the Hun who invented the bloody gas shells,’ the CQM grumbled as he counted out ammunition boxes for dispatch to Tom’s platoon. ‘Bad enough that we have to put up with their arty hammering us with shrapnel.’
Tom gestured to a couple of his platoon soldiers to come over and fetch the wooden cases of .303 rounds, and when he checked his list he saw that the platoon allocation of other supplies was complete. He thanked the CQM, then joined the two privates lugging not only the ammunition cases but also sandbags full of bully beef tins and the rock-hard biscuits the soldiers called dog biscuits.
Tom reached the thirty or so men of the platoon, lying about in the picturesque field covered in the wild flowers of late spring. It was the end of May and summer would be upon them with its long days of sweltering heat.
Lieutenant Sullivan was away at battalion HQ receiving his orders for the day and Tom had completed his duties for the moment. It was time to sit down and enjoy the warmth of the afternoon sun before they were inevitably sent up to the front under cover of darkness.
He found Dan Frogan smoking his pipe and cleaning his rifle. Tom joined him, sitting down on the grass beside his friend. Dan glanced up. ‘I see you got all our supplies.’
‘Yeah,’ Tom answered. ‘Only wish I had shares in the bully beef company. That’s all we seem to get at the front. That, and those bloody biscuits harder than shrapnel.’
Tom retrieved his own battered pipe and took his time packing the bowl and lighting up. The first puff felt good as the nicotine was absorbed in his blood.
‘Hey, Sarge!’ a voice called out. Tom turned his head to see Corporal Smithers sitting with his section. ‘Hear you got engaged on your last leave.’
‘Thought that bastard was still on sick leave,’ Tom muttered to Dan, ignoring the burly corporal.
‘Got back a few days ago, but was posted to BHQ on light duties. They sent him back to the platoon today,’ Dan said.
‘Hey, Sarge,’ Smithers persisted. ‘She’s a nice sheila, from what I know of her personally.’
The hair on the back of Tom’s neck rose at this last comment and he made to rise to his feet, but Dan gently restrained him. ‘Ignore the bastard,’ he said. ‘You know he’s got it in for you.’
Tom stared at Smithers and saw him turn to the men around him and snigger. ‘You’re right,’ Tom said, knowing full well that the last thing Lieutenant Sullivan would want would be for his superior NCO to start a fight. Such an event would lead to charges levelled and Tom would probably be stripped of his rank and given field punishment. Although Smithers was a coward and a troublemaker, as platoon sergeant, Tom had a duty to keep all his men from harm, despite his personal feelings towards them.
That evening Lieutenant Sullivan briefed the men: they were going up to the front in the early hours of the morning to relieve another company. Tom was soon occupied ensuring that the soldiers all had their equipment. They napped in the field until 0200 hours when Tom roused them from fitful sleep to assemble. He went down the ranks of the three sections to check that none of the men’s gear rattled on the march to the front. When he reached Smithers he heard him mutter, ‘Nice sheila, Juliet, if you know what I mean.’
Tom stood eye to eye with the corporal. ‘No, I don’t, Corporal Smithers. If you have something to say, spit it out.’
‘Nothin’ to say,’ Smithers replied and Tom moved on. He was starting to worry about Juliet; he hoped she was safe, that Smithers hadn’t been hassling her. He would have to wait until his next leave to find out what Smithers was alluding to. Before then, they were going up to the gates of hell and maybe Smithers might not make it back.
The company found themselves on the left forward flank of the defence, and after a briefing from the outgoing men, they began to settle into the routine of trench life once again. A few grumbled that the previous company had left the trench in a shambles, but soldiers needed to complain, Tom thought, so he listened patiently to their gripes.
Tom noticed that Corporal Smithers seemed to allocate the rewiring of sections along the front edge of the trench to his section, and remained safely down in the trench to avoid any possible sniper fire.
‘Get out there and join your section, Corporal Smithers,’ Tom barked. ‘Set an example to your men.’
Smithers stubbed out his cigarette and rose slowly to his feet. ‘I run my section as I see fit,’ he growled.
‘Sergeant,’ Tom said, reminding the NCO of military protocol.
‘Sergeant,’ Smithers spat. ‘Hope nothing happens to you in the dark, Sergeant Duffy. But as a blackfella, who would see you in the dark anyway?’
For a moment Tom was tempted to swing at Smithers, but he restrained himself. ‘Just do your job,’ he said with menace, and Smithers reluctantly climbed over the parapet to join his men rolling out barbed wire and driving in steel pickets.
In the early hours of the next morning Tom dozed in a niche that had been dug out of the trench walls to provide a sleeping space. The night was cold despite the fact summer was just around the corner.
‘Stand to!’
The alarm was shouted down the trench just as the first crash of incoming rifle and machine-gun fire threw up spouts of dirt along the edge of the trench.
Tom tumbled from his resting place, rifle in hand and shaking the little sleep he’d had from his body. It was obvious they were under attack and he stumbled in the dark to the section of the trench where Lieutenant Sullivan was located. A German grenade exploded behind him and he knew the enemy must be close.
Lieutenant Sullivan was already pushing his way down the trench, revolver in hand, ensuring all his men were on the parapet. Tom could see that his officer was doing his job and stepped up beside Private Dean, who was rapidly working the bolt of his rifle, firing blindly into the dark until a flare exploded in th
e night sky, illuminating the scene before their defences.
Tom calculated that they were under attack from a couple of company-sized units. The helmeted men advancing in their grey uniforms were hunched forward, firing and moving in a disciplined manner.
‘Aim, Private Dean,’ Tom snapped when he noticed that the soldier had his eyes closed. In Tom’s experience this was not uncommon as not all soldiers could face the reality of taking a man’s life. ‘Where is your section commander?’
Terrified, Corporal Dean waved over his shoulder. Tom glanced back to see a shadowy figure crouched in the trench a few feet away. He leapt across to confront the NCO cowering with his hands over his head.
‘Get up, you yellow dingo,’ Tom shouted in Smithers’s ear. He grabbed the man by his collar and hauled him to his feet. Even in the dark Tom could see the glazed look in the NCO’s eyes. ‘Your bloody section needs you.’
Tom shook Smithers and that seemed to snap him out of the state he was in. He blinked and focused on Tom.
‘Leave me alone, you black bastard!’ Smithers screamed.
Tom released his grip and Smithers reached down to scoop up his rifle. He chambered a round and pointed the gun directly at Tom, who realised that he was trailing his own rifle and would not be able to bring it up to defend himself in time. Smithers thrust his rifle into Tom’s chest, his finger on the trigger.
So this is how it ends, Tom thought slowly. But his finely honed instincts were working without his conscious thought, and he realised that his hand was gripping the barrel of Smithers’s rifle, thrusting it up and away from him as the shot was fired.
Tom brought up the barrel of his own rifle to slam Smithers under the chin, knocking back his head and forcing him to drop his weapon. Before Tom could continue with the hand-to-hand fight he heard a desperate cry from Private Dean.
‘Sarge! Sarge!’
Tom turned his attention to the parapet. He could see that a cluster of German soldiers were concentrating their attack through the barbed wire, which they had cut through, and were laying down a withering fire, forcing Dean to duck his head and discontinue fighting.
Tom took in the desperate situation. He calculated five enemy already emerging through the wire; within seconds they would be at the trench with hand grenades. Tom reached for the bayonet in the belt scabbard; he slid it out and clipped it onto the end of his rifle before hauling himself over the lip of the trench. Then, with a roar, he charged the five enemy men preparing to overrun this section of the trench.
Tom was hardly aware that he had placed himself in mortal danger; all he could feel was the red rage of combat. The world had narrowed down so that there was nothing else except killing. The looming figures seemed to hesitate at the sight of him charging at them and he claimed his first victim before the man had time to react.
The Germanstorm trooper screamed as the long knife caught him under the sternum and was twisted up into his chest cavity. He fell to his knees, desperately gripping the barrel of the rifle as Tom used all his strength to rip the bayonet free again. Tom hardly felt the German bayonet glance off the back of his ribs and through the rear of his jacket, entangling as it did. He swung, leaving his rifle still half-sticking out of the dying German soldier.
Tom jerked around, forcing the rifle from the soldier behind him. Using his tin helmet, Tom smashed at the face of his adversary. The aim was true, bringing a grunt of pain from the German soldier, who reeled back in stunned confusion. The other three German soldiers who were part of the breaching team had disappeared in the dark towards the trench, armed with grenades.
Tom did not allow his opponent to regain his senses but launched himself at him. As he did so he lost the grip on the helmet he had used as a weapon. Both men were now down to using their bare hands to kill each other and the German was a big man. Tom knocked him from his feet and was able to drop him on the ground, straddling him at the same time. He rained punches down on the soldier’s face, smashing his nose and jaw. The German was pleading something but Tom ignored him, wrapping his hands around the man’s throat and squeezing until the words were strangled and the breathing stopped. Bullets were cracking dangerously close to Tom’s head, so he rolled off the dead man and groped for his rifle still sticking out of the body of the German he had bayoneted. Tom gave one more yank, dislodging the long knife with an awful sucking sound, and scrambled back to the trench where he could see three dead German soldiers lying on the forward edge. None had made it through the breach, thank God.
Tom fell over the trench and bounced off the parapet, winding himself as he hit the wooden slats below. As Tom lay on his back he stared up at the night sky slowly fading to daylight. The sound of gunfire was ringing in his ears. When he turned his head he could see his platoon standing to along the parapet.
‘Sergeant Duffy, are you wounded?’ a voice said as if from down a long tunnel. Tom’s could see that it was Lieutenant Sullivan bending over him. It was then that Tom became aware of the terrible stinging pain along his side where the German bayonet had grazed him.
Wincing, Tom sat up and reached around to feel the tear in his jacket and the wetness of the blood. ‘Got a bit of a cut on my back, boss,’ Tom answered through teeth gritted in pain. ‘Probably not much to write home about.’
‘Stretcher-bearers, over here,’ Sullivan called, gesturing to a couple of men wearing Red Cross bands on their arms and carrying a fold-up canvas stretcher. ‘We’ll get you back to be looked at,’ Sullivan said. ‘I saw what you did. Either bloody stupid or bloody brave, but your action slowed the Hun enough for us to bring rifles to bear before they got among us, Sergeant Duffy.’
It was now that Tom started to think about what he had done. He cursed himself for what appeared an act of bravery when all he was doing was reacting instinctively, as a warrior would. Hadn’t he sworn to Juliet not to place his life in danger unnecessarily? He was an idiot.
‘Got to do the roll call,’ Tom said as one of the stretcher-bearers quickly and expertly examined the wound along Tom’s ribs. Turning to Sullivan, the bearer said, ‘The sarge isn’t hurt too bad, but he’ll need a few stitches and bandaging back at the aid post.’
‘In that case, sir, I can take the roll call,’ Tom said, tucking in his shirt and adjusting his jacket.
‘If you think you are up to it, Tom,’ Sullivan said quietly. ‘Your parade.’
Tom pulled out the battered platoon roll book and a pencil. He called off the names of the platoon and was relieved to hear each one reply, ‘Present, sir.’ All except one – Corporal Smithers.
‘Smithers,’ Tom called again and heard Private Dean reply, ‘I think Corporal Smithers was wounded, Sarge.’
‘Anyone see Corporal Smithers cop it?’ Tom asked and the silence answered his question.
The sun was now above the horizon and in the shadows of the trench the men stared at each other. They could hardly believe they had beaten off a ferocious night attack by at least a company-strength plus unit of the elite German stormtroopers of the Kaiser’s army. Men sat with their rifles between their knees, staring blankly; others took out cigarettes and lit them with shaking hands.
‘Two men per section back on the parapet,’ Sullivan called loudly. ‘They might be back.’
Reluctantly, men climbed back on the parapet on sentry duty, careful not to expose themselves to possible snipers left behind by the retreating Germans.
‘Your job is done for now, Tom,’ Sullivan said. ‘Frogan can hold the fort while you go to the aid post for treatment. I hope you’re back with us before sunset.’
Tom was able to walk and he followed the stretcher-bearers down the communication trenches to the safer, rear area in a shallow valley. Here the spring flowers had been trampled into the mud by the horses and carts bringing up supplies and moving the big artillery guns around into their gun parks.
Inside the large tent marked with a red cross, Tom was met by the regimental surgeon, who examined his wound and stitched it with great c
are and skill.
‘You will have to remain here until sunset,’ he said, washing his hands in a bowl of bloody water.
Tom was pleased to see that there were only two other wounded men, and they were being treated for minor injuries. He was surprised that there was no sign of Corporal Smithers, who had been reported as wounded and having been evacuated. Only now did Tom remember that Smithers had tried to kill him.
He walked out into the morning sunshine and sat on a bench outside the tent. He was pondering on what he should do about Smithers when he saw the regimental sergeant major, Warrant Officer First Class Bob Pink, striding towards him. He had a grim expression on his face.
‘Hello, sir,’ Tom greeted as the regimental sergeant major came to a stop in front of him.
‘On your feet, Sergeant Duffy,’ the RSM commanded and Tom knew immediately that something was very wrong.
Tom came to his feet smartly, despite feeling exhausted now the adrenaline had finally flowed from his body.
‘Sergeant Duffy, I have a serious allegation laid against you by Corporal Smithers,’ the RSM said. ‘He has made a formal complaint that you attempted to kill him during the attack by the Hun early this morning. What do you have to say to that?’
Tom shook his head in disbelief. ‘That is a lie, sir. He was the one who attempted to kill me. Just get the gutless bastard here and ask him in my presence.’
‘I am afraid that we cannot do that, Sergeant,’ the RSM said. ‘He has been evacuated further back to a hospital to be treated for a gunshot wound to his foot, which he claims you were responsible for.’
‘Sir, this is a bloody joke,’ Tom said, his anger rising.
‘No joke, Sergeant Duffy,’ the RSM replied. ‘An investigation will have to be carried out, and until then, I want you to remain at BHQ under my watchful eye.’
‘Do you think I tried to kill Corporal Smithers, sir?’ Tom asked. He had always respected Pink for his professionalism and competence as the right-hand of the battalion commander.
