Beyond the Horizon

by Peter Watt

  ‘Not up to me to make that decision, Sergeant Duffy,’ the RSM answered almost sadly. ‘I do not have the privilege of voicing my opinion, that is up to the officers – but I personally cannot think why in hell you would shoot the bastard in the foot.’

  ‘What happens now?’ Tom asked.

  ‘You report to the adjutant and he will allocate your tasks until the matter is cleared up,’ the RSM said. ‘In the meantime, keep your head down. A board will be convened in the field to decide whether you should be charged with attempted murder and court-martialled.’

  ‘Sir,’ Tom said and the RSM strode away, leaving Tom bewildered by the allegation, and regretful that Smithers was still alive.

  *

  It did not take long for the rumour to circulate in the battalion that Sergeant Duffy had been cited for attempted murder. Those outside Tom’s company who did not know him well speculated that this kind of thing could be expected of a man who had spent months out in no-man’s-land as a sniper. He was the best known killer in the battalion and they reckoned he must have snapped.

  To those in Tom’s company and platoon the idea was preposterous, and that night in the rear area a brawl broke out between the men who supported Tom and those who thought he was guilty. The regimental police broke up the brawl and the matter was reported to the commanding officer the next day.

  ‘Get the bloody matter settled,’ he growled to his battalion adjutant. ‘I want either a charge laid by the end of the day’s proceedings or Sergeant Duffy cleared. Call in his platoon and company commanders.’

  The adjutant immediately sent for the two men, who made their feelings well and truly known that Smithers was a shirker and a soldier of dubious qualities. How he had been given positions of leadership in the past was a total mystery to them both. Lieutenant Sullivan then passed over a report he had made recommending Sergeant Duffy for a medal for courage displayed leaving the trench to thwart an attempt by the Germans to storm the trench on the battalion’s flank.

  ‘All very impressive, Mr Sullivan,’ the adjutant said, skimming through the platoon commander’s account of the fight. ‘But I also have a statement on my desk from Private Dean, who I believe is one of your men, stating that he saw Duffy and Smithers brawling in the trench just before Duffy hopped the bags. Sadly, as commendable as his action was, it does not in any way ameliorate the attempted murder charge.’

  ‘Adj,’ the company commander broke in, leaning forward across the desk. Although he outranked the captain filling the adjutant’s position, he was also acutely aware of the role of the adjutant in the battalion as an executive officer for the battalion commander. ‘I was on the verge of transferring Smithers,’ he said. ‘The man has been reported before for shirking his duties during action. He is a liar.’

  ‘Unfortunately, he also has a bullet in the foot,’ the adjutant replied. ‘Very hard to lie about that evidence.’

  ‘The man could have shot himself in the foot to get out of the trenches. He’s not the first and he won’t be the last, as we all know,’ said the company commander. ‘I am sure that if Sergeant Duffy had intended to kill Smithers he would have done so. He’s too bloody good a soldier not to have succeeded. In my opinion, the matter should be dropped.’

  ‘I wish I could drop it,’ the adjutant sighed. ‘But there is also a matter of motive, and some of the men in Smithers’s section have stated there was bad blood between the two over a woman they met on leave. It sounds like she was seeing them both.’

  The company commander glanced at his junior officer. ‘Do you know anything about that, Sullivan?’

  ‘I heard from Corporal Frogan that Sergeant Duffy had got himself engaged to a French girl on the platoon’s last leave. I am not aware of anything else at this moment.’

  ‘Do we have the eternal triangle here?’ the adjutant asked. ‘A feud over a woman that has led to the incident?’

  ‘With all respect, sir,’ Lieutenant Sullivan said, ‘I cannot imagine any woman that Sergeant Duffy might be interested in being interested in Corporal Smithers. To put it politely, Smithers is a pig of a man known for being the platoon bully.’

  ‘Well, there’s not much else we can do until Corporal Smithers provides his official statement,’ the adjutant said. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  The company commander and Lieutenant Sullivan rose from their chairs and made their way out of BHQ.

  It did not look good for Sergeant Duffy, the adjutant mused, not with the rumours he had heard about Duffy being a blackfella. It was well known that blackfellas were excitable chaps and impulsive, although he’d never actually met any Aboriginals himself, growing up in wealthy Sydney suburbia as he had.

  No, it didn’t look good at all. If it was the word of a white man against that of a blackfella, the white man would be believed every time.

  9

  For a week Joanne and her small expedition trekked west, ever vigilant for Turkish military units; even dressed as Bedouin they could be a target for the Ottoman army, as the Arabs had risen up against their former overlords from Istanbul.

  The journey had been uneventful so far, and only twice had Saul’s men stumbled across nomadic goat herders, who had no useful information for them. On the eighth day, however, they came across a goat boy in a gully, shepherding his small flock.

  At the sight of the fierce-eyed mounted men the Arab boy fled. Benjamin easily caught up to him and jumped off his horse, calling out in Arabic that they would not harm him. Clearly realising that he couldn’t outrun a party on horseback, the boy slowed to a halt. Benjamin promised him a reward of silver coins and food if he provided information.

  The boy was around ten years old and, despite Benjamin’s assurances, clearly terrified. He sat in silence as Benjamin opened a tin of bully beef and took out a half-loaf of unleavened bread. The boy sniffed the meat when it was offered to him and watched Benjamin take a bite, then he followed his example. The fear began to leave his eyes, and when he was given a cup of tea to wash down the bread and meat, he relaxed, sensing that he was not going to be killed by these men.

  When asked, the boy said that he belonged to the tribe of Abdul-Hamid camped nearby, about a half-day to the west.

  ‘Ask the boy if Abdul-Hamid has a European prisoner,’ Joanne said eagerly.

  Benjamin spoke again as the goat boy stuffed more bread in his mouth with his fingers. He answered before swallowing.

  ‘He says that his master captured an infidel pilot some weeks ago and has sent a couple of his men to speak with the Ottomans about a reward for handing him over to them.’

  Joanne glanced at Saul, who had been listening with great interest and broke in, ‘Son, ask the boy how long ago the men were sent to speak with the Turks.’

  Benjamin did so. ‘He said about seven nights ago.’

  Both Joanne and Saul looked at each other as they made their own calculations. ‘That could mean the Turks might already be on their way here – if Abdul-Hamid’s men made contact with the Turks up north. We don’t have much time. Maybe not even hours,’ Saul said.

  ‘What are you planning?’ Joanne asked. She was trying to keep her excitement in check; of course the infidel pilot might not be Matthew, but surely it was too much of a coincidence for it not to be him.

  Saul thought for a moment. ‘I should conduct a recce of the campsite, to confirm that Matthew is the prisoner. That done, we would have the element of surprise and the firepower to carry out an assault to free Matthew at first light tomorrow.’

  ‘Won’t the boy go back to his people and report our meeting?’ Joanne asked.

  Saul slid a finely honed knife from his belt. ‘I think you should go for a walk just now,’ he said.

  Joanne looked at him in confusion, and then suddenly realised what he was planning to do. ‘You can’t kill the boy!’ she exclaimed. ‘You can’t trade Matthew’s life for his.’ It was morally wrong; besides, she would never be able to live with her guilt, knowing she had traded the boy’s life fo
r the life of the man she loved.

  Saul looked dismissive. ‘How else are we going to get Matthew back?’

  Joanne strode across to her horse, hobbled with the others and eating fodder out of a nosebag. She slipped the straps on one of her saddlebags and withdrew a small leather pouch. She walked back over to Saul and opened the leather bag, upturning it to spill shiny gold coins she had obtained from a bank in Jerusalem into her hand. The sight of the coins made everyone hold their breath.

  ‘I am sure that Abdul-Hamid will be persuaded to trade his prisoner for gold,’ Joanne said. ‘All we need to do is set up a meeting with him and haggle over a price.’

  Saul grinned, stroking his beard. ‘I have not met a man in Palestine who would not sell his whole family for what you hold in your hand. Maybe your plan will avoid bloodshed. Any attack would no doubt catch up women and children in the crossfire.’

  ‘Good,’ Joanne said, replacing the gold coins in the bag.

  ‘I’ll send the boy back to his people with a message that we are prepared to pay good money for the prisoner,’ said Saul. ‘I think if you give the boy one of those coins it will induce Abdul-Hamid to meet with us, but I will warn you, he has a reputation for double-crossing and is something of an outcast among the tribes around here.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ Joanne asked.

  ‘That I get one of my men to volunteer – for a few of your coins – to go with the boy and pass on the message,’ Saul said. He turned to his men; those ‘few’ coins would be a substantial amount of money to them. He spoke and one of his men stepped forward. He was young and due to be married in a month’s time; the money would help set up a future for his wife and himself.

  ‘Pesach says he will go with the boy to the camp,’ Saul said, placing his hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘He is one of my best, and he speaks Arabic.’

  Joanne extended her hand to the young man, who took it gingerly. ‘This is a down payment for you,’ she said, slipping five golden coins into his fingers. ‘You get another five when you are safely returned.’

  Pesach thanked Joanne and turned to Saul for his instructions. Saul had worked out a site where he could position his men and the precious Maxim gun should the Bedouin attempt to take what they had by force.

  ‘Tell Hamid that there are many of us . . . around a hundred . . . and tell him to come to this place over there. The meeting is to take place when the sun is rising. No sooner, no later, and ensure that you guide him on a path that takes you toward the rising sun. It is essential that he bring the European prisoner with him for the exchange. Do you have any questions?’

  Pesach shook his head.

  ‘Get the boy to guide you to the camp, and for his efforts he will be rewarded with one of the coins when we make the exchange.’ Saul clapped Pesach on the shoulders. ‘Good luck, lad. See you at sunrise.’

  Pesach and the goat boy set off towards the Bedouin camp and Saul gathered in his men and briefed them on the positions they were to take up the next morning. The Maxim machine-gun was unloaded and assembled. Saul sited it where it would have the best spread of bullets, and he also planned to have the rising sun at their backs at first light. Now it was only a matter of waiting and praying that Abdul-Hamid’s greed would induce him to the meeting.

  In the early hours of the morning, while the stars sparkled above, Saul roused Joanne and his men. They ate a cold breakfast of tinned bully beef and dispersed to their locations in the surrounding hilly country. Joanne and Saul remained together to meet with Abdul-Hamid and his party – if they came.

  ‘At least you and I can afford to have a hot cup of tea,’ Saul said when his men were gone into the night to their positions. ‘A fire might help guide Abdul-Hamid to us, and we may as well be comfortable.’

  Soon a small fire blazed into life and Saul placed the blackened tea urn over it.

  Joanne’s nerves were at breaking point. The waiting was terrible and the tea would help steady her. She and Saul sat beside the fire, sipping the hot, sweet tea in silence, both deep in their own thoughts. Eventually Saul rose from beside the fire to gaze down into the small valley they had chosen for the meeting. If he were the Arab leader travelling to this meeting he would have outriders to clear the flanks, Saul worried, even though he had concealed his men to avoid detection by outriders.

  Saul stood very still, just watching, with the sun warming his back.

  ‘What is it?’ Joanne asked, rising to her feet to join him.

  ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing at a distant ridge. ‘Dust.’

  Joanne strained to observe the dust and finally made out the slight shimmer. She had to admire Saul’s eyesight; in this country finely honed senses kept a man alive.

  After a few long minutes they could see around twenty men on horseback travelling slowly towards them.

  ‘Abdul-Hamid,’ Saul grunted. ‘Leave the talking to me.’

  Joanne did not question his command; she knew that in the Arab culture it was an affront for women to address men to whom they were not related. It rankled to remain out of the negotiations, but she knew Saul was right. Joanne raised the scarf around her face so that only her eyes were showing and ensured that she had a firm grip on the revolver hidden in a fold of her long flowing dress.

  As the column approached across the shallow valley Joanne scanned the men for Matthew, but she could see no sign of him.

  Saul took a step forward, his rifle cradled in his arm and his finger on the trigger.

  ‘I am Aban, and I will translate for my master, Abdul-Hamid,’ one of the men said in English.

  ‘Where is the man I sent with your goat boy and the prisoner you hold?’ Saul asked bluntly in the same language.

  ‘My master is not a trusting man, although beloved of Allah. He demands that you show him the money that you have promised for the infidel pilot we have at our camp.’

  Saul removed the leather pouch, which Joanne had given to him for just this purpose, and opened it so the coins were visible. He could see one man at the head of the column lean forward to stare at the glittering gold and guessed he that must be Abdul-Hamid. If anything went wrong, Saul knew who to kill first.

  ‘You will get this money when you return my man to me, along with the infidel prisoner,’ he said.

  The man Saul had identified as Abdul-Hamid said something to his translator, who turned to Saul. ‘He says that if you go with us to the camp he will give you both men for the money you carry, and he also asks where are the hundreds of men you are supposed to have with you.’

  ‘Watching us as we speak. They are heavily armed should your master foolishly attempt to seize the money,’ Saul replied.

  Abdul-Hamid sat back on his horse and smiled. Just then Saul and Joanne heard the outbreak of gunfire from the distant ridges, but none of it was directed down to where they stood. Saul quickly guessed what had happened: somehow the Bedouin had turned the tables on them and had sent out men to attack his positions on the ridge. Both he and Joanne were helpless against the party of armed men surrounding them.

  The Arab chief continued to smile and his eyes flicked to Joanne. A cold shiver of fear ran through her body. She gripped the pistol and curled her finger around the trigger. Better to die by her own hand than at the hands of these men watching her with a terrible expectation.

  ‘My master thinks you should give him both the money and the woman now, and he will promise you a quick death, unlike the death your man received at his hands last night. The gunfire you hear is from our Ottoman friends, who have your Englishman. They arrived late yesterday and my master made the trade for him. They kindly decided to stay with us and ride out to attack your vast force of . . . it must be six men, given that you lost one last night.’

  Just as Aban finished speaking, the sound of the Maxim shattered the early morning air and Saul was stunned to see men falling from their horses before his eyes. He had instructed his son the previous evening to man the heavy machine-gun and he was now pouring
a deadly stream of .303 bullets into the close ranks of the Bedouin leader’s party. Men screamed in fear and horses whinnied in pain as the bullets tore into them.

  Abdul-Hamid wheeled his horse around and fled with the handful of his surviving men. One man who had not been wounded but felled from his horse drew a wicked-looking scimitar and charged Saul, screaming in Arabic. Saul calmly levelled his rifle and waited until the man was almost upon him before firing. The high-velocity bullet ripped into the man’s stomach, knocking him to the ground, and Saul stepped forward to chamber another round, shooting him in the head.

  He turned and shouted to Joanne, who had her pistol out and even now fired at a wounded Arab attempting to regain his feet. She saw him look at her in surprise before collapsing from the bullet that had hit him in the heart.

  Both dashed for their horses hobbled a short distance behind them, quickly releasing the ropes. They flung themselves on the mounts and galloped towards the ridge where the Maxim was now firing long bursts at an unseen target.

  Both dismounted and led their horses up the steep incline, until they reached the top of the ridge, where they saw Benjamin and his offsider serving the machine-gun with belts of ammunition. Now they could see the khaki uniforms of Turkish soldiers some three hundred yards away and Saul calculated at least twenty men belonging to a mounted Turkish camel unit. He also counted at least ten enemy bodies strewn across the gentler slope on the other side of the ridge.

  The Turkish soldiers were obviously retreating and they fell out of sight behind a slope. The Maxim fell silent. Saul led his horse over to where his son sat behind the machine-gun. The boy looked stunned.

  ‘Well done, Benjamin,’ Saul said, patting his son on the head. ‘You saved our lives.’

  Pale under his olive skin, Benjamin said, ‘They surprised us. Had it not been for Adar here spotting the Turkish assault from our flank, we would not be alive. We were mostly watching you in the valley, but fortunately I had zeroed the Maxim onto the position you had marked out and was able to divert fire away from the Ottomans for a moment.’