by Peter Watt
The chatter of the aircraft’s twin machine-guns reached them across the plain, and they could see tiny puffs of dust as the bullets walked their way into the camp, felling a couple of the camels and three Turkish soldiers unable to get away in time.
‘Matthew could be killed,’ Joanne said, rising to her feet. ‘We have to do something now.’
Saul took in the situation with the practised mind of a tactician. He could see that Matthew had sprinted away from the rear of the encampment and flung himself on the ground in a very shallow depression. The fighter biplane had made one strafing pass over the encampment and was climbing for a second run. Already some of the Turkish soldiers were standing their ground and firing their rifles at the aircraft.
‘Get the Maxim into action now!’ Saul bellowed at his son. ‘Concentrate on placing your fire into the Turks towards the front of the caravan.’
Benjamin and Adar were already setting up the heavy water-cooled machine-gun on its stand and feeding a belt of ammunition into the breech. Benjamin jumped down behind the gun, pulled back the cocking lever, chambering the first round, and swivelled it to bring its fire to bear on the Turkish troops.
Saul ran to his horse and threw himself astride it. With a savage kick he spurred it into action and forced it over the edge of the hill onto the rocky slope that tapered away to the plain below. The horse was sure-footed and kept its balance as it went down the side of the hill, while Saul prayed that the British pilot would not concentrate his attack on him, mistaking him for an enemy soldier.
He glanced over his shoulder and swore in Hebrew. Joanne was following him down on her own mount. He had not had time to warn her off. There was not time for Saul to stop and order her back to the hilltop. He forced his mount into a gallop, and when he reached the bottom of the hill he calculated that he had around four hundred yards before he reached Matthew. Beside the noise of the horse’s hooves hitting the ground, Saul was sure that he could also hear his own heart beat.
Initially, the Turks had not noticed him galloping in a line past the rear of their encampment, but now a couple of soldiers close by turned to see him heading for the depression. The Turkish soldiers snapped off shots at him and Saul who could hear the crack of bullets passing close by. He pressed himself against his horse’s neck to make himself a smaller target. Three hundred yards, he thought, and when he turned to see where Joanne was he saw that she was only about twenty yards behind him, with her pistol in one hand and the reins in the other. Saul had to admire her skill in the saddle.
The fighter plane threw up spouts of dirt in front of Saul and he realised with chilling fear that he was the target now. The aircraft flew so low that Saul could actually see clearly the goggled face of the pilot looking back at him.
Two hundred yards, Saul calculated; Matthew was still wisely out of sight in the depression. Just then the Maxim opened up from atop the hill, catching the Turkish soldiers in a crossfire. Confused, they milled about, attempting to identify the second deadly threat as three or four were cut down. A Turkish officer was yelling and waving his pistol at his men.
Saul did not envy the Turkish officer’s position: he was being attacked from the air, and now a machine-gun on the hill was pouring fire down into his ranks and some madman dressed as a Bedouin was galloping towards his prisoner.
One hundred yards, and overhead the British fighter plane was preparing to make a third low-level strafing run against what was left of the Ottoman patrol. By now Joanne had caught up to Saul and was galloping by his side.
Fifty yards and Matthew suddenly rose to his feet and began waving.
Saul and Joanne were off their horses in a flash, and Matthew flung his arms around Joanne.
‘Oh, God, is this a dream?’ he gasped, hugging her to him. There were tears in his eyes, and hers too.
‘Let’s go,’ Saul growled, gripping the reins of his horse as it skittered nervously at the sound of the aircraft returning, and the chatter of its machine-gun.
‘Get on my horse,’ Joanne said. ‘We’ll ride back up the hill together.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Saul swore. ‘The bloody pommy bastard is coming for us!’
Both Matthew and Joanne glanced up; the pilot had finished his strafing run and had turned his attention on them out in the open. It seemed impossible that he would miss them; death was only seconds away.
Suddenly Joanne scrambled from the safety of the low depression and, to the utter astonishment of Matthew and Saul, ripped open her blouse to reveal her breasts to the oncoming pilot, who was now flying at almost ground level. Both men gaped in shock, making easy targets of themselves.
‘Joanne! No!’ Matthew screamed.
It was obvious that the pilot was not going to squander his remaining ammunition until he was close enough to ensure a kill, but the aircraft suddenly nosed up, and when both men swung to see the face of the pilot as he passed them by, they could have sworn that he was grinning. He waggled his wings and droned away, leaving the desert almost silent except for the pitiful grunting of wounded beasts and the cries of badly wounded men.
Joanne had closed her blouse and turned to the gawking men. ‘That seemed to work,’ she said with a smile.
Neither man commented, and the almost comical situation was rudely interrupted by the sound of scattered rifle shots. The Maxim gun had fallen silent, and Saul guessed that something had gone wrong with it. The Turkish officer had also guessed the same thing and now rallied around seven survivors to concentrate their fire on the single remaining threat – the trio in the depression.
‘We have to get out of here now,’ Saul said unnecessarily, and Matthew followed Joanne onto her mount, clinging to her waist with all the strength he had. The initial shooting proved to be well off as the traumatised men regained their composure, but as the two horses galloped across the plain towards the hill the shooting became more accurate.
A bullet clipped the back of Matthew’s shirt and he felt the searing pain as it scored a burn across his back; still he managed to maintain his grip as Joanne leaned forward, encouraging her mount to even greater speed. Saul was off to their left and keeping pace with them.
The slope came closer and the welcome chatter of the Maxim gun once again opened up to spray death down on the Turkish patrol. Over his shoulder Saul could see that the Turks had scattered, taking cover behind felled camels, and were returning fire.
When Saul, Joanne and Matthew reached the bottom of the hill they dismounted and placed their horses between themselves and the Turks now trapped on the plain, leading the exhausted horses up the slope slippery with shards of loose rock. It was then that Matthew noticed Joanne half-doubled over, her face ashen with pain. A great red blot spread on her white blouse and before Matthew could react, she stumbled and collapsed, releasing the reins of her horse.
‘Joanne! No!’ Matthew shouted.
Joanne lay on her side, clutching her stomach.
‘God, no!’ Saul groaned.
Matthew knelt down beside Joanne and placed her head in his lap. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Tears streamed down his dirty, unshaven face. ‘You’ll be all right, my darling,’ he choked. ‘Just got to get you up the hill and off to a hospital.’
Joanne had her eyes closed in agony but she opened them to stare up at Matthew. She reached up and touched his face. ‘I have found you, my darling Matthew,’ she said weakly. ‘I will never let you go again.’
The pain and loss of blood brought merciful release to her and she slipped into unconsciousness. Matthew held her to him gently, lest he cause her any more grief. He felt Saul’s hand on his shoulder.
‘We have to get her up to the others,’ he said quietly.
Matthew turned to him with desperation written all over his face. ‘We can help her,’ he pleaded. ‘We just need to get her to medical help.’
Saul felt a lump in his throat. With a wound like that, death was almost a certainty – even with the best hospital facilities. ‘Yes, old cobber,
and first we have to get her out of the line of fire of the Ottomans over there.’
Saul turned his attention to the summit where he could see Adar, armed with a rifle, descending the slope. Within minutes Adar was beside them.
‘We have to get Miss Barrington up the hill,’ Saul said in Hebrew and Adar knelt to take her legs, while Matthew gripped her under the arms. It was tortuous going, carrying Joanne’s limp body up the slippery hillside, while all the time being careful not to cause her more distress. Still, Joanne groaned at the movement, slipping in and out of consciousness. Saul led the two horses and eventually they reached the top to see Benjamin manning the heavy machine-gun. A shimmer of heat lay over the hot barrel and a pile of shiny brass cartridges lay in scattered heaps where they had been ejected by the weapon.
Benjamin left the gun to go to Joanne as she was laid gently on the dry earth. The bloodstain now completely covered the front of her blouse. He glanced at his father’s grim face, and Saul shook his head.
Matthew fell to his knees beside Joanne and used his torn and dirty scarf to scatter away the flies that settled on her face.
‘Get some cover over here,’ Saul said to his son.
Benjamin retrieved a section of canvas wrapping from his horse’s saddlebags and pitched it with two rifles to form a crude shelter from the blistering sun.
Matthew held Joanne’s limp hand, crooning soothing words of forlorn hope.
‘We’ll leave them alone,’ Saul said quietly to his son. ‘The Turks down in the valley are still a threat, so we must prepare to ride out of here within an hour.’
‘What will happen to Miss Barrington?’ Benjamin asked anxiously as he walked away with his father. He saw tears in the corners of Saul’s eyes and knew not to ask any more questions.
Joanne gazed up at Matthew with pain-racked eyes. ‘I . . .’ she winced, and could not go on. She gripped his hand.
‘We’re going to get you to a hospital, my love. Everything’s going to be all right,’ Matthew said.
‘No hospital,’ Joanne replied through gritted teeth. ‘Pain too bad.’
‘Saul will organise transport for you. Before you know it you will be on your feet again,’ Matthew said with conviction. He would not let her die.
A crippled smile crept across her beautiful but ashen face. ‘Not going to live,’ she said with great effort. ‘You must kill me . . . Right thing to do . . . No hope.’
The shock of her words hit Matthew like a bullet. ‘I will get you to a hospital,’ he reiterated.
With effort Joanne shook her head. ‘So much to say,’ she said as her body rippled with a spasm that choked off her words. She cried out and the sound of her pain tore through Matthew. He didn’t want to confront the fact that she was dying, but he had no choice – she was in agony. He could let her linger in her suffering – or give her the peace she asked for.
Matthew heard Saul’s footsteps behind him and turned to see the big bearded man looking down on them both with an expression of gentle sympathy and grief. He stretched out his hand to Matthew. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I have morphine for Joanne’s pain.’
Matthew took the handful of glass capsules and the needle. The medical rule was that victims suffering stomach or head wounds were not to be given morphine. Surely Saul must have known that, Matthew thought, and was about to reject the offer when the realisation hit him. He exchanged a pitiful look with Saul, who now turned and slowly walked away.
Joanne had her eyes closed as Matthew prepared the syringe. His hands shook so badly that he dropped the needle, but he picked it up and wiped away the sand.
‘Matthew my love,’ Joanne muttered and Matthew leaned over to kiss her lips, dry and chaffed from the sun. As he did so he slid the needle into her arm and gently pushed down on the pump. Joanne opened her eyes at the prick of the needle and smiled at Matthew. ‘I love you with all my body and soul,’ she said. ‘Thank you, my love. Love our children . . .’ Her voice trailed away as the powerful drug took hold.
Matthew cradled her head in his lap and stroked her hair until her breathing stopped and her eyes glazed over in death. Then he was racked with a pain and a sobbing that seemed as though it would never end. Saul stood close, his hand on his shoulder.
‘She’s at peace,’ he said softly. ‘She is with the angels.’
Benjamin and Adar removed their head gear out of respect for the remarkable young woman. It appeared that the Turks had fled and the small party was not in any immediate danger, so they remained on the hilltop until late afternoon. Matthew stayed by Joanne’s body, talking to her as if she were still alive.
Saul was satisfied that the Turkish patrol had cleared the area but still remained cautious as there was a chance that they were rallying to pursue them. He was anxious to get away, but did not want to disturb Matthew in his last moments with Joanne.
When the sun was low on the horizon, in that time before the arid lands took on the coolness of the star-filled night, Saul and Benjamin buried Joanne in the hard earth, finding rocks to mark her gravesite. There was nothing more that Saul could do for her, so he turned his attention to Matthew, who sat on a rock holding Joanne’s revolver in his hand, staring blankly into the distance.
Saul walked over to him. ‘We will leave under cover of darkness,’ he said. ‘I am certain that Joanne will expect you to look after your son and daughter, so don’t go and get yourself killed.’
Matthew did not look up or reply. Eventually, though, he rose and tucked the pistol into the waistband of his trousers. Saul felt a great sense of relief as he had feared his friend might choose to join Joanne in death.
Matthew rode in silence on Joanne’s tough little mare. The four men picked their way westward towards Jerusalem under a sky of spectacular stars. They stopped in the early hours of the morning to tend to one of the horses that had gone lame, and Matthew joined Saul examining the horse’s hoof by kerosene lantern light.
‘I killed her,’ Matthew choked. ‘I killed her.’
Saul was bent over the horse’s foot. ‘No, Matthew,’ he said, looking up, ‘the war killed her. You ended her suffering, you gave her peace, but you were not responsible for her death.’
Matthew stood silently for a moment. ‘If it hadn’t been for me, she would have been safely back in Cairo.’
Saul eased down the horse’s leg and stretched wearily. ‘She loved you, Matthew. She would have done anything to make sure you were safe. You would have done the same for her. There’s nothing more important in this world than love, and Joanne died knowing that. She would want you to carry her love with you into your life, into the lives of your children. Don’t waste the gift she has given you, old cobber.’ Saul embraced his friend; he could feel Matthew’s body shaking with grief.
‘Thanks, my friend,’ Matthew said eventually and broke from the embrace to walk back to his horse.
He knew now that he must ensure the futures of his children – it was all that mattered now. One day he would be buried in these ancient, biblical lands beside Joanne – when his own time came to him for that endless peace. Matthew had often heard Saul use both the Hebrew and Arabic words for peace. After love, peace was the next most beautiful word in the universe.
13
Sean Duffy hated the winter charity ball season. He was never comfortable in the company of Sydney’s elite, who knew nothing of the hell of war. Civilians would prattle on about shortages, about no longer being able to buy the luxuries they had once taken for granted. It infuriated Sean, who knew that just being safe and well was a luxury soldiers fighting in the war had long since foregone. He had only accepted the invitation to tonight’s ball because it was raising funds for wounded servicemen.
Sean was standing in the glittering ballroom of one of Sydney’s best hotels, surrounded by elaborately dressed men and women, a handful in uniform. He propped himself on his walking cane, glancing around at the throng of laughing guests. He had attended unescorted – his work and, to an extent, his drinking, lef
t little time to socialise with the eligible ladies of Sydney. He wore a black suit and bow tie and wore his medals in miniature, as required by protocol.
A solicitor he knew from a rival firm greeted him, extending his hand. Sean racked his brain for the man’s name. Clarence Hurley, that was it. He was the same age as Sean, but heavy, with a red flush to his face that indicated a taste for good ports.
‘Major Duffy, old chap,’ he said, shaking Sean’s hand with a limp, sweaty grip. ‘No need for you to avail yourself of charity, not from the way your firm is fairing. But it’s grand that you bring some colour to the place and, with your gammy legs, a reminder of why we have spent our hard-earned money to be here.’
‘The men we are gathered here to support have given a lot more than money,’ Sean said quietly, fixing the pompous man directly in the eyes and causing him to look away sheepishly. Sean had never liked his learned colleague much; he had resigned his military commission with a militia regiment at the outbreak of war to pursue a career in politics. He had gained a seat in the state parliament but maintained his legal firm. Sean had heard rumours that Hurley was George Macintosh’s fix-it man in the government.
Hurley looked over Sean’s shoulder. ‘Excuse me, old chap,’ he said. ‘Someone I really must talk to,’ and he hurried away.
Sean leaned on his cane, hoping a waiter might pass by with a tray loaded with drinks. The band struck up a waltz and the crowd gave way to dancers, who swirled across the highly polished floor.
‘Hello, Sean,’ said a voice behind him. Sean fought the feeling that he might topple over. ‘I think you should find a seat.’
Sean turned to see Louise standing an arm’s length away. The sight of her beautiful face caught him offguard and he couldn’t speak. The old feelings welled up and memories of their lovemaking flashed through his mind.
‘Hello, Louise,’ he finally answered. ‘It’s good to see you. It’s been a long time. What? A year or more?’
