Beyond the Horizon

by Peter Watt

  ‘Captain Barak?’ Matthew said. ‘Why do you need to know about him?’

  ‘That is a question I cannot answer,’ Wilkins said. ‘But I think you would have noticed the man spoke fluent English. I don’t know if you knew that his mother was English, and that his father was with the Turkish trade delegation to purchase our warships – before the outbreak of hostilities. Captain Barak grew up in England and attended the best schools. That is all I can say about him.’

  ‘He’s working for you,’ Matthew said bluntly, but Wilkins did not reply. ‘Too bad I didn’t know that when I had the chance to escape by my own means.’

  ‘We couldn’t get a message to him,’ Wilkins said. ‘If I had, Joanne might be alive today.’

  Matthew shook his head in despair. Intrigue had always been a part of Joanne’s life but it had not helped her in the end. ‘A bloody shambles,’ he muttered.

  ‘Joanne confided in me that you are the father of her children,’ Wilkins said sympathetically. ‘I am glad they still have a father.’

  ‘I intend to visit them as soon as this bloody war is over,’ Matthew said.

  ‘That may be more difficult than you expect,’ Wilkins said. ‘Her father holds you responsible for all that has gone wrong in his daughter’s life – including her death. He is a very powerful man, with contacts in our government, and probably a more dangerous enemy to you than the Turks. I expect him to stop at nothing to prevent you ever seeing your children.’

  ‘That does not surprise me,’ Matthew answered. ‘But I am not a man without means myself. All I have to do is survive this war, and then I will see to my son and daughter. Joanne would have wanted that.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Wilkins said. ‘From what Joanne told me, I believe she would have wanted you to meet your children.’

  ‘I’m surprised to hear you say that, sir,’ Matthew said. ‘I would have thought that under the circumstances you would have sided with her father.’

  ‘Let’s just say that I am not impressed by rich Yankee bankers throwing their weight around in my war,’ Wilkins replied, and held out his hand. ‘You have done your duty and I must share the responsibility for Joanne’s death. You will be returning to your squadron in Palestine on tomorrow’s boat out of Cairo, but I think it will not be the last time we meet. You, after all, are the only one in the Allied command who has personally met with Captain Barak.’

  With that, Matthew saluted the British major and watched him stride out of the foyer and into the hot Egyptian sun.

  The next day Matthew steamed for Palestine and rejoined his squadron. He was met with back-slapping from his fellow pilots on his miraculous escape from Turkish captivity and that night they celebrated his return in the officers’ mess. He was glad to be back – he felt at home with these men – but he was subdued; he could not celebrate his life when Joanne had lost hers.

  He and the rest of the Allied forces were unaware that General Allenby had carefully planned an all-out assault on the Turkish armies remaining in the Holy Land and the plan would prove to be brilliant in its execution. The British general had used deception to mass his forces and aimed to launch a lightning attack on the Turkish coastal flank, breaking through and rolling up what remained of the Ottoman defences. He would use his cavalry forces to speed towards Nazareth and the Upper Jordan region, in order to cut off the southern line of retreat of the Seventh and Eighth Turkish armies around Nabulus. From there the Allied cavalry were to make contact with the Arab guerrillas at Deraa and, by doing so, close the enemy’s retreat via the eastern railway. If the plan succeeded, the Ottoman Empire was finished.

  By a strange quirk of fate the main fighting would occur in a place with a name well known to many Christians. What was to come would be known as the Battle of Armageddon.

  Captain Matthew Duffy would come to know the name well in the next few weeks.

  Sergeant Tom Duffy stood to attention before the hospital’s board of three medical officers. Weeks had passed and still his memory had not returned, but strangely his knowledge of military life had not been lost. Although he could not remember people or his past, he had proved he could still handle any weapon put before him and demonstrated his knowledge of tactics and military protocol.

  ‘Remarkable, Sergeant Duffy,’ said one of the senior military doctors – a major – as he flicked through the file on the table before him. ‘I see you have badgered a training battalion nearby to assess you on your soldiering skills. It seems that your former platoon commander gave you some help, although I gather you do not remember him.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Tom replied. ‘I was informed by a former NCO of my platoon that I might find Mr Sullivan at the camp, and he agreed to have me assessed before being paraded here this morning.’

  ‘However, the decision as to whether you return to active duty must be made by this board and must take into account your physical fitness and your mental state,’ the major cautioned.

  He looked at Tom. ‘You know, with the wound you received you are entitled to be shipped home and honourably discharged for your services to King and Empire. Your awards of the DCM and MM certainly prove your courage and many would say that you have done more than your bit for the war effort. To ask to return to France, and your old unit, borders on madness when any rational man would jump at the chance of going home. But when I also look at the decorations you have been awarded, I think I might understand why you would want to return to your comrades.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Tom answered dutifully. ‘I have heard that the Hun is on the run, and I want to be with the boys of my battalion when the victory comes.’

  The major glanced at the doctors either side of him and they nodded.

  ‘I am going to approve your request to return to active service,’ the major said, scribbling a signature on the file in front of him. ‘And commend you for your obvious courage. Good luck, Sergeant Duffy. Your release papers will be processed today and, all going well, you will be taken to London this afternoon to embark on a ship for France where you will rejoin your unit.’

  ‘Thank you, sirs,’ Tom said and saluted smartly, turned on his heel and marched from the room.

  Outside the room he thought about what he had done. A sane man would have jumped at the opportunity to be shipped home, but Tom knew that if he was to find his past he must return to the war he so badly wanted to avoid. There was one name that haunted him – Juliet Joubert. He could not remember what she looked like, or any detail of their relationship, yet he somehow knew she was very important to him. As for home – all he knew was that it was somewhere in the Australian state of Queensland. Perhaps after the war he would be able to retrace his life back from the place where he had enlisted. But for now he was returning to a world that he had lately remembered in his worst nightmares of exploding shells and men hanging dead and shattered on the terrible strands of barbed wire.

  Tom returned to the ward to pick up the few personal items that had been brought in with him and there he was approached by the stern matron.

  ‘I have come to wish you well, Sergeant Duffy,’ she said. ‘Doctor Mendelson would like to speak with you before you leave us. He will see you in his office now.’

  Tom thanked the matron whose dour expression, he knew, belied a great compassion for the wounded men she tended, and for her nurses. Tom finished filling his kitbag with an issue of new uniforms and made his way to the doctor’s office. He knocked and was told to enter.

  ‘Sergeant Duffy,’ Doctor Mendelson said, looking up from the copious papers scattered on his desk. ‘I have been informed by the medical board that they have released you back to active duty – despite my objections. I think that I should close your file with the medical conclusion that you are totally insane.’

  Tom shifted uneasily. He had grown to like and respect this small Jewish doctor, and could see in his face both disapproval and sadness. ‘I have to go back, sir,’ Tom replied feebly. ‘I think my memory will come back if I am exposed to old comrades and c
obbers.’

  The doctor tapped his desk with the end of a pencil and motioned to Tom to take a seat. ‘I have had the opportunity to evaluate you both physically and mentally, and I have to agree that, in theory, you are capable of resuming your duties with your regiment. But I feel there is a deep reason for you not remembering your past. It may be, as I have seen in many other patients, that you do not wish to remember the conditions you have lived under for the last few years – that is perfectly understandable – but it seems odd that you would be so determined to return. I think something else has disturbed you, something else has made you want to forget.’

  The doctor sighed, placed the pencil on the desk and stared for a moment at Tom. ‘I wish you well, Sergeant Duffy. God knows that we need soldiers like you to end this war, but I fear what will happen to you all once it is all over. I do not think you will be able to return to the same life you knew before the war, or that many people will ever understand the horrors you have experienced. I pray you survive your return to the fighting, and that you find what you’re looking for in France.’ He paused and rubbed his face. ‘I suppose I should let you go and finish getting your clearances from here.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Tom said, rising, and snapped a salute, surprising the army doctor.

  ‘Not many of my patients have ever saluted me, Sergeant Duffy,’ he said, ‘but thank you.’

  Tom left the office and made his way to the great entrance, passing stretcher-bearers bringing in new patients. He stepped out into the sleeting rain and strode along the driveway past ambulances and rows of green hedges. It was late September and he was about to return to hell.

  Within the week Tom found himself moving up from the rear areas to his old battalion now stationed at the village of Frisse. He was met with enthusiastic greetings from many of the men. Although Tom could not remember them, he smiled and acknowledged their back-slapping and kind words of support. They were sympathetic as they had heard that their beloved Sergeant Duffy had lost his memory.

  ‘You might not recognise me,’ a tall lanky sergeant said to Tom as he searched for company headquarters. ‘I’m Paddy Bourke. I heard you put in a good word for my promotion to sergeant.’

  ‘Hello, Paddy,’ Tom replied, a little bemused. ‘Pleased to hear it – I’m sure you deserve it.’

  ‘The company commander’s glad to have you aboard again. He said he wanted to see you as soon as you returned, so I’ll wander along with you and show you where our HQ is,’ Paddy said.

  ‘Any idea where I might find Corporal Dan Frogan? He came and saw me when I was in hospital and gave me a bit of news about the battalion,’ Tom said.

  Paddy Bourke slowed to a halt. ‘I’m sorry, Tom, but you wouldn’t have got the news yet. Dan went west a week ago. Hun sniper got him when he was on a courier run. I know he was a good pal of yours.’

  Tom felt his blood grow cold. If there was anyone who knew about Tom’s past, it was Dan Frogan, and now he was gone. ‘Bloody shame,’ Tom muttered and continued his walk to the company HQ with mixed feelings. How was it that he did not feel the pain of loss? He knew he and Dan were close friends, yet he felt nothing.

  Paddy Bourke showed Tom to what was once a village shoeshop and was now occupied by his company’s staff. He was met by the company clerk and he handed over his transfer documents.

  ‘Boss wants to see you, Sergeant Duffy,’ the clerk said, pointing to a room just off the small foyer of the shop. ‘Good to have you back.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Tom said and lifted his kitbag.

  He stepped through the doorway and immediately saluted. The man, who seemed to know him well, returned the salute. ‘Welcome back, Tom,’ Major Cooper said, rising from his chair and crossing the short distance to shake Tom’s hand. ‘It was touch and go but I made sure those rear-echelon bastards kept you alive.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Tom answered. Major Cooper walked back to his desk, a battered table, and sat down. Tom knew he should remember his superior officer, but he didn’t.

  ‘You are just back in time for the big push on the Hindenburg line,’ the major said. ‘I am posting you back to your old platoon but you now have a new officer to break in – a former articled clerk from Sydney. He’s just arrived and I’m depending on you to look after him so that he doesn’t do too much damage in his first days on the line. Have you heard about Corporal Frogan?’

  ‘Sergeant Bourke informed me that Dan caught it about a week ago,’ Tom responded. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I was going to promote him to platoon sergeant,’ the major sighed. ‘No bloody reinforcements coming from Australia and we need every experienced soldier we can muster. Your head wound should have had you shipped back home, but I’m very grateful you insisted on returning to the battalion – a very worthy effort indeed.’

  ‘The battalion is the only home I remember, sir,’ Tom said. ‘I suppose you know that the head wound has made me to lose my memory, but I haven’t lost my knowledge of soldiering, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I was informed just after you applied to return to the unit,’ the major replied. ‘I was a bit doubtful at first, but seeing you here I am sure you will be all right among your old comrades. I will get Sergeant Bourke to take you to meet your new platoon commander, and give you a chance to settle in. You and he will be sharing a billet with Paddy. Good luck, Tom.’

  Tom thanked his company commander and left the office to find Paddy Bourke lingering outside the former shop. ‘Boss tell you that I’ll be showing you around?’ he asked and Tom nodded. ‘We’ll start with finding Mr Hopkins, and after you settle in, I know where we can get something to drink.’

  The walk down the cobbled street brought fleeting memories back to Tom of other places he vaguely remembered, and he found that he was looking for a water fountain in the centre of the town. He did not know why, and he had no time to dwell on the fleeting memory as Paddy had brought him to a house on the main street. There were a few older French civilians out on the street but no young Frenchmen.

  A very young officer wearing the rank of second lieutenant stepped from one of the houses.

  ‘That’s Mr Hopkins,’ Paddy said and the two approached him.

  ‘I have Sergeant Duffy with me, sir,’ Paddy said.

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten something, Sergeant?’ the young officer said haughtily.

  Paddy remembered and saluted. ‘Sorry, sir,’ Paddy said sarcastically. ‘I’ve been too long at the front – if I saluted you there, you might get dropped by a Hun sniper.’

  ‘We are not at the front now,’ Second Lieutenant Michael Hopkins retorted. ‘I expect military courtesy to be maintained – along with discipline and good order.’

  Paddy glanced quickly at Tom with an expression of sympathy.

  ‘Tom Duffy, sir,’ Tom said. ‘I am reporting for duty with the platoon.’

  The young officer looked Tom up and down. ‘I see that you are correctly dressed but I expect a better shine on your boots as you are to set an example to the men.’

  Tom felt his anger rise. What would this snotty-nosed young man know about soldiers? he thought angrily. Five minutes in the country and he thought he was General Monash. ‘I’ll see to that as soon as I can, sir,’ Tom replied wearily.

  ‘I did not want you in my platoon, Sergeant Duffy,’ Hopkins said. ‘You have been wounded, and from what I have been told, have little or no memory of your time with the battalion. What will happen if you break down under fire when I need you most?’

  ‘With all due respect, sir,’ Tom said, ‘have you been under fire yet?’

  The young officer looked uncomfortable. ‘Not as yet, Sergeant Duffy, but I expect that I will do my duty in the face of the enemy.’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ Tom said, ‘the best of men do not know how they will react when the bullets and shells start flying, but I reckon I was over here soldiering when you were probably still in school.’

  ‘Careful, Sergeant Duffy, you are behaving insubordinate
ly,’ Hopkins said.

  ‘You have the best sergeant in the battalion, sir,’ Paddy butted in, trying to calm the situation before it escalated. ‘I would trust Sergeant Duffy with my life – I have in the past.’

  Michael Hopkins turned to Paddy. ‘I can only take your word for that, Sergeant Bourke,’ he said. ‘You are dismissed for now.’

  Tom threw a salute, turned on his heel and marched away with Paddy Bourke beside him.

  ‘What a jumped-up little arse,’ Paddy hissed under his breath. ‘With any luck he’ll cop it in the next push.’

  ‘He’s okay,’ Tom replied with a shrug. ‘He’s frightened that he’ll stuff things up, and puts on airs to disguise the fact that he’s frightened. I’ll sort him out.’

  ‘You have more faith in officers than I do, Tom,’ Paddy said. ‘I’d shoot the little bugger first chance I had. He’s almost as bad as that bastard, Smithers, who was always causing trouble for you.’

  ‘Smithers,’ Tom echoed. For some reason the mention of the name made hate well up inside Tom. He struggled to remember why, but nothing came to him. He filed the name way; he’d ask questions later. Somehow, he felt the name was the key to many things he might not actually want to remember.

  17

  Lenny Johnson had good reason to look over his shoulder whenever he left Maude’s flat. Detective Inspector Jack Firth was searching for him, and Lenny did not want to meet the feared policeman on the streets.

  But he had to leave the safety of the flat to convince a colleague to assist him by driving his automobile to the residence of George Macintosh. He already had a down payment for the job, as Maude had been able to inveigle George into giving her a substantial amount of cash on the pretext of needing the money to buy more clothes and other female essentials.

  ‘This the place?’ Lenny’s accomplice asked. He was a small man, with weasel-like characteristics, who sat behind the wheel of the car with a toothpick protruding from his lips. Lenny leaned out of the car window and stared at the big house behind the wall of high hedges and wide wrought-iron gates.