Beyond the Horizon

by Peter Watt

  That evening Maude sketched out what she knew of the house layout, and the comings and goings of the household staff. ‘If Mr Macintosh is with me, then his manservant will be in the car waiting for him to leave. That leaves the governess, cook and gardener. I think the cook only comes in through the day and goes home in the evening.’

  Lenny stared at the sketch. ‘I know where the entrances are,’ he said. ‘If your plan of the house is accurate, I know where to go when I do over the house. I’ll make it look like a burglary, and the death of Mrs Macintosh an unfortunate consequence of disturbing the break-in.’

  ‘When do you reckon you’ll do it?’ Maude asked, and Lenny thought for a moment.

  ‘It’ll take me about a week to get my plan worked out,’ he replied. ‘I will need to confirm the movement of the servants to ensure a clean run on the house. The Weasel will be my driver.’

  Maude smiled her satisfaction. ‘I’ll make sure George is with me on the night you plan,’ she said. ‘It should be easy.’

  ‘Should be,’ Lenny echoed. ‘Just make sure you pay up when the job is done or, sister or not, you’ll cop it.’

  Maude had the optimism of youth and she knew it would all fit into place. Nothing could stop her now from realising her wildest dreams of wealth and power.

  18

  The mission had been highly successful, and Captain Matthew Duffy brought his new Bristol two-seater fighter to a bouncing halt on the airfield on the plains of Palestine. The plan General Allenby had formulated relied heavily on air support, and Matthew, with his observer, Lieutenant Paul Goddard, and one other Bristol fighter, had been assigned to reconnoitre an area east of Jordan. They had found a Turkish camp and swooped down, strafing a Turkish unit exercising at Ain es Sir.

  On their way home luck had still been on their side. They’d come across a column of fifty motor lorries carrying troops and supplies, driving south along the Wady Fara road. The fighters had dived on the trucks, dropping their bombs and scoring a direct hit on the lead lorry, which then blocked the road. Later that day a second wave of Bristol fighters would finish off the hapless convoy.

  Matthew’s ground crew rushed to the fighter plane now as he lifted himself wearily from the tiny open cockpit. Goddard did the same; he had just joined the squadron from Egypt, and today was his first mission. He had flown observer with Matthew. Like Matthew, his face was sunburned and covered in oil – except where he wore his goggles – and the cramped conditions of the flight had stiffened his body.

  ‘How did it go?’ the ground-crew supervisor asked as Matthew slid off the goggles, rubbed his eyes and stared around the airfield to see if he could recognise any of his comrade’s aircraft safely home. ‘We had a spot of good fortune, Sarge,’ Matthew replied. ‘Caught them napping in their camps.’

  ‘Good to see that you’re both all right,’ the flight sergeant said.

  ‘Thanks, Sarge,’ Matthew answered and walked towards the operations tent to submit his report. Behind him, the second Bristol fighter was coming to a stop.

  Was he all right? Matthew asked himself. Yes. In body – if not in spirit. He had written to Joanne’s father weeks earlier, only to receive a letter from James Barrington’s lawyers saying that he was not to approach Joanne’s children or attempt to lay any claim to them as their father. Matthew’s response to the legal letter had been to screw it up and throw it away.

  When the war ended he would travel to America and confront Joanne’s father, but for now all he could do was try to survive each mission and pray that what he did would help win the war. This thought kept him going.

  ‘Jolly good show,’ young Goddard said to Matthew as they approached a group of pilots hanging around outside the ops tent. Matthew did not reply. The young man was like an overgrown puppy, and that annoyed Matthew, who felt old enough to be his father, despite the fact there were not that many years between them.

  When they reached the tent they were greeted by the other aircrew, who had returned from bombing missions against Turkish troops retreating along the road between Et Tire and Tul Keram.

  ‘We have them on the run,’ Matthew overheard one pilot say. ‘But the anti-aircraft fire was bloody heavy. Johhny Turk is far from beaten. I saw Dowling and Mulford cop it, but they were able to land okay. If the Turks are in a good mood, they might have taken them prisoner.’

  Matthew experienced the gloom of losing two more comrades to the war but was brightened when a corporal clerk dashed out from the tent and shouted, ‘Our boys in the Light Horse, chasing Johnny Turk, have just freed our two men shot down today.’

  A cheer erupted from the pilots. Matthew joined in.

  The squadron commander strolled to the entrance of the large tent. ‘Well, boys, time for a cup of tea and a bit of a chat on how you went today.’

  Like schoolboys summoned by the headmaster, the pilots filed silently into the tent to take their seats. Exhausted and numb, Matthew knew that, following the debrief, they would immediately be informed of the next job assigned to them. The pressure was on and usually the pilots barely had time to snatch a meal before becoming airborne again, seeking out more men to kill and supplies to destroy.

  After a couple of sandwiches and a thermos of hot tea, Matthew and Lieutenant Goddard were once again in the cockpit of their Biff – as the Bristol was affectionately known to its crew – and soon soaring into the sky along with five other Bristols flying in pursuit of the enemy. They flew north of Kakon towards Baka and two of the Bristols peeled away to strafe a disorganised body of Turkish soldiers, while Matthew and the other three Bristols found a congested mass of men, towed artillery guns, carts loaded with wounded soldiers, and transport camels and horses making from Tul Keram towards Anebta. From their height the Australian pilots could see that the column had to pass through a narrow defile, surrounded on either side by steep, arid hills. The column entered the defile in their panic to escape the pursuing cavalry and Light Horse units. Matthew’s flight pounced like eagles on a paralysed rabbit.

  Matthew cocked his machine-guns to ensure that they were free to fire and brought his fighter plane down so low that he had fleeting images of terrified Turkish soldiers gaping up at him as he flew down the line of vehicles firing his guns. He knew that his bullets were tearing into men and animals, maiming and killing them without discrimination. Matthew had long trained himself to think of the victims below as simply targets in his gun sights; he knew that it did not pay to dwell on the death and destruction that he and his aircraft brought down upon the enemy. His Bristol was followed by the others, who raked the column with the high velocity .303 rounds.

  Over his shoulder Matthew was alarmed to see one of the Bristols falter in the sky, trailing smoke. It peeled away to make a forced landing, hit by ground fire. Goddard was waving and pointing to the downed aircraft as if Matthew could do something to save them. The best he could do was turn, climb and swoop back down on the convoy until the firing pins clicked on empty chambers.

  So far only a few bullets coming from the ground fire had ripped through the fabric of his aircraft, and Matthew realised it was time to rejoin the remaining airborne Bristols to return to the field with the forlorn hope that they would be stood down for a badly needed rest. He glanced over his shoulder at the small fires the deadly incendiary bullets from his guns had caused among the shambles of smashed vehicles, some already burning where fuel tanks had been penetrated. Black oily smoke rose in the clear sky of the late afternoon, and he saw another wave of Bristols approaching high and to his three o’clock. No doubt they would finish off the convoy with any bombs and bullets they were carrying. Matthew signalled to Goddard that they were going home, and he thought he saw a momentary expression of disappointment on the young observer’s face.

  ‘This is not a bloody game of cricket,’ he growled, but his words were drowned by the roar of the engine and the swoosh of wind past his face.

  He landed and brought the aircraft to a halt not far from where his ground cre
w sat at the edge of the strip awaiting his return. For the second time in a day he lifted himself from his cockpit and slumped wearily to the ground.

  ‘What a damned fine thing we did!’ Goddard whooped from his seat. ‘We really showed Johnny Turk what for.’

  Matthew felt like walking over and smashing his observer in the face. Maybe if he could take him back to the broken convoy and show him up close what the incendiary bullets did to a man’s body – or how the bombs tore flesh like scissors through paper, then he wouldn’t be so bloody cocky.

  Matthew did not bother to wait for Goddard to join him but brushed past his ground crew to walk towards the ops tent for another debrief. God, he hoped they wouldn’t be sent out on another mission today. The word Armageddon flitted through his head. Already the fighting was being referred to as the Battle of Armageddon after the plains that were being fought over, and Matthew knew that Armageddon had come to many young and old Turkish soldiers this day. They were just people caught up in this terrible war because of ambitious politicians; men with mothers, wives, sweethearts and siblings, men who would most likely have died in agony with a burning bullet in their body.

  Matthew tried to stop himself from thinking about the terrible carnage he had been involved in this day. A year earlier he had found himself literally sick with fear before flying the missions, but now he felt sick with disgust at the death he had inflicted on others. They might be the enemy, but they were people, not simply targets. How many men had he killed? He shook his head. Too many for one man’s lifetime, but at least he had not seen all their faces as they died, as he had with the person he had loved most in this dangerous world.

  It was late afternoon in France and Sergeant Tom Duffy sat alone under a shelter he had made from his gas cape. It had been an overcast and wet day but at least they were out of the front lines and bivouacked in the Hargicourt area.

  Tom lay back against his field pack, smoking his pipe and gazing out at the fields where trees were already shedding leaves for the coming winter. Even now his memory had not returned, and he wondered how he was still able to function so well as a soldier. Gradually he was meeting some of his old comrades who, sympathetic to his condition, would gently remind him of his acquaintance with them. Sadly, they were only a few as many had been killed or badly wounded and sent home. He noticed Sergeant Paddy Bourke striding towards him across the field where the battalion had a tent.

  ‘G’day, Paddy,’ Tom said when he stopped in front of him.

  ‘I got something that seems to be yours,’ Paddy said, handing Tom a much worn photograph. ‘It was found among a few of the items scavenged from the field months ago, and a couple of the lads said it was probably a picture of your fiancée.’

  Tom took the photograph and stared at it. A beautiful cherubic face stared back at him in grainy black and white.

  ‘Is it yours?’ Paddy asked and Tom glanced up at him.

  ‘Cobber, I wish I knew,’ he said with a note of anguish in his voice.

  ‘Keep it,’ Paddy said. ‘Maybe it will help prompt your memory. I have to go and sort out ammo issues. See you later.’ He turned and walked away, leaving Tom gazing at the photograph worn by the toils of the battlefield. For a moment the picture of a water fountain flashed through Tom’s thoughts and he strained to remember why. But the image disappeared and the beautiful young woman who smiled at him from the photograph remained a stranger. If she was Juliet Joubert, then Tom knew from which village she came, other than that, he knew nothing about her.

  With great care he slipped the photograph into the top pocket of his jacket. It was near his heart and with time Tom would go to the village to look for her. He was sure that personal contact would bring memories flooding back. With any luck, all his past would come to him then. Everything he knew about his past had come from the official records the army kept. He knew that when he enlisted in Townsville his stated occupation was stockman. He was puzzled from his service record as to why his race should be described as Indian when he knew he was part Aboriginal.

  Tom did not have much time to explore his memories, as the battalion was once again ordered up to the front lines in the big push to keep the enemy army reeling back towards Germany. The weather was growing bitterly cold as winter approached.

  In the first week of October Tom found himself face down on a sunken road. The attack had gone in against the German lines at 0600 hours, behind an artillery barrage dropped a mere four hundred yards in front of them to give them a wall of high explosive and shrapnel protection. By 0700 hours Tom’s company and platoon had found themselves under heavy machine-gun fire, as well as coming up against a thick belt of barbed wire. While the Australians had been desperately attempting to find a way through the wire, German hand grenades had rained down on them. Potato mashers – as they were nicknamed by the Aussies – shredded flesh and killed any men unfortunate enough to be nearby when they exploded.

  Tom had bawled out orders, knowing that above the din of rifle and machine-gun fire coupled with blasts of grenades he was barely heard. He had crouched, hearing the bullets crack beside his head, and watched some of his men double up as they were hit. Stretcher-bearers could not dash in to retrieve the wounded, and when Tom had cast around him to find his platoon commander he had not been able to find him. Maybe he had been killed; if so, it was Tom who must take command of the platoon.

  ‘Get the wounded back!’ he’d bellowed. ‘Fall back!’ He’d been able to see that his order had got through as a couple of the diggers had grabbed the jacket of a wounded comrade and begun dragging him along the ground away from the barbed wire.

  Now Tom lay face down in the sunken road, desperately attempting to get the trembling that racked his body under control. ‘Sarge,’ a voice called out to him, ‘what do we do now?’

  Tom sat up, gripping his rifle, and pulled out his pipe.

  ‘Have a smoke,’ he called back. ‘Time out for a smoko.’ His answer caused a ripple of laughter from the men strung along the road. At least they were safe from direct-fire weapons, and Tom felt composed enough to drag himself to the edge of the road facing the enemy. He could see that the three wounded they had been able to drag or carry back to the road were being looked after and, with any luck, the stretcher-bearers would be able to come up and retrieve the wounded men.

  From the edge of the road he could see a farmhouse scarred with bullet and shrapnel holes, and he could also see that the house was being used as a machine-gun nest by the Germans.

  ‘Corporal Harrigan, to me,’ Tom called over his shoulder. ‘Have you seen Mr Hopkins?’

  ‘Seen him when we stepped off, but he seemed to fall back as we advanced,’ Harrigan shrugged.

  Tom frowned. It was possible that the arrogant young officer had been wounded in the first bursts of enemy fire. Tom slipped a map from his pocket and quickly identified the location of the enemy machine-gun. He scribbled down a set of coordinates on a page torn from a notebook and handed the slip of paper to Harrigan. ‘Get this back to battalion HQ. Tell them we need arty on the coordinates I have written down. Give them a brief of how we are holed up in this sunken road, and make sure they know where we are because I don’t want to be digging our shrapnel out of my arse. You right on this?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge,’ Harrigan answered, and slithered down the slight rise to carry the message back to the battalion HQ, where it would be relayed to the field artillery regiment supporting their assault on the German lines.

  There was nothing else Tom could do for the moment – except to growl at a few of the men who had lost equipment, and joke with others who were visibly traumatised by the effect of close combat. Moving among the members of his platoon lifted morale, although it did not dissipate anyone’s fear.

  While Tom waited for the artillery barrage he lay against the slope of the road and stared up at the sky. It was a fine crisp day and he could see a lark flying high. He was reminded of looking up into a clear blue sky where a great eagle soared on outstret
ched wings, and the name Wallarie came to him.

  ‘It’s comin’!’ someone yelled and Tom could hear the distinctive sound of artillery rounds passing overhead to fall on the farmhouse with deadly accuracy. A cheer went up from the troops peeking very cautiously above the lip of the road. ‘They got the bastard!’ a soldier yelled as the house was ripped apart by a direct hit. It did not seem possible anyone could survive such an explosion and the threat of the concealed machine-gun was neutralised.

  Even as the Germans were under the artillery barrage, a soldier scrambled down the road to Tom, who recognised him as being from company HQ.

  ‘Mr Hopkins here?’ he asked, moving from man to man until he reached Tom.

  ‘Have you seen Mr Hopkins, Sergeant Duffy?’

  ‘Sorry, can’t say that I have since we jumped off this morning,’ Tom replied.

  ‘Well, that must mean you’re in charge of the platoon,’ said the private soldier acting as company runner. ‘Got orders from the boss that when the arty lifts we’re going in to mop up what’s left. You clear on that?’

  ‘Yeah, no worries,’ Tom answered. The soldier nodded and hurried away in a crouching run to inform the other platoon commanders of the order. Tom immediately passed along the order and ensured that all his able men had their bayonets fixed. This could require very close combat.

  The deafening roar of explosions finally lifted at around 1030 hours and Tom glanced down his line of men and experienced a strange calmness. He noticed that his hands did not shake as much. Maybe having the lives of the men under his command to consider took his mind off his own mortality.

  ‘Okay, boys, time to hop the bags,’ he yelled down the line – and as one the men responded to his command, clambering to their feet and advancing on the system of trenches occupied by the enemy. Smoke curled in wisps from newly created shell craters, and the smell of death was heavy in the air.