Gallipoli Street

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

  Twenty-five

  Montreuil-sur-Mer, General Headquarters, France

  Gregory Chambers stepped out of the car and strode across towards the Officers’ Mess, his mind on the upcoming offensive. It was about bloody time they got this whole damn thing over and done with, as far as he was concerned. Giving in to his mother’s insistence that he take on his commission had been unavoidable in the end. Forced as he was to stay in Europe in his search for Rose and Elizabeth, he knew he would have to comply with family pressure and do his duty eventually. He’d just hoped that the war would only last a year or so and he would be able to avoid it altogether.

  It was an inconvenience he could do without if he was ever going to get on with the two things in his life that actually mattered: his business and his runaway wife and child. The former would surely continue to grow under the careful eyes of his lawyers and associates; locating the latter, however, was proving a frustrating enterprise. He knew they were somewhere in France, or at least that the trail had ended here. Rose had been seen arriving in Calais, a thin woman with red hair carrying a small, white-haired child, but that was where the clues to their whereabouts had stopped. It seemed no amount of money could uncover their location in the chaos that was France right now.

  Gregory slapped his gloves on the counter and ordered a glass of wine, nodding at some of the other officers alongside.

  ‘Sir,’ saluted Lionel Pankhurst, his second lieutenant, standing to attention. A bumbling fool, in Gregory’s opinion. Too many years at pompous boarding schools and not enough life experience to fill a stamp amongst the lot of them, he thought contemptuously as he scanned the room.

  ‘Looks likely we’ll see some action soon, eh what?’ Captain Charles Rollings tipped his glass towards Gregory. He looked to be well into his afternoon drinking session with his usual partner in crime, Captain Lewis Jenkins. ‘Looking forward to getting stuck in?’

  Gregory gazed at him over the rim of his glass, thinking how useless this overweight windbag would be in battle. ‘Quite.’

  ‘The Australians are arriving: lots of veterans from Gallipoli,’ Rollings continued. ‘And a load of fresh troops as well. You may have some friends among them.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Gregory returned dryly.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a colonial,’ Jenkins said, looking up and down at Gregory’s English uniform, his eyebrows raised high. ‘Bit of convict blood, is it? A few secrets in the closet?’

  Rollings swayed, patting Gregory’s arm. ‘I don’t think Lady Chambers has many secrets in her closets,’ he chuckled. ‘I was referring to Chambers’ associations by marriage. The new Lady Chambers is Australian, is she not?’

  Gregory felt the glass stem between his fingers, stopping himself just in time before he snapped it. Damn Rollings and his gossipy wife.

  ‘Imagine that! A kangaroo bouncing around in the family. Any young joeys about yet?’ Jenkins sneered.

  The glass stem did snap in Gregory’s hand and he grabbed Jenkins by the throat, holding the sharp edge close. ‘Don’t ever mention my family again, do you understand?’

  Jenkins eyes were wide and he managed a nod before Gregory let him go, leaving the murmurings and musings behind him as he walked out. Let them talk, let them drink, let them stumble their way into battle and get shot for all he cared. But beware the man who mentioned the bitch he’d married, lest he feel first hand some of the vengeance that clawed at him every day.

  Bring on the war, Gregory dared the rain as it began to fall hard upon him. The sooner the killing is done the sooner he could track her down and send her traitorous soul straight to hell.

  Twenty-six

  St Omer, France

  She felt the ground leave them with every inch of her body as she clenched the seat tightly, watching in awe as the airstrip fell away beneath them and they whirred over the treetops. She held her breath as they cleared the forest, then the farmhouse then, all of a sudden, the earth dropped. They sailed out over a golden patchwork quilt where little dollhouses rested on soft folds and tiny beings moved about in the early morning light, going about their daily ritual of survival. Clarkson banked and Rose let out a cry of delight, laughing at the sheer madness that they were actually flying. She knew that’s what he did of course, sometimes secretly feeling he exaggerated the role these flying machines played in the war, but now she could believe it. Such a viewpoint would take hours to plot on land, yet these marvellous contraptions gave one the eagle’s advantage, and she felt like an eagle as they veered left and she looked out at the coast. The dawn touched the jagged cliffs, igniting the waves as they hurled themselves against the rocks then fanned in spectacular farewell.

  Rose had thought France beautiful on land, but from the air it was even more so. The emerald greens of the trees, the crisp whites and yellows of the houses, the red of the rooftops and the gold of the sand all vied for attention and she felt intensely alive as exhilaration washed through her. Clarkson turned and pointed out the train line and the approach of Calais and she waved at Elizabeth and Joelene, knowing they were probably asleep in their beds. Her baby’s soft little face filled her mind for a moment; she blew her a kiss. In the distance she could make out England and felt grateful for the expanse of water that separated her from the dangers lurking there.

  Clarkson banked again, turning inland, and she watched the patchwork quilt reappear. The hay rolls she saw yesterday were scattered on the blanket in tiny dots as silvered trails of the river meandered in their creases.

  Then it came. At first a distant rumble, then louder, as dark clouds of explosives rose skywards, marking the battle line long before anything was visible on the ground. The soft beauty of France had a death line locked and wrestling across her breast. Two angry beasts roared and screamed, rending the air and clutching at her with sharp claws. Rose saw the line reach in two directions as far as she could see: the beasts stretched out their mighty arms in anticipation of the real battle to come, when this wrestle became a fight and they unleashed full vengeance upon each other.

  Clarkson kept heading steadily towards the line and she grew afraid as the German army came into sight. She saw them swarming and hovering at the back behind the firing line, a mirror of their enemy, and felt strangely as if she were watching Iggy play with the toy soldiers he’d had when they were children. These little tiny specks that each had a soul felt like pawns in a giant game of chess, necessary but expendable, a distraction intended to protect the back row. For the first time she saw the war for what it truly was, a deadly game played by men who were once boys, with toy soldiers and chess sets, and who now had the real thing at their disposal.

  Clarkson flew for a few minutes as close as he dared with Rose on board, taking photos of the German developments from a camera perched on the wing, then turned for home. He was satisfied that he’d confirmed what they had unfortunately all expected back at base: an enemy on full alert. Just then he noticed something out of the corner of his eye and cursed. Rose, watching him, turned as well, and blanched to see a German plane headed their way. It was unusual for this hour and Clarkson guessed he was on a scouting mission much like his own and that the pilot was probably just as surprised as he was. He made for the clouds and cut through above, knowing that the German could no longer see him and would turn back rather than stay behind enemy lines. Sure enough, ten minutes later, they cleared the clouds and sailed out into blue sky, once again over calm fields.

  By the time they landed the sun was well up and they were greeted by a few of the other personnel, including Captain Standing, a tall man who was a fellow pilot and friend of Clarkson’s. All of the men stared at Rose as she shook her hair out of her cap and goggles and smiled her dazzling smile.

  Captain Standing gave a low whistle and stepped forward, taking her hand and kissing it, introducing himself as, ‘Standing. Captain Standing. But you can call me Roger.’

  Rose greeted them all as they walked across the field and Clarkson stayed close in prot
ective hover.

  ‘How is the Hun this morning?’

  ‘Curious.’ Clarkson went on to tell them of the massing troops and their unexpected encounter.

  ‘Probably Löwenhardt looking for a few more dances on his card,’ said Standing.

  ‘Must have changed his mind when he saw it was you. Didn’t want to become the extra in your baker’s dozen.’ The others agreed and the conversation steered towards ace fliers and the upcoming battle.

  ‘I hear they’re boasting the Baron is up to twenty now.’

  ‘Only eighteen at my count.’

  ‘Well he’s dancing with the devil painting himself red, but I doubt we’ll get to see him. Artillery is set to blast them to smithereens before the boys go over the top. The war will be over in a month once we clean up the last of them. They can’t do much without archies.’ Standing ducked as they entered the tent near the strip.

  ‘I didn’t even get to shoot down one,’ grumbled a young man as they sat to eat.

  Standing clamped his large paw on the young man’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Rookie, I’m sure you’ll be an ace before we’re done.’

  ‘I really want that car,’ he sighed.

  ‘Rookie here has a grandfather who says he’ll buy him an auto if he shoots down a Jerry,’ Standing explained to Rose.

  ‘I just need to get my hours up, Captain.’ Rookie looked at Clarkson hopefully and he felt a surge of affection for his young charge.

  ‘Maybe Standing will take you for a whirl this afternoon,’ he suggested. ‘Get some more fly time in.’

  Rose watched this interaction, sickened by Rookie’s naiveté. All of this talk of aces and kills was shedding a new light on Clarkson’s world. As much as she wanted to like them, their nonchalance stung. She felt a driving desire to take them all down to the hospital and introduce them to the maimed bodies that manned the ‘archies’, or machine guns. Let them see what artillery did to a faceless infantry, German or not.

  Clarkson seemed to have noticed her silence and suggested they get going, waiting until they’d made their farewells before asking her what was wrong.

  ‘How can you even ask me that?’ Suddenly she was angry, really angry, and as they reached the car she turned and let the full vent of it fall upon him.

  ‘It’s just a game to you flyboys, isn’t it? Who can shoot the most ducks in the pond and get the highest score! They don’t care about the cost…they don’t see it. How can they be so…so cavalier? You men, you’re all the same. Just overgrown children playing at war, and it’s still the women who tend to the scrapes, only now its severed arms and missing eyes and dead boys. Dead. It isn’t a game. What’s wrong with you all?’

  ‘I think you misunderstand them–’ Clarkson interrupted.

  ‘Oh I understand all right. And what about you? Aiming for a baker’s dozen? So you’ve already killed twelve men? When were you going to tell me that?’

  Clarkson held open the door. ‘Just get in the car, Rose.’

  She threw herself in, her heart beating wildly as they took off, neither saying a word until another plane flew overhead in a whirring roar and she saw young Rookie waving excitedly in the seat behind Standing.

  ‘How can you do it?’ She felt the tears prick at her eyes. He stopped the car and they watched the plane recede into the blue.

  ‘How can I not?’ He lit a cigarette and she waited. ‘You think we play at war? We’re just trying to survive it, for God’s sake.’ He stared out at the field. ‘Yes I’ve killed a dozen German fliers. Am I proud of it? No. But do I regret it? No, I don’t.’

  ‘But you are taking a life. Every time. They’re not just…just chess pieces…’ she argued.

  ‘That’s what it is. Kill or be killed. Don’t you understand that if we don’t shoot them down they’ll take photos and tell their artillery exactly where to point their bloody cannons? We need to stop them getting back. Rose, killing one of them could save hundreds or thousands of our men. It could win the bloody war.’

  She watched his face sadly. ‘And it’s all about winning, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is. They threw down the gauntlet, not us, and we could either wait to be taken down or fight. So we fight. I’m sorry you clean up the blood but you chose it. You begged for it. And don’t tell me you had no choice. There’s a perfectly sedate life waiting for you in Calais with Joelene. You wanted to be a part of it and so did I.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘We may not like what it does but we do like what it means.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘We get to go home and live in a free country.’ He shrugged, still avoiding her gaze.

  ‘Weren’t we already doing that?’

  He sighed, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘Yes, but for how long? If Britain fell, how long could we last? The Germans want empires, not countries.’

  ‘So we trade our pawns for a different king.’ She watched as he faced her at last.

  ‘We do whatever it takes to protect the queens.’

  ‘And play at death?’

  ‘So they make a game from a game. How else do you expect them to face it?’

  She felt his hand cover hers, never taking her eyes from his as he curled her hair behind her ear with the other and smiled, the defensive frown leaving his face to be replaced with a tenderness that made her ache.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on them, my love.’

  She felt her breath catch in her throat. ‘Is that what you’re doing? Playing a game to avoid facing death?’

  ‘No,’ he stroked her chin, ‘I think I’m finding what I want to live for.’ He drew her towards him and she wanted to fall, like the surrender of soldiers who stood resolute for so long, then realised they wanted to give in and just go home. She wanted to stop resisting.

  Rose watched as his mouth lowered, unable to pull back against the force between them as he touched her lips lightly with his. The last of her resolve melted into desire, her every sense alive to the softest of touches asking for permission.

  The sound of an oncoming car forced them out of their trance and Clarkson recognised the man’s uniform and pulled back, saluting as the major drove slowly by, taking in the scene but not saluting back.

  ‘Are you in trouble?’

  ‘Probably, but he’ll get over it. He has bigger things to worry about than me,’ Clarkson said, turning back.

  ‘Wait. I need you to understand something…Gregory–’

  ‘Is just another person who’ll be trying to kill me? I think, given the odds, he’ll have a hard time jumping the queue.’ He went to kiss her again.

  ‘No.’ Rose pushed at his chest. ‘Not here. Let’s go back to Boulogne and find somewhere…private.’

  He had no argument with that, and turned onto the country road towards the town. Rose leant in against him as he wrapped his arm about her, kissing the top of her head. She watched the sun glide between the gathering clouds, heavy with impending rain. Her mind was consumed with delicious sensation, then slowly went to greet a tide of thoughts.

  She thought about Gregory and what he would do if he found them. She thought about Pattie and May and how he would ultimately choose them over her. She thought about Elizabeth and how she would eventually need to leave France with her daughter and throw Gregory off their trail. She thought about the ace fliers and how he could so easily die at any time.

  She thought about the tanks, the men, the blood and the impending push.

  She thought about it all as she watched the drifting sun. How different the world seemed up there in the clouds, where human problems were small matters of insignificance against the mighty scope and beauty of earth.

  Then the delicious sensation consumed her once more. Warm, comforting, safe. And something more. The memories of violence she’d met at her husband’s hand melted away beneath the reverent longing she discerned in Clarkson’s touch, along with the aversion that protected her once abused body. She found every part of her focusing on where his hand lay against her waist and l
onged for it to edge upwards to her breast, or lower, to other parts that had somehow come back to life. She wanted him to kiss her, to take her. She longed to call out his name to that beautiful French sun, stroke his face, his back, all of him as he filled her.

  Yes, death was at their door, but that was one thing she could say about war: it made you appreciate the moment you were in, because any one of them could be the last you lived.

  And she could honestly say that if moments could be measured, it was the sweetest of life’s offerings to wait in sensual anticipation for possibly the greatest of its pleasures.

  The rain came. It fell in great sheets, settling in and making the dirt soft beneath their boots.

  They marched along, hardened now, no longer eager young men in search of adventure. This part of the giant was forever damaged; sections of him sent off to fight in the desert, other sections falling to dust on the now silent hillsides of Gallipoli, and then this section. The ones sent to France. The fractured Anzacs. The veterans.

  They watched the new recruits pass by and tipped their hats, making their jokes. Knowing that the door to death was open before their young brothers, sent off to battle as green as the fields around them. They held no faith in the British commanders who directed their fate, who had butchered their mates in Turkey. What would they do to protect them here in France, now against German tanks and enemies in the sky?

  The French roads led them on like veins of blood pumping towards the great beast’s heart. It drew their life force in, directing where they would expend it.

  Determining where it would take their youth, their strength and their courage and crush it into the earth to win this war.

  Clarkson washed his face and hung the little towel over the rail, unwilling to look in the mirror. He didn’t want to judge the man who lived there. He didn’t need to consider the consequences of what he was about to do because his past and future selves would never understand what the present man needed.