Fireshadow

by Anthony Eaton

  Stutt had stopped walking again and was looking the young man over.

  ‘How old are you, Pieters?’

  The young man shuffled awkwardly, unconsciously, eyes downcast like a child reluctant to reveal a secret. Talking about Libya, Erich had seemed distant, recalling experiences and sights well beyond his years, leaving Stutt with a fleeting impression of a boy grown old.

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  ‘Rubbish. I’m a father of two boys, Pieters, and I know a twenty-two-year-old when I see one. I’m sure it probably says twenty-two on your enlistment papers, but I’m not interested in what you told the recruiters. How old? And I want the truth – that’s an order.’

  Erich loathed the man for his patronising attitude, for his softness, for his willingness to accept the rules that the Australians – the enemy – imposed.

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘Seventeen.’ Stutt shook his head. ‘So young, so very, young.’ The implied pity drew no response. Erich stayed mute. If he’d learnt anything in Libya, it was how to remain silent in the face of stupid leadership. Stutt studied him a little longer.

  ‘You’ll make a fine orderly, Erich. Come and meet the doctor.’

  TWO

  Vinnie

  Night settled on Vinnie without its usual baggage of fear and hesitation. Perhaps tonight the dreams would leave him alone – wouldn’t be able to find him so far from home. The twilight passed quickly into darkness, and even though he hadn’t wanted to light a fire – didn’t want to kindle the flames – it was the only way to stave off the cold. He made the camp fire as small as he could – a tiny ring of stones scavenged from the creek bed. A handful of dry brush, one small branch.

  His hands trembled as he struck the match and watched the tiny spark take hold, first of paper, then twigs. He held his breath; this was the first time since the accident that he’d been near fire, or even allowed himself to think about it. Already the heat was beginning to radiate and his scars tingled.

  With the end of day the bush closed in and outside the small glow cast by the meagre flames Vinnie could hear creatures of the night rustling and foraging. Nearby, a cicada started its incessant ticking. Vinnie started, momentarily surprised. The fire cast leaping shadows against the curtain of trees and Vinnie found himself staring, entranced. The dance of light on darkness was familiar, frighteningly so, and despite himself Vinnie was falling away . . .

  ‘Vinnie?’

  Everything upside down. After the startling, almost gentle slowness of the slide, and the crushing violence of impact, his world was inverted.

  ‘Vinn . . .’

  Her voice reached out to him, sloughing into his consciousness. He felt like sleeping. Why wouldn’t she let him sleep?

  ‘Vinn. Wake up!’

  Awareness. Stillness, darkness, a world upturned. A world of tortured metal. The belt biting into his shoulder, into his waist.

  ‘Kat?’

  ‘Vinn. Are you okay?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Her voice scared, insistent.

  ‘I . . . I think . . . where . . .’

  Everything so still. So quiet. Only the ticking – the strange, steady, ominous tick of cooling metal.

  ‘Vinn, listen to me. You need to get out. Can you get out?’

  Katia. His sister. Always there. Always looking out. Always telling him the right thing to do.

  ‘I . . . my belt . . .’

  Fumbling in darkness, fingers numb with shock and awkward with fear. Finding the button, pressing – stuck – then loose, falling into a heap on the upturned roof.

  ‘Vinn, get out of the car right now. You need to get help. My legs are trapped. I can’t move.’

  The car was a tangle of crushed metal and broken glass, the windscreen crazy with spider patterns that flickered in the firelight . . .

  Fire. Burning.

  ‘Kat, where are you?’

  ‘Here.’

  Her voice was on the other side, near the door.

  ‘I can’t see you.’

  ‘I’m here. My feet are caught. Get out and get help.’

  Light and heat started to fill the space. Beside him the passenger’s window was a broken mouth, shards glinting like teeth, the darkness beyond cool and inviting.

  ‘Katia . . .’

  He could see her now. The roof had crumpled between them but her hand wormed through a tiny space and waved him away.

  ‘Vinn, get out. Now.’

  Hotter. More insistent. Fire licking at the shattered windscreen. The smell. He knew that smell; acrid, bitter.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Just get out. Get someone to help me.’

  Grabbing for her hand. Her skin cold and sweaty. She squeezed back.

  ‘Can you climb through your window?’

  ‘No. My feet are caught. Get out now!’

  Hotter. Still hotter. Temperature climbing. Air filled with angry red light. Crackling, dancing, laughing. Sweat streaming from his brow. Indecision.

  ‘Vinnie, listen to me. I want you out of the car. Can you smell the fuel? The fuel is going to burn. Get out! Now!’

  ‘Kat . . .’

  ‘Out, Vinnie.’

  An explosion. The car shifted, steel groaned.

  ‘Vinn . . .’

  Her grip, icy and vice-like.

  ‘Kat?’

  ‘Don’t forget me.’

  The hand pushed him away. Slipped back though the gap. Back into the hot steely darkness.

  Then he was outside. Bleeding where glass teeth had bitten into his hands, legs and chest, running around to her side, reaching, trying to find the handle to try to free her, had to free her . . .

  But the flames were too hungry, too angry and the car was burning. Steel and rubber and glass and flesh melting together, popping and spluttering, and the heat forced him back, though he pushed himself into it, again and again. Pain seared on the exposed skin of his face and arms. Her screaming grew faint and as other arms reached around from behind, dragging him back into cool darkness, he became aware for the first time of the flashing lights and the red glow dancing gleefully through the branches of the trees . . .

  Somewhere in the depths of the forest a creature cried aloud, and Vinnie, startled, shook himself out of the past. The fire was nearly dead; glowing embers trapped within the stone ring. Feeling ill, and wondering what his parents were doing, Vinnie crawled into the tent and slept.

  May 1943

  ‘Doctor Alexander, may I introduce your new orderly, Erich Pieters, Afrika Korps, Private. Erich, meet Doctor Alexander, Australian Army Medical Corps.’

  The elderly man leaning over the bed at the far end of the small infirmary turned.

  ‘Retired now, of course. I’m just helping out for the duration of the war. Does this mean we can send Domenico back to his working party?’

  Stutt nodded. His English, Erich noted, was much better than he let on.

  ‘Ja. Erich here looked after the wounded and dying in a British camp in North Africa. I suspect you’ll find him more useful than the Italian.’

  The doctor was old, possibly seventy or so. His face, half hidden behind a huge white moustache, was mapped with wrinkles, lending a stern, paternal air. He looked at Erich appraisingly.

  ‘He’s not very old.’

  ‘Appearances can be deceiving, Doctor. According to his enlistment papers, he’s twenty-two.’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s all right then. If it says so on his papers, it must be true.’

  The older men shared a smile, which irritated Erich.

  ‘In all seriousness, Doctor, I believe you will find Erich to be a very suitable orderly. The German Afrika Korps are renowned for their discipline.’

  ‘You’re not a Nazi, are you, Erich?’

&nb
sp; ‘Excuse me?’ The question, so blunt and unexpected, caught Erich unaware. He was saved by Stutt.

  ‘Now, Doctor, need I remind you about the screening? Erich is a German, just like the rest of us, who has been caught up in an exceptionally nasty piece of history. If he was an extremist then you know as well as I do that there would be no way he would have been stationed here in Marrinup.’

  There was a long, still silence. The two men regarded one another.

  ‘Very well, Heinrich. I’ll take your word for it. When may I send Domenico off?’

  ‘At the end of the day, Doctor. I still need to have Erich issued with kit and provisions, and then he’ll be yours from tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll see you then, Erich.’

  Erich nodded a reply and followed Stutt back out into the morning.

  The mist had lifted and for the first time Erich became aware of the immensity of the forest surrounding them. Beyond the barbed wire and no-man’s-land of the camp perimeter, trees reared massively into the blue, their smoky green canopy dappling the undergrowth into a thick, dark, hostile world of shadow, pressing in upon the camp. For a moment Erich had the odd impression that the guard towers, some of them perched atop lopped stumps of trees at the corners of the camp, were there to keep the forest at bay, rather than to prevent the prisoners escaping.

  They headed towards the mess again, around the side of the canteen.

  ‘So, Erich, was the doctor right about you? Are you a Nazi?’

  Stutt asked the question in German, hiding the conversation from Australian ears.

  ‘What do you mean?’ The reply was measured, cautious. Everyone knew that the Gestapo had agents everywhere, in every corner of the German army, navy and Luftwaffe.

  ‘Simply that. They screen everyone who is sent here and the extremists never make it as far as Marrinup. But every now and then one slips through the net.’

  Stutt was watching Erich intently.

  ‘Let me make this very clear to you, Erich. There is no room for Nazis here in Camp Sixteen. If your loyalty is to Germany, that’s fine. No one here will have a problem with that, not even the Australians. But if you are foolish enough to sprout the philo-sophies of our self-declared Führer, then I’ll have no choice but to see you on your way back to one of the less pleasant British camps in India. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. This is not a bad place, Erich. My job is to keep things that way. Remember that we’ll have no problems. Now, let’s get you some provisions.’

  From a rough storeroom attached to the back of the mess hall Erich was issued with bedding, shaving gear and a set of the heavy magenta clothes that many of the men wore.

  ‘You won’t need a lot of this working in the hospital, but take it anyway. You’ll probably be glad of it in a month or so when the winter sets in.’

  The clothes were Australian Army uniforms, dyed bright red especially for the prisoners. If he managed to escape, he’d stand out like a sore thumb.

  ‘I’m sure that my own uniform will suffice, sir.’

  ‘Take them. The nights are only going to get colder and the days wetter. In a little while you’ll thank me.’

  He took the clothes without further comment. For all he cared they could sit on the floor under his bunk and go mouldy.

  ‘Now, let’s get the paperwork out of the way.’

  Sitting at one of the mess tables, Stutt recorded his details on an official form: name, rank, serial number, where and when he’d served and been captured, next of kin. Each piece of information carried Erich somewhere else – back to the burning sand and dry oppression of the North African desert, back to his first posting on the Italian border, and finally back to his family in Stuttgart. Erich realised with a start that he hadn’t thought of them in some time. Not properly. Were they worried for him? Were they even alive?

  The paperwork done, he was handed a slim booklet, written in German, and dismissed.

  ‘Take your provisions to your hut. Today I expect you to familiarise yourself with the rules and procedures of the camp. You’ll find them written up here. From tomorrow you report at 0735 to the infirmary. If the doctor isn’t there, find yourself a broom and start sweeping. Any questions?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Good then. If you have any major concerns, speak to Günter. I’ll ask him to keep an eye out for you.’

  ‘I’m sure I can manage, sir.’

  Erich spat the final word with a sarcasm that Stutt seemed not to notice.

  ‘I’ll see you at evening rollcall then, Pieters.’

  THREE

  Vinnie

  He woke to a few silent seconds of confused orientation. The morning was cold, and as he shrugged out of the warm cocoon of his sleeping bag, Vinnie shivered. Mist had settled across the clearing, cloaking the trees on the far side. The gurgle of the creek reminded him of the pressure in his bladder and a nearby tree provided relief, his stream steaming slightly in the chill air. A couple of metres away the brush trembled with the passage of some creature startled from its morning feed. Magpies cried in the treetops, the timelessness of their song calling the sun through the fog.

  Lighting the fire was easier this time. The flames, stripped of their dancing shadows by pale, growing daylight, were clear and innocuous. Soon a billy of creek water bubbled on its way to boiling. Watching, Vinnie thought of home. By this time his father could be up, boiling the kettle for his mother’s first cup of tea. His parents. Had they worried?

  The letter should have explained everything. The hours he’d spent on it, trying to put down in writing feelings and ideas he couldn’t convey any other way. Rationalising his decision into stark black letters on white paper. He’d left it by the kettle, where his father would discover it first thing.

  The letter had been the hardest part. The rest was simple.

  Leaving through the back door, retrieving pack, food and tent from the shed, stopping to scratch a silent goodbye behind his dog’s ear, the creature dozy at this hour of the night – some guard! Then creeping around the side and out, through the gate into the lane. Sleep hung on the world. Houses, their windows sightless eyes, slumbered either side of him as he walked the few blocks to the all-night deli. There a taxi to the central bus depot. The driver barely looked at him, other than the expected double glance at his scars. Paid for taxi, waited fifteen minutes, sitting on his pack. A little down the platform a couple of drunks slumped, singing unintelligible words at the occasional passing car. Across the road a shopping complex crouched empty amidst its car parks. A security car cruised by, spotlights on the roof, passing both him and the drunks without pause. Bus arrived, driver yawning, drinking coffee from a flask for five minutes before pulling out again into the deserted streets. Ride to outer suburbs, then a forty-five minute hike to the truck stop, the first outside the city limits. A couple of cars rushed past without stopping, lights on high beam, drivers comfortably ensconced in heated cabins, hurrying into the darkness. Nothing for twenty minutes, then the logging truck.

  The neon of the roadhouse receded in the mirrors and, after the first bend, he and the driver were left alone in the glow of the moonlight and the faint illumination of the dashboard. The driver, a balding man in his fifties, cast a sideways glance.

  ‘Where you headed?’

  ‘Wherever you can drop me, if that’s okay?’

  ‘I’m headed out to a logging stand the other side of Dwellingup. I can let you off there if you want.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks. That’d be great.’

  No further questions. No further conversation. They had driven through the early morning in companionable silence, and Vinnie had been grateful for that.

  Dwellingup at sunrise, breakfast in the park, reading until the tourist information place opened at nine. Bought a map of the area, not certain what he was looking for. A
little square in the middle of the bush caught his eye. Marrinup. Prisoner of War Camp – Heritage Area. The idea seemed incongruous – so totally alien. There was a camping symbol next to it, and a hiking path from the town. It would do. A quick walk through the museum, finding out about the timber town, the fire that destroyed it, then into the bush, to here . . .

  Vinnie sipped his steaming coffee and let the morning wash over him, bathing in its quiet warmth. With the growing sun the fog was lifting, shifting, dissolving into blueness. The sounds of night animals surrendered to the more boisterous screeches of those who dwelled in daylight and the diurnal cycle of the forest started again, either unaware of, or ignoring, his presence there. Vinnie found himself filled with a sudden and overwhelming sense of being just another part of something – of somewhere. It was a sensation he’d long missed at home in the city. Hadn’t felt since before Katia, and hadn’t been alert to even then. As the fire spluttered and hissed, he whistled for the first time in many months.

  The day stretched ahead, empty. He had books and his journal but for the moment Vinnie was content to just sit and be.

  A few hundred metres away, up at the far end of the clearing, a wooden sign caught his attention. It stood at the mouth of a pathway that disappeared into the shadowy hollows of the forest. A different trail from the one he’d followed yesterday, and with nothing better to do, Vinnie meandered slowly up the terraces, clambering over small piles of rock and crossing the dirt road that ran through the clearing. The words, cut into the timber of the sign and daubed with white paint, stood clear against the greeny brown background:

  POW Camp Trail. 4 kilometres, 1.5 hours return.

  Black cockatoos chortled overhead. Vinnie cast a glance back across the deserted clearing, stepped onto the pathway and into the enclosing, living dimness of the jarrah forest.

  Vinnie examined his reflection in the trembling mirror of a small rock pool. The creek intersecting the path gurgled beneath a rough timber footbridge and Vinnie considered his scarred visage. The dull sheen of the water lessoned the impact of the scar, its vivid brightness muted by the mossy rocks below the drifting water. With a little imagination, the old Vinnie could almost be seen there, lurking somewhere in the background, another layer beneath the echo of his face. But the old Vinnie was gone, dead. Burned away at the same time as his sister.