One Hot Christmas (Mercy Island Series Book 2)

by Jacquie Underdown

  Lucy wasn’t a religious person, but she was compelled to say a prayer and offer her gratitude for the sacrifices these men and families had made, so she could have the freedom she possessed today. She lowered her head, closed her eyes, treading forward, thanking the men whose remains were left behind. Thanking them for being brave enough to answer the call, for leaving their families, imperilling their lives, and having the mettle to witness all the gore war had to offer.

  Lucy drew a shaky breath in and opened her eyes, only centimetres from stumbling into a man. She stopped, barely righting her balance.

  She looked up to see the man’s face. ‘I didn’t realise anyone else was around. I’m sorry.’ He was handsome, early twenties, with melancholy pale-green eyes, and dressed in soldier apparel—slouch hat with the familiar rising-star badge, khaki woollen tunic and trousers, right down to the brown leather boots.

  The man was silent.

  ‘That’s a fantastic uniform you’re wearing. So authentic,’ she stuttered.

  No answer. Only a deep frown. His eyes were glistening.

  ‘Do you have relatives buried here?’ she asked.

  The man turned his face to the cemetery walls. When he looked back at Lucy, tears were wetting his cheeks. ‘These were me cobbers,’ he said in a strangled voice, thick with a long-forgotten Australian twang only heard now in the deepest, isolated regions of the country.

  Lucy nodded. ‘You feel a strong connection with the men buried here?’

  ‘I fought with ‘em, and I died with ‘em.’ His deep voice was filled with undeniable sincerity. Lucy shuddered and wrapped her arms around her middle. Was this man implying that he had served in the Battle of Fromelles, which took place nearly one hundred years ago, with men that were now mere skeletons?

  Her heart hammered in her chest as it dawned on her—this man was mentally imbalanced.

  Lucy swallowed hard and offered her bravest smile. ‘I best be going. Have a good day.’ She whirled to face the road and marched towards the church, its modest spire now a symbol of refuge.

  Lucy hid her trembling hands in her pockets and concentrated on the dew that sprayed her legs with each step across the fragrant grass, rather than peek over her shoulder. But fear nipped at her ankles, breathed hotly in her ear, compelling her to look.

  There he was, still standing in the field, watching, face lined with grief, eyes bloodshot and glossy. Her heart ached for him, despite her stuttering pulse and prickled skin.

  She looked away quickly and kept walking.

  Seated in her car, Lucy forced the locks down, started the engine and veered out onto the road. Only then did she risk a glance towards the field again. The soldier was gone. Her gaze flitted around the countryside. He was nowhere in sight.

  Chapter 2

  Lucy zoomed past the farmhouses and expansive countryside, firmly away from the soldier. Her shoulders relaxed to their rightful position the farther she advanced.

  She plugged Amiens into the maps app on her mobile phone and blasted the heater. She craved the morning sunlight’s warmth as it filtered through the front windscreen.

  In an hour and a half, she arrived in Amiens and headed to the St-Leu Quarter, which sprawled at the base of the medieval Notre-Dame Cathedral. She parked and set off on foot along the canals flanked by lovely old gabled houses and estaminets that nestled against each other in long loving rows until she found a place for breakfast.

  Lucy took a seat at one of the few empty tables and smiled as the heavy-set, male waiter offered a menu.

  ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle, un menu pour vous?’ he said.

  Okay, so that was “Hello, miss” and something about a menu. She understood that.

  ‘Bonjour. Merci,’ she said.

  Then the next line out of the waiter’s mouth may as well have been gibberish.

  Her stomach squirmed, and she shifted nervously in her seat. ‘Excusez-moi, mon Francais n’est pas bon. Parlez vous Anglais?’

  The waiter shook his head. He didn’t speak English. She was going to have to babble her way through the order. Lucy skimmed over the menu, seeing a few familiar words.’ Pourais-je avoir un cafe et un yoghurt?’

  An amused smirk formed on the waiter’s lips. ‘Oui.’

  ‘Merci.’

  As the waiter walked away, Lucy sighed. It was so much easier dining at the hotels she stayed in because they usually had waiters able to speak English. But if she restricted herself to hotels during her time in France, she would miss out on the authentic French experience—the only reason she had come on this holiday.

  Oh, who was she trying to kid? It wasn’t the only reason—she also wanted to eradicate her ex, Jason Jacobs, from her thoughts.

  Lucy shook her head quickly. I will not think about him.

  The waiter smiled as he placed a bowl of yoghurt in front of Lucy, along with a latte. ‘Votre yoghurt et votre café, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Merci.’

  Lucy sipped her hot, milky coffee, but something drew her attention to the far back corner of the cafe. Her heart thumped.

  The soldier from Fromelles.

  Each breath became harder to draw in. Has he followed me here? She peered up from her bowl. He was looking at her with that drooping frown, those doleful eyes. She looked away, gestured for the waiter. ‘Excusez-moi, homme Suivez moi, peur, a l’aide,’ she said, struggling for the right words.

  The waiter’s brow furrowed. ‘Quel homme?’ He glanced about the room.

  Lucy subtly nodded towards the back corner where the soldier sat.

  The waiter peered towards him but shrugged. ‘Le vieil homme portant des lunettes?’

  Lucy could only understand something about glasses. ‘Je ne comprends pas.’

  ‘Je ne comprend pas quel est votre poursuivant?’ The waiter shrugged again.

  Lucy pointed now, directly at the soldier.

  Again, the waiter shrugged. ‘Je ne sais pas quel personne vous me montrez.’

  Was he playing dumb or could he not see this man so conspicuous in his soldier’s khakis sitting precisely where she pointed? This was getting her nowhere.

  ‘I have to go. Merci. Merci for breakfast … petit dejeuner.’ She stood, pulled twenty euro from her purse, thrust it at the waiter and left the restaurant.

  She briskly retraced her steps along the canal, peeking over her shoulder every now and then. So far, there was no sign of the soldier. Ahead of her was her car. She ran to it, unlocked the doors, slid into the driver’s seat and thrust down the locks. Her heart was beating wildly. She was panting.

  Trying to steady her hands, Lucy fumbled with the key at the ignition. The engine eventually roared to life. She shifted the gear stick, to push it into reverse when she saw him—in her passenger seat.

  She jerked. A high-pitched scream rumbled from her throat and echoed throughout the car. She scrabbled to open the door. It wouldn’t budge. She pulled on the handle, again and again, shoving her shoulder against the door until her arm throbbed.

  ‘That latch you pressed down is stoppin’ you from opening the door,’ the soldier said in a calm voice, ‘but I’m not here to hurt you, Lucy.’

  She held her quivering hands over her ears, squeezed her eyes shut. ‘What do want from me? How did you get into my car?!’

  ‘Please, don’t be scared. I need your help.’

  Lucy dared to look at him. He appeared like someone would look in an olden-day colour movie, slightly dulled and hazy.

  ‘Who…who are you?’ Her throat was so tight with fear the words were barely audible.

  ‘My name is Private Fredrick Ormon. I’m an infantry soldier in the 31st Battalion of the Australian Imperial Force. Me last real memory is dyin’ on no-man’s land, Fromelles, only metres from the German front line on 19 July 1916.’

  Lucy lowered her head in her hands and gave a low, confused growl. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I died nearly a hundred years ago and you’re the only person who’s been able to see me sin
ce I became conscious again.’

  Lucy was silent, her mind racing to make sense of all this. If what he was saying were true that would mean he was a … ghost. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, hands trembled.

  ‘You … you’re a ghost?’ No strength to her voice.

  The soldier lowered his head. He peered at his hands and turned them up and down in front of him, fingers splayed.

  He looked back to Lucy, mournful green eyes wide, and nodded. ‘That’s the only explanation I can come up with.’

  Chapter 3

  Lucy’s breathing was ragged as fear and disbelief clouded her mind like thick plumes of smoke.

  ‘Calm down. Breathe slowly,’ Fredrick said.

  Lucy drew deep, slow breaths in, steady breaths out. Eventually, her perceptions pushed through the swirling smog and, when composed enough to speak, she asked, ‘How do you know my name?’

  He shrugged. ‘I dunno how. I just seem to know.’

  ‘Why am I the only person lucky enough to be able to see you?’

  He smiled at her sarcasm. ‘That, I dunno.’

  ‘What do you need me to help you with?’

  The soldier hesitated a moment. Mouth twitched. ‘I have no memory of anythin’ that happened after the moment I died, up till five months ago when me remains were dug up. For some reason, this brought me back to life. But my remains are nameless, Lucy. I need to have me name on that headstone above me grave. I need that, and that’s what I need you to help me with.’

  Lucy’s lips parted with a deep intake of air. ‘You need me to help get your remains identified?’

  The soldier nodded.

  She couldn’t think straight. A thousand thoughts scrambled her mind.

  ‘I also wanna know what happened to me wife and baby,’ he whispered. Anguish sat beneath each word like a heavy stone. His eyes were reddening, welling with tears.

  ‘You were married when you died?’

  He nodded. ‘Her name was Kate. She was pregnant before I enlisted, but we didn’t know until after I sailed for France.’ He hesitated to take a breath, his bottom lip quivering. ‘I never got to see me baby. I don’t even know if we had a boy or girl.’

  Lucy’s throat thickened, painfully tight. ‘How old are you, Fredrick?’

  ‘Twenty-three. Well, I was twenty-three. I guess I’m over a hundred now.’ He paused, searching her face with pleading eyes. As soft as a whisper, he asked, ‘Can you help me?’

  Lucy sighed, closed her eyes. ‘I don’t know if I can. I wouldn’t know how.’

  ‘Please. You’re all I have.’

  Lucy locked her eyes with his. They were full of longing. Eyes that had witnessed such devastation and loss and reflected the wounds of war so deep they had left a scar on his soul. She couldn’t look into those eyes and deny him anything.

  She nodded. ‘Okay, Fredrick. I’ll help you.’

  ‘Bonzer.’ He reached over and wrapped his arms around her.

  Lucy shuddered and recoiled, leaning towards the door. She bristled with goose bumps. Her body temperature dropped considerably.

  Fredrick loosened his grip and sat upright. ‘Sorry.’

  She shook her head, gave herself a moment to get her senses back, then lifted a hand. ‘It’s okay, it…. That was the weirdest sensation. I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but I could feel you.’

  ‘I won’t do it again if it’s uncomfortable.’

  ‘It’s fine, I guess.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Perhaps give me some warning first, though.’

  He smiled. ‘Sure.’

  Lucy squeezed her fingers around the steering wheel until her knuckles were white. ‘Where should we start?’

  ‘You can start by callin’ me Freddy.’

  ‘Okay, Freddy, I can do that.’

  He shrugged. ‘But other than that, I dunno. I’m lost in this time. Things are different from when I was alive and kickin’. The cars, the buildings, the clothing, the people—it’s all different, yet in some small way, the same. Waking after nearly a hundred years and seeing France how it is now—’

  Lucy snorted, an attempt to stifle an almost delirious laugh. I’m losing my bloody mind.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.

  She rubbed her brow, shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I’m having trouble believing anything that’s happening right now. If anyone else was listening to this conversation…’ She looked out the car window. ‘I need some time to get used to all this. Believe it or not, you’re the first ghost I’ve met.’

  Freddy frowned.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t even imagine how hard this must be for you, too.’

  ‘Yes, it’s hard, but I’ve had a bit of time to get my head around it. You’ve had all of five minutes.’

  She shrugged, blew out a long breath. ‘I guess so.’ She shifted the car into reverse. ‘I think the first thing to do is to check into my hotel and get a laptop, so I can search the internet for your family tree.’

  Freddy rolled his head back and laughed loud and strong—a lovely laugh, unreserved and straight from his belly. ‘It’s as though you were speakin’ another language right now.’

  She laughed with him, realising he would have no idea what a computer was, let alone the internet. ‘There’s much I have to show you, Freddy.’

  ‘I’m startin’ to see that.’

  Lucy piled her luggage on the floor near the door inside her hotel room. She collapsed onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling, attempting to process how her day had taken such a peculiar turn.

  Freddy stood at the window looking out over the city. ‘I remember that cathedral from when Robby and I came through here. It’s somethin’ out-of-the-bag. Nothin’ like we have back home in Ipswich.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘It seems like yesterday to me I did that, but so much has changed. It’s not the same city.’

  Lucy rolled off the bed and joined him at the window. ‘It’s been nearly a century. So much has changed everywhere.’

  He smiled, but his eyes had dimmed. ‘I know.’

  ‘Tell me about Robby. Was he a mate of yours?’

  Freddy’s mouth tightened. His eyes glistened, chin twitched. ‘I’ve known Robby since I was three. His parents owned the property next to us. We enlisted together, thinking we’re young and healthy and could do our bit for the country, ya know?’

  Lucy nodded.

  ‘But I came a gutser, minutes after hoppin’ the bags. I was pipped in the leg as I almost made it to the Fritz’s frontline. Robby stopped to help me. Stupid. Stupid mistake!’ His fists clenched. ‘You don’t stop, you don’t hesitate. He knew that…’ Freddy’s voice was shaking. He stopped, drew a depth breath. ‘He got hit between the eyes by shrapnel from a woolly bear. He was dead before he hit the ground.’

  Lucy’s stomach wrenched. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Some of us live to see another day. Some of us don’t. That’s war.’

  Lucy was reflective for a few moments. ‘Um, Freddy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’s a woolly bear?’

  Freddy managed a tight smile. ‘It’s a shell. A German shell that bursts with a big puff of smoke.’

  ‘Oh.’

  A knock came at the door. Lucy excused herself. It was the concierge with the laptop she had requested. She thanked him, sat the computer on the empty desk and set up a temporary workstation. Today was her last day in France. Tomorrow she was to fly back to Australia. There was no time to waste.

  Freddy stood behind her. She explained to him what the computer was, how it worked, what the internet was and how it was going to help them. Her plan, at this stage, was to get an understanding of how these long-lost soldiers were identified.

  She navigated through websites offering articles on the Battle of Fromelles, hoping it would lead to information on the mass graves and the new cemetery. Facts on the battle jumped out at them and much of it was far from comforting.

  Five thousand, five hundred and fifty-thre
e deaths and casualties; the German brigade was on higher ground and could see everything that was happening in the Australian trenches and pre-empt every move; the German trenches were far more fortified than first realised; miscommunications; slaughter of officers; errors; lack of artillery; shell shock; cover-ups; no ground gained by Allied troops; futile attack.

  Freddy went very still as he stared at the screen. He shoved his hands in his pockets and strode away. Anxiety pulsated from his body, filling the room with thick, heavy air.

  He spun back to face Lucy, eyes full of despair. ‘It was a disaster and all for nothin’?’

  Lucy didn’t know how to answer. She had no idea what any of the soldiers went through during that battle—nobody did, except those that were there. ‘In hindsight, things always appear more simplistic. Mistakes are easier to spot. It may not have gone as smoothly as expected, but it doesn’t mean that every soldier’s contribution was meaningless. This battle was just one of many, many battles that ultimately amounted to the Allied forces winning the war.’

  Freddy frowned deeply. ‘When did it end? When did the war end?’

  ‘An armistice between the Allies and Germany was signed on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month in 1918. It marked the end of the war on the Western Front.’

  His eyes widened. ‘The war dragged on for four years?’ His voice was full of disbelief.

  Lucy nodded, keeping to herself just how many lives were lost in those four years.

  Freddy lowered his head, shoulders drooping. ‘I need a moment to meself.’ Then he evaporated into thin air.

  Lucy sighed. Her throat was tight and aching, as she fought back tears. She grabbed a bottle of water from the bar fridge and took a long sip. It was hard enough coming to terms with what Freddy was— a ghost —let alone be a support, an unqualified one at that, for what was the mental aftermath caused by war.

  There were stories Lucy had read of how soldiers, back from the Great War, were shells of the men they were before. Stories of strong, grown men filled with bravado and then, in one night, reduced to blubbering children, crying inconsolably for their mothers. Stories of returned servicemen spending the rest of their lives in psychiatric hospitals, committing suicide, suffering from substance abuse. It seemed if the bullets, howitzers and shells didn’t finish you, the terror, horrors and gore surely did.