Daring Masquerade (31 page)

"Everyone seems nice. I can see what you mean about Mrs. Bates, poor old soul."

"It's sad really, but let her think she's in control, that's what I do, keeps her pride intact. Ross would be happy for her to retire."

"She probably doesn't want to leave here."

"She wouldn't leave here. She has her own cottage. I persuaded her to move back in here when he went away. Ross thought it would be easier for me to keep an eye on her, but she thinks it's because I'm scared of staying in the homestead on my own."

"You're not scared of anything, Harry."

"I was in prison." She shuddered. "I swear. If it hadn't been for Ruby, I never would have survived."

* * *

On the nineteenth of July, 1916, members of the First Australian Division filed through the cobblestone streets of Albert. Ross passed the half ruined cathedral he had told Harry about in his last letter. The gilded statue of the virgin still hung precariously above the town square. This would be his first taste of battle since arriving in France.

The troops moved through Albert quietly, and rested on the outskirts of town. A field kitchen provided warm food and a hot drink for the men, but from now on he knew food would be coming from their ration packs.

He had written and posted a letter to Harry, one for Jack as well. Within a couple of days the Division would be in the thick of battle. God alone knew when, or if, he would be able to write again.

Taking Harry's letter out of his pocket, he held it against his cheek, closed his eyes and inhaled the rose scented perfume she had sprinkled on it. Just so you won't forget what I smell like. He could almost hear her saying the words, hear the laughter in her voice. If he concentrated hard, he could remember the taste of her soft, sweet lips as they moved eagerly against his own.

In his wallet, carried in his breast pocket so it would be near his heart, he kept her photograph and a lock of bright hair, one of the wild curls she had cut off and sent to him. Sweet, gutsy, little Harry. He could not believe what she had been through, and she didn't even tell him. That was Harry. She would not have wanted him to worry. Would have wanted to handle things herself.

Murderous retribution surged through his body. What Bromley had done was an abomination. Jack had written him a six page letter telling him everything once Harry arrived safely back at Devil's Ridge. If it had not been for Judge Renshaw helping her, she could have rotted in prison for months or even years. He shuddered every time he thought about it.

"You all right, Ross?" A young captain who sat next to him asked. "You're frightened?"

"Of course. Any man who said he wasn't would be a liar."

"I felt you shudder. Frankly, I'm terrified."

Ross did not enlighten him. It wasn't the fear of battle that had shaken him, but Harry's suffering. She's pregnant, for God's sake, and they did that to her.

A letter had arrived from Virginia. Her vitriolic outpourings against Harry, the absolute lies and distortion of the truth shocked him. Even if he hadn't heard from Jack, he would not have believed the worst of Virginia's lies, but the scary thing was some of the poison might have seeped into his system. He had loved her to the point of obsession. Once.

Maybe Clyde forced her to write the letter, he thought, frantically trying to make excuses for her. Virginia wouldn't have deliberately set out to hurt him. Or would she?

When the order came to advance, he stood up and roused his men.

"Time to go, lads. Be alert and watch out for each other."

Mere boys, most of them, and this would be their first taste of battle. He knew their fear; so tangible he could virtually smell it. The veterans from Gallipoli like himself tried to keep an eye on the 'new chums' as they called the reinforcements.

The battalion pushed forward. Grass covered earth cushioned his steps, but as he came closer to the battlefield the ground became rougher. In the light of day he saw orchards and hedges. In the distance lay the ruins of the once pretty village of Pozieres.

Artillery pounded the German lines and the terrible noise vibrated his eardrums. Shook the earth he walked on. Craters pockmarked the ground.

"Come on men," he yelled. "Take shelter in those old German trenches."

The bombardment intensified. All his battalion could do for the present was help the support units get set up while they waited for their orders to advance.

The signalers brought tragic news. On the nineteenth and twentieth of July, the Fifth Australian Division had been decimated, over five thousand men lost at Fromelles. The sheer scale of the carnage shocked him. Anger and the desire to revenge the slaughter of his comrades, warred with the caution and cool headedness he knew were necessary for this latest attack to be successful.

Foolhardy heroics got men killed. They taught him that at Officer Training School, and it was reinforced the hard way on Gallipoli. Cool, calculated and well planned, it was imperative. Would the men remember this in the heat of battle?

On the twenty-third of July, the First Australian Division attacked. They surged forward in waves, climbing out of the trenches and charging across no-man's land. The Germans mowed them down like fields of corn. Ross' section remained in the trenches waiting to advance. He heard the screams of the wounded and dying, but could do little more than crawl to the top of the parapets and drag back those who had fallen close by.

On the twenty-fourth of July the German bombardment really started. They pumped out four shells every minute. Clouds of powdered earth flew all around them. It filled Ross' nose and throat as he frantically tried to dig out his corporal when part of their trench collapsed on him.

Trails of smoke billowed in the sky. Hell on earth. He dragged the corporal out, laid him on the ground and stepped back a couple of paces to grab a field dressing out of his pack. A screaming roar shook the trench. The man disappeared under a ton of dirt.

For three days they endured bombardment so terrible, some English soldiers told him it was worse than Verdun. By the time his section was finally relieved he felt as if he had been to hell and back. He was so exhausted he hardly cared whether he lived or died.

Zombie like, the men stumbled back towards the allied lines.
The living dead,
that's what we are
. He urged his troops on. "Keep walking, men, one foot in front of the other," he begged, screamed and abused just to keep them moving. He loathed himself for the foul language he used but any stragglers who faltered and fell were as good as dead. His head ached where a piece of shrapnel had grazed his brow and his eyes burned with fatigue.

They finally made camp in Vadencourt Wood. Hot food and drink awaited them courtesy of the mobile kitchen unit. He couldn't eat, but drank several mugs of tea. He would just about sell his soul for an icy cold beer.

Before settling down for the night, he broke open the neck of his iodine phial and poured some onto his wound to disinfect it. It stung like hell, but he didn't want to risk infection. The men lay quietly in their blankets, reading, smoking or writing letters home, too shocked and traumatized to speak. He was beyond trying to give them words of comfort.

Wrapping his ground sheet around him, he took out Harry's last letter and inhaled the rose perfume.

I need you desperately. I want to watch our child growing inside you, want to run my hands across your swollen belly and feel our baby's movement. I want to be there to hear its first cries.

It eased his mind that Elsie now resided at Devil's Ridge, and he would try and find out about her fiancé as Harry had asked him to. He felt too weary now, too shattered by death, carnage and continual bombardment to do anything but think of home.

This is a different kind of hell to Gallipoli. He rubbed the letter against his cheek. The feel of the paper against his skin brought him comfort from the savagery and horror of war on the Somme.

* * *

"Read this." Harry waved the paper at Jack. "Heavy casualties in France. The First Australian Division has lost over five thousand men at Pozieres and Mouquet Farm. The Second Division has lost nearly seven thousand. In seven weeks, on a mile front at Pozieres, the Australians have lost twenty-three thousand men."

"My God, what's going on in France! There'll be no army left soon," Jack said reading the paper over her shoulder.

"A Private Thomas Calvert has been killed at Pozieres," Elsie read from another paper. "Any relation?"

"Very distant," Jack said, his voice low with distress. "A nice young fellow. Came from Dixon's Siding. His parents died in a bush fire, I think. He and young Jim Waverley did a bit of work around here from time to time. Jim copped it at Gallipoli."

Jack went into town twice a week now for mail and papers. Harry fretted and fumed because he wouldn't let her accompany him.

"Too dangerous for you. The mail delivery has been suspended as some of the tracks are impassable because of heavy snow. How could you possibly contemplate doing anything so foolhardy?"

"I know you're right, Jack, but I hate being confined like this." She gazed out the window. The mountains were capped with white and Devil's Ridge looked like a scene from an English Christmas card. The homestead nestled in a valley, which sheltered them from the bitter blasts blowing in from the higher peaks.

She spent a lot of time sitting in front of a roaring fire preparing the baby's layette. Mrs. Bates, once an adept needlewoman, instructed her in the art and she surprised herself by being a quick learner.
Probably because I'm desperate to do something to fill in the time.
Nighttime was purgatory, tossing and turning, desperately wanting to feel the comforting warmth of Ross' body. She sniffed back threatening tears, despising herself for showing such feminine weakness. How often had she condemned other women for weeping too easily? Now she was doing it, but she had a good excuse. The hours were long and lonely with only Eric's rag doll for company.

"Bloody government," Jack exploded, interrupting her thoughts. "They're calling for more reinforcements, even conscription."

Elsie, bringing in their cocoa, stopped his angry outburst. Mrs. Bates sat in a rocking chair by the fire trying to ease the pain of her arthritis. Elsie virtually ran the household now under Mrs. Bates' direction. Because of the advancing pregnancy many chores were beyond Harry, and frustration almost overwhelmed her some days. She hated not being able to get around like before. Some days backache crippled her and she had to spend time in bed.

"I'll be glad when this baby is born," she burst out suddenly, tossing her sewing to one side. "I'm sick of this inactivity. I can't go anywhere, can't do anything. I'm sick of the war. Ross doesn't bother writing. I've heard nothing from him in weeks."

"He probably can't write." Elsie soothed.

She had become much more assertive and confident in her ability now. She acted years older than Harry sometimes, and her placid nature helped calm Harry's volatility.

"Ted mentioned in his last letter how exhausted the infantry troops are. They're put into one battle after another."

"Those English generals are using our troops to save their own soldiers," Harry raged. "It's not fair."

"You're wrong," Jack interrupted. "Those generals have squandered their own troops, now they're starting on ours. Heard they're recruiting sixteen-year-old boys in England."

"I'm frightened for Ross. Surely I would have heard if something happened to him. I've gone through the casualty lists and his name isn't there. Do you think Andrew might know something?" She wrung her hands.

"Doubt it. We shouldn't have anything to do with him after his disgraceful behavior."

"He's weak, too scared of losing Sarah, and of being caught up in a scandal. You know, I pity him in a way."

"He did ring me," Elsie joined in. "Offered to give me money for you, too."

"Guilty conscience," Mrs. Bates snapped.

"Do you think it's worth having a spring round up?" Harry tried to change the topic.

"No, can't get enough men. We'll just go along the way we are, keeping the fences and outbuildings in good repair, and doing the urgent things. Ross can build things up again when he gets home."

"He might not come home," Harry said morosely. "We might never see him again." Tears sprung to her eyes and she swiped them away.

"Rubbish, he could always look after himself. He uses his head, doesn't take unnecessary chances," Jack said.

She detected his forced cheerfulness. Hopelessness and despair weighed her down, slumped her shoulders until she felt like a hunchback. If only Ross would write and let her know he was safe. Was he already dead? Jack would be as haunted by this thought as she was. What if a bullet with his name on it had already found its mark?

Harry, watching Jack's pale face, read the anguish in the old man's eyes. And he was old now, over the last few months he had aged years.

She clutched his hand. "I'm a selfish beast. I keep forgetting what Ross means to you. Too busy wallowing in self-pity. Hey, Else, why don't we knit the men a scarf and some warm socks. Winter must be cold in France."

"I have some khaki wool," Mrs. Bates said. "Elsie, would you, dear? It's in the chest of drawers near my bed, bottom drawer I think."

"I'm sick of baby clothes," Harry declared. "We'll have a competition to see how quickly we can knit something for the men."

"That's the spirit, girls." Jack chuckled. "If I could knit, I'd help you."

"We could teach you," Harry offered with a grin.

"No thank you very much." His eyes twinkled. "I'll keep the home fires burning doing something else. Even Ross wouldn't expect me to knit for him."

Chapter Sixteen

On the twenty-eighth of October, 1916, the vote for conscription was defeated by seventy-five thousand votes. The next day, Harry gave birth to a healthy baby boy. It had been a long, arduous labor, and looking back, she wondered how she had been able to endure such pain.

The spring flowers were now at their best. Daffodils waved their golden heads outside her bedroom window and pink blossom covered the flowering cherries.