Fireshadow (4 page)

Erich shrugged.

The man on the bed moaned again and Doctor Alexander returned his attention to his patient. Standing by the fire to dry out and warm up, Erich considered the look in the young guard's eyes and wasn't so certain.

Four

Vinnie

The morning heat grew strangely muted as Vinnie weaved between the crumbling remnants of the old prison camp. Very little remained, just some concrete foundations and a few low stone walls. Grass covered the clear areas of ground, but much was already tangled and overgrown. The old town site, where he had camped, seemed shunned by the forest, but the same was not true here. Jarrah saplings, already well on the way to two-hundred-year adulthood, were interspersed among the ruins, bringing with them clumps of dappled shade and undergrowth and attendant wildlife. Tiny birds picked and hopped, and the buzz and drone of insects played a constant background to the morning.

A quiet unease edged into his mind as he walked. This place had a sense about it. Once he wouldn't have been aware of it, but now there it was, a fluttering awareness, unsettling the calm he was chasing.

At one corner of the camp the stump of a jarrah that had once served as a guard tower stood alone in a clearing. The tree itself was long dead, its life severed when its crown was cut off to leave a base for a platform, years since removed. Still, the trunk had endured, had kept solemn vigil over the departure and decay of the camp. Its wood was marked in the places where iron rungs had once been hammered into the living timber.

Men lived here, thought Vinnie, studying the tower. Lived and worked and died here, in the bush, and the real prison wasn't the rows of wire and the spotlights and the armed guards. The real prison was the forest itself. He studied it; pressing in, always there, beyond the perimeter, alive, dark and threatening.

A cloud drifted across the face of the sun, and the sharp relief of the morning faded into haziness. In Vinnie's imagination young men, soldiers of foreign armies, marched through the muddy trails of the Australian forest, cowed and startled by its brooding atmosphere.

Under a clump of scrub at the far end of the camp a blackened, unnatural mass caught his attention, almost missed in the quiet of the morning. Coils and coils of rusted barbed wire, lay exactly where they had been cast years ago, entwined and entangled now with native thorn creepers. The years had dulled the shine of the steel, pitted it with oxidised craters, but the knotted spikes still looked sharp, vicious.

Crouching, Vinnie stretched a hesitant finger. The skin of his fingertips was still soft and pink and the spike left a small impression, a gentle dimple in the tender new flesh, and briefly Vinnie was a modern sleeping beauty, pricked by a spindle of darkness and falling into a cavern of sleep – descending through layers of thought and feeling into a dark cell of night – waiting for someone who would wake him and bring him back into the world, into a proper life, out from this half-world of shadows.

It took some seconds for Vinnie to shake off the despair, to return to the world of the real. There were no fairytale spirits here. All that lingered in this place were the passing hopes of the men who had been brought here, lived for a while, and, in the way of things, moved on.

Making his way back towards the trail, a patch of mossy ground stood out from the surrounding brush. A carpet in a small, shaded clearing that the forest had still not reclaimed, right at the edge of the site. Something about the velvety smudge of dark green was incongruous and Vinnie tried to work out exactly what.

The sun emerged, the shallow contours of the ground fell again into perspective and Vinnie saw it clearly. The moss grew in the shape of a large heart – perfect in form and symmetry. It was not natural. The earth here had been shaped by human hands, and now that the image was clear Vinnie could see the remains of the rock border that had once bounded it.

Strange to think that in this secluded corner of the bush someone had laboured to create this shape. For what purpose? As a symbol of lost love? Someone left behind, or killed in the war? Or was it just an attempt to introduce something recognisable into this alien landscape – some reminder of the familiar shapes and sights of a European homeland? Walking back along the trail to his camp site, Vinnie turned this mystery over in his mind.

The end of the trail loomed with unexpected speed, like the end of a long green tunnel. Reaching it, Vinnie was startled again by the unusual silence that pervaded here, but he was alarmed when that silence was broken, suddenly and harshly, by the lilt of disembodied voices, floating across the clearing like smoke in the morning air.

August 1943

‘Doctor, what is this word?'

Erich carried the ageing medical textbook to the desk, indicating with his finger the unfamiliar term.

‘
Cauterise
, Erich. It is when you use a hot iron or flames to literally burn the infection out of a wound. It's something we have to do occasionally, and also when we desperately need to stop some bleeding.'

For the last few days, at the doctor's suggestion, Erich had been spending his spare time reading from the old medical texts that were kept on a small shelf behind the doctor's desk.

‘It sounds primitive.'

‘Much of modern surgery is based on primitive techniques, don't forget that. In any case, you should remember that fire can be a strikingly effective antiseptic measure, if nothing else is available. Very few diseases can survive extreme temperature. Sometimes burning is all you can do.'

Erich offered no further comment as he returned to his seat by the fire. The rain had lifted and the sun glistened wet on smoky green leaves. After a week of constant drumming on tin roofs the world seemed silent, the morning still, cold and crisp. There were no patients at the moment, and Erich found himself falling into contentment, which he knew he must resist.

‘I suspect we will be busy later, Erich.'

Doctor Alexander spoke without looking up.

‘Why?'

‘The change in the weather. It often brings accidents with it. Men get careless, distracted. Axes are swung haphazardly, footing lost in the mud. Rarely does a change like this herald good news for you and me.'

‘Should I do anything to prepare?'

The doctor considered.

‘That's a very good suggestion. Can you prepare a tray of bandages and mix some more antiseptic?'

Erich set to the task without reply. As he rolled bandages and mixed the brown Condy's crystals with boiling water, he could feel the old man's eyes on his back.

‘Is something wrong, Doctor?'

‘No, not at all, Erich. I was just thinking to myself what a great deal of aptitude you show for this kind of work.'

‘Thank you, Doctor.'

‘Not at all. What do you plan to do after the war?'

‘After the war?'

‘It can't last forever, you know.'

Erich stopped, mid-bandage, considering, reminding himself that the old man behind the desk was still his captor, the enemy.

‘I think I will wait and see who wins first, Doctor.'

‘A wise answer, Erich. But may I offer a suggestion?'

Erich said nothing.

‘Regardless of who wins, you should consider most carefully joining the medical profession. A young man with your intelligence and ability could do a great deal for the world.'

‘I don't think so, Doctor.'

Thoughts of after the war, of home, were dangerous. Already, after only a few weeks of camp life, Erich had seen what happened to men who let themselves become caught up in dreams of home and of peace. They became complacent, domesticated, sacrificing their pride for a quiet life. They stopped fighting. Men like Stutt and Günter were now little more than lapdogs for the Australians and English. Men with no honour.

‘And why not?'

Erich considered the best reply. ‘Because I suspect that my father would not approve.'

‘Why on earth not? It is a very respectable profession for a young man, I would have thought.'

‘My father has other plans for me.'

Erich pictured the stern figure of his father, striking and severe in his brown
Wehrmacht
uniform. He recalled the pride that had tempered his father's anger at the discovery that his eldest son had lied his way into the military, deceived his way into his father's and grandfather's footsteps. For generations, Erich's family had supplied officers to the Kaisers, and Erich was certain that it would be impossible for his father to consider any path but a military one for his only son.

‘And what plans are they?'

‘He will want me to follow his path.'

‘What does he do?'

‘He . . .' Erich stopped himself just in time. In the companionable warmth of the hospital he had almost allowed himself to be lulled into giving information, important information, to this man, this enemy.

‘. . . he is in business.'

The explanation sounded weak, suspicious even to Erich, but the doctor, twisting at his moustache, seemed to accept it.

‘That is a pity, Erich, because I believe you would make a fine doctor someday.'

‘Thank you, Doctor.'

‘In the meantime, however, I would still like you to study these books. For purely selfish reasons, I'm afraid, because the more you know of anatomy and medicine, the more use you will be to me.'

Erich nodded and, returned to his pages. Now, however, he found it difficult to concentrate on words and diagrams. His mind returned again and again to their conversation. The truth was he was enjoying the study, the challenge of learning, and in a foreign language. His English, which had already been passable, was improving by the day. And his medical skills, the feeling of seeing infection vanish, wounds healing, of watching the patients,
his
patients . . .

Erich dragged himself from reverie, from daydreaming.

In some cases, (see appendix 1.5) cauterisation is the only effective method of both infection control and
. . .

The door slammed open, admitting a rush of cold air. A guard rushed in, agitated.

‘There's been an accident.'

Doctor Alexander rose from behind the desk, calm and unflustered in the face of the man's anxiety.

‘What has happened?'

‘They're bringing him in now, they'll only be a couple of minutes.'

‘Good. What happened?'

‘I didn't see it, only his leg, it . . .'

The door swung again and Stutt entered, followed by two German prisoners bearing a stretcher between them. On the stretcher the prone figure of Günter groaned in agony, at the very edge of consciousness, his right leg a bloody twisted pulp.

Five

Vinnie

The campervan, its sides smeared with a fine coat of reddish-brown dust, had parked near some low scrub on the terrace about fifty or sixty metres from Vinnie's camp. He watched from the shadows of the trees as two figures went about the business of setting up their own camp site. One, a girl, was engaged in the process of putting up a small dome tent nearby, while the other, older, more ponderous in movement, unfolded chairs and a table, installing them under a brightly striped canopy which extended from the side of the vehicle.

What were they doing? Vinnie knew that the camp site was public, but still he felt invaded, violated, by their bustling presence. He knew they would see him, look at him, notice the scarring and wonder to themselves, or worse, ask questions.

He toyed with the idea of packing up his own camp and moving, but as he lurked indecisively the intruders finished their setting up and settled into the two chairs. Vinnie skirted down the terraces choosing a path that would keep him as far as possible from the campervan and its occupants.

Back under the deep shade of the pine tree, he felt more comfortable. Already his camp site had acquired the easy familiarity of ‘home' and belonging. He rekindled the fire, boiled some water, and made himself strong black tea with his lunch. The morning's walk had left him feeling hungry, and the taste of the tinned fish and dry biscuits seemed somehow intense. After rinsing his knife and plate in the creek, he crawled into his tent and lay on his sleeping bag.

Through the open flap he could see the other campers clearly. The girl, perhaps a little older than himself, the man elderly. They seemed at ease in one another's company and the quiet noise of their conversation, the words indistinct, floated across the clearing. The girl was more active, climbing into the campervan on several occasions to fetch things for her companion. At one point she remained inside for some minutes, before Vinnie saw her bring out a steaming cup, placing it on the table beside the old man. As she did so, he reached out and touched her arm lightly in a gesture which, even from this distance, Vinnie could read as affection. He felt a sudden stab as he tried to recall the last time his father had reached to him in that way.

Katia had always been the favoured child. The loved one. His dad made no secret of that. The eldest, the first born, the focus of his love. She had always been the smartest, and the brightest. When she received the letter inviting her to study medicine, his dad had cried. Actually wept. His father the bricklayer, who for his entire life had espoused manliness and toughness as though they were the only virtues a man could hope for, had tears in his eyes like an old woman.

‘I always knew you were the one who'd make this family something.' He had held her at arms-length, looking into her face. ‘Knew you'd lift us up.'

There'd been no such discussion when Vinnie had been accepted for the apprenticeship program at the nursery. ‘Plants? Why waste your time on fucking plants, mate? Set yourself some real goals. Look at your sister, for God's sake. You've had the same opportunities as she has, and you're not stupid. Why don't you want to go to uni?'

And the old Vinnie had looked at the floor, crimson with anger, and not said anything. Not to his father, not to Katia. His rage wasn't directed at them, but at himself. At the weak little part of him that was unable to stand up, and be counted for who he was, who he wanted to be.

Then the accident and that dark little seed had opened. Self-doubt, self-loathing was given months and months to grow and flower and had blossomed across the side of his face, killing the old Vinnie. In its place now this new one. This creature born in the flames of cowardice. It was no wonder his father couldn't bear the sight of him. No surprise at all that whenever they were alone in a room together the conversation would wither and die into awkward silence. The gap which had always been between them was an ocean now, or a wall. Enormous. Impenetrable.

‘You let your sister burn.'

The words had been uttered only a couple of nights ago. Three months home from the hospital. Three months back in the house. Three months of being a shadow, dead, detached, watching his parents torn apart from both him and one another by unshared grief and agony. Something inside him had snapped. The plate had shattered where he hurled it, leaving a smear down the wall, and he'd screamed at them, both of them, and at the world.

‘Fuck! Why won't you
talk
to me? Why?'

And for a brief period time had stopped, stood still and listened with grave attention, while his father had looked him in the eyes.

‘You let your sister burn.'

His mother released a small gasp of . . . what? Shock? Fear? Consent? Her fork dropped from slack fingers, clattered onto the china. And his father, in an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, had lifted a hand to his mouth, biting hard on a thick, calloused knuckle. A trickle of crimson ran across his hand and arm and slowly dripped, mixing with the bloody red of the sauce on his plate.

And Vinnie had not replied. He was not angry or hot or mad, but in a moment of cold clarity he knew that tonight was the night. He would leave – run. He could not stay here any longer. And later, when his father had crept silent into the darkness, Vinnie had feigned sleep and listened to the shambling apology with deaf ears. And a few hours later he was in the cabin of a logging truck, driven by a silent Samaritan into the solitude that he craved.

‘You let your sister burn.'

Those words. The calm, sad, almost wistful tone in which they had been pronounced didn't hide the anger behind them and they were seared indelibly into his memory. Vinnie knew that even as the vivid welt on his face slowly faded and healed, the scar of that quietly spoken sentence never would.

August 1943

‘Erich, I'd like you to meet my grand-daughter, Alice.'

The girl stepped from where she had been standing by the fire. At first Erich hadn't noticed her. He'd run through the door into the warm dimness of the hospital, shaking droplets from the back of his uniform jacket.

‘Hello.'

Her voice was soft, clearly shy. Erich stared.

‘She'll be here with us for a while. My son-in-law is away overseas, and my daughter, her mother, is quite ill at the moment, so Alice will be staying with me while her mother recuperates.'

‘Good morning.'

His accented English surprised her, his voice so much deeper than his youth implied. The greeting hung in the air until the doctor spoke again.

‘We should have a fairly quiet day today, Erich. This might be a good opportunity for you to catch up on your study. Alice might be able to help you with some of the more difficult English.'

Erich considered the girl. She was sixteen or seventeen, no older. Her dress was simple and her dark hair hung to the middle of her back, tied with ribbon. He had to remind himself that she was the enemy, this child, despite her pretty eyes and smile. As much a part of the enemy as that guard, Thomas.

‘I am sure I can manage, Doctor.'

‘If you say so. I can find other things to keep Alice busy.'

From his bed, Günter moaned. Erich nodded.

‘How is he?'

‘Still not at all good, I'm afraid. If by some miracle he stabilises today then we'll move him to Perth, but I'm thinking we'll have to remove the leg here.'

The big German had been caught and mangled beneath a falling tree. For two days they had kept him dosed on morphine, bathing the misshapen limb with massive amounts of antiseptic.

‘We cannot save it?'

Doctor Alexander shook his head sadly.

‘No. The infection is wreaking havoc. I'm certain that gangrene is already setting in.'

Erich had noticed the sick, sweet stink of infected flesh the moment he'd entered the room. It took him back to Africa, to the camp where he'd watched men rotting alive until finally, mercifully, the shock killed them.

‘What can we do?'

‘Very little. The rain has potholed all the roads to the point where trying to truck him out would almost certainly kill him, but at the rate infection is setting in, if he hasn't stabilised by this evening the leg will have to go.'

‘How?'

The doctor handed him a thick textbook.

‘It won't be pleasant, I'm afraid. I'd like you to familiarise yourself with chapter twelve of this today. It will tell you everything you will need to know about rough amputation.'

‘Rough?'

‘We have only morphine and basic tools. This morning I'm going to find a suitable saw to cut cleanly through bone. I imagine that one of the small timber saws will do the job. I'll ensure that it's sharpened, and you'll need to sterilise it this afternoon.'

‘How?'

‘Start by putting it in the fire for half an hour, in the coals, then into boiling water. No point in starting a new bout of infection when we try to cut out the old one.'

‘Does he know?'

Doctor Alexander shook his head.

‘I haven't let him regain consciousness enough to tell him.'

‘What about Stutt?'

‘He knows.' The old man's voice was flat.

Erich crossed to where Günter lay, sunk in morphine. His leg beneath the sheet was flattened, misshapen. What must he be dreaming? Erich wondered. Günter had spoken several times about a young wife back home and a farm owned by his parents. What dreams had died with that falling tree?

‘There is no other choice, Erich.' The doctor observed the young man closely. ‘If we want to save his life, the leg needs to go.'

‘Of course, Doctor.'

‘I'm going to find that saw. Keep an eye on Günter.'

Erich nodded, and the doctor eased himself up.

‘If there are any problems, shout from the door – don't leave the patient. I'll be sure to stay within earshot.'

He crossed to the bed, rested his hand on the soldier's forehead, his voice a whisper, ‘Hold on there, Günter, hold on.'

Erich wondered if the soldier could even hear the words, let alone comprehend them.

The door closed, and without the doctor's presence the hut seemed strange, different. This was, Erich realised, the first time that he'd been left alone there.

‘Have you been in Australia long?'

The girl. He'd forgotten her. Through his conversation with the doctor, she'd stood silent, watching. He shrugged.

‘Nine or ten weeks, I think.'

‘Where were you before?'

‘Africa.'

‘Were you in Egypt?'

‘No.'

‘My uncle went to Egypt during the Great War. He did his training there.'

‘I have never been there. I was in Libya.'

‘What was it like?'

‘Please, I would rather not discuss it.'

‘Oh. I'm sorry.'

A heavy silence followed. Günter murmured, and Erich moved silently to the bedside.

‘What happened to him?'

‘A tree fell on his leg.'

Why would she not stop these questions?

‘It must be hard for you.'

She also moved to the bed, standing opposite, the fevered figure of Günter between them.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Living here, I mean. So far from home.'

Erich remained silent.

‘Paul, that was my uncle, used to say that the worst thing about the war was the distance. He wrote that it was like being on the moon or a star, being so far from familiar places. Do you find that?'

A shrug. ‘I do not let myself think of such things.'

‘What things?'

‘Home. Family things. There is a war and I am a fighting man, that is all there is.'

‘You must think of your family. Paul used to carry a photograph of my grandparents. They sent it home after . . .' She turned towards the spluttering stove.

‘Yes?'

‘After he was killed.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘It's not your fault.'

‘Where did he die?'

‘France. A place called Flanders.'

‘And he was your uncle?'

‘I never met him. It was before I was born. Mother told me about him. Paul was her older brother, her only brother. Grandfather Johnathon's eldest son.'

‘Grandfather Johnathon?'

She looked at Erich as though something was wrong with him.

‘The doctor, silly.'

‘Oh.'

The incongruity stunned him. The doctor's son, killed fighting for his country, against Erich and Günter's, over twenty years ago, before he or this girl even existed. And now, here was this old man, in the middle of the bush, himself fighting to save the lives of those who'd been – who still were – the enemy. His enemy.

Alice watched him closely.

‘He must hate us.'

‘No.' She shook her head at him. ‘Grandfather's not like that. He doesn't hate. Just feels . . . I don't know . . . sad. He doesn't like to talk about Paul. You shouldn't mention it.'

Outside, gentle splatters on the roof heralded more rain. The steps creaked and the old man returned clutching a vicious looking handsaw.

‘Right, Erich. Let's get to work.'