To Ride the Wind (19 page)

George paled. He was not aware that Randolph Gates had returned to Sydney but somehow the information seemed to fit. If it was him, was he aware that George had contracted the killer to dispose of Fenella? ‘It is not of any concern to me,’ George lied. ‘But I would venture that a Yankee by the name of Randolph Gates might fit the picture of the man you should be looking for.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ the policeman answered. ‘It’s not my case but I will pass his name onto the investigators looking after the stabbing. I just wonder if he might not have killed that actor, Guy Wilkes, before the war. Maybe your sister was not the only person we should have been looking at.’

George did not reply. He already knew who had killed Fenella’s former fiancé. He had witnessed the accidental shooting by his father and knew full well that it had not been murder. But this information was his ultimate ace in any future dealings with his father and not a card he needed to play now.

‘Oh, there is one other thing,’ Jack said as he rose from the bench. ‘Macintosh correspondence being mailed to Sweden is being read by our people in the GPO. I just thought I should warn you as I would hate you to be accused of aiding the enemy.’

The second bit of information also worried George. Although the seemingly routine business correspondence was cleverly coded he was not sure how smart the intelligence people intercepting mail were. The war was a nuisance in his dealings, but also a God-sent opportunity to make money off misfortune. If the Germans won, then his secret support would be recognised by them, George considered optimistically. After all, when it came down to winners, it was really in the interest of the family’s fortune that Germany won the war, and there was a good chance yet that it might.

As George watched the policeman walk away into the heat of the afternoon, he was jerked out of his reflections on the dangers posed to him when lightning tore the sky, followed by a loud crack of thunder. It was time to get out of the park and seek the sanctuary of his office.

*

Whereas those in the Southern Hemisphere sweltered under a summer sun, the men on the Western Front of Europe froze under bitter winter skies. Sean Duffy was finally returning to his unit but with some trepidation. How would he be received when he reached battalion HQ in the trenches behind the front lines?

He was vaguely aware that it was a mere few days before Christmas. Time had lost meaning in a world of sudden death – or worse, lifelong mutilation. At Gallipoli he had always thought that death was meant for the next man but life on the Western Front had changed that view. Now, all he knew was that death or mutilation was waiting for him from a bullet, bomb or artillery shell. It was surely only a matter of time before he too would join the lists of dead and wounded.

The resupply party he was going up to the front with pointed him in the direction of a narrow, communications trench. Sean made his way along, his boots clogging with mud that had not frozen, past soldiers huddling and shivering in small alcoves that had been dug out of the side to afford even the slightest protection against artillery rounds and the weather, but which were shared with rats and lice. The men he passed smoked pipes or cigarettes, their rifles always clutched in one hand ready for use. Hardly a man gave Sean a second glance as he trudged to the entrance of a bunker dug under the trench to provide the battalion with a relatively safe forward HQ. Here he reported to the duty officer, who greeted him with a brief handshake and a mumbled welcome and duly directed him to his company commander located further along the trench.

Sean found the company HQ, a similar style bunker to battalion HQ and went inside. He noticed a map attached to a board on the wall reinforced with corrugated iron sheets and a tiny table strewn with pencils and notepads. Behind the desk sat a tall, lean man wearing the rank of major.

‘You must be Captain Duffy,’ the major said. ‘Rather ironic,’ he continued, scribbling a message on a notepad and hardly looking at Sean who was still standing to attention in the cramped earthen bunker lit by a kerosene lantern. ‘One of the reinforcements being sent up to the company today is a Private Duffy. You wouldn’t have seen the man by any chance?’

‘No, sir,’ Sean replied.

The major finally looked at him from behind his tiny wooden desk. ‘I suppose you are one of those damned Irishmen who supported your Papist bishop Mannix in the referendum to conscript men for the war,’ the major said belligerently, making Sean feel uncomfortable.

The Labor prime minister of Australia, Billy Hughes, had called for Australian males to be forced into military service to help out England in her war against the Germans and their allies. But the issue had been defeated and the blame for the government defeat had fallen on Australians of Irish descent perceived as being anti-British because of the occupation of the old country by the British army. It had also been a significant result in that most troops fighting overseas had also said no to conscription, based on the philosophy that they did not want the men beside them in the trenches being reluctant soldiers as each and every man fighting on the war fronts was a volunteer. As for Sean, he did not consider himself Irish and had little interest in the politics of his ancestor’s homeland, but he had voted against conscription for the same reasons most fighting soldiers had.

‘How one casts their vote is meant to be private,’ Sean replied. ‘It is that idea of democracy I fight for, sir.’

The major looked sharply at Sean, glaring in a way that said: do not disagree with me. ‘I am Major Hartford,’ he said. ‘Before the war I was the principal of one of Victoria’s best boys’ colleges. As such I understand that men – like children – need firm discipline. I also disagree with our weak politicians that we do not have the ability to shoot our men for cowardice as our British cousins do. And I resent being sent a second-in-command of Irish blood. It is well known that the Irish cannot be trusted. They are men of little intellect, and less courage.’

Sean stared at his commander with disbelief. The man was a blithering idiot, he thought.

‘Sir, if I may ask?’ Sean said, attempting to keep his temper under control and feeling his hands begin to tremble. ‘How long have you been out here?’

Major Hartford stared at him. ‘I have been here for over two weeks, Captain Duffy. Why would you want to know that?’

‘I think that you will find men with Irish blood in our ranks die just as easily as those with Anglo-Saxon blood, sir,’ Sean said in the most diplomatic way he could.

‘You are verging on insubordination, Captain Duffy,’ Major Hartford said, his face reddening with anger. ‘I think it is time you learned how arduous our work is here compared to the time you spent swanning around the War Office in England. No, Captain Duffy, you are in a real war now.’

‘Is that all, sir?’ Sean asked.

‘That is all,’ Major Hartford said, looking down at his pile of papers. ‘You will report to the acting CSM who will brief you on our current layout of defences.’

Sean turned and pushed his way through the narrow entrance to glance up and down the trench. His eyes rested on a familiar face among so many new ones.

‘Captain Duffy, sir, welcome home,’ Sergeant Jack Kelly said with a broad smile, extending his hand. ‘It’s been a while.’

Sean gratefully accepted the gesture and when he looked into the acting company sergeant major’s face he could see no guile. The welcome was genuine.

‘I gather you have met our esteemed company commander.’

‘I have, sergeant,’ Sean replied. ‘I see that you have come a bit of a way up the ranks with your current posting.’

‘I am just filling in until Major Hartford can find someone with a real English name to replace me,’ Jack grinned. ‘Been a bit hard lately, with the casualties we have had here.’

‘In my opinion, Sarn’t Major,’ Sean said, ‘you should be at officer training and be commissioned.’

‘Sir, my parents are wed, so that is not possible,’ Jack replied with a straight face, causing Sean to laugh. He sensed that it was the South Australian prospector’s way of telling him that he held no animosity over the Fromelles incident. ‘I have been briefed by Major Hartford to give you a tour, so you can familiarise yourself with our little piece of paradise,’ Jack continued. ‘It will give you a chance to catch up with the few remaining mob from the time you were with us.’

Sean thanked Jack and, as they made their way along the trench, occasionally Sean recognised a face from his days with the company. It seemed a lifetime ago rather than six months – but then half a year was a lifetime on the front. The men who he knew greeted him warmly enough and Sean wondered at how, perversely, he felt so at home among these dirty, lice-infested, disease-ridden men with hollow eyes when only mere years before he’d sat in an expensive legal office in Sydney and would have considered any of the men strung along the trench as beneath his social position. Even in hell there was a comradeship he knew that could never be repeated in his life – if he lived to see the war out.

‘Our two new members, who joined us today,’ Jack said, indicating the pair wearing relatively clean uniforms now standing on a parapet beside a corporal holding a crude periscope propped above the sandbags. The corporal was briefing them on the German trenches to their front.

‘Privates Duffy and Frogan, this is the company 2IC, Captain Duffy,’ Jack said, causing the two men to glance at their CSM. ‘You any relation of Captain Duffy, Private Duffy?’ Jack asked.

‘I don’t think so, sir,’ Tom answered. ‘Not unless Captain Duffy comes from Queensland.’

‘I have distant relatives in Queensland, Private Duffy,’ Sean said, looking up at the tall, handsome young soldier who obviously had non-European blood. ‘A Mrs Kate Tracy, and her son, Matthew.’ Sean was startled to see a fleeting expression of surprise on the young soldier’s face.

‘Aunt Kate is a relative of mine,’ Tom replied. ‘She helped me to get in on this show although I was supposed to be with the Light Horse. Some backroom bastard had me assigned to the bloody infantry instead.’

Sean now stared at the soldier who he knew must be related. The only confusing part of the relationship was how a Duffy could have Aboriginal blood! ‘We might get the opportunity to catch up and discuss family matters some time,’ Sean replied, his thoughts still awash with the coinci dence of sharing a piece of the front line with a distant relative.

As he continued his tour of the trench, Sean was aware that Jack was shaking his head and chuckling. Sean dared not ask him why but his unasked question was answered anyway when Jack Kelly finally blurted, ‘A blackfella in the family,’ he said without being derogatory. ‘Even in the best of families you will find a black sheep.’

It was only on the second day of Sean’s time with the company that he realised just how badly the company was being commanded. He had been called to HQ to be informed by Major Hartford that he would not be able to attend the battalion CO’s daily order group, and that instead Sean would attend and give his apologies, telling the CO that his company OC was indisposed with a touch of dysentery. From what Sean could gather this was a lie and left to make his way back behind the lines to the rear HQ.

He was greeted warmly by the newly appointed commanding officer in what had once been the living room of a French country house. Pictures of the former residents’ family still hung on the walls and the living room had been converted to an operations centre with maps, field telephones connected to brigade headquarters and soldiers going about their tasks of taking reports and dispatching signals.

The new CO had been a company commander when Sean was acting company commander and Lieutenant Colonel Millington had also once been a school teacher, knowing Major Hartford when they had been civilians. Sean congratulated his former comrade on his well-deserved promotion. The colonel took Sean aside out of earshot of his staff. ‘You know a touch of the runs is no excuse to miss my O group,’ he growled softly. ‘Hartford up to his old tricks, eh?’

‘I am sorry, sir, but I have just joined the company and cannot comment on my commanding officer’s behaviour,’ Sean replied diplomatically.

Colonel Millington shook his head. ‘He always was a lazy bastard, and he has a Napoleon complex,’ he muttered. ‘No matter, welcome to our little piece of real estate. We are hoping that in the future we might buy out some of the Hun’s prime land from him. The word is that you did a stint at the War Office and met our General Monash?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sean answered. ‘A good soldier, who knows what he’s about.’

‘I have also heard that,’ Millington said reflectively. ‘I even heard that he is a favourite of Churchill to command the armies here – except that he has four strikes against him, being of German heritage, a Jew, colonial and a former militia officer.’

Sean nodded. The former Victorian militia officer who had been trained as a civil engineer seemed to apply a bit of science to warfare but his aptitude was dismissed by those above him. Sean had first met Monash when they were on the Gallipoli peninsula and had the opportunity to meet him again when the Australian general had been recalled to England for conferences.

The adjutant called the company officers to gather for the daily briefing and Sean, representing his company, took notes. He was pleased to see that the new CO had not ordered any offensive operations in the days before Christmas as he had been informed by Sergeant Kelly that they and the Germans opposing them across no-man’s-land had a tacit agreement to let Christmas 1916 pass by in peace. War could re-commence after the day held sacred by both sides.

After the briefing Sean took tea and caught up with some of his old companions. Most had been promoted because of the terrible casualties among the officer staff but there were some fresh faces from Australia via England. When he had completed his tasks at battalion HQ, including those as the company 2IC, he made his way cautiously back to the front lines, keeping his head down to avoid snipers.

As soon as he reported to his commanding officer’s bunker he found him asleep. He woke him and delivered the contents of the briefing.