To Ride the Wind (32 page)

The snow had gone from Bullecourt and now mud splatters would rise with the terrible earth-shaking explosions of the heavy artillery raining down on the Australians facing the German lines. Frontal assaults had been mounted to capture the village and allow the men to pass through to the enemy trenches beyond, but the attack had cost many lives of young men, blasted by explosives into meaty fragments, cut down by the high-velocity bullets of rifles and machine guns, and shredded by the shrapnel of hand grenades. At times it had been death by the bayonet in close combat where a man could see into the eyes of the soldier he had killed and watch the life fading from them.

Over the weeks he had been in command, Major Alexander Macintosh had proved his ability as a company commander, and earned the respect of his officers and men. He was no longer seen as just the son of the brigade commander but as a bloody good officer on account of his concern for his men and his sound planning in the missions they had as a rifle company. On this day they had fought a vicious battle as part of a brigade operation on the outskirts of the village. They had been given the mission, as the reserve company, to mop up any enemy resistance from German soldiers who had not reached their second set of entrenchments north of the shattered town.

Lance Corporal Tom Duffy had been tasked to move forward of the company in the role of a scout and marksman to clear his opponents whose deadly skill could bring a disproportionate number of advancing men to a halt. Prior to his mission he had blackened his foresight with the smoke from an oily rag, ensuring that the metal blade lost its shine and was clearly highlighted. Now he was in the village, moving stealthily forward of the company, seeking out opposition marksmen. The shelling from both sides continued but had moved further north as the sun slowly made its way to the shattered skyline beyond the little French village.

Tom’s nerves were on a razor edge. He was fully aware that an unseen marksman might even now have him in his sights as he lay among a pile of smashed masonry in a narrow roadway. Most of the still-standing buildings faced the street, their windows empty. Like a man with blind eyes, Tom reflected. He had his rifle levelled on a German soldier scurrying across a cleared space between the rubble. But he did not fire, preferring to see where the soldier disappeared. In his grey uniform, he entered a largely intact building sporting jagged shrapnel scars from a shelling by heavy artillery. From his position buried in a pile of rubble, Tom had a good view of both the narrow street and the surrounding high places.

Barely moving a muscle, he noticed a civilian accompanied by two high-ranking officers. They had arrived on foot, the road being too shell-cratered for an automobile to get through, and had entered the building where he had seen the soldier disappear. He held his fire, considering he would be able to kill one of the enemy but the civilian and the other officer might gain protection before he could fire again. He had also been tasked to gain intelligence on enemy movements and could later report on the presence of the two senior officers in the village. Tom’s attention was drawn to what was left of the sign painted on the building and drawing on his little knowledge of French made it out to be a former bank. From what he had seen of one of the German officers, he had been able to identify his rank as being equivalent to a British general. Immediately, Tom’s mind queried the presence of such a high ranking officer so far forward in the lines. The officer accompanying him was the equivalent of a colonel, and this only heightened the mystery. Tom knew that he should report back, but curiosity overcame him. If he could actually take the high-ranking officers prisoner then they might be extremely valuable to the intelligence men of the division. What could be gleaned from them in interrogation might save many of Tom’s mates’ lives. It was worth the risk.

Very slowly, Tom rose from the rubble and made his way between piles of bricks and mortar brought down by explosive shells to within twenty feet of the open door of the bank. So far he had done so without being seen but a bullet cracked so close to his feet he felt stone chips hit his shins. Tom leaped forward straight towards the door, knowing his only means of getting out of the unseen marksman’s sights was to get inside the building where he had seen the enemy enter. But it would be a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Tom burst through the door to see a soldier levelling a rifle at him. His reflexes were honed by many weeks of living out in no-man’s-land, however, and his own shot took the soldier square in the chest. The dead man slumped to the floor and in the semi-dark Tom was aware of the grey uniforms around him. He had already reloaded a round into the chamber and fired quickly at the nearest soldier who was bringing a pistol to bear on him. As the man went down, Tom realised that he had killed the German general whose presence had caused him to risk his life in the first instance. Because the room was so small, the second man he had identified as a colonel was now on him, struggling to bring his pistol into a position to fire point-blank at Tom who had no time to reload. He brought up the heavy, brass-plated butt of his rifle to smash into the German officer’s face, crushing his nose in a shower of finely misted blood. The plan to take a prisoner was long gone as the Australian merely fought to stay alive. The officer went down. Tom smashed the butt of his rifle into the moaning man’s head, splitting it open. His desperate strength had come from his instinct to survive and when Tom ripped back the bolt to chamber another round he realised that only he and the civilian remained standing amid the carnage.

Tom was covered with blood and when he swung on the civilian he could see that the man was terrified. He half-stood, half-crouched with his hands in the air. Tom could see that he was well-dressed, wore expensive spectacles and was in his middle age.

‘Monsieur, please do not shoot,’ the man pleaded in a cracked voice. ‘I am not Boche. You are English, no?’ he asked.

Quickly, Tom scanned the room for any sign of enemy activity before returning his attention to the French civilian he had captured.

‘Australian,’ Tom corrected the terrified man. ‘What the hell were you doing with these two Hun officers?’

The French civilian realised that the man who had killed the three men with such ferocity was not about to kill him. He lowered his hands. ‘I am a banker,’ he answered. ‘These men were here to . . .’ The Frenchman checked himself.

‘You were here to do what?’ Tom asked, bringing up his rifle in a threatening way. ‘From what I can see you are a bloody collaborator, and that means before I leave this room, you join your Hun mates on the floor with a bullet between your eyes. I’m sure your Froggie mates would give me a medal for doing your country a service.’

The banker paled. ‘If you spare my life I can make you a rich man beyond all your wildest dreams,’ he said. ‘I was here to turn over a large consignment of stones to the German government.’

‘Stones?’ Tom queried. What did the Frenchman mean?

His puzzled expression caused the Frenchman to explain. ‘Diamonds from Antwerp,’ he clarified. ‘They have been here since the beginning of the war, and we were using them to bribe the Boche to leave alone certain French interests in Germany.’

Tom was not interested in any French interests but the thought of the diamonds did interest him. A vague memory returned. What had the old Darambal warrior said, something about fiery stars?

‘God almighty!’ Tom gasped.

The French banker took his stunned reaction to be one of pure greed for what he offered in return for his life. ‘I can give you the diamonds and you will let me live.’

‘A deal,’ Tom replied. ‘So, where are they?’

‘I have them,’ the Frenchman answered, turning to a desk where Tom noticed four, black velvet bags lying in full view. ‘They are yours for the taking.’

Tom edged across the room, stepping over the body of one of the Germans he had killed. He picked up a bag and pulled the cord, releasing the contents. The room was lit with the sparkle of beautifully cut gems as they spilled onto the table. But so entranced by the fiery beauty of the diamonds was Tom, he failed to notice the banker sidle to the body of a German officer to retrieve the pistol still gripped in his hand. Some survival instinct warned Tom that he was in dire peril and he turned to look directly at the pistol levelled at him. Before he could swing his rifle around, the banker pulled the trigger. A bullet ripped through the flesh between Tom’s neck and shoulder. Tom fired from the waist and his high velocity .303 round tore through the forehead of the banker, ripping out the back of his head and splashing fragments of bone and brains on the wall behind him. The man stood for a second before toppling backwards, waving the pistol before him.

The pain came very quickly but it was not enough for Tom to forget the four velvet satchels containing the fortune in precious stones. He scooped the diamonds back on the table into the bag, his blood splashing them in the process. With the diamonds secure in his gas mask bag, Tom found a battlefield bandage in his kit and wrapped it in place over the wound. He was bleeding profusely and was having trouble remaining alert as the pain swept in agonising waves. It was time to get out of the bank and report back to Major Macintosh.

He had hardly exited the bank when the unseen marksman opened fire on him again, but this time the bullet from his rifle tore through his side. Tom was flung sideways by the biting impact and fell into the street, exposed to a clear shot. He lay in the dust and masonry fragments, knowing that the marksman would probably leave him alive to attract those who might attempt to rescue him. Tom remained very still, wondering if whoever had fired might decide to finish him off instead of using him as bait. From his own experience Tom knew it depended on how professional the enemy marksman was. If it had been Tom in the other man’s place he would have left him alive to claim the rescuers attempting to recover him.

‘Tom, are you okay?’ a voice came to him from about forty feet away.

He recognised it as that of Jack Kelly. The company had caught up with him in the sweep of the village.

‘Yeah, boss,’ Tom responded. ‘But I don’t know where the bastard is who is trying to kill me.’

‘Okay, just stay there and we will locate him,’ Jack answered.

The pain in Tom’s side and neck continued to sweep over him and he fought not to slip into unconsciousness. Groaning, he stared at where he knew Jack and the company were concealed. Tom was reassured, as at least Jack Kelly knew what he was doing; he had not attempted to send anyone to retrieve him. All Tom could do was wait patiently, and pray that his cobbers would find the enemy marksman.

Jack Kelly lay on his stomach on a pile of broken bricks and earth, scanning the road and high buildings still left standing. His best bet was that the man he was hunting was most probably a soldier left behind to harass the advancing Australians. Had he been an expert marksman, he would have brought Tom down with his shot and not simply wounded him. At least the Hun had been smart enough to leave his wounded target as bait.

‘See anything?’ Alex Macintosh asked, crawling up beside his 2IC.

‘Not yet,’ Jack replied. ‘We have to get the bastard before we clear this road.’

Alex retrieved a short pencil stub and a small notebook from his pocket to write a brief report for the company runner to take back to battalion HQ as regards their location and situation.

‘There!’ Jack hissed, causing Alex to pause in writing his report. Alex looked up, following the direction of Jack’s finger. ‘The Hun is in the middle level of that three-storeyed house . . . third window from the left.’

Alex squinted against the failing light. ‘Sorry, old chap, I can’t see him.’

Jack turned to his company commander. ‘He’s good,’ he said. ‘He has placed himself back in the room so as not to expose the barrel of his rifle. But that also means his vision is restricted and I reckon I can get into the house and take him out.’

‘If you brief a couple of the men they can clear it,’ Alex said.

‘Sorry, boss, but Tom Duffy is kind of special to me,’ Jack answered. ‘I’m not going to ask any of my men to risk their lives in what I should be doing for Tom Duffy.’

Alex understood. His 2IC had the task of providing their marksman with his deadly tasks. Each time Jack sent Tom into no-man’s-land or on these recon missions he was virtually taking years off the young man’s life. It was a special relationship between officer and enlisted man that only they could understand but a partnership that would probably lead to Tom’s death.

‘Okay, Jack, I understand. But be bloody careful. Good 2ICs are hard to come by,’ Alex said, placing his hand on Jack’s shoulder.

Jack slid rearwards from his position and quickly briefed the leading platoon as to what he was about to do. He directed them to pour as much fire as they could through the window he pointed out to them, expecting that the German would have enough cover inside his hide to protect himself from their small-arms fire. At least it would keep his head down to avoid the stray rounds, and there was less chance of the enemy finishing Tom off if he was preoccupied with staying alive himself.

Jack armed himself with two primed grenades and a captured German Luger he carried besides his rifle and, when the covering fire commenced from his men, he made his way along behind the protection of the rubble to a narrow alleyway behind the building where the sniper was located, wary of any German stragglers or other enemy marksmen. At the rear of the house he found an open door, previously blown off its hinges by the explosive force of a shell. Inside the building it was dark, with just the last light of the day filtering through the cracks of the broken structure. Jack made his way up the stairs, his pistol in a holster at his hip and the two primed grenades – minus their safety pins – in his hands ready to be thrown into the room he identified as the one where the German was hiding. Jack was very careful on the rickety steps as he moved towards the second floor.

Halfway up, Jack froze. The enemy marksman had vacated the room for another hide where he could continue sniping at the advancing Australians. Jack was acutely aware that the hand grenades he held in each hand were now useless – if not dangerous to him – as the German soldier came down the stairs towards him. It was obvious that he had not seen Jack in the dim light until they were only mere paces away from each other. Both men stared, frozen in fear at what would happen next.