To Ride the Wind (20 page)

Hartford sat on his tiny bunk, rubbing his eyes, and from the irritable expression on his face Sean could see that he had not liked being disturbed by such trivial matters as the CO’s orders for the day. He skimmed through Sean’s notes and without looking up said, ‘Thought I might inform you, Captain Duffy, that I have given the CSM orders to organise a patrol for tonight, to go out and snatch a couple of Hun prisoners for our intelligence chaps.’

‘But the CO said in his briefing we were to stand down for Christmas,’ Sean protested quietly. ‘It’s Christmas Eve and the men deserve just a little peace for the day.’

‘Are you questioning my command, Captain Duffy?’ Hartford said, rising from his bunk.

‘No, sir, but we could put off the raid until after Christmas,’ Sean answered.

‘The last thing the Huns will expect is a raid on their trenches on Christmas Eve,’ Hartford said with a satisfied smirk. ‘It has a brilliance that only a good commander can recognise. I have informed Sergeant Kelly that he is to select the new men from the replacements to go over the bags at midnight. It will give them the experience they have yet to know of war.’

‘Then, may I suggest that I go with them, sir,’ Sean volunteered stiffly.

‘I have given the task to Lieutenant Grant,’ Hartford said, rifling through his belongings for a mug. ‘He has just joined us and I feel that the patrol will stiffen his backbone for his future duties as one of my platoon commanders.’

Sean had briefly met the young officer mentioned and from his experience knew that he was not ready to go on such a patrol. It would surely mean his death.

‘I still think that I should go,’ Sean persisted.

‘Captain Duffy, you are my second-in-command whether I like it or not, but it is not the job of captains to lead raiding parties,’ Hartford answered, finding his mug. ‘If you attempt to go out with Mr Grant I will personally ensure that you are court-martialled. Do we understand each other?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sean answered dutifully and wondered if he would also get six cuts of the cane for what he was already planning. ‘If that is all?’

‘You are dismissed,’ Hartford said, waving his mug in Sean’s direction as he called for a pot of hot tea to help ward off the bitter cold of the snow lightly falling outside his bunker.

Sean left the bunker and in the dark of the trench felt his way along, requesting the location of the acting CSM. He finally found Jack Kelly squatting in a section big enough to hold a party of ten men. In the dark Sean could make out three other men squatting in a semi-circle fronting the CSM. He knew them as the platoon commander, Lieutenant Grant, and privates Duffy and Frogan.

‘Come to join us, sir,’ Jack said as Sean joined the group, squatting beside the CSM.

‘I have just been informed by Major Hartford that he is sending out a prisoner snatch patrol,’ Sean said.

‘Yes, sir, we hop the bags in an hour’s time,’ Jack replied.

‘Are you going?’ Sean asked, knowing that Hartford would not have sanctioned his acting CSM to join the patrol.

‘I can’t let them go alone,’ Jack replied in a pained voice. ‘They wouldn’t last three seconds out there.’

‘Then I am coming with you,’ Sean said.

Jack placed his hand on Sean’s shoulder. ‘You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, boss,’ he said out of hearing of the raiding party. ‘What happened at Fromelles can happen to anyone of us, and I know that you didn’t put yourself in for a gong. It was just a typical stuff-up by the army. I know the men who served with you at Gallipoli said you were one of the best bloody officers in the army and you saved my life from that big Hun that day. Besides, if anything goes wrong, the men are going to need you to stand up to that pompous bastard, Hartford.’

‘I’m coming with you, Jack,’ Sean insisted. ‘And that is that. Mr Grant, have you been issued the appropriate weapons and kit for the raid?’ he asked, turning his attention to the three men who had been waiting nervously in the dark.

‘Yes, sir, bombs, clubs and pistols,’ the young officer answered in a strained voice.

Sean could hear his fear. He was not ready, Sean thought. God help him. ‘Good,’ Sean said. ‘The CSM and I will accompany you on the raid. Are there any questions?’

None were asked and Sean knew that they were probably as numb with fear as he was. The snow was falling and the strip of land between the trenches was covered in white, bringing a deceptive sense of peace to the front. Sean armed himself with extra grenades stuffed into the pockets of his heavy greatcoat and checked his pistol. The five men waited in silence, each coping with the mounting fear in his own way.

‘Happy Christmas, sir,’ Private Frogan said quietly. ‘I am glad you will be with us.’

‘Thanks, Private Frogan,’ Sean replied. ‘When we get back I will ensure that you all get an extra ration of rum – to go with the roast turkey and plum pudding.’

A ripple of soft laughter followed. They knew the best they would get in the forward trenches would be bully beef and rock hard biscuits to be washed down by a mug of tea.

‘I’ll settle for a good kip behind the lines,’ Tom said and all nodded in agreement; that would be the best Christmas present they could get – a place away from the stench of the garbage heap called the front line.

Sean pulled out his fob watch, battered by the extreme conditions of soldiering. It was a good watch and kept accurate time. He peered closely at the glowing face.

‘Okay, boys, time to go,’ he said, replacing the watch and drawing his pistol. One by one the five men slithered over the top of the sandbags past their sentries to enter the badly cratered land that lay as a buffer between two enemies. They would use the craters to conceal their movement as they made their way towards an outpost in the German lines identified by intelligence reports as the most likely weak spot in front of their own lines.

They had around 400 yards to cover before reaching the identified position described as an assembly area for the change of shifts on a nearby machine gun. With any luck an enemy officer would be present when the shifts were changed. They froze whenever a parachute flare popped in the sky above them to illuminate the battlefield before drifting with the wind to eventually extinguish itself in the snow. When the flares were floating above them they were acutely aware of how vulnerable they were to observation from any alert sentry in the German lines. But it appeared their luck held. The Germans must have considered their foe would respect the temporary truce and leave Christmas Day as a time of peace and goodwill to all men.

Sean could feel the biting cold of the ground beneath him and was aware that he had crawled across a couple of bodies whose decomposition had slowed in the cold. Needless to say, the sticky mess that clung to his arms was something he did not want to think about as a whiff of rotting flesh assailed him. He had taken the lead and his group moved within a short distance of him. Every five minutes he would pause to ensure they were all still together. Getting there was working out to being a bit better than Sean had pessimistically considered. The Germans were off guard.

Sean called a halt when he could actually smell cigar smoke drifting on the air. The snow had stopped falling and the muffled voices of their enemy could easily be heard.

‘You speak German, Jack,’ Sean whispered in the CSM’s ear. ‘What are they on about?’

‘Not much,’ Jack replied, straining to differentiate the voices. ‘I can hear one of them talking about his kids . . . I think he is showing his cobbers photos of them. Mostly stuff our own mates are talking about right now.’

‘A bastard of a night to be doing this,’ Sean muttered angrily and Jack knew what he meant. Would the man talking with love about his family die in the next few hours at their hands? The company commander should be out here with them to see what his orders came down to on this sacred day. Then the German voices broke into a song whose tune Sean recognised – ‘Silent Night’. Their singing was accompanied by a harmonica and each man on the deadly patrol felt a lump in his throat.

Sean signalled to his patrol to close up and gave final orders of what they were to do in the next few minutes. Absolute surprise was on their side and the shock of their assault should carry the day. Each man armed himself with a grenade and when they had carefully cut their way through the barbed wire, ensuring that they did not rattle any of the empty tin cans strung out to warn of an approach, Sean rose up and tossed his primed grenade into the trench before them. It was followed immediately by four others and before the first bombs had hit the floor of the trench they were followed by five more.

Confused and frightened voices greeted the arrival of the egg-shaped explosives, but they were cut short, turning into screams of panic and pain as the bombs exploded in the confined space. The raiding party followed Sean by leaping into the trench that was now a mass of writhing, wounded German soldiers. The acrid smell of smoke caught them as they fell on the men. Sean’s landing was buffered when he landed on a dead soldier who lay face down amid a heap of scattered photos of a young woman surrounded by three children. Sean could feel his heart pounding as if ready to burst out of his chest.

A wounded soldier attempted to sit up and reach for his rifle but Tom Duffy swung his metal-studded, home-made club to smash in his skull, spraying blood and brain tissue into his own face. Sean searched around desperately for a prisoner and saw a German NCO clasping his head, hands over his ears. He was stunned and appeared to have been deafened by the proximity of the grenades exploding.

‘That one!’ Sean screamed at Jack, who understood, grabbing the still stunned soldier and wrapping rope around his wrists.

From around the corner of the trench, Sean could hear the sounds of the Germans rapidly organising to launch a counterassault against them. Already four armed men appeared from below a well dug bunker, firing wildly down the trench. In an instant Sean saw Lieutenant Grant crumple and it was obvious he had been caught in the rifle fire. He lay on his back and in the flickering light of the overturned brazier flames, Sean could see that his face had been smashed by a bullet and another had hit him square in the chest. He was choking on his own blood and desperately attempting to cough to clear his lungs. Sean knew that the young officer was as good as dead and impossible to rescue as the German infantry spilled from their deep bunkers and down the trench towards them.

Both Tom Duffy and Dan Frogan fought well, priming grenades and tossing them at the bend in the trench either side of their flanks, deterring any enemy from rushing them down the length of the trench they now occupied.

Sean plucked to his lips the whistle that he had secured by a lanyard around his neck and gave the long blast of the prearranged signal to get out of the trench and return to their own lines as best as they could with their prisoner.

The raiding party, now reduced to four men, hauled themselves over the top of the sandbags to find the gap they had cut in the wire. They had hardly gone 10 yards when the night sky was suddenly filled with parachute flares, their magnesium white lights dangling, reflecting off the field of snow, but also lighting up the silhouettes of the fleeing Australians. A machine gun opened fire from their flank, churning up wisps of snow around them. Jack was yelling at his reluctant prisoner in German, urging him to do what he was told.

Sean glanced around to see Private Frogan following, running in a crouch, stumbling as bullets tore over his head, then scrambling back on his feet to continue running. Machine guns had opened up from their own lines in a futile attempt to provide cover fire but the machine gun firing at them was too well entrenched.

At first Sean could not see Tom Duffy but then spotted him as a flare settled in the snow in front of the German lines. He was running back to the German lines towards the machine gun, a grenade in each hand.

Sean shouted to him to leave the gun and run, but Tom knew what he must do if they were to live. He was on the gun before the crew could traverse the barrel to kill him when he threw his grenades. They exploded on target and the gun fell silent.

‘Bloody marvellous!’ Sean shouted, impressed by the raw courage of the new recruit.

He turned to run when the world exploded. He was not even aware that he had been blown off his feet by a German trench mortar bomb, brought into action to counter the raid on their lines.

Sean lay in the snow beside the small scorch mark where the mortar had exploded. Winter was the worst time for the spread of shrapnel, he thought, as he lay on his back, staring up at a sky filled with tiny swinging lights like those he remembered on Christmas trees at home. When the ground was frozen, the artillery rounds and mortar bombs exploded on impact, scattering the deadly shards of hot metal to shred men’s flesh, whereas mud absorbed the rounds before they exploded and muffled the effects of shrapnel. It was so peaceful, as he could not hear anything. It was as if the war was over, and he was back home in the Redfern hotel that had always been a part of his family heritage. There was the aroma of a lamb roast and the clink of bottles of cold beer to wash down the Christmas lunch.

The face of Jack Kelly loomed over him and he felt Jack’s strong hands under his arms, dragging him into a shell crater. He was shouting something but Sean could not hear him and was annoyed that the CSM was disturbing his Christmas Day. Then the darkness crept over Captain Sean Duffy, MC; he was truly at peace for the first time in the past two years of his life.

PART TWO

1917

11

C
aptain Sean Duffy lay between clean, starched sheets in the English manor house converted to a hospital for wounded officers. Outside it was cold and Sean was vaguely aware that the men of his battalion were many miles away across the English Channel, shivering and dying in the trenches he had left behind. He had jumbled memories of being dragged through no-man’s-land by Jack Kelly while every inch of the journey caused screaming agony. After that, a maze of recollections of being transported back to the field hospital behind the lines and the operating table tended by a grey-faced army surgeon before being subjected to a gas that took away his pain and any recollection of what occurred next: the train trip with others mangled by the science of modern weapons to the coast, before being shipped to England to be loaded on a lorry and transported to the fine old home with its ivy-covered walls.