To Ride the Wind (7 page)

The artillery bombardment had succeeded in tearing apart barbed wire directly in front of Sean’s company and those of his men who survived were able to clamber into the German forward dugouts where savage hand-to-hand fighting ensued. Both Sean and Jack found themselves tumbling into a trench and when they were on their feet realised that they had become well and truly separated from the rest of the company. Bodies of German soldiers lay in heaps around them, mutilated by the explosive artillery shells that had fallen among them. One or two were still alive but not in any position to pose a threat. Jack laid down his rifle and immediately hefted out two hand grenades from the bag he carried. The primed bombs were in his hands as he sought about for enemy troops. The dugout had a right angle turn at its end and suddenly a German appeared, wielding a wicked-looking medieval club with nails embedded along its length. He was a huge man and charged at Jack and Sean. Jack had placed his rifle on the bottom of the trench to arm himself with bombs, and was now virtually helpless against the huge German.

Sean flung out his arm and emptied his revolver into the charging German, who fell dead at Jack’s feet. Without hesitating, Jack pulled the pins from the grenades and hurled them around the corner of the trench. Screams of wounded men followed the twin explosions. Jack snatched up his rifle and advanced along the trench to peer cautiously around the corner where he saw the victims of the grenades either dead or badly wounded. The scent of blood filled the air along with the acrid smell of cordite. A section of German soldiers spilled from a dugout doorway that led down to concrete-reinforced shelters. Jack let out a roar and charged the Germans emerging from their bunker. He caught the first in the chest with the end of his bayonet and pushed him back into the entrance, forcing the men following him to reel back. Heaving with all his might, Jack extracted the bloody bayonet and stepped back as a volley of rifle fire ripped from the bunker door.

Before Jack could react, three determined soldiers rushed through the entrance to confront him. Without hesitation, he charged them, skewering a second soldier through the throat. The falling man caused the rifle to be pulled from his hands and the Australian immediately picked up an entrenching tool that lay close by. Using it as part-club, part-axe, he fell on the two remaining German soldiers, who had been unable to bring their rifles to bear on him in the enclosed space. The edge of the swinging shovel caught one of the enemy in the arm, eliciting a howl of pain from the soldier, whose arm had been partly severed. The man behind him had been able to bring up his rifle and thrust at Jack with his own bayonet, forcing Jack to trip. He dropped the shovel and fell onto his back. For a moment he could clearly see the features of the man about to kill him and noticed that he was not young. Maybe in his forties, Jack thought, as he waited helplessly for the bayonet to take his life. But suddenly the German crumpled as the top of his head was smashed, despite the protection of his helmet. A stray bullet – friend or foe – had saved Jack, who scrambled to his feet, retrieving his rifle from the dead soldier with a grunt and extracting the bayonet from the man’s throat. He was aware of a Maxim machine gun rattling off long bursts only feet away, around another corner of the trench. Jack fumbled in the bomb bag for another grenade, pulled the pin and hurled it through the air. It exploded but the machine gun only hesitated for a moment before pouring more death into the ranks of still advancing Australians. Jack knew that the only way to silence the deadly gun was to personally kill the crew that manned it. Once again he advanced down the trench, stepping over the bodies of the men he had killed. When he rounded the corner, he saw two Germans crouched behind the belt-fed machine gun, focused on spraying the advancing Australian infantry. Jack charged, this time using his rifle like a club, and fell on the machine-gun crew with adrenaline-pumped savagery. He smashed at the helmeted heads and then reversed the rifle to slash and stab with the already bloody bayonet.

Gasping for air, Jack stood back to see that he had killed both men who now lay in their own blood at the foot of the trench. He yanked the heavy weapon off its tripod and placed a grenade under it. Jack knew that he did not have time to strip the weapon to render it useless and hoped that the grenade would damage it enough to make it inoperable. After pulling the pin, he retreated quickly before the bomb exploded. He peeked around the corner of the trench and could see that the explosion had partially twisted the weapon. Satisfied he had put the weapon out of action, he retreated further down the trench to see Captain Sean Duffy sitting with his back against the earthen walls of the trench, weeping like a child. Jack Kelly had only heard about so-called shell shock and guessed that Captain Duffy had been broken by the terrible slaughter of his company.

‘Sir,’ he said softly, reaching down to help Sean to his feet. ‘Sir, you have to get a grip of yourself.’

Sean did not respond, his empty pistol still clasped in his hand. He buried his head between his legs and continued sobbing.

It was unnerving to Corporal Kelly, who glanced up and down the short trench for any signs of an immediate threat, but for the moment they were alone among the dead and badly wounded German soldiers. ‘Sir, you have to snap out of it.’

Sean looked up at Jack with a grimy tear-stained face and blank eyes. Only a few feet away a German soldier groaned in his agony from the shrapnel wounds to his face, chest and stomach. A soldier tumbled over the lip of the trench and fell down beside Jack and Sean. He was Australian and had the rank of sergeant. Jack recognised him as the sergeant from one of Captain Duffy’s platoons.

‘We have cleared about twenty yards of the trench next to this,’ he gasped, his eyes wide with adrenaline and fear. ‘What do we do, skipper?’ he asked Sean who stared at him blankly.

‘The boss is recovering from a bomb blast,’ Jack said, hurrying to explain the apparent lack of response from his company commander. ‘His last words were for us to hold any ground we take until reinforcements come up.’

The platoon sergeant glanced at Sean and then with a questioning look at Jack.

‘You sure, Corp?’ he asked suspiciously, eyeing the tears streaming down Sean’s face.

‘Bloody right, Sarge,’ Jack answered. ‘Just let the skipper get his breath, and he will tell you himself.’

The sergeant accepted Jack’s explanation but was not totally convinced. He slithered over the edge of the trench and returned to his platoon commander to relay the company commander’s order to hold their ground.

Jack turned his attention back to Sean who had stopped crying and even had a serene expression on his face. ‘You know where you are?’ Jack asked, crouching in front of Sean.

‘Not home,’ Sean replied. ‘I think that I have been asleep and have gone to hell. How long have I been like this, Corporal Kelly?’

Jack was relieved to hear his commander actually philosophising on their predicament. It meant that he was slowly coming out of his almost catatonic state. ‘Not long, sir,’ Jack replied. ‘I think you got a bit of a bump on your head.’

Sean slowly focused the reality around him, vaguely remembering firing off his revolver into a giant of a man in a grey uniform who had been intent on clubbing them to death. He flipped open his revolver, removing the spent cartridges to reload with fresh rounds. ‘I am sorry that I let you all down,’ he said. ‘I don’t think there is much of the company left to apologise to anyway.’

Jack did not reply. From what he remembered of the advance he knew the company commander was correct. It had been a disaster despite the fact that the survivors had actually been able to get into the German forward trenches. Even a lowly corporal knew that a half-hearted counterattack from the enemy would easily drive them out of the trenches they had captured. It had all been for nothing, he thought bitterly.

‘I think that we should join the rest of the company in the trench next to us,’ Jack prompted gently.

‘Good idea, corporal,’ Sean responded, getting unsteadily to his feet.

Machine-gun and rifle fire still cracked all around them mixed with the earth-shaking explosions of the occasional deadly artillery round landing nearby. They were far from safe despite their minor victory. Cautiously they eased themselves over the edge of the trench and slithered along the ground now devoid of vegetation and into a trench filled with the remains of his company mixed among the dead of the enemy.

The platoon sergeant who had received the order from Jack greeted them, looking hard at Sean when he did so. ‘Good to see that you have recovered, skipper,’ he said. ‘I guess it was you who knocked out that Hun machine gun that was doing us so much grief.’

Sean did not reply as he was confused as to what the sergeant was telling him. Before he could gather his wits one of his platoon commanders, Lieutenant Wilberforce, made his way along the captured trench to report. The matter was dropped as Sean was more interested in assessing their current situation. Around him, his men lay against the sides of the trench, smoking, attempting to nap or just staring with a faraway look at the darkening sky above, while the battle continued to rage around them along the front between the two armies. For Sean’s remaining men the only war they knew was the immediate earth and sky they could see. The strategy of generals was of little interest to their thoughts of immediate survival.

It soon appeared obvious that there would be no reinforcements to bolster the trenches they had captured and to remain where they were would only mean certain death or capture. In the dark of the night Sean Duffy led his handful of men back across the grassy plain to the relative safety of the trenches they had left only hours earlier.

Colonel Patrick Duffy had been given a corner room in a Flemish farm house to lodge his HQ. He had pored through the post battle reports and grasped the magnitude of losses his battalion had absorbed in the futile attack against the better-entrenched German forces. He contemplated the letters he would have to write to the families of the officers he had lost from the battalion and knew he would be busy. Down the chain of command similar letters would be composed by junior officers for the men that they had lost.

But now he was reading through the reports by his few surviving company and platoon commanders detailing what they had experienced. One matter caught his eye when he read of a machine gun that had wrought havoc on one of the companies and how it had been knocked out, thus saving many Australian lives. Other reports corroborated that the machine gun appeared to have been neutralised by Captain Sean Duffy. Patrick was not surprised. Already the young former solicitor from Sydney had earned a Military Cross for his courage at Gallipoli, so why wouldn’t he risk his life to save his men by attacking and killing the German machine-gun crew? Although the act had not been witnessed by a fellow officer, Patrick felt the incident worthy of a recommendation for a further medal of bravery for his newly promoted captain on the strength of what he was able to assemble from the different reports.

He flicked through the reports to find Sean’s and was surprised that it was so sketchy – just a report on the ground captured and the casualties his company had sustained with a short note on his withdrawal. He mentioned that he had been temporarily cut off from his men during the assault on the forward lines but nothing else. If he had alone cleared the trench and silenced the German machine gun then his act was worthy of a Victoria Cross. Patrick commenced drafting his recommendation for the medal to his superiors. The matter would have to be investigated but Patrick felt Sean had been too modest in his report. He realised that the recommendation would be his final act as battalion CO before being moved to Divisional HQ in a staff officer’s appointment. It was a fitting way to say goodbye to the man whom he loved as much as his own sons.

Corporal Jack Kelly lay on his back in a field of wild flowers under a hot summer sun. His company had been pulled back behind the lines for a rest and a chance to recover from the horror that had been Fromelles, and it was a rare opportunity to do nothing but sleep and dream among the vivid colours of the Flemish countryside. The remaining men of the battalion had been stood down and they also sat around smoking, chatting or sleeping in the tiny oasis of peace away from the war despite the distant thump of artillery and the faint sound of small-arms fire occasionally drifting to them on a gentle breeze.

Jack closed his eyes and tried to imagine what his infant son looked like. He had received a letter from his wife but as yet had not had a photograph of young Lukas Kelly. He was aware that a shadow had fallen over him.

‘I hope that I am not disturbing you, Corporal Kelly,’ Captain Sean Duffy said, sitting down beside Jack before he was able to stand and salute. Sean was in full dress uniform and wore his shiny Sam Browne belt across his chest as well as the distinctive white and purple riband of the Military Cross decoration on his left breast. ‘I noticed that you were alone in the field and felt that this might be a good time for us to have a small talk.’

Jack sat up, brushing away grass from his flannel singlet and adjusting the braces to his trousers. He was not wearing full uniform because of the heat of the day and reached for his jacket. ‘Not necessary,’ Sean said, observing how Jack was attempting to make himself look respectable. ‘This is just an informal chat.’

‘What can I do for you, sir?’ Jack asked, sensing that something was playing on his company commander’s mind.

‘I just wanted to ask your forgiveness for what happened to me back there,’ Sean explained.

Jack was taken aback by the frank apology. A commissioned officer apologising to or confiding in a junior NCO was not something usually experienced.

‘Nothing happened,’ Jack said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I have seen men go troppo in New Guinea when I was prospecting and know that it is usually a temporary thing. You saved my life when that big Hun was about to brain me.’

‘I don’t even remember that,’ Sean said, squinting against the bright sunlight. ‘I hardly remember anything after I saw the CSM cop it.’