The Price of a Gift

By Darrel William McGovern

Harry Street’s character is the catalyst for this book which binds the several principals and their separate actions to make the story flow. Although the work is fiction, Harry Street was a real person from the author’s boyhood. A gentleman, always affable and decidedly English. However, gentleman he may have been, the author could never reconcile why he succumbed to his exile so readily and why his family turned their back on their son. The author has taken a liberty and changed Harry’s easy disposition to express his wrath for Harry’s ready acceptances of his circumstances. Too, the time frame has been altered to reveal an entwined vendetta that takes the reader from the horrors of the First World War, to the pampered lives of the aristocracy and the vastness of Australia. A race to secure aspirations for one man, domination for another and reparation for yet another.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Dec 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463665190

Darrel William McGovern

A retired high school teacher, Darrel McGovern lives with his wife, Helen, in a modest home in the Newcastle suburb of Fletcher. Their family have left the roost, and they are proud grandparents. Until retirement, Darrel hadn’t found the time to pursue his passion for Australian history, research or writing. As well as writing, Darrel is a keen fisherman, lawn bowler and golfer. He loves being surrounded by family and friends, and along with Helen visits Adelaide and Darwin to see his grandchildren as often as possible.

Book preview

Prologue

Aristocrats spoke, politicians listened, generals obeyed and minions died. A third assault against the high country would go ahead at any cost. General Charteris, Haig's propaganda machine exponent had fed the gullible war media with misconceptions of the real situation at the front. Field Marshal Haig found seventy-percent casualties acceptable; he wasn't to be disappointed for the rains turned Flanders fields into a quagmire. Mud! Craters of mud and slime made it impossible to bring up badly needed heavy artillery to shell the highly fortified German blockhouses. Batteries were uselessly firing into the mud several feet thick, doing little or no damage to the enemy and compounding the problem for any infantry assault.

The trolley was an innovation of man's ingenuity to a situation, a light timber base with a motorcycle engine attached. The frame stood above the mud-splattered base some sixteen inches, constructed from any readily available timber. As well as horse drawn ambulance, the trolley was used by the Allies to withdraw wounded considered able to travel from the field hospital near the front, back to a base hospital well behind allied lines.

With scarcely enough room two men lay side by side on bloodied stretchers in the crude field ambulance. They had never met, were expendable, yet through their individual gallantry they initiated the destruction of a strategic German blockhouse on the western end of the Hindenburg Line in a covert operation, which would allow the allies to initiate their planned thrust against the high country and ultimately bring a cessation to hostilities in 1918. One an Australian, lay supine, facing the heavens, he took a Mauser bullet to the lower side of his abdomen at close quarters in their final charge against the bunkers’ well-fortified pillboxes. Although badly wounded, adrenalin coursed madly through his system. Sergeant Smith had charged the bunker with hand bombs and finally the bayonet. The American, the second man, also in German uniform, necks craned to see his surroundings through a hole where a bolt had worked loose, led the demolition team. He was blown up when the compressed forces from the blast hurled him from the cleverly concealed, concrete munitions bunkers built into the side of the fortress, and flung his body into a crater of mud covered in early snow. He suffered a broken leg and severe burns. As it had been necessary to use a short fuse and hand detonate the explosives, his was considered a suicide mission with little visualised escape, for which he volunteered, 0600 hours 29 September 1917.

The trolley lurched and swayed along the narrow gauge line. At times the two corpsmen would alight the vehicle, pushing the rig up the gentle slopes before climbing aboard as the engine picked up revs for the brief ride down slight inclines.

A hand, soiled with dried mud, twisted the shoulder strap tight, pulling the weight of the Mauser hard against his shoulder. Two eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep and pitted with mud splatter, sighted along the barrel picking up the khaki uniform through the cross hair of the telescopic lens, the uniform which bears the corpsman's emblem, it mattered little, he was the enemy, no longer would a code of ethics apply, they would be ruthless now until the end. The sniper waited, hunched over the weapon, lovingly fondling the stock against his cheek. The hours of waiting lying on the cold ground saw the Nimrod shivering under his greatcoat. Now, anxiously watching the approach of the conveyance, a vehicle until recently used to convey soldiers of the once mighty German army, beads of water ran down his jowls to mingle with the dirty stubble of growth that passed as a beard. He waited with a patience of a man who had fought a long hard war and who had learnt the art of killing, not wasting his shot, but concentrating so his enemy would die quickly. He sighed, loosing off the shot, at the same time allowing for the recoil of the heavy rifle. The distance was two hundred yards and the German sniper watched from his concealment as the 7.92mm projectile struck the medic, hurling him from the lurching trolley to lay between the tracks, his body kicking convulsively in death. The Nimrod moved the rifle gently, bringing it to bare on the second target.

Sergeant Michael Smith heard the crack of the Mauser rifle. He tried to prop himself to see above the sides of the wooden conveyance when a hand with surprising strength steadied his movement. Lieutenant Jack Carter also heard the shot above the din of the cycle motor, he strained to hold himself so he could see through the bolt hole. He sensed rather than felt the other man's movement and placed a restraining hand on his leg. The rifle cracked again, this time closer and Carter made out the puff of smoke from below a clump of shattered stumps which overlooked the track and within easy rifle range. The torso of the second corpsman pitched forward as another round hit his prostrate form, pinning the sergeant beneath. The dead medic's hand locked to the throttle. Both could feel the pitch and sway increase, could hear the wheels pass over the joints at more frequent intervals, the Douglas motor peek revving,

Smith clawed the fingers of the corpsman free from the throttle and heaved with all his might. The body slid back. Smith heaved again and the face was gone, only the memory of the moment remained, imprinted in the young Australian's mind. The smell of death overwhelmed him as it had many times before, water formed in his mouth, he swallowed continuously, the twitching stomach muscles giving off bubbles of gas. He lay dry retching, shaking. A lump coming and going to his throat until finally he succumbed to the overpowering desire and was sick. He heaved all over himself, stomach muscles tightening in contraction until only bitter brownish yellow bile came away from his lips. Drained and pale Smith lay his head back on the stretcher, softly moaning, listening to his pounding head keep time to the joins in the line.

Numbly he felt something cold and wet under the uniform, his exertions had opened the wound; he was bleeding.

On the left side of the trolley, a bank was forming; it appeared to the American to be the commencement of a cutting. It was then, easing up on his elbows, back bent to stay positioned longer, he made a startling discovery. The rails disappeared into a mound of earth some distance ahead. The high side of the cutting had slumped, a consequence of the rains.

On impact with the soft mound of slumped earth, the wheels nearest the bank rode up causing the trolley to tilt precariously for what seemed an eternity to the men before it flipped over flinging them down the side of a slope studded with long grass and shrubbery where bracken and stunted shrubs stilled their progress.

Smith squinted against the glare of brittle sunlight filtering through the canopy above him. For a while, he lay staring at the trees, smelling their fragrance, exalting in their beauty, and a splash of blue through green foliage. Green, yellow, blue and gold filled his spectrum instead of white mist, rancid grey-brown mud, barren cratered earth, blackened stumps and wire brambles, the garbage of war.

In their weakened condition it would be impossible to climb the steep embankment to the railway line. Instead, they decided to crawl down the valley heading generally east. The air was fresh, uncontaminated by the rancid smell of gunpowder and stench of decaying bodies’ both animal and human left to rot in the fetid mud; it gave them strength.

They plodded north-east, away from the coast leaving the low country. The wind swept its icy path from the north where snow covered the country for several months of the year. It would be some time before the sun's appearance through the blanket of mist. No longer could they hear the guns. The brambles of war were far away. Now they must survive to see the peace.

Part 1

Chapter 1

France, October, 1917

Timber cracked and splintered at their first attempt. Smith used his shoulder against the water barrel, while Carter pulled from the other side until the barrel tilted then overbalanced, its contents spilling against the lieutenant's bare splinted leg. Smith rolled the empty cask under the window. With Carter supporting him, standing atop the barrel, he proceeded to enlarge the opening, using the American’s crutch, which they had constructed from the sides of the trolley to good effect, prying the boards away from the framework of the old window sill.

After what seemed an age, both men stood on the earthen floor of the former dwelling, a shaft of light showing dust particles suspended by their forced entry. Carter reached out and closed what remained of the shutters. They could smell the potatoes, stacked high on the cart. The laden cart indicated persons unknown could return presently. Eyes accustomed to the dimly lit interior peered into the darker corners of the dwelling. In a corner, eyes spied a plough; freshly tilled soil had attached itself to the blade.

Their surroundings held little interest for Carter. He could hardly keep his eyes open. He spread some stale hay piled in a chute, presumably to feed the horses that were used to plough and cart the produce. Dead tired, bone weary, using his crutch, he spread their army field-grey blanket out over the straw and was soon snoring, oblivious to his wounds, the rank smell of mice, and their droppings.

The young Australian settled down to the first watch but shortly sleep overcame him so he did not hear the chain being removed from the heavy timber door.

When the shaft of light spread to fill the doorway, it spilt across the earthen floor and up the far wall revealing the shape of two men slumbering. The girl stopped in her tracks, a look of shock registered on her young face. She clutched the woollen shawl tighter about her shoulders, a habit adopted to keep the icy north wind at bay. It wasn't the wind which caused her to grasp the shawl now. Rather, fear for what confronted her. They smelt like pigs in a sty to her child's nose, the strong rancid smell of men who needed to bathe.

A new excitement, quickened heartbeat, a face, pleasantly rounded, cheeks coloured and flushed, lips full and naturally red, trembled. At the corners of brown eyes faint creases of white skin told of years spent on the land squinting against the sun's glare. Slowly, she backed away from the doors absently dropping chain and padlock in her trepidation. Then she was running, burgundy strands, shining in the sunlight, fell about her face shimmying around her shoulders. A small sound escaped her lips; she fought to control her anxiety until sure she was out of hearing of the dwelling. With heart pumping she ran, towards the man and women approaching on the dray across the fields.

The man strained against the leather reins, jumping from the dray to stand by the lead Clydesdale while stroking its ears and listening to its snorting. He had longed for sons to work the soil, instead he was graced with daughters and now, watching the youngest darting across the field, pride crept up through his body fit to choke him.

‘Papa! There are men… in the barn… asleep.’ She blurted.

‘Easy girl, you are puffing fit to bust.’ Her heavy breathing formed pale wisps of steam in the still crisp air. Her expression betrayed alarm, fear, evident for the others to see. The man climbed up onto the hub of the wheel. He leaned over the high side of the dray. His weight caused the empty wagon to list markedly. Huge hands fastened about the stock of the gun, covered by an old chequered rug. Gripping the steel rim of the wooden-spoked-wheel, he lowered himself to the field letting the rug slip away from the ugly weapon to fall in the grass.

The weapon gleamed in the sunlight. He broke open the breechblock feeling in his woollen jacket for cartridges with his other hand, pushing the two 16 gauge shells with their cardboard casings into the chambers while listening to the thump, as the heavy loads forced air down the barrels. Closing the breech, he cocked the heavy weapon, the smell of gun oil cutting the air; its fragrance lingering in his nostrils.

‘German's Papa?’ asked Henrietta the eldest, hoping he would allay her mounting anxiety.

‘I don't think so girl, they haven't been near since the beginning of the war,’ he consoled her in a soothing voice.

‘I am aware, but according to Karl Emerson, the French and their allies are pushing the Germans back, maybe… ’

‘Just stay with the team until I get back.’ He patted her hand, which was resting on his arm, the pressure of her fingers relaxing with his reassurance. Like her sister the hand on his arm was that of a field worker, the fingers were long and tapered, stained with the soil and juices from the crops.

Cautiously, he approached their former home hefting the shotgun, his finger resting lightly on one of the double triggers. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his daughters huddled together, the horses grazing nonchalantly in the hock deep grass dividing the crops. He realised he was sweating freely. Every fibre of his body was tense, ready to fling himself to the ground at the first discharge of a rifle. Still nothing stirred, he timed his approach, only twenty paces from the aperture lay the padlock and chain and the thought of fear that these strangers evoked in the child brought the first stirring of anger. Hunched over, he went in bisecting the opening. If someone were waiting in the deep shadow, he could strike with the barrel or butt of the heavy gun. His advantage was familiarity with his surroundings. In four bounds he was on top of the laden dray, the potatoes moving, like living creatures beneath his feet. Another pair of eyes, the barrels of the shotgun swept the dim interior, the walnut stock pressing against his hip to smother the weapon's recoil. Nothing stirred. Slowly, amongst the smell of raised dust, hay, and potatoes, came the man smell and with it, to his sensitive hearing, the heavy breathing of men sleeping.

Lieutenant Carter came awake with a start to the thrust of a boot rocking him, like a dog shaking a bone. The harsh shard of light allowed him to focus on a large black bearded man holding a shotgun with both deadly barrels pointed directly at the bridge of his nose and not two feet away.

The man motioned with the weapon, satisfied when the bald one managed to drag himself to the rim of the dray, the muzzle following him across the intervening space, before turning his attention to the other sleeping figure. Unlike Carter, the young Australian resented being wakened, he pushed the foot away and rolled onto his other side, the weight of his body plus the Belgian’s heavy soiled work boot rocking his left shoulder soon brought him awake, the pain in his chest a throbbing reality.

‘What the hell… ’ got out Smith before the muzzle of the shotgun pressed against his lips, forcing his silence. He needed no second urging, slowly, painfully, he backed away following the direction of the flickering barrel as the man indicated for him to join his mate against the rim.

Corneilius Le Brun stood facing the pair. He cradled the shotgun under one beefy arm, using the other to extract his pipe and makings from a pocket of the woven jacket. It was impossible to get good pipe tobacco he reflected, looking to the overhead beams with their spiders webs and rocking on the balls of his feet in disgust at a war which embargoed one of the few luxuries he indulged upon himself. Their uniforms were German indeed thought Corneilius. However, the insignia belied the fact they were officers. He could never recall any German officer being dishevelled. The bald one only had one boot. After all, they were gentlemen were they not?

They were pigs, swine, he was not mistaken and the officers were the worst, raping, plundering and succumbing all, who could work into her factories and industries, to produce guns and steel for the Kaiser. Suddenly, he felt an overwhelming desire to kill, to hit back at the uniform he despised. The shotgun was raised to his shoulder, the butt pulled tight into his armpit; his cheek pressed against the plate as he stood looking along the twin barrels at the bald headed man slumped against the wheel before him.

The barrels of death never wavered, holding steady between his eyes. Jack looked from the twin spouts of the shotgun to the man holding the deadly weapon. Their eyes locked and held as each tried to read the others thoughts. Jack saw the fight going on within the big man. The struggle of his will so intense, unnoticed the pipe fell from his mouth. He was no killer thought Jack, but he was full of hate.

Smith also saw the struggle and shouted, ‘Don't shoot American, Australian!’

The sergeant’s shouted cry seemed to have little effect on either man. The bearded man stood, like a marble statue, sweat glistening on his brow, tears streamed down his cheeks and a growl which commenced deep in his diaphragm emitted a cry of anguish and hate from his throat, like lava gushing from a volcano before the gun was finally lowered. While the American knew he was not going to die, least ways not at the hands of this gentle giant of a man. He felt clammy; even now the second of death had passed because he knew that the venom within the big man would have to be spent. He saw the blow coming, heard the shouted cry, and tried to go with it until his head made contact with the hub of the wheel. He felt his jaw snap like a twig as the stock of the gun took him full on the side of the face. Everything was out of focus, sounds… dim… fading… until blackness descended upon him.

When their father had not returned after a reasonable period, impatient as ever, the young women edged towards the barn. Within hearing they discerned the high-pitched words of anger. Together they burst into the barn.

‘I thought I told you to stay with the animals until I called for you,’ he shouted at them, his face a mask of anger, the shotgun poised above Mike Smith's head.

The girls were stunned. They gaped at the bleeding face of the unconscious figure slumped before them. Blood gushed from a deep open wound, the flap of skin dropped away revealing bone, the nose did not look as though it belonged to a face, and the head without hair looked forever like a skull.

Sergeant Smith looked from the man to the girls, his expression one of bitterness. ‘English!’ He pointed to himself. ‘Allies,’ pointing to the American. ‘No Boche!’ He got out spitting into the straw to show his disgust. ‘American, Australian, allies of France, General Foch, King George,’ he blurted.

‘Papa, English!’ Cried out the youngest. Those were the only words in the conversation which followed he understood.

Smith comforted the American by holding his hand against the wound to stifle the flow of blood. Shortly they made their decision, and one of their number left the barn to return leading a team and cart. Mike's hands were securely bound by the girl with the auburn hair. She was an expert, being used to tying the sacks. He was unceremoniously prodded until seated on the floor of the dray, the walls of which were tapered, wider at the top and so high he was unable to see over them. He heard the ripping of an undergarment and presently, his face swathed in petticoat, Carter joined him in the dray. Smith observed they were strong yet gentle, he watched, unamused, as they folded the field blanket over his legs and torso.

The girl turned from the sprung seat and smiled briefly at the despondent Australian before gigging the team into action. He could only stare at and through her. He was bitter. More bitter than he could ever remember. Not even the death of his elder brother, or his mate Bluey Cameron, affected him the way this did. The American understood, until now Smith had not understood. But now the penny dropped, the man's action, release of pent up hatred, not against the Yank or himself, against the uniform they were wearing. Mike felt his unkempt nails bite into his palms.

Smith's mind wandered, thoughts came and went, his body swaying with the motion of the cart feeling the bandaging, cold across his torso. The grit and grime on his body made him long for home, a bath, one of his mum's baked dinners, with home-made pudding for desert covered in golden syrup. He wondered about the quiet American. He felt drawn to the man. In many ways they were alike he decided, both essentially quiet, raised as part of the land, the cities a necessary evil. He stared realising he couldn't be of much help to him now, the paled face was turning yellow and blue, mottled with dark dried blood, bruising and swelling hidden to a certain extent by the crude bandaging. Smith judged him to be in his mid-twenties, of fifteen stone and taller than himself by a good two inches, solid not flabby, hard muscle, tanned deep brown by the sun through many years of outdoor living. It was hard to judge because of his present condition whether the Lieutenant would be attractive to women, he was certainly rugged, big boned, and the growth of stubble on his chin suggested his hair would be fair. However, it was the eyes he remembered so vividly, they were blue as the sky, seemingly laughing, even in the face of death. Smith also admired the man's control. There was an air of self-reliance, an inner strength which he had not encountered lately, and after three years of bitter fighting in the trenches, Smith considered he was a fair judge of men. To behold men crippled, gassed and with bodies nearly cut in two by Maxim machine gun fire who still fought, only to observe others turn and run, cowards! Yes, he was sure of the American. They would survive to see the peace. Smith's mood mellowed; maybe the American would join him, in good old Aussie, at the end of the war. Together, they could make a good team.

An overhead sun replaced the cloud and soaked his dry skin, he licked his lips still tasting the corpsman’s blood; a thought process would not let him forget. His mind wandered on, him and the American, the plateau country, headwaters of the mighty Margaret River, the old Hopkin's place, mustering, driving their cattle to the coast for shipment. It never occurred to him that the American might die of his horrific wounds.

Chapter 2

Paris, Early November 1917

Lady Katrina Anthony, Princess Mary's companion and only daughter of Lord and Lady Anthony of Bedfordshire resolved she must stay in France.

Katrina had made her decision after inspecting the English-based hospitals with the princess. While not determined to uphold family tradition like her brother, who never came home from the Boer War campaign, Katrina saw France as an opportunity to escape the clutches of her domineering mother. Her mother's matchmaking embarrassed Katrina. Her suitors were clumsy and awkward, Katrina always polite but aloof. The tall handsome men she observed from their family box at Ascot, the theatre, or opera, seemed beyond her reach. That which interested her mother—bloodline, breeding and station—held no interest for Katrina. She wanted a husband. An intelligent and virile man who would love her for herself, not her title, wealth, or standing in society.

Before his Royal Highness accompanied by Princess Mary returned to England, he requested a personal favour of Sir Arthur Sloggett Director General Army Medical Services; that he take Lady Katrina Anthony under his guidance.

So it came to pass on a bleak autumn day in October 1917, Katrina Anthony signed the hospital's registrar admitting two wounded soldiers from Amiens.

They had been heavily sedated with laudanum to relax them during their journey in the ambulance to the Paris-based hospital. The roads being better suited to horse and cart travel rather than the hard sprung 'T' Model Ford, which lurched and swayed over the rutted surface.

Katrina was summoned to assist with pyjamas and robes for the new arrivals. What happened next was most irregular. Instead of the pair being placed in her charge to be wheeled through the ward for a good body wash and change, they were removed to an unused room marked 'private' which was always kept locked. Katrina gave a gasp, under the char grey field blankets they were wearing German uniforms. A Major attending, explained the uniforms to be part of a covert operation during which the two men had been wounded. He further stressed Sir Arthur would look in on the pair to see they got the best possible medical treatment afforded by the hospital. Major Evans gathered in the uniforms and instructed that they should be incinerated immediately, he further issued an order; not a word of what transpired was to go beyond the four walls of the stuffy little room. He glanced from matron to nurse Anthony. Katrina looked away.

Katrina had learnt, she learnt through bitter experience. Nothing surprised her anymore. The smell of decomposed flesh, urine discharge, gangrenous limbs, excrement and gastric bouts, bilious yellow viscid bile, ulcers, poisons and bed sores were now part of her daily life. Liniments, starch, ammonia, laudanum tincture, bandaging, blood, sutures were common familiar names, as were the doctor's tools of his profession, the saw, the scalpel… as was the suffering. Men who had lost limbs, had been victims of mustard gas in the trenches, men who had been shot, bombed, blown up by shrapnel, shelled and nearly drowned in the stinking fetid mud; she had nursed them all.

< >

For some time the racking cough accompanied by a cry for water came issuing from the bed on the other side of the ward. It seemed nobody cared, nor had the man’s croaky plea for water roused the other patients from their slumber. However Jack Carter was awake, it seemed that all he presently did was sleep. He cast a look downwards easing himself to a sitting position in the bed. Even in the semi dark he could see the bridge of his nose with the right eye without closing the left to squint.

They broke his nose again and reset the bone. However, it would always hook to one side giving him the appearance of a street fighter. Surgeons had since wired his jaw, and put the broken leg in a plaster cast. The burns a result of the blast, were healing, which was as well for his badly bruised ribs had to be strapped, consequence of the accident with the trolley and his landing on part of the frame. His sandy coloured hair was growing back, apart from a small circular spot at the back of his skull, for some reason the growth would not cover, however it was of small consequence and caused him no qualms. He was sporting a fashionable moustache neatly trimmed and the healthy colour was returning to his skin.

It was Broady, a sergeant from Jack’s home town, he had been gassed and not expected to live, yet still he fought and he was crying out for a drink of water. Jack fumbled in the darkness and found his crutch. The linoleum floor covering was cold to the touch as was the air trundling through the building, damp, and rank with the smell of a phalanx of bodies, the odour of liniments and bandaging, of plaster and the foul smell of starch used to clean the ward. Jack advanced on Broady’s drawer and poured the man a small drink of water from his bedside pitcher. He was in the act of holding the glass to the man’s lips when a voice startled him.

‘What do you think you are doing? Get back to bed!’ The voice quietly admonished him. Katrina peered about the ward to be sure she hadn't woken the others.

Jack gave an exasperated sigh. He turned to face her, about to say something he may have regretted, but found he was unable to utter a word. Even in the dim light of the ward she was beautiful. Jack imagined her in a motorised carriage being escorted to the opera, or taking the final bow after the curtain was drawn on a stage play with her as the star, a thousand eyes drinking in her beauty. But not here. Not amongst death. Not in this morbid place. She pointed and meekly he handed her the glass. It was like a static kick from an electrical current and both stared at the other before Jack got the crutch moving. That one brief touch would not be easily forgotten.

Katrina reminded herself to chastise the tall man with the close-cropped hair and moustache further when the opportunity presented itself. When she was again seated at her desk, she realised it was more than that; he had touched something, something deep within her that made her tremble. Presently she promised herself to view his file. She wanted to know all there was to know about the American admitted to her care wearing a German uniform on that autumn day in October.

Chapter 3

Paris, November 1917

On 22 November, in the year of our Lord, Nineteen Hundred

And Seventeen, Sergeant Michael Smith, Australian Infantry

Forces, General Sir Herbert Plummer Commanding, is to

Be in attendance at Windsor Castle for drinks and then to

Hyde Park for investiture of the Victoria Cross.

By command of his Royal Highness King George V.'

Given this day 12 November 1917

Under the hand of Lord Derby,

Secretary to the King.

Jack read the citation returning the letter to its embossed envelope.

‘Congratulations Mike! Well deserved,’ he offered his hand.

The two men were rugged up against winter's chill, seated in the deserted rotunda, used in better times to conduct open-air concerts in the hospital grounds. Today, much to Mike’s surprise, Jack produced a bottle of Bells Scotch Whisky and two tumblers.

‘A present from Nurse Collins,’ he mumbled, breaking the seal with his teeth and pouring two generous slugs into the tumblers.

‘That explains why we are out here freezing,’ replied Mike, looking around him and thinking he must be mad for leaving the warmth of the ward for his present surroundings.

Jack handed him the glass, ‘Happy birthday,’ Jack could see Mike was pleased he had remembered. ‘Twenty-one today… ’ Jack broke into verse saluting the younger man with raised glass.

‘Knock it off. I was only one of a twenty-man squad, and seven of them died during the siege against the bunkers. I don’t deserve any medal. I was only doing my job.’

The lieutenant sat quietly, listening to the wind whistling through the stand, a whispered version of Soldiers of the King, or that's how it sounded to Jack, while the man beside him, a mere boy when he went to war, sat despondently, his hand swirling the scotch in the tumbler, his face, a stained mask of remembrance. He understood what, as yet, Mike could not put into words.

He waited, he knew what was coming and silently he contemplated the answer he would give. He must make Mike realise that courage has many faces. It took courage just to face the enemy, with legs that felt leaden and a heart pumping at the rate of knots as one left the safety of the trench to run blindly across no-man’s land, with machine gun bullets zipping round you and men falling like nine pins, crying out and wondering if you would be next, to capture a thousand yards of ground, only to retreat and see it retaken in a retaliatory surge by the enemy shortly thereafter.

‘I can’t accept the citation Jack. How can they possibly single out one man when a whole bloody squad was involved? We had the element of surprise, and were successful because the Germans thought we were their troops returning from a sortie. We were among them before they could alter the trajectory of their machine guns,’ Mike bowed his head.

Jack reflected how lean he was, the skin taut over his features, the broad shoulders so much skin and bone under the flannelette pyjamas. He had fought and won his fight against infection and pneumonia, which almost killed him a month back. He lay fighting for breath determined not to give in and when the chaplain visited to give him the last rights, he fought harder. Recovery was slow, but recover he did.

‘You owe it to the squad, if you don't want it for yourself then accept it for them. That way the action gets recognition in the War Annals, and when talk turns to the high country and the taking of the concrete fortress on Hill 60 which gave the Allies the Wytschaete, Messines and Passchendaele ridges, they can reflect with pride that they played their part in the true tradition of soldiers.’

They sat in comparative silence drinking the fiery scotch, languishing in their own thoughts. Already Mike was contemplating being reunited with his family, this senseless war forgotten as he rode his pony around the property mustering the cattle. For Jack it was a time of reflection and a realisation of the hate he felt for the aristocracy whom he blamed for the war, which profiteered big business and sent thousands of men like himself and Mike to do their fighting, while they dictated policy and made fortunes.

Smith topped up their glasses again, ‘I'll probably be discharged and sent home after the investiture.’

‘You've done your bit,’ responded Jack. ‘What will you do when you get home?’

‘Don't really know, I thought you might like to join me? Don't know whether I could settle down now.’ Was the frank reply.

‘Australia?’ Jack was amused.

‘Yes Australia!’ Mike turned on him.

Jack smiled, a disarming smile, more to humour him than anything else. ‘What would I do in Australia, Mike?’

‘There's this place, up in the high country, Tempi Station. Jack you should see it, it could be one of the finest properties in the Territory. Wild cattle everywhere, just waiting to be branded.’

‘Wild cattle?’ Jack was curious.

‘Lloyd Hopkins abandoned Tempi well before I left to come to the war,’ Mike was honest with him.

‘Why isn't it a working ranch?’

‘Old Lloyd wasn't a cattleman I guess, he let the place run down to search for gold.’

‘I'm not a cattleman Mike.’

‘I see.’ Mike couldn't hide his disappointment.

Jack shook his head, ‘You don't understand.’

‘What's to understand?’

Jack sighed; he put the tumbler on the cement floor between his legs linking his fingers together and brooded for some time before looking up and addressing his friend. ‘My father and mother died when I was very young. I was raised by my gramps. I never had possessions, a family. A home. We wandered about in his search for gold until I was about ten and old enough to attend school. I wore hand-me-downs, had no shoes to wear to school, boarded with a family and walked five miles to school each day. When I was lying out there in the mud waiting to die, I promised myself if I lived, I would amass wealth, position and influence. If the War has taught me anything, it is that we are all dispensable. Now I have a second chance, I want to amount to something Mike,’ he finished, his eyes averting those of the young Australian.

‘I see… ’

‘No, you bloody-well don't! I'm not cut out to be a rancher, I want more from my life than to push some cows around a paddock.’ Jack's voice was harsh and full of feeling.

A poignant silence settled between them finally broken by Jack as he further explained. ‘Mike don't ask me to give up my dream. You're my buddy and I owe you, but I want more than a ranch. My interests are in minerals and the new industry the world will now demand. Steel, therein lies the future, my future. I'm sorry. It was not my intention to hurt you. Primary industry will still have a major role to play. You should buy that property, I'm sure you will make a good rancher.’

Mike sat for some time before lifting the glass to his lips and finishing the raw spirit in one last gulp. ‘Well, old Ike McKenzie found haematite on the property, a bloody mountain of the stuff if that means anything.’

‘Iron ore? You're joshing me.’

‘Saw the samples he had in his poke. Dad’s no geologist but he reckons it’s very rich. He and old Ike talked about a venture once, during the cattle market collapse of 1911 but then things got better and dad forgot about the scheme. Apparently Ike told dad there was plenty of limestone, he was pretty keen to have a go. What did they need limestone for?’

‘Smelting,’ Jack told him, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Mike nodded, ‘Dad said limestone was essential, I wasn't particularly interested, but I know they poured over maps old Ike put together, sometimes for hours on end.’

‘A mountain of iron? Didn't this Hopkins fella know the value of such a find?’

Mike shrugged, ‘Old Lloyd left well before Ike told my dad of his find.’

‘Where is this property?’

‘Oh, about two-hundred miles north-east of Margaret River Downs. It’s in the Northern Territory, not Western Australia. Why?’

‘Transport?’ Jack was vague, not on purpose, an idea was forming. Iron to make steel, he mused, the geologist in him suddenly aroused. The world was ready for change, wars brought about change, developing technology, new industry, nobody wanted to go back; the way was forward. And Jack saw himself as part of that future.

‘Is there any coking coal on the property Mike?’ He asked before Mike could answer.

‘Hell I don't know? Why?’

‘To smelt the iron. Iron on its own is of no value. But the world will be crying out for steel as soon as this war finishes.’

‘Steel to build ships and bridges and factories; I see what you mean. I know they ship coal back to the old dart from the eastern seaboard.’ Mike, informed him.

‘You are certain?’

‘Sure, ships call in at Edge Rock to take baled wool and supplies of beef.’ Mike informed him.

‘Railway lines, locomotives, automobiles,’ Jack was becoming enthusiastic with their discussion.

‘The only transport from Tempi to the coast is the Margaret River which becomes Queens Channel, and the old stock route,’ Mike appended.

‘Is it a large deep river?’

‘Navigable if that's what you mean, but a region of very large tides at the coast and prone to flooding during the wet up north.’

Jack pondered this statement for a while, ‘Suitable for shallow draught barges?’

‘I reckon it is,’ Mike responded after some thought, the scotch languishing his thinking.

‘We would need to ship the ore, or, bring coking coal up the river to a site we could clear for the purpose of making a smelting works to produce the steel.’

‘Bloody hell! A mining venture would cost thousands and thousands of pounds. Jack I haven't got that sort of capital… ’ Mike was stunned by the man's daring.

‘I have a property Gramps left to me, back in the States, for some time there has been talk of oil. If, as I suspect, it is oil bearing ground, I will be able to finance the deal.’

‘But it would take years to develop such an industry as you propose.’

‘Then we will just have to round up a few of them beeves you are talking about and sell them off to keep things going in the interim.’ Jack was smiling.

‘You're joshing me… ’ Mike shook his head in resignation.

‘I'm deadly serious Mike! If you want me to join you in Australia, those would be my terms, my ambitions, and motive for doing so.’

Mike was witnessing his first glimmer to the other side of Jack’s character and it perturbed him to a degree. Also he had a disturbing thought, what if old Lloyd had taken the property off the market? Or worse, already sold it, after all, six years had lapsed since Mike first heard the property was for sale.

Chapter 4

Paris, November 1917

Katrina Anthony and a colleague were summoned by matron to discover the whereabouts of two patients believed to be missing for several hours. All the obvious places having been checked, Katrina decided to look over the grounds. Katrina drew the cape tighter around her, the stiff starch uniform creaking in protest against the rustle of the wind's advance. Tentatively, she stood head turned with the breeze, listening, her eyes probing the shrubbery close at hand. The sound of laughter came on the wind. It was light and carefree, devoid of the tensions of men at war. She picked her way through the shrubs to the grassy veld beyond. She remembered helping patients to their chairs, the brass band tuning up on the rostrum for the afternoon's concert, the sun reflecting on the player's instruments. Now the lawn was wind-swept and covered with branches twigs and leaves of various description, their multi colours making a patchwork quilt of the green. They are mad, she thought to herself. The day was bleak with dark