Where the Line Breaks Read online

  ‘Do they? I didn’t know.’

  ‘Now you do.’ Red straightened his bootstraps and then offered Alan a hand up, a smile on his face. ‘Get your kit, we’ve got a war to fight.’

  Back in formation, the men drop to their knees at his command, rifles at their shoulders trained on a make-believe enemy. The heat is ferocious, each exploding shell buffeting their position with a fresh wall of hot air. He pulls his watch from his pocket, and a fat drop of sweat splatters the face, rolling off his nose in slow motion.

  ‘Hold!’

  The whole company is close enough to feel the pressure waves reverberating with each explosion. Tiny fragments of metal dive, sizzling, into the sand by their feet.

  He wants to turn back.

  They should turn back. They’re too close, and the barrage is unmoving, shell after shell raining down on the dune before them.

  He doesn’t know what to do. If this were real, they’d be completely exposed, torn to shreds by returning fire.

  He glances to his left, and, crouched, runs past the men to the end of the line and the small shape holding their exposed far flank. As he squats to speak, the shriek of a falling shell grows, until, right on top of them, a wall of heat and noise knocks him forward and into Nugget, sending them both sprawling. For a horrifying moment he worries he might piss himself. Breath sputters. Heart leaping into his throat, choking back tears. He spits sand and raises himself up on shaking arms. No pain, hope for the best. Nugget lies on the ground, unmoving. Alan’s knee clicks as he stands. Nugget groans and turns his head; one side of his face is coated by sand, one side tanned dark and sweating.

  ‘Well, this is a proper dog’s breakfast.’ Nugget runs his tongue once over his chapped lips, and then spits a glob of pink onto the ground by his boots. A pugilist’s face; sunburnt wrinkles, broken nose. Head like a smashed crab and a tongue faster than the machine guns that chatter out over the rifle range. More than one bar-room brawl has started because Nugget’s mouth has run faster than his mind. More than one brawl has been finished with his fists.

  ‘You hurt?’

  ‘Yeah. Bit my tongue.’

  ‘You look like a fucking lamington.’

  Nugget raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t reply in turn. Alan is terrified of what he’ll look like: afraid, uncertain, unfit for leadership. He’s safer with Nugget by his side.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘We’re too bloody close. We should pull back until it eases up.’

  He looks around. The men are nervous, glancing his way, waiting for orders. Waiting for him to say anything. He should pull back to a safe distance. He should wait for the shelling to stop and then take the objective with a full company. He should be decisive. He should be independent. He should be creative.

  He should have decided five minutes ago.

  He feels the thrill of university debates again. That same need for contrariness.

  ‘Take your section and go around the left flank, see if you can’t find a way around. We’ll wait here for the fireworks to end and then advance.’ His voice cracks and breaks with the strain of shouting over the refrain.

  Nugget blinks twice in quick succession, ducking with each whine of approaching shell. For a moment, Alan worries he’s going to refuse. He flinches, but Nugget swears and drops back to gather his men. Alan risks a quick look up at the top of the dune, but the sun is working against him, glaring down through the shell vapour.

  He runs back to his position at the centre of the line, his legs cramping with the awkwardness of the pose, each step like wading through water. The men are getting antsy, yelling to him down the line, asking for orders. He drops his head and prays for the shelling to stop so they will stop questioning him. The whine of the shells makes his insides groan. A fireball erupts above their heads and when they recover from the shock he finds a hot sliver of metal steaming in the sand by his knees. He tries to pick it up but burns his fingers.

  Movement out of the corner of his eye makes him turn his head. One trooper drops back from position. He catches up before he can get too far away and screams at him to return to his post. The trooper removes his hand to show a long cut crossing his left eye. Blood runs down his face.

  ‘Get back in position, trooper.’

  The boy holds out his blood-filled hand for evidence. A cup of red wine.

  ‘I can’t, sir.’ His voice is high-pitched, shrill. ‘I need help.’

  The hot eyes of the other men are on his back, waiting for his response. Tough love.

  ‘Help? We will hold, because we have been ordered to hold.’ And he shoves the boy back toward the line with such force that the kid stumbles forward, catching himself on the ground with outstretched hands, the sand sticking to his bloody palms. Lamingtons. All of them.

  They hold, because they have been ordered to hold. Twenty-two minutes after the timetabled end, the bombardment finally draws to a close. He orders his troops to run up the incline. Each step they take forward, they drift halfway back down in a slip of loose sand. By the time they reach the top they are exhausted.

  At the peak they encounter the perimeter of Red’s forces. Screaming and cursing – a herd of frothing brumbies streaming across a plain – they charge. Sun glints off bayonets. Alan sprints forward, pistol drawn, the feather in his slouch hat bouncing and glancing off his shoulder with each lurch. In the centre of the defending trench he locates Red, sitting at a small round table, drinking from a mug of tea. As he approaches, pistol drawn, Red barks an order of surrender to his men. The objective has been captured. The exercise is complete. They’ve done it.

  Red glances at the watch lying on the table before him.

  ‘What took you so long? Tea’s getting cold.’

  My love, I trust this letter finds you well, and I apologise in advance for the state of my handwriting. I have lost track of where in the day I am. What time is it for you? The sun is shining, but it’s late. Do you ever get that?

  I wrote a long letter to you what feels like days ago, and I find I cannot send it. It says entirely the wrong things. I worry you won’t recognise me when I return. Sometimes I think I won’t recognise myself. Do you remember, I wonder, when I rode up to Mundaring with Dad? We were gone two weeks, and on returning you said I looked, I think you used the word, matured? I said like cheese, and you said, no, like my eyes had grown wider. Like more of the world could get in. Something beautiful.

  I’ve been pondering the wonder of words.

  Thank you for your letters. Please send more. I know that may be hard, but it’s a right cow to see your chums walk away smiling when the post arrives and not receive a jot yourself. I have asked Ma and Dad to write, and Tom and his little ones might even find the time to send a little parcel. I suppose you have heard about Tom signing up. Bloody fool. I understand the urge to pitch in, but Tom has other responsibilities, and will be doing no-one any favours by catching typhoid in a filthy Egyptian camp. There’s no need for him to try and play hero, especially since most of the fighting will likely be finished by the time he arrives.

  Today, we lost our first casualty to war. I told you, I think, about the two men who passed away in the hospital when we arrived, a terrible waste, and one you can’t help but feel powerless about. Today though, should have, could have, been avoidable …

  This letter is as insufficient as the last, and I have decided not to send it either. Bloody bastard mongrel fuck.

  Thank Christ that’s over. Alan accepts the battered tin mug and drops onto the patch of dirt by Red’s feet. He can already taste the first beer they’ll have on the next day off.

  ‘You alright?’ Red is watching him.

  ‘Shitshow. Gunners couldn’t keep it on schedule if it wore pink garters and asked ’em to dance.’ Alan takes a sip of the warm liquid in the mug. Whatever it is, it ain’t tea. Not in the proper sense of the word. He can’t look back at Red. He holds his hands tight around the mug to hide his shaking. His heart is pounding axe-blows in his che
st.

  Red finishes his mug and pops his watch in his pocket. He makes a grand show of pulling himself up to his full height, puffing his chest out, broadening his shoulders, chin jutting. Official Officer Stance.

  ‘You look like a cockatoo, mate,’ Alan grins. Ears still ringing. Shell-shook.

  Red doesn’t miss a beat, clears his throat with a noise like a hungover rooster, the feather in his hat bobbling forward. ‘Alright lads, well done. Top brass will probably say we weren’t professional enough, but what do they know, eh?’

  Smart alec down one of the side trenches puts on his best approximation of an Etonian accent, all clipped aitches and stick up arse: ‘I say old boy; I do believe the Orstralian is taking the piss!’

  Red waits for the laughter to die down. ‘Gather your bits. Move out in five minutes.’ He sits back down, his smile wide, and takes off his hat. ‘Where’s Nug?’

  Alan glances around; for the first time, he notices the absence of the chatty little bugger. He can’t find any of the men who followed Nugget in the pincer movement.

  ‘Part of the advance wave. He didn’t get here first?’

  There’s a boot, lying on the sand, near the top of the dune they ran up, but around on the left flank. From Alan’s vantage point at the top he can’t see the bottom of the valley. He’s not sure he wants to. The boot is empty. The long leather strap that spirals up around the calf trails in the sand like a tail as he holds the heel in his hand. One left boot.

  He runslides down the slope, his weight and momentum pushing the sand, so when he reaches the bottom and the group of men gathered there, a crescent of the desert follows him, circling his feet like curious children hiding behind mother’s legs, eager to see.

  One trooper lies on the ground; another kneels. Two more crouch a little further away. Nugget left with four others.

  ‘What happened?’

  Two men turn, their faces dark with sweat and dirt. One of them taps the shoulder of the trooper on his knees. Nugget. As Nugget rises from his spot, the man on the ground is revealed. Trooper Morrow.

  Fred.

  Freddie.

  Busselton boy. Freddie’s skin has a glossy pale sheen and his eyes are glazed over. Propping himself up on one elbow, but gazing straight through him, out behind Alan somewhere in the endless sand. Where Freddie’s right leg should lie, the limb ends in a bloody red full stop. A belt has been tied tight around his upper thigh. The sand beneath the wound is pink, packed flat by Nugget’s knees.

  The air inside the tent is stifling. Church in midsummer. But he can’t open the covers. He can’t let the men see him. He won’t watch them cringe.

  He’s waiting for the Major to arrive and call him outside, march him off in handcuffs to be court-martialled. The firing squad or the rest of the war in a dank cell. Imagine the look on Rose’s face when she reads that. What Dad would think, quietly judging behind pursed lips. The letters from his brothers disowning him.

  He hears footsteps outside, and the Major flicks open the covers. He salutes – robotic, the motion crisp and well-practised.

  ‘At ease.’ The Major is the only Englishman in the regiment, sent over from Oxford to help lead their brute Antipodean forces.

  ‘Sir, I can explain,’ Alan begins, but the Major cuts him off.

  ‘Well done, Lieutenant. You held your nerve in the heat of the shelling, and captured the objective. The top brass were pleased.’

  He doesn’t know what to say. He’s tracked pink mud through the tent. Bits of his own men.

  ‘Shame about Morrow. Now, what happened with the Richardson boy?’

  Alan swallows. ‘An advance section was sent around in a pincer movement. They were caught in our own fire.’

  The Major nods and glances around the room.

  Alan can feel the sweat dripping down the sides of his body as he waits for the Major to say more.

  ‘And whose foolish idea was that?’

  He pictures Rose opening the letter, the smile dropping from her face. ‘Sergeant McRae ran it by me, sir. I should have stopped him.’

  ‘Yes. Indeed. But you are here to learn, and now you have. No matter. Pity about Richardson, but he won’t be the last.’ The Major places a fatherly hand on his shoulder and looks him straight in the eyes. ‘Well done out there, Lewis.’

  He can breathe again. Can hear the sounds of the camp again. The constant buzz of flies. The Major grunts and heads for the door.

  ‘Sir?’ He surprises himself. The Major turns back to him, halfway out of the tent.

  ‘Nothing, sir. Thank you, sir.’ And then he’s gone.

  When Nugget and Red enter, twenty minutes later, he’s sitting at the desk, trying to write another letter home that won’t come out how he wants. Nugget has a bright white plaster caked on his ear. Ridiculous.

  ‘They’re taking Morrow back. Want to say goodbye?’

  He stares at the desk, at the words on the page that swim like tadpoles before his eyes. Red ducks his head and shuffles back towards his bedroll.

  ‘He might not make it, Al. He’s pretty weak,’ Nugget says.

  The thought of heading back out into the sun makes his stomach turn, sea snakes slithering in his guts. He should eat but he can’t imagine a taste that won’t make him retch.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant McRae.’ That surprises both of them, Red’s head flicking up in his periphery. ‘I had to tell the Major about your plan.’

  Silence in the tent.

  ‘You what?’ Nugget is still speaking too loudly for the small space. Red has moved to somewhere behind his shoulder. Alan doesn’t like not knowing where they are, so he stands, faces the room. Red sits on his cot and starts to unlace his right boot.

  ‘What, sir, to you,’ he says, but his voice wavers and they can both tell he’s shitting himself.

  ‘Fuck off, Al. What did you say to him?’

  ‘Red, you heard that, right? Insubordination.’ But Red is looking at him the same way Nugget is – disappointment in his eyes.

  ‘What did you do, Al?’ It’s worse when Red says it, so quietly, looking up at him from his cot, his long legs almost up to his ears.

  He looks back and forth between them, trying to figure a way out of the situation he’s brought on himself. He glances towards the open doorway, but Nugget catches the look. Nugget’s nostrils flare and then the Irishman charges at him. Before he knows it, he’s fallen backwards onto the desk. Nugget’s breath is hot on his face and he can’t get away from it.

  ‘What the fuck did you do, sir?’

  Red is standing, a tall shadow looming behind the awful close-up of Nugget’s bloodied face, his yellowing teeth, the disgusting smell of cheap Egyptian cigarettes on every breath.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Nugget’s forearm relaxes from across his chest, but he doesn’t let him up.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ and he is, his eyelids suddenly heavy, the acid burn of vomit in his gut like his stomach has been ripped open. ‘I couldn’t tell him it was me.’

  ‘Why not?’ This from Red, standing watching everything, not helping him up, not taking his side like a best mate should, not fighting for him.

  Snot runs down his lip and into his mouth. He licks it away, sniffs like a drunk. ‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t.’

  ‘So you told him –’ Red begins.

  ‘It was my idea?’ finishes Nugget.

  ‘I was scared.’ He doesn’t miss the subtle glance they share at his admission. Nugget takes his weight off him, gives him a hand up. Red is back on his cot, rummaging through his pack.

  ‘It’s ok, mate,’ Nugget says, but it’s not.

  ‘We’re all scared,’ says Red, but Alan isn’t sure he’s telling the truth. Red has never wavered from a decision in his life – he would have known exactly what to do.

  He can see it in the way Nugget looks through him, the way Red won’t catch his eye, the tension in the stifling air.

  He shouldn’t have said anything. Fuck.

&nbs
p; The horses start whinnying outside, stirred up by some unknown force. Somewhere from the other side of the camp comes a scream, long and splintering, hanging in the hot air like fruit suspended in honey. Outside the tent the air shimmers, burning away the events of the morning, bleaching bones white, grinding the silvery white splinters into the endless dunes.

  They say you never forget your first kill.

  The sand beneath Trooper Morrow’s missing leg had been stained red. Despite the tourniquet, sticky blobs of blood had kept dripping onto the flattened surface where Nugget had been kneeling. When Nugget stood up and spat, his phlegm was flecked pink.

  ‘What happened?’ Alan didn’t understand.

  ‘He’s gone.’ Nugget was yelling.

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Who’s gone?’

  ‘What?’

  Alan stopped and took a breath and in that moment the drop of blood had leapt from Nugget’s ear and landed on the collar of his shirt. It seeped into the crisscross hairs of the fabric. It was all he could see: the blood trickling down Nugget’s neck; the chapped, torn skin of his lips; the bloodied and dirtied fingers, the nails bitten low, cracked and raw, the little tabs of skin peering up from the sides like strips of wallpaper in an unfinished room. Nugget looked as tired as Alan felt.

  ‘You ok, mate?’ As he motioned toward the bleeding ear Nugget reached a hand up. The tips of his fingers stained red, the Irishman swore violently at the open sky. Alan grimaced. ‘Think you’ve busted an eardrum.’

  ‘Think I’ve busted an eardrum,’ Nugget roared back.

  He nodded, his hands clammy, the interminable hum of mosquitos in his ears. A hole was growing in his gut – a yawning pit growing deeper and wider with each passing second, pulling nearby objects down into its gaping maw. He had made a terrible mistake. It was clawing at the walls of his stomach, dragging his lungs down to his boots so his breath spurted out in shallow bursts. He’d fucked up. There was too much space around him, too much air; he needed a closed hole, he needed time to think, he needed the terror to unwind from his throat for a moment. For one second.