Loyal Creatures (7 page)

As we advanced towards Palestine, word got around.

The Turks were calling us desert ghosts.

Dune jackals.

Every time a Light Horse regiment came out of the desert haze, the Turks'd poop themselves. They couldn't believe our horses. Bred for outback work, our walers. Guts and stamina.

But even walers needed water, and you couldn't always find water in the desert, not even in the Holy Land.

So the Turks started making it harder. Defending their wells. Trenches, machine-guns, artillery with crack gunners.

Few weeks later, our next battle. Turks were dug in. Impossible to shift. Like our troop sergeant.

‘Ballantyne,' he said, just like the time before. ‘Horse-holder.'

Before I could say a word, he gave me the eye and patted his rifle.

Mongrel.

Daisy gave my elbow a nip.

She was right. I pulled my head in. No point getting shot by one of our own. But I wasn't taking this, not permanent. I wasn't missing out again.

I waited for the troop sergeant to move on.

As soon as he was distracted, I'd be going in.

The battle was noisier than a grand final. Our blokes were coming off worst.

Order came. Retire.

Suddenly I saw my chance. When blokes were pinned down, trying to retreat, you didn't wait for them to come to you, you took the horses to them.

‘This is it,' I said to Daisy, crouching low on her neck. ‘Our turn.'

We went in fast with the other three horses on a tight rein. Smoke, machine-gun fire, shell-bursts spraying sand.

Otton, Lesney and Bosworth were squatting in a shell hole, firing over each other's shoulders.

The Turk trenches were a hop and a skip away. Jam-packed full of the mongrels.

I could have gone for one right there.

Several.

But first I had to get my section mounted.

‘Order's in,' I screamed at them, metal flying past in all directions. ‘Retire.'

Wasn't the neatest mount-up. Bosworth took one in the leg. Just flesh, far as we could see.

Otton and Johnson kept firing to give us cover. We got Bosworth in the saddle and pointed him in the right direction.

‘I'll catch up with you,' I said.

The others took off.

I wheeled Daisy round to get myself a Turk.

Smoke was thicker than a wheat-stubble burn-off. But I could see that most of the mongrels were still in their trenches.

Not all, but. Some were out and looking for bayonet practice. Which reminded me that mine, the special one, was still in my saddlebag.

I fumbled with the buckle.

No way was I going to pike out. I'd paid for that bayonet. Every razor tooth. It was for Dad.

I got the saddlebag open, but before I could get my hand in, a shell exploded close.

Real close.

One time, years before, I was slow getting my head out of a shaft when the charge blew. That was bad, but nothing like this.

Me and Daisy were covered with blood and God knows what else.

Oh Jeez, I thought. What have I done? What if some of this is hers?

I made myself think clearly. Daisy was still on her feet, so she couldn't be hurt too bad.

I got her out of there.

It was chaos. Some of our blokes from other sections had lost their horses. On the way out I saw a bloke stumbling around in the smoke, uniform half blown off. I didn't slow down, just scooped the bloke up. Dad would have been proud. He taught me how to grab livestock on the run. I got bronze once in the chook-snatching at the picnic races.

‘Hang on tight, mate,' I said. ‘Daisy'll get us back.'

The bloke didn't say anything. I glanced at him to see if he was wounded.

He wasn't wounded, he was a Turk.

We looked at each other, me with my arm round him. My first Turk, and I didn't have a spare hand to kill him.

I gripped Daisy with my knees. Let go of the reins. Reached into the saddlebag and found the bayonet.

Before I could use it, the smoke suddenly cleared and bang in front of us was barbed wire.

Daisy stopped in her tracks.

Me and the Turk went over her head.

Crashed onto the sand inches from the wire. Breath knocked out of me, but I managed to roll on top of the Turk and get the bayonet up to his neck.

He was gripping my wrist.

I was stronger. And riled.

‘This is for Dad, you murdering mongrel,' I yelled at him.

He wasn't struggling or pleading or praying out loud. Just looking at me. And sort of wheezing.

He was even older than Dad. And his expression. Sad and disappointed and bewildered all at the same time.

Dad with the feather.

I imagined this mongrel at Gallipoli. Squeezing the trigger as Dad came out of the trench. Punching bullet after bullet into Dad's flailing body.

I closed my eyes and gripped the bayonet harder and tried to force it into his neck. I screamed at him so loud I could hear myself over the exploding shells.

But I couldn't do it.

I thought about leaving the Turk there on the battlefield, but I didn't.

He was a prisoner.

You didn't abandon prisoners. Rules said you took them into custody. So that's what I did.

It's what Dad would have done.

‘Don't worry,' I said to Daisy as I tied the Turk's hands. ‘He won't hurt you.'

She looked like she'd hurt him if she got the chance.

I dragged him up onto her back and we rode off with my arm round his neck.

After a bit we caught up with some Welsh infantry on the march. Judging by their sour mugs, they must have been ordered to retreat before they even got to the battle.

I rode up to one of their officers.

‘Prisoner in your care, sir,' I said.

The officer looked at me. Looked at the Turk. Wasn't pleased to see either of us. But he ordered a couple of his blokes to take the Turk into custody.

The Turk gave me a look as they took him away. A grateful look.

I didn't want to see it.

After the officer had gone, some of the Welshies came over.

‘Why didn't you just neck him?' said one.

‘He was unarmed,' I said.

One of the other Welsh blokes pointed to the extra feed bags on Daisy.

‘Nancy horse-holder,' he muttered to his mates. ‘Lucky the horses need holding. Gives the cowards something to do.'

Infantry, they were always whingers, miserable plods.

I was tempted to sort that Taffy plod out. I didn't. Blokes on the same side punching each other was dopey. I just dismounted and looked the Taff hard in the eyes.

‘My name's Francis Ballantyne,' I said. ‘Come and see me after the war and we'll chew it over then.'

He glared at me. I didn't blink. Or give any sign that might lead a pea-brain Taff to think I was lacking in the guts department.

But somewhere inside me, tiny and trickling, was the worry that when it came to killing Turks maybe I was.

Back at camp I gave Daisy a proper wash-down.

Big relief. She was fine. But she let me know she wasn't crazy about wearing somebody else's blood and guts.

‘Sorry,' I said. ‘Putting you in it like that.'

She flicked her ears and kicked at my shins a bit, then calmed down and forgave me.

I dried her off and gave her a feed.

‘Back in a tick,' I said.

Went to see how Lesney was.

‘Came out clean,' said Lesney, patting the bandage on his leg. ‘I've had worse from a news editor.'

‘He's being stoic,' said Otton. ‘It went close to something critical.'

‘Yeah,' said Boswell. ‘His wallet.'

I didn't really feel like socialising, so I went back to Daisy.

Brushed her carefully, every inch. Just to be sure. Shrapnel could sit under the skin and go septic if you didn't spot it.

‘Can I ask you something?' I said to her. ‘Do you reckon I let Dad down today?'

She didn't understand all the words, but it felt good to get them out. Mum taught me it was easier to think about things when the words were out.

Daisy just kept chewing her feed. Egyptian straw was like that, lot of chewing, not much to swallow.

I knew how she felt.

‘I'll go for a walk,' I said. ‘Find you something better.'

‘Jeez,' said a voice. ‘I think I've cracked a knuckle.'

Johnson was heading towards us along the horse lines, grimacing and rubbing his fist.

I looked at him, startled.

We'd hardly spoken for months. Not since I'd cracked my knuckles on him.

‘Couple of Taffys needed a talking to,' said Johnson. ‘About who they call a coward.'

I stared at him.

‘You didn't have to . . .' I said.

‘No worries,' he said. ‘You're a mad bugger, but you're not a coward.'

‘Thanks,' I said doubtfully.

I still wasn't sure what he was doing here.

‘I explained it to 'em,' said Johnson. ‘How a coward's a bloke with an inability to kill anyone cause he was brought up wrong. Whereas you're just a choosy individual who's saving his first kill for a special occasion.'

I looked at him.

‘Special occasion?' I said.

‘Later tonight,' he said.

I still didn't understand.

‘I can see you're disappointed by how things turned out today,' said Johnson. ‘So I'm inviting you on a little hunting expedition.'

All us troopers were meant to get leave, regular.

Didn't happen.

When regiments were on the move, fighting a tough desert campaign, setting up a series of field camps, each one further north as we pushed the mongrel Turks back towards Turkey, there wasn't any leave.

Not official.

But field camps didn't have much in the way of fences and gates, so if you were up for it and gung-ho and desperate to avenge your dad, a bit of leave was possible.

Otton wasn't all that gung-ho. Plus he didn't need revenge. His dad died in a sheep-drenching accident that was entirely the fault of the sheep.

‘If we're caught, we'll be shot,' said Otton, as me and him and Johnson rode out into the moonlit desert on our hunting expedition. ‘It's as simple and categorical as that.'

‘Shut it,' growled Johnson.

Johnson hadn't wanted Otton to come.

Otton had insisted.

‘When a mate goes on a suicide mission,' Otton had said, ‘you go with him.'

Johnson had scowled at that.

He was scowling even more now.

‘If you haven't got the ticker,' he said to Otton, ‘this is where you leave us. We're here to kill Turks. Face-to-face. Like men.'

‘Why face-to-face?' said Otton nervously.

Johnson licked his lips.

In the moonlight his moustache was very black against his white teeth.

‘Respect,' he said. ‘No fun killing blokes if you don't respect them.'

Johnson rode on ahead. He said it was to scout for Turks. And so he wouldn't have to listen to Otton humming.

Otton rode close to me and Daisy.

‘I know why you're doing this, Frank,' he said. ‘You're doing it to impress that paramour of yours back home.'

I gave him a look. To remind him about Dad.

‘There are more important reasons for killing Turks,' I said.

‘Sorry,' said Otton.

‘Anyway,' I said. ‘I wouldn't call her a paramour. Unless that's a technical word for someone who doesn't answer letters.'

Otton sighed.

‘How many times do I have to reiterate?' he said. ‘You're being too impatient. The mail takes months each way.'

‘I've been writing for a year and a half,' I said. ‘I've had one letter from her, and that was back in Sydney.'

Otton thought about this.

‘You sure she can read?' he said. ‘I knew a sheila once, worked for a doctor, couldn't read or write a word. Had to draw pictures of malfunctioning body parts on the file cards.'

Before I could remind him that Joan had a scholarship, Daisy stiffened.

I wasn't sure why at first. Then I felt a breeze. And heard a rumbling in the distance.

Otton and I looked at each other.

Big guns?

Large numbers of Turkish troops in motor lorries?

Daisy stopped and sniffed the air.

There was something about the way she was trembling that made my guts tighten.

Then we saw what it was. Daisy was right.

This was worse than guns or troops.

Me and Dad had copped a few sandstorms out west in New South Wales. Bit of dust in the face and the odd airborne lizard.

This one was a hundred times worse.

As it howled towards us, the moonlight began to disappear. Soon I couldn't even see Daisy, and I was on her back.

‘Get down flat,' I yelled at Otton through the howling sand. He was only a few feet away, but I didn't have a clue if he could hear me.

I stripped the gear off Daisy and tried to make her lie down. Wasn't easy. She was furious. Wanted to give that sandstorm a serious kicking.

I finally got her down and wrapped a blanket round her head. Dropped down next to her with the saddlecloth round mine and used the saddle as a windbreak.

Thought I got a glimpse of Otton doing the same.

I hoped so.

We were there for a long time.

I had plenty to do. Digging the sand away from us mostly, stopping it building up over our faces. And making sure we both got water when we needed it. Just small swigs from my canteen.

Did Otton have water? And Johnson?

Too late if they didn't.

I got close to Daisy's ear and tried to keep her spirits up. Told her a few things she might not know about our family. How upset Dad was when he had to sell her daughter. How he needed the money for Mum's funeral. How grateful we were to Daisy that Mum had a proper grave.

It was true, but it wasn't very cheery, so I sang Daisy a few songs. Not a total success. My mouth kept filling up with sand.

As the wind finally calmed down a bit, the swirling darkness lifted.

It was dawn.

I looked around for Otton. Couldn't see him or his horse.

The whole landscape had changed. Dunes the size of our troop ship, completely shifted.

And still shifting. Big gusts of wind flinging sand around like shrapnel.

I still couldn't see Otton. Until a small dune erupted and Otton's horse stood up and shook herself. Daisy went over and they nuzzled each other.

Then Otton's horse hosed on a pile of sand, which swore loudly. Otton staggered to his feet, coughing and spitting.

‘You alright?' I said.

‘That was the worst experience of my life,' croaked Otton. ‘And I've had diphtheria.'

‘Quiet,' growled a voice.

Johnson had come up behind us.

‘Hear that?' he said.

Faintly, through the hissing wind, the sound of voices. Yelling, hysterical, panicked voices. You couldn't make out what they were saying. But then none of us spoke Turkish.

Johnson grinned.

‘Good,' he said. ‘They're in a state. They won't be expecting us.'

We heaved ourselves over a sand-blown ridge on our stomachs.

I gripped my rifle hard. This was it. I wasn't going to pike out this time.

Then we saw them.

Johnson was right, they weren't expecting us. And we weren't expecting them.

The three of us stared.

‘Jesus Christ,' said Johnson.

They weren't Turks. They were British infantry from their uniforms. Those that were still wearing them. Normally I could have had a guess at the regiment from their accents. But they weren't saying anything. Just screaming. Mad with thirst. Staggering around half-naked.

Drinking sand, some of them.

I'd seen tragic things in battles, but nothing like this.

I tried to think straight. There were twenty or thirty of them and we were almost out of water. No water in these dunes.

We had to get them back to camp.

I grabbed Otton and Johnson. The three of us scrambled back to the horses, mounted up and headed down the slope towards the crazed Poms.

Closer we got, the more it felt like a dud idea. Some of the Brits saw us. Ran towards us waving weapons. Faces like you see in an abattoir.

They weren't going to be led anywhere.

I glanced at Otton and Johnson. Otton was rigid with terror. Johnson, who I'd never seen show a flicker of fear, was gob-open with it.

‘Come on,' I yelled.

I tried to turn Daisy back up the slope. Before I could, the wind smashed into us and the darkness of swirling sand was on us again.

Daisy staggered but stayed on her feet. I slid off and got her head wrapped again, then mine. I waved to the others to do the same.

We remounted and set off. Daisy and me in front. Me holding Otton's reins behind my back. Otton doing the same with Johnson's.

Single file, small steps, blind.

I tried not to think about the poor blighters we'd just seen. But I couldn't help it. Without Daisy and the other walers, we'd be drinking sand too.

And what if they'd been Turks in that state?

Would we have irrigated the desert with them?