Loyal Creatures Page 7

‘Easy mate,’ I said. ‘Have to get these clean. Don’t want you festering up.’

  She understood. Calm and balanced.

  Me and Dad knew what to do when a horse got cut. Boil up sprigs of lemon myrtle and dab it on. But you couldn’t get lemon myrtle in Palestine, so I mixed disinfectant and chlorine tablets from my first-aid kit and used that.

  ‘We’ll have you right in no time,’ I said to Daisy. ‘Rested up and fit as a fence post.’

  I didn’t tell her how important that was. Or just how much depended on it.

  In the distance I could hear gunshots out on the battlefield, even though the battle had been over for a while. No place for wounded horses in an army on the move.

  ‘Trooper, attenshun,’ roared a voice.

  I turned. Commotion behind me. Our blokes leading their horses to canvas troughs being set up near the wells. Everyone desperate for water.

  A sergeant yelling at me.

  Behind him, a captain.

  I stood to attention. Praying I’d patched Daisy up sufficient so they wouldn’t see how wounded she was.

  ‘Is this the one?’ demanded the captain.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ yelled the sergeant.

  I stood rigid, ready to hurl myself at them if they tried to shoot Daisy.

  ‘Good work, trooper,’ said the captain.

  I blinked, confused.

  ‘The Beersheba wells are of immense strategic significance,’ said the captain. ‘Superb initiative, that response of yours.’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Strategic significance? Superb initiative?

  Where was Otton when you needed him.

  ‘Ballantyne’s our water monkey, sir,’ said a voice. ‘He’s got a nose for it.’

  It was Bosworth.

  Lesney with him.

  ‘Very well done,’ said the captain to me. ‘I’ll be recommending you for a commendation.’

  He saluted, the sergeant saluted, I saluted, Bosworth and Lesney saluted, and then the officers were gone.

  ‘Jeez,’ said Bosworth. ‘You’re getting a medal.’

  I was chuffed of course, but there were more important things.

  ‘Rather have ointment for Daisy,’ I said, checking to see how her bleeding was going.

  It wasn’t so bad now. I stroked her head. I could see she agreed about the ointment.

  ‘Wait on,’ I said, remembering. ‘Otton’s got ointment. For his feet.’

  Bosworth and Lesney didn’t say anything.

  ‘Where is Otton?’ I said.

  Bosworth and Lesney still didn’t say anything.

  They didn’t need to.

  Their faces said it for them.

  We found Otton on the plain we’d charged across. About a hundred yards from the trenches. Lying under his horse.

  Both of them taken by the machine-guns.

  I sank to my knees next to them.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw it wasn’t just a battlefield any more. It was a cemetery. Dozens of graves being dug.

  Blokes who’d tried to do their bit.

  We dug a grave for Otton. I’d have buried his horse as well, but the ground was too hard and rocky. We didn’t have the right gear. We barely managed to get down deep enough for Otton’s skinny body.

  Gently we lowered him into the earth. I put his songbook onto his chest. The chaplain appeared, said a few words and moved on.

  Then we covered our Australian mate with Palestinian soil. We scratched his name onto the stock of his rifle, stuck it into the ground as a grave marker, and tied his emu feather hat to it.

  Me and Bosworth and Lesney stood, heads bowed, and said our silent words.

  We stood for a long time.

  Late that night, I did something else.

  Didn’t tell anyone about it on account of they probably wouldn’t understand and they might very likely take it the wrong way.

  I crept out of camp with Daisy.

  Back to the Turkish lines. Found the spot where me and her first hit their trenches.

  There were plenty of Turkish bodies still unburied. After a lot of hunting I found my rifle. Near to it was my bayonet, deep in the body of a bloke wearing a camouflage jacket. Next to him was another bloke, same jacket, bullet hole in the guts.

  My bullet hole, I reckoned.

  I lifted the two Turkish blokes onto Daisy’s back. She bowed her head and we walked out into the open desert. I found a spot and dug two graves.

  As gently as I could I lifted the Turkish blokes down and buried them.

  I stood by the graves. Wasn’t sure what to say.

  Stayed there anyway.

  After a while, I felt Daisy’s head on my shoulder.

  Truth was I didn’t know those blokes at all. But thinking about them made me think about Dad, and soon my whole body was shaking with tears.

  In war you never knew what was up ahead. Sure as tinned meat I didn’t.

  Starting with Joan’s parcel.

  It arrived six months after Beersheba.

  I’d had a pretty low Christmas on account of Otton. Pretty low start to 1918, too. Bosworth and Lesney were posted further north. After Beersheba they’d wanted to go back into the water deployment unit with me, but the brass made them stay with the fighting.

  Daisy came with me of course. The army had abandoned the pipeline and we were foraging water on the run as we pushed the Turks back towards their joint.

  I saw Johnson one night in April, heading off on one of his solo hunting trips. He told me how a really crook thing had happened the week before.

  Bosworth and Lesney had been killed by snipers. One careless campfire, six blokes gone.

  ‘Tonight’s for them,’ said Johnson.

  His face and his bayonet both had boot polish on them. But I could still see the gleaming teeth. His and the bayonet’s.

  I didn’t go. My place was with Daisy.

  I was knocked hard by the news. Very sad I’d missed both their funerals. So me and Daisy had our own. Just a few words into an old well and a cup of water each in their memory.

  Few weeks later Joan’s parcel arrived. Day after my nineteenth birthday.

  Nearly three years I’d been waiting to hear from her and now, out of the blue, a hefty parcel tied up with eight miles of string.

  Couldn’t hardly get it open, I was so excited.

  Finally did, and everything fell out. Two pairs of socks. Four tins of meat. Sugar lumps for Daisy. Cough lozenges for me. Half a page from the local paper with a mention of my medal. More socks.

  And a letter.

  Dear Francis

  I read in the newspaper recently about your medal. Congratulations on your wonderful contribution to our war effort.

  Last year I also read about the loss of your father. Please accept my condolences. My father was killed in France, so I know how you feel.

  They were both men of great bravery and patriotism, and so I wish to apologise for the white feather my mother and her friends sent to your father. At the time they thought it was the right thing to do, but now they know it was wrong.

  Please accept this apology, dear Francis.

  I must also ask you something very difficult. I must ask that you stop writing to me. I am engaged to be married, and at the request of my fiancée I have been disposing of your letters unread for the last year.

  Yours warmly, but in future sincerely,

  Joan.

  p.s. Happy birthday. Say g’day to Daisy for me.

  I disposed of her letter too.

  But not unread.

  I read it about a hundred times. Then I went out into the desert and built a small fire, inside a billy so no enemy sniper would spot the burning letter and get me through the heart like it had.

  I stared at the flames, and then the embers, and then the cold ashes.

  After a long time, I realised Daisy was looking at me. Sympathy on her face.

  Some wouldn’t have reckoned that was possible, but I saw it. Daisy knew about h
eartache.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said to her. ‘A bloke with half a brain would probably have spotted this coming.’

  Daisy didn’t comment.

  Just chewed a sugar lump.

  ‘Some of us creatures might think we’re smarter than other creatures,’ I said to her. ‘But we’re not. We get an idea in our head and we hang onto it even when a six-year-old could tell us it’s a dopey one.’

  Daisy gently blew sugary air into my face.

  I wasn’t just talking about me and Joan.

  Otton had tried to explain to me how this war started. I didn’t grasp all the details, but when he talked about the squabbling between France and Germany and England and Russia and Serbia and the rest, I could see it wasn’t real smart.

  Didn’t matter now.

  Blokes were doing their bit. Giving their all.

  We had a job to do.

  I emptied the billy, wiped it out, and we headed back to camp for a feed and a sleep.

  ‘It’s just you and me now,’ I said to Daisy.

  The Turks had got Dad. They’d got Otton and Bosworth and Lesney.

  But they weren’t getting Daisy.

  Was I certain about that?

  Oath I was.

  If only I’d known.

  When we were on the move at night, I covered Daisy’s white bits with black boot polish. Knew she wouldn’t like it, so I put some on my face as well.

  ‘They’ll need good eyesight now, those snipers,’ I said to her. ‘Inordinate good eyesight.’

  Daisy gave me a look.

  I knew what she was probably thinking. Me and her hadn’t had a bath for weeks. Snipers could probably locate us blindfolded.

  At least the mongrels had plenty of choice for targets. We were a big mob now.

  Not just the Light Horse. Mounted troops from Britain, Canada, all over. Biggest horseback army since Genghis Khan, someone said.

  Dunno what Genghis did for water, but as we pushed the Turks and their Hun friends north towards Damascus, we had to work hard for ours.

  I wouldn’t have reckoned it, but water was harder to find in the desert in winter than in summer. Everything froze up at night. Which is why me and Daisy took the risks we did.

  Blokes and horses needed water just as much in winter as they did when it was scorching. More if they were sniffling and crook and hot soup was the only thing keeping the influenza off them.

  Me and Daisy were on the move the whole time. Ahead of the troops, behind the troops, off to one side, off to the other side. Unclogging wells, melting ice in caves, stopping drill rigs from rusting with sand rubs and camel fat.

  We kept our heads down.

  Enemy knew our whole advance would be cactus if we didn’t have water. So their snipers went at us night and day. Water deployment units copped more airborne lead than the average fairground duck.

  Daisy didn’t like it, being shot at. As we advanced, if we came across a deserted sniper pozzie, she’d give it a good hosing.

  Not a single enemy bullet touched me or her.

  I wished Otton could have been there to see it. He was a cheery bugger most of the time, and he’d have enjoyed our good fortune.

  Probably have called it mellifluous or some such.

  They were good months for me and Daisy. We were cold, hungry, weary and scared, but we were together and we kept each other going.

  And at night, when we kipped together for warmth, both of us were always grateful for what that warmth told us. That we each had someone we cared about left in the world.

  Though Daisy had someone else as well.

  I thought about Daisy’s daughter a fair bit. How we’d get her back after the war and have her live with us.

  Then one night, when me and Daisy were camped out in the desert on a water recce by ourselves, her daughter turned up in a dream.

  Me and Daisy are riding across central New South Wales in the dark. The warm night air is fragrant with eucalypt and lemon myrtle and other smells you didn’t get in Palestine, like roast pork.

  Dawn starts to come up.

  We arrive at a paddock. The lush grass is wet with dew and scattered with mist. Fingers of sunlight stroke their way across the grass. Just like when I used to get up early to help Mum with the milking.

  I’m standing next to Daisy and suddenly she starts to tremble.

  Out of the golden mist comes a beautiful young horse. For a sec I think she’s Daisy. She’s not, she’s smaller, but she’s got Daisy’s white flashes and lop-sided body, exact.

  Daisy runs to her.

  They stand together for a moment. Then gallop, side by side, mist streaming off them, joyful.

  Me as well, running with them.

  Joyful.

  I woke up.

  Normally, next to me on the desert hillside, Daisy’s dark ribs would have been slowly rising and falling. Normally I would have felt the warmth of her.

  But she wasn’t there.

  I sat up, panicked.

  And saw her. Up on the ridgeline. Silhouetted against what Otton used to call the vault of stars.

  She wasn’t galloping, she was standing rock-still.

  Head up, staring at the horizon.

  In the distance was the rumble of artillery fire. Or thunder. Or maybe it was just my heart beating.

  I whistled to Daisy.

  She wheeled round, stared at me for a few moments, as if she wasn’t sure who I was, then thundered down the hillside towards me.

  I braced myself for a warm wet nuzzle.

  Instead she stopped a few paces away, white breath cascading from her nostrils, chest gleaming with sweat.

  Her eyes somewhere else.

  I waited a while, then started to gently rub her down with my blanket.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’ll get her back.’

  Slowly Daisy relaxed.

  Her eyes softened. Went big and sad.

  She put her head on my shoulder.

  I gave her the last of Joan’s sugar lumps. My hand was trembling. Daisy was too.

  Next morning, though, she was fine.

  Could all have been a dream if my blanket hadn’t still been damp with her sweat and I hadn’t still been shivering from trying to sleep under it.

  I stroked Daisy’s neck while she was having breakfast.

  ‘I mean it,’ I said. ‘We’ll get her back.’

  The other thing that kept us going was we knew the Turks and Huns were finished. Just a matter of time.

  And exactly a year to the day after we charged them at Beersheba, they packed it in.

  Mass surrenderings all over the place.

  Huns in France included.

  Jeez, we celebrated. Big cup of tea, real tea. Oats for Daisy, real oats from the officers’ mess.

  ‘Good on you, cobber,’ I said to her. ‘We made it.’

  The war was over.

  But not for me and Daisy.

  It was a chook-house of a way to end a war.

  The fighting was over, but our military duties weren’t. We were turned into sort of police.

  The local folk had gone a bit hysterical after having foreigners fighting a war in their country for four years. I didn’t blame them, but the brass reckoned they needed a bit of supervising.

  So we did. Me and Daisy didn’t mind. At least nobody was shooting.

  Not yet.

  Back in camp, between shifts, we made plans for the future.

  ‘When we get back home there’ll be parades,’ I said to Daisy. ‘Big one down the main street of Sydney, probably. And down the main street of our town, but we won’t bother with that one.’

  Daisy understood. One parade’s enough.

  Start getting too full of yourself with more than one.

  ‘We’ll get ourselves a piece of land,’ I said to her. ‘Word is, government’ll give us soldiers a loan so we can pay some acres off. Wait till you see what it’s like over Gulgong way. Near Ulan Drip. Water there, permanent.’

  Daisy wo
uldn’t have understood every word, but she could see how excited I was, so she knew how good it would be.

  ‘Then,’ I said, ‘we’ll find your daughter. I know which property out west she’s on, and I’ll have a whack of army pay. If the cocky doesn’t want to sell her, I’ll just offer him more.’

  Daisy looked at me.

  ‘And then,’ I said, ‘it’ll be the three of us on our place, together. Alright, four if I can find a sheila.’

  Daisy licked my ear.

  It was her way of telling me to go for it.

  One morning I stuck my head out of the tent and saw the remount quartermaster over by the horse lines. Talking with a bloke in a strange-looking uniform.

  I went over.

  The bloke, I saw as I got closer, was an officer from some other army. Indian, it looked like.

  He was having a close squiz at our horses.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he was saying. ‘Damage on this one too. Barbed-wire scars, I’d say.’

  At first I thought he was a vet. Brought in by the brass to give our horses a bit of medical attention before the long voyage home. Which was what they deserved.

  ‘I’m puzzled,’ the Indian officer said. ‘Isn’t it standard practise on the battlefield to dispose of wounded horses?’

  The quartermaster nodded.

  ‘The bad ones,’ he said. ‘But our walers are tough. Few scratches don’t bother ’em.’

  The Indian officer frowned.

  ‘I’m afraid we can only take the unmarked ones,’ he said.

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard right.

  Take? Take where? And why would a vet only be interested in the ones that hadn’t been in strife?

  ‘What if,’ said the quartermaster, ‘we chuck in the damaged ones free of charge? You only buy the clean ones.’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  Free of charge? Buy?

  ‘What’s going on?’ I said.

  There were other troopers with me now, muttering, concerned.

  The quartermaster hadn’t seen us come over. For a second he looked at us nervously, then glared at us.

  ‘Back to your tents,’ he roared. ‘That’s an order.’

  None of us moved.

  I could see Daisy on the line, watching us.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ said a trooper near me, slowly and clearly so even the quartermaster’s fat ears could get the gist.