1915 by Roger McDonald

Author:Roger McDonald
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Random House Australia
Published: 1979-08-23T04:00:00+00:00

Suddenly a double crack of Australian rifle fire leapt from the upper bend of the trench. Straightaway the Turks responded, sending maddened golfers to whip arid divots from the lip of the parapet. Where was fear? This was its antidote! Dust and splinters of gravel rattled downwards. Hurst explained that the shots had been fired by a light horse sharpshooter who after only a day spent ranging this part of the line was known as “The Murderer”. “Bugger him,” said Hurst, cupping his hands and shouting at the unseen sniper: “Stick your head up your arse!” In an aside he said: “No room for Methodists here.” From the supple enunciation Walter could tell he’d long since learned to swear.

“Blankets!” He was in control.

Out on the never-to-be-sighted surface of the earth a sound like the woof of petrol fires gave way to the terse ripping of tinfoil. “The major’s motto is never hold back. I won’t be the odd man out.” Action, it seemed, was the one test he had passed long ago. The strange tricks of his contemplative self were nowhere in sight.

“Hurst?” called the major, “You’re opening bat.”

The first bomb dribbled in. A globe, black and absolute, with a smoking wick.

Hurst leapt and retreated, leaving a magical square of blanket on the ground. For a second the sphere huddled under it, a dangerous lump, while Hurst considered his timing. Then he jumped again to hold the blanket down and the end was announced in a defeated gush of wind and a suppressed sunset.

Though Walter was safe, his fright at the damped explosion caused him to leap and take refuge, foolishly erect, on the nearby fire-step. For an instant his hat appeared above the parapet, presenting to the world a surfacing khaki duck which Turkish snipers spotted from two directions and invisibly printed with X, horizontally across, as it rose and dipped. The bullets as they scored past found an echo in Reg Hurst’s darting whispers: “Christ” in one ear, “Almighty” in the other.

Then more bombs each. Black fruit greedily collected. Limbs in a tangle — once he and Hurst embraced, heads knocking, while fuses gloated.

A rule of physics: bombs roll towards, never away.

A photograph: Major Mason crouched like a circus monkey, blanket at the ready. And at the other swing of the lens, Madox and Bushel with anxious faces.

Hurst’s insanity: “Eggs-a-cook. Hoop, la!”

And at last the trench setting sail: moorings slipped, the wharf sliding backwards. The farewelling bombers holding their length, yet the projectiles striking farther along, near the major’s cubbyhole.

Now Bluey was in the thick of it, a ginger and tan scuffle. Where was Frank? Then Bluey scurried out of sight and the major waddled into view alone.

For a minute nothing happened. The officer found time to fiddle with a stub of cigarette and joke for all to hear that he’d light it from the next bomb. The bomb came, he snuffed it. But it was followed too quickly by a second one which thudded at his heels, then stropped itself out of reach.

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