was on the path to close the circle. Wallarie knew that Tom Duffy could not see his future but through the eyes of the ancestor spirits Wallarie could. Little did the Macintosh and Duffy clans know it but the young man in far-off Townsville was being guided by the ancient ones.
3
C aptain Sean Duffy huddled beside the shrapnel-torn body of a young Australian soldier at the bottom of the forward trench. They had not even commenced their assault on the German lines and already the casualties were piling up as both enemy and their own artillery shells ripped through the heavily congested jumping off trenches occupied by the Australians. He had experienced artillery bombardments before at Gallipoli but nothing to the extent he was now enduring. The sound was deafening, muffling the screams of helpless men being torn apart by red-hot shrapnel balls and shards of exploding shells.
Beside him crouched Corporal Jack Kelly, clutching his bayonet-tipped rifle. Sean had forgotten the itch of lice and the ever-present stench of the clay trench. He realised that he was terrified, and fought with the last of his sanity to retain control. He was aware that he had wet himself and was close to defecating with fear. His hands shook when he removed his fob watch to check the time. It was 1530 hours but, in the European summer, a long way from nightfall.
‘Over the bags in ten minutes.’ The order was shouted in Sean’s ear and when he glanced up from his huddle he saw the face of his commanding officer, Patrick Duffy, who placed his hand on Sean’s shoulder reassuringly.
An artillery shell exploded on the lip of the trench, showering the men below with clods of earth. Men fell back screaming in agony as the shrapnel shredded their bodies. Sean was aware that Patrick was staring down at him with an expression of concern. ‘Get your company ready, Captain Duffy,’ he yelled. ‘They need you.’
Sean shook off his fear for the moment. He could see a corporal watching him, ashen-faced, and understood that he was not the only one experiencing the crippling fear as they huddled helplessly under the terrible barrage. Despite his terror he knew that three young platoon commanders and their respective men looked to him for leadership. This alone forced Sean to rise to his feet. ‘Ten minutes before we go over the bags,’ he yelled at the top of his voice, and the word was passed down the trench, amid the earth shaking of the barrage on their lines.
And then it was time.
‘Over you go!’ Sean bellowed, and his men rose from crouching positions to scramble over the sandbags with bayonets fixed. Between them, his men carried sacks full of hand grenades, picks, shovels and even scaling ladders for the assault on the heavily entrenched enemy. Sean found himself on his feet, gripping his revolver at the end of its lanyard and glancing to either side to ensure his men had come out of the trenches. They had. ‘Follow me!’ he called out.
He had placed himself with his forward platoon and was accompanied by his company sergeant major and Jack Kelly. Corporal Jack Kelly was still beside him as he had the task of remaining with company headquarters to act as an interpreter for any Germans they may capture. Now there was no going back, Sean thought grimly. They had a job to do and it lay a mere 200 yards away across a field of tall grasses being thrashed by bullet and shrapnel. If hell had a French name it must be Fromelles, Sean thought as he staggered forward.
From the dominating feature known to his enemies as the Aubers Ridge, General Major von Fellmann watched the Australian and British troops spill out of their trenches. From intelligence reports, he knew that his distant relative Lieutenant Colonel Patrick Duffy would be leading one of the battalions. The major scanned the churned-up no-man’s-land between the lines. He could see tiny figures advancing bravely through shell and machine-gun fire.
‘Australians,’ he murmured, but
3
C aptain Sean Duffy huddled beside the shrapnel-torn body of a young Australian soldier at the bottom of the forward trench. They had not even commenced their assault on the German lines and already the casualties were piling up as both enemy and their own artillery shells ripped through the heavily congested jumping off trenches occupied by the Australians. He had experienced artillery bombardments before at Gallipoli but nothing to the extent he was now enduring. The sound was deafening, muffling the screams of helpless men being torn apart by red-hot shrapnel balls and shards of exploding shells.
Beside him crouched Corporal Jack Kelly, clutching his bayonet-tipped rifle. Sean had forgotten the itch of lice and the ever-present stench of the clay trench. He realised that he was terrified, and fought with the last of his sanity to retain control. He was aware that he had wet himself and was close to defecating with fear. His hands shook when he removed his fob watch to check the time. It was 1530 hours but, in the European summer, a long way from nightfall.
‘Over the bags in ten minutes.’ The order was shouted in Sean’s ear and when he glanced up from his huddle he saw the face of his commanding officer, Patrick Duffy, who placed his hand on Sean’s shoulder reassuringly.
An artillery shell exploded on the lip of the trench, showering the men below with clods of earth. Men fell back screaming in agony as the shrapnel shredded their bodies. Sean was aware that Patrick was staring down at him with an expression of concern. ‘Get your company ready, Captain Duffy,’ he yelled. ‘They need you.’
Sean shook off his fear for the moment. He could see a corporal watching him, ashen-faced, and understood that he was not the only one experiencing the crippling fear as they huddled helplessly under the terrible barrage. Despite his terror he knew that three young platoon commanders and their respective men looked to him for leadership. This alone forced Sean to rise to his feet. ‘Ten minutes before we go over the bags,’ he yelled at the top of his voice, and the word was passed down the trench, amid the earth shaking of the barrage on their lines.
And then it was time.
‘Over you go!’ Sean bellowed, and his men rose from crouching positions to scramble over the sandbags with bayonets fixed. Between them, his men carried sacks full of hand grenades, picks, shovels and even scaling ladders for the assault on the heavily entrenched enemy. Sean found himself on his feet, gripping his revolver at the end of its lanyard and glancing to either side to ensure his men had come out of the trenches. They had. ‘Follow me!’ he called out.
He had placed himself with his forward platoon and was accompanied by his company sergeant major and Jack Kelly. Corporal Jack Kelly was still beside him as he had the task of remaining with company headquarters to act as an interpreter for any Germans they may capture. Now there was no going back, Sean thought grimly. They had a job to do and it lay a mere 200 yards away across a field of tall grasses being thrashed by bullet and shrapnel. If hell had a French name it must be Fromelles, Sean thought as he staggered forward.
From the dominating feature known to his enemies as the Aubers Ridge, General Major von Fellmann watched the Australian and British troops spill out of their trenches. From intelligence reports, he knew that his distant relative Lieutenant Colonel Patrick Duffy would be leading one of the battalions. The major scanned the churned-up no-man’s-land between the lines. He could see tiny figures advancing bravely through shell and machine-gun fire.
‘Australians,’ he murmured, but
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