A dull, misty silence hung over the battlefield. Taz had no idea how long the fight for Mephisto’s crater had been going on, but he guessed the time was now well after midnight. The German infantry, determined to winkle the Australians from the shell crater that housed Mephisto, had come at the defenders time and again, almost reaching the very edge of the crater before being driven back each time. Now, the surviving defenders waited for the Germans to regroup and come at them yet again.

Each German assault had reduced the platoon’s numbers. One by one the Australians had been killed. Only Taz, Frankie, Billy Blizzard and Corporal Rait remained alive. Blizzard, who already sported a shoulder wound, had been hit a second time – this time in the neck – and could only speak with difficulty. All through the struggle, Rait had sat leaning up against the tank, watching his men die around him, and finishing off his whiskey.

Taz, out of rifle ammunition, had resorted to firing a captured German pistol. But its magazine was now empty too. ‘Got any ammo left, Frankie?’ he asked as they lay next to each other.

‘Nope. All I’ve got left to fight with is my bayonet, mate.’

Taz looked to Blizzard. ‘Billy, any ammo?’

Blizzard, who had tied the ripped shirt tail of a dead neighbour around his neck as a temporary bandage, slowly shook his head.

‘As long as we stay here,’ said Frankie, ‘we’re goners, like the rest of them.’ He cast a glance around the other members of their platoon scattered about the crater. Some looked as if they were asleep. Others were grotesque, frozen in their last moments, with bodies and limbs contorted. ‘And for what?’

‘We have our orders, Frankie,’ said Taz wearily. ‘The lieutenant told us we had to defend the tank, no matter what.’

‘Yeah, I know, I know. But the lieutenant has got to be lying dead out there somewhere. What good are his orders now?’

Taz looked at his friend unhappily. ‘That’s not the point. He gave us those orders, and until someone else orders us to fall back, we can’t move.’

‘What if I order us to fall back?’ Frankie responded.

Taz shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work like that, Frankie. You know that.’

‘Then we go anyway. Who’ll know the difference?’

‘We will. I’m not moving, Frankie. You go if you want.’

‘Don’t be stupid!’ Frankie snorted. ‘I’m not leaving you here on your own, Taz.’

They lapsed into silence.

‘The next shell hole,’ croaked Blizzard, after a while.

‘What about it, Billy?’ Taz asked, turning to look at him.

‘We could move there,’ Billy answered with difficulty.

‘Not a bad idea, Billy boy,’ said Frankie. ‘We could still defend the tank from over there. That’s what those Jerries were doing until we polished them off. At least over there we won’t be in the direct line of fire. What do you reckon, Taz?’

Taz was thoughtful for a moment. Secretly, he agreed with his friend – by staying in this shell crater with the tank, which the Germans clearly wanted to get hold of, and without ammunition, they were condemning themselves to death. ‘We’d better see what Corporal Rait thinks of the idea,’ he said at last.

‘Rait the Rat?’ Frankie scoffed. ‘He’s finished, mate. He won’t see another sunrise.’

‘He’s still in charge.’ Without another word, Taz dragged himself to his feet and went to where Rait sat.

The corporal didn’t acknowledge Taz’s arrival.

‘Corp?’ said Taz, kneeling in front of the Englishman. It then occurred to him that the unmoving Rait might be dead. Lifting Rait’s left arm, he let go of it again. The arm flopped back down. Putting a hand to the man’s cheek, he found that the warmth of life had drained from him. Taz reckoned that Rait must have been dead for a while. As he went to rise, he noticed something clasped in the corporal’s right hand – the Mills bomb that Lieutenant Blair had left with Rait.

‘Waste not, want not,’ Taz said to himself. He carefully prised the grenade from the dead man’s fingers before returning to Frankie and Billy.

‘Well?’ Frankie queried. ‘What’d he have to say?’

‘Not much,’ Taz replied, as he again lay full length. ‘He’s dead.’

‘That seals it,’ said Frankie, with a shudder. ‘We move to the next shell hole. All those in favour? Aye! Against?’ He paused to allow the other two to speak. When neither did, he added, ‘Then the motion is carried. Let’s go!’

As Frankie pulled himself to his feet, Taz held Rait’s grenade up to him. ‘You’d better take this,’ he said. ‘I’ll give Billy a hand.’

Frankie accepted the grenade, and Taz went to the wounded Blizzard and hauled him to his feet. With his rifle in one hand and the other supporting Blizzard, Taz looked at Frankie. ‘Away you go then,’ he urged. ‘We’ll follow.’

Frankie scampered away, empty Lee-Enfield in one hand and Mills bomb in the other. Taz and Blizzard made harder going of it, slipping and sliding until they were out of the hole in the ground, with Taz almost carrying his companion.

‘One big grave,’ Blizzard croaked.

‘Too right it is, mate,’ Taz agreed, then wondered if Blizzard was talking about the crater or the Somme as a whole. Either way, Taz couldn’t disagree.

Frankie pushed on ahead, stepping over the bodies of men from Germany’s 77th Reserve Division, casualties of the fight for Mephisto. A little short of his destination, Frankie dropped to one knee. It had dawned on him that more Germans from the same unit might be sheltering in the very hole that he was heading for. Laying down his rifle, he primed the Mills bomb, then lobbed it ahead of him and into the crater, before dropping flat to await the detonation. The grenade went off with the usual dull whoomp!

Taking his rifle, and holding it at waist level to jab the bayonet into anyone who stood in his way, Frankie rose up and ran towards the shell hole. In he jumped, feet first, tumbling over corpses. Regaining his feet, he stood ready to take on any German who might still be alive. But nothing moved. The shell hole was filled with the bodies of Mephisto’s crewmen and three British soldiers who’d died there earlier in the day.

Moments later, Taz and Blizzard came sliding down the face of the crater to join him.

‘Welcome to our new home, boys,’ said Frankie grimly.

Gingerly propping Blizzard up against the crater wall, Taz relieved him of his rifle, laying both their weapons to one side.

‘How’s he doing?’ Frankie asked.

‘Not real well,’ Taz answered, looking down at Blizzard. ‘Between his two wounds, he’s lost a lot of blood.’

Blizzard was trying to speak but nothing was coming out.

Taz, sinking down to sit beside him, leaned close. ‘What’s that, Billy, mate?’

‘Will you tell my mum and dad I died bravely?’ Blizzard whispered.

‘You’re not going to die, mate,’ Taz assured him, slipping the water bottle from his belt and removing the cork top.

‘How do you know?’

Taz shrugged. ‘I just know. Have you got a big family, Billy?’ He held the water bottle to the wounded man’s lips.

Blizzard nodded and swallowed hard. ‘I’m one of eleven kids,’ he whispered.

‘Eleven!’ Taz exclaimed.

‘How about you, Taz?’ Blizzard asked hoarsely.

‘Two brothers. One killed on Gallipoli, one killed in Flanders. I’m the last of the Dutton line.’ Shaking his water bottle, and finding it empty, Taz cast it away.

‘Why’d you join up?’

‘I couldn’t stand that they died while I was safe back at home.’ With his voice quavering, Taz changed the subject. ‘Where’s home for you, Billy?’

‘Winton,’ Blizzard replied. ‘Queensland.’

‘Is it nice there?’

‘Paradise,’ Blizzard whispered. ‘Got a fag, mate?’

‘A fag? I don’t know if that will do you much good, Billy.’

‘Just the one.’

Taz sighed. ‘I’ll see if Frankie’s got any left.’ He stepped around the bodies of German soldiers to get to Frankie, who had taken up a lookout position on the side of the hole nearest the Mephisto crater. ‘Got any cigarettes left, Frankie?’

Fishing in a tunic pocket, Frankie pulled out his tobacco pouch and peered into it. ‘Probably got enough backer left for two fags. Taken up smoking all of a sudden, have you?’

‘It’s for Billy.’

‘Ah, righto.’ With the last of his tobacco, Frankie proceeded to roll two thin cigarettes – one for Blizzard, one for himself – then gave one to Taz, along with his box of matches.

Taz went away with cigarette and matches, and bent down to Blizzard. But he returned shortly after and handed both back to Frankie.

‘Changed his mind about the fag, has he?’ Frankie asked, slipping the unused cigarette into his tobacco pouch.

‘Won’t be needing it,’ Taz replied, sinking down beside Frankie. ‘Billy’s gone.’

‘Ah.’ Frankie lit the other cigarette for himself. ‘So, it’s just you and me now, mate,’ he remarked, then took a puff. ‘The two youngest blokes in the entire platoon are the only ones still living and breathing. That’s flaming irony for you.’

‘Seems that way,’ Taz sighed.

 

Frankie stabbed the cigarette butt into the earth. He and Taz were straining to hear what was going on beyond their hiding place, listening for telltale sounds of German troops coming their way. In that case, the two of them would only be able to put up a fight using their bayonets and empty rifles.

‘Help! Please help me!’ A muffled voice came from behind them.

Frankie and Taz both looked around.

‘Did you hear that?’ said Frankie.

‘Someone’s still alive.’

‘Is it Billy?’

‘Please help me,’ came the voice again.

‘It’s coming from that pile of dead Germans,’ said Taz, pointing to a stack three bodies high, just metres from them.

‘I am under here,’ said the voice.

Taz, coming to his feet, went over to the pile of bodies and bent down. A pale upturned face met his eyes, owned by a fair-haired youth lying on his stomach at the bottom of the pile.

‘I cannot move. I cannot get out,’ said the young man, in accented English. ‘Please help me, sir.’

Frankie came up beside Taz. ‘You’re a flaming Jerry!’ he growled, pointing his bayonet at the young man.

‘Yes, I am German. Please, I am unarmed. I only loaded a cannon. I never personally killed a soul.’ He tried to move, without success. He was pinned down by the two bodies on top of him. ‘If you could please lift the others off me . . .’

‘Hold on,’ said Taz.

While Frankie continued to stand guard, Taz hauled the top body off the pile, then the next. Slowly, painfully, the young man sat up. His hair, face and shirt were covered with blood – but not his own, it seemed.

‘Don’t try going anywhere, mate!’ Frankie cautioned, the tip of his bayonet just centimetres from the young German’s head.

‘I will not try to escape. I am your prisoner. I never wanted to fight in this war. I was forced into the army.’

‘He’s not going anywhere, Frankie,’ said Taz. ‘Steady on.’

Frankie scowled. ‘So what do we do with him? You heard what the higher-ups said before this all began – no prisoners! And you saw what Lieutenant Blair did to those Jerries who surrendered in the first trench we took. He blew their flaming brains out! Besides, you heard this bloke say he loaded a cannon. He must have been in the crew of that tank over there, the one that’s caused us so much grief.’

‘Yes, I was in the crew of the tank,’ Richard interjected. ‘But I only loaded the cannon. I was the most junior member of the crew.’

‘What difference does it make what he did or didn’t do?’ said Frankie. ‘We owe it to Nashie and the others to kill as many Jerries as we can.’

‘Well, I’m not going to kill this bloke,’ Taz retorted. ‘He’s defenceless. We can take him back with us to Australian lines and hand him over once we’re relieved.’

‘Australian lines?’ said the young German with surprise. ‘You are from Australia?’

‘Most Australians do tend to come from Australia, mate,’ Frankie responded sarcastically. ‘Funny that.’

‘But we were told we were fighting Tommies.’

Frankie shook his head. ‘We’re not Tommies, mate. We’re Aussies. You understand? Aussies!’

‘Yes, Australians.’ The young German nodded. ‘We had heard that the Australians and the Canadians were the best troops the British had. “They stand their ground”, they say, “but the British will run.”’

‘And so the Brits flaming well did yesterday, mate,’ Frankie returned, with a hint of disgust. ‘That’s why us Aussies were sent here, to retake the ground the Tommies lost.’

‘And here we stay until we’re relieved,’ said Taz emphatically.

‘Relieved?’ Frankie scoffed. ‘Taz, mate, we’ll be lucky. Out here in the middle of nowhere, between our lines and Jerry lines, in a crater full of corpses? Who even knows we’re here? We’re as good as dead, us two. Why let this bloke live when we’re going to die anyway?’

‘Please, do not kill me, I am only sixteen!’ said their prisoner, looking up at the pair pleadingly.

Taz eyed him with surprise. ‘What’s your name?’

‘My name is Richard Rix.’

‘Richard Rix?’ said Taz. ‘That’s not a very German-sounding name.’

‘Rix is quite a common German name, in fact,’ Richard returned. Realising that Taz was more inclined to spare his life than Frankie, he made up his mind to make Taz an ally. ‘What is your name, my friend?’

‘Taz Dutton.’

Richard nodded and repeated the name. ‘Taz Dutton.’

‘You speak blooming good English for a Jerry,’ said Frankie.

‘That is because I lived with my parents for quite some years in America,’ Richard replied. ‘This is the first time I have spoken English again in a long time.’

‘America? Really?’ said Taz. ‘Where in America?’

‘New York City. In a district called Yorkville, on the Upper East Side.’

‘New York?’ Taz echoed.

‘Oh, yes, many German immigrants live in Yorkville. My father worked there in a German bakery on Broadway.’ His face lit up as he recalled better times.

‘Well, what do you know!’ said Taz. ‘I’ve always wanted to visit New York.’

‘I was sorry to leave New York. I –’

Before Richard could finish, Frankie interrupted. ‘So what are you doing in the German Army?’

‘When I was twelve my parents were killed in a ferry accident on New York’s harbour.’ A wave of sadness washed over his face. ‘So my grandparents in Bavaria had our Yorkville neighbours send me back to them. I lived with them on their pig farm until they made me join the army.’

‘Killed in a ferry accident? That’s too bad,’ said Taz.

‘But you’re still a Jerry in Jerry uniform,’ Frankie declared coldly. ‘You killed our mates in your blundering great tank.’

‘Not any more he’s not,’ said Taz. ‘He’s as bad off as we are, Frankie, just even more helpless. What’s the point of sticking a bayonet in him?’

A look of fear came over Richard’s face. ‘Please, I am unarmed! I have surrendered to you!’ He looked from Taz to Frankie and back again to Taz. ‘Please, comrades!’

‘You can’t kill him, Frankie,’ said Taz firmly. ‘All three of us have done well to survive this long. What if the roles were reversed and two Germans were arguing about whether they should kill you or not? What decision would you want them to make?’

Frankie, seeing the logic of Taz’s argument, let out a long sigh. ‘All right, Reverend Dutton,’ he said. ‘What do you reckon we should do with him then?’

‘For the moment, we tie him up.’ Without waiting for another word from Frankie, Taz went to the body of a German machine-gun loader nearby and ripped off his braces. Returning, he bound Richard’s wrists together in front of him, then made the German youth sit facing Frankie and himself.

‘Now what?’ Frankie asked sourly.

‘Now we wait,’ said Taz, settling with his back against the wall of the shell crater. Nursing his empty rifle, he removed his helmet for the first time since the assault had begun, and ran a hand through his lank hair.

‘Wait for what?’ Frankie demanded, easing down to sit beside his friend, but keeping his bayonet pointed at their prisoner.

‘Wait for whatever fate has decided for the three of us,’ Taz returned, wearily laying his head back against the earth.

 

They had been sitting there in silence for half an hour when Frankie nudged Taz.

‘You hear that?’ Frankie whispered cautiously.

‘Hear what?’

‘Voices – talking – somewhere out there, behind us.’

Taz listened to the night. ‘I don’t hear . . . Yes, I hear them now.’ He tensed as he made out individual words. ‘They’re Germans!’

Richard had been sitting with his knees up into his chest and his head bowed forward, almost asleep. Now, his head came up. ‘Yes, they are speaking German,’ he confirmed.

‘You keep your trap shut, mate!’ Frankie snarled, jabbing his bayonet in Richard’s direction as a warning.

The voices grew closer. Several men were talking animatedly close by.

Richard, inclining his head so that he could hear better, took in what was being said, and to his surprise, heard a name he recognised. Leaning forward, he whispered to his two captors, ‘They are from my panzer unit.’

‘How do you know?’ Taz whispered in return.

‘Leutnant Biltz, one of the tank commanders, is leading them. It seems they are looking for Elfriede, a panzer – a tank, as you call it – which was abandoned during the fighting yesterday.’ Richard paused to listen some more. ‘They are going to blow it up.’

‘What?’ Taz responded.

A voice rang out from the darkness beyond the shell crater. Lieutenant Biltz had heard the whispering voices and was demanding to know who was in the shell crater.

‘If I don’t answer immediately,’ Richard whispered urgently to his captors, ‘they will probably throw grenades in here, killing all three of us. I must put them off.’

Taz nodded. ‘Go on then.’

‘But watch what you say,’ Frankie cautioned, motioning with his bayonet. ‘Or else!’

Richard nodded, before calling loudly in German. ‘It is Private Rix here, Leutnant Biltz, from the crew of Mephisto.’

Just a metre away, an anxious Frankie glared at Richard. A voice in Frankie’s head was telling him to jab their prisoner with his bayonet to shut him up. Another voice was telling him to hold back.

‘Young Rix?’ came the startled reply from Lieutenant Biltz. ‘What are you doing there, youngster?’

‘Oberleutnant Theunissen ordered us to remain here until his return, Herr Leutnant.’

‘You are not alone, Rix?’ Biltz asked.

‘No, not alone, Herr Leutnant.’ Richard looked at Taz and Frankie. ‘There are three of us here.’

‘My men and I are looking for Elfriede but we have lost our bearings. Do you know where the panzer is, youngster?’

Richard thought fast. He feared that if he said the wrong thing, Frankie only had to shove his bayonet a metre to kill him. He also feared that if he said Mephisto was close by, Biltz and his men might come down into this shell crater to collect what they believed to be three members of its crew. Again, that could prompt Frankie to kill him.

A plan quickly formed in the young German’s head. He reasoned that, in the dark, all A7V tanks looked alike. The front of his own tank, which bore Mephisto’s name and the painted red devil, was hard up against the wall of the crater where it was trapped, obscuring the identifying marks from view. Richard decided to tell Biltz that Mephisto was Elfriede. ‘It is just over to your right, Herr Leutnant, in a large shell crater.’

‘In a shell crater?’ Biltz responded. ‘I was informed that it was in a quarry.’

‘Shell crater or quarry, it is a big hole in the ground, Herr Leutnant.’

‘I suppose you’re right, Rix. Very well. What of you three down there? Will you return to our lines with my men and myself once our task is completed?’

Richard hesitated. He suspected that neither of his captors understood much German and would not have taken in Biltz’s offer. But, he asked himself, did he really want to go back to his unit and return to the fight? As a prisoner of the Australians, this war would be over for him. He would be sent to a prisoner-of-war camp and would live to see peacetime. ‘Thank you, Herr Leutnant,’ he called back, ‘but we have our orders from Oberleutnant Theunissen. We must remain here until he returns.’

‘Very well,’ Biltz replied. As Theunissen outranked him, Biltz could not countermand his orders. ‘Good luck to you, youngster. Remember, make a career in science for yourself after the war!’

Richard smiled to himself. ‘Thank you, Leutnant Biltz. And good luck to you too.’ Richard heard the lieutenant order the men of his demolition party to follow him, and then the night was silent again.

‘Have they gone?’ Taz asked Richard in a low whisper, after waiting a while.

‘Yes.’

‘Where are they going?’ Frankie asked.

‘To blow up Mephisto, my panzer. I’ve let them think it was Elfriede, another panzer. That was the only way to stop them coming down in here with us.’

‘They’re going to blow it up?’ Frankie came back. ‘Most of our platoon died trying to keep that tank out of German hands!’

‘Shhhhh!’ Taz cautioned. ‘Keep your voice down.’

‘But . . .’

‘Probably won’t do any harm to let them blow it up, anyway,’ Taz added.

‘Am I hearing things?’ Frankie said in astonishment, turning to Taz. ‘You’re the bloke, Taz Dutton, who said we had to stay here and fight for that blooming tank. Now you want to let them blow it sky-high?’

‘Well, think about it,’ Taz reasoned. ‘Lieutenant Blair wanted us to prevent that tank from falling into German hands so they can’t turn it against our troops. Right?’

‘Right. So . . .?’

‘If it’s blown up, the Germans won’t be able to use it against our troops, will they?’

A look of realisation came over Frankie’s face. ‘Taz, my boy, you’re a genius!’

They lapsed into silence, waiting to hear the results of Lieutenant Biltz’s handiwork. Sure enough, after several more minutes, there came the sound of an explosion from the direction of Mephisto.

‘Goodbye, Mephisto,’ said Richard. He felt strangely relieved that the tank that had been at the centre of his existence for the last four weeks had been blown up.

They waited tensely for another half hour, keeping quiet in case Lieutenant Biltz or his men returned, but finally Taz and Frankie agreed that the demolition party must have returned to German lines.

‘Can we go back to our lines now?’ Frankie asked Taz.

Taz shook his head. ‘Lieutenant Blair ordered us to stay here.’

‘Oh, not that again!’ Frankie protested. ‘The tank is cactus, mate!’

‘But we still have our orders.’

‘You make my head spin sometimes, Taz Dutton. There’s nothing left to defend.’

‘Orders are orders, Frankie. If we don’t obey them, we’re not soldiers, we’re just rabble.’

‘I’m not sure I want to be a soldier any more,’ Frankie confessed.

‘Yes, well, if we disobey orders, we could be court-martialled and shot!’

Frankie laughed to himself. ‘That’d be right – ending up being shot by my own flaming side!’

Taz looked at Richard. He’d been impressed by the German boy’s demeanour through all this. ‘Richard, you could have told those Germans that we were here, holding you prisoner,’ he said.

‘Yes, I could have,’ Richard agreed. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘And then you would have become my prisoners.’

‘Not blooming likely!’ Frankie declared. ‘Not while I had this, mate.’ He waved the end of his bayonet in front of Richard’s nose.

‘Steady on,’ said Taz, putting a hand on Frankie’s arm. ‘Why didn’t you?’ he asked Richard, intrigued. ‘Why didn’t you give us away?’

Richard shrugged.

‘Because I would’ve stuck him like a pig if he’d tried it,’ Frankie interjected.

‘If you must know,’ Richard said with a sigh, ‘I am sick of this war. All the stupid killing. Why? What have I ever done to you to make you want to fight me? What have you ever done to me?’ He glanced around at the bodies littering the crater, with his eyes coming to rest on the gaunt, bearded face of Papa Heiber. ‘Men like Feldwebel Heiber there – a kind man – what did he do to deserve such a meaningless death?’

‘I’ll have to second you there, mate,’ Frankie agreed. ‘I thought this war was going to be a great adventure, but it’s been nothing but a flaming giant sausage machine that’s eaten up people. And for what?’

‘I think I would rather be a prisoner of war,’ Richard said. ‘From what we were hearing, Germany is a mess now. I don’t really want to go back there. I would rather return to New York City to start my life over.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ said Taz jauntily. ‘I’ve always wanted to see America.’

‘And I have always wanted to see Australia,’ said Richard. ‘When I was a child my father told me all about Australia.’

‘Did your father go to Australia?’ Taz asked, surprised.

Richard shook his head. ‘No, but an ancestor of ours did. His name was Dr Ludwig Leichhardt and he perished while exploring your country.’

Taz smiled, his eyebrows raised. ‘How about that? I remember learning about Ludwig Leichhardt at school. He disappeared while leading an expedition overland from Sydney to Western Australia. Do you remember reading about him, Frankie?’

Frankie pulled a face. ‘One of them historical explorer blokes, was he? Never had much time for history, myself. Had enough problems in the present to worry about what happened in the past. And who’d be silly enough to try to walk from Sydney to Perth? Why didn’t he just take the train?’

‘There was no train from Sydney to Perth in those days, nitwit! They only finished building the transcontinental railway last year. There weren’t any trains, full stop, back in Ludwig Leichhardt’s time.’

‘Can’t imagine it – a world without trains. I like trains.’

‘I do also,’ said Richard, ‘when they are not full of soldiers. Perhaps I will see Australia by train one day, after the war. After I am released from being a prisoner of war.’

‘I wouldn’t fancy being a prisoner of war myself,’ said Frankie. ‘I’ll never forget when we were up in Flanders. There was a bunch of German prisoners being sent to the rear when they were caught in the open during a bombardment. Poor buggers didn’t stand a chance. Killed by their own side’s guns, they were. At least we had cover in a trench. Remember that, Taz?’

Taz nodded, recalling the memory of the scores of German prisoners who had been cut down by that barrage. ‘It was slaughter,’ he murmured.

‘I actually felt sorry for those poor blooming Jerries,’ Frankie confessed. ‘One minute they were alive, then the next time I looked, they were all lying dead on the ground.’

Taz was thoughtful as the trio lapsed into silence. An idea was forming in his mind. ‘You know what?’ he said after a while. ‘I don’t reckon we should make Richard here a prisoner of war.’

‘What? You want to let him go?’ said Frankie, incredulous.

‘I do not wish to return to German lines,’ said Richard.

‘No, not let him go,’ said Taz. ‘What if we took him back to our lines in Australian uniform? He could stay with us until the war ended and then go to America or wherever he wants to go.’

Frankie looked at Taz as if he were mad. ‘You want him to pretend to be one of us? Of all the crackpot ideas in the world! He’s got an accent, mate, if you hadn’t noticed!’

‘We could say he’s . . . Dutch,’ Taz suggested.

‘Dutch?’ Frankie wasn’t convinced. ‘How many Dutchmen were in our platoon when we started out on this stunt last night, Taz? Not one. He’d soon get found out.’

‘Then we could put a bandage around his neck. We could say he’d been wounded in the throat, like Billy Blizzard was, and can’t talk.’

‘Mate!’ Frankie sounded exasperated. ‘How long do you think he’d get away with that?’

‘Long enough. This war could be over in a few weeks or a month or two. The Yanks are coming. They’ll soon put an end to it all.’

‘He’d have to pretend for months that he couldn’t talk.’ Frankie shook his head. ‘Nah, he’d have to be a flaming good actor. Besides, there are the battalion records. His name wouldn’t be in them. First time there’s a rollcall, he’d be found out.’

Richard had been taking in this exchange with interest, looking from one of the Australians to the other as they argued the pros and cons of Taz’s novel idea. When Frankie’s last remark seemed to scotch Taz’s proposal, Richard looked disappointed.

But Taz hadn’t given up on the scheme. ‘Well, what if we gave him the name of one of the dead members of our platoon?’ he suggested.

‘What, like Billy Blizzard?’

‘Something like that.’ Taz’s mind raced. He could envision smuggling Richard all the way back to Australia with Frankie and himself. But he dared not voice that idea to Frankie. Not yet. One crackpot idea at a time, he told himself. ‘Billy probably wouldn’t be the best choice. He came from a big family. He was one of eleven children.’

‘So? What of it?’

‘There’s a chance Richard might run into a Blizzard relative over here and be exposed as a fraud. I ran into cousin of mine the day we landed in France, and met two neighbours from back home in Beaconsfield when we were in Flanders. No, we need an identity for Richard that’s secure. Someone few people would know.’ Taz smiled to himself as an idea occurred to him. ‘Rait! Yes, that’s the answer. Rait the Rat!’

Frankie scowled. ‘What about the bugger?’

‘Before he died, Rait told me he was practically an orphan. Apart from an aunt he hadn’t seen in years, he had no other relatives in the world. Richard can become Rait.’

Frankie pulled a face. ‘But Rait was older than him. And Rait was English, for God’s sake! We don’t even know his first name.’

‘It was Archibald – Archibald Rait. Look, who’s left from the platoon to say that Richard isn’t Rait? Or that Rait was English, or that he was older? Only you and me, Frankie. And as for rollcall, they only have the names on the list, not ages or nationalities. If Richard doesn’t talk for a month or two, and just nods and shakes his head, I think he might just be able to pull it off.’ He turned to Richard. ‘Would you be prepared to give it a try?’

‘Could I pretend to be an Australian soldier?’ Richard pondered aloud.

‘He’d have to get rid of them German boots of his for starters,’ said Frankie, nodding to Richard’s long leather jackboots. ‘They’re a dead giveaway.’

‘So you think it’s worth a try, Frankie?’ Taz asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Frankie responded, shaking his head. ‘What happens if he gets caught?’

‘The worst that could happen is that he’d be hauled off to a POW camp.’

‘No, what happens to us if he gets caught? Wouldn’t we be hauled before a court martial for . . . for concealing an enemy in our ranks or something? We could be shot!’

‘We’d deny everything. How are they going to prove that we had anything to do with it?’

‘I would certainly not say you were involved,’ Richard spoke up.

Taz and Frankie turned to look at him. ‘You’d better not, mate!’ Frankie growled, motioning with his bayonet.

‘You’re game to give it a go then?’ Taz asked Richard. ‘But you’d have to give us your word that you wouldn’t implicate us if you were caught.’

‘I give you my word, yes.’ Richard had been thinking over Taz’s plan while the two Australians were talking. As far as he could see, he had nothing to lose if he went along with it. ‘I feel as if I do not belong anywhere,’ he said. ‘In Germany, my grandfather fed me, but he was never very interested in me. My grandfather was more interested in his pigs. And when the local mayor wrote the wrong birth year for me on the enrolment records, my grandfather never spoke up to correct the error. He told me that the army would make a man of me. I think he was glad to have one less mouth to feed.’

‘That’s a bit rough,’ said Frankie.

Richard shrugged. ‘My grandfather had never forgiven my father for migrating to America. He only had me returned because my grandmother insisted. And just after last Christmas, while I was at training camp, I learned that my grandmother had died. She alone was kind to me in Bavaria. But she is gone now. ’

‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Taz. ‘You’ve had a tough trot, between losing your mum and dad and your grandmother.’

‘Yes, I think I am destined to be a nomad. I certainly have no wish to go back to my grandfather in Bavaria. And the war has made Germany an unhappy place. Do you know, on my way to the training camp, I saw the German Army ripping up the lead pipes from the streets of Germany to make bullets. And they had taken all the church bells, to melt them down to make more shells. No longer do the bells ring out from the church steeples.’ Wistfully, he shook his head. ‘That is not the gloomy sort of place I want to go back to.’ He looked at Taz and smiled wearily. ‘So I am “game”, as you say, to give your plan a try. Perhaps it will one day get me back to America. I was happy there.’

Taz smiled. ‘Good on you.’ He turned to Frankie. ‘Well, do we go through with it or don’t we? Do we turn Richard Rix here into Archibald Rait or not?’

‘Let me think about it,’ said Frankie, sitting back and brushing away a weary yawn.

 

Taz jerked awake. The first streaks of dawn were in the sky behind German lines, and fog hung in the shell crater like a thick grey blanket. Exhausted by the night’s battle, Taz had fallen asleep, just as Frankie had beside him, with his head on Taz’s shoulder. In a sudden rush of fear, Taz straightened and looked up to check their prisoner. There was Richard Rix, still sitting in front of him, wide awake with his bound hands resting on his raised knees.

Richard smiled. ‘Good morning. You were asleep.’

‘Only for a moment or two,’ Taz returned, firming his grip on the rifle in his lap.

Richard shook his head. ‘You were both asleep for some time. If I had wanted to I could have reached over there, taken your rifle from you and bayoneted you both to death.’

‘Why didn’t you, then?’ said Frankie, now awake and sitting up and stretching.

‘I want to go back to Australian lines with you, as we discussed last night.’ Richard looked at Frankie. ‘Perhaps now you will trust me?’

Before Frankie could respond, they all heard voices nearby, made dull by the fog. ‘Christ!’ Frankie whispered, tensing. ‘Your Jerry friends are back!’

‘No, wait,’ Taz cautioned, keeping his voice low. ‘They’re speaking English.’ He listened intently. ‘And those are Australian accents!’

‘Bugger me!’ Frankie exclaimed in astonishment. ‘We’re saved! And I thought we were goners.’

‘So do we go forward with your plan, Taz?’ Richard asked anxiously, leaning closer to them and keeping his voice low. ‘Do I pretend to be this Archibald Rait? Or will you turn me over as a prisoner?’

Taz looked at his mate. ‘It’s up to you, Frankie. Is he Rait or isn’t he?’

Frankie hesitated before breaking into a grin. ‘Ah, what the heck! This’ll be more of an adventure than anything else I’ll do in this war.’

Taz smiled. ‘Good for you, Frankie. Come on then, we’ll have to be smartish. You get his boots off, I’ll untie him.’

As Taz hauled himself to his feet, he felt a jab of pain in his left calf. With a wince, he looked down and saw that the upper part of his left trouser leg was soaked in blood. ‘I’ve been wounded!’ he exclaimed.

‘Where?’ Struggling to haul off Richard’s right boot, Frankie glanced over at his friend’s bloodstained trousers. ‘Looks like the blood’s dried, Taz. It’s stopped bleeding. That’s good.’

‘Hurts like hell now, though,’ said Taz, grimacing. He knelt beside Richard and set to work unbinding the German boy’s wrists. ‘Never felt a thing last night.’ For the first time he looked at his friend’s face in the daylight. ‘You’ve been hit too, Frankie.’

‘Have I? Where?’

‘Your face is covered with blood.’

‘Really?’ Frankie wiped the back of his right hand over his cheek then brought it away to look at it. His palm and fingers were thick with congealed blood. ‘Where’d that come from?’ Dragging off his helmet, Frankie felt his forehead.

‘Yoicks!’ Taz exclaimed. ‘Something’s carved its way across your forehead, mate. It’s a real mess.’

‘I felt something hit me last night.’ Frankie looked at his fingertips, red with his blood. ‘What the heck, I’ll live!’ Returning the helmet to his head, which now began to throb with pain, he resumed tugging at Richard’s boot.

Between them, the pair soon had Richard’s hands free and his footwear removed.

‘This won’t do,’ said Taz, gesturing to Richard’s shirt. The blood soaking it wasn’t the problem, but its colour – German Army grey – was. ‘Get it off, Richard!’

Richard hastily ripped the shirt off, bundled it up and threw it away. As he sat there, naked from the waist up, he began to shiver in the early morning chill.

‘Here!’ Laying aside his rifle, Frankie unbuttoned his khaki tunic and stripped down to his sweat-stained white undershirt, then handed the tunic to Richard. ‘Quick! Put it on!’

Richard did as bidden, but he had broader shoulders than Frankie, and the tunic was a little too small for him. ‘I cannot fasten the buttons,’ he said, struggling to make a button reach a buttonhole.

‘Doesn’t matter, it’ll do the trick for now,’ Frankie returned. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

Taz, who had briefly limped away, returned carrying a helmet and bloodied bandage. ‘Put the helmet on and tie this around your neck,’ he said, handing both to Richard. ‘And remember, you were wounded in the throat, so you can’t speak.’

Richard nodded, donning the helmet. ‘I understand.’

‘Where’d you get that bandage from?’ Frankie asked, using his rifle to bring himself to his feet.

‘Billy Blizzard,’ Taz replied, sounding a little guilty.

‘Well, he won’t be needing it,’ said Frankie matter-of-factly.

With a pensive expression, Richard looked at the bandage, turning it over and inspecting it.

‘That should do the job,’ said Taz, wincing in pain as he turned towards the Mephisto crater.

‘But as soon as the bandage is removed,’ said Richard, ‘the doctors will discover that I am not wounded.’ He paused, then looked up at Frankie and Taz and held out a hand. ‘Please, give me a bayonet.’

‘Not in a month of Sundays!’ Frankie exclaimed. ‘You’re not getting my bayonet.’

‘What do you intend to do with it?’ Taz asked.

‘I will have to cut myself. Please, we have little time.’

Slotting the bayonet from the end of his Lee-Enfield, Taz handed it to Richard. All the while, Frankie stood poised with his rifle and bayonet at the ready.

Richard put the edge of the bayonet to the left side of his neck. Pausing to pluck up the courage to injure himself, he then slid it along his neck, creating a gash several centimetres long beneath his ear. Even though the wound was not deep, it immediately oozed blood. Richard handed the bayonet back to Taz, then tied Billy’s bandage tight around his neck.

Frankie, relieved, turned to Taz. ‘Can you walk far on that leg, mate?’

‘I’ll have to,’ said Taz, returning the bayonet to the end of his rifle.

‘You lead the way. “Archibald” here can follow you. I’ll bring up the rear.’

Up out of the shell hole Taz struggled, before standing and looking around for signs of German troops in the vicinity. Richard went next, unarmed. The bandage around his neck was now soaked with his own blood. Once he was up on flat ground, Richard turned and offered his hand to Frankie. For a moment, seeing the young German smiling down at him, Frankie hesitated before accepting the offer.

Carrying his rifle in one hand, Taz limped towards the crater that held Mephisto. Frankie motioned for Richard to go next, and the German complied, departing the shell hole where his comrades had died without a backward glance. Frankie walked three or four metres behind him, rifle in both hands and ready for use in case Richard did anything untoward. Despite agreeing to this subterfuge, Frankie still didn’t entirely trust him.

‘Aussies coming in!’ Taz called ahead as the trio came up to the Mephisto crater. ‘Don’t shoot! Aussies coming in!’

In the crater, Lieutenant Andrew Scott of the 50th Battalion turned and drew his pistol. Around him, the dozen men of his patrol nervously aimed their rifles in the direction of Taz’s voice. ‘What unit are you with?’ Scott called warily.

‘D Company, 52nd Battalion,’ Taz replied, reaching the crater’s lip and looking down at the Australians beside the tank. ‘Are we pleased to see you!’

‘Come on down, son,’ said Lieutenant Scott, satisfied by the sight and sound of him.

First Taz, then Richard and Frankie came scrambling down. The three of them were soon standing in front of the lieutenant and his men.

‘Jeez, you three look done in!’ exclaimed one of Scott’s men as the others surveyed the trio with a mixture of pity and admiration.

‘You’ve been out there all night?’ the lieutenant asked Taz, his eyes drifting to Richard.

‘Yes, sir, we have,’ Taz acknowledged. ‘Lieutenant Blair ordered us to stop the Germans from getting hold of this tank.’

‘Until we were relieved, that is,’ Frankie quickly added.

‘Looks like you did a pretty good job, lads,’ said Scott. He was still looking at Richard. ‘Lose your boots, son?’

‘Lost his boots and had to ditch his trousers too, sir,’ said Taz.

‘Poor bugger shat himself,’ Frankie lied with a smirk.

‘That’s understandable,’ Scott remarked with a wisp of a smile.

‘So he borrowed a pair of daks from a dead Jerry, sir,’ Frankie continued. ‘Not that the Jerry will be doing any complaining.’

‘Can’t this bloke speak for himself?’ The officer nodded Richard’s way.

Richard smiled weakly and glanced at Taz for help.

Taz hurriedly replied on his behalf. ‘No, sir, he can’t.’

‘Throat wound, sir,’ Frankie added.

‘Ah.’ Lieutenant Scott turned his gaze on Frankie, taking in his grimy undershirt. ‘Had it pretty rough last night, did you?’

‘Too right we did, sir,’ Frankie answered.

‘We’re all that’s left from our platoon, sir,’ said Taz.

‘Just the three of you?’ Scott raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s tough. All right, you’d better get yourselves back to an RAP. Well done, lads.’

‘You’re relieving us, sir?’ Frankie asked hopefully, just to be sure.

‘I don’t know about relieving you, son,’ Scott replied. ‘This Fritz tank is in No Man’s Land, between our new lines and Fritz’s new lines. I don’t plan on staying long. My patrol and I are here to see what’s what before I report back to our company commander. But you three clearly need to get yourselves back to our lines to find medical attention, so away you go.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Taz replied. ‘By the way, was last night’s assault a success?’

Scott nodded. ‘Villers-Bretonneux was almost cut off as planned. A lot of Germans there surrendered. A few apparently escaped along a railway cutting to the east. Our troops are going through the town as we speak, mopping up. The operation was a success – Villers-Bretonneux is back in our hands. Now, on your way.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Taz and Frankie said in unison, trying to hide their relief at overcoming the first hurdle in their attempt to pass Richard off as an Australian. Richard, for his part, smiled warmly at the lieutenant.

‘Give these brave lads a hand,’ Scott said to his men.

As they proceeded to push and pull Richard and Frankie out the western side of the crater, Taz dropped to one knee beside Rait’s body. Glancing around to be sure he wasn’t being observed closely, he then reached to the dead corporal’s throat, grasped the AIF identity disc hanging there and yanked hard. The thin leather cord around Rait’s neck snapped, and Taz came away with the disc and broken cord. He quickly stuffed them into a trouser pocket as he rose to his feet.

‘A mate, was he?’ asked Lieutenant Scott.

‘Our section leader, sir,’ Taz replied. ‘He died bravely. I just wanted to say a last goodbye.’

‘I understand,’ Scott replied. ‘Well done, son.’

As Taz departed the crater, he noticed that parts of Mephisto’s front roof were jutting into the air, apparently as a result of Lieutenant Biltz’s demolition charge. Otherwise, the tank still looked very much intact. Helped from the crater by the men of the patrol, Taz joined Frankie and Richard, who were squatting at the rim waiting for him.

The trio traipsed across the scarred landscape, towards the new Allied front line at the Villers-Bretonneux–Domart road, several hundred metres away. Side by side now, with Richard in the middle, they kept low, their pace dictated by Taz’s limp.

Once they were out of sight of Scott and his men, Taz passed Rait’s identity disc to Richard. ‘Yours, Archibald Rait,’ said Taz. ‘Don’t lose it.’

Nodding, Richard retained a firm grip on the disc.

The heads and rifle barrels of Australians in a trench ahead were now visible, and a sergeant soon waved them in.

‘You realise what today’s date is, Frankie?’ Taz asked, as they approached the trench.

‘Wouldn’t have a clue, mate,’ Frankie replied. ‘I don’t even know what day of the week it is!’

‘It’s Thursday, April twenty-fifth.’

‘Is that supposed to mean something?’

‘It’s Anzac Day.’

‘What day?’

‘Anzac Day. You know, the day when people back home stop to think about our men who’ve been killed fighting over here.’

Frankie shrugged. ‘That’s a new one on me.’

‘It started a year after the Anzac landing on Gallipoli. I think they called it Commonwealth Day that first year. Last year they changed the name to Anzac Day.’

Frankie shrugged again. ‘Anzac Day? If you ask me, mate, it’ll never catch on.’