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Late evening 19 February 1942. On the track south.
Soft snores and an occasional groan as a wounded man rolled over in his sleep filled the soft night air as Meg finished her stocktake of their meagre medical supplies. Just another night on the wards.
She closed the lid of the battered footlocker co-opted to serve as their medical store. In the wavering light of an army issue torch held under her arm, she made a note on the clipboard Pat had conjured from heaven knew where, and then got to her feet. Her head swam and she was just able to half turn and sit on the lid of the box before she fell. Head bowed, she breathed through the wave of dizziness.
It’s exhaustion. Maybe a touch of shock too. All those bombs . . . She pulled her mind away from memories of bombs dropping—so many bombs – stop thinking! She set the clipboard beside her and switched off the torch. Her hands dropped to the cool metal beneath her.
Hard. Cool. Solid.
Real. She clung to the edges, the only solid thing in a topsy-turvy world.
‘Are you okay, Sister?’ Corporal Flanagan’s voice came out of the darkness. A hint of Irish, she thought. ‘Sister?’
A hand landed awkwardly on her shoulder, light, but offering comfort. Soft shuffling. The roll of a pebble dislodged in the dirt. The brush of material against her knees. He must be standing right in front of her. With a huge effort, she lifted her head. A gleam of teeth in the faint light of a waxing crescent moon confirmed the corporal was on his knees in front of her.
‘You remind me of the Cheshire Cat before he disappears.’
‘You’re blathering, macushla. Have you eaten?’
‘I’m fine, Corporal, just tired, and yes, I had a most delicious piece of chocolate, thanks to you.’
‘A piece? As in one piece I watched you eat this morning? Christ—pardon my French. Is that all you’ve eaten? No wonder you look as though a stiff breeze would knock you over. Where’s your bar of chocolate?’
‘Here and there.’ Her eyes closed.
‘Don’t tell me you gave it to these blokes. Instead of looking after yourself, you fed it to them. You did, didn’t you?’ Was that a tinge of anger in his voice?
‘Guilty as charged, Corporal. They needed it more than I did.’ Her head touched a solid shoulder and rough fabric and Meg let out a soft sigh. Her eyes closed. She was too tired to argue with him. Her nose touched warm skin redolent with male sweat and she nestled closer. ‘This is nice, comfy . . .’
A hand stroked her head and she slipped into slumber.
Meg woke slowly, unwilling to give up her pillow and face the day. Would she have another twenty-hour shift or—
Lifting her head, her nose scraped across stubbled skin. Stubbled male skin. Oh, heavens, what happened, where am I?
‘Morning, macushla. Did you know you snore?’
Meg sat up abruptly. She dragged her eyes open and found herself looking into the amused blue eyes of Corporal Flanagan. Her hand went to her hair before she looked around.
The truck was parked beneath a tree where the driver had pulled in last night, and small groups of men lay stretched out on the ground. Some clutched blankets but more had nothing but the hard ground beneath their heads. Pat was kneeling beside the burns patient Meg had brought to the truck yesterday.
Her gaze returned to the corporal. ‘Did I fall asleep on you?’
‘You did, and a more pleasant night I can’t recall.’ He grinned, a boyish grin that squashed any idea of improper behaviour.
‘Pleasant? You said I snored. I’m sure I don’t, but if I did—’
‘Wee little snores, softer than a Galway breeze that tickled my neck.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She’d never slept with a man, in either sense of the phrase, but surely no one would see anything wrong in last night. There was nothing wrong, aside from her not remembering a thing, but she moved a respectable distance from him.
‘Don’t be, Sister. You were dead on your feet last night. I was happy to be your pillow, but don’t take that the wrong way.’
The corporal wasn’t embarrassed, and Meg would follow his lead. ‘Thank you, then. You were an excellent pillow.’
Pat rose from the side of Private Jackson, the movement drawing Meg’s attention. The head sister’s expression was sad.
Meg looked at the soldier, barely more than a boy. His face was covered by Pat’s nurse’s cap. ‘Oh no.’ Her stomach, so empty it rumbled with need, clenched. She should be used to losing a patient. It happened from time to time no matter how much nursing she gave, but each loss touched her to her core.
Beside her, the corporal got to his feet awkwardly and followed her as she joined Pat.
‘When did he die?’
‘Not long ago. There was nothing more we could do for him out here, Meg.’
Flanagan bowed his head and his lips moved in a prayer for the private’s soul.
Meg bowed her head and offered her prayers too. When she lifted her head, Corporal Flanagan was watching her. ‘No tears, macushla. You did all you could for him.’
She nodded slowly. ‘I know, but John Donne was right. Each man’s death diminishes us because none of us is an island.’ She inhaled a long, steadying breath and turned to Pat. ‘What do you want me to do first, Sister?’
Flanagan answered before Pat had a chance to. ‘Breakfast first, don’t you reckon, Sister?’ The corporal was a brave man, taking the head nurse’s lead.
‘Are you going to call up your magic leprechaun to cook something for us, Corporal?’ Pat’s tone was dry at the best of times, but she looked exhausted too.
‘It’s not a touch of magic you need, Sister. There is food in the bush, but we’ll have to gather it.’
‘Then go and organise any semi-able-bodied men and do so.’ Pat suppressed a yawn.
With a touch of embarrassment, Meg realised Pat must have stayed awake through the night, keeping watch over the wounded men. ‘I’m sorry, Sister. I should have stayed awake to assist you.’
‘Nonsense, Meg. I know how long your last shift was. You would have been lucky to catch an hour’s sleep between it and the start of the bombing. Corporal Ransom, our driver assisted me. Now, let’s see if there’s anything in this truck fit to eat.’
Corporal Flanagan had rounded up a couple of men and they followed him into the bush. Sister headed for the cabin and Meg climbed onto the bed of the truck. A barrel tied onto the slats behind the window of the cabin was the only likely place. The lid was a tight fit and she looked for something to lever it up.
‘Need some help, Sister?’ The truck driver squinted up through the side slats. ‘I’ve got a decent knife if you’re looking to open that.’
‘Thanks. Do you know what’s inside?’
‘No idea. It was already lashed on board when we commandeered the truck. We didn’t bother to ask or stop to get rid of it.’
Meg stood aside while the driver, Corporal Ransom, with the polished tone of a city fella, climbed up beside her. He took a lethal-looking hunting knife from a scabbard on his hip, inserted the tip between the lid and the barrel and hit the pommel. Several more hits like that and one side of the lid rose.
Between them, they tugged the lid free. Meg peered inside. Her stomach felt as though it was knocking against her backbone, but she wasn’t sure what she hoped for most.
An earthy smell rose. The soldier thrust his hand inside and pulled out a tuberous plant still covered in dirt. He turned it this way and that and held it out to her. ‘Any idea what this is, Sister?’
‘Sweet potato. We’re in luck. One of the nurses who lives in the Territory was telling me her father grows these.’
Pat called from the rear of the truck. ‘Have you got something there?’
Meg held up the tuber. ‘Madeline Tucker told me her family grow these.’
Pat looked dubious. ‘We have no cooking pots.’
‘We don’t need them. If we dig a fire pit, we can toss them in, and they’ll cook in their skins.’
The driver folded his arms and looked sceptical. ‘We don’t have time to dig a pit or wait for food to cook.’
Corporal Flanagan and his pair of ambulant foragers returned carrying bush food in the shirt of a now bare-chested private. ‘It’s not much, Sister, but it will keep everyone going for now.’
‘Well done.’ Pat smiled at the foragers then turned back to their driver. ‘We need to eat, Corporal Ransom.’
The driver frowned before heading to the truck. Sounds of static reached them, and the corporal’s voice as he contacted a military post.
Meg tuned him out as she relieved the wounded men of their small bundle and began to distribute the bush food, amongst which was some sort of pinkish berry. The men looked at the slim pickings, some with resignation, others, with curiosity. One man asked, ‘What is it, Sister?’
‘I have no idea, Sergeant, but it’s what’s available for now. I’m sure we’ll get a decent feed when we reach Wherever we’re going.’
‘Everyone, back on the truck. I’ve just had a radio message from Adelaide River. We are to proceed there with all speed.’
Meg glanced at the body of Corporal Jackson. ‘What about the dead soldier, Corporal? We need to bury him and—’
‘We can’t wait, Sister. Right, you lot, get on the—’
‘We can’t leave him under the tree.’ Meg stood her ground, but looked around for Pat. ‘Sister, tell him. It isn’t right.’
The corporal overtalked her. ‘Everyone, on board now.’
The wounded who could stand, did. But no one made a move towards the truck. Meg looked at their faces. Pain and fatigue had etched lines on many, but to a man they were resolved to do the right thing.
‘Ain’t leaving till the private has been buried and we’ve said a few words over him.’ A sergeant with a bandage over one eye leaned heavily on a branch he had picked up for a crutch. He looked in no fit state to dig, but he turned away from the driver and hobbled slowly over to where the dead boy lay. He looked around then pointed to a spot a few yards off the track. ‘The ground there looks a bit softer. We’ll dig there. Flanagan?’
Corporal Flanagan saluted with his good arm. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Organise some men to gather rocks to put over the grave.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Meg fought the lump in her throat. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
‘It’s the last thing we can do for the lad. Sister, did you see a shovel in the truck?’
‘I’ll look now.’ Meg turned to find Pat watching her. Her friend nodded.
‘Well done, Meg. I saw a short-handled shovel in the cab, under the seat. It won’t be much use for a deep hole, but if they lay stones over him, he should be safe from any animals.’ She climbed into the cabin. A moment later, her backside stuck up in the air as she worked the shovel free from under the seat then clambered back down and carried it to the sergeant.
He looked around the group of soldiers, as though assessing who among them was fit enough to wield the tool.
The driver, the only man in the group who wasn’t injured, approached. ‘I’ll dig his grave.’ His cheeks were pink, but his gaze met and held the sergeant’s as he held out his hand for the shovel.
‘I’ll find something to make a cross with.’ Meg slipped into the bush on the other side of the track. Two sticks and some vine, if she could find any, would serve as a simple cross for the private.
Sunlight fell on salmon-coloured bark and drew her to a tree she didn’t know the name of. It looked like some sort of eucalyptus. White-grey bark hung in long strips and beneath it, glorious salmon-pink wood almost glowed in the early morning light. Large triangular leaves offered shade, and twigs of varying thickness and length lay around the base of a tree. She selected two of the thickest, straightest twigs then looked around for a flexible plant to tie them together.
Stepping between bushes, she slipped, her feet went out from under her, and she landed hard. ‘Oof. Ow.’
Leaves crunched, a hand took her elbow and a familiar voice spoke beside her. ‘Are you okay, Sister?’
She looked up into the concerned eyes of Corporal Flanagan. ‘I’m fine, thank you, Corporal.’ But tears sprang to her eyes. She dashed them away with the back of her hand and sucked in a calming breath.
‘A fall will do that to you. It shakes everything loose inside and when that happens, it’s best to let the excess moisture out.’
‘It’s not the fall, Corporal. It’s just—Private Jackson was so young.’
‘He was. Old men send young men off to fight wars. Cemeteries are full of the graves of the young.’
‘But he’ll be buried here so far from home and his loved ones won’t know where he is. They won’t be able to visit or bring flowers to his grave or—’ Meg tipped her head back to stop more tears falling. Blinking hard, she concentrated on the shifting patterns of leaves above their heads. ‘Sorry. I’m not usually so emotional. Nurses can’t afford to be.’
‘But you are human, and you looked after the lad as well as you could. He had a soft lap to lay his head and a tender hand to soothe him at the end. No man can ask for more.’
‘His family around him at the end of a long and happy life would be better, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, but under the circumstances, you gave him the comfort of one who cared about him. What you did back there, standing up to the driver like that, was brave.’
‘Good heavens, I’m not brave, Corporal.’
‘Brave and fierce. You know, Sister, in your own way, you’re a warrior too.’
Pinning him with her disbelieving gaze, Meg shook her head. ‘Aren’t you leading a rock hunting party?’
‘Sure I am, but when I heard you slip, I needed to see you were all right.’ He pushed her elbow gently and, turning her around, checked her backside. ‘A bit of dust and leaves. Do you want my help cleaning it off?’
Heat of a different sort raced through her at the thought of Corporal Flanagan’s hand skimming her backside. ‘Definitely not, thank you.’
He laughed. ‘If you’re sure. We can’t go on meeting like this without knowing each other’s names. Corporal and Sister are just plain wrong, especially after you slept on my shoulder. Michael Seamus Flanagan, at your service.’
‘Corporal Flanagan.’
‘My family call me Seamus though, ‘cos my da is Michael too.’
‘Margaret Olivia Dorset. Meg, to my friends.’ Hesitantly, she extended her hand and Seamus—she wasn’t sure about using his first name though—solemnly shook hers.
‘So, can I help you with anything?’
His offer brought back the task ahead. She held up the two sticks. ‘I was looking for some vine to tie these together.’
Seamus frowned then took her free hand and led her a little further on. ‘I saw some clumping grass. The fronds are long, and I reckon they’ll be easy to weave around the arms of your cross.’ They headed in the direction of the truck and the solemn work happening under the tree next to Private Jackson’s body.
A few injured soldiers were lugging stones between them and stacking them beside the driver digging in the shallow grave.
‘Here, Meg.’
The long grass rose high in the centre and fell in an elegant arc like the fuchsias beside the back door at home. How she wished she were there now, sitting with Mum and having a cuppa. Meg tamped down the memory. She’d shed enough tears today and what good had they done anyone? Sniffing and pressing her lips together, she set the sticks on the ground and grabbed a couple of the longest blades of grass. The plant resisted her efforts and she stood up.
‘Do you have a knife?’
Seamus pulled a penknife from his pocket and handed it to her.
‘Thanks.’ She cut two pieces, carefully wiped the blade on her dusty skirt, and closed it before handing it back to him. They returned to the truck and Meg sat on the step of the cabin where there was shade from the early morning sun. Her fingers were nimble. She’d crocheted often enough with Mum, even if she’d never woven grass. A few minutes later, she held the rough cross up to check the connection just as Seamus passed her. He clutched a bowling ball-sized stone to his stomach.
‘It’s a bit wonky. What do you think?’
‘Looks fine. Back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’ He grunted with the effort of lowering the stone onto the pile and brushed off his shirt. Something or someone out of Meg’s sight caught his eye. He raised a hand in a ‘back in a moment’ gesture.
Meg fiddled with the grass ties, but nothing she did made a difference. Her cross remained wonky.
‘Here.’ Seamus thrust a small bouquet of wildflowers towards her. ‘If you want to, you could tie these onto the cross.’
Pressing her lips together, Meg nodded. ‘That’s a lovely idea, thank you.’ With Seamus’s hand to hold the flowers in place, she made a decent job of attaching them. When she was done, the crude cross was still simple but more fitting to farewell a young man.
They laid the private’s body in the shallow grave, his face covered by Pat’s nurse’s veil, and filled the hole as best they could. The sound of rocks thudding as they were piled over him sounded sad and final amid the bright calls of birds. When the last rock was in place and Meg’s simple cross was wedged at the head of his grave, the sergeant stood behind it and bowed his head.
‘We’ve no minister with us, but I reckon God will hear our prayers.’ All heads bowed before the sergeant continued. ‘Our Father in Heaven, take up the soul of George Jackson to be with you in eternal life. May he live in your House in peace forever. We pray for him, and his family, and for a swift victory in this terrible war. Amen.’
Meg whispered ‘Amen’ and raised her head. Seamus murmured words she couldn’t make out then crossed himself before meeting her eyes. Of course, he was Irish, and a Catholic.
A muscle flickered in his cheek, and he sighed. ‘This bloody war.’ He looked at her. ‘Sorry, Meg, but it’s enough to make a saint swear.’
She nodded. ‘It is. Come on. We’d better not miss our ride.’
They were the last to climb aboard, and as the truck chugged and shuddered along the track, her gaze remained on Private Jackson’s last resting place until dust and distance hid it from sight. Only then did she close her eyes and tip her face to the sun. Despite their prayers, she recognised the attack on Darwin was only the beginning of the next stage of this bloody, bloody war.
A hand, rough and male and very warm, closed over hers and Seamus spoke softly, his warm breath brushing her ear. ‘Don’t dwell on it, Meg. Find something good in each day and focus on that.’
Seamus’s hand. That felt strong and solid and comforting. Today, Seamus was her something good. She nodded, and held tight to that thought, and his comforting presence by her side.