ANZAC Day

©2008 by: Natalie

Part 3

Lachlan’s heart froze waiting for the blast and hoping the bullet would hit true. Just a momentary burst of pain and it would be over. It’s said you relive your life in the moments before you die, but he didn’t relive his. He noticed his surroundings; the hardness of the ground, the greens and browns of the forest, the sounds of singing birds, the smell of the earth. Things he knew he would miss; his mother’s smile, the taste of a good beer…

“Attendez!” a voice whispered urgently.

“Huh?” Lachlan looked up, blinked. It wasn’t a battle-hardened face of a German soldier holding the rifle, but the young face of a teenaged boy, still pimpled and surly without facial hair worth shaving.

“Ecoutez moi! Etes vous le pilote? Le pilote Anglais?” The kid sighed. “Parlez vous Français?”

Lachlan shook his head, “No, mate. No parley…uh…French.”

The rifle fire was getting closer and the boy quickly looked around. “You are English pilot, no? Come with me. Rapidement. Quickly.” The boy reached down and helped Lach to his feet. He was somewhat unsteady and when he took his first step, his ankle screamed out in pain. The boy threw Lach’s arm around his shoulders to support him.

“Quickly, no? We must move before we are found.”

They half ran, half stumbled through the trees, taking cover when they could, and Lachlan struggled with his rebellious aching body and his thoughts. What were the odds? Was he really saved or was this some kind of trick. Was the kid rescuing him, or taking him directly into the hands of the Germans?

Pain blasted through him and he moved as fast as he could, panting loud, sweat dripping down his face. Occasionally the boy would stop, watch Lachlan’s expression until the grimace of his agony would settle then they’d begin moving again. Twice they dropped, slithered behind green coverage and held their breath. In his mind, Lachlan was sensing a melting. He needed to sharpen against the pain, to think. Think. Be clear. Without wondering if he’d lost his mind, he began to mentally write a letter to his mother.

This wasn’t a letter he could ever really pen to her as it would scare the bloody hell out of her, but for his purposes, it would do fine. Dear mum, he began. Fancy this. Looks as though I’ve really done it this time. It was a successful mission, but I’m not gonna make it home too soon, if at all. See, I’ve had to jump and I’m sure my whole crew is either dead or in enemy hands by now.

The pain in his shoulder shot a terrible streak along his back and arm and he stifled a cry, groaned then continued. Gunfire snapped and blasted all around and inside his agony, it all seemed right at his heel. He fought panic and continued his imaginary letter home. Fuck all, mum, I can smell my own fear. I don’t wanna let you down, don’t want to let anyone down but most of all I don’t want to cause my escort undue pain or death. See, if God is watching over me, he looks a lot like a bloke younger than cousin Taz right now. I’ve half a mind to send him off to save himself, but I don’t speak French and he doesn’t seem to have any plan other than saving my sorry arse. Jesus! Lachlan gasped and attempted to twist a look behind. I just heard the rumble of tanks, two maybe three. There was a blast, mum. They’re not that far behind.

Again the boy roughly pushed him into the bush. Lachlan dropped with a thud and for a minute, thought he’d lose consciousness. There they were silent, still as death. Tramping footfalls rustled the leaves nearby then continued. Finally, all was quiet but the pounding of his heart. Mum, I don’t mind telling you, I’m bloody scared. Scared shitless.

Cautiously, the kid helped him to his feet and assisted in a slower trek. They moved quietly as the sun set and darkness added to their protection. They reached an old, broken-down farmhouse. Setting Lachlan on a rotting log, the boy walked around and inside the old structure before helping the pilot inside.

In a back closet, the boy removed the far wall, waved Lach inside and followed then replaced the wall. Neither spoke for hours, barely breathing in fear that their gasps might be overheard. Suddenly, outside, they could hear the movements of the soldiers as they searched the house. Heavy booted feet entered the outer room, roaming until they could hear the creak of the closet door.

“Nicht,” a deep voice called out and the footsteps left the room.

As the gunfire outside faded away, the boy undid the panel and they cautiously slipped into the room. “Attendez. Wait.” Lachlan sat down next to a wall while the boy checked the rest of the house.

“They are gone, but they will return. Maybe tomorrow.” The boy slid down the wall next to Lach and grinned.

“What’s your name, mate?”

The boy smiled wider. “Jean-Paul. Quel es…uh, what is your name, English Pilot?”

“Lachlan, and I’m not a bloody pom, mate. Australian.”

“Ah. Australia. Kangaroos, no?”

Lachlan nodded. “Yeah, mate. ‘roos, koalas, sheilas that’ll knock your socks off. Home.”

“Good, good. C’est, how do you say, this is my home. I lived here.”

“Here? In this house?” Lachlan looked around. The place was a wreck…broken windows, trash, a staircase that looked as if it might fall any minute.

“Qui. C’est, um, my room.” Jean-Paul pointed to the closet. “That was my hiding place, to not do chores,” he laughed. “I don’t like chores. I wanted to be a soldier like mon père.”

Lachlan couldn’t help but laughed with him. There was a joy in Jean-Paul’s youth, in the idea of his future and a good long life; a pleasure that took Lachlan away from his pain and desperate situation. “I had a hiding place, too. My father was also a soldier. He died, though, in the last war.”

“Ah, mon père, he did not die in the war. But the Germans, they came here. The Maquis, they cut the phone lines to the German headquarters. Mon père, he helped and the Germans found out. My father, he sent me to my hiding place. The Germans shot my father and took my mother away. That is way I am Maquis now. You know Maquis, the…resistance.”

Lachlan nodded. “I understand, mate.”

Jean-Paul sighed, nodded and stood to help Lach to his feet. They left the remains of his home and found the road. It was a long walk, if you could call it a walk. Lachlan limped on his bad ankle as Jean-Paul supported him as best he could. Both men’s stomachs were growling and Lach was growing weaker and weaker. Finally, they came to a small house set back from the road. An old man was waiting by the gate.

“Jean-Paul, tu es finalement ici. Entré tu.”

The man took Lachlan’s other arm and he shouted in pain. He worried that the injury was severe and pushed the man away to catch his breath. “Mother fucker!” he gasped then glanced up at Jean-Paul who grinned, clearly understanding the words. Together, the boy and old man helped Lachlan into the house and up the stairs to a small back bedroom. Suddenly alone, his eyes drooped closed for a moment and he listened to his body demand relief from his pain and hunger. Lachlan groaned, opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. The room was just large enough for a small bed with a nightstand beside it. A ladder leaned against the back wall of the closet, and there was a tiny window, but it still felt closed in and stuffy.

Moments later, Jean-Paul returned with another man. This was a bull of a bloke, large and burly with a bald head that glowed in the lamplight. “He is doctor. He will fix your shoulder, yes?”

“What’s the ladder for?” Lachlan asked as the doctor carefully removed his shirt.

“This is my aunt and uncle’s home. The Maquis hide pilots here.” Jean-Paul said proudly. “We will stay here tonight and tomorrow we will go to the Maquis’ headquarters. They will know how to get you back to England.”

“Venez ici. Tenez-le,” grunted the doctor and Jean Paul casually gripped Lachlan’s good shoulder. Before he could protest, the large man tugged a vicious pull and Lachlan howled, he heard a loud pop then dropped to the mattress, tears in his eyes.

“Bloody hell!” he gasped then chuckled along with Jean-Paul and the doctor. He hated to admit it, but most of the pain had subsided. Allowing Lachlan to relax, the man proceeded to wrap the damaged ankle tight with cloth. As he was fitted with a sling, Jean-Paul’s aunt entered the room with a bowl of hot water, soap and towels.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Lachlan said as she placed the items on the small nightstand.

“Merci, Tante,” Jean-Paul said. Looking at Lachlan, “She does not speak the English. But she helps where she can. Mon père was her brother. Rest now. We will mangez, have dinner soon.”

Exhausted, Lachlan washed up and lay down on the bed. While it was small and he could barely stretch out, it was warm and comforting and he drifted off to sleep. He dreamed of his mum, dreamed of the outback and the bush and miles and miles of pretty beaches. And he dreamed of actually making it safely back to England.

When he woke, he found that the wash basin had been taken away and in its place was a platter of wine, cheese and crusty bread. He ate them with relish, calming his grumbling stomach. With a slam of the door, Jean-Paul tore into the room.

“Quickly. Up the ladder. The Germans, they are coming.”

It was a struggle. He couldn’t pull himself up with the bad shoulder and couldn’t put any weight on his ankle, but he made it up with Jean-Paul’s help, the boy comically pushing his arse hard and grunting. He pulled up the ladder and closed the trap door, shutting out all the light. He could hear noises as the Germans raided the house; voices raised in anger and fright. Crashes as tables were overturned, scrapes as furniture was tossed aside. He could hear everything and do nothing. Mum, pray for me! Pray for these people, mum. As if she’d heard, did as he asked, suddenly all went quiet. Releasing a breath he’d been holding for long moments, he heard one shot and the growl of trucks moving away from the house. He feared for Jean-Paul until he heard his voice from below.

“Lachlan, it is safe.”

Lach opened the trap door and painfully came down the ladder.

“They’re gone, mate? I heard a shot.”

“Yes, they have gone,” Jean-Paul answered sadly. “But they have shot the cow.”

“Good, glad you’re alright, mate.”

“No, it is not good. The cow was all my aunt and uncle had left. The Germans took everything else of value,” Jean-Paul replied bitterly. “How will they live now? But,” he shrugged, “that is war, is it not?”

“Yeah, mate. It’s war.”

Jean-Paul looked out the tiny window. “We will leave in the morning, but we must be careful. They will be watching. My uncle, he will give you clothes to hide your uniform.”

“Jean-Paul,” Lachlan said as he turned to leave.

“Yes?”

“Thanks, mate. I owe you my life. Tell your aunt and uncle, too.”

Jean-Paul nodded. “Sleep now. We must leave early.” He left with the lantern and Lachlan laid back on the bed in the dark. He groaned himself to comfort and closed his eyes.

G’night, mum. I love you. Your son, Lachlan.

Chapter Four