The renewed thunder of guns shattered the night.
Red snapped from a fitful doze, trembling, forehead dripping with sweat. Something clawed at his memory... Something that had happened, something he didn't want to remember. He wanted sleep. A rock ground into his shoulder, and the wind carried with it the stench of bodies rotting in the night.
Gallipoli, 1915.
Red coughed haggardly, and faint footsteps sent blood pounding to his ears. Cautiously, he flicked his eyes open. The cold butt of a rifle chilled his fingertips.
"Red." A hand gripped his arm, and with a muffled exclamation he whipped the gun around, safety snapping off, finger hovering only a hairsbreadth above the trigger.
"Bloody hell," he snapped. "I'll kill you one of these — days..."
Kill.
A rushing, gurgling torrent of bloody memories flushed angrily through his mind.
The Wellington Battalion had at last taken Chunuk Bair: the first success of the Allies' August Offensive. But overwhelming casualties made for a bitter victory. Red's fingers trembled, unable to forget the vibration of shot after shot after life-ravaging shot.
Lieutenant-Colonel William Malone was dead, life snatched away quicker than it had come. His own country — the home he had given everything to protect — had unwittingly killed him. And Frank — Frankie, Red's best mate since childhood — was gone. Just another nameless body.
"Sorry, buddy." Richie raised his hands placatingly, face pale beneath the dust and the filth and the blood. "You good?"
Jared gave him a long look, unable to respond. Richie sucked his teeth.
"Look, you're not meant to be asleep, mate," he said finally. "On ya feet; you're needed up top."
Of course. The hill. The Turks could not retake Chunuk Bair. Almost robotically, Red got to his feet, joints creaking like an old man in his seventies. Richie thumped his shoulder reassuringly. It said I'm sorry, and I understand, and if I don't see you again, goodbye. He clasped his arm in response.
"You're relieving Lenny." Rich collapsed in Jared's spot, helmet falling unheeded across his face, and his sweat-soaked hair sprang free in the wind.
Numb, Red set off up the treacherous incline. One thought, and one thought only, ground at his mind with every trudging step. They could not lose Chunuk Bair. Last night they had finally taken the hill, but now the Turks wanted it back. Too many broken bodies littered the smashed earth.
An explosion rocked the hill, and he stumbled, ground shivering beneath his feet. Hunger clawed at his belly and exhaustion clawed at his heels. Sleep was scarce where death reigned.
Red dropped to his stomach as he neared the crest, flinching away from a puddle of glittering liquid. Squirming through the dark, he reached the crest and dropped into a trench, boots sinking into something soft. Probably a body.
"G'day," he remarked quietly, crouching down and releasing a tight breath. He could just make out two huddled shapes on either side of the loophole, guns at the ready, heads vague outlines of helmet below the sandbags.
"Took your time, Red." Len's voice, so venomous at home, was flat and dull with exhaustion.
"Get outta here." Red flicked the safety off, cuffed Lenny's helmet, and sank down beside Jerry. Len squirmed down the hill on his stomach and quickly vanished.
"How ya goin'?" he whispered. He didn't mean really, and Jerry knew it.
"Good. The bloody Turks're snorin'. Heavier for Georgie and Alf to the right though, poor buggers." He laughed darkly, a little too loud, and Red instinctively clapped a hand over his friend's mouth. "Aw, s**t."
A flash of light — Red ducked without thinking, head low, flinching away from the pain — and a bullet slammed into the sandbag above their heads an instant before the gun's report. Breath hissed hard and fast between his teeth, carrying the stench of sweat and blood and fear.
"Got 'em," Jerry snarled. He was low in the trench, back tight against the wall, moonlight flashing from the white of his eyes and barrel of his gun. "To your left."
Red nodded the slightest amount, breathing hard, blood pounding hot and loud.
Cautiously, he inserted the muzzle of his rifle through the loophole once more; every movement begged to stay hidden, every muscle pulled tight with adrenaline. They could not lose Chunuk Bair.
Light gleamed dully from below, and Red's finger dragged back against the trigger. The gun shuddered in his hands, an explosion hammered his ears, and then he was ducking down and away, trembling with energy as returning shots peppered the walls. He shoved the bolt, flipped it over, then Jerry was up and firing once — twice — and dancing away again.
Red waited for the return-fire to calm slightly, and spun back to the loophole. Anger burned like hot coal; anger on behalf of his dead mates and the dead Turks. Anger at himself. He slammed the trigger, the gun roared, he shoved the bolt down and forward, and he fired again.
Five shots echoed like thunder through the valley. It wasn't enough to hide a blood-curdling scream of agony from the Turkish lines.
Red swallowed hard, throat aching, but there was no time to think. Bullets littered the trench; one burst through only centimetres above his helmet, and he flinched, breath snagging painfully.
With fumbling fingers, he drew a second clip of bullets from his pocket and thumbed it down into the magazine. Muscles seizing as shots streaked through the night, Red slammed the bolt down and forward. He didn't dare flick the safety.
A horrible wail sliced through the air, throbbing down the trenchline, worming into his ears, forever haunting his dreams.
"Medic!" someone screamed, throat strung raw with grief and pain and terror. Red squeezed his eyes shut, heart lurching painfully.
Then Jerry dropped back to the ground, panting, eyes wild, and there was no time to think.
Grim thunder ruled the night. Minutes passed by like hours, and hours like days, in a never-ending cycle of kill and kill and kill, until his fingers ached with regret.
At 2230 hours, after what seemed an eternity, the Otago battalion arrived to relieve the Wellingtons. Red trembled with frantic relief and adrenaline. Chunuk Bair was still theirs, and Otago was strong; maybe the Allied army could push forward again, knock the Turks further, gain more ground. For the first time in three desperate, bloody months, Red felt that maybe — just maybe — the war could have an end. Maybe — just maybe — everyone could go home.
Something just too weak to be a spring in his step, Red slogged and wriggled back down the hill with his mates. They were stunned and exhausted, trembling in the dark.
Red slept that night better than he had in weeks, flinching in time with the steady crack of gunfire. Maybe, just maybe, they had reason to hope.
The Otago battalion held Chunuk Bair for the next twenty-four hours, repelling the Turks' desperate attacks as the Wellingtons made their weary way back down to Anzac Cove. Seventy men of the 760-strong battalion remained. A day later, on the tenth of August, British troops relieved the remaining New Zealanders.
Red heard the news a few hours later. The Brits were greenies. Overwhelmed by the Turks' experience, they had retreated and fled. Chunuk Bair was once again in Turkish hands. All they'd fought to accomplish — all William Malone and Frank Cardiff and so, so many thousands of others had traded their lives for — what he had killed for — was nothing. Red crumbled to the ground.
