The Map Of Honour. Max Carmichael

should either return the salute of a soldier, or if he was seated, or hatless, that he should at the very least assume a position of attention, or brace. Cook had no intention of being courteous to Green.

      Green sat in the offered chair and waited for Cook to speak.

      Cook made a show of tossing something into a wastepaper basket, before turning his attention to Green. He smiled happily. ‘Well, Green,’ he said, ‘I have some very good news.’

      Green already on his guard regarded Cook with even greater suspicion. ‘You have, sir?’

      ‘Yes, indeed,’ Cook continued smugly, ‘it seems we are going to lose you.’

      Green felt a surge of joy, but he kept his face expressionless and replied, ‘That is good news, sir.’

      ‘Yes, but not,’ Cook continued smugly, ‘I suspect, so good for you, Green.’

      ‘It’s not, sir?’ Green felt a pang of alarm.

      ‘No. You have been unsuccessful in all of your preferred posting requests, but it seems someone at Headquarters 3 Division wants you. The posting order doesn’t provide any details, so it could be anything. I don’t suppose you cook, do you?’ Cook chuckled at his own joke.

      Green was horrified. ‘No sir, I don’t cook.’

      ‘Didn’t think you did. Still, I doubt they will have any positions in your preferred line of work. Not many snipers at a Divisional HQ, eh?’

      ‘No sir, I don’t suppose there are,’ Green muttered in reply.

      ‘But plenty of tins of peaches, I imagine,’ Cook said dangerously.

      Green had never admitted his part in the Gallipoli assault on Cook to anyone. The few who were close enough to have possibly witnessed the assault were either dead, or were as determined as Green to bury the event so that no others were aware of the facts.

      ‘Peaches, sir…why would tins of peaches interest me? I have no idea what you are talking about, sir,’ Green replied evenly.

      Cook smiled. ‘Of course, you don’t…well, that’s all, Green. They seem to be in a hurry to gain your services for you are to report no later than nine tomorrow morning. The orderly room clerk will have some papers for you to sign. Shut the door when you go out.’

      Cook immediately turned his attention to another of the papers on his desk. The interview had clearly ended.

      Green got to his feet, saluted, was ignored again, and marched from the room. He was shattered. What indeed was he going to do at Divisional Headquarters? At least at the School he was outside and working with soldiers.

      A clerk waiting in the outer office beckoned Green forward. ‘Here you go, Sergeant,’ the clerk said happily, ‘important stuff first.’ The clerk indicated a small pile of documents. ‘These papers change your pay station…these others send your Q records…’

      It took some minutes to process the paperwork during that time the clerk prattled away about the importance of the various forms, few of which made any sense to Green, but nevertheless, he signed wherever the clerk indicated. ‘Only one to go now, Sarg. It’s your receipt of the posting order. Oh, and you take this with you of course. There is this memo attached. You are to meet with Lieutenant Colonel Law tomorrow at 1000 hours, at his office in the headquarters.’ The clerk paused for a moment and rummaged through a folder. ‘Ah yes, here it is…most unusual for an NCO. You aren’t to travel by train; a car will pick you up at eight in the morning.’

      Green raised his eyebrows in surprise. Car travel was indeed unusual. He had expected to use the light rail system that linked the cities of huts and suburbs of tents that punctuated the military presence on Salisbury Plains.

      ‘Well, good luck with your new posting, sergeant,’ the clerk said as handed Green the posting order. ‘Maybe they will give you an important job like being a clerk!’

      Green frowned as he took the offered order. ‘Very funny,’ he growled, then with a curt nod to the clerk, he left the office and walked back to his hut to pack his gear.

      Chapter 3

      That night in the Sergeants’ Mess, the RSM bought Green a beer. ‘I hear you’re leaving us, Killer,’ he said as they took their first sips.

      Green nodded. ‘Yes, but not to a battalion,’ he said bitterly. ‘What the bloody hell could Divisional Headquarters want with me, sir?’

      The RSM grinned and tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. ‘Things are afoot, my son. I wouldn’t worry if I were you. I can’t say too much, but you can rest assured Monash won’t want to waste a man of your talents.’

      The RSM was in fact referring to a rumour that General Monash’s 3^rd Division would shortly be bound for France. Since it’s raising in February 1916, the Division had spent a considerable time in England training, leading to other Australian formations claiming the Division was only thinking about going to France, a claim that had coined the Division’s nickname of “The Deep Thinkers.” ‘Don’t you worry, mate,’ the RSM concluded, ‘we’ll give ‘em bloody deep thinkers. You mark my words, Killer, Monash is behind your posting.’

      Green was not convinced. ‘Then the General hasn’t got enough to do if he’s starting to worry about the postings for individual Sergeants!’ he retorted hotly.

      The RSM laughed then drained his glass in one gulp. ‘Another?’ he asked.

      Green nodded. ‘My buy,’ he said.

      ‘Not tonight,’ said the RSM. ‘Tonight, you keep your money in your pocket.’

      Green mumbled an embarrassed thanks.

      ‘Mate, I don’t think you appreciate the impact you made at Gallipoli,’ the RSM began. ‘I for one would not be here if you hadn’t been around.’ The RSM’s face clouded momentarily as he remembered those early days at ANZAC Cove. He was a sergeant then, in Major Cook’s company, and he had been present when the infamous tinned peaches attack took place. ‘I remember that morning like it was yesterday,’ he murmured. ‘Cook was going to line us up again to call the role and the Turks would have shot the shit out of us again.’

      ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, RSM,’ a straight-faced Green responded.

      ‘Bullshit! After that first parade and knowing there was going to be another, I was so bloody frightened I didn’t know what to do. You were the only bloke I could talk to and you told me not to worry, that you would fix it. You did, too. The pity of it was you didn’t hit him hard enough.’

      ‘I still don’t know what you’re referring to.’

      ‘We needed your help and you came through for us.’

      ‘I’m glad someone came to your aid, but I don’t think I was in your sector at the time.’

      The RSM grinned. ‘You’re a hard little bastard,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you admit to doing that bastard.’

      Green shrugged. ‘Let’s have a drink,’ he said. ‘All this make-believe has made me thirsty.’

      News of Green’s posting quickly spread and a party among the veteran sergeants and warrant officers developed. Someone produced a bottle of whisky, which prompted another to find a flask of green ginger wine. Beer, even though it was a local English brew, flowed freely and the party became a rather noisy affair. Songs were sung, each refrain bawdier than the last, and more and more drink was taken. None of the participants gave a thought to the fact that back in Australia, Green as an Aboriginal would not be allowed inside a bar, and that it would be illegal for him to drink alcohol. However, here in England, Green was one of them, a mate. This was not to say that the general attitude of the members of the Mess toward other people of colour had changed, but Green had endured the crucible of battle alongside them, a shared experience that had erased all