Page 2 of Under the Dark Moon
‘It’s no use. The Japs are too high for our piddling little guns to reach them. The shells are exploding way below the planes.’ The soldier with the head wound slumped to the ground, his head bowed.
‘Sister? Up here. You’re needed.’ A man’s voice broke through the nightmarish scene and recalled Meg to her duty.
‘Coming.’ Thankful she’d fallen asleep in her uniform after a twenty-hour shift, Meg stumbled back up the bank and across the rubble-strewn street and dropped to her knees beside a young soldier. He writhed in pain, moaning words that were all unintelligible, except for ‘Mum’.
‘I’m here to help you. Try to stay still and let me see what you’ve done.’
One hand gripped her wrist so hard she thought her bone might break. ‘Mum—hurts.’
‘He copped a bit of guttering when it fell. His shoulder’s a mess, Sister.’ The soldier who had called for her help rose with not another word. Picking up three empty buckets, he raced off to refill them.
‘Can you let go of my arm so I can help you?’ Meg looked into the young man’s eyes and forced her clenched teeth to part into a smile—her professional, reassuring smile, the one she pinned in place every day at work at the top end of Australia. ‘I’ll look after you, Private—’ She glanced at the dog tag lying on the private’s chest. ‘Jackson. Look at me. I’m going to check your wound and get you to the hospital, okay?’
He let go of her wrist and gently, she eased him into a sitting position and shuffled around in the dirt until she could see his wound more clearly. The hot jagged metal had cut and burned through his shirt and skin, exposing a sliver of white bone beneath the red mess that had been his shoulder. Her guts heaved, but resolutely, she swallowed and focused only on him. ‘I need to cut away your shirt. Do you have a knife, private?’
‘Yeah.’ His reply was a forced grunt, an exhalation of pain. He pointed with his uninjured arm towards his calf. ‘Dad give it me.’
Meg reached for the calf sheath and withdrew a short but sharp knife and set to work removing the remnant of shirtsleeve. Slicing it, she made a pad of it then dressed the wound with a bandage from her kit. That would hold him until she could get him to the hospital and clean the wound properly. Then she tucked his arm inside the remains of his shirt. No matter how careful she was, each movement elicited a moan. ‘Stay with me, private. We’ll get you some morphine very soon.’
Looking around for someone to help her, Meg began to grasp the extent of the situation. Everyone was battling fires or searching through rubble.
Where the Post Office had once been, smoke rose from a pile of rubble. Wires dangled from telegraph poles. One leaned crazily against the shell of the remains. The front wall was gone, and most of the building lay in untidy piles, but a solitary desk lay on its side surrounded by two walls. As she watched, they gave way and crashed, sending up a cloud of dust. With communication lines down, no one would know what was happening in Darwin. No one would be coming to help them. Panic welled in her gut but giving in to the churning emotion was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Not with a wounded soldier depending on her.
‘Looks like it’s just you and me.’ She squatted beside the young private and slung his good arm across her shoulders. ‘Come on, soldier. We need to move out of here and get you to the hospital.’
She exerted gentle pressure to get him on his feet, and he groaned, but she urged him into a shuffling walk, one arm around his waist and the other bracing his injured arm across his chest. Heat surrounded them, flames consumed the ships behind them, and smoke choked them no matter which way they turned. Ash floated in the air like black rain and a sharp pain burned her arm. She shook the ash off, biting back a less than ladylike exclamation. Not that Private Jackson would notice.
His head hung low, but he kept moving beside her. ‘Sister? If I don’t make it—’
‘You’ll make it, private.’
‘Will you see Dad gets my knife—please?’
‘I will, but don’t you go wasting my effort to fix you up.’
He grunted, a sound she took as assent as they staggered along the road, skirting debris and running soldiers. Everywhere was noise and chaos and horror. Sweat ran down her face, but Meg couldn’t risk relaxing her hold on Private Jackson to wipe it off. Black particles settled into the sweat on Jackson’s face. Hers probably looked as black.
‘Get down.’ As she turned, a soldier ran towards her, and the command rang loud and urgent again. ‘Get. Down.’
She glanced up. Lines of bombs were falling out near the edge of town. Lines of bombs from neat formations of planes.
Her breath caught in her throat, but she obeyed the order without question.
Dropping to her knees she dragged the private down with her. The lad passed out and Meg lifted her head. A thunderous roar deafened her as wave after wave of planes flew over the town. Bombs whistled as they fell then cracked and crumped as they exploded.
Dark mosquito shapes. A ragged line of bombs raining on the street ahead of them.
She flung herself over the wounded soldier, shielding him with her body.
Dirt rained on them, and she pressed her face into his good shoulder, one hand instinctively covering her helmet even while she tried to protect his wound.
The patter and thud of chunks of dirt subsided and she raised her head.
The soldier who had told her to get down kneeled in front of her, his hand extended to help her up. ‘Sister, you’ve got to get out of here now.’
Meg looked up. The voice belonged to an Aussie sergeant who reached for her elbow and dragged her to her feet. Blood ran down his cheek from a wound above his right eye.
‘I can’t leave him. He’s badly burnt.’