PLOUGHSHARES

Part 1:

By Moviegirl  littlesister1023@hotmail.com)

Continued from And Touch the Face of God

They shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning-hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more -- Isaiah ii.4

July, 1947 - Townsville General Hospital, Queensland, Australia

She was out of the ute almost before it had completely stopped. Throwing the hospital doors open, she charged down the whitewashed hall toward the nurse's station. "Where is he?" she pleaded as she reached the desk. The nurse gave her a quizzical look, and she continued breathlessly, "They said they were bringing him here. Lachlan Curry. Where is he?"

Bridget Stanley glared at the nurse as she calmly started to leaf through some papers, and was about to tear into her when she heard a commotion coming from one of the treatment bays. Her blood froze in her veins; as a nurse, she knew that sound too well. "No," Bridget whispered, and ran toward the sounds.

As she reached the treatment bay, she saw a lone figure cowering just outside the door, his eyes wide with terror. Bridget marched straight toward the man, who was a bit smaller than she, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and slammed him against the wall. "This is your fault, Georgie. Your own brother! What did you do? What the hell did you do?"

Looking for Perfection

May, 1947 - Cloncurry, Queensland, Australia

The sales clerk groaned and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "All right then, sir," he said, barely hiding his irritation, "What are you looking for?"

The young man across the counter pursed his lips and thought for a moment. "Can't rightly say, mate, but I'll know it when I see it," he said cheerfully, rolling up his sleeves and folding his arms. Bending down, he peered into the case at the diamond rings, his nose nearly pressed to the glass. "It's gotta be just right."

The clerk shook his head. "Young man, you've been staring into this case for nearly twenty minutes. Not to mention the thirty minutes you spent here last week. If you haven't seen - " He stopped short when he caught sight of the man's arms. They were tan, but heavily scarred - streaks and spots of untanned white covered both.

The customer looked up and saw the clerk staring. Suddenly self-conscious, he rolled the sleeves back down a bit. "Oh, sorry, mate, didn't think."

"No, no, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare."

"Not the first, won't be the last," the young man replied, his cheerful tone diminished slightly. "So, this all ya got?"

"I'm afraid so, but I think I might be getting some very fine rings in a few days. Shall I ring you?"

"Yeah, do." The man found a piece of paper in his pocket and scribbled his name and phone number down. Handing it to the clerk, he smiled. "Ta, mate. I know I'm being a bloody pain, but it's…it's just gotta be perfect, y'know?"

"She must be quite a young lady," the clerk replied.

No idea, mate, he thought to himself. What do you say about a girl who literally saved your life, your sanity? He settled for, "Too bloody right. This is her reward for puttin' up with the likes of me." He grinned.

The clerk couldn't help but smile back. He looked down at the piece of paper in his hands, then back up at the strapping young man. "Very good, Mr. Curry. I'll ring you when I get those new pieces in. I'm sure we'll be able to find something just perfect for your fiancée."

"She's not my fiancée yet, but if I play my cards right, who knows? Maybe we'll both be back for wedding bands."

Lachlan Curry shook the clerk's hand, and ambled out of the store.

Watching the Wheels

As he downed his fifth beer in an hour, George Curry stared hazily out the window of the train. The rough outback terrain swept past, looking the same as it did every day he made the trip from Cloncurry to Julia Creek. Bloody Julia Creek, he groused to himself as he watched one of the beer bottles roll under the seats.

Work had become increasingly hard to find in Cloncurry; the mines had been hard hit by the war, and there were only so many sheep to shear, so he took shearing jobs wherever they could find them, for as long as they lasted. This month, it was Julia Creek.

He was sure the residents of Cloncurry - including his own family - were glad to see his back, at least for a while. A troublemaker, they'd called him. No good. Unlike his saintly, war-hero little brother - Lachlan the Good, he snorted derisively.

What had Lachlan done, exactly, that made him so bloody wonderful? All right, he'd volunteered for the Air Force, gone off to war, been shot down, captured, imprisoned, tortured…it was like some bad Hollywood movie, for God's sake. "Saint fuckin' Lachlan," George grunted.

"You all right, son?" a gruff-looking older man asked him from across the aisle.

"Sorry," George slurred. "Family troubles."

"Ah." The man nodded sagely. "Wife?"

He laughed bitterly. "Little brother, believe it or not."

"Your little brother's got your knickers in such a twist? What is he, a murderer or something?" The younger man chuckled. "Poofter?"

"War hero," George droned, rolling his eyes. He saw the man's face harden. "I mean, don't get me wrong, mate, I admire his - "

"My boy died in the Phillipines. Wasn't even enough of him left to bury," the man said angrily. "You get down on your knees, boy, every single bloody night, and thank the good Lord he sent your baby brother back in one piece, y'hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah," George replied curtly. He was about to say something else when he heard a loud booming sound, and the train car shook violently. George was thrown from his seat onto the floor. "What the - " The train came to a screeching stop, and he and the other passengers were thrown about again.

George rose after a few seconds and looked around the car. The other passengers were bruised, terrified, but otherwise unhurt. The older man he'd been speaking to shook his head to clear it, then exclaimed, "Well, I'm blown! It's the Digger!"

"What?" George looked at the man as though he'd gone mad.

"What, you haven't heard the stories?" George shook his head. "Some bloke's been sabotaging the tracks. Digs a hole, plants whatever, and boom. Been happening for months now. Pentland Creek, Oorindi, Charters Towers, he's hit the line all over. Looks like he's finally gotten this stretch."

"And it's just one fella?"

"Seems so. Someone saw a bloke running away after the explosion near Charters. Nobody gets hurt, and the tracks themselves aren't damaged. Takes a lotta skill, that. But one train came pretty bloody close to derailing a while back. Right outside Townsville, that was. When the police came to investigate, they found a sign stuck in the ground nearby. 'Stop,' was all it said. Just, 'Stop.' Don't that just beat all?" The man shook his head.

"Reckon there must be quite a reward out for this fella, eh?" George could almost feel the wheels start to turn in his greedy mind.

"No bloody fear. Sooner or later, someone's gonna get hurt. Killed, maybe even. QPS is sending folks to start scouring around, but he hits in so many different places, they don't know where to look. Country's just too spread out - you'd have to take a plane to cover it all."

"Is that right?" was all George said slyly.
 

A Clerk, A Pilot, A Brother

Paperwork. The one thing Lachlan hated most about his job at the Flying Doctor Service - except, perhaps, for the panic attacks he still had when he was forced to take one of the planes out himself - was bloody paperwork. "Three years of University, three more in the RAF, and what am I? A bloody clerk," he groused aloud as he filled out another equipment requisition form…in triplicate.

"A bloody clerk who's talking to himself," a mocking female voice said behind him. He turned around from the desk and felt his spirits instantly lift at the sight of the tall, red-headed woman holding a picnic basket.

"That for me?" Lachlan asked teasingly.

"Is what for you?" she teased back.

He rose from his chair and walked over to the woman, snatching the basket from her with one hand and slipping his other hand around her waist. "Oh, I dunno…how 'bout everything?"

She laughed. "All yours," she said huskily as she met his lips with hers, her hand snaking into his hair.

Lachlan pulled away reluctantly. "G'Day, sunshine," he smiled.

"G'Day yourself," Bridget Stanley replied, taking his arm and leading him back to the desk. She pulled up a chair alongside and sat down. "Reckoned a bit of tucker might hit the spot about now - and I know how you forget to feed yourself, you knob."

"I don't forget," he pouted, "I just get busy."

"Yeah. Right," Bridget laughed as she opened the basket. "Shut up and eat your chook." Lachlan tore into the food, and grinned at her through a mouthful of chicken. "That's disgusting, " she scolded him half-heartedly.

"Oh, really?" he muttered with his mouth full. Leaning toward her, he mumbled something Bridget was fairly sure was "Give us a kiss."

"Lachlan, ewww!" she squealed, laughing as he came closer and closer. "Lachlan, don't you dare…Lachlan…"

"Lachlan?" The door flew open and a young man in a mechanic's jumpsuit called from the threshold. "Oh, sorry," he said sheepishly. "G'Day, Bridge."

"Hello, Howard," she sighed, slapping Lachlan on the arm.

Lachlan straightened up and swallowed hard. "Eh, Howard? What's up?" he asked between choking coughs as Bridget pounded on his back.

"There's been an accident on the Inlander outside Julia Creek. Can you take Doc Fowler out there to see to the injured?"

"Julia Creek?" Lachlan was up from his seat like a bolt of lightning. He looked at Bridget. "Geordie takes the Inlander to Julia Creek," he said softly.

"I'm sure he's all right, luv," Bridget replied.

"I gotta get out there," he said, grabbing his jacket…and a banana. When he saw Howard looking at him quizzically, he shrugged and said, "Dessert." He turned to Bridget and gave her a quick kiss. "Be back soon. Sorry about the rest of…you know." He gestured toward the basket.

"It'll keep. Go," she said, stroking his cheek.

Scene of the Crime

As the plane slowed to a stop, Dr. Con Fowler looked over at his pilot. "Smooth as silk" he said admiringly. "I actually enjoy these trips when it's perfect weather. Don't you, Lachlan?" When he received no reply, he leaned closer to his pilot and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Lach," he said firmly.

Lachlan took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Yeah. Sorry."

"Still makes ya a bit nervous, eh?"

"Shows that much, does it?" He smiled sheepishly.

"Only once we've landed, mate. She's sweet up 'til then," Con replied reassuringly. "C'mon, then, pry those hands loose of the wheel, and let's see what's what."

Lachlan nodded, and followed the doctor out into the dusty outback heat on only slightly shaking legs. Well, it's a little bit better this time, he thought to himself. Each time he had to go up got a little easier, but he wondered sadly if he'd ever feel the freedom and sheer joy he used to when he'd take the controls and soar to the heavens.

Everyone said, "It just takes time," or "She'll be apples in no time," and all that rot, but days and months went by, and still his palms perspired and his hands shook each time the prospect of taking a plane up presented itself.

Shaking his head to clear it of the self-pitying thoughts, he looked around at the dozens of passengers swarming around the stalled train. The train itself didn't seem to have suffered any damage, and all of the cars save one were still firmly on track, but a few of the passengers were holding their arms or heads as though they'd been banged around. Squinting into the sun despite his sunglasses, Lachlan strained to find the one face he desperately wanted to see.

He heard the voice first. "Oh, look who's come to save the day," Geordie's voice droned behind him. "G'Day, flyboy."

Lachlan turned to face his brother. "Thank God, Geordie. You all right, mate?" he asked as he grasped Geordie's arms.

Geordie shook loose of Lachlan's grip. "Leave off, little brother. Nobody's watching your touching display."

Lachlan shook his head. "I just don't get ya, mate. I was worried sick. What happened?"

"Ah, not much. Somebody set off a bomb or something, we all went for a sixer, but that's about it," Geordie said nonchalantly. "They say it was the Digger."

Lachlan's eyes narrowed. "The fella that's been sabotaging the trains," he said flatly.

"What, am I the only person who didn't know about this bloke?" Geordie grunted.

"You always were a bit slow, mate," Lachlan quipped, earning a glare from the smaller man.

Dr. Fowler walked over and said, "A few bruises, but everyone seems all right. You're George, right? Lachlan's brother?

"Yeah," Geordie answered with a sour look on his face.

"You all right? Any complaints?"

"No," he replied. "You gonna give me a lift back, Lach?"

Dr. Fowler interjected, "Looks like they're letting passengers back onto the train, George."

Geordie looked to Lachlan, who shrugged. "Unless you're flat on your back, mate, they kinda frown on us using the planes to…"

"Yeah, fine. Reckoned as much. Thanks, little brother," Geordie grumbled, and stalked back toward the train.

"Charming bloke, your brother," Con Fowler commented.

"Yeah," Lachlan sighed. "I swear, Con...sometimes I think he wishes I'd never come back. But then he'd probably hate me for being 'the honoured dead."

Con clapped Lachlan on the shoulder, "Ah, don't think like that, mate. I'm sure that if you really needed him, he'd drop everything for ya."

Lachlan raised an eyebrow at him. "Yeah. Righto," he said softly.

As Con and Lachlan walked among the passengers as they made their way back to the train, Lachlan suddenly stopped and crouched in the dirt. Con turned and asked, "What's up, Lach?"

Lachlan pointed to the ground. "Look at this. They're all over the place," he said. Con followed Lachlan's gaze and saw the papers lying scattered alongside the rails, some drifting along in the dry, hot breeze.

Con stooped and picked one up and eyed the strange lettering. "What the - I can't read this. Whaddya reckon it is?"

"I'm not sure, mate. But it looks like Japanese."

A Little Knowledge

The silence was deafening on the flight back to base. Finally unable to stand it, Con said, "You sure that was Japanese, Lachlan?"

He nodded.

"How'd you know?"

"Think so," he replied as he banked the plane to the right to prepare for landing. "When I was in flight school in Canada, we had language classes. They taught us a bit of German, Italian, French…and Japanese." He glanced over and saw Con's surprised expression. "Oh, nothing fancy, just certain phrases."

"Like what?"

Lachlan was silent for a long while as the plane descended. Then, he finally said, "Things like 'Drop your weapon,' 'I don't know anything,' 'please' and 'thank you' when dealing with civilians, how to say your name rank and serial number. Learned how to read simple signs - y'know, 'Halt,' 'Danger,' that sort of thing." He shrugged and brought the plane in.

As the wheels touched the ground, Con said, "So, did you recognize that…whatever that was? Did you know what it said?" Another long silence followed. "You do know, don't' you? Lachlan, why didn't you tell the police when we talked to them?"

Lachlan brought the plane to a stop inside the hangar, unbuckled his seat belt, stood up, and headed toward the back of the plane. "Gotta re-stock the bandages. D'you know if Harry sent that requisition in?"

"Lachlan, did you hear what I asked you?" Con asked firmly, following him back.

Lachlan turned and glared at him. "Yeah, I did," he replied, and went back to his inventory.

* * *

"I don't think I much care for that name," Jock Curry said as he piled potatoes onto his plate. "'The Digger.' It's an insult to those of us who carried that name proudly in the Great War."

His wife, slapped his hand and took the bowl of potatoes away before he could add more. "Why do they call him that, I wonder?"

"I think it's because he digs a hole and puts the dynamite way down inside, Mary," Bridget answered. "Pass the veg, Lach?" She looked over at Lachlan, who seemed lost in thought. "Lachlan, you in there?" she asked, nudging him.

"Dear, are you all right?" Mary echoed.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, fine," Lachlan replied as he shoved the food around on his plate without eating.

"Don't mind him, Mum," Geordie said, "He had to…" He pointed toward the ceiling. "…Go up there yesterday."

"Really? You didn't mention that," Jock said to Geordie, then turned to Lachlan. "Neither did you, son. How'd it go?"

"All right, I reckon. Had to fly Doc Fowler out to the train. No worries," he replied noncommittally.

"Lachlan to the rescue," Geordie chuckled, but stopped when his mother cast a warning glance his way. "Sorry, Mum," he mumbled.

Bridget rubbed Lachlan's back. "Then what's wrong, luv?"

"Nothing," he answered. "Still a little het up, I suppose. I'm fine."

Jock smiled. "Always hard to wind down after a hard day's work, eh?" he said to lighten the mood. "So, why do they reckon's this Digger fella's doin' all this?"

"Dunno," Bridget said, still monitoring Lachlan's mood. "Some folks are saying it's someone who might've been fired from the railroad."

"Maybe, but what about those notes and such? At his father's questioning glance, he continued, "They found notes - all they ever say is, 'stop'. Scattered all along the rails. What do you make of that, Lach?"

"I'm not a policeman, George. I don't know," he replied tersely.

"I mean," Geordie continued, "What does that mean? Stop what? Stop the train? Stop botherin' him? Stop what?"

"How about, stop yabbering like the bloody bush telegraph?" Lachlan snapped, pushing himself away from the table. "Excuse me," he mumbled, and left the room.

Where Angels Fear to Tread

Bridget rose to go after him, but Geordie stood as well. "No, Bridge. It's my fault he's upset, I'll go make it right with him," he said, and left before she could object.

He found him sitting on the top step on the porch. "Oi, Lach," he said evenly. "Listen, cobber, I'm sorry if I upset you, all right?"

Lachlan ran a hand through his hair and nodded without turning to face his brother. "Yeah, no worries, Geord."

Geordie sat down next to him. "No, really, mate. I'm sorry," he said again. "I'll admit I'm not really sure what's got you so riled, but then, I do have a way of getting up people's noses, don't I?" He grinned mischievously.

Lachlan laughed, some of his tension dissipated. "That you do, Geordie, that you do."

"So, what's troubling you? Were you just so worried about your big brother falling victim to the Digger?"

"That's part of it, I reckon," Lachlan replied distractedly.

"Only part of it?" Geordie placed his palm over his heart in mock-horror. "You wound me!"

Sighing, Lachlan added, "I didn't mean it like that, you knob. I mean, of course I was worried. Hell, I was frantic. Didn't even think to get nervous until I was already in the air."

"Well, then, see? I'm good for something!" Geordie joked. "Look, Lachlan...what was really bothering you just now?"

Lachlan eyed his brother curiously. He wanted to trust Geordie; they'd never been close brothers, and Lachlan's heart ached to have a big brother he could rely on, to trust with his secrets. Now, it seemed an olive branch had been extended. Was Geordie really trying to be the big brother he'd always wanted?

"I lied to QPS, Geord," he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

"What? What'd you lie about?" George tried to hide his excitement.

"There were more of those notes along the tracks. Only they were different this time. They were in Japanese."

"Japanese? Bloody hell!"

"Yeah. Well, the fella from the QPS were questioning folks, seeing if they knew anything. We - Con and me - showed him the notes."

"So, where's the lying come in?" Geordie encouraged him.

"The officer wants to try and find someone who spoke Japanese to translate. He didn't need to. I could've told him."

Geordie looked at him, shocked. "You? You speak Japanese?"

"Learned some in flight school," Lachlan said evenly.

"And you didn't tell him?" Lachlan shook his head. "Why?"

"I don't know, Geordie. Honest, I don't know. I mean, it doesn't make sense. If it says what I think it does, it doesn't make sense."

Like trying to squeeze blood from a rock, Geordie thought to himself. But this could really be worth it… "What did it say, mate? The other notes all said, 'Stop.' Didn't these notes say the same thing, only in Nip?"

Again, Lachlan shook his head. "No. It said, 'Traitor.'"

The Digger

He paced in the near-darkness, stopping only briefly to clutch his head when the voices got too loud. His hands pressed on either side of his skull, as though he could squeeze the sounds out of his head - but he knew better. They were always there, sometimes a bit quieter than others. But right now, they rang like a church bell in a belfry two sizes too small.

Don't wanna go back out there, Frenchie…don't let me go back out there…

You can fix it up, eh, Frenchie?

He couldn't fix it. He couldn't bloody well fix anything. And the rails grew longer. The bodies piled higher in the ditches they dug when all the room for proper graves had been taken. And still they were sent out - the sick, the lame, the half-dead and dying, and he was forced to fix them just enough to do it. So he hated them, the men who forced him and his mates to build the rails.

But he hated the rails most of all. They were soaked with blood only he could see, and when the trains ran, the rails sang with the voices of the dead.

So he paced, and squeezed the voices out of his skull, and went back to his map; he would try and ruin the rails, make them stop running, so at least he'd never hear that sound again. As he walked back to his cot he caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror he kept on the folding table nearby. He couldn't figure out why he kept it; maybe because it was his dad's, from his own kit bag, from his own war. Maybe he just wanted to remind himself that the man he knew before the rails were built was gone forever.

There was a faint echo of that man in the face he saw - he'd gotten back to nearly his old weight, and the high, wide-set cheekbones didn't protrude anymore. The color had returned to the skin that had been so pale as to be nearly translucent on his return, despite the long hours in the hot sun…

But his eyes…the dark eyes, nearly black, that had once held mirth and mischief, or sparked at the sight of a pretty sheila or a well-pulled pint of stout, were cold. He vaguely recalled a sultry summer day, lying beneath a tree with his girl, as the breeze dried the sweat from their naked bodies. She would lie next to him, her ear to his chest, listening to his racing heart slow, and thread her fingers through his damp, unruly hair. He thought he remembered her telling him his eyes were like licorice - dark and sweet. Soft.

But now they were dead. Empty.

Just like him. He couldn't remember the girl's name. Didn't want to - she'd probably forgotten about him anyway.

You are not what you were, the Nips said to him when he'd been captured. You are a prisoner, now.

You're not the man you were, his family told him when he'd returned home. You're a stranger now.

They were right; how could they both be right? He shook his head, raked a hand through his wild tangle of black waves, and sat down on the cot. He placed his palm to his chest, and tried to remember the feeling of that girl's skin against his - blond hair draping over him like a comforting blanket, small, soft hands on his thighs and chest, her sigh of release in his ear. He couldn't quite conjure it. So, turning up the oil lamp on the table, he began to peruse his maps to find another target.

Another way to stop the rails, another way to stop the voices.

All That Glitters

As Lachlan made his way to the jewelry store, he stopped to pick up a newspaper that had been carelessly thrown in the street. He was about to stuff it into his pocket, when the front page caught his eye:

DIGGER STRIKES AGAIN - THREE HURT IN DERAILMENT

"Crikey," he muttered. He quickly opened the thin paper and read the story. The injuries, as usual, were minor, the victims treated easily at the scene. And, as usual, papers had been scattered along the tracks. Authorities were looking for Japanese speakers to translate the notes.

"Traitor," Lachlan whispered softly. He knew exactly what the note he'd seen had said. But why? Why would anyone write "traitor" in Japanese after trying to derail a train? It made no sense - but it turned Lachlan's blood to ice thinking about it.

When he'd returned home, he was one of the few soldiers from his part of the country to have served in the European theater. Most of the boys from Cloncurry, and indeed from most of Queensland, had been sent to fight in the Pacific; the stories he'd been hearing about places like Bataan and Corregidor, the atrocities committed, almost made his ordeal at the hands of the Nazis seem like a Sunday-afternoon barbie.

Almost. He rubbed absent-mindedly at the scars on his arms, as though by rubbing them away, he could erase the memories that started flooding back to him. He took a deep breath and looked up into the bright outback sun. Home, he thought. That's all in the past.

But why was he thinking of it so much these last few days? His eyes wandered back to the news story. Why was this story, this mysterious Digger and his messages of "traitor" in Japanese, triggering memories of his won captivity? Lachlan threw the paper back down into the dirt. "Sod it," he grumbled, and made his way to the shop, taking yet another deep breath before opening the door.

He looked around briefly before finding a familiar face. "G'Day, Mr. Walker," he called to the salesman he'd spoken to before. "Got your message."

"Ah, Mr. Curry! Very good! I was afraid it wouldn't reach you. I know how busy things get at the Service."

"Nah, no worries. We're all usually pretty good about that sort of thing. So, you got some new rings in?" Lachlan rubbed his hands together in anticipation, like a child getting ready to open a present.

"Some really lovely ones, if I do say so," the man said brightly. He opened the case before him, and drew out a tray of sparkling rings. "I'm not just saying this, but I don't think I've ever seen - "

"That one," Lachlan said suddenly, putting one hand on Walker's arm as he pointed with the other.

Mr. Walker looked down at the ring Lachlan pointed to, and his eyes widened. "Uh, well, Mr. Curry, perhaps you'd like something in this row," he suggested.

"No," Lachan said firmly. "That's it, mate. That's the one." He looked over at Walker, a beaming smile on his face.

Walker sighed. "Very well," he said as he took the ring from its place in the case and handed it delicately to Lachlan. "It's a one-carat round diamond set in eighteen karat white gold. The clarity of the stone is quite good - not flawless, but only very slightly included."

"Included?"

Smiling, Walker continued, "Inclusions are tiny flaws in the stone, most of which are invisible to the naked eye." He reached for a chain that led into his pocket, and withdrew a small magnifying lens. "Here," he said, offering it to Lachlan.

Lahclan looked at it quizzically. "Thought that was your pocket watch," he shrugged.

"It's a jeweler's loupe. Look at the ring through it, Mr. Curry," Walker encouraged him.

Lachlan took the instrument and held it to his eye, then brought the ring close. "Lachlan," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"My name's Lachlan, mate. Reckon if I'm buyin' a rock like this, you have more than enough call to use my Christian name," he chuckled. He then gasped, "Strewth, that's amazing," he breathed.

"Do you see the inclusions?"

"Coupla little dots and such, but hardly nothin'," he said in amazement, as he brought the loupe away from his eye and handed it back.

"The two smaller stones on either side are nearly as high in quality, as I'm sure you saw," Walker added. Lachlan nodded mutely. "Why, Lachlan, you're speechless!"

"It's gorgeous," he managed to say. "It's…it's perfect. Second most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"The second?"

"First is my girl," Lachlan said bashfully.

"Ah, of course," Walker smiled. His smile faded as he realized he'd now have to break the bad news to the immensely likeable young man across the counter.

"So, how much?"

Walker steeled himself. "Three thousand, seven hundred and fifty pounds."

Lachlan's mouth dropped open. "Three thous…crikey." His face fell, and he staggered back slightly, holding the ring out to Walker. "That's more money than I'll ever see in me life!"

"I'm terribly sorry. I could give you a discount, say…to twenty-eight hundred, but I really couldn't go much lower than that."

Lachlan continued to stare at the ring. It was Bridget's ring, he just knew it. As soon as he saw it, every image he'd ever dreamed popped into his head - Bridget in a beautiful white wedding dress, himself slipping a simple wedding band onto her finger alongside the perfect engagement ring. There was no other ring. It was that one. It had to be that one.

"I…listen, mate, what are the chances someone's gonna come along in the next coupla days and snatch that up?"

"Very low, I'd say The manufacturer sends these types of ring to me, and I usually have to send them back. They're a bit over everyone's budget," Walker admitted.

"Good," Lachlan said, regaining his composure. "Could we work out a payment plan or something? I mean, if I could give you a down payment?"

"Of course, that would be no problem at all. But, Mr. - I mean, Lachlan…"

"Mate, if I have to beg, borrow, or steal the money, I'm getting my girl that ring. That's her ring. It just hasn't found her finger yet," Lachlan insisted. "Cheers, Mr. Walker," he said briskly, and marched out.

"Oh, dear," Walker sighed, looking down at the ring. "Oh, dear, oh dear."

Hobson Had It Easy

"Geordie, I'm not doin' it. For the last time, the answer's no, mate."

George ran behind his brother, Lachlan's long strides making it difficult to keep up. "Listen to me, Lach. Don't you want to find out what's going on with this Digger fella? I mean, you know more about him than anyone else. With what you know, we could find this no-hoper and keep him from hurting anyone else."

Lachlan finally came to a stop. "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know anything about him."

"You know about what that note said. That's pretty important - or it might be."

"Look, I'm gonna go to the police, Geordie. Tell them what I know. But I'm not going to play amateur detective with you. Now, leave off."

As Lachlan started to walk away again, Geordie called, "They'll throw you in jail, mate." Lachlan stopped without turning. "Can't say as I'd blame 'em, really."

Taking a deep breath, Lachlan finally turned to face George. "What are you saying, Geordie?"

Geordie shrugged. "I'm just saying…if I were the coppers, I'd not be too thrilled that someone with what might be very important information didn't come forward right away. I mean, what if there's another explosion? A big one? Well…if I found out they knew something, and didn't tell me…"

Lachlan walked up close to Geordie. "Are you threatening me?"

George looked up at Lachlan. He hated that his younger brother was a good head taller; he could never intimidate him, and what good was being the big brother if you couldn't terrorize the little one? "Now, I'd have to be pretty daft to do that, Lach," he chuckled nervously. "I'm just sayin'."

"Don't try to bully me, George," Lachlan growled, his face inches from Geordie's. "I've taken on worse than you, so don't go pushin' me around."

George swallowed hard. He'd seen Lachlan angry before - hell, he'd beaten him senseless once - but there was a quiet menace in his eyes, a deadly seriousness, that genuinely unnerved him. "There's a huge reward, Lachlan. Five thousand pounds."

"And that means what to me, exactly?" Lachlan asked sarcastically.

"That means, mate," Geordie said, inching back from Lachlan, "that you'd have more than enough money to buy your girl one of those rings you keep gawkin' at in Marsh's jewelry shop. And some to spare."

Lachlan also stepped back, a surprised look on his face. "How do you know I've gone to Marsh's? Have you been following me?"

"Don't have to. This is a small town, little brother," Geordie smiled. "Can't tell ya how many times I've had some old biddy or other tell me, 'Oh, I saw Lachlan in Marsh's the other day, Geordie. Right time he made an honest woman outta young Bridget." Lachlan glowered at him. "I'm not sayin' that, mate, they are. What you and Bridge do in that little back room of yours at the Service is your business."

"I have work to do, George," Lachlan said flatly. "Don't you have someplace you need to be?"

Geordie patted Lachlan's arm condescendingly. "Listen, you just think about it, eh?"

"Someplace not here?" he continued, ignoring George's comment.

"Fine," Geordie replied haughtily. "Reckon Bridget'd be just as happy with a cigar band as a real ring. Love is all that matters, isn't it," he spat, his voice dripping sarcasm as he strolled away.

* * *

Lachlan slapped some coins on the bar. "Beer," he grumbled as the bartender ambled over.

"G'Day to you, too, young Lachlan," the ruddy-faced older man chuckled. "What's got your knickers in a twist today?"

"People stickin' their noses in my business, that's what," he snapped. Sighing, he lowered his head and knocked it gently on the bar. "Arrrgh, Mike, I'm sorry, mate. Just ignore me."

"Kinda hard, when you come blowin' in here like a black cloud, son," Mike smiled. "But no worries. Ya wanna talk about it?"

"Not really. Just got some thinkin' to do. But can I ask you a question?" Mike nodded, put down his towel and listened as he pulled a pint of VB for Lachlan. "If there was a way you could get something…something really bloody important to you, but the only way to get it was to do something that didn't sit right with you, would you do it?"

Mike contemplated the question for a moment. He then pulled a bottle of whiskey off the shelf, and poured a shot, placing it next to the beer glass in front of Lachlan. "That's no beer question, mate. Drink up. My shout."

Lachlan smiled wryly, took a drink of beer, and chased it with the whiskey. "Cheers," he said.

"Up yer bum, " Mike replied. "Now, let's see. Just exactly what is this thing that doesn't sit right, eh? We talkin' illegal, immoral, or just off?"

"Can't say," Lachlan answered. "I'm not really sure, to be honest. Probably wouldn't say if I was."

"Smart man," Mike said as he leaned on the bar in front of Lachlan. "It seems to me, mate, that the question is how much does that thing you want really matter to you? I mean, in the grand scheme of things."

Lachlan sighed again. "I don't know, Mike. I just don't know. I mean, this thing…it's not just a thing, y'know? It's something…it's a symbol of something. It's proof."

"Proof of what?"

"That I understand. That I get it, mate. I get all the sacrifices, and the patience, and the care. That I don't just take it for granted…aw, Christ, I'm not makin' any sense, am I?" His hand raked through his hair.

"Not much, I'll grant ya," Mike smiled. "But if there's one thing I know about ya, Lach, it's that you don't do anything without a good reason. The right reason. You'll suss it out, mate. No worries."

"Mike, you have infinitely more faith in me than I do," Lachlan said, smiling wanly.

"That's why I'm the barkeep, and you're the one flying around saving people's lives, mate. You don't think about doing that kind of stuff. You just do it. You just know what the right thing is, and you do it." He patted Lachlan's shoulder and ambled away.

Lachlan looked into his half-empty beer glass. "Know what the right thing is, and do it," he whispered. "Bloody hell."

Definitions

Bridget fell back against the pillow, exhausted, but very very happy. "Well," she said breathlessly, "That was…incredible." She grinned up at Lachlan, who hovered above her, staring into her eyes and playing with loose, damp tendrils of her hair. "You've outdone yourself, sir."

He dipped his head and gave her a soft, slow kiss. "I love you so much, Bridge," he said softly before kissing her more deeply.

"And I love you," she whispered. Reluctantly, Bridget pulled away to break the kiss. "Are you all right, Lachlan?" she asked, smoothing his hair back from his face. "You're a bit intense this evening."

He kissed her forehead and rolled onto his back, his arm over his eyes. "Yeah, just thinking about how lucky I am."

"Lucky, lucky, lucky, eh?" Bridget chuckled.

He lifted his arm slightly and looked at her sideways. "Something like that," he said, smiling, and pulling her into his arms so her head rested on his chest.

They lay in silence for a few moments, Bridget trying to figure out the reason for Lachlan's dark, contemplative mood. She knew he'd been disturbed by Geordie's accident on the train, but she hadn't seen him in this kind of mood since…

"Lach, have you seen that friend of yours from hospital lately?"

"Eh?"

"You know, the bloke you used to see when you were doing therapy on your arm." Bridget, despite her nurse's training, still winced when she thought of that night long ago, when Lachlan had first gotten the nerve up to go back in the air. It was a rescue mission in the middle of one of the worst days of the wet, visibility practically nil, and Lachlan had been the only man available.

It hadn't been that long since he'd first returned home from the war, little more than a shell of the light-hearted young man he'd been before he'd left. And what was left of Lachlan Curry had little or no interest in ever going up in a plane again. With the fear, trauma, and flashbacks, the very notion of piloting a plane made him break out in a cold sweat, if not a full-out panic attack. But on that rain-soaked night, faced with a life-or-death situation, Lachlan had conquered his fear, and reclaimed his identity - he took to the skies and became a pilot again.

He saved a life that night, but his reward was a badly broken arm. For weeks afterward, Bridget would drive Lachlan to hospital in Mt. Isa for physical therapy on his arm. While she waited, Bridget became acquainted with the other families and patients, and Lachlan had gotten to know quite a few of the other patients, one in particular.

"I said, have you heard from Danny French lately? You haven't mentioned him."

"No," Lachlan replied quietly. "Last time I drove out to his place, he wasn't there. Reckon he moved."

"Moved? That's odd. I didn't think he had any friends or family in the area. Didn't you say he was from Broken Hill before the war?"

"What's with the questions about Danny French?" Lachlan asked suspiciously, raising himself up on one elbow.

"Nothing, luv, it's just that the last time I saw you like this was when you first met Danny. I know he brought up a lot of bad memories for you."

"Nah, it's not like that. I know I was a bit mad for a while there, Bridge. Don't know how you put up with me." He stroked her hair.

"I love you, you daft sod," she replied, taking his hand and kissing it. "That's how I put up with you. And you weren't mad. You just met up with a bloke who did it about as tough as you did, and…" Bridget's voice trailed off.

"And he wasn't as lucky as me," Lachlan finished. "There but for the grace, eh?"

"Strewth," Bridget murmured, snuggling closer to him. "But he seemed to be doing better, didn't he? I mean, when you'd drive out to his place, he was all right, wasn't he?"

"Define all right," Lachlan snorted. Sure, from the time he'd first met Danny French to the last time he saw him, his fellow veteran had gone from a nearly silent companion to one who spoke a few words now and then, but Lachlan could see that all was still not well with him. He'd only been able to get the barest of details from his new acquaintance; Daniel French had been an Army doctor, stationed in the Pacific, and had been captured by the Japanese. He'd returned to home to New South Wales, but for a reason he didn't - or wouldn't - give, he moved to Queensland to continue his rehabilitation. Lachlan knew enough not to ask too many questions, but he'd formed a bond with the strange, dark, quiet man who'd suffered as much as Lachlan had, if not more. The scars on French's hands were a testament to that.

"I'm sorry, luv, I shouldn't have brought this up," Bridget said, gently touching the scar that ran down Lachlan's face. It had faded quite a bit since he'd returned, but it would always be there, a faint reminder of his own survival. "Go to sleep."

"You staying?" Lachlan muttered sleepily into her hair.

As his eyes closed, she kissed his eyelids tenderly. "I'm staying," she said.

"Good," he replied as he slipped into sleep.

"Sweet dreams," Bridget whispered as she watched him.

Rather Be Wrong

"So, you're good to go, yeah? Took your pill and all?" Lachlan asked as he did a last check of the supplies he'd brought.

The dark-haired man across the room nodded slowly. "Can't you tell?"

"Aw, now, it's not so bad, mate," Lachlan said gently as he crossed the room. "Beats the alternative, right?"

"Yeah, I reckon. Beats the alternative. Now, get outta here, will ya? I don't have a pill to cover irritation."

Lachlan smiled and clapped him on the back. "You're doing a bonzer job, Danny. Honest. It's just a matter of gettin' used to things again."

Danny French chuckled bitterly. "Can't even get used to being called 'Danny' again. Boys there called me Frenchie."

"Would you prefer that?" Lachlan asked hesitantly.

"Christ, no," he answered nervously, then took a deep breath. "Christ, no."

"All right, no worries. So, I'll see you next week, then."

As Lachlan turned to go, Danny called, "Y'know, Lachlan, I'm thinking I might go walkabout next week. Spend a little time in the bush."

Lachlan stopped short. "Are you sure, mate? I mean do you think that's a good idea?"

"Why not?" Danny asked angrily. "I'm a grown man, Lachlan. I don't need anyone's permission to get away for a few days…"

Get away for a few days… Lachlan threw the ute into park outside the tiny shack his friend had been occupying since he'd arrived in the area. It had been nearly two months since he'd seen or heard from Danny French, and if he were really being honest with himself, Lachlan felt a bit relieved.

In his sullen, grudging way, Danny had come to rely on Lachlan - for the occasional delivery of supplies, but more importantly, for companionship. Too often, Lachlan felt like a human life raft, barely keeping his fellow survivor afloat. And there were times that Lachlan felt that weight on him; it threatened to drag him down as well.

But he felt a certain obligation to the man. He'd only been half-kidding when he'd said "There but for the grace," to Bridget. He'd known the isolation Danny felt - at least he thought he did. He'd gotten precious little information from him other than the general fact that French had been held in a Japanese prison camp, and he could only guess at what had been done to him. The scars he'd seen on the army doctor's hands hinted at the possibility they'd been crushed, and that was as far as Lachlan wanted to go with it.

He had survived. Lachlan had been beaten as French had. Starved. Humiliated. But he had survived. Just as French had. But there the similarity ended. Again, he'd gotten little in the way of facts about Danny's life after the war, but Lachlan had the distinct impression that he hadn't been greeted with the same enthusiasm, the same outright joy, that Lachlan himself had. A slight smile crossed his face at the memory of the hopelessly out of tune marching band, and Lord, the face of the mayor - all plump and red and bursting with patriotic pride in Cloncurry's returning son. He was everyone's son that day, everyone's brother - but he had the feeling that when Danny French came home, he was nobody's child.

Lachlan walked the short distance to the shack, and knocked on the door, though he already knew he'd get no answer. "Danny?" he called, then waited for a few seconds before pushing the door open. It was stifling in the little shack, and the tiny windows only let in a sliver of the bright sunshine. Lachlan let his eyes adjust for a moment - then wished he hadn't.

Scraps of paper were strewn all over the floor, some smeared with ink, others with lettering clearly discernable, as long as you could read Japanese. "Aw, no, Danny. What are you on about?" Lachlan groaned as he knelt down and picked up one of the sheets of paper. Again, he read the familiar word: TRAITOR.

He'd hoped his fears were groundless. It was coincidence, was all it was. He just happened to know a bloke back from the war, who'd had contact with the Japanese…and had come back a little less than sane. But that's all it was - a coincidence.

How he'd hoped it was. But now here was the proof, proof that he reckoned his brother would be salivating to find. Danny French was the Digger, and Lachlan had no idea what to do about it. He couldn't just turn the poor sod in - Lord only knows what they'd do to him. He hadn't hurt anyone, not seriously at least. Not yet.

He was ashamed of himself when the thought of the five thousand pound reward clawed its way into the front of his mind. He'd be doing the community a service, ridding it of a potentially deadly menace. And he'd be handsomely rewarded for it. Rewarded for being the very thing he saw on the sheet of paper in his hand, a traitor to his friend. But wouldn't he be a traitor to his town if he didn't turn the Digger in?

Lachlan's minda was a jumble of guilt and confusion as he stood up with the paper still in his hands, but all thought fled from his mind when he heard a shotgun being primed behind him, and the low, soft, menacing voice say, "Don't you fucking move.

My Brother's Keeper

Lachlan, frozen in place, slowly raised his arms. Trying to keep his tone light, he said, "I'll go quietly, Officer." He nearly jumped when he felt the barrel of the rifle press into his lower back. "Christ, Danny, it's me. It's Lachlan Curry, mate." The pressure on his back vanished.

"Turn around," the voice commanded, and Lachlan obeyed. His heart sank when he saw the wild look in his friend's dark eyes, and his disheveled appearance. Danny looked straight down the barrel of the rifle at Lachlan. "Who sent you?" he asked menacingly.

"Nobody, mate. It's Lachlan Curry, Danny. You know me. The fella from hospital, with the crook arm. Remember?" Lachlan replied gently. His friend only glared at him. "Danny, have you not been taking your pills? Is that why you're so upset?"

"Dunno what's in 'em," Danny replied. "Dunno what they're givin' me. Could be anything. Could be anything," he mumbled.

"Mate, we talked about that, remember? They're just stuff to make you feel better. Calm ya down." Lachlan lowered his arms a bit. "Do you remember us talking about that, Danny?" He took a step closer to him.

Danny squinted confusedly at Lachlan, the rifle wavering slightly. "Lachlan Curry," he said flatly. "I know a fella named Lachlan." He staggered back a few steps, hanging his head. "I think I do. In the camp? Was it in the camp?"

Lachlan took a few more steps toward Danny as he lowered the rifle. "No, Danny, it was in hospital. I had a broken arm. I'm a…I'm a pilot."

The rifle still at his side, Danny looked back up into Lachlan's eyes. "RAAF," he said. "Shot down."

"That's me, mate," Lachlan smiled. "Glad I haven't lost my charm. Always thought I was unforgettable, but you've got me wondering."

A weary, but welcome, smile crossed Danny's broad face. "Not bloody likely," he replied. "Lachlan, I…" He looked down at the rifle. "What the hell?"

"It's all right, Danny. She's apples. Just put that thing, down, yeah?" Lachlan cautiously put his hand on the barrel of the rifle; he felt Danny's arm tense, but didn't let go. "Let's put this down," he repeated.

"No," Danny snapped, yanking his arm, and the rifle, from Lachlan's grasp.

"All right, no worries," Lachlan replied anxiously. "I'm just tryin' to help. I haven't seen you in a while, and I was worried. How've you been, mate?"

Danny looked fretfully around the room. "Uh, I…sit down."

"What?"

He unconsciously waved the barrel of the gun in various directions. "Have a seat," He suddenly noticed that what chairs there were had been lay splintered in numerous pieces all over the room. "Oh," he muttered, and bent down to pick up the seat portion of one of the broken chairs. Holding it up to Lachlan and shrugging, he repeated, "Have a seat?"

The two men broke into nervous laughter as Danny set the gun against the wall. "I'm sorry, Lachlan," Danny said timidly.

"It's all right, mate," Lachlan replied, relief evident in his voice. "I did kinda let myself in uninvited. So, what happened here, Danny? Looks like you've made a right dog's breakfast of the place."

The fear Lachlan suddenly saw in Danny's eyes nearly took his breath away. "I don't know," came Danny's whispered reply. "I don't remember."

* * *

"So!" Geordie shouted from the dispensary doorway, nearly making Bridget jump out of her skin, "Where's my little brother gone off to, eh?"

Bridget turned to face him. "I have sharp objects within my grasp, George," she warned him.

He held his hands up in mock supplication. "Sorry, luv," he chuckled. "It's just, Mum hasn't seen him today, and I already checked your little love nest. You really ought to tidy up afterwards, Bridgie. I mean, really! Sheets all tossed about. Must've been quite a night!"

"I'd call you a pig, Geordie, but that'd be a disservice to pigs everywhere," she replied coolly. "What do you want to see Lachlan for?"

"Ah, now that's between him and me, darling," he answered slyly. "Listen, Bridge, I just know he's been a bit off since my little near-miss with the Digger, and...well, I feel bad about it."

"You? You feel bad?" Bridget laughed. "Now there's a first!"

"Aw, c'mon, Bridget, I'm not that awful. Crikey, he's my little brother," Geordie whined. "I know I'm a bastard, but I'm not that much of a bastard. If something I said or did set him off, I'd just hate myself. Really."

Bridget's eyes narrowed. Could he actually be telling her the truth? Since they were children, she'd wondered how Lachlan and Geordie could possibly be brothers. Lachlan, though the younger of the two, always seemed more mature, while at the same time carefree and good-hearted. Geordie was his exact opposite, a complete larrikin - scheming but irresponsible, with a hair-trigger temper and a vindictive streak. He always seemed to resent his little brother's way with people, his easy manner and effortless charm. But still, he was his brother. She really should give him the benefit of the doubt, shouldn't she? Sighing, she finally said, "I haven't seen him since this morning. He's been worried about his friend from hospital, so he said he was gonna drive out there and see if he was all right."

"Who's that? Oh, wait, y'mean the nutter? That French bloke?"

"He's not a 'nutter,' Geordie," she scolded. "He just did it a bit tough in the war. Lachlan knew how he felt, and they hit it off."

"Yeah. Sorry. I met him once. He just seemed…odd. Real quiet." Geordie leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms. "I don't think he liked me. Called me 'little man.'"

"Really? I like him already," Bridget smiled. "I'm sure Lach will be back tonight. He just wanted to make sure Danny's all right. It'll take a load off his mind."

"Uh-huh. All right, Bridge. Ta. Sorry to bother you." Geordie stepped closer to her. "Give us a kiss goodbye, sis?"

She shoved him away as he leaned in close. "Off with ya," she groaned. "God, you're a pest."

Geordie chuckled as he walked back to his beat-up old car. "Danny French, eh? Lachlan, Lachlan, Lachlan. Who's a greedy boy, then?" He started the car, and his cold smile faded. Lachlan was doing a bit of detective work after all, but without his big brother. And it was his bloody idea! "Not stealing my thunder this time, cobber," Geordie growled. "This one's mine."

Remembrance of Things Past

Lachlan handed a mug of tea to Danny as he sat across from him. "It's nothin' fancy. Just billy tea. Go on, Danny," he urged his friend, who sat and stared at the mug as though he'd never seen one before. "Danny," he repeated after a moment.

Danny's eyes lifted slowly to meet Lachlan's. "Yeah. Right," he said quietly and lifted the mug to his lips. Taking a sip, he wrapped his hands around the mug and smiled slightly. "Not bad. You'll make some bloke a fine wife someday."

"Ta, mate," Lachlan grinned and drank his own tea.

"Lachlan?" Danny queried, a confused look passing over his wide-set features.

"What is it?"

"Why'd I have a gun on you?" He looked around his house and shook his head. "I…I don't remember where I've been, but I don't remember being here, either. It's like…it's like I haven't been anywhere." Danny's hands began to shake; he settled the mug on his thigh to keep it from spilling over.

"Easy, mate, it's apples," Lachlan said calmly. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Danny was silent for a moment. "I was…there," he said, pointing to the small desk in the corner of the room.

"See that? You do remember being somewhere," Lachlan said encouragingly. "Go on."

"I'd been feeling better, ya know? So, I was gonna write a letter to my mum, let her know I was all right. I was just sitting there…I was writing a letter to Mum…" Danny rose as though in a trance, and wandered over to the desk. He ran his hand over the dark, time-weathered wood.

Lachlan stood and joined him. "Where's the letter, Danny?"

"I…I was going to post it. Yeah, that's it. I put it in my pocket, and I went to the door…" He retraced his footsteps to the door, and placed his palm flat against it. "I opened the door…" Danny's breathing became labored. "I opened the door, and…" His forehead joined his hand against the door. "Nothing. Not a bloody thing. I don't remember."

"Maybe someone was at the door? Did somebody come and say something that upset you, mate?"

"Why do you care?" Danny snapped, turning on Lachlan. "Why do you care about some madman livin' in the back of Bourke anyway?"

"There but for the grace, mate," Lachlan said softly.

"Eh?"

"You," he said, pointing to Danny, "Could be me. Look, I got lucky when I came home. Just about everybody tried to help me, even when I thought I didn't need it. Or want it." He took a sip of tea and finished, "Reckon it's my way of thanking them."

"Oh," Danny said softly. He turned back to the door. "There were people outside."

"All right, that's good. It's coming back to you. How many people? Did you know them?"

Danny shook his head. "Never saw them before. One of 'em came over when he saw me. I didn't want to talk to him. I just wanted him to leave me alone."

Lachlan could see Danny become more agitated. "All right, mate. It's all right. Did he talk to you?"

"He gave me something. I…I don't remember what it was. I could see his mouth moving, but I couldn't…I didn't hear him. And then…" Danny started pacing around the room, flexing his hands and rubbing at the circular scars that covered them. "I had to go. I had to go to work."

"Work? You workin'?" Lachlan asked, surprised.

"What?" Danny stopped pacing and stared at Lachlan. "Working? What gave you that daft idea? Who'd take me on? Got two gamey hands, mate."

"You said you were a doctor in the Army, yeah?" Lachlan offered.

"Surgeon," Danny replied.

"Crikey. I'm impressed."

Danny snorted derisively and held both hands up, palms facing inward. "And I'm unemployable." He raked a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. "Don't know if I could take all the blood again, anyway."

"Did you treat folks in the prison camp?" Lachlan asked, wondering how far he could push his fragile friend.

Danny nodded. "Nips made me treat 'em. Not that I wouldn't have helped them anyway. I mean, they were my mates. Lot of injuries building the railway. Nasty stuff. Arms and legs lopped off and stuff, heat stroke, sun poisoning…."

"The railway? Lachlan interrupted.

"The Thailand-Burma railway," Danny replied. "Hard work, that. So, how lucky were the Nips to have that many able-bodied Aussies to do all the heavy lifting? Well, they weren't that able-bodied for long. Anyway," Danny crouched down and traced a finger through the dust on the floor. "They'd truck a group of fellas from the camp…" He made a dot in the dirt, then trailed his finger a few inches. "…to wherever they'd left off. Every day, rain or shine. Reckon I had quite the medical education; I did amputations, treated malaria and typhoid,…all sorts of things."

"Uh-huh," Lachlan acknowledged as he started to look around the room. Bits of paper were scattered about, and he looked carefully at each one, desperate to find any clue to what triggered Danny's problem.

Danny stood and watched Lachlan searching the room. "Lookin' for somethin', mate?" he asked.

Lachlan stopped, and picked up a large, folded piece of paper. "Yeah," he said quietly. "This, I think." He held it in front of him. "I think this is what that bloke gave you that got you so upset." He read it again, just to be sure, then took a deep breath, unsure of what his friend's reaction would be. "They were evicting you, mate."

"Evicting me? I'm kind of a squatter anyway, Lachlan."

"Yeah, well, I reckon they wanted to give you fair warning to get out. They're tearing this house down to build an extension of the rail line."

Danny's face paled, and he turned toward the door as though waiting for it to burst open. Just as suddenly, he turned back toward Lachlan. "They tried…they tried to make me leave…they wanted me to leave…to make way for the rails."

"Danny, mate...breathe," Lachlan ordered him, stepping closer. "Easy."

"To do it for the railway. Had to make way, and send them back. I always had to send them back," he mumbled, wrapping his arms around himself, his breathing noticeably faster.

"Send who? Danny, what are you on about?" Panic was beginning to set up residence in Lachlan's mind; he knew instinctively that Danny was starting to have an episode, but of what? And what good could Lachlan do, when not that long ago, he was in almost the same kind of shape?

"They always made me send them back," Danny repeated, his eyes wild as he stared at Lachlan. "Patch 'em up, they said, fix it, and send them back to the rails. And I did it. That's why I am what I am."

Lachlan hesitantly took Danny by the arms. "What do you mean? What are you?"

"A traitor."
 

Between the Scylla and Charibdes…

Lachlan felt Danny go limp in his arms before the man actually started to fall. He managed to brace his friend's fall as Danny sank to his knees on the floor.

"Danny," Lachlan pleaded, "C'mon, mate, you have to help me here. What're you telling me? Danny, come on back now." He tried to keep his voice even, but the panic was evident.

Danny's eyes were open but unfocused, and he shivered noticeably in Lachlan's grip. Shock, Lachlan thought to himself. He remembered the feeling well; it was almost welcome during those times in the camp when the beatings got just a little too frequent and enthusiastic. After one too many kicks, it was almost nice to retreat into a little part of your mind where they couldn't reach you. And most times, it didn't really matter if you came back. But this time, Lachlan had to bring Danny back; he had to find out the truth, find out if his friend was the Digger.

But what to do when he found out? Turn him in? The longer Lachlan spent with Danny, the less that seemed an option. If Danny was indeed behind the sabotage of the rails, obviously he had to be stopped.

"Danny?" Lachlan said softly, still gripping French's arms. "Danny, mate...I need you to answer me."

"I didn't know what to do," Danny finally said, his voice so low Lachlan had to lean in to hear him. "I couldn't just let them die, could I? But they did…anyway." He looked into Lachlan's face, but Lachlan felt like he was looking right through him. "Maybe I can fix it."

"What? What do you want to fix, mate?"

"Stop the rails," Danny said, his voice stronger now. His eyes grew hard. "Stop the rails, and stop the dying. I'll fix it, and they'll forgive me." He stared for a moment, then added, "The dead. The dead'll forgive me. They come to me. In the night, they come." He stood and shook off Lachlan's grip. "Sometimes in the day now, too. But they come, and they remind me that I betrayed them. I told 'em it'd be all right…"

"…in no time, mate," he smiled and patted the man's shoulder.

"Cheers, Frenchie," the man replied, making a fist with his newly-bandaged hand. "But not too quick, eh?"

"No worries," Daniel French nodded.

He turned and nearly walked right into another of his fellow prisoners. "'Scuse me, Stark. Didn't hear you come in. Can I help you?"

Harold Stark gave him a stony look. "How do you sleep at night, French? Just tell me that," he barked in a clipped, New England accent.

"What do you mean?" French leaned casually against the wall of the makeshift infirmary with his arms folded. Stark always got up his nose, but today had been an especially long day, and he was in no mood. An explosion on the latest stretch of railway had brought a dozen of his fellow prisoners into his meager "clinic," and he'd be on his feet operating and treating the wounded for nearly eighteen hours straight. The last thing he needed - or wanted - was some smug Yank telling him the rules of the road.

"Don't you realize you're helping the Japs?" Stark snapped.

"These fellas don't look Japanese to me, mate," he replied wearily, rubbing his eyes. "Now, if you don't need a doctor, would you excuse me, please?"

"They're using you. And you're letting them. They only let you set up this shabby little 'hospital' of yours to keep their damned workforce intact. You're sending your own people back out there to die!" Stark took a step toward French.

"Leave off, there, mate," French warned him. "What should I do, eh? Let them suffer? Let them die? I'm a doctor, you pompous wanker."

"These men would be better off dead, than going back out there. But they have no choice, do they? Not with the Japs' favorite physician on duty." With that, Stark turned on his heel and stormed out.

"Ah, bugger off," French said under his breath.

His foul mood was interrupted when he heard a strained cry from outside the tent. He headed toward the front, and was greeted by two men carrying another injured one. The injured man was badly burned, his body a mass of charred and bubbling flesh that French could smell before they'd even gotten inside. "Bloody hell," he grunted, the pointed to an empty cot, his last one. "Here," he said, and they laid the screaming man on the cot.

The man grabbed French's shirt front with blackened hands, yanking him with unexpected strength to within inches of his nearly unrecognizable face. "No more, Frenchie," he rasped. "Please. No more."

"Kelso?" French gasped. Kelso was a twenty-two-year-old kid from London, a munitions expert who'd gained his knowledge working in quarries in England. Poor Kelso had been French's most frequent patient; the Nips used him for the most hazardous jobs, laying explosives, tunneling into holes, whatever the most dangerous job was, Kelso was the 'man' for that job. "Here you are again, mate," French said softly. "Can't keep outta trouble, can you?"

"Please, Frenchie," the younger man begged. "No more."

A heavily accented voice intoned over French's shoulder, "You fix."

"Dunno if I can," French replied, not looking back at the Japanese officer.

"You fix him," the officer repeated, grabbing French's arm.

He stood and faced the officer. "Listen, Tojo, I'm tellin' ya, I don't know if I can."

The officer backhanded French across the face; he staggered back a step or two, but remained standing. "When I tell you to fix, you fix…Doctor," he hissed.

Kelso moaned loudly, and French turned back to him, reaching for a hypodermic on the table next to the cot. "Easy, now, mate. I got just the thing for you here. It'll make the pain go away." He took a vial of painkiller and filled the syringe, all the while staring into the charred, twisted remains of Kelso's face.

And then he filled the syringe a little more. "It'll be all right now, mate. I'll fix ya right up."

"You will fix?" the Japanese officer echoed him.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll fix," French said, his gaze fixed on Kelso, and a small smile crossing his face as he injected the full contents of the syringe into Kelso's arm…

* * *

One more swing of the stick, and French was on the ground again. The officer, Hakawa he thought his name was, had been at him for a good ten minutes with that bloody baton of his, but Danny French would be damned if he gave the Nip the satisfaction of crying out. "Admit it," the officer said in perfect English. "You killed Kelso."

French spit blood onto the floor at Hakawa's feet. "I did no such thing," he said calmly through his split lip. "I administered a painkiller, and Kelso's heart couldn't take it." He looked up at his tormentor. "If anyone's to blame, it's you lot."

A kick to the stomach had him curled into a ball on the floor. "What do your friends think of you now, French? Were they angry before when you would send them back to the rails?" Hakawa asked.

"What?"

"They had to be angry. But do you think they are angry now? You have killed one of them? I have heard them these last three days. You killed Kelso. You betrayed your oath. What is the English saying? Damned if you do…" Hakawa laughed.

"Bastard," French growled, hauling himself up off the floor and hurling himself toward Hakawa. He got halfway there when another officer clubbed him on the back of the head. The officer and another grabbed his arms before he could hit the floor.

"You will be punished, French," Hakawa said gently, lifting Danny's face to his. "You cost us a good worker. But I think no one will come to your aid. I think they know what you have been all this time." He nodded to the officers. "Take him outside."

French was dragged into the scorching afternoon sun, to the center of the camp's courtyard. But instead of tying him to the post they reserved for the public flogging of their worst prisoners, one of the officers took out two large nails from his pocket, while the other held a hammer. Danny's eyes widened, and he heard Hakawa's taunting voice next to his ear. "This is how your Jesus Christ died, yes? You can fancy yourself a martyr now. But you will be the only one, because we all will know what you are." He held a handwritten sign in front of French's terrified face. On it, Hakawa had written just one word: TRAITOR…

A Helping Hand?

Lachlan had to swallow back the bile as Danny finished his story. Images sprang unbidden into his mind of his own imprisonment, of the sheer evil joy in the eyes of the Nazi officers as they beat him, and worse. Try as he might to push those memories back into that dark corner of his mind he'd banished them to, they flooded back full force, and he could feel himself slowly starting to lose control. His heart was pounding, and he felt like he could barely breathe.

"It's over, mate, it's over. We're both alive, and I'll help you. All right? It's gonna be all right," he repeated, more to himself than to his friend.

"They left me there…a whole day out there…I didn't mean it. I was trying to help!" Danny screamed to some unseen person behind Lachlan. "I didn't know what to do!" Lachlan watched as his eyes hardened, and an eerie calm came over him. He nodded, and said, "I know. I know what to do."

Danny rose from the floor, Lachlan following him. "Danny, what do you have to do? Tell me, maybe I can help you." Maybe I can help? Bloody hell, I'm falling apart here myself, his conscience scolded him. "Let me help you, yeah?"

"Leave off," Danny growled, yanking himself free of Lachlan's grip. "I gotta stop the rails. You of all people should understand, Lachlan. It doesn't stop, does it? They never stop."

More unnerved by the minute, Lachlan stammered, "W-what?"

"They don't stop. The bad dreams. The memories. The voices in your head, the ones with the accents, that laugh at you, and humiliate you. You keep waiting for the next blow, but it doesn't come, and that's almost as bad as the beatings. Because you still expect it, dontcha? Someone gets a little too close to you.." Danny suddenly lurched toward Lachlan, his hand raised. Instinctively, Lachlan shrank back, his hands in front of his face. "Yeah," Danny said sadly, backing away. "Thought so. You do know. But we can make it stop. I can make it stop for me, at least. I have to."

"No Danny, don't do it. You have to stop now. Please. Someone's gonna get hurt bad next time, maybe even killed. You don't want that do you? You don't want innocent blood on your hands," Lachlan pleaded.

"There are no innocents!" Danny screamed at Lachlan, then grabbed his head as if he were in pain. "No more talking," he mumbled.

"All right by me," a voice said behind Lachlan. Lachlan and Danny turned to see Geordie standing in the doorway of the shack, a smug smile on his face. "I've heard all I need to hear."

"Geordie," Lachlan said, his voice a whisper. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough, cobber," Geordie grinned. "Aren't you gonna introduce me to your mate? No need, really. I'll just call ya Digger, shall I?"

"Geord, get outta here. He needs help," Lachlan entreated his brother.

"Fair dinkum he does," Geordie agreed, "But your help?" He laughed. "Lachlan, my boy, from the looks of ya right now, you couldn't help our old granny to the loo!"

Lachlan looked down at his hands, and saw them shaking. No, no, no… he prayed silently. Hold it together… "Geordie, please. I'll take him to hospital. He won't hurt anyone, I swear. Just let me take him."

Lachlan and Geordie didn't notice Danny backing away toward a table in the center of the room. He felt behind him until his hand grasped the carving knife he'd hidden under a pile of papers.

"I don't want to go back, Lach," he said, his voice laced with fear.

"Danny, you need help. Help I can't give you. There's people that can, though. They can help you make the voices go away without having to hurt anyone. Especially not yourself. C'mon, mate." Lachlan said calmly, although he felt anything but calm.

"Ah, Lach, he ain't hearin' ya. Are you, Digger? You're hearing all those voices, eh? C'mon, you're comin' with us," Geordie said brusquely, and took a step toward Danny.

Danny shrieked, an unworldly, feral cry, and charged at Geordie, brandishing the knife.

"Now!" Geordie shouted over his shoulder, and before Lachlan knew what was happening, a swarm of police and soldiers flooded into the tiny shack, rifles and pistols drawn.

Lachlan's vision started to tunnel as he heard the pops and shouting, and he felt something slam into his stomach just before he fell to the floor and everything went dark…
 

Mine Arrow O'er the House

July, 1947 - Townsville General Hospital, Queensland, Australia

…Bridget marched straight toward the man, who was a bit smaller than she, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and slammed him against the wall. "This is your fault, Georgie. Your own brother! What did you do?? What the hell did you do?"

"Miss! What do you think you're doing?" A nurse gripped Bridget by the arms and pried her off the still-silent Geordie. "We'll have none of that here. It's been enough of a madhouse today."

Ignoring the nurse, Bridget glared at Geordie. "Where is Lachlan?" she growled.

"Lachlan Curry?" the nurse interjected. Bridget spun to face her. "Are you Bridget Stanley?"

"Yes. Where's Lachlan?"

"He's this way," the nurse replied, pointing down the hall, far from the room Bridget had heard the terrible noises coming from.

"Then, he's not…" Bridget gestured behind her.

"Oh, no, that's not him, Miss. That's that poor madman that was brought in by the police. The Digger."

"French," Geordie said softly but firmly. "His name's Danny French."

"Oh, no," Bridget sighed in resignation. "Oh, Lachlan. Nurse, take me to him, please." As the nurse began to lead her away, Bridget turned to Geordie, "We're not finished, you and I," she warned him.

As he watched them leave, Geordie hugged himself, feeling suddenly cold. "I know," he murmured. "I know."

* * *

"He's been very quiet since he was brought in, but he was practically hysterical when the police found him," the round-faced doctor told Bridget as they approached Lachlan's room.

"Was he sedated?"

"No, not at all. He just suddenly…calmed down. Eerie, the ambulance men said. He just retreated into some part of his mind."

Bridget shook her head sadly. "Then he's not physically hurt?"

"Bit of a knock on the head. Took a few stitches, and we'll be keeping him overnight to monitor him in case there's a concussion. But otherwise, he's physically fine. Thanks to his brother."

Bridget stopped dead in her tracks. "What did you say?"

"Oh, you didn't know? Yes, it seems that Mr. Curry tried to get between the police and the Digger when they arrived to arrest him."

"Danny French," Bridget corrected the doctor. "The poor man has a name, you know."

"Poor man? Miss, if you don't mind my saying so, the man is a menace. He's the one's been setting those explosions off on the rails," the doctor protested.

"He's…a friend of Lachlan's. Did it quite tough in the war. Where did you serve, Doctor?" Bridget said icily.

"I…didn't. Asthma."

"Right," she said, dismissing him, and turning to the door to Lachlan's room. She knocked, but received no reply. She pushed the door open anyway. "Lach?" she called.

To her surprise, Lachlan wasn't in bed, but stood by the small window on the opposite side of the room. Dressed in ill-fitting hospital pajamas and robe, he looked perfectly fine, save for a bruise near his left temple and a small bandage covering the stitches she'd been told of. "Lach?" Bridget said again, but he continued to stare out the window.

She walked over to him, and placed a hand on his arm. To her relief, he didn't shrink away, but neither did he acknowledge her. "Oi, luv. What's so fascinating out there?" she said lightly.

He finally nodded toward the window. "Them," he said.

Bridget released the breath she'd been holding. Thank God, she prayed silently. He hasn't gone away on us. "Who, luv? Let me see." She moved closer to him, and to her joy, he slipped an arm around her waist. "What, those people out there?" She pointed to people walking about the grounds of the hospital. "What's so special about them?"

"Dunno," he said in a soft voice. "Maybe nothing. Or maybe they're damaged goods, like us."

"Us?"

"Danny and me," he clarified, his eyes never meeting hers.

Bridget reached up and took his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. The sadness, the emptiness in his eyes, nearly took her breath away. "You are not damaged goods, Lachlan," she insisted.

He smiled, a wan smile that didn't reach his blue-green eyes. "Yeah, I am. I just hide it better than some. But…this…this sure reminded me."

Bridget ran a hand through his hair. "Shh, luv, you're doin' just fine. Can't expect everything to be apples right all the time so soon. I see how you struggle sometimes."

His eyebrow raised in surprise.

"You think I don't notice? We are practically living in sin, you know. I know when you wake up from the nightmares. I just know to leave you be sometimes." Bridget saw a glimmer of happiness in Lachlan's sad eyes. "What?"

"You know what's good for me," Lachlan said simply. "Better than I know myself, I reckon."

She shrugged. "Don't know about that, mate. I just know I hate to see you hurting. How are you feeling? How's the head?"

"All right," he replied half-heartedly. At her look, he added, "Hurts like a bastard. My ribs, too."

"Your ribs? Doctor didn't say anything about ribs, luv." Instinctively, Bridget reached out and gingerly touched Lachlan's chest.

"Got tackled, so they tell me. Went arse over teakettle…Geordie's elbows did quite the job on me." He put his hand over hers. "Bony little elbows, he has."

"I heard."

"About Geordie's elbows?"

Bridget swatted his arm. "Stop that. Lach, what were you thinking, getting in between Danny and the police like that?"

Lachlan turned away from her, and gingerly sat down on the bed. He was silent for a moment, staring at his hands. Bridget kneeled in front of him. "Darling? What is it? Why'd you do it? You could've been killed."

"I…" He hesitated, trying to find the right way to tell Bridget without sounding completely daft. "I thought they were coming for both of us."

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"They came barging in, yelling and waving guns and such. When I saw them, I….I didn't see them. Do you understand?"

She still looked confused.

"They were wearing uniforms. They were carrying guns…"

Understanding finally dawned on Bridget. She'd seen first-hand what Lachlan went through during a flashback to his time in the prison camp. There were times when he didn't recognize anyone around him; she could only imagine what happened when he saw armed men in uniform charging him.

"Come here to me," she said tenderly, and drew him to her. Wrapping her arms around him as he buried his head in the crook of her neck, she whispered into his ear, "I understand. I understand."

Here Be Monsters

The morning broke bright and clear, but Lachlan felt like he had a black cloud hanging over his head. He'd changed into his clothes, washed up, and shaved, and Bridget would soon be picking him up to take him home. That was all well and good, but he couldn't help but feel guilty. He was leaving someone behind, and a good soldier never, ever left one of his mates behind.

"Good morning, gorgeous," Bridget chirped as she sauntered into the room, playfully tossing her car keys in the air. "Fancy a lift home?"

"Yeah," he answered, a tight smile on his face.

Bridget turned serious. "You all right? You seemed better when they made me leave last night."

Lachlan took her hand as she approached and gave her a soft, long kiss. Resting his forehead against hers, he said, "I'm all right, luv. Honest."

"What's troubling you, Lach? I know something is. Is it something about Danny?"

"I want to see him," Lachlan said.

Bridget cocked her head slightly, and drew away from him. "Oh, I don' t know, Lach. That sounds like a pretty crook idea to me. Why would you want to see him?"

"Why would you even ask that?" Lachlan snapped. Sighing, he flopped onto the bed. "I'm sorry, luv. It's…it's unfinished business. I feel like I failed him. I wanted to help him. I thought I could. But now look. Made a right mess of the whole thing."

Bridget flopped right down next to him. She turned her head toward him. "Luv, you didn't fail anyone. Danny's beyond your help. Hell, I don't know if even the docs here know what to make of him."

Lachlan sat back up. "What's that mean?"

"I was talking to the nurses, and there's been near a dozen doctors coming and going. They've decided he's not schizophrenic, but he's hearing voices. He's certainly not just your standard shell-shock case, either. Shell-shock cases don't usually get violent. It's like he's fighting these monsters that nobody else sees. They don't know what to do."

"'Course not, we're in the middle of bloody nowhere," Lachlan groused. "I reckon there's doctors in the city that'd know what to do."

"Where? Brisbane?"

"Sure. Sydney, maybe even. If we could - "

"We? What are you talking about?" Bridget protested.

Lachlan got up and tucked his shirt into his trousers. "I'm just talkin', luv. But I really want to see Danny before we go. I have to."

"Well, I really think this is a bad idea, but all right. Let's see if the doctors will allow it. I don't think you'll get anywhere with him. I think he's doped up to the gills."

Lachlan held his hand out to her. "Don't care. Let's go."

ON TO PART 2

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