AND TOUCH THE FACE OF GOD

 PART 1:

By  Moviegirl    littlesister1023@hotmail.com))))

A WONDERFUL LACHLAN STORY NEW TO LIBRISCROWE, BEGINNING AT THE

VERY END OF WORLD WAR II.
 

Prologue

April, 1945…Stalag Luft VIIa, Moosburg, Germany

Strange - the voices sounded so far away, but he could clearly make out what they were saying. They were talking about him, and he would've liked to tell them thanks very much, mates, but I'm right here, you can talk straight to me, but it hurt to talk, and he just didn't have the energy.

"Where are his clothes?" a female voice barked. Sounds like me mum, he thought. "Someone find this man's uniform. Here, hand me that blanket. Let's give him a little decency and warmth for now at least."

Yep, sounds just like Mum…I wonder if she thinks I'm dead…Wonder if I am dead…

"Help me sit him up," the voice commanded, gentler this time. "That's right. Oh, thank you, Sergeant," he heard her say over the rustling sound of fabric. "Let's get these on."

"Whoa! Easy, buddy, it's just me," a deep but comforting male voice said. "Don't fight. It's just me, I'm not gonna hurt you." He hadn't realized that he'd startled to struggle against the hands that had suddenly lifted him from the floor, but the sound of his friend's voice both surprised him, and relaxed him. "That's it, yeah, that's it. Just relax. It's Thad. Just getting' ya decent." He felt the large but gentle hands ease him into a shirt and a pair of pants; just the feel of the fabric against his skin made him wince from the pain, but he tried his best not to show it. "Guess what, 'Roo Man?" his friend's voice said. "War's over. We're going home. We're sprung. Pretty fucking amazing, huh? Uh…sorry, ma'am."

He could hear the female voice laughing, and he had to laugh, too - just not at his friend's colorful language. The war was over? He had to see for himself. With a great effort, he managed to open his swollen eyes slightly. Two large, fuzzy images hovered over him like gray angels; he could've sworn the female one had wings. Or maybe it was just a nurse's cape. Whatever…

His lips moved, but all that came out was an embarrassing croak. He hoped that the times that bastard Schiller had crushed his boot against his throat hadn't damaged his vocal chords; what a laugh everyone back home would have if he, of all people, couldn't talk.

He thought he saw the female angel smile, and heard her say, "Ah, there you are, luv. I knew you were in there. I don't want you to worry yourself. It's all over now. Your friend Thaddeus is telling you the truth. It's all over. You're going home." He thought he saw tears in her eyes, or maybe they were in his own - he couldn't tell.

He felt the angel's soft hand push a blood-matted lock of hair from his forehead. "I'm a nurse with the Red Cross - my name's Genevieve. Can you tell me your name, luv?"

Fair dinkum, she's an Aussie, he thought, and a smile - or what passed for one - spread across his cracked lips. Well, a fellow Aussie deserved a proper answer, so he tried again, and this time, to his relief, an actual sound came out. "Lachlan, Sister," he whispered. "Lachlan Curry."

I - Getting Out...

"Be careful!" Genevieve Foster shouted at the men carrying the stretcher up the stairs. "That's not a sack of spuds you're carrying there!"

Thaddeus Paige, Airman First Class, grinned. "Are all you Australians like that?" he asked.

"Like what, exactly?" Genevieve asked, feigning indignation.

"I dunno. Bossy, I guess. Right up in your business, no-nonsense." Thad stepped out of the stretcher-bearers' way as they maneuvered the stretcher through the narrow door leading from the cellar.

"I suppose we are. You and Airman Curry are friends, I take it?"

"He was my Squadron Leader, actually. We were on a mission together when we were shot down. Only two left alive, I think."

"That boy is a Squadron Leader? Unbelievable," Genevieve sighed.

Thad shrugged. "Promotion by attrition, Lach called it. He was in the elite Squadron in the RAF. The boys they send out on the really tough missions. Lord, they were just decimated. I think there was only him and a coupla greenies left, so naturally, he got bumped up the ladder. I think he's older than he looks, though. If I recall, he told me he was determined not to spend his twenty-fifth birthday in that place."

"Twenty-five? Yes, he's positively ancient. And you?" Genevieve asked as they followed the stretcher down a narrow hallway toward the front exit. "What about you?"

"Me? I was in the elite squadron too, in the Army Air Corps. But let's just say that if me and some greenhorn twenty-year-old were the only two flyers left in the entire U. S. of A, he'd still get the promotion over me." He held his hand up, palm inward, in front of his face. "This color skin doesn't get you too far up the ladder, ma'am." His attention was suddenly diverted to Lachlan, who had started to cough weakly as he lay on the stretcher, each cough followed by a groan. "Hey, Lach," Paige said gently, slipping his dark-skinned hand into Lachlan's pale one. "Your ears burnin', man? I was just telling the nurse here how bossy all you Australians are."

Lachlan turned toward the sound of his friend's voice. "Thad…"

"Yeah, that's the name, don't wear it out."

"Gimme a hand up, mate?" Lachlan started to sit up on the stretcher.

"Whoa, wait a second," Thad warned him. "This thing ain't got wheels, pal. You don't want them to drop you. Tell me what you want to do."

Lachlan cleared his throat, and looked at his friend. "I'm walking outta here. Not lettin' them see me get carried out."

Genevieve placed a hand on his arm. "I don't think so, dear."

"You don't think so, but I do. Stop!" Lachlan yelled in a loud voice that surprised everyone. The stretcher carriers stopped, and he rasped, "Ta very much, mates, but this is where I get off. Give us a hand, Thad?" Thad shrugged and offered his hand to Lachlan, but he hesitated. "Wait a tick."

"First you want off, now it's wait," Thad joked. He saw a rather sheepish expression on Lachlan's battered face, and figured out what the problem was. "Oh. Don't sweat it, man. I got your clothes on ya, remember? You're fine - no free shows for the nurses."

Lachlan blushed slightly and nodded. "All right, then." Thad once again extended his hand, and this time Lachlan took it. Throwing aside the blanket, he swung his legs off the stretcher and lowered them to the floor. He could feel his legs shaking, and he fought back a wave of nausea and dizziness.

"You okay?" Thad asked, now gripping his arm.

"Yeah." He stood slowly, and took a few tentative steps. To his surprise, he found he was fairly mobile, and with Thad's help he nearly made it to the door. As they neared it, he heard a familiar, and unwelcome, voice behind him:

"Verlassen Sie so bald, Curry? Ich werde unsere Zeiten zusammen verpassen." ("Leaving so soon, Curry? I'll miss our times together.")

Lachlan's stomach turned at the sound of Commandant Friedrich Schiller's voice, but the sick feeling was soon replaced by pure rage. He saw that the stretcher bearers who walked alongside him were armed, and he reached out and grabbed the pistol from one of the men's belts. Before anyone could stop him, Lachlan wheeled and charged over to where two MP's had their rifles trained on the captured commandant.

The MP's turned their rifles on Lachlan, who stopped directly in front of the smirking Nazi. He cocked the hammer on the pistol and placed the barrel in the center of Schiller's forehead.

"Drop it!" one MP barked.

"Right now!" the other added.

"Lachlan, no!" Thad yelled, rushing over to his side.

Strangely calm, Schiller smiled at Lachlan and said, in English, "So? Go ahead. Kill the big, bad Nazi."

Lachlan's hand shook , and he pressed the barrel of the gun even harder into Schiller's forehead. "You…" he choked out, his bloodshot eyes burning with rage and humiliation.

"Yes," Schiller said. "Me."

"Lach, listen to me," Thad said quietly, leaning over Lachlan's shoulder. "What'd you tell me? What did you say to me when those rednecks used to get on me? Huh?"

"Last warning," the MP said menacingly.

"Lach, what did you tell me?" Thad asked more emphatically.

Genevieve stood back, her heart in throat. Silence hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity, the deadly stillness only occasionally punctuated by Lachlan's labored breathing. Suddenly, Lachlan released the hammer and slowly lowered the gun to his side, and she heard him say, "Not worth it."

He leaned closer to Schiller as Thad took the gun from his still-trembling hand, and spat in the Nazi's face. "You lose," he growled, and turned away, walking back toward the door as Thad followed.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Schiller called after him. He smiled as Lachlan froze in his tracks.

Thad repeated his words. "Not worth it, man. Let a military tribunal give him what he deserves."

Lachlan nodded, and gave Thad a weak smile. "Ta, mate." He closed his eyes for a moment, took as deep a breath as he could, and opened them again. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Leading the way, the young Australian strode purposefully past the American soldiers who were going about the business of liberating the rest of the prisoners of war. He stepped out into the sunlight, which he hadn't seen in, oh, he couldn't remember how long. His mind was cast back to Christmas Eve, when he'd stepped out into a moonlit night, and seen snow for the first time…

He managed to smile at the memory before he crumpled to the ground; he felt the same strong pair of arms grab him, and Thad's voice whisper, "You made it," before everything went dark.
 

II - Those Who Wait

June, 1945
Cloncurry, Queensland, Australia

She settled into her chair on the porch and stared in disbelief at the two envelopes in her hand. She had read the telegram from the Ministry of Defence about a hundred times already, but she pulled it out again, reading it aloud this time.

"The Ministry of Defence is pleased to inform you Squadron Leader Lachlan David Curry, RAAF, was liberated from an enemy prison camp, 22 April 1945."

Her voice broke as soon as she said her son's name, and the tears came as usual, but this time, Mary Curry's tears were of happiness.

She'd cried more than enough of the other kind - when she first sent her younger son off to Canada to flight school, and again when he was called to action in Europe. So many mothers' sons had gone from Cloncurry, and indeed from all over Australia, but most of them had been shipped to the Pacific theatre. Her son had proven so good at his job that his talents were exported halfway around the world, assisting the Yanks and the Brits in the air war against the Axis.

Her most bitter tears were shed when she'd received that first telegram from the Ministry of Defence - Regret to inform you…captured by the enemy…. She was sure when this latest one had arrived, that it would "regret to inform" her that her son was dead, buried somewhere in a field half a world away. When it arrived, she'd nearly fainted in her husband's arms, then shoved it at him and refused to read it.

But he'd been rescued. By the grace of God, liberated. And not only that, but the Ministry had been kind enough to forward a letter he had written to her while in hospital recovering; she didn't want to think about how her baby may have suffered. He'd come home soon, and he'd be fine. He'd be her sunny, high-spirited Lachlan, just the same as he was when he'd left.

Mary Curry traced the writing on the envelope containing her son's letter, sniffing back more happy tears. The penmanship was appalling, but then, Lachlan was always in a hurry about everything, even writing. Removing the letter from the envelope, she laughed lightly to herself; if she'd read the telegram a hundred times, she'd read the letter a thousand:

15/5/45 -
Dear Mum,

Just wanted to let you know I'm all right, and tell you not to worry. Got a bit knocked about, but they're taking bonzer care of me here, and she'll be apples in no time. The nurses are a right beautiful bunch of sheilas, to boot. I'm hearing I'll be sprung from here by end of next month, and all I've been dreaming of is one of our family barbecues, so heat up the barbie for me, stock a lot of stubbies, and don't let Dad eat all the yabbies, all right?

Much love, your son, Lachlan

"Much love," Mary whispered aloud. Such a big-hearted boy he'd always been, and still was, she was sure. Yes, everything would be just as it was when he got home. He was a little 'knocked about,' but she'd take care of him, and get him fattened up again, and things would go right back to normal.

They had to…

III - Almost Home

The bus driver shifted gears, and cursed the heavy outback dirt under the wheels. As he shifted, the gears made a loud grinding, shrieking noise.

Lachlan bolted awake at the sound, his heart pounding wildly. "We're going down," he blurted out before he could stop himself.

The man seated next to him looked at him strangely. "You all right, mate?"

"Uh…yeah," he said, his face flushing a deep red. "Sorry, must've been dreamin'."

"No worries," the man said, but the look on his face said otherwise. He looked at Lachlan's uniform and smiled nervously. "No worries at all," he repeated, and went back to reading his day-old newspaper.

As the bus made its way down the bumpy dirt road, Lachlan leaned his head against the window and surveyed the scenery as the sun rose. Cloncurry didn't seem to have changed much, and the weather was exactly what it should be in August; he hugged himself to ward off the usual morning chill that would soon give way to the warm springtime sun.

"Cold, soldier?" the burly man next to him asked. "Got just the thing to warm ya up." He waved a flask in front of Lachlan's nose.

"Ta, mate, but no," Lachlan said, smiling wanly. "Little early for me."

The man laughed heartily. "You sure you're Aussie, son? It's never too early for a touch of the grape!" He downed a healthy swallow, and smacked his lips. He watched Lachlan, who had turned back to the window, for a second, then said, "Back from the war, eh, flyboy? Where were ya?"

"Germany," Lachlan said softly, not turning to face him.

"Germany? Crikey, you saw the whole thing, then, eh, mate? What was it like, watching the Gerries surrender? Didja get to shoot any of the bastards? Just for fun?"

"No."

"Bloody shame. But then, you're with the air fellas. Didja blow up Berlin?"

"No," Lachlan replied.

"Bombed Dresden, then?"

"No." Lord, how he wished the man would be quiet.

"Ya didn't blow up Berlin? Or Dresden? Then where the bloody hell were ya?"

Lachlan turned his head slowly, casting a steely gaze on the man. "Prison camp," he said coolly.

Stunned, the man literally shrunk back from Lachlan. "Oh," he murmured. "Oh." He held out the flask again, and this time Lachlan took it. "Uh…welcome home, mate. Cheers."

"Yeah," Lachlan muttered, taking a swig and handing it back to him. "Cheers."

* * *

"C'mon, girl, quit your shilly-shallying! The whole town's there by now!" the man yelled into the house as he honked the horn of his truck.

As the young woman inside pulled her jacket on, she uttered a few choice words under her breath, then ran to the door. "Yeah, well then, with all those people, they wouldn't miss me, now would they?"

"Bridget Stanley, you get your skinny arse over here right now. Jock Curry's me best mate, and if you think I'm missing his boy's homecoming, you're daft."

Bridget Stanley sighed, and got into the truck. As her father pulled out onto the road, she said, "I don't get it, Dad. I didn't think you liked Lachlan. You always said he was a poncy little thing - puttin' on airs and actin' like he was smarter than everybody else."

"I never said any such thing!" Bert Stanley snapped. "I just said…"

"You said it was good he was going off to war. 'That'll put him in his box,' you said. 'Teach him how not to talk to people, with his nose all in the air,' you said."

"Yeah, well…that was then. Different kettle of fish now, girl. And never you mind what I said. From what I hear, young Lachlan did it pretty tough over there with the Gerries."

"Yes, I heard that, too." Bridget grew quiet for a moment. She thought of what she'd overheard the men saying in the pub: that Lachlan's plane had been shot down, that he'd parachuted out and broken his leg on landing, but still managed, with a couple of other men from his squadron, to dodge the Gerries for half a day before being caught near the French border. He'd spent the remainder of the war in a prisoner of war camp. As a nurse, Bridget shuddered at the conditions he must've had to endure to survive, but survive he had.

As a child, Bridget had always enjoyed Lachlan's company. Their parents were best friends, so they found themselves spending hours and days together at the beach, or at each other's houses. She smiled at the memories - his silly voices, his endless stories and jokes…she also remembered how, when she had something to say, Lachlan would sit quietly and listen to every word. He never made fun of her when she'd tell him her dreams, like the other kids would; he'd just sit there, looking her squarely in the eye, as though she were the only person in the world. She always suspected that there was an old soul lurking inside the body of Lachlan Curry - she just hoped that soul hadn't been crushed.

Her reverie was interrupted by her father's voice. "…hear the mayor's gonna give him the key to the city."

Bridget rolled her eyes. "Dad, that's really just the key to Robbo's secret stash of Irish in the back of the pub," she joked. God what a nightmare this 'homecoming celebration' was going to be - not for her, although she hated crowds, but for the person they were going to all this trouble for; she wouldn't want to be Lachlan Curry right now for all the medals in the world.

IV - But Who's Minding the Pub?

Lachlan didn't even realize that he'd fallen asleep until he was awakened by the bus pulling to an abrupt stop. "Cloncurry," the driver yelled. "And by the looks of it, the entire bloody population of it."

He blinked a few times and looked out the window through the swirling dust. He blinked a few more times when he saw a huge crowd of people standing by the roadside, some cheering, some waving, some carrying signs.

His heart sank. He'd expected to see his mother and father, maybe even Geordie if he was feeling magnanimous, but it looked like every single person in town was standing by the road. Lying in wait, more like, he thought glumly.

For a moment, Lachlan wondered why the idea of a big crowd bothered him so much. The last three weeks of his incarceration had been in solitary, down in the "wine cellar" - so called, he thought ruefully, because you got crushed and aged there. He'd had no company at all, unless you counted Milford…but he'd been dead for three days by the time Lachlan even got there. During his time down in the cellar, he longed for someone to talk to, any of his mates upstairs in the barracks - hell, he even missed Derek's poncy English stuffiness.

But now, faced with the possibility of a few hundred people gathering just to see him, to welcome him home, his heart was racing with panic. What could he say to all of them? He wanted to say, "Thanks very much, but go home and leave me alone," but he knew that might not go over well. And why in the world were they there, anyway? It wasn't like he'd done anything special…

But there they all were, with their smiles and their signs and their marching band. And like it or not, they were here for him. They knew bugger-all about where he'd been, or what had happened to him, and most likely they didn't care. All they knew was that one of their own was back. Lachlan reckoned that not too many of Cloncurry's sons made the round-trip; most had gone to the Pacific, and from what he'd heard, the fighting was particularly fierce and brutal there. He supposed he should consider himself fortunate.

"Now, that's what I call a welcome home," the man next to him sighed. "Nothing like a big welcome home after you've been through hell." He was silent for a moment, and when Lachlan didn't answer, he continued, "Wish I coulda been there." When Lachlan glared at him, he added, "In…In combat, I mean. Not…well…I mean…they wouldn't take me. Bum leg, y'see."

Lachlan's face softened. "Oh. They didn't take my brother, either. Vertigo." The man nodded in sympathy. "Reckon I fought enough for the both of us, though."

"Too bloody right," the man said, eyeing the four-inch scar that ran from Lachlan's hairline down to his cheekbone, marring an otherwise boyish face. "Thank you, son."

"For what?"

"For your sacrifice. For everything you did. For…that." He pointed briefly at the scar.

Lachlan shrugged brusquely. "Forget it. All I did was fly around some…and get caught." He started to stand. "This is my stop, mate. 'Scuse me."

As he made his way stiffly to the door of the bus, the driver smiled at him and gestured toward the crowd before opening it. "That's all for you, I reckon, eh?"

Lachlan sighed, looking at all the Welcome Home, Lachlan signs and the happy, smiling faces. Well at least the band's playing on key, he groaned inwardly. "Yeah. Reckon so. Ta," he said to the driver as he slung his duffel bag over his shoulder with a wince.

"Ya need a hand, mate?" the driver asked.

"Nah, no worries. Thanks, though." Lachlan took a deep breath as the door slid open.

"Well, cheers, then. Welcome home, and good onya, lad," the driver grinned.

"Yeah, right," Lachlan grunted, and stepped off to greet his "admirers". "I'm a big bloody hero."

 

V - Marching Bands, A Mother's Son, and the Big Bloody Hero

The band played even louder, and the cheers grew to a cacophony when the crowd first spied Lachlan stepping off the bus. But nearly all of them held back and allowed the two people most interested in this particular homecoming to greet him.

Mary Curry rushed over to her son, meeting him halfway. She stopped just in front of him as he put his duffel bag down on the dusty ground. Holding out a trembling hand to his face, she found herself completely speechless as she stared into Lachlan's eyes. She'd thought of a million different things to say to him since she'd been informed of when he was coming - everything from a simple "Welcome Home," to "What took you so long?" She smiled inwardly at how he would react to the latter - a wink, and a snappy comeback, no doubt. Typical Lachlan.

But…he didn't seem like her Lachlan as she looked into the haunted, hollow eyes. And it didn't sound like him when he smiled awkwardly, and simply said, "G'Day Mum," making no move to embrace her.

Mary stepped forward. "G'Day, he says. Haven't seen him in nigh well on three years, and he says, G'Day," she said, feigning annoyance. She held out her arms. "My baby's home," she said softly. To her relief, he moved into her embrace, and returned it tightly, his head buried in the crook of her neck. "Welcome home, luv."

Lachlan could feel the burning tears threatening to escape and spill on his mother's new dress - at least, he supposed it was new. Knowing his mum, she'd probably been shopping for weeks for "just the right thing" to present herself in to her son. She could've been wearing a burlap sack for all he cared. He was home.

The tears threatened, but he willed them not to fall. Don't cry…don't show weakness...they all look for weakness… The mantra played over and over in his head, and he braced himself, pulled away from his mother and smiled his best, "no worries" smile. "Thanks," he said, chucking her under the chin, "But honestly, Mum…I'm a bloody big baby, don't ya think?"

Mary ran her hands down his arms - she wanted to pull him back into her arms and never let go, but she settled for maintaining any kind of contact she could. Laughing, she answered, "You could be ten foot tall, and you'll always be my baby, so just get used to it, y'hear?" He nodded obediently, with a hint of a smile. "Good. Oh, dear, how thin you are. You're faded away to a shadow. Well, we'll fix that soon enough."

Suddenly, Mary reached up and began mapping Lachlan's face with her fingertips, tracing each inch of his features like a blind woman trying to make a mental picture. Her fingers stopped only briefly at the scar on the side of his face; he stiffened, but she quickly continued her tactile tour.

"It's all right, Mum, I'm all here," he reassured her. "I'm really here."

Grabbing his hand in hers, she wiped her eyes with the back of her other hand. "I know, darling" she said sheepishly. "I know. Look at me, keeping you all to meself when there's so many other people dying to say hello." She pulled him along with her toward the crowd.

Lachlan could feel his heart pounding as he took each step toward the throng awaiting him. He kept his eyes trained on the familiar face at the front, reminding himself not to look at everyone else. They finally came to a stop in front of his father, a sandy-haired, stocky man with a stern face half-shielded by his Akubra hat. He stepped forward and regarded his son for a moment, then extended his hand.

"Welcome home, son. Good onya."

"G'Day, Dad," Lachlan said, shaking his father's hand.

"Good Lord, Jock, he's just come home from the war. Give him a hug, for pity's sake," Mary scolded her husband, pulling him closer.

Reluctantly, Jock Curry put his arms around Lachlan and patted him stoutly on the back. Resting his hands on his shoulders, he said, "You're a lucky one, boy. Lotsa blokes from these parts didn't make it home 'cept in a box.."

"Yeah," Lachlan replied wearily. "Lucky, lucky, lucky."

"Eh?" Jock said, cocking his head.

Lachlan slapped his father on the arm. "Nothin' Dad. Nothin'. How've ya been?"

"Fair to middlin', boy. Fair to middlin'. Mine's playin' out, more's the pity. But as long as there's sheep to be sheared, we'll be all right." Jock Curry looked about and rolled his eyes. "Aw, crikey, here comes the mayor."

"You're joking," Lachlan groaned. "Ya think if I don't turn 'round, he won't see me?"

Jock raised an eyebrow at his son, then waved the mayor over.

What followed were two hours of non-stop glad-handing, flag-waving, back-slapping, and good-heartedness that probably should've made Lachlan happy and proud; instead, all he felt was tired. And hot. At one point during the ceremony, his mother turned to him and saw him rubbing his eyes with fatigue. "Darling, are you all right?"

He looked at her blearily and said, "No worries, Mum, I'm fine. Just rooted from the trip is all." The day had turned quite warm, and he fingered the collar of his uniform shirt in discomfort. He listened as the mayor wrapped up his long-winded speech, squinting into the bright sunlight that seemed to shimmer around the man at the podium.

"And so, I'm sure I speak for all the citizens of Cloncurry, and indeed, all of the citizens of our fair Australia, when I say, "Welcome home, Squadron Leader Lachlan Curry!"

A cheer rose up as the mayor first waved to the crowd, then turned and gestured to Lachlan to join him at the podium, which really wasn't much more than a large, upended carton.

The noise of the crowd rang in Lachlan's head. He didn't really want to get up, much less go over there and accept some medal, or key, or whatever it was. He'd have to make some sort of speech. All he wanted was to get out of the sun, and away from the noise, and all the people thronging around him…

"Lachlan!" Mary Curry screamed as he stood, swayed for second, and sank to the ground on his knees. She knelt beside him as a crowd gathered around. She ran her hands through his hair and patted his cheek. "Lachlan, darling, say something. Please, luv."

"I'm okay," he mumbled, trying to stand again. "I'm okay, Mum."

"Move aside!" a strong female voice commanded, and the crowd parted. "Give the man some air, will ya? You're like a pack of dingoes lookin' for a meal!"

Still trying to clear the cobwebs, and figure out just exactly how he wound up on the ground, Lachlan shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up to see the tall figure of a woman standing over him, the sun forming a bright halo around her already flaming red hair. "Bridge?" he muttered.

Bridget Stanley folded her arms calmly. "G'Day, Lachlan. Having a good rest down there?"

"Bonzer, thanks," he said tersely. "Care to join me?" He looked at his mother, and frowned at the tears and mascara streaking down her face. "Mum, I'm all right," he reassured her.

"Let me be the judge of that," Bridget said firmly. "Stay there," she commanded him when she noticed him trying to stand again. Crouching next to him, she took his hand and felt his pulse. When she had finished, she placed both hands on either side of his head and looked in his eyes. "Uh-huh," she said as she unbuttoned his heavy uniform jacket and loosened his tie.

"Uh-huh?" Lachlan parroted.

"Uh-huh," she repeated as she checked his pulse again.

"What are you doing?" Lachlan asked in confusion, trying to shake his hand free.

"Stop that, ya wanker," Bridget chided him, holding his hand fast. "I'm a nurse, remember? When's the last time you had anything to eat or drink?"

"Dunno," he mumbled. "Few hours ago."

"What did you have?"

"Uhhh…"

"Lachlan…" Bridget tilted his face up to meet hers.

"Had something to drink."

"Like what?"

"Think it was scotch," he muttered sheepishly.

"Oh, Lachlan," Bridget moaned. "On an empty stomach, on a long coach ride, and you just out of hospital? No bloody wonder you're keeling over." She gently touched the scar on his face. "I like it," she said jauntily. "Quite rakish."

"Got it just so you'd say that, y'know," Lachlan smiled, grateful for the change of subject.

"Well, aren't you the thoughtful one," she droned, playing along.

"I was aiming for Errol Flynn, but I think I got Boris Karloff instead."

"Nah, I think you look grand. We'll take ya any way we can get ya," Bridget said tenderly, touching his hand. Suddenly, she was all business again. "All right, idiot child, up you get," Bridget said matter-of-factly, holding her hand out to him.

With Bridget in front of him, and his parents on either side, Lachlan rose on wobbly colt's legs and made his way through the parting crowd. "The Ute's just a few yards over there," his father said to him. "Can ya make it, son?"

"Sure, Dad, no worries."

Jock looked at Lachlan's pale, sweating face. "Why don't I just bring it 'round. Stay there, mate. Won't be a tick."

Lachlan glanced at Bridget, then his mother. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, darling, don't apologize," his mother said, smiling but still wiping tears away. "You're just knackered is all. A nice meal, and a good night's sleep in your own soft bed, and she'll be apples by tomorrow morning."

As the truck came into sight, Bridget, her hand still on Lachlan's arm, leaned over and whispered in his ear, "You just did that to get out of making a speech. Ya big faker." She then kissed his cheek. "Welcome home, old son."

He knew perfectly well that she didn't believe he'd faked it at all, but he welcomed her light-hearted banter. Good ol' Bridget. Thank God, she hadn't changed a bit.

"Ta, Bridge. It's good to be home." His mood lifted a bit, and he joked, "See you haven't changed. Bossy as ever."
 

VI - Home

Mary stood in the doorway of Lachlan's bedroom as he tossed his duffel bag on the bed. "There you are, dear. See? Just as you left it."

Bridget squeezed past her into the room. "Now, get that heavy uniform off, and get into some proper clothes." She watched as Lachlan stared at the bed, expressionless. "Lach?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry, Bridge. Yeah, righto. I'm sweltering in this bloody thing." He smiled and took off his jacket.

"C'mon, Mary, let's give the boy some privacy, shall we?" Bridget nudged Mary into the hall gently but firmly. "Poor bloke's been pulled and pushed and paraded about like a prize bull at auction. Fancy some lemonade, Lach?"

"Beauty," Lachlan replied. "Ta very much. I'll be out in a tick."

As Bridget practically dragged Mary away from the door and toward the kitchen, she said, "Mary, ya gotta stop staring at him like that. You didn't take your eyes off him all the way back here. He's not gonna disappear."

Mary smiled sheepishly. "I know, dear, it's just…I can't believe he's here. He's alive, and home, and safe."

"Yeah, well," Bridget continued as she took some lemons from the pantry, "He's been through quite a lot, so don't…well, try not to hover too much, all right? Just give him a little time to sort things out."

"Sort things out? I don't understand. He's home, and Mr. Henderson told Jock that as soon as he was up to it, he could have a job as a bush pilot on the station. Everything's going to be just fine, Bridget. You'll see. He'll be right as rain, just you wait."

"Right as rain," Bridget smiled, but a strange, cold fear gripped her heart; she had a suspicion already that things wouldn't be right as rain for Lachlan, Not for a long while.

* * *

Lachlan was pulling a t-shirt over his head when he was startled by voice in the doorway saying, "Hail, the conquering hero."

"Christ! Geordie, you took ten years off me life!" he said to the man, then gestured toward the door. "Coulda sworn I'd closed that," he added wryly.

George Curry swaggered over to Lachlan. "What, a fella can't surprise his little brother with a big 'welcome home'?" he said sarcastically. "Welcome back, cobber. Feel good to be home?"

Lachlan looked down at his older brother. Five years older than Lachlan, but about four inches shorter, George - Geordie to family and friends - was slight, dark and wiry, where his brother was broad-shouldered and fair. People seeing them together never pegged them as relatives, let alone brothers. "Yeah, Geordie, thanks. It's nice to be back."

"I'd reckon it would, with all the to-do going on. The bands, the key to the city…oh, sorry I couldn't make it to the big beanfeast, mate. Had a lot of work to do." Geordie flopped onto Lachlan's bed. As Lachlan reached around him to pick up a shirt he'd laid out, Geordie gasped and grabbed his arm. "Crikey, Lach, don't let Mum see those. She'll go round the twist! Cover those up, will ya?"

Lachlan looked down at the series of small, nearly-healed circular scars on his biceps, and the long, still angry ones on his lower arms, then calmly regarded his brother. "I would, but you're sitting on my shirt."

Geordie looked into Lachlan's eyes, and almost gasped again. They were Lachlan's eyes, but they weren't at the same time. There was something…different in them - an impatience, an anger. A coldness. Geordie shivered slightly, and rolled off the shirt. "Uh, sorry there, mate."

Abruptly, the storm in Lachlan's eyes cleared, and he smiled. "No worries. So, how've you been, big brother?"

"Uh…good. Yeah, good, mate. Can't complain." Geordie stood and watched Lachlan put his shirt on, leaving it unbuttoned. "Hear ya had a bad trot out there, Lach," he said quietly.

"You could say that," Lachlan replied.

"Well, I'm glad you're back pretty much in one piece."

Lachlan studied his brother for a second. "Y'know, I almost think you mean that, Geordie," he said, and without waiting for a reply, turned and walked out, leaving a stunned Geordie behind.

VII - It's Always Worse in the Dark

Mary Curry sighed contentedly, even though it was three in the morning, and she couldn't sleep a wink. Hers was once again a full house, and nothing could have pleased her more.

True, she did get a bit of a fright when Lachlan had fainted - no, he didn't faint, she chided herself. He just felt a bit dizzy is all - and he was rather quiet through dinner, but she couldn't realistically expect him to be exactly the same right away, now could she? Bridget had told her to give him a bit of time, and Mary knew she was probably right; time was really all he needed, and he would be back to his old self, laughing and joking, and sneaking up behind her while she was making dinner to steal a kiss on the cheek and a slice of chook.

Mary rose quietly so as not to disturb Jock, who was snoring away. She didn't think it would be a terrible thing to go down the hall and make sure her son was comfortable and sound asleep - and still there…and still alive… a nasty little voice in her head added - so she padded softly down the hall to his room.

Turning the knob carefully, she opened the door, peeked into the room - and saw no one.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Where could he have gone? A tiny part of her thought that maybe this whole day - indeed, the whole past few months - were nothing more than a cruel dream, that Lachlan was still missing, still in enemy hands, but she shook that silly notion from her mind, and walked further down the hall, toward the door that led to the back porch. Standing still for a moment, she thought she heard the sound of breathing coming from outside. But it wasn't peaceful, even breathing - it sounded like someone in the midst of a terrible dream that he hadn't quite figured out how to awaken from.

Opening the door, she looked out into the dark outback night, waiting for her eyes to adjust. A second later, she looked in the direction of the breathing she heard, looked down and saw her son lying on the porch in a near fetal position, a blanket barely covering him. She could see his shoulders shaking - whether from cold, or from what he was experiencing in his dream, she couldn't tell. She knelt down next to him.

"Lachlan? Dear, it's Mum. Wake up, luv. Wake up, now." Mary gripped his arm, shook him a bit to wake him -- and fell back as he flailed at her, freeing himself and shrinking away from her, his knees to his chest and his arms shielding his face.

Shaking his head violently, he yelled, "Ich weiß nicht. Ich habe Sie erzählt, weiß ich nicht!" ("I don't know. I told you, I don't know!")

"Oh, my God," Mary whispered, crossing herself as her tears fell. "Lachlan, it's Mum. Lachlan!" she said, louder; it seemed to be getting through to him. "Listen, luv. I want you to just listen. Y'hear the crickets? Hear them? You're home, luv. It's Cloncurry, Lachlan, and it's Mum, and you're home."

Lachlan's arms slowly lowered away from his face, and the look of sheer terror in his eyes began to fade. "Mum," he rasped.

"Yes, darling, it's me. Lachlan, what are you doing out here?" she asked gently.

"I…I…" He looked around, and a wave of embarrassment swept over him. He ran his hands through his hair as though trying to fix himself, laughed nervously, and said, "I couldn't sleep."

"But why did you come out here?" Mary paused, and when he didn't answer, just looked at her in confusion, added, "Do you even remember coming out here?"

As though someone had flipped a switch, Lachlan's face turned stony. "Of course I remember. I'm not barmy, y'know," he snapped. He sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands, then looked at his mother. "I'm sorry, Mum. Yeah, I remember coming out here. You're gonna laugh yourself sick when I tell ya why."

"I won't laugh, darling. I promise." She inched closer to him, and he didn't shy away.

"I, uh…well, truth to tell, Mum, the bed was too soft." At her confused expression, he continued, "I'm kinda used to something a bit…firmer." He smiled contritely.

"Oh," Mary replied. "I didn't know…" She quickly plastered a sunny smile on her face. "Well, why didn't you say so? I'll see if we can find a board or something to put under your mattress tomorrow, luv. Tomorrow night, you'll get yourself a good night's sleep. In the meantime, d'you think you could come inside? I just don't think I could sleep a wink meself knowing you were out here, and it's turned so chilly." She stood and held a hand out to him. A bit of the fear crept back into his eyes. "Please, darling. Come inside. Everything always seems worse in the dark. But nothing's going to hurt you anymore."

Holding the blanket tightly around himself to hide his body from his mother, Lachlan took her hand and pushed himself to his feet. He stood and said, "I'm sorry I disturbed you, Mum."

"Don't be silly. Now, come on to bed, luv." She led him silently to his room, then tucked an errant lock of hair behind his ear, ignoring the scar. "You'll be all right now?"

"Right as rain, Mum. G'night." He kissed her cheek, but made no move to hug her.

"That's my good boy. Good night." She closed the door behind her as she left and took a deep breath to calm herself before going back to bed.

As she climbed under the covers, Jock rolled over toward her and muttered, "Thought I heard something. Lachlan all right?"

She patted her husband's arm. "Oh, yes. He's fine. No worries at all," she said, and settled in for the rest of the night. But she didn't sleep, any more than her son did.
 

VIII - Not-So-High Flight

In the weeks that followed, things settled into something resembling normal - for the Curry family and the town, but not for its returning hero. Jock's employer, Joseph Henderson, was owner of one of the largest, most productive sheep stations in Queensland, encompassing some five hundred miles of outback land.

Upon Lachlan's return, Mr. Henderson offered him a job as a bush pilot, assisting in the tracking and herding of the flocks and the patrolling of the fences, but Lachlan had politely refused, telling Henderson that he'd been advised to wait for awhile before getting behind the controls again. Henderson, while disappointed, told Lachlan he'd be more than willing to wait for him, and in the meantime gave him a job as a mechanic, fixing the trucks and motorcycles used on the station as well as maintaining the shearing equipment.

It was a fairly solitary job, and it suited Lachlan just fine. He'd see the occasional shearer with an equipment problem, or one of the hands would drop off a Ute to be repaired, but other than that, he wasn't bothered. At the end of the day, he'd hop on his old motorcycle and go to the pub, have a pint with the blokes for appearance's sake, then head straight home. No muss, no fuss. He'd be just jovial enough, tell the right jokes, laugh at the appropriate times. When someone would slap him on the back and ask him if it was good to be home, he gave his standard, practiced reply: "Fair dinkum, it is."

If he was lucky, when he got home, everyone would already have eaten, and he'd sit alone in the kitchen with his re-heated chook and veg, throw down another beer, and go to his room, where he'd devise another ingenious way to keep his night screams from waking the house - or at least, from waking Mum. He couldn't bear the thought of another night like that first one. The look of terror, and of disappointment, on her face was just too much for him. She wanted her son back, not some hacked up, half-dead ghost, which was what he was.

Besides, a part of Lachlan believed that if he acted all right, pretty soon he would be. Mind over matter, as they say. He couldn't wait for it to happen.

He was fixing the engine on Bridget's dad's Ute when a young man, who Lachlan recognized as one of the bush pilots, wandered into the shop. "Oi, you Lachlan?"

"Yeah," Lachlan replied, rolling the sleeves of his work shirt down quickly. "What can I do for you?"

"Got a problem with my plane," the man said. "Got a crook wing. Banks left all the bloody time. I'll wind up going 'round in circles. Geordie says you're a dead hand at anything having to do with a plane. Would you mind havin' a squiz?"

"Uh, look, mate, I'm kinda busy right now. Where's Duncan? Isn't he supposed to be the fella you go to for that?" Lachlan rubbed his hands nervously on his trousers.

"Duncan? He couldn't find his arse with both hands and a torch, mate. Besides, he's probably been at the pub a good four hours already. He'll be worthless. Geordie said you could help, and I got a lot of ground to cover today. C'mon, Lach, be a mate." The man stepped toward Lachlan; he backed away. "What's the matter with you, eh? You come back barmy or something?"

"No, no…it's just…I shouldn't leave the garage."

"It'll just be a tick, mate. It's a few minutes to the shed and a quick squiz at the plane, you'll be back in no time. C'mon," the man pleaded.

Lachlan sighed. "All right," he acquiesced.

"Good onya," the man smiled, extending his hand. "Harry," he said.

"Cheers, Harry, let's go," Lachlan replied matter-of-factly.

* * *

Harry was true to his word - the trip took all of ten minutes, and soon Lachlan was being led into a shed filled with small aircraft. He whistled through his teeth.

"Strewth, he's got a lotta planes."

"Mr. Henderson? He's got a lot of land to watch, mate. One bloke can't do it alone." Harry led him over to a small plane. "This here's Gladys. Gladys, say hello to Lachlan." The man patted the fuselage of the plane as though it were a pet. "She's just shy."

"Uh, right," Lachlan said cautiously.

"She's a - "

"DH-82, I know," Lachlan interrupted. He walked around the plane. "She's about, what? 7 metres long?"

"Thereabouts."

"Wingspan's…" He held his own arms out, cocked his head slightly, then finished, "9 metres or so?"

"Um, yeah. How'd you do that?"

"Never mind. What kinda speed you get with this?" As he walked around, Lachlan put his hand against the cool metal fuselage. "Imagine you'd get to about 144kph cruising speed."

"120 usually."

"You're not putting this plane to proper use, mate. You're talking about a 145-hp deHavilland Gipsy Major 1C inline piston engine. She'll give you up to 172 kph. Don't baby her. It's no wonder she's giving you trouble. You're not showing her the proper respect." Lachlan smiled.

"Oh, really?" Harry smiled back. "Well, maybe if you sweet-talk her, she'll be nice to me."

"Let me see what I can do." As he made his way to where the engine was located, a pilot nearby started the engine of his own plane; it started, then backfired slightly, startling Harry and terrifying Lachlan. He whirled in the direction of the sound, then froze, unable to move.

"Lachlan? Oy, mate, you all right?" Harry asked, placing his hand on Lachlan's arm.

Lachlan pulled away violently, his eyes wide with terror. "I…I have to go." He turned and made his way to the exit. The engine backfired again, and he started again, nearly plastering himself flat against a wall.

"Crikey, it's just old Bert's engine havin' a coughing fit, is all," Harry said, looking at Lachlan as though he were insane.

"I have to go. I can't help you. I'm sorry." He turned and ran from the shed, with Harry's curses ringing out behind him.

He ran as fast as he could. As far as he could. It didn't matter to where - he just had to get away…

"That can't be a good sound," he said over his communications device.

"Say again?" an American voice came over his headset.

"I think my engine's blown, mate," he replied.

"That hole in your side might explain it," the voice said. "Got one just like it. Two o'clock!"

Lachlan banked the plane, firing at the incoming Luftwaffe plane, hitting it repeatedly. It screamed as it corkscrewed downward out of sight.

"I think that's my last one," Lachlan yelled over the din of the screaming engines and explosions. "I'm out, and…" The plane lurched suddenly, flames sprouting from one wing. "And…I'm going down."

"Tango Three, going down. I'm with ya, Lach," the voice said.

"Thad, can you get back?"

"Nope. I'm shot to shit, man. If you're goin' down, I'm not far behind you."

"Say again?"

"I said, I'm with you all the way down, buddy."

"Prepare to ditch. I repeat, prepare to ditch," Lachlan yelled, his stomach lurching - though whether from the violent motion of the plane, or from the fear of what was going to greet him when he got to the ground…

Lachlan fell to the ground, and vomited violently, the sounds echoing in his head. As his stomach emptied, all that was left to do was rock on the ground wretching. "Stop, please stop," he rasped as he hugged himself and tried to curl into a ball.

He was vaguely aware of someone coming up behind him, but he didn't start when a soft, cool hand touched the back of his neck. "Hey," he heard behind him, "It's all right now. Let me help you." He looked over his shoulder, and saw Bridget crouching next to him in the dirt. "Nice technicolor yawn, Lach. Something you ate?"

"Yeah, reckon so," he said huskily, blushing.

"Liar," Bridget replied. Taking a bandana from her pocket, she wet it with water from her canteen, and placed it on the back of Lachlan's neck. "Easy, now. Ya done?"

He nodded. "Think so. Don't know what came over me. It just hit me all of a sudden."

"What are you doing out here, anyway? You're a couple miles from the garage, mate."

He looked up and around. "That's the dispensary," he said, gesturing toward a tin shack in the distance.

"Very good," Bridget said. "Think you can make it there if I help you?" When he nodded, she helped him up and they walked the short distance to the dispensary, neither one of them speaking.

IX - Never Let Them See You Cry

Bridget tossed the canteen on a table, and led Lachlan to the small examination room. "Here ya go, hop on up there. I just want to check you out, all right?"

"Bridge, really, I - " He saw the stern, brook-no-argument look on her face, and shrugged. "Oh, all right, but it's a bloody waste of time." He sat on the table and watched her for a moment; there was a grace to the way she moved about the room, like she had some sort of music playing inside her, and she was keeping time with it. "So, this is the second time you've come to my rescue, Bridge," he said nonchalantly as she handed him a cup of water.

"And don't think I'm not counting," she smiled. After he'd taken a sip, she asked, "So, how long has this been happening?"

"How long has what been happening?" he said innocently.

"The flashbacks."

The cup stopped halfway to his lips, and he glared at her. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, leave off, Lach. You might fool everyone else, but this is me." Tension hung in the air as Lachlan continued to glare defiantly at her. "Fine. Take your shirt off," she commanded him.

"What for?"

"I want to have my way with you. For God's sake, Lach, don't be so thick. I need to examine you," Bridget huffed.

"Oh. You mean you don't want to have your way with me?" he tried to joke.

It was Bridget's turn to glare. "Take your shirt off. Or do you want me to do it for you?" Frustrated, she grabbed a bit roughly at his shirt buttons, and was only a little surprised to see him stiffen and shrink away from her. "Lachlan?"

"No," he said curtly, but there was no anger in his eyes - only fear. "I…I'll do it." He started to unbutton his shirt with trembling fingers.

Bridget put her hands gently over his. "I'm sorry," she said softly. His eyes were downcast, focusing on her hands, but he slowly lifted them to hers. "Now, about the flashbacks."

She watched his eyes fill with tears. "It happens all the time," he whispered, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I don't know when it'll happen, but all of a sudden, there it is. Somebody'll say something, or I'll hear or see something…"

"Or somebody will do something stupid like grab at you," she added apologetically.

He realized that Bridget was still holding his hands over the buttons of shirt, and he took them and rested them on his lap. "No worries, Bridge. Like I said, there's no rhyme or reason to it. I'll get over it, I reckon." He added, even more quietly, "I have to."

"Why do you have to?" Bridget asked, pulling a stool up and sitting across from him, their hands still entwined.

Lachlan stared into her blue eyes, seeing nothing but compassion, and friendship…and maybe something more. He wanted to tell her everything that had been happening to him - the night terrors, his inability to stay inside at night for too long, the violent reaction to loud noises or the smell of burning metal. She'd listen. She'd understand…

She'd use it against you. They always use it against you. They look for that soft spot, and go in for the kill…

He stood up abruptly, breaking the contact with her. "Because I'm a big boy. Bridge, ta very much, but I'm fine. Really. Thanks for the rescue," he winked at her and headed for the door. "I gotta get back to work, or they'll have my guts for garters."

"How ya getting' back, mate?" Bridget asked, recognizing a lost opportunity when she saw one.

"I'll walk. It's not that far. I could use the exercise."

"Take the canteen," Bridget said flatly, pointing to it on the table.

He looked at her one last time, seeing the disappointment and sadness on her face. He could see that he'd let her down, but was at a loss as to how to make it up to her. Smiling wanly, he said, "Cheers, Bridge. I…I'm sorry." He grabbed the canteen and rushed out.

Bridget got up and stood in the doorway, watching Lachlan's figure grow smaller in the distance. "Ya gotta stop hiding, luv. 'Cause sooner or later, no one's gonna come lookin' anymore," she sighed.

Except me, a little voice inside her added.

X - Hold Him Down

Bridget didn't see Lachlan for days after their abortive talk in the dispensary; she went to the pub every night, hoping he would show up. A full week later, she smiled with relief when she saw him stride in. She was happy to see he was finally gaining weight - and filling out his worn jeans quite nicely, her girly side added. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his equally worn flannel shirt and nodded at the bartender, then looked around the room.

Bridget waved to him, and he walked over to her. "G'day, Lach," she said. "Haven't seen you for a while."

"Been busy. How are ya, Bridge?"

"All right," she replied. "Care to join me?"

He looked nervously at the empty seat, and smiled . "Yeah, I'd love to, but I'm meeting somebody," he replied.

"Oh," she said, trying to hide her disappointment. Forcing a sly smile to her face, she said, "All right. What's her name, and how long are her legs?"

That got a genuine smile out of him. "Not a she, luv. Some bloke called me this morning, wants to talk to me."

"Oh, I'm intrigued," Bridget said. "What about?"

"Not a clue. Oh, I think that's him. Either that or some fella's giving me the eye. See ya, Bridge." He tugged on a lock of her red hair, smiled and walked toward the man, who seemed a bit lost. "'Scuse me, mate, you lookin' for Lachlan Curry?"

"Why, yes, I am. Are you he?"

"Yeah. How d'you do." Lachlan shook hands with the man, who looked about fifty, with sandy hair graying at the edges.

"Sam McKay. Nice to finally meet you." He had an easy smile, and an unusual accent.

"New Zealander, eh?" Lachlan grinned as he led Sam to a table.

"Yes, I am. And thank you for not saying Kiwi. I get more than enough of that at work." They both chuckled as Lachlan held up two fingers to the barkeep, who nodded. "Speaking of work…I'm sure you're wondering why I called you out the blue."

"Gotta admit I'm curious."

As the barkeep brought two beers to them, Sam nodded his thanks and said, "I'm with the Aerial Medical Service, Mr. Curry."

"Lachlan. The Aerial - oh, you're with the flying doctors?" Lachlan had heard a lot about the service, which had been started back in the twenties after one two many people in remote areas died from lack of proper medical attention.

"Yes, I am. Your reputation as a pilot is well-known, Lachlan, and I was hoping I might persuade you to join us."

Lachlan's face turned pale. "You…You want me to be a pilot for you?"

Sam chuckled. "Well, yes, unless you've also gotten a medical degree."

"I can't," Lachlan replied abruptly.

Taken aback, Sam added, "I understand that you've just gotten back from service not that long ago, Lachlan. Of course, we'll be happy to follow your timetable. I'm sure you're still recovering from your ordeal."

"My - what did you hear?"

"That you were shot down and captured by the Germans and spent time in a prison camp."

"Well, then, what the hell do you want me for?"

"I'm sorry. I don't understand," Sam said, confused.

"I got shot down, mate. Only one of my squadron survived besides me. Not exactly indicative of superior piloting, let alone leadership skills."

"From what I hear, it was thanks to both of those skills that you and your mate survived at all. That's exactly the kind of person we're looking for." Sam took a long drink of his beer. "Or do you not want to fly anymore, Lachlan?"

"I…that's got nothin' to do with anything, mate. I'm just not what you think I am."

"Which is what?"

"A pilot, mate. A pilot." Lachlan got up from the table, nearly knocking his beer over. "Feel free to have another, it's on me. But I have to go. Got a lot to do at my real job. G'Day."

As he headed for the door, he was stopped by his brother. "Oi, little brother, where ya goin' in such a rush?"

"Leave off, Geordie. Let me by," Lachlan pleaded.

"And let you strand Mr. Aerial Medical Service?"

"You know him?"

Geordie grinned. "You daft? Everyone knows him. He's always lookin' for pilots. Started comin' in here right after you went off to elite training in Canada. Recruited a few fellas, but he kept hearing about you, the King of the Skies. 'Oh, just you wait til Lachlan comes home,' 'Lachlan Curry's really the bloke you want. He's half bird, no lie.' He kept coming back, but you didn't. Surprised he didn't give up on ya like the rest of us did."

Cringing, Lachlan snapped, "Little early to be this pissed, isn't it?"

"Only had a few, mate." Geordie looked over his shoulder, and a few friends of his started toward him. "Me and my mates are celebrating. We are free, my son. Got let go today. Henderson fired us."

"Christ, George, I'm sorry," Lachlan said sympathetically.

"You're sorry. How nice," Geordie droned. "Here I am, out of a job, and you're tossing an offer in some bloke's face. How come, Lach? It's right up your alley - all heroic and everything. Flying all over hell and creation rescuing people. Saving lives. It's just so you."

One man behind Geordie, who Lachlan recognized as Harry, the man with the plane trouble, laughed. "Oi, Geordie, y'know what I think? I think he's scared. Yeah. That's it. You shoulda seen 'im a while back. Soon as he heard an engine turn over, he ran like a scared little bunny rabbit. You afraid to fly, Mr. Big Hero Pilot? You pissin' yourself at the thought?"

Lachlan backed up as the men moved closer to him. "Look, fellas, you've all had a bad day, and I'm sorry, but - "

"Stop sayin' that!" Geordie shouted. "You're sorry, my arse. I'm so sick of you and your bloody righteous routine. You think you're better than us. You always have. Thought you were smarter, and better at everything…"

"I am," Lachlan said calmly, but the anger in his eyes was unmistakable. "Than you, at least."

"You need some of that big-noting attitude knocked outta you, mate," Harry growled, circling Lachlan and grabbing him from behind, kicking his legs out from under him.

Lachlan struggled to regain his balance, but the other two men grabbed him as well, and started to force him to the floor. "Hold him down," Geordie yelled. "We'll teach you a lesson, little brother. 'Bout time someone did. Harry, hold him down, I said! Hold - "

" - him down," Commandant Schiller barked at the younger officer. "Little shit bit me."

"Not all I'm gonna do, bloody bastard!" Lachlan screamed at him as he struggled against the three Nazi officers trying to force him down onto the dirty cot. "Get one of me hands free, and it'll be all over, no bloody fear. Let me up!" One of the officers punched him squarely in the face, and he fell just shy of the cot, landing with a thud on the concrete floor.

Schiller stepped out of the way of Lachlan's falling body, but a splatter of blood landed on his boots. Infuriated, Schiller kicked him viciously in the side of the head, opening a long gash from his hairline to his cheekbone. Lachlan tried to roll to the side, to avoid another kick, but Schiller put his boot down firmly on
Lachlan's throat, cutting off his air. "Stupid boy," Schiller said coolly. "Now you've made me ruin that pretty face of yours." He turned to the officers. "This time, do it right. Hold him down…"

"No!" Lachlan roared, suddenly throwing all three men off him and getting quickly to his feet. "No more. Y'hear me? No more!" He grabbed Geordie and flung him against the bar.

"Lachlan!" Bridget yelled, jumping up from her chair and heading over to the fray. She was stopped by Sam's hand on her arm. "Leave off, will ya?" she barked.

"No. You might get hurt. And he'd never forgive himself if that happened," Sam said softly. "Let me."

Sam headed over to Lachlan just as he had started punching Geordie in the face repeatedly, uttering curses - in English and German - under his breath all the while. Geordie's friends, including Harry, had long fled the bar, and the barkeep looked on in stunned horror. Sam fearlessly stepped directly behind Lachlan, and said, "Lachlan, stop it. Lachlan, that's your brother. It's not him, Lachlan. That's your brother." He grabbed Lachlan's arms and pulled him off Geordie; Lachlan howled like a wounded animal. Wrapping his arms around the still struggling man, Sam said again in his ear, "Lachlan, he didn't do it. You know that. That's Geordie. Look at him, Lachlan. That's your brother. C'mon back, mate."

Lachlan blinked a few times, his chest heaving, then stared in revulsion at the sight of his brother, bloody and cowering against the bar. "Oh, God," he sobbed as he looked down at his bloody hands. "Oh, God…" He tore himself free from Sam, and turned to run, only to see Bridget standing in his way. "Bridge…" he whispered, his face a mask of self-hatred and humiliation.

Bridget held her arms out to him, but he simply looked at her in disbelief, shook his head, then turned and ran. She started after him, but Sam held her arm. "Do you know what you're up against, Bridget?"

"I have a pretty good idea now," Bridget said sadly.

"He's mad!" Geordie howled as he staggered to his feet. "He came back barking mad, I tell ya!"

"Shut up, Geordie!" Sam snapped.

"He's not mad," Bridget said. "He's broken."

XI - Minor Repairs, Major Steps

Bridget rushed to the dispensary after she left the bar to gather up some bandages. Geordie had refused her help, but she knew that the blood on Lachlan's hands wasn't all Geordie's.

She opened the door, and moved to turn on the light when she heard a voice in the darkness. "Please, don't."

Her eyes adjusted to the dimness and she saw Lachlan standing standing by the small sink, shivering. "Lachlan?" Bridget asked softly.

"Is George all right?"

"He's fine. His outside's as ugly as his inside right now, but he'll be fine. Are you?'

He looked at her for a moment, then simply said, "No."

"Oh, Lachlan," she sighed. "I've been waiting for you to say that." She walked over to him tentatively, as though approaching a horse that might spook at any moment. "Come here," she said, her arms open.

He took two hesitant steps toward her, but his legs started to buckle, and she rushed over to him. Supporting him, she led him the rest of the way to the exam table, hopping up on it with him when he sat. "Don't be afraid, luv. I'm here," she said gently, putting her arm around his shoulders.

"That's all I am," he said in a barely audible voice.

"Sorry?"

"That's all I am, Bridge. Afraid. I can't live like this. And it never stops. It just never stops…" he sobbed as he sank against her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

She held him silently as he cried, not offering any silly, trite platitudes, not telling him it was going to be all right, because she wasn't so sure it would be. But she held him. At least he'd know he wasn't alone. After a few minutes, he picked his head up and said, "Harry's right."

"Harry's right about nothing, mate. He's a nasty, bitter drunk, is what he is."

"No, he's right about me. I am afraid."

"What are you afraid of?"

"Flying." She stared at him, amazed. He cleared his throat and wiped his red, swollen eyes. "When I was…when the camp was liberated, they put me on an air transport to a hospital in England. I was kinda out of it when they did, but when I woke up, we were mid-flight. And I went mad. The sound of the engines…the feeling of the air pressure…I lost it. Started screaming and throwin' a fit. It's not real clear - I was pretty crook at the time - but my mate Thad said it took twice the normal dose of sedative to put me out, I was that out of control."

"Why do you think that is?" Bridget encouraged him.

"Look how bad things turned out last time I was in a plane, mate," Lachlan laughed bitterly.

"That wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it?" he said curtly.

"I don't know. Was it?"

Tears sprang to his eyes again. "I don't know. Probably not, I reckon. We got caught in an ambush. There were five of us, and twenty Luftwaffe. We stayed up as long as we could, but I got shot up pretty bad. And all I remember is the sound of the engine as it died. It was like an animal caught in a trap - screaming. And then…it just stopped, and I went down. Spiraling, and spiraling…" His eyes started to glaze over.

"Lachlan!" Bridget barked, and he regained his focus. "Did you do anything wrong?"

"No, everything was fine until the ambush."

"Did you do anything stupid?"

He shook his head. "No. Bloke on my left wing did, though. Ryan, his name was, from Belfast. Acted like a bloody American cowboy, and went nose to nose with one of 'em. Blew up in mid-air, but he took the Gerrie bastard with him."

"I'm so sorry you went through that. But you have to know that what happened wasn't because you didn't know what you were doing, luv. We're all so proud of you."

"How can you be? I'm a total fake. Big hero. I'm afraid of my own fucking shadow." He lowered his head in shame. "Sorry."

"Oh, please, I don't care fuck-all about your language," Bridget replied, earning her a shy smile. "There it is."

"What?"

"That smile I've missed. That sweet smile." She brushed a hair off his forehead. "I've missed you."

He laughed. "Even after I came back?"

She chuckled, too. "Yeah, I s'pose so. And I still miss you. But I know you're in there. You just have to take it a little bit at a time. I want you to tell me everything, Lachlan. Everything. Don't spare me like you're sparing your mum." He looked at her in surprise. "Oh, yeah, I know you've been tiptoeing around her, making sure she thinks you're 'right as rain.' But the truth is, you're not. And she should know that. So she can help you."

"She can't," he answered sadly.

"She doesn't want to, you mean."

"I don't think I like the tone of that," he snapped.

"Well, I'm sorry, but she's hiding even more than you've been. She knows bloody well that you weren't exactly away at holiday camp, luv. She knows what they do at those places - she's read enough, and heard enough from the blokes who served in the last war. You were tortured, Lachlan. Beaten obviously, starved, cut up, and left to rot. And she knows that."

"Bridge, please…"

"No. She's being selfish. You're home, and she's happy. Fine. But you need the people you love to help you, not pressure you into being 'fine.' I think you need to get out of that house," Bridget suggested.

"I know."

"Really?"

Lachlan nodded. "I can sleep in the room in back of the garage. That is, if I still have a job after today."

"I wouldn't worry," Bridget said hopefully.

They sat quietly for a moment, then Lachlan took her hand. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'd do anything to help you. You know that, don't you?"

He looked deeply into her eyes. "I count on it. Always have." With his free hand, he cupped her cheek. "My sweet, kindhearted Bridge. Prettiest girl in Cloncurry, inside and out."

She leaned closer to him, mirroring his gesture with her hand on his cheek. "Flatterer," she whispered, her lips inches from his.

"You're my best friend, y'know."

"And you're mine," Bridget sighed as he closed the gap between them, his lips teasing her upper lip. "And God, I've missed my friend…" She captured his lips tenderly between hers, her tongue tasting the salty tears that had begun to dry.

His hands moved into her hair and he deepened the kiss, his own tongue granted entrance as her lips parted. Their breath mingled in a healing sigh as she stroked his face.

"I don't want to be like this anymore, Bridge," he said, his voice breaking. "Help me?"

She kissed him fiercely, willing her own strength into him, and hoping to re-awaken the strength she knew he already possessed. "I'll help you," she agreed, her own tears falling. "I'll help you, luv."

ON TO PART 2

BACK TO LIBRISCROWE