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JOHN WAYNE by Thomas Ryan ​ Anchor 1 ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ John Wayne ​ ​ Tonight's assignment was not starting well. Sophie had suggested to her editor that a series of interviews with old soldiers might be a good idea. The centenary of the First World War would keep stories of any war since 1914 in the public interest domain for at least four years. Each day, the Returned Services Associations were losing veterans. Just last month, Sophie had watched her girlfriend's Grandfather lowered into the crematorium as a bugler played The Last Post. Too many stories have been lost, she argued. Their editor agreed but wanted David, the paper's senior journalist, to accompany her. David had screwed his face when he learned the RSA visit was Friday night. Sophie knew on Friday nights, David and his friends met in a city sports bar. But the editor had insisted. It was the one time the old soldiers gathered en masse. David insisted they use his car, wanting the night over quickly. She reluctantly agreed, but only if they called on her Grandfather. It was on the way. Otherwise, she would drive herself. David sped and didn’t slow until close to her grandfather's house. Then he braked. The sudden stop flung Sophie forward. The seat belt cut into her breasts. She gasped, glared at David, and then, clenching her teeth, turned away. He had hurt her, but she was not about to let on. When he sulked, he was unpredictable, and tonight he was sulking big time. If he sniped at her right now, she would cry, and she wanted to stay angry. He was her boss, and she had slept with him. What a fool. It started a disastrous relationship that she ended after three months. It left him bitter. Nowadays, journalism was a tough business, and many major newspapers had closed. The Evening Star was one of the few still employing reporters. She needed her job, which meant she had to put up with him. David turned the key. The motor died. He pulled the key from the ignition and then sat back in his seat, jiggling the key ring between his fingers, eyes fixed on a spot on the window, his breathing heavy in the silence. Without looking, she knew his bottom lip would have drooped. He would pout, as he always did when he couldn’t get his way. Sophie released the seatbelt and rubbed her chest. The David she first met was a caring, attentive and sensitive man. Then they had sex, and he changed. How naïve and stupid she had been. David was a womanizer and saw her as a possession, not a girlfriend, and that mindset had not changed. Now, the stress of seeing him daily had her scratching her arms most nights - a nervous habit from childhood and right now, her arm itched like hell. “Are you coming in?” Sophie asked. “We’re late, Sophie. You run in. I’ll wait here.” “Would it kill you to say a quick hello? You’ve met Granddad before, and it will hurt his feelings knowing you wouldn’t come in.” “Don’t tell him I’m here.” “I’m not lying to my grandfather.” David firmed his chin. “All right. But in and out! Okay?” He flung open the door, climbed out, and stomped past the car's front onto the footpath. He waited with his back to her. She toyed with the idea of staying put, then decided against it. Instead, she climbed out of the car, slammed the door shut and hurried past. David aimed his key at the car and pressed the lock button. By the time he made the veranda, Sophie had knocked twice. “He could be asleep,” David said, hopeful. Sophie ignored him and tried the handle. The door opened. She stepped inside. “Granddad,” she yelled. “It’s me, Sophie.” To David, she said, “He’ll be in the lounge, crashed in front of the television.” She made her way along the hallway, leaving David standing in the doorway. “There you are.” “Sophie,” Andrew Johnson said, a little confused. “What are you doing here? Is it my birthday?” No, Granddad, it’s not your birthday. Mum asked me to check in on you. She worries. You left the front door unlocked again.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “What are you watching?” She picked up the DVD cover. “John Wayne again. There are other DVDs.” “John Wayne will do me fine,” he replied. A grumpiness to his tone. “And I don’t need you mothering me. Why aren’t you at a party somewhere? It is Friday night, isn’t it?” “I’m working. I have a colleague with me. You remember David Jensen?” Andrew nodded that he did. “He’s waiting outside,” Sophie smiled. “We’re on assignment together.” “Invite him in.” Sophie stepped into the hall and waved to David, who was still standing in the doorway. He glared but moved forward and followed her into the sitting room. David waved. Andrew Johnson waved back. “Can I make you some tea? Have you eaten?” Sophie asked. “I might be almost ninety, but I’m not an invalid. What work are you doing on a Friday night? You’re still doing that silly journalism. Give it up. There is no future in it. I told you this before.” “Granddad worked as a reporter many years ago,” Sophie said to David. “For real newspapers that employed objective, dogged journalists who pounded pavements seeking the truth and not downloading news stories off the internet. Isn’t that right, Granddad?” “Mock all you want, young lady, but a reporter had respect in the good old days. We had ethics. We didn’t manufacture stories to sell newspapers. Not like today.” David said nothing. Looked at his watch. Sophie kissed her grandfather on the cheek. He softened. “And what is your assignment?” “We’re doing a series of war stories. We need to interview a few old soldiers and thought the RSA would be a good place to start. We’re on our way there now.” Andrew nodded. “And what type of story is going to grab your attention?” Sophie shrugged, “I guess we do the interviews and then decide what might interest our readers. It would be exciting to uncover something juicy, but I doubt very few secrets of the Second World War, Korea, and even Vietnam remain untold. David thinks all we’ll hear will be exaggerated anecdotes, nothing of any substance. But that’s okay. Personal stories of everyday life in combat will still appeal to our readers.” “You might have the makings of a real journo after all,” Johnson said, then sideglanced at David and caught the roll of his eyes. “You don’t agree, David?” David’s lips curled into a half smile, and he shrugged. He glanced down at a DVD cover on the coffee table. “I see you’re a fan of John Wayne.” He said, changing the subject. “You’ve heard of John Wayne?” “My grandfather was a fan. I haven’t watched any of Wayne’s movies. I like modern. The old movies are too slow and corny for me.” Sophie gave David a hostile glare that quickly changed to a smile when she turned back to her Grandfather. “Granddad has them all. I’ve been watching them with him since I was a child. Red River is our favourite, isn’t it, Granddad? Or at least I think it is. That’s the one we always watch.” “John Wayne was a great man,” Andrew said. “With all due respect Mr Johnson, an actor, hardly classifies as a great man.” Andrew Johnson nodded. Thoughtful. He pointed to the bookcase. “Sophie, pass me that scrapbook on the bottom shelf.” David caught Sophie’s eye as she moved forward and gave her a ‘we’ve got to get the hell out of here’ look. Sophie retrieved the scrapbook, placed it on her grandfather’s lap, and sat beside him. He flicked through the yellowing newsprint cuttings taped to each leaf. “Aha, here it is.” He put his finger on the headline. “Doctors have confined President Roosevelt to bed for one week,” Sophie read the headline out loud. “The President has flu. I’m sorry, Granddad, but what has this to do with John Wayne?” She paused and leaned closer, reading the date at the top of the page, “On April 27th 1942.” “Because, my dear granddaughter,” Andrew Johnson said, a twinkle in his eye. “Roosevelt never had the flu. In fact, that week, he wasn’t even in the USA and nor was John Wayne.” ### “In 1942, I was a major assigned to MacArthur’s staff in the Philippines. That’s General Douglas MacArthur of World War II fame. I’m picking even you two have heard of him.” Sophie and David nodded. “You’ve never mentioned the war before, Granddad.” A smile from Johnson. “I had no desire to talk of those years, but now, why not? Anyway, Japanese forces surrounded our defences in Bataan,” he continued. “The supply lines cut, munitions running out, our troops faced a hopeless task. Can’t fight without bullets. The mood in HQ was grim: without a miracle, the army, thousands of men, would be lost to the enemy. “The President ordered MacArthur to be evacuated. At first, McArthur refused but did move his headquarters and family to Corregidor Island. But the Japanese could not be stopped. In the end, the President was insistent and ordered a submarine be sent. MacArthur rejected that plan and decided to bust through the Japanese blockade in PT Boats. At sunset, his family and staff, including me, boarded the vessels. We crashed through the rough seas for two days until we reached Cagayan on Mindanao Island. From there, a B-17 Flying Fortress flew us to Australia. The decision to leave made all of us sick in the stomach. To leave men behind on the field of a battle is not what a military officer is trained to do. It stayed with me for the rest of my life. For MacArthur, it was the harshest decision of his career. The closest I had ever seen this tough, military man come to shedding a tear. But he had no choice. He was commander of the Allied Forces in Southeast Asia and one of the US’s leading commanders. He could not be captured by the Japanese. “On the dock, as we boarded the evacuation craft, McArthur vowed to return, and of course, he did. Two days after arriving in Sydney, before I’d had time to wipe the Philippines' mud and sweat from the pores of my skin, MacArthur called me to his office. I was unfamiliar with the Aussie barracks and arrived a few minutes late. I tapped on the door and entered. ‘“General. You sent for me.’ “Mac Arthur, pissed off with life in general, was in no mood for tardy officers. “I expected you half an hour ago, Andrew.’ “Yes, sir. My apologies,’ I said. I did not offer an excuse. He needed a whipping boy, and I would have to live with it. “Take a seat.”’ MacArthur pulled out his pipe and gestured for me to light up if I wished. I tapped a Kensington out of the crushed packet from my tunic pocket and lit up from the match offered. “I have orders for you. Not happy with them. No sir, not happy at all.’ I nodded and sucked in some nicotine. “You’re to fly to the USA, Andrew. You leave in three hours. Select six men to take with you. This is a security duty. Select men who can look after themselves,’ he told me. “May I ask the nature of the assignment?’ “You may, but I can’t tell you. All very hush, hush and even I, the man most responsible for stopping this bloody war, is not being let in on the secret. So no, I can’t tell you anything. You land in Los Angeles. You walk across the tarmac to a waiting plane and board it. That’s it,’ he said. ‘“Someone is flying seven soldiers from Australia to Los Angeles just to change planes,’ I asked, incredulous. ‘“That’s it, Andrew,’ he replied. ‘Now I suggest you get moving.’ “I stood and saluted, and by the time I had reached the door MacArthur was already reading another document.” ### “The trip from Sydney to Los Angeles took thirty hours because we couldn’t fly direct. Japanese planes patrolled the Pacific and the range of the C-46 Commando was less than three hundred miles. A fifty-seater with little legroom. Not like modern planes. But with no other passengers I had room enough to stretch out and catch up on sleep. “We bunny-hopped all the way. Brisbane, the Marshall Islands, Hawaii and onto Los Angeles. We arrived exhausted. I needed a shower and to collapse into a comfy bed. The welcoming committee standing on the tarmac had other ideas. ‘“Major Johnston, welcome to LA,’ the colonel waiting for us said. “I shook the offered hand. ‘“Thank you, Colonel. We need to clean up,’ I said. ‘“Sorry, Major, there’s no time. You’re leaving right away.’ “‘What are my orders, Colonel?’ I asked. ‘“You get on that plane yonder. Where the plane is going, I can’t tell you. Pick up your kitbags and follow me.’ “My men did not attempt to stifle disgruntled sighs as we ambled to another C-46. I had lost track of the time, and it was dark and raining. We boarded in drenched clothing. An airman stowed our kitbags and handed out towels. A pulled curtain hid the rear of the cabin. The airman instructed that beyond the curtain was out of bounds, except for me. My orders were to proceed to the rear of the plane once I had dried myself off. “I towelled my hair and flattened it down with my hand. A quick touch of my face told me I needed a shave. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. When I stood before the curtain, I hesitated. My appearance, shabby at best, would never pass muster. The military never accepted excuses for a poor turnout, even in wartime. I hoped whoever waited on the other side would cut me some slack. “I took a deep breath and stepped through the curtains. “Four sets of eyes fell upon me, and the faces shone with mild amusement at my open-mouthed astonishment. In a wheelchair at the rear sat President Theodore Roosevelt. Seats had been removed down either side of the centre aisle. Behind Roosevelt was a woman in her twenties dressed in a naval uniform. Seated in the first row was a four-star general, and behind him, a face I recognized immediately. I had seen enough of his movies. “It was John Wayne. ‘“Come on in, son,’ Roosevelt said. ‘Make yourself comfortable. Mandy, mix the major a drink. You do drink, don’t you, Major?’ I nodded. ‘Make it whiskey, Mandy. The major looks as if he needs warming up.’ “Speechless, I sat. Roosevelt produced a cigar, clipped off the end, twirled it in his mouth, and then lit up. Mandy passed me a glass of whiskey and returned to her position behind the President. ‘“Let me introduce the team here,’ Roosevelt continued. ‘Mandy is my assistant. Gets me what I need most of the time but has the help of a doctor, a nurse and a couple of strapping marines who get to carry me everywhere. For the purposes of this get-together, I had to leave them behind. Your men get the pleasure of toting your President about. General Beazley, here, is Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and I must say, on his behalf, he was anti my taking this trip. Last, a man I’m sure you recognize, Mr John Wayne. I will be forever grateful to Mr Wayne. His President called him to service, and he obliged.’ “Wayne nodded in my direction. ‘“You must be wondering why you’re here,’ said Roosevelt. ‘All I can tell you, for now, is that you and your men are to protect me, and we are headed for Argentina. Get me there and back alive, and you will have served your country well. Now, down your whiskey, Major, and buckle up. You’re about to take a flight into history.’ ### “Granddad, you’re pulling my leg!” Sophie looked across at David as she poured tea for everyone. He no longer wrung his hands. A sure sign the story, for the moment, held his interest. She hoped it would last. “Why have you never mentioned you met John Wayne?” “Not at liberty to, Sophie. Official secrets and all that stuff.” “What happened next, Mr Johnson?” “A long flight David. Another long, long flight.” ### “I had never been to Argentina, but in those days, Buenos Aries was the Paris of South America. A bustling metropolis inhabited by millions and filled with cafés, restaurants, theatres, movie houses and expensive shopping. Somewhere your grandmother would have loved to visit. “When we landed, the C46 taxied toward a line of trucks and buses standing on the tarmac. In front of the vehicles, it appeared the entire Argentine Army had turned out. I smiled and shook my head. Security was not going to be an issue. My men and I would be no more than presidential nursemaids. When the plane came to a stop, I left my men to help offload Roosevelt and I disembarked. “The Commander of the Argentine marines saluted and then introduced himself as Colonel Juan Peron.” “No way!” David almost jumped out of his chair. “Juan Peron. The, Evita, Juan Peron?” “One and the same, but of course, he wasn’t yet president, and he hadn’t met Eva.” “You are shitting us, Mr Johnson. Sorry, messing with us.” “I assure you everything I’m telling you is how it happened.” Sophie caught David’s eye and saw the scepticism. She gave a slow shake of the head. A warning to David to keep his mouth shut. She loved her grandfather. Let him tell his story, and even if it was fantastical, what did it matter? David fell back into his seat. She touched her grandfather’s shoulder. “Then what, Granddad?” ### “The buses transported us to the Alvear Palace Hotel, the most beautiful hotel in all of Buenos Aries and, in fact, the world. On the outside, the architecture was grand and inside as majestic as any French palace. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the walls were covered with gold leaf and paintings by famous artists. For soldiers who recently escaped from the horrors of the war in the Philippines and days in the air, the display of opulence overwhelmed us. When I peered into a lobby mirror and saw a tramp looking back, it made me uncomfortable and embarrassed. “In the sanctuary of the hotel room, I threw off my uniform, showered and shaved. Freshened and snug in a hotel bathrobe, I pulled back the wooden shutters. A bottle of Champagne sat in a bucket of ice. I lit a cigarette, poured a glass of the sparkles, sank into a leather chair, and looked out across the city skyline to the docks in the distance. I must admit, for a few moments, the war slipped my mind as I experienced the life of the rich and famous. Then I gave thought to the mission. I had six men to protect the President of the United States? It would be an impossible task should anyone want to shoot at him. “As arranged, I met with Colonel Peron for dinner in the hotel restaurant. John Wayne and Mandy joined us. The President sent his apologies. He wanted to retire early. Mandy had changed into a light blue satin evening gown that slid over her trim figure like a second skin. Dark hair framed an oval face. Her milky complexion only needed a touch of makeup to highlight her delicate features. Out of uniform, Mandy was an attractive woman, pretty enough to raise the eyebrows of Wayne and Peron. They sat her between them and fought each other to dominate the conversation. I sat at the end of the table. From time to time, Mandy glanced my way and offered a smile, and I must admit it raised my blood pressure a little. “Then the restaurant lights dimmed. Applause broke out. I looked towards the entrance, and then she appeared. Her blonde hair swept back into a chignon that nestled into the nape of her neck. A face so perfect it might have been chiselled from alabaster by the most skilful of craftsman. Her figure was slender, and she moved with such elegance, the poise of a dancer. She exuded an undeniable presence as she made her way to the centre of the ballroom floor. She was the most beautiful, stunning young woman I had ever seen. She stood before the microphone and waited for the applause to die. And then, waited some more. Everyone held their breath. The silence was deafening. “Colonel Peron leaned across and whispered that we were about to listen to a reading from the most famous actress in all of Argentina, Miss Eva Duarte.” ### “Granddad,” Sophie began. “This Eva Duarte. Is this the Eva that became Eva Peron?” “The one and only,” said Andrew. “I watched a documentary on the Perons not so long ago,” David said, “I’m certain that Eva and Juan Peron did not meet until near the end of the war.” “And now you know that wasn’t true. The story behind the story; isn’t that what journalism is all about?” “I have an editor to convince, and he pays my wages,” David answered. Hesitant, uncertain as to what to believe anymore, but intrigued all the same. “And what about Mandy?” Sophie asked. “All in good time,” Andrew said. ### “Eva spoke in Spanish. I listened but did not understand. When the performance ended, the rapturous applause continued long after Eva had gone. “Peron filled our glasses with champagne: the real McCoy, I checked the label, and it came from France. We toasted her beauty and talent. A little while later, the hotel manager approached. Apparently, Eva Duarte had requested to join us. She wanted to meet the famous American actor John Wayne. “We all stood when the manager brought her to our table. ‘“Good evening Ma-am,’ Wayne drawled. “He was a big man and was a commanding presence when he stood. Not about to be left wanting when it came to chivalry, Peron showed he was the perfect gentleman and took her hand, bowing before kissing it. He sat her next to himself. Not to be outdone, Wayne moved Mandy aside and sat on Eva’s other side. “I considered it my lucky night. I was never going to muscle - Wayne and Peron for Eva Duarte’s attention, but I sure as hell was happy to have Mandy all to myself.” ### “Did Grandma know any of this?” Sophie teased. “Darling, what went on between your grandmother and me is my business.” Johnson returned to his story. “Early next morning, the President sent for me. I was finally told why I had travelled the length of the globe. Wayne and General Beazley sat at the small dining table, and I sat in the empty chair. Wayne looked a little the worse for wear, as I must have done myself. Too much champagne and cognac had taken its toll. Still, neither Wayne nor Peron wished to leave the restaurant as long as Eva continued to enjoy their attentiveness. This was a damsel being pursued by two determined knights. Mandy and I had also stayed longer than we should have. However, this morning, unlike the rest of us, she looked fresh. ‘“Major Johnson, now is the time to tell you why you’re here?’ the President began. ‘Why I dragged you from more important duties, like planning the reinvasion of the Philippines with MacArthur.’ ‘“I’m a soldier, sir,’ I replied. ‘I do as I’m told.’ ‘“All the same, Major, you’re a soldier, not a nursemaid. We have spies in Washington, everywhere, in fact. It was important the American people never learn of this mission. That’s why you and your men came from Australia, and the pilots flew from England. No one in our great nation except for Mr Wayne, the General, his staff and Mandy knew my final destination. Someone leaked to the media that I have the flu. Nothing official. The government can’t lie to the people.’ ‘“Now the why. A meeting will take place later today. Mr Wayne will chair this meeting. Why, Mr Wayne? Well, believe it or not, his movies have made him one of the world’s most trusted and known men. His attendance is a sign of goodwill. Others attending figure that if it all turns sour, the American people might not care if their President ever returns home, but Mr Wayne is a different matter. Some consider him a national treasure. He is insurance against our side partaking in dirty tricks. No one trusts us Americans. Some attending the meeting have promised to kill Mr Wayne if we try anything silly.’ I looked at Wayne and received a shrug and a smile. ‘“When the meeting starts, Major, you will sit at Mr Wayne’s side,’ President Roosevelt told me. ‘I will ask you to take notes of the discussions and later take photographs. You can write?”’ ‘“Yes sir, I can write,’ I told him.” ‘“Good man,’ he said. ‘Whatever you see and whatever you hear comes under the secrecy act. When the meeting is finished, you will give the documents and photographs to the general. It can never be discussed. Not ever. Is that clear?”’ ‘“Yes, sir,’ I answered. ‘May I ask who will be at the meeting?’ ‘“No, you may not. You will report to Room 414 on the fourth floor at 1pm. Don’t be late.”’ ### “In the hallway outside room 414, Peron had men everywhere. I waited as one of his soldiers' checked my ID. Peron looked on but did not intervene. Security by the book. I liked Peron. A professional. “Once I gained my security clearance, I entered the room. “The men seated around the table were in deep discussion, not with each other but with aides seated behind them. A few looked my way and, on assessing my importance as zero, returned to their conversations. I sat next to John Wayne as instructed. On the table in front of me sat a camera and notepad. “As I looked over the attendees, my first emotion was confusion, incredulity, and wonderment. I turned to Wayne. He had been watching me, waiting for my reaction. The grin that flashed across his face at my stunned-mullet response told me I had not disappointed him. “They were all there, the leaders. “Tojo sat in silence. Stiff-backed. He had the aloofness of a Shogun, and I had no doubt that his samurai army believed he was a god. Of course, he was no more a Shogun than I was, and his army of fanatical followers only resembled samurai warriors in that they would gladly lay down their life for their leader. “De Gaulle made the most noise. Mussolini, Germany’s unreliable ally, matched him for bluster. It was accepted by Western military intelligence that the Italians led an army that preferred love, not war. Hitler was all charm and geniality, the quintessential psychopath. He already had so much blood on his hands. He glanced my way on one occasion. He reminded me of an undertaker, and I felt those empty eyes were sizing me up for a body bag. Churchill sucked on a cigar, and FDR kept saying Goddam to everything. It was a circus. Then there was Stalin, the hardest to read. He had a wildness about him that was almost feral, a cornered lion with a thorn in its paw. The word ‘vicious’ came to mind. Of all the leaders in the room, the persona of Stalin was the most dangerous. Not a man I would ever turn my back on. “I opened my pad and fiddled with pens. Wayne asked if I was ready. I held up a pen and nodded. He stood and banged the table with a small gavel. The meeting started. “Churchill, Roosevelt, De Gaulle and Stalin were on one side of the table, and Hitler, Tojo and Mussolini on the other. Translators stood behind their leaders. Hitler made the opening speech, and his translator was careful to interpret Hitler’s words and give emphasis on syllables to match the rhythm of the German dictator’s oration. For a moment, I felt transposed to a Nazi rally in Germany and heard what the German people must have heard. I found it hard to concentrate on note-taking. I was still reeling from the enormity of the occasion, and then Hitler spoke to the meeting’s objectives. The reasons that had brought these world leaders together, and as I fully comprehended what was being said, my mouth fell open in horror. I turned to Wayne. The rhetoric had not disturbed him. He must have known the discussion topic beforehand, which could be why he had not collapsed into a dumbfounded stupor as I had. “Hitler finished talking, and the arguing began in earnest.” ### Andrew Johnson leaned back, his eyes closed, and he stayed silent. Sophie looked in David’s direction. David raised an eyebrow, then dropped his head to one side and tried to peer under Johnson’s closed lids. He looked back at Sophie, a concerned furrow on his brow. “Granddad, are you okay,” Sophie asked as she rubbed his arm. Johnson opened his eyes and smiled, then touched her hand. “I’m sorry. It was so long ago, but I suddenly recalled images so clearly that I could smell Churchill’s cigar. I hallucinate when I’m tired.” “We should go.” “No. I’ve kept this story bottled up for too long. I need to get it out of my system.” David settled back. However, Sophie could read the signs. He was struggling with the credibility of the story. If she was honest, she wasn’t sure what to believe. But she knew her grandfather. He had never lied to her in all their conversations throughout her childhood. He had always treated her as an adult. A reason for her continued visits even through her teen years. With Granddad, she was a grown-up. “What was it they were discussing?” David asked, still interested enough to be curious. “The war had reached an impasse,” Andrew said. “Germany had failed to invade Britain and was struggling in Russia. Japan was taking more and more of Asia, but its forces and resources were stretched. Everyone in the room knew that the wealth and industry of America would tip the scales. But how long that would take was anyone’s guess. This was a world war. Thousands of men, women and children had been killed, and no end was in sight. The meeting was to discuss a truce and the carving up of the world along the existing lines of occupation.” “Who called the meeting?” David asked. “Hitler. He had achieved what he had set out to gain: oil fields and industrial might. Now he saw it as the time to crown himself King of Europe. With Japan as an able ally, he could negotiate from a position of strength.” “Roosevelt and Churchill wouldn’t have agreed to that, would they?” Sophie asked. “In the beginning, I did have my reservations, I must admit. Remember, Britain was vulnerable and just holding out. If Germany had tried to invade, it might have been successful. De Gaulle argued against the proposal from the beginning. But his position was weak, so no one paid him much heed. I never really understood why he was there.” “And the Pacific?” David asked. “This was tricky. The Japanese wanted New Zealand and Australia for obvious reasons. British forces were stretched, and the US was more interested in Southern America. They had already agreed that the Middle East and Africa would be carved up later.” “Jesus,” David said. “And you recorded all this?” “Not recorded. I took notes. But yes, I jotted down the gist of what was said and took photos. The camera, photos, and my notes would be confiscated before we returned to the US. Roosevelt wanted me to develop the film in my room later in the evening. Even today, all documents remain under the umbrella of the Official Secrets Act. Even now, if I tell all, I could lose my military pension.” “Then why tell us, Granddad?” “I'm an old man. All the main players are dead.” David said, “And about the photographs? I can’t believe these men allowed themselves to be photographed.” “Politicians were no different then than they are today. Stroke their feathers, and they will preen. Especially this group. A football stadium would not have been big enough to hold their egos.” “That still doesn’t explain why John Wayne was there to chair the meeting?” Sophie asked. Andrew Johnson smiled. “Hitler was a fan of American movies. He had his own private cinema and would watch a movie most nights - movies denied to German citizens, so I’m told. Typical dictator. I can’t think of a dictator in history who led by example. Anyway, he was a huge John Wayne fan and insisted Roosevelt include Wayne and have him host the meeting. In my opinion, if ever there was a sign the man was insane, it was the moment he made that decision. There he was, slaughtering humans by the thousands, and he turned out to be a closet-adulating groupie. If Mickey Mouse had been real, he would have been there instead of Wayne. Hitler loved Mickey Mouse and, ironically, Jewish comedians. So anyway, that’s how Wayne came to be there.” “And not Mickey Mouse,” Sophie laughed. ### “Like boxers, they eyed each other. A touch of gloves. Then the sniping began in earnest. Stalin remained a non-participant, watching, seemingly relaxed and uninterested, but those beady eyes missed nothing. Churchill and Roosevelt nodded like puppets in a fairground. Then I noticed that although they were nodding, they were not in agreement with the comments by the axis leaders, just hollow gestures. Then Stalin lifted himself up. ‘“Enough,’ he yelled, banging his fist on the table. “I almost jumped out of my seat. The others stopped talking. All eyes were on Stalin. He jabbed his finger at Hitler and Mussolini. ‘I refuse to listen to these sons of pigs any longer.’ “Stalin glared at Hitler, and for a moment, I feared he was about to leap across the table and throttle the little Nazi shit. Hitler held Stalin’s glare, but the uncertainty was there, and he blinked first. Then the sort of tirade Hitler was famous for spat forth. It was Stalin’s turn to smile. I saw Roosevelt smirk and a quick flick of his eyes towards Churchill. Then everyone started screaming and yelling. Wayne let it continue for a few minutes, then banged his gavel and got to his feet. His size demanded attention, and, of course, he was an actor. He gave his best mean look, the one that had caused countless Hollywood baddies to tremble. “The astonished leaders fell silent. Their interpreters and bodyguards were unsure how to react, so they did nothing. Stalin sat first, and then Wayne sank back in his chair. The tension eased. He had established himself as a chairman who would tolerate no nonsense. It was his finest performance if only movie cameras had been rolling.” ### “From that moment, FDR and Churchill knew they would win the war. The alliance between Britain, Russia and the US was forged,” Johnson said. “How so?” Sophie asked. “If they were about to agree to carve up the world a few minutes before, what changed that they could be certain they would win the war?” “Because neither Roosevelt nor Churchill considered the truce a serious option. For them, their reason for attending the meeting was Stalin. Before the war, Stalin had signed a treaty with Hitler. Roosevelt and Churchill were unsure that with the German army surrounding Moscow and over-running Stalingrad, Stalin might grasp the offer of a truce to save his ass. His outburst said all they needed to hear. Stalin hated Hitler, and Russia would fight Germany to the bitter end. Hitler could never win fighting on so many fronts.” “So you’re saying that you consider this meeting a turning point in the Second World War?” David asked. “Yes. Before the Argentina meeting, the war had gone the way of the Axis powers. After Argentina, the German advance lost momentum, and the Japanese faltered. Like good boxers, the allied leaders had looked their opponents in the eye, seen weakness, and smelt victory.” “And that was that,” Sophie said. “Did you go back to Australia?” “It wasn’t over, Sophie. Not by a long shot. Later that day, John Wayne went missing.” ### “The smoke clouds puffing from Roosevelt’s cigar reminded me of a steam locomotive. Something was up. Mandy stood behind him, her brow furrowed. The President’s spare hand slapped on the arm of his chair. He did not ask me to sit. ‘“Major Johnson,’ he said. ‘Mr Wayne has gone missing. I need you to find him asap. The plane leaves in three hours. I can’t go home and leave him behind, can I?’ ‘“No, Mr President, you cannot,’ I replied. “As I stood there, I flicked through a few scenarios in my head but had to concede that where Wayne might have run off to was beyond me. He had never been to Argentina before. He didn’t know anyone. I would need to speak to Juan Peron. ‘“I’ll go find him, sir,”’ I told the President. ‘“Mandy, go with him. Two sets of eyes and all that.’ “For the President’s benefit, I accepted the offer of Mandy’s help with the dignity the offer deserved. A few hours with Mandy was a pleasure I looked forward to. I could not take any of my men from his protection detail. Losing John Wayne would be bad enough, but losing the President is unthinkable. “We met up with Colonel Peron in the foyer. I explained what had taken place. ‘“This is very serious. Mr Wayne should not wander the streets of Buenos Aries unprotected,’ Peron said. ‘“I can only think he’s gone to meet with Miss Duarte; he knows no one else,’ I said. “Peron nodded. ‘Eva will be at the Radio theatre. She performs every afternoon around this time, and the nation tunes in. This she would never miss.’ “Peron bundled us into his military vehicle and instructed the driver where to go. ‘“John Wayne. He is a ladies’ man?’ Peron asked me. ‘“He is a film star, Colonel. I think ladies come with the territory.’ ‘“He is married, isn’t he?’ Mandy asked. “Peron smiled at me, and neither of us deigned to answer her. What could we say? That is not what we were thinking. Eva Duarte was a beautiful woman who would turn the head of the strongest men. Married or not. “Peron worried that Wayne might have come to harm. The city was abuzz with Japanese and German agents. Neither lot would hesitate to kill someone of Wayne’s stature in a gesture to lower American morale. However, I dismissed the idea. Hitler had nothing to gain by embarrassing the President of the United States. At least, not before he had received an answer to his proposal. There was little doubt the American public would not understand Roosevelt’s reasons for attending the meeting. To be honest, it was a question I asked myself. To have Hitler and Hirohito that close and not put a bullet in their skulls would have been difficult to explain away. “Peron left Mandy and me in the car when we reached the radio station. He returned after a few minutes. ‘“Neither your Mr Wayne nor Eva Duarte are at the station. We can conclude that wherever they might be, they are together.’ ‘“Does Eva have an apartment?’ I asked. ‘“They would not go there. Miss Duarte is a woman of high standing. She would not take a man to her apartment. Even a man such as Mr Wayne.”’ ‘“Where then?”’ ‘“In Buenos Aries, if a man and a woman want to be alone, they might walk in the park. Or along the water’s edge. Many people use the park. They would be recognised, so I think the foreshore. There is plenty of it. They could find some private space easily enough.’ “Peron gave an instruction to his driver, and we found ourselves travelling through the shanty town that separated the central city from the docks. We drove along the front of the port until we could see the sandy coastline that stretched until it disappeared into a cloudy haze. After ten minutes, we pulled up beside a café. Wayne and Eva were standing beside the water’s edge. We decided not to interrupt the liaison. There was time to spare. Peron ordered coffees, and we sat and watched.” ### “Were they cuddling?” Sophie asked. “No, of course not,” Andrew Johnson said, pretending to scold Sophie. “By today’s standards, it was all perfectly innocent, but back then, a man and a woman alone, well… it just wasn’t done. Tongues would wag. Was Wayne besotted with Eva? I don’t know. That they enjoyed each other’s company, there was no doubt. He might have returned to Argentina if there had not been a war. The look she gave him when they parted left me in no doubt he would be welcome. But there was a war, and by the time it was over, Juan and Eva had married. “So Wayne and Eva never saw each other again?” “Not that I’m aware of. But I’m certain Wayne never forgot her. In 1953 he made a movie called Honcho. This was a year after Eva died and the first film he made after her death. In a scene near the end, his character looks across a landscape at the setting sun. He says, ‘the blood red sky is the same in Buenos Aries where sadly a light that shone so brightly for me has dimmed’. I believe this was Wayne’s tribute to Eva. It’s how Wayne would have done it. Actor to actor.” Johnson sat back in his seat. “And there you have it. A few days in Argentina that changed history in so many ways.” “Interesting story, Mr Johnson,” David said. “Aha,” Andrew said, a mischievous sparkle in his eye. “This is where a true journalist grasps the few threads of information and runs with it. Follows their gut instinct.” “My instincts tell me it would be impossible to research,” David said. “Sophie and I would have nowhere to begin. You are the only living person who attended this meeting and can’t give us anything to back up your story. There is no trail. Even the John Wayne quote in the movie is meaningless unless the rest of the story can be corroborated.” “I’m afraid I have to agree with David, Granddad,” Sophie added. “With the whole event archived to the American national security bin and most of the players now dead, all roads are closed.” “And you two call yourselves journalists. I’ve given you one of the great war stories of the twentieth century. Your eyes should be filled with fire.” “I’m sorry, Mr Johnson,” David said. “We have to work with facts. It’s a great story, but without evidence that the meeting took place, it is only fiction. Do you have a stamped passport? A copy of your orders from McArthur?” “Nothing like that, David. In those days, no one had passports and orders for a secret mission were not written down. At least, not written down and handed out like a newsletter.” David stood up. “I’m sorry, but for us to rewrite history, and this is rewriting history, we need supporting documents to show it took place. Great yarn Mr Johnston, I’ll give you that, and I enjoyed listening to it, but it is just a yarn, no more.” He looked at his watch. “Come on, Sophie, we need to get down to the RSA.” Sophie stayed sitting and stroked her grandfather’s arm. “Let’s put it off until next Friday. Granddad’s tired. I want to stay with him awhile. Get him to eat some dinner.” David, uncomfortable, eyed Johnson, then flicked back to Sophie. “No go, Sophie. It needs to be tonight. If I go it alone, you know it will be my project. The editor won’t be happy.” “I’ll take my chances,” Sophie said. David clenched his teeth. “Right then. Your decision, but I’m off and won’t be back. You’ll need to find your own way home.” When Sophie heard the door close and was certain David had left, she turned her attention back to her grandfather. With a worried look, Johnson said, “You can spend the night here. I hope I haven’t got you into trouble.” Sophie shrugged, then smiled, “Don’t worry, Granddad, I’m a big girl. You always said a good journalist needs instincts,” Sophie began. “My instincts tell me you have evidence of the meeting in Buenos Aries.” Andrew Johnson smiled. “Of course I do. In the scrapbook is a copy of the photos and notes I made before handing them over. I would have shown you earlier, but your friend never asked. He just told me I didn’t have anything. ” Sophie hugged her grandfather. “I’ll make us some dinner, then you can show me the secret stash.” The end ​ ​ ​ ​ "John Wayne, from the Thomas Ryan collection, Short Stories 2."

Florence Nightingale needs me. o ​ ​ It was dawn. Lord Tansberry stood on his terrace. He breathed in the morning air, savoured the sounds of nature awakening, and cast an eye along the avenue of elms to the iron gates. The gates were chained shut this last week. Today they would reopen. As the morning sun slowly rose in the east, fingers of light gently caressed the morning dew transforming the manicured lawns into fields of diamonds. The melodic tones of a Song Thrush signalled it was time. With ceremonial aloofness, borne of generations of forebears who had adorned the ranks of Britain’s military, Tansberry stepped off the sandstone terracing and strode away from Faversham Hall towards the wood. A Red Deer nibbling on grass shoots lifted its head at the sound of footsteps. Skittish, the muscles on its hind legs rippled as it shuffled backward. Poised and ready to spring to safety, it remained watchful until it sensed the intruder posed no danger. Then, bowing its head once more, the deer turned its attention back to the grassy nourishment. Tansberry stopped under the giant oak he and his brothers had played on as children. He reached out and traced markings carved with his pocketknife, a childish engraving declaring his love for Lady Llewellyn. He remembered the brush of her lips and the moment of sheer joy when she had taken his arm and allowed him to lead her deeper into the forest. There they had embraced more fervently. Such a wondrous moment. He closed his eyes, fixed on this image, then placed his father’s pistol against the side of his head and pulled the trigger. ### ​ The light tap and opening of the door interrupted Bernice’s daydream. She looked up from her embroidery to find her maid waiting for an invitation to speak. An annoying habit Mary brought from a previous household. Bernice wished she would be out with it and not waste time. “Yes, Mary. What is it?” Bernice asked. A harshness to her tone, she instantly regretted. “A Miss Nightingale to see you ma am. She says it’s urgent, and might she have some minutes of your time?” Bernice, taken aback, put her needlework to one side. A visit from Florence Nightingale. Such a surprise. So unexpected. In the past months following her father’s suicide, Bernice had not heard from her friend. “Show her through Mary and bring tea. Some cake too. Do we have cake?” “Yes, Ma am.” Bernice stood, smoothed her dress, and scanned her room. It was small, humble, but tidy. Florence had never concerned herself with matters of affluence. She would not do so now. The door reopened, and her friend swept in, authoritative and larger than life. “Bernie, my dear. It has been so long, and I must ask forgiveness for neglecting you. It has not been the action of a friend. What can I say? I have had so much to do. So much.” “Please sit, Florrie. Mary is bringing tea and cake.” “My dear, I have no time for tea and cake. I am not here to console you, Bernie. I am not here as a friend, and the good lord knows that is why I should be here, but no, I am here to seek a favour.” “Really?” A puzzled look settled on Bernice’s face. She wondered what it was that she could possibly offer Florence. Her inheritance lost to her father's gambling debts left she and her mother living on a meagre allowance from an aunt. She had nothing of value. “These are difficult times, and difficult times call for exemplary conduct. Conduct conducive to our station,” Florence continued, “You agree, of course, don’t you, Bernie?” “I'm sure I do, Florrie." As young girls, they spent much time in each other's company, and never in all that time had Florence ever gotten to the point without instilling a pre-allegiance of duty and commitment. "Are you going to tell me whatever it is you are on about Florrie?" "I want you, Bernie." Florence pointed her finger at Bernice for added emphasis. "Sydney Herbert, the Secretary of war, has asked me to go to Turkey and establish a hospital for our soldiers fighting in the Crimea. I need women. Women I can trust. You know of my hospital work in London?" Bernice nodded. "Now, the authorities believe I can use these skills elsewhere." Bernice had heard rumours of a possible liaison between Florence and the Secretary of war. Of others, she might have doubted the gossip, but with Florence, anything was possible. "To war. You want me to go to war?" "Yes, dear. You are going to war. I need you to go ahead of me and find a campsite and organize the construction of a hospital. I will train the nurses here in London and prepare them to be effective from day one." Bernice could not hide her bewilderment. She made to reach for her needlework, recently a comfort in these dark times, but she hesitated and pulled her hand back. She did not wish Florence to witness her loss of confidence brought on by her decline in social status. The downturn had weakened her usual straight-backed resolve. "What do you say, Bernie?" Florence pushed. "How am I to get there? What will become of mother, my lodgings? What of Mary?" "Your mother is perfectly capable of seeing to herself. After all, she is a Tannesberry. She has strength. You know she has. Mary will see to her. So, you see, your problem has a solution." Bernice, despite her mixed emotions, managed to keep her face impassive. Florence read it as acceptance. "Good, it's settled. You are to be escorted to Istanbul by Captain Maximilian Carruthers of the 13th Light Dragoons." Florence's statement was met with an incredulous stare from Bernice. "Max. Oh No. You ask too much of me, Florrie." Maximilian's father, Lord Carruthers, owned the estate bordering Faversham Hall's grounds. She and Max had played together as children, and their friendship was to change course in the spring. She and Max were to be married. Then misfortune befell her. Her father had lost their home to Lord Carruthers in a poorly played game of cards. With the loss of the family home and their family honour, all hope of marriage was gone. Bernice, accepting her fate, had cocooned herself in her cottage to avoid any contact with her lost love. Now her friend was commanding her to spend days alone with Max on a ship. The thought of it was unbearable. "You cannot ask me to do this, Florrie. And you know why." "You must put that to one side, Bernie. Our fighting men are dying. I assure you that a broken heart is less painful than death by cholera or limbs smashed by cannon. The queen demands it, and so do I. It's your duty, Bernie." Bernice knew Florence would not be denied. Not when she set her mind to it. It seemed her father's indiscretions continued to impact her life. ### ​ The carriage stopped beside cargo to be loaded on the ship. It was a short walk to the gangway. From her window, Bernice could see an officer on deck waving to men below. The carriage door opened. "Lord Carruthers," Bernice whispered as she peered into his unsmiling eyes. Outwardly she appeared stoic, but inwardly her rampant beating heart threatened to burst through her chest. She had decided when they met, she would keep it formal. Address him by his nobleman’s title, not Max. Such familiarity might cause him discomfort. "Lady Tannesberry. Allow me to help you down," he said. His voice was controlled, and his manner gentlemanly correct. Bernice hesitated, then accepted the offered hand. Standing beside him, he seemed taller. The thick black hair, now disheveled by the removal of his dragoon’s cap, framed his ruggedly handsome face. Her closeness to him caused a moment's anxiety and she bit her trembling lip to stop it from betraying her true feelings. She had sensed little warmth in his gestures, only courtesy and it left her defeated. Did she now mean so little to him? She had become a duty that he would perform with the utmost chivalry and the manners expected of a gentleman. But his demeanour made it clear that there would be nothing more. She understood why. His family would insist he marry a family of worth, and she had nothing. Maximilian said, "We have a travelling companion. May I introduce Alfred Tennyson." The bearded man beside Maximillian, she knew instantly. There could be no mistaking the queen's new poet laureate, brooding and intelligent. "Lady Tansberry, a great pleasure." Tennyson took Bernice's hand and brushed it with his lips. "The arduous journey will be much more pleasurable having a beautiful lady to dine with each evening." "I assure you the pleasure will be all mine, Mr Tennyson. I look forward to your rendition of the Lady of Shallot. A favourite of mine." Tennyson smiled. "If I can remember it, of course." Bernice noticed Maximilian had stepped back and although still near, it seemed the chasm that now lay between them was too wide to be bridged. ### After three days on the HMS London, the pitching and rolling of the giant ship caused Bernice to suffer a bout of seasickness. At night the captain sent a tray of food to her cabin. In the morning the steward retrieved the tray, the food untouched. The wretchedness of her circumstance threatened her health to such an extent she thought she might die, and now, after three days, she wished she would. On the fourth day, the queasiness had gone. But she was weak and felt dreadful and in need of fresh air. Waiting until nightfall, Bernice made her way onto the deck. She manoeuvred herself between two lifeboats until she found the railing. Leaning on the wooden structure, the fresh salty breeze soon soothed her, and her feet gained stability. Her eyes closed as she enjoyed the tranquillity and solitude. Then, she sensed someone behind her and slowly turned. It was Maximillian. She stiffened. "Bernice. Please forgive the intrusion," his voice tinged with concern." But I must satisfy myself that all is well. I am charged with your well-being, and we missed your presence at dinner. The doctor assured me you had recovered. I came to check for myself. You were not in your cabin." Maximilian stood so close she feared he might discover how wretched was her appearance. The last few days had drained colour from her face. She looked haggard and her hair was uncombed. Why had he come? A gust of wind caught the rigging of the 26000-ton Rodney class warship. The giant hulk groaned and tipped its mastheads towards the northern star. She tightened her grip on the rail and fought to maintain her balance. Her stomach churned, and she feared she might disgrace herself. In that instant, Bernice despised Maximilian for placing her in such a disagreeable position. "Lord Carruthers," Bernice whispered, "I fear you have found me a little the worse for wear. I beg of you, let me be, and let me surrender myself to the waiting arms of a merciful ocean. " "The curse of the sea," Max said sympathetically. "You will adjust." "How much longer before we reach Istanbul?" Bernice asked. "In a few days, but we do not stop there. We sail up the Marmara Sea, through the Bosporus waterway, into the black sea, and onto Balaklava. After a few days, a ship will return you to Istanbul. I apologise for the delay, but my troops must arrive in Balaklava as quickly as possible." "I see." Bernice bowed her head. The thought of so much more time at sea filled her with horror. Should she jump overboard and end her suffering? "Might I ask a question, Bernice?" She nodded. But did not turn to face him. "Why did you leave Faversham Hall? Why did you leave without a word? Not a note. Such cruelty is not you, Bernice. The harshness of your manner confused me greatly." Bernice's hands tightened on the railing. "You know why Lord Carruthers. This pretence of ignorance is unforgivable. It is cruel to trifle with my emotions in such a way." She paused. "You can see I am fragile. You have me at an unfair advantage." Maximillian moved closer and she felt the warmth of his breath on her neck. "Your father's death. I understand how painful the loss must have been, but to leave Faversham. To leave me. We were to be married, Bernice. " "I repeat, Lord Carruthers, to pretend you know not the answer is deceitful, "She said, her voice hoarse and shaking. The confrontation had weakened her. If she did not immediately return to her cabin she might collapse. And still, she dared not turn to face him. "You speak in riddles, Bernice." "If you truly do not know, you must ask your father." "My father? What part does my father play? He does not interfere with my decisions." Maximilian stepped back as Bernice gathered strength enough to spin on her heel. She glared into his face but could see from his confusion he genuinely did not understand. She said, her voice flat and sad, "Your father demanded that I no longer see or contact you, and I should find somewhere else to live. If I did not obey, you would be disinherited." Bernice felt her eyes water. "I must return to my cabin. I am tired." "No, Bernice. The matter between us cannot be left like this." Bernice said, "It can, and you must accept that, Max. It is finished, and if you respect me, you will not pursue this matter further." Bernice pushed past a distraught Maximilian and rushed back to her cabin. She lay on her bed and wept long into the night. ### ​ Bernice’s steps increased in pace as she hurried up the hill. Breathless, Tennyson tried to keep up, begging her to slow down. At dinner on Lord Cardigans' yacht the previous evening, Lord Raglan had expressly forbidden Bernice and Tennyson from entering the theatre of war. Bernice would have none of it. She had overheard a conversation and learned that Lord Lucan carried orders to attack the Russian guns. A major battle was about to take place. If she could not be at Maximilian’s side, she would be close enough to support him in spirit, no matter the danger. Tennyson cursed his luck that the woman he chose to escort should not succumb to his sternest protests. He liked spunk in a woman but believed her high-spiritedness might just get him killed. Bernice reached the top of the hill and looked down at the scene below in awe and dread. Tennyson stood beside her, equally mesmerized. She lifted the spyglass she had commandeered from the Captain of the HMS London and studied the horsemen slowly moving forward. She looked for Maximilian and his 13th Hussars. They were to form on the left flank of Cardigan's Light Brigade. Then she saw him. Out in front, his sabre drawn and seated tall on Neptune the horse his father had bought him. Maximillion leaned forward signalling the black stallion to transition from a walk to a canter. How graceful, Bernice thought. The riders behind him lifted lances high, and the regimental pennants flickered in the light breeze. "Oh my god," Tennyson whispered. "This is madness." "What is it, Alfred?" Bernice asked. "It’s a valley. A funnel. There is cannon on the left and to the right of them, and see up ahead a line of cannon they are about to charge. Lady Tansberry, these glorious fools are riding into a valley of death.” Bernice had difficulty breathing as she recognised the danger. She clasped her hands to her chest and kept her eyes firmly fixed on Neptune and Maximilian as six hundred horsemen moved forward across the valley floor. The rhythmical clopping of hooves was easily heard as hooves pounded upon the hardened surface. The guns yet stayed silent. “Look.” Bernice cried. “Someone is riding across Lord Cardigan’s path. Perhaps these are orders to stop.” The ground in front of the lone horseman erupted. Bernice screamed. The blast of cannon erupted into a deadly crescendo and echoed around the valley walls. Lord Cardigan rose in his stirrups, raised his sabre, and brought his horse to the gallop. The charge had begun. “Dear God, please protect them,” Tennyson yelled to the skies. ### ​ Time passed so slowly, and yet Bernice knew it must be late afternoon. The firing of cannon had ceased long ago. The cries of the wounded and dying, men and horses, carried across the bloodied ground. Cawing crows had gathered in anticipation of a feast of the dead. Bernice sank to her knees. Tennyson knelt beside her and took her in his arms. Sporadic shooting continued. “The battle continues, Alfred. Will it never end?” “It is the Russians. They are shooting the wounded.” Bernice turned on him. “This cannot be so. Tell me it isn’t true.” Tennyson bowed his head and nodded. He was forlorn. Overcome by an all-encompassing sense of hopelessness. “Maximilian. What if he is only injured?” Bernice had not cried out when she saw him fall. She had stood tall. He would want her to be brave, to be strong. Expect it. The man she loved had fallen in battle. She must show equal fortitude. She had to match his courage with her own. Maximilian deserved that much from her. And she could not stand by and watch him be shot like a dog by a Russian soldier, no, this cannot be allowed to happen. Before Tennyson could stop her, Bernice rushed down the hill. Riderless horses stood at the base waiting for masters that would not return. Bernice had ridden since a child. Reaching for the nearest reins, she mounted and, nudging the horse forward, weaved her way between the dead and dying towards the spot where she had last seen Maximilian. When she dismounted, she forced herself to ignore the cries for assistance, but the pain in so doing ached to the core of her soul. A torment she knew she would carry forever. But what could she do? So many young men, brave men, had fallen not in victory, not in defeat, but in a glorious display of senseless duty. Bernice wanted to cry at the futility of it all, but tears in this field of horrors would be felt by no one. Neptune lay beside him. Maximilian’s left leg was trapped under the dead animal. Bernice stroked her lover’s cheek. Thankfully he looked at peace. She ripped a piece of material from her petticoat and wiped the blood from his forehead. She would carry the message of his bravery and death back to his family. Blood reappeared on his forehead, and Bernice wiped it away twice and then a third time. Suddenly Bernice remembered one of her discussions with Florence. Blood will only flow if the heart still beats. Maximilian was alive. The realization filled her with joy and a renewed sense of urgency. She must get him to safety. She took hold of his leg and pulled but could not free it from under the horse. Maximilian groaned. His agonized cry spurred her on. The pain from his shattered leg must be unbearable. She lay on her back and wriggled forward until both feet were on Neptune’s side. She again took up Maximilian’s leg and pushed and pulled. For a moment, nothing happened, then slowly, the leg came free. She scrambled to her feet, looking for the horse. It had gone. Fifty metres away, a horse licked the face of an unmoving soldier. Bernice moved stealthily towards it and grabbed at the reins. The horse came willingly. Now Bernice contemplated just how she might get Maximilian onto its back. Then she heard hooves. She looked up, expecting to see reinforcements. Instead, it was a squad of Russian cavalry. They circled her, then stopped. No one spoke. Just watched. Bernice took up Maximilian's sabre with two hands and held it in front of her. Fearlessly, d efiant. “What is a woman doing on the field of battle?” Bernice turned to confront the man who had spoken. “Why are you here?” The Russian repeated. Bernice gestured with her head at Max ensuring the blade of the sabre remained upright and threatening. “This man and I are betrothed. He is badly injured. “ “This is not an answer to the question I asked. What are you doing here? This is war. It is no place for a woman.” “I agree with you, sir, but I am sure it is the same in your country. The men make the mess, and the women must clean up after them.” The Russian roared laughing and then translated to his men. They joined in the laughter. “I think your intended husband is a lucky man, although maybe one day he might not think so. A woman with such a strong mind will not make for a harmonious marriage.” The Russian smiled. “Today, I think too many have died.” He turned and yelled an order, and three men dismounted. Bernice steadied herself for the worst. “Do not be afraid,” the Russian said, “We will not harm you.” The three men lifted the unconscious Maximilian onto the horse. “Take your man to safety, madam. Have a good day.” With a salute, the cavalrymen turned and rode away. ### On the hilltop, Alfred Tennyson had watched the exchange. Of the many displays of courage he had witnessed on this day, he would long remember the visual statement of fearless heroism displayed by the English Rose, Bernice Tansberry. Standing so strong and so unwavering, she had commanded respect from an enemy that could do little but acknowledge her act of bravery. ### ​ Months passed, and Bernice had grown exhausted. The wounded never stopped filling the hospital beds. Her friend, Florence Nightingale, continued to battle official indifference to the plight of the injured soldiers. The medical staff remained overworked, and medicines were in short supply. Bernice had long since stopped crying, as had the rest of the nurses, powerless to stop the thousands dying of cholera, typhus, typhoid, and dysentery. Keeping the overcrowded wards sanitized and the bed linen and bandages cleansed had become impossible. So many dead, so many not going home, so many buried in the muddied dirt of this foreign land. When one day Florence called for her, Bernice wearily made her way to the head nurse’s tent. She dared not look into a mirror, dreading the horror image that might peer back. Slumping into a chair, Bernice could only feel shame and inadequacy for not having the strength shown by her indefatigable friend. “Bernie, it’s time for you to go home,” Florence said. Bernice gave a slow shake of the head. “There is still much to be done. I cannot leave you.” “I have received word from London. They are sending a sanitary commission. So it seems, my complaining has finally brought its rewards.” “You could always stir up the broth, Florrie. A trait I much admire.” Bernice managed a smile. “What has this to do with me? Are you dissatisfied with my work?” “My darling, Bernie,” Florence rose from her chair and placed an arm around her friend's shoulder. “Words can never express my gratitude for your efforts. The soldiers will forever be eternally grateful to you, but dear, you are tired, and I fear, ill. Others are coming. You must go home now.” Florence turned to her desk and took up an envelope. “A letter came for you.” Bernice took it and turned the envelope over. She at once saw the sender’s name, Maximilian. Her eyes watered as she held it to her chest. Then, as she began to read, Florence quietly slipped from the tent. ### The train pulled into the station, and Bernice searched those waiting on the platform for Maximilian. Then, finally, she saw him. Standing back from the crowd as was his way, his shoulders pulled back in a military stance, looking handsome and welcoming and showing no signs of his injuries. Her heart fluttered, ever so slightly, and then, mercifully, quickly returned to its more reliable beat. An overwhelming sense of joy threatened to engulf her, and she felt as if she might faint, but now was not the time for such foolishness. Maximilian’s letter had lifted her flagging spirits. When she had brought him back to the main camp from the battlefield, she had held his hand until forced to relinquish it. He had not regained consciousness before he was sent to the hospital base in Uskudar, Turkey. She had resigned herself to never seeing him again. In Max’s letter, he explained that Alfred Tennyson had especially travelled from London to visit Lord Carruthers and Maximilian. He had related Maximilian’s battlefield rescue in detail. Lord Carruther’s gratitude knew no bounds, so grateful his son had lived. Bernice picked up her small valise and bid a farewell to her carriage surroundings of the last two days. She then stepped down from the carriage and ran to the arms of the waiting Maximilian and the start of her new life at Faversham Hall. ​ I

Meet Thomas Ryan ​ Award-winning novelist, Thomas Ryan, authored the hugely popular series of Jeff Bradley thrillers, The Mark of Halam, The Ottoman Conspiracy, The Bomb Maker’s Daughter and The Field of Blackbirds. He has also published two short story collections. Exposed to explosive violence as a young soldier in a theatre of war, trading in Eastern Europe during civil unrest in the Balkans and trampling through the jungles of Asia has armed Ryan with a richness of life experiences. A wealth of reality colour that he brings to his thrillers and short stories. Ryan considers himself a storyteller, a creator who has enthusiastically plunged his psyche into the world of creativity and fantasy. With the reader in mind, he weaves colourful characters into the threads of his riveting storylines. Taking readers on a thrilling journey is what motivates Ryan as a writer. SHOP BOOKS SUBSCRIBE

The Bomb Maker's Daughter ​ ​ AMAZON US AMAZON AU AMAZON UK AMAZON CA Saddam Hussein’s missing weapons of mass destruction have been found by terrorists. But which group and where have they stored the gases and toxic waste? Eleven-year-old, Arina Marcos, knows how to find them. Hit squads have been sent to find and kill her. Ex-Special Forces soldier Jeff Bradley and CIA agent Kennedy Patton must protect the girl as she leads them to the stash of weapons. The trail leads to underground laboratories and a mass grave in the Philippines. Then Bradley discovers the truth of how the weapons will be used. If Bradley and Kennedy fail, the cities of Europe will burn, and thousands will die.

Quotes: Humour “Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the universe.” ― Albert Einstein “So many books, so little time.” ― Frank Zappa “You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.” ― Mae West “Insanity is doing the same thing, over and over again, but expecting different results.” ― Narcotics Anonymous “The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.” ― Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey “Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read.” ― Groucho Marx, The Essential Groucho: Writings For By And About Groucho Marx “A day without sunshine is like, you know, night.” ― Steve Martin “Never put off till tomorrow what may be done day after tomorrow just as well.” ― Mark Twain “I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.” ― Douglas Adams, The Salmon of Doubt “Anyone who thinks sitting in church can make you a Christian must also think that sitting in a garage can make you a car.” ― Garrison Keillor “Women and cats will do as they please, and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea.” ― Robert A. Heinlein “All you need is love. But a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt.” ― Charles M. Schulz “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye.” ― Jim Henson “I'm not afraid of death; I just don't want to be there when it happens.” ― Woody Allen “Whenever I feel the need to exercise, I lie down until it goes away.” ― Paul Terry “I find television very educating. Every time somebody turns on the set, I go into the other room and read a book.” ― Groucho Marx “Saying 'I notice you're a nerd' is like saying, 'Hey, I notice that you'd rather be intelligent than be stupid, that you'd rather be thoughtful than be vapid, that you believe that there are things that matter more than the arrest record of Lindsay Lohan. Why is that?' In fact, it seems to me that most contemporary insults are pretty lame. Even 'lame' is kind of lame. Saying 'You're lame' is like saying 'You walk with a limp.' Yeah, whatever, so does 50 Cent, and he's done all right for himself.” ― John Green “The story so far: In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.” ― Douglas Adams, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe “Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.” ― Charles Bukowski “The trouble with having an open mind, of course, is that people will insist on coming along and trying to put things in it.” ― Terry Pratchett, Diggers “Reality continues to ruin my life.” ― Bill Watterson, The Complete Calvin and Hobbes “The reason I talk to myself is because I’m the only one whose answers I accept.” ― George Carlin “Go to heaven for the climate and hell for the company.” ― Benjamin Franklin Wade “I love mankind ... it's people I can't stand!!” ― Charles M. Schulz “I am free of all prejudice. I hate everyone equally. ” ― W.C. Fields “Remember, we're madly in love, so it's all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it.” ― Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games “A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment.” ― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice “It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” ― Lewis Carroll “Be nice to nerds. You may end up working for them. We all could.” ― Charles J. Sykes, Dumbing Down Our Kids: Why American Children Feel Good About Themselves But Can't Read, Write or Add

A Special Forces Physical Fitness Training Test ​ Jeff Bradley asks, do you have what it takes? Through the years, the approach to physical training within the military has evolved to coincide with the tactical requirements of the modern-day soldier. Outlined is a typical 6-week program for a Special Forces operative. Do you have what it takes? MILITARY STYLE TRAINING Down through the years, the approach to physical training within the military has evolved to coincide with the tactical requirements of the role of the modern day soldier. Below is a typical 6-week program for a Special Forces operative. The training program below is suitable for Army Rangers, Force Recon and the SAS. Those units are required to maintain outstanding levels of fitness and hiking massive distances carrying heavy weight is not uncommon. WEEK 1: (Only intense workout days are listed here. Do weight training or swimming workouts on your "easy" days.) DAY 1: Fitness Test: Sit and Reach flexibility test Push Ups : maximum in 60 seconds Sit Ups : maximum in 60 seconds Pull Ups : maximum in 60 seconds Run : 2 miles as fast as possible Swim : 100 meter nonstop using any stroke, without touching the side or bottom of the pool. Forced march with 30-pound rucksack: While carrying 30 pounds in a backpack, walk 3 miles in 45 minutes on a road or 1 hour if walking cross-country. (Wear well broken-in boots with thick socks.) DAY 2: Push Ups : 3 sets of maximum in 30 seconds Run : 3 miles at moderate 8-to-9 minute mile pace Rope Climb or Pull-Ups : 3 sets to failure Forced march with 30-pound rucksack: While carrying 30 pounds in a backpack, walk 5 miles in 1 hour and 15 minutes on a road or 1 hour and 40 minutes if walking cross-country. DAY 3: Forced march with 30-pound rucksack: 5 miles in 1 hour and 15 minutes (along the road) or 1 hour and 40 minutes (cross-country). WEEK 2: DAY 1: Forced march with 30-pound rucksack: 5 miles in 1 hour and 15 minutes (along the road) or 1 hour and 40 minutes (cross-country). DAY 2: Push-Ups : 3 sets of maximum in 35 seconds Pull-Ups : 3 sets of maximum in 35 seconds Sit-Ups : 3 sets of maximum in 35 seconds Run : 5 miles at moderate 8 to 9 minute mile pace Squats : 3 sets of 50 reps with 35 pound rucksack DAY 3: Forced march with 35-pound rucksack: 10 miles in 3 hours (along a road) or 4 hours (cross-country). WEEK 3: DAY 1: Push-Ups : 4 sets of maximum in 40 seconds Pull-Ups : 4 sets of maximum in 40 seconds Sit-Ups : 4 sets of maximum in 40 seconds Run : 4 miles at moderate to fast 7 to 8 minute mile pace Squats : 4 sets of 50 reps with 40 pound rucksack DAY 2: Forced march with 40-pound rucksack: 12 miles in 4 hours (along a road) or 4 hours and 40 minutes (cross-country). DAY 3: Push-Ups : 4 sets of maximum in 45 seconds Pull-Ups : 4 sets of maximum in 45 seconds Sit-Ups : 4 sets of maximum in 45 seconds Run : 6 miles at moderate to fast 7 to 8 minute mile pace Squats : 4 sets of 50 reps with 40 pound rucksack. ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ WEEK 4: DAY 1: Forced march with a 50-pound rucksack: 14 miles in 4 hours (along a road) or 4 hours and 40 minutes (cross-country). DAY 2: Push-Ups : 4 sets of maximum in 60 seconds Pull-Ups : 4 sets of maximum in 60 seconds Sit-Ups : 4 sets of maximum in 60 seconds Run : 6 miles at moderate to fast 7 to 8 minute mile pace Squats : 4 sets of 50 reps with 50 pound rucksack DAY 3: Forced march with a 50-pound rucksack: 18 miles in 4 hours and 45 minutes (along a road) or 6 hours (cross-country). WEEK 5: DAY 1: Run : 3 miles at a fast 6-to-7-minute mile pace. Swim : 500 meters Swim nonstop, using any stroke but backstroke. DAY 2: Fitness Test: Sit and Reach flexibility test Push-Ups : maximum in 60 seconds Sit-Ups : maximum in 60 seconds Pull-Ups : maximum in 60 seconds Run : 2 miles as fast as possible DAY 3: Forced march with a 50-pound rucksack: 18 miles in 4 hours and 30 minutes (along a road) or 6 hours (cross-country). CONCLUSION Although the above program is typical of any elite Special Forces Operative around the world, the distance and weight being used are not for the untrained individual, and the word 'elite' cannot be emphasized enough. Never run with weight on your back; the chance of suffering an injury is huge. Always be sure to wear good boots when hiking. So now you know what it takes physically to be as strong as a Special Forces Operative, are you brave enough to attempt the workout? Have you got what it takes? Remember, only the strong survive and to the brave and the faithful, nothing is impossible. Fitness program as RECOMMENDED FOR YOU by Brian Bullman www.bodybuilding.comcom/fun/bullman.htm

The Ottoman Conspiracy ​ ​ AMAZON UK AMAZON AU AMAZON US AMAZON CA ​ ​ Former Special Forces soldier Jeff Bradley is in Italy when an old friend makes contact. Barry is travelling with a group of New Zealanders, Australians and Americans who have attended an ANZAC day commemoration on the Gallipoli peninsula in Turkey. Barry's message reads their bus has been hijacked by terrorists. Bradley turns on CNN, and the screen shows the bus and the police tailing at a distance. A voiceover explains the bus is strapped with explosives. After two days, the voiceover explains, it will have crossed Turkey to its northern borders with Syria, Iraq and Iran. The hijackers have warned if they are not permitted to escape into one of these countries, they will set off the explosives killing themselves and their hostages. The screenshot switches to a press conference with the Turkish president stating he won't negotiate with the hijackers and has ordered his military to stop the bus from leaving the country. Determined to rescue his friend, Bradley flies to Istanbul. Joining forces with a US black ops agent, Reason Johanson, he chases after the bus. Now it's a race against time. Can Bradley and Johanson stop the bus and free the hostages? Or will they run out of road?

Short Stories Volume 2 ​ ​ AMAZON US AMAZON AU Award-winning thriller novelist, Thomas Ryan, is a prolific writer of short stories. In this collection, Ryan’s stories span the spectrum of human emotions, from the inspiring ‘John Wayne’ to the black grimness of ‘Gerry'. Applying his thriller writing skills each story is gripping, enjoyable, and easy to read. Ryan gets inside his characters and makes their world your world. Have fun. AMAZON UK AMAZON CA

The Field of Blackbirds ​ ​ AMAZON US AMAZON UK AMAZON AU AMAZON CA Former SAS soldier Jeff Bradley thought he had left warzones behind when he resigned from the military for life on a vineyard in rural New Zealand. When his winery manager, Arben Shala, goes missing on a trip to Kosovo, Bradley promises Arben’s family he will find him and bring him home. On his arrival, in the former Serbian province, Bradley discovers the UN-controlled protectorate is a lawless state in the grip of criminal gangs and corrupt officials. With the help of USAID director Morgan Delaney, Bradley and Delaney learn Arben’s disappearance is linked to a plot to bomb the major cities of Europe. Now Bradley and Delaney must survive assassins sent to end their hunt for Arben’s captors and the bombers.

Guest Author Adrian Blackburn Adrian Blackburn has been an international journalist for decades, with both his work and personal wanderlust taking him to close to 80 countries. Most of his writing has been non-fiction, including a best-selling history of NZ's pirate Radio Hauraki, now in its fourth edition as Radio Pirates: How Hauraki Rocked the Boat. In recent years he has concentrated on short stories. Here is the title story of his new collection, Mates and other stories, due for publication early in 2022. Mates by Adrian Blackburn I spotted the sign on the other side of the road. It was big and sun-bleached. The faded red paint said Rarakia Dairy. I parked the old brown Rover around the next corner, just up the road but out of sight. It was hot, the road was dusty and by the time I’d walked back to the low, ramshackle building I was dying for something cold to drink. The older couple inside were friendly, as relaxed as John Key. “Hitching?” said the man. He’d spotted the day pack I’d taken care to grab from the car. “Not a lot of traffic up this road. Heard a car just a few minutes ago.” “That’d be me. I saw your sign, asked to be dropped off.” I’d spotted an old-fashioned, light green machine back of the counter. “I could murder a milk shake.” “Can do,” said the man. “What would you like?” “Chocolate. And you don’t happen to do malt? Great, a chocolate malted, maybe a double dose of ice cream.” I was suddenly a teenager again, pimples and a temper, back at the local milk bar in Hastings. As the machine whizzed up its milky foam the woman said: “There was a young guy through here a few days back. Bought some supplies. Was a bit like you.” That would be Jimmy, I thought. But I didn’t let on, just grinned. “Long hair you mean?” “Not just that.” “There’s a few of us old hippies still around. Hey, you don’t mind if I go outside, drink it from the metal container. Hate those cardboard ones with the giraffe on the outside. And just one straw. I want to make it last.” “Go for it,” said the man. “We’d need to wash it anyway. Nothing much else to do.” I sat on the bench outside, in the verandah’s shade. A few wide wooden steps down to the road. Across it the bay’s shining sea. Just behind the store, as I’d been aware, driving, the dark green bush, the steep hills’ rise. A brief time out. A chance to look back, not so much in anger, as regret. Guess it was my idea, a change from the drugs deals, a road trip down south, an old time sort of a job. Not exactly Bonny and Clyde. Just me, Jimmy and Jazza. I’d never been to Gore. But there were three things I already knew I loved about it. One, the way the locals apparently said the name. Go-ore. As in talking like a pirate day. Two. I’d heard somewhere years ago that Gore was the richest locality in the country. And I’d bet those Southland cow cockies hadn’t yet taken to novelties like pay wave, would still like to have a wad of cash in their wallets. And three. The annual Golden Guitar country music festival. Three more long haired strangers in town wouldn’t stand out. We could time our raid to catch some of the best acts first. And with all the Golden Guitar business activity there’d likely be even more cash in the banks than usual. Which bank to hit? That was easy. “All the Aussie banks are bastards. And the ANZ is the biggest bastard of them all.” So it was the ANZ, corner of Mersey and Main. The hit itself was ludicrously easy. Opening time, two young female tellers and a male manager. We left Jazza around the corner in the rental Camry reading an ODT. Beanies and sunnies on. And the staff were so shit-scared when I waved around the big Colt .44 Magnum I’d scored from the ex-cop in Hastings I almost laughed. LOL. “Okay. Contact anyone in under 30 minutes and I’ll be back ready to use this mother.” And I waved the revolver again for emphasis. Back at the motel we counted $122,000 in used notes, four times what I’d expected. Courtesy of a scraggy blonde he’d struck up with, Jazza had arranged a lift within the hour to Invercargill with a band flying out to another gig. Good cover. Jimmy and I grabbed about a grand each for expenses and the rest went with Jazza in a big zippered sports bag. Too heavy for an overhead locker and too risky to entrust to baggage handlers, so he was to take the Magic Bus from Invercargill to Christchurch, then the train up the coast to meet up with us in Picton. Jimmy and I got on the road the morning after the final act. Some great music, by the way. Though we’d heard them exercising their sirens for a while the southern cops were showing the same sort of urgency and expertise as when they dealt with the Bain murders. Not a lot. But we figured that by now there’d at least be road blocks on the main exits from town. Our guitars on the back seat were passport enough. “Sorry, gents, but perhaps you could pop the boot.” Idiots … A gently circuitous route back to the smoke, West Coast, Nelson, Picton. Jazza was waiting. It was a nice gentle crossing so we raised a few bevvies to Cook Strait. Back in the big smoke we made the deal clear. “Don’t flash the cash.” Jimmy and I were flatting in Grey Lynn so Jazza’s old family shack out in the Waitaks was obvious to hide the loot. But the bastard couldn’t resist the temptation to spend up large, impress his flaky mates. Pretty soon, we reckoned, Jimmy would draw the pigs’ attention. Too dangerous to us.. I made the call and we met up with him late at night in a deserted car park at Bethells, the westerly and the waves roaring. “Mate. We’ve got to talk.” The only real talking was done by the Colt. Hell, those .44s make a big hole. Jazza fitted nicely in the Rover’s boot, scrunched up a bit on a blue Warehouse tarp I’d thoughtfully spread out. Jimmy followed me back through the ranges in Jazza’s new pride and joy Skyline. Jazza’s pad featured a real old-fashioned garage, earth floor and a lengthwise pit dug in the middle to make oil changes easy. Not classy enough for Jazza’s rocketship so we’d agreed already to help him fill in the pit and lay a proper concrete floor. All the materials for the job right there. And the job went just as planned, except Jazza was in the pit when we filled it in. I was just screeding off the new floor when Jimmy went outside for what I guess in his case you would call a Jimmy-riddle. When I heard the Skyline fire up and saw its headlights disappearing up the track I just knew I’d been screwed. And the rest of the ANZ cash was disappearing with him. Mates … I sucked the last bit of ice cream from the bottom of the stainless steel cup and went back inside the store. “Thanks, that was great.” “No worries. You were only our third customer today. Want to buy a business?” “Not until my sister gets work.” I parked the Rover by the beach a bit further on and waited for nightfall. Deep darkness and another ten kays on I turned the Rover up the track. Jimmy had told me all about his rural retreat way back when he probably thought I was too wasted to remember. Not this muppet … The Skyline was backed into the bush, just a glint in my headlights. I parked the Rover, knowing Jimmy’s old possum hunting hut was around 10 minutes’ walk further into the bush. Through the open door I could see a Camping Gaz lamp and Jimmy at a square table dealing to a stubby. I stepped inside. “Gidday, mate…” He sat straight up. “Shit. You scared me. How’d you get up here?” “Because I’m a bit brighter than you are, mate.” He looked shit scared. But still cheeky. “Anyway, good to see you mate. Grab a brew. They’re cold.” “Not interested. You know why I’m here.” He started gabbling. “Look, I got frightened. It was all too heavy. And I was only taking care of the money till we had a chance to get together. It’s all here, mate.” “Had your chance, mate. Driving Jazza’s car you’ll have been spotted all around the North Island. Prime suspect when they finally get round to digging him up. “It might take a while longer before they find the Skyline up here. Only your prints and Jazza’s in it. But I’ll be across a few time zones by then. Don’t reckon they’ll have as much luck finding you where you’re going.” “No. No. You can’t …” He was standing now, arms out towards me, a dark stain growing on the front of his jeans. “Sorry, Jimmy, time to say hi again to my good friend Colt.” I raised the Magnum. “And try not to shit yourself, like Jazza did.” AMAZON US AMAZON AUST AMAZON UK AMAZON CAN

​ Vincent woke tangled in sheets. His t-shirt soaked in sweat. It was the same dream, the one that had haunted him every night for a week. The images were unnerving in their clarity. And the face of the woman so familiar now he would recognize her on a crowded street. Each morning her screams would snap him out of his slumber and left him gasping for breath. He sat on the side of the bed and lit up a cigarette. Stared down at his feet. The woman’s face continued to haunt him - trapped in a psyche that refused to abandon her to the mists of forgetfulness like all other dreams. As in preceding days, he knew the woman’s face would stay with him for hours. But what truly gnawed at him was that her killer continued to remain in the shadows. A chill breeze gusted through the open window. He reached for the duvet that had fallen to the floor and wrapped it round his shoulders. Whiskey dregs floating on the bottom of the glass on the bedside table caught his eye. He sipped the remains. There was just enough liquid to wet his tongue. Not enough to feed the craving, quell the headache or soothe a hangover. And he had all three. Holding the duvet in place, he walked through to the sitting room. Unsteady fingers twirled the cap off the bottle he took from the cabinet. One swig to his mouth and a double shot into his glass. He crossed the room and eased onto the chair in front of desk. The forefinger of his right hand hovered above the keypad as if trying to find its bearings. He let it fall on the enter tab. When the screen-saver disappeared the raw mocking truth revealed itself; there were no additions to the ‘Chapter One’ typed some days ago. Jeremy, his agent, would be disappointed. Pissed off, more likely. The publisher was crapping all over him. Screaming for the second novel they’d paid an advance for. Now they were threatening to sue Jeremy if a manuscript was not forthcoming. It interested Vincent they would sue the agent and not the writer. He worried for Jeremy, but what could be done? Writer’s block happened to all authors didn’t it? But this was not simply writer’s block, this was different. The dreams made it different. Then there was Cassandra. Without her he had no muse. It was she who had given his life purpose. Whiskey had now become a substitute. But as much as he drank to forget, he could not forget. His future was trapped in the past. He could see no way forward. He lacked the will to move on, to stop the slide. A need for caffeine drew his bare feet to the kitchen. He flicked the switch on the kettle then extracted a mug from the heap of dishes stacked in the sink. He rinsed it under the tap and wiped it clean with a dirty tea towel plucked from under a pile of empty pizza cartons. The woman in his dream had a nice face. A gentle grace to her movements. Not unlike Cassandra. Was that it? Was he trying to replace his lost love? He thought for a moment. But no. The dream woman possessed a reality quite distinct from any other woman he’d ever known. Every instinct in him said she existed in the real world. He poured hot water into the cup - two thirds only. The rest of the way he filled with whiskey. He carried the mug through to the dining table and slumped into a chair. The smoldering stub of the last cigarette lit a fresh one. Another indifferent start to what he knew was going to be a long and depressingly non-productive day. Vincent finished his coffee and sipped on a second glass of whiskey. It had gone nine thirty. He scratched at his stubble. He needed a shave and a shower but lethargy was proving master over such mundane needs. He stumbled across to the settee, turned, and fell backwards. ### It started as a light tap then grew louder and louder. Vincent tried to ignore the sounds, drifting back into his inebriated coma. The banging continued to a veritable frenzy. His eyes blinked open and he stared at the door. It would have to be Jeremy. Not a friend. They’d all abandoned him. As had his family. He was beyond redemption, he’d been told. “How do you save a drowning man who won’t reach for the life preserver?” his sister had screamed at him before slamming the door. Well, what did he care? He had Jeremy. Not that Jeremy was really a friend. In fact, he was pretty certain Jeremy didn’t really like him very much at all. But Jeremy brought him money. And the money bought whiskey. Vincent struggled to his feet and opened the door. “You look like shit,” Jeremy said as he barged in. “Have you had any sleep?” He walked across to the computer and looked at the screen. He spun round. “For God’s sake, Vincent!” Vincent reached for the bottle and refilled his glass. “Nice suit Jeremy. What is it? Armani?” Jeremy shook his head in disgust. “You need a haircut.” He sniffed the air, “And a shower.” Vincent shrugged and sank onto a chair at the table. “You’re taking advantage of me, Vincent. Abusing my trust. All right, all right. You’re the best talent I’ve had in a long time. I just hate to see it go down the toilet, that’s all.” Jeremy’s anger waned to frustration, then to defeat. He dropped onto the seat opposite Vincent. Vincent watched the metamorphosis. He had seen it before. Every second day in fact. “I’m having the dreams again, Jeremy.” “Cassandra is dead.” “This is another woman.” Jeremy looked at him. “Jesus, Vincent.” “Another woman, Jeremy. Another woman and it’s the same killer. There’s a fucking serial killer out there. It’s screwing with my head. I can’t concentrate.” “Maybe you should stop drinking.” Vincent glared and Jeremy raised his hands as a peace gesture. “All right Vincent, tell me about the dream.” “I’m inside an apartment. I don’t know where it is and I don’t recognize the woman, only that she is in her late twenties. The same age as Cassandra. Attractive. Short dark hair. Anyway, she’s just finished showering and is walking into her bedroom, naked, drying her hair. There is a television in the room. The news is on and she stops to look at an item. The killer is hiding in the wardrobe. I can’t see his face. He grabs her. Throws her onto the bed. She is screaming. Thrashing about. Then I wake.” Jeremy rubbed his forehead. “You write murder mysteries, Vincent. You could be dreaming up a plotline or maybe subconsciously you’re having these dreams because you want to save someone from Cassandra’s killer. Maybe that’s why you don’t recognize this woman as someone you know. You need to save someone, anyone, because you feel you need to redeem yourself somehow.” “Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? No. This woman is real, I know it. I don’t want more blood on my hands.” “That’s stupid talk, Vincent. You know that. It’s not your fault Cassandra died. The police wouldn’t listen when you went to them. But how could you blame them? There was no evidence only a dream of a man killing your fiancée. Not even a description. You couldn’t save her, Vincent. This is misplaced guilt. How many times must we have this conversation?” “I could have warned her.” Jeremy nodded, “Yes. You could have warned her.” Vincent waited but Jeremy had nothing more to say. The discussion was over. Vincent hated that. He wanted to argue the point. He needed to argue the point. They had gone to the police together. The police had thought he was mad. They had convinced him not to tell Cassandra for fear she might turn into a nutcase, living each day looking over her shoulder. Not on evidence as flimsy as his nightmares. He had yielded to their rationale and then what. Cassandra had lost her life, that’s what. And in the circumstances he had dreamed she would. The police said it was a dreadful coincidence but a coincidence all the same. Jeremy checked his watch. “I have to go. You need to do some work. Write about your dreams. Change it later, but if that’s all you can think of right now, begin there.” “Maybe you’re right.” Vincent decided Jeremy deserved a few crumbs of hope. “Maybe it’s some sort of creative message. I’ll start writing up that sequence and see where it takes me.” “Good man.” Jeremy gave Vincent a reassuring pat on the shoulder and let himself out. Vincent downed the rest of the whiskey then collapsed back onto the settee. ### Buildings float by. The city street he recognizes but the name of it escapes him. He centers on the café drifting into focus ahead. Tables line the pavement surrounded by flowers. Lots of flowers. The reds, blues, whites, pinks pulsate in time with his own quickening heartbeat. The woman is there, sitting at the only table with seats. Dressed in white. The satin glistens in the sunlight. She looks towards him. Smiles. Beckons. He’s being pulled towards her. Now the flowers are changing colour. Bright red. The stems wrap around him, clinging, like vines. Tugging at him. Slowing him. A man is behind her. He sees Vincent’s struggle. Laughs. Vincent wants to scream a warning to the woman. His mouth is open but there is no sound. Then he sees the name above the café doorway: Le Brie. ### The whiskey glass lay on its side. The contents spilt across the carpet. This time the dream was more surreal than real, but the images, still vivid. He had seen the café name. He knew the place. He’d eaten there. And that the woman had been sitting in the full light of day meant she was there for lunch. Vincent’s eyes sought the clock. Eleven. He rolled upright with sudden determination. Today, Le Brie was where he would go for lunch. The decision had been easy but dealing with a swimming head was not. Vincent swayed as he made his way to the sink and filled a glass with cold water. Two effervescent vitamin B tablets went in. When they’d stopped fizzing he gulped the mixture down. Shaking his head did not achieve the level of focus he had hoped for. But if he could brace himself against a cold shower, that might work. ### Vincent sat at an outside table that afforded him the best view of the entrance to La Brie. Unlike in the dream there were no flowers on the tables. Only a glass bowl filled with sachets of sugar and sugar substitutes. He ordered chicken salad and iced water, the healthy food a necessity and the water to clear his head but it did not moisten his mouth. It still felt as if a bucket of sand had been poured into it. He mulled over his earlier conversation with Jeremy. Maybe his agent was right. Writing about a writer with writer’s block who dreams of women being murdered by a serial killer did have potential. Especially when one of the victims was his former lover. The lover he had failed to protect. The story could track the writer’s desperate attempt to uncover the identity of the next victim. Not only to save her, but to trap the killer into the bargain. Yes, he thought. Not bad. That does work. Now that the creative processes had kicked in, Vincent’s mind darted in a dozen directions. He ordered a cheese platter, more iced water and a coffee. Ideas began to take shape across the pages of his notebook. The dam had broken. He knew how it would go from here on. Once he started on an idea he always managed to work it through to the end. Each concept triggered another. It had always been like that for him. By morning the storyline would be complete. As the waiter refilled his coffee, he saw her. The wind flicked at her hair. Designer clothes clung to her lithe body. He was looking at beauty and elegance. She chatted and laughed with the two women walking beside her. Vincent liked the look of her. An enchantress, if he were to write her praises. The trio took a table inside but from where he sat he could clearly see her through the open window. His head began to spin. He took deep a breath. Calmed himself. What now? She gazed in his direction. For a moment their eyes locked. It could have been just one of those arbitrary eye-contacts with strangers that occur every day. But her startled reaction surprised him. Recognition? Surely not. Then her gaze shifted. He had seen that type of look many times. She knew the face but not from where. He was a celebrity, after all. A long time had passed since his last book but he had made many television appearances, been featured in newspapers and countless magazines. He had grown used to being not quite recognized. He thought about telling her straight out of the danger threatening her. He was half-way to his feet before common sense intervened. She would have every reason think he was a nutter. Maybe call the police on him. No. He would watch over her for the time being and decide later what to do. ### Vincent sat and Jeremy paced. “Unbelievable, Vincent. You tailed the woman all afternoon then followed her home. It’s called stalking. You could be arrested.” “Okay. What else am I supposed to do? She’s in danger.” Jeremy halted and fixed his eyes on Vincent. “It was a dream dammit. What if she isn’t in danger? You had a dream, that’s all. You believe it’s real and that’s it, nothing more.” “Don’t forget the first one,” Vincent said. “All of this could be your subconscious,” Jeremy said. “You believed you dreamed Cassandra was murdered and then it happened as you believed it would. The dream could have been a coincidence. It happens all the time. Read the papers.” “No! That is not how it was.” “Will you at least consider the possibility?” “I know what I saw, Jeremy. How else would I know this woman? Answer me that? I’d never seen her before until today. She came to the restaurant in my dream and today, at the restaurant, there she was. I recognized her immediately. Explain that.” “Maybe you went looking for the woman in your dreams and found a close resemblance. Jesus, Vincent, I don’t know.” “It’s her,” Vincent said, but with less conviction. He was willing to concede Jeremy might have a point. He would not say it out loud. Jesus, what if Jeremy was right. Was he losing his mind? “Vincent all I’m asking is slow down. Think about it before you do anything silly and we all end up in jail.” Vincent nodded. Then smiled. “Good story though.” Jeremy grinned. “You’ve started writing?” “The first chapter, halfway through the second,” Vincent lied. His steady eye contact with Jeremy would have fooled a priest. “You were right. It’s an inspiring turn of events. Right after you left this morning the words began to flow.” “Well then, I take everything back. If it keeps you writing, do whatever you want. I’ll put aside some bail money, just in case.” ### That surreal floating again. Inside her apartment. She is checking her answerphone. A quick shake of the head. No messages. A jug of water in hand she waters the pot plants. They sit on a rack just inside the door to the sitting room. The empty jug goes onto the table. Chores finished, she undresses as she walks. He savours the sensuous unveiling. Her body is firm. Tanned. A beauty. When she’s naked, she walks into her bedroom and on into the bathroom. He can make out her shape through the steamed-up shower door. She returns to her bedroom, toweling her hair. The towel cast aside she falls across the bed. Eyes closed her right hand touches her breast. A gentle fondle, nothing more. Slowly it moves down her body. Vincent floats closer. He wants to be near her. Share the erotic moment. Loud ticking disturbs his concentration. The clock on the bedside table. His eyes swivel to it for just a second. Almost midnight. Eyes back to the woman. Face aglow, her eyes remain closed. She is lost in another world with a fantasy lover. A shadow falls across her. Vincent screams a warning. And jolts awake. ### In the dream she had been dressed as Vincent had seen her earlier in the day. Something fluttery began in his innards. The clock on the bedside table had shown midnight. Did this mean her murder would take place tonight? He checked his watch. It was almost eleven. What to do? Should he telephone Jeremy? Or the police? What was the point? He threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. It occurred to him he had no idea of the build of the murderer. He had not seen him clearly enough. What if, physically, he was too big to handle. He needed an edge. He took the breadknife from the sink, wiped it dry, wrapped it in a tea-towel then thrust it into his belt. His sweatshirt easily covered the protrusion. He gave a final thought to phoning the police then dismissed it. If they went to the apartment now and saw nothing they would conclude he was an idiot and by morning the girl would dead. After what happened to Cassandra, he would never be able to live with himself not if it happened again. He would prevent the murder and worry about the consequences later. ### Vincent parked down a side street two blocks from her apartment. A still night. Clear sky. It was twenty minutes to twelve. Enough time. He crossed onto her street and moved along the tree line until he was opposite her ground floor windows. For the next few minutes he waited. Observed. Where would the killer be right now? He had to be nearby. Then he remembered the dream. The girl wandered about the apartment before going into the bedroom. The killer must already be in there somewhere. Vincent gulped back the sick sensation rising in his throat and steadied himself against a tree trunk. Eyes scanned the windows. Most of the lights were on. He caught glimpses of her moving about in the kitchen and lounge. Not in the bedroom yet. That had to be good. He crossed the road and slipped down the side of the building, stopping at the first window. It was dark inside. A spare room? The window easily opened. Was this how the killer had entered? Was he inside this room, waiting in the darkness? Vincent unwrapped the knife and held it in his hand. If the killer attacked as he climbed in, he would be ready. He leapt up and flung his leg over the sill. A heave and he was in and on the floor, knife at the ready. The door burst open. Light blinded him. Vincent froze, like a possum caught in headlights. The woman in his dream stood in the doorway. A shotgun in her arms aimed directly at him. Her knuckles white on the trigger guard. ### Detective Sullivan knelt next to the body. He held the piece of paper at arm’s length and compared it to Vincent’s face, ignoring the shocked look and vacant eyes. “What do you think, Gil?” Frank Sullivan asked his partner. Gil Landy said, “I think that I don’t know anymore. It’s identical. How spooky is that.” Frank rose with a nod and brushed the dust off his trouser legs. “Weird. All the details exactly as Cheryl Reems described. The artist’s sketch of our killer could not have been more accurate. The whole business floors me.” “And we never believed her,” Gil said. “He broke in through the window just as she said he would. The knife on the floor is exactly as she described. He was preparing to kill Ms Reems like she dreamed he would. Nightmares, she called them. But accurate down to the last detail.” “A premonition. I’ve read about it. Never seen it happen until now.” “Well, whatever it was, the fact she dreamt this guy was stalking her and knew when he would make his move saved her life. She didn’t have a licence for the shotgun. It’s her father’s. Do we charge her with unlawful possession?” Frank shook his head. “No way. The woman told us she was going to be attacked. Even the date. And we ignored it. She had to protect herself because we wouldn’t. The press would crucify us. Both of us would spend the rest of our careers teaching children how to use pedestrian crossings. It was self- defence and we’ll leave it at that.” Gil shrugged his shoulders. What did he care? ### The man in the shadows across the street watched as a body bag on a gurney was wheeled to the ambulance. Sure he felt cheated but he was still alive. The bitch was walking about with a shotgun. If that idiot hadn’t climbed in through the window, it might be him in the body bag. It was her lucky day. He would find someone else. There was always someone else. The End ​ "Nightmares, from the Thomas Ryan Collection, Short Stories." Nightmares