All praise to the great Kerry Greenwood for inspiring my version of Jack Robinson.

My apologies to readers who are of German extraction. I do not normally use words such as Kraut or Hun, but it was the vernacular of the day and I felt it necessary to the story. BTW does anyone know what the Germans called the Aussies?

I am an avid reader, not an amateur historian but I have attempted to make the details of this story as accurate as possible. I couldn't have done it without my darling husband who fact checked for me.

Cheers to all of you who gave such a different story a chance and thanks for the reviews.

Hope you enjoy this chapter. Please review, I get a bit paranoid when I don't hear from anyone.

xxxx

As he moved up and down the line, parallel to the barrier of vicious barbed wire that can catch a man and hold him for a snipers pleasure, Jack's agile brain seemed to be ticking over at an agonisingly slow rate. A bullet creased his tin hat, another left a smoking trail across his thigh, the shock wave from German Artillery strikes battered his ears, every second seemed like an hour and his men were paying for his delay with their lives. They'd lost far too many men in the run across no-man's-land, the distance and boggy condition of the ground between his section of the line and Passchendaele was just far too great. The age old British strategy of throwing as many soldiers as possible at the objective in the hope that enough would get through had failed them once again. At this rate, only a handful of men (if any) would still be alive by the time they cleared the wire.

Jack was just level with two soldiers, on their knees as they tried to cut their way through the obstacle, when one took a bullet to the throat and was dead before his hit the ground, his mate hardly flinched and just continued with his work. Suddenly furious at the waste, Lt Robinson stood straight and fired his pistol twice, miraculously hitting the shooter's mate with the second shot. Then, dropping back down into a half crouch, he ran back along the line, hoping to draw attention from the young digger that was still alive. His thoughts were in overdrive now. The men had limited ammo and would soon be left with nothing but their bayonet's and his wits to keep them alive. They had no realistic (or even vain) hope of taking Passchendaele now. Truth was that a frontal assault had always had little chance of success but the men were not afraid to do their duty. God! Why can't I see a way through this? They're all dying! I may as well have shot them myself!

"Sir! Lieutenant Robinson, Sir!" He turned and dropped as low as he could, signalling for the speaker to do the same. It was a young Private (he hardly looked 16), Jack recognised him as a runner from HQ and sent a silent prayer for good news.

"What is it Private?"

"Sir, HQ have given the order to wi..." The Private's words were suddenly cut off as a mortar shell exploded him and a shock wave of shrapnel peppered his back, shoving him forward into the arms of the senior officer. Lt Robinson caught him instinctively and stared at the confused young man's lips as they fought to frame the vital orders.

"Withdraw?" Soundlessly, the injured soldier managed to nod, his frightened eyes pleading desperately to be saved. "Don't worry kid, I've got you." Jack leant in and took the young man's weight over his shoulder, grunting with the effort and sinking deeper into the mud. Lifting his whistle, Jack gave three sharp blasts. "Fall back! Fall back!" The cry was taken up and the endless drills for withdrawal kicked in.

The heavily burdened man strove to make his way back across no-man's-land, never giving a thought to the fact that half his body was now shielded. Each step was torturous, the weight of two men forcing him deeper into the sludge, he was almost sobbing as he fought to free each leg to take another step forward. Slowly he moved forward, every chance step onto a more solid footing was a blessed relief, though he didn't dare pause to enjoy it. Jack lost count of the number of times that he fell, only the other man's body acting as a barrier between Jack's face and the black muck. His powerful legs were shaking badly, his strength about to give out when he stumbled over the edge of a large crater and slid to the bottom with a great splash and the sound of the Private's agonised cry.

The high sides of their temporary refuge gave only an illusion of safety but at least it shielded them from the direct path of bullets and gave Jack a chance to examine their situation. The British Mortars were back at work now that most of the men had cleared the field and they were still about 300 yards from comparative safety. Jack looked down at the nameless Private, lying on his side against the bank of the deep crater. He was starting to shake, his back a bloody mess, visible even in the torrential rain. He would need help soon if he was going to survive and Jack wasn't sure that his legs were enough to get them there.

Jack started to shout. "Stretcher bearer!" Over and over he called, eyes on the German line, watching for a counter attack. He was just giving up hope and determining to continue on alone with the injured man when two stretcher bearers came slithering down the slope of the crater. They were totally focused on the injured man, quickly assessing the damage and working to roll him onto the canvas carrier. Pausing only for the reassurance that everything was in hand, Jack turned his eyes back to the front. Suddenly, he tensed; through the rain and smoke he could just make out dim shapes as they rose from the ground.

He un-holstered his gun. Checked it. Only three bullets. He broke open the pistol, shook out the spent cartridges and then hastily reloaded. It wasn't going to be enough to cover the retreat of the unarmed men. "Better get out of here fast chaps, the Huns are coming." Jack looked around; at his feet in the hands of a dead Digger was a rifle. He flushed in momentary shame and stepped off, ignoring the crack of bones, before quickly taking charge of the weapon. In recompense, Jack squandered precious moments to search the dead man's pockets, retrieving the last letters written to someone at home. Securing them (along with the soldier's identity disc), Jack then shoved the man's remaining ammo in his leg pocket before straightening to eyeball the increasingly close enemy.

He needed to get back to the trench fast or risk getting caught on open ground. Jack had waded across the water and was just beginning to scale the other side when the mortar's stopped falling.

"Medic!" A distressed voice was crying out somewhere to his left. "Medic!" For a split second Jack hesitated, looking back to check on the progress of Germans who were only about 200 yards away. The desperate voice came again and the pain and terror he could hear drove Jack to act. He flung himself through the mud and up and out into the open, making for the frantic call.

Covering fire from the trench followed him, one of the Diggers was rendering aid where they could. Ever aware of the looming danger, Jack willed his limbs to move faster, crawling when he fell, getting closer to the pleading voice. "God help me! Medic!" He was very close now. Suddenly Jack tumbled down another embankment landing on the injured soldier and eliciting an harrowing yell.

It was Sergeant Piggott. Climbing off the man, he was trying to rescue not kill, Jacks big deep voice automatically took over the shout and boomed out, "Stretcher Bearer!" even as he began to examine the situation. Piggott's leg was badly broken, twisted badly and full of shrapnel. It was clear to the Lieutenant that the man was in no condition to even crawl and, thanks to his earlier efforts with the Private, Jack no longer had the strength to carry him. Failing the arrival of a convenient stretcher, there were few options and only one Jack could possibly live with.

"Sorry Sergeant, I'm going to have to drag you out. I'll bind your legs before we move but this is going hurt like a bastard." He thrust the rifle into the injured man's hands. "The Huns are coming up behind, can you watch my back?" Piggott's jaw was set as he nodded, if it was the last thing he did, he'd see that the Lieutenant was covered. Knowing that there was a good chance they wouldn't survive, Jack concentrated on the task at hand, stopping only occasionally to call for the medic (though he knew it was too late to expect them to come now). He used his field knife to cut off the leather strap attached to Piggott's rifle and as quickly as he could, ignoring the pain he was causing, bound the damaged leg to the healthy one.

He was nearly done, when Piggott started to fire. A pained voice cried out and he felt rather than heard a rush down the side of the steep embankment behind him. He turned and stood to find the business end of a bayonet coming straight at him. The German soldier (bleeding from the chest and shoulder) was huge and clearly had no control of his movements as momentum carried him and the deadly blade towards the vulnerable man. Jack's reflexes kicked in; he braced himself and then, at the last possible moment, used the field knife in his hand to turn the blade ninety degrees before securing the weapon in his grasp. The soldier barrelled into him; sending the field knife flying, nearly knocking Jack off his feet, putting him at a disadvantage as they struggled over control of the rifle. A heavy shove was nearly the Aussie's undoing. Jack fell back into the mud beside Piggott; his hand tangled in the weapon's strap helping him to maintain his grip.

Time slowed.

The German soldier had the advantage.

Jack found himself looking up, helpless to do anything but hold on.

He braced himself.

His enemy

Lifted

One

Hobnailed

Boot

And

Stamped

Down

With All his might.

Lt Jack Robinson screamed, the heavy blow like a searing knife to his groin; tearing, blooming, bloody agony as it radiated through his body. In spite of the pain, his body reacted instinctively and his legs automatically kicked out and knocked the German off his feet.

The man mountain was felled.

Down the soldier came.

Falling towards his victim.

Falling directly onto the bayonet that Sergeant Piggott had just angled up between them.

Jack's instinct was now to curl up and die. He lay in the filthy mud, writing in agony and fighting for breath as the corpse's weight crushed down on him.

"Lieutenant, Lieutenant! Are you all right sir? We've got to get out of here." Machine gun fire bought down another Kraut as he appeared above them.

Desperate to get through to the tortured man, Piggott resorted to his Sergeant's shout.

"Robinson! This is not a fucking holiday camp. On your fucking feet now! Hup!" His early days as a grunt ordered around by a sadistic Drill Sergeant, had Jack pushing out from underneath the body and up, moving almost without conscious thought.

"Get us the fuck out of here! That's an order Lieutenant!" Gradually the Sergeant's shouts and the effort to move started to clear the Jack's mind. As he regained his focus he found himself, out of the crater and wading though the fetid bog, dragging Piggott by his jacket collar and only 100 yards from their trench. His body was on fire, every step sent a fresh shaft of pain through his lacerated balls, he wanted to vomit, he wanted to die. Behind him Piggott was still shouting abuse and hopefully hitting every target he shot at. Jack gritted his teeth, pushed the anguish to the back of his mind and kept moving. Piggott had just saved his life, no way was Jack going to give up now.

Fifty yards... Piggott had stopped shooting. Jack knew the Sergeant wasn't dead, he was still turning the air blue around them.

Forty yards... He could see men over the top of the parapet. Shouting as they fought through the swamp, their words distorted through the buzzing in Jack's ears and the burr of the guns.

Thirty yards... His vision was blurring, tears were flooding his face as he strained forward, pushing himself to the edge of his endurance and then beyond.

Their rescuers reached them as the young man's strength finally gave out. Two caught him under the arms as two more relieved him of his burden and then without a pause they raced the wounded men back to the relative safety of the Allies line.

Epilogue:

Of the Fifty men that had left the trench with Lt Robinson that morning, only twelve survived undamaged enough to fight another day. The 3rd Division had suffered the highest casualties of the action and was taken off the line on 22nd October 1917. Robinson, Piggott and the Private were removed to an Aid station. The Private's spine was not damaged and eventually recovered – he survived the war and returned to his home in Sydney praising the strength and courage of the man who had saved him. Fred Piggott's leg was set and the shrapnel removed. He healed well and returned to duty where he covered himself with glory and eventually received a field promotion to Warrant Officer. Jack's recovery was less easy. The German's boot had done him a serious injury and he spent many weeks in great pain and fighting infection. Eventually though, he too recovered enough to rejoin his Battalion; just in time for the next major offensive. Jack and Fred's experience formed a bond that turned into an enduring friendship after the war; though Jack was known to get terse if Fred Piggott ever tried to call him a hero.

The End

Note:

Runner – Usually a very young or new soldier, chosen for his ability to move quickly, assigned to run messages around the trenches and the battlefield.

HQ – Headquarters

The First Battle of Passchendaele - The Allied plan to capture Passchendaele village was based on inaccurate information about German strength and position. There had been almost constant heavy rain and the ground between the 3rd Australian Division and the German lines was a natural bog. The battle was a German defensive success though both sides great losses. The 3rd Battalion lost 3200 men, killed or wounded.