Imagine, if you will, a cool autumn morning. Hazy sunlight filtering through the leaves bathing everything in the wood a soft, pale magenta. No birds singing, no wind rustling, the only sound the giggling and shrieking, crushing and crackling of a small figure, dressed in a lightweight, navy blue coat, pale blue dungarees and bright red wellington boots, kicking her way through the crisp fallen leaves.
"Whee!" she shouted, sending a shower of broken leaves up into the air with a kick of her little legs, "watch, grandma!" She bent down and picked up an armful of the remnants of summer and flung it above her head then spluttered and brushed it away as it fell into her hair and onto her face.
Jean laughed. Much as she loved the summer, the colours in her garden, the greens of the trees, there was something magical about taking your nearly three year old granddaughter for a walk in the woods, to kick and run, without fear of being told off for getting dirty. Grandmother's privileges; she always told herself; though being in loco parentis, while her son and daughter in law were overseas with the army, it was her that had to bath the child and clean her clothes. No matter, it was enough that Amelia was happy.
Amelia stopped, suddenly and pointed, "grandma, what's that?"
"It appears to be a pair of boots, sweetheart," Jean was equally puzzled, "I wonder who they belong to."
Amelia made to go over, but Jean stopped her. A pair of boots had to belong to someone and just left there, placed neatly side by side, well, it was strange ... very strange, indeed.
"Wait here a minute, Amelia," she patted her head, "let me see first."
"Is it a puzzle for granddad and Uncle Matthew?" she asked, tipping her head to one side and putting her finger on her chin.
"I don't know, it might be," Jean fervently hoped she wouldn't find the feet, and therefore the body, that the boots belonged to. Approaching cautiously, without disturbing the ground too much she scanned around for any signs of life.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw, what appeared to be, an oddly shaped mound of leaves. As if they had been deliberately piled, neatly patted down, almost sculpted. She tiptoed over and bent down to one end. Heart in her mouth she had a dreadful feeling she knew what she would find when she brushed away some leaves - she was right. Using a stick she moved leaves away to expose an ear, then some dark, dirty hair. She squatted down, took a deep breath and, finding his neck, checked for a pulse - none, not a flicker, nothing.
"Grandma?" Amelia whispered, just loud enough for her to hear.
"Stay there, darling," she turned and smiled gently, "I'm coming back to you. We need to find Uncle Matthew or granddad or..."
"A police officer?"
"Yes, Amelia, a police officer."
As they headed out of the wood Jean took her lipstick out of her handbag, and, lamenting it was Lucien's favourite colour, marked some of the trees on their route with a red cross.
"Why are you doing that, grandma?" Amelia held Jean's hand and skipped along beside her, totally unaware of what they had discovered - thankfully.
"So the police can find the boots, darling," she smiled down, "after all, there are lots of trees round here, aren't there?"
"Ok," Amelia went back to kicking the leaves, stopping occasionally to retrieve one from down the side of her boot.
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As they walked out of the woods round the lake, Jean scanned the area for one of the police officers. Not seeing anyone she headed for the Sailing Club to use the phone.
"Ah," she smiled at the gruff tone that met her ears, "Sergeant Hobart, Mrs Blake. I've found something down in the woods round Lake Wendouree." She looked round to see if Amelia was listening, of course she was, the nosy little madam!
Back in the station Bill Hobart stood, pencil in hand to take down the details, but Mrs Blake didn't seem forthcoming. He thought, tapping his front teeth with the pencil while he waited.
"Bill?" Jean questioned he was still there, "we need the doctor, may be the superintendant."
"Ah, right," he blinked out of his reverie, "somebody listening?"
"I was out for a walk with Amelia," she informed him. That should be enough to get the right kind of help, "we're at the Sailing Club."
"Right, I'll get the doc," he replaced the receiver and went to gather the troops.
Back at the club Jean and Amelia carried on with one of the activities they had planned, namely feeding the ducks on the lake. The sound of car engines alerted them to the arrival of granddad and Uncle Matthew. Lucien, with four strides was beside them, concerned they had been hurt.
"We're fine, dear," Jean touched his arm.
"We found some boots, granddad," Amelia piped up, "in the woods."
Squatting down in front of the child he looked in her eyes for any signs of distress, but she was unaware of whatever it was Jean had found.
"Yes, Amelia, we did," she squeezed the child's hand, "follow the red crosses on the trees over there," she turned and pointed to where they had emerged from the woods, "you'll find a pair of old boots and to the right of them a mound of leaves ..." She didn't add what was under the leaves, that was not for the ears of a three year old.
"Right," he leaned in and kissed her cheek and patted Amelia's head before handing the car keys over. "I'll see you at home, for dinner."
They watched him, together with the officers, head off in the direction she has pointed then Jean took Amelia's hand and they took the car home.
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Lucien smiled at the orderly crosses on the trees, like his neat and precise wife, they were also neat and precise, all at the same height and all the same size.
"There, Lawson," he pointed to the boots, still where they had been found, "interesting."
Matthew scratched his head, it was one of the oddest things he had seen, and he'd seen a few, here in Ballarat, in St Kilda and Tobruk; but he didn't think he'd ever seen a pair of boots so precisely set in the middle of a wood.
"They look like old army boots," Lucien mused, and looked to the right as Jean had said that was where he should look. He knew she had found a body, why else would she alert him and the police to a pair of boots and a mound of leaves?
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He could see where she had moved enough of the natural matter to check for a pulse, brave woman, he thought. He brushed the leaves off the head and gently moved the hair to see if there was any kind of wound. He stood up and waited while Bill took a couple of photographs then brushed the rest of the leaves of the body. Whoever it was, was elderly. His clothes had seen better days, tattered and patched, grubby khaki combat trousers, an Army jacket with sergeant's stripes that were coming loose, missing buttons and torn pockets, over a singlet, grey and ripped. It was a sad and sorry sight and Lucien's heart fell.
Looking around for some sign this was his usual place to bed down he spied something just into the trees; a disturbance in the space. Treading carefully the doctor made his way over and found an exquisitely camouflaged hideout. The shelter was constructed from thin branches that must have been cut and bent while they were still fresh. A sheet, rather like a tarpaulin had been laid over that with more vegetation to blend it into its surroundings.
Crouching down and peering inside there was everything a digger would need. His small primus stove, billycan and mess tin neatly stacked to one side, an ancient bedroll to the other and a foldaway stool in the centre. Some tools, a knife and spoon were lying on the stool and under it was a small parcel of foods that he had obviously gleaned from restaurant bins, probably late at night as the city slept. A sad way to live, but he wouldn't be the first soldier that shunned the world at large after either of the wars. From what he had seen of the man he was sure he had served in the First World War. He looked too old to have served the second time around, but this was not the way to leave this world Lucien thought.
The ambos had taken the body to the morgue where he and Alice would determine time and cause of death, and check for any identification.
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"Very sad, doctor," the pathologist mused as she stood next to him, the both of them looking at the small figure lying on the morgue table.
"Mmm..." Lucien hummed, "in remarkable good health considering his apparent living conditions."
"You say he was covered in leaves?" she folded her arms and leant against the counter. "There hasn't been much wind lately, to account for such a fall of them."
"Yes, and no," he replied, covering the body with a sheet. "Well, natural causes," he turned to her, "his time to go."
"Do you think he knew?" she filled in the remainder of the 'tick' boxes on the form, "...that his time was up."
"You know, Alice," he half smiled, "I think you're right, he knew, so he lay everything out as it should be. Tidied his quarters, put his boots out, then lay down and covered himself with the leaves. Perhaps he hoped not to be discovered at all."
"But why leave his boots in the middle of the path?"
"I have absolutely no idea, but, in barracks, we always left them at the side of the bed," he sighed, "all we need to find out is who he was, I'd hate for him to have a pauper's funeral."
"Photo in the paper?"
"Yes, I'll call Rose, maybe ..." he went off into his own world for a few seconds, "Alice, I think, if we can't find out who he is, I'll see if I can organise a decent send off for him, well, more than a pauper's one anyway."
She looked at him. Studied his face and found only compassion and sadness, this was typical of him, the last thing he could do for a former soldier.
"Let me know, I'll contribute ..." but she didn't know why, she knew only him and Matthew that had served, she shrugged her shoulders and turned to something unimportant under the microscope.
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After a week they still had no idea who the digger in the morgue was. Lucien suggested just a small funeral, him and Matthew, Alice - if she wanted to attend - Jean, if she could find someone to look after Amelia ...
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Usually Lucien would know what to say, but this time he couldn't think of a suitable eulogy, so he just said ...
"Although we do not know his name, we will be forever grateful for what him and his kind did, to keep us and our families safe. Rest in peace, sergeant, for you are with friends."
Jean squeezed his arm and smiled up at him, he hated doing this, like her, he believed all soldiers should be honoured for their bravery and self sacrifice and to be marked as 'Known unto God', was a sad substitute for a name.
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Glosssary:
Billycan - lightweight cooking pot.
Digger - term for an Australian or New Zealand soldier.
St Kilda - area of Melbourne.
Tobruk - North Africa, site of WWII battle.