“At least listen to what I have to say!”
“You stupid supermen!” she cried. Then she sensed how ridiculous it was for her to say this when she had followed for hundreds of miles one of the men she was reviling. “Oh, go away!” she sniffed, seeking for her handkerchief.
She turned and fled up the street, finding an unheated hotel with a vacant and musty room. She crawled between the shivering sheets and reflected. “Well, anyway, I’d have made a rotten American. I have too much sense of humor.” Amused at her own behavior, and congratulating herself on her providential escape, she went to sleep.
In the morning she was awakened by sharp hammering at her door and shortly became aware that she was in Queenstown and that Major Harding was outside. She commanded him to go away, but he burst into the room and announced in a frightened voice, “It’s Delia.”
She drew a robe about her throat and asked from behind it, “What about her?”
“American Headquarters tracked me down. The police wanted me.”
“Oh, God! What’s happened to Deel?”
“Her husband came home. From Singapore. And three hours later he killed her.”
Barbara sank her face into the robe and tried to stop her ears to the next ghastly sentences: “The police want you to hurry back. He cut off her head with a saber.”
Major Harding waited in the hallway until she was dressed. He kept talking to her through the opened door, assuring her that she would have been helpless to prevent the tragedy. That was precisely the wrong thing to say, for when she joined him she was reminded of the fact that if it had not been for him, she would not have come to Queenstown, and if it had not been for other Americans, Deel would not now be dead.
“Get away from me!” she muttered with unconcealed loathing, and she did not see him again until they met in court, she sitting with the Crown’s witnesses, he with the defense.
The trial of Cobber Phil Friskett was the first of several in which New Zealand soldiers were charged with the murder of wives who had consorted with Americans during the occupation, and as such it aroused a bitter and pervading interest. The judge, to whom war had been a chess game played on some distant board, seemed sternly determined to hang Cobber as a warning to other returning husbands; but the clamor of the population was all for an acquittal.
Barbara, inwardly thanking God that her parents were past knowing what was happening, was one of the first witnesses. She delivered platitudes defending her sister as a fine girl and perjuries defending her as a respectable wife. Other witnesses volunteered the information that Cobber Phil was a man of vile temper who had threatened, in prison camp, to “stab his wife a thousand times if she had played around with them Yanks.”
A damning case was built up against the crippled soldier, who glowered hatefully at the Jury, and it seemed the man must die when the American officer, Major John Harding, took the stand. Keeping his eyes averted from Barbara, he testified that he had known the dead girl. But not personally.
“It was the other Americans who knew her—personally?” Cobber’s lawyer asked.
“Yes.”
“How did you become acquainted with her?”
“I was sent to investigate.”
“Investigate?”
“Yes. That was my Job.”
“But investigate what?”
“Her marriage.”
“Her marriage to Friskett? What interest of yours was that?”
“Not her marriage to Friskett. To a Marine.”
“An American Marine?”
“Yes. An American Marine wanted to many her.”
“But she was already married.”
“Yes, but she didn’t tell the Marine. He applied for permission to marry.”
“And you were sent to investigate?”
“Yes.”
“Was that customary?”
“Always.”
The defense lawyer concluded that this was the spot to make his first point, so he asked, “You investigated all New Zealand girls who wanted to marry Americans?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“Well …”
“Speak up. Tell us why.”
“Because we didn’t … That is, the State Department didn’t want … well, riff-raff. They didn’t want riff-raff coming into the country.”
“Riff-raff? I don’t believe I know that word.”
“It means, well—undesirables.”
“Oh! Undesirables! The State Department didn’t want undesirables … like … say … gangsters, or racketeers, or hold-up men, or counterfeiters. Of course you wouldn’t want people like that in America.”
There was immediate objection, but the counsel had made his point. Cobber Phil was no longer on trial. It was the Americans who had invaded his home.
“Now, Major Harding, what kind of woman did you find Delia Friskett to be?”
“Attractive … Intelligent.”
“I mean morally.”
“Well, not knowing she was married I judged her to be … well … satisfactory.”
“What did you think later?”
“I didn’t think anything, sir.”
“Quite correct. It wasn’t your job to think. But what did you report?”
“That she had been living with a lieutenant before she met the Marine who wanted to marry her.”
“An American lieutenant?”
“Yes.”
“And before that it was some other American?”
“Yes.”
“And another, and another, and another?”
“Yes.”
“Speak up, Major. I said three anothers.”
“Yes.”
“Now I am going to ask you, Major, how many Americans in all did you report Delia Friskett as having been intimate with?”
Major Harding looked beseechingly at Barbara and said in a low voice, “Seven.”
“I do apologize, Major, but you must speak up.”
“Seven.”
There was no sound in the courtroom as the spectators stared at the American offering testimony that would save the New Zealander. But the Crown had its suspicions and asked, “Later on you made acquaintance of other members of the deceased’s family. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Here in Christchurch.”
“Did you ever tell them of their sister’s behavior in Wellington?”
“No.”
“Is it true at one time you even contemplated marrying one of the deceased’s sisters?”
“Yes.”
“Yet you never told her of your investigation of her sister.”
“No.”
“I suggest that you didn’t because there was no such evidence. I suggest that you, a military man, are lying to protect the defendant, also a military man.”
Immediately the defense asked, “Major why did you not tell the other members of the family what you have told us today in court?”
“Because the other members of the family were not like their sister.”
The statement had a terrible finality, and after it was spoken no one could doubt that Cobber Phil, the first of the soldier murderers, would go free.
As Barbara left the courtroom she instinctively avoided the bench where Major Harding would be, and she walked along the cool and reassuring streets of Christchurch. She was content, now, that John Harding’s testimony had proved her to be a liar. There had been too much killing, and she was glad that Cobber Phil would go free. For more than six years her life had been a hopeless turmoil of death and occupation and victory. Now the good, clean air of peace was blowing down from the mountains, and for a moment she felt young again, as if she were a schoolgirl bright with promise, walking with pigtails and black stockings to her school. She thought, “I must have been a stupid girl. I certainly didn’t learn much.” Then she had a thought that some day the people of Christchurch would understand exactly what this war was about. Someone
would write a great novel, perhaps, and it would all be clear. She hoped that on that day she would comprehend, too, but for the present she was tired and would not try.
She went into a milkbar, one of those curious innovations made popular during the American occupation, and as she ordered a lemon she mused on how strange it was that the one lasting memento of those violent men were the milkbars where you could buy sweet ice creams.
She smiled at the conceit and took from her coat a letter she had skimmed once that day, but only hurriedly. It was from Oklahoma City and it ended, “The strangeness has begun to wear off. Veronica is in pre-kindergarten, would you believe it? Mrs. Bates and I are sure that some of the women in town have begun to guess that I was never actually married, and you’d be amused at the clever questions they ask trying to trap me. But once they’re satisfied that I’ve been a bad girl they’re perfectly lovely to me. I’m surprised to report that I’m having a splendid time, and Mrs. Bates astonishes me, really she does. A friend of hers has a son, he’s about forty and served with the Air Force at some English base. As soon as he heard my English accent he invited me to the country club, and three weeks now I’ve said no, but last night Mrs. Bates said, and I’m using her exact words, ‘You ought to think about forming some lasting friendships. I won’t live forever and I’d feel more easy if Veronica had a solid home to grow up in.’ Then I think she called her friend, because a little while later I was invited to the country club again. And this time I said yes.”
Barbara folded the letter carefully and thought, “I’ll read it again when I get home.” She was tenderly amused at how American Anne was becoming, Anne, the most English of them all.
And then as she stepped back onto the sidewalk and started with crushing weariness to walk out to the lonely cottage, she stopped suddenly in the midst of all the people and whispered, “Oh, God! Don’t let him sneak away to Chicago without seeing me. Don’t let him, God!”
Australia
Australia is the only nation that absorbs an entire continent. It is a vast country, about the size of the United States. It is also a violent land, often alluring, often forbidding. And it is empty, with no more inhabitants than the city of New York.
At dusk, your plane rushes toward Australia, and the heavens come alive with color. The dying sun inflames the clouds. Then, in the darkness, the great empty continent looms up. In the distance, a lighthouse flashes. You can feel the loneliness that engulfs this mighty land.
Then suddenly below you explode the million lights of Sydney. On half a hundred hillsides, down many bays, you see the brilliance of metropolitan Sydney, with a population of almost two million. Few approaches to the nations of the world can be so spectacular, so portentous of what is to come.
Here is a land of untold capacities! Its deserts are more cruel than the Sahara, yet they abound in mineral wealth. Its people are courageous, yet more than two-thirds of them huddle within twenty miles of the sea, while the dead heart of their continent lies barren.
Australia is a wonderful land, challenging and empty. Its unknown future inspires the imagination of all who see the lovely cities and the majestic plains.
Australia’s future is uncertain because she stands, like a bewildered woman, at the schizophrenic moment. She is bedazzled by flattering choices, frightened by oppressive dilemmas. She has no clear idea of what she wants to become.
Formerly an agricultural nation, Australia is now dabbling in manufactures in the dubious hope of becoming self-sufficient. There is an Australian airplane whose pilots, when they went against the Japs, wirelessed Melbourne, “We who are about to die, salute you.” There is a fine Australian car, some talk of a television set. Prices reflect the older economy. The best filet mignon you ever tasted is 29 cents a pound. On the other hand, a good suit of clothes, made of Australian wool which has been made into cloth in England costs $85. An electric mixer for the kitchen is $70, and a very average refrigerator is $475. But a haircut is 18¢.
Always intensely loyal to England, Australia now acknowledges that for defense she must rely upon America. This creates a psychic wrench, which is compensated by extra attention to odd little English customs. Tropic hotels announce:
IN ORDER TO MAINTAIN
THE DECENCIES GENTLEMEN
WILL APPEAR AT ALL MEALS
ATTIRED
IN TIE AND COAT
In sweltering Cairns, only 17 degrees off the Equator, conservative men dress as they would in London. And Sunday is like a Philadelphia Sunday—cubed.
Nor can Australia decide what part of the world she belongs to. Up to 1919, she imagined herself a part of Europe, an English shire once removed. Then came the “Australasian period,” when it was believed that white Australians were destined to guide their teeming brown and yellow brothers to a civilized society. Now Australasia, as an idea is passé—even though a major bank is stuck with it—because Australians realize that if any guiding is done, it’ll be the brown boys guiding the white. In the bitter days of 1942, when Japan was bombing Darwin at will, there was a brief period when Australians thought their destiny lay with Canada and the United States. Now, they’re not sure where they belong.
Most important of all, Australia can’t decide what her system of life should be. People shout for more production, but work about 35 hours a week. They insist that things be modern, but prefer the good old ways of doing things. They are intensely individualistic (the “Australian boxing glove” is the business end of a broken bottle), yet they surrender many enterprises to state socialism, which runs most of them at a loss. And although they must “populate or perish,” they don’t like foreign immigrants!
But they are the most hospitable English-speaking people on earth.
To get on in Australia, you must make two observations. Say, “You have the most beautiful bridge in the world” and “They tell me you trounced England again in cricket.” The first statement will be a lie.
Sydney Bridge is big, utilitarian and the symbol of Australia, like the Statue of Liberty or the Eiffel Tower. But it is very ugly. No Australian will admit this. The war bride entering San Francisco was typical. The captain of the Lurline said, “Well, girls, here’s your new home.” The brides stared in silence and finally a lass from Adelaide spoke for all of them: “Sydney Bridge is better.”
But Sydney Harbor is the finest I have ever seen, and that includes Acapulco. It is a thing of beauty, a fairytale body of water surrounded by little houses with red roofs. It is a superb lake set amid a nest of friendly hills.
Long promontories stretch out into the bay and form anchorages which no storm can molest. Three of the land fingers are public parts, so that no matter where you are in the busy harbor, you feel close to country parks.
Sydney itself is like London, but prettier. It consists of many small towns banded together in their common dependence upon the bridge. As you walk through Sydney, you feel that around the next corner you must come upon open countryside. But the city stretches for miles. Traffic is the city’s curse, because there are no adequate streets. In the shopping district, even the sidewalks are lined with yellow to keep pedestrians from crushing one another. It has been suggested that shoppers walk north on one side of the street and south on the other. As one comedian says, “Apart from the traffic, there’s only one thing wrong with Sydney—Melbourne!”
Where Sydney streets are treacherous, Melbourne’s are almost unbelievably handsome. Three chains wide—that’s 193 feet, three times the width of an average street—they are flowering wonderlands, with exotic trees down the middle. The blocks in this beautiful city of a million and a quarter people are very long, so following Bourke Street you get an alley, Little Bourke. Some years ago, one of these alleys, Little Lon, had a string of the best patronized candy shops in the world. Remarkably pretty girls tended them, with about sixpence-worth of stale goods for sale. The customers were always men, and as soon as one arrived, the candy store was closed. Now Little Lon has shops with more substantial, but
not more appreciated, supplies.
Melbourne claims superiority over Sydney in four respects: its football is rougher, its girls are prettier, its loyalty to England is more constant and its beer is much better.
Australians must consume ten times as much beer as they do milk. Saloons, called hotels—with a crust of bread for a meal and a snarl if you ask for a room—are open only from ten in the morning to six. And from five o’clock on, an Australian hotel is like something out of Dante.
You’ve finished a day’s work and drop into your favorite pub for a couple of quick ones. At the door a blast of foul air, smoke and shattering noise greets you. Around the bar—an oval perhaps 50 feet in length—is jammed a struggling mass of humanity. The barmaids are slinging schooners as fast as their hands will work. They work in a kind of mechanical daze and speak to no one.
You stand at the edge of the crowd and start to shout for your pint. No one notices you, so you start slowly to elbow your way up to the bar. Stale beer slops over you. You see a friend and shout at him. He bangs on the bar with his glass and finally gets hold of a pint for you. As he passes it back over the heads of others, some of it spills.
At quarter to six, a bouncer begins to bellow in a mournful chant, “Come on boys! Drink up! Drink up!” At five to six, he cries pleadingly, “Closing, boys, closing!” Men order frantically and those at the bar line up three or four. The bedlam increases. At six, the doors are slammed shut and a frightful gong begins to ring. Now the bouncer cries, “Please, drink up!” The lucky ones at the bar toss off one pint after another. In a corner, Tim O’Farrell carefully pours his beer into a growler. In a nation where there isn’t enough of anything (except food), beer is the greatest shortage of all. Saloons save their bottled stuff for old friends, so when Tim has a mate in at night, he has to serve whatever stale booze he’s been able to sneak out of the bar.
No Australian likes such a system. It is a dreadful travesty on the good fellowship of an English pub. Workingmen guzzle like animals and reel home drunk. Yet whenever late closing is put to a vote, it’s defeated—by the women. They say, “Sure my husband comes home drunk. But he does come home.”
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