Maralinga

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Why the hell did you lie, Ada?’ He took his anger out on the woman. ‘You bloody well knew about the train. Why did you lie?’

  ‘Don’t you like your mates knowing what you’re up to, Pete?’ She didn’t even bother answering the question, preferring to tease him instead. ‘You should be proud – they’ll be green with envy. They’ve all seen me around, they all want to fuck me.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ The bitch had set him up deliberately, he thought. This was a sexual game to her.

  Unconcerned, Ada continued gazing out at the siding. ‘They’ll be a while unloading, so you might as well stay.’ She turned to him with a predatory smile. ‘Why don’t we have another whisky, lover boy? Maybe I can get you up and going for a third round, what do you say?’

  Aware of his anger, she was goading him. If she couldn’t arouse him sexually a third time, which was doubtful, then she’d work him up for a fight, the way she did Harry. The ability to anger men to the point where they lost control was another power that excited Ada. She considered the odd black eye and bloodied lip she suffered as a result a small price to pay for the alleviation of her boredom. Besides, it was something to boast of to the other wives. All five of them knew Harry belted her on occasions, just as they knew about her affair with the patrol officer, but they would never betray her. There was a code of honour amongst the fettlers’ wives. They admired Ada’s guts.

  ‘Come on, lover boy, let’s see what you’re made of.’

  Her fingers reached down to take hold of him, but Pete wasn’t in the mood for her games. He belted her across the face with the back of his hand, taking her by surprise – he’d not hit her before. She staggered sideways, crashing heavily into the pine dresser.

  ‘Bugger you, Ada,’ he said, pulling on his clothes and reaching for his boots. ‘You’re more trouble than you’re worth. You can go to hell!’

  Seconds later, he stormed out of the cottage, tripping over one of the kangaroo dogs, which bared its yellow fangs at him. He kicked the dog and climbed into his utility without a glance at the train or the men. Bugger Daniel too, he thought. He wasn’t the kid’s father, for Christ’s sake.

  Behind him he heard Ada’s laughter. ‘You’ll be back,’ she called mockingly. And Pete knew she was right. He was obsessed, not only with Ada but with the escape she offered.

  Back at the barracks that night, it was clear that the relationship between Pete Mitchell and Daniel Gardiner had undergone a change. Neither mentioned the subject of the fettler’s wife, but somehow she formed a barrier between them. Daniel was uncomfortable about having inadvertently discovered Pete’s secret, which he considered none of his business, and Pete wrongly interpreted the younger man’s discomfort as disappointment in a father figure he’d come to respect. Both men felt guilty – and both for the wrong reasons.

  The fourth of October dawned with favourable weather conditions, and the meteorologists predicted little change. The test was scheduled for late afternoon. The hourly countdown to Marcoo was now under way.

  ‘Jeez, we’ll be in with a bird’s eye view, eh, Col?’

  ‘Bloody oath we will, mate.’

  ‘It’ll be something to write home about, I reckon.’

  ‘Too right it will – if you want to end up court-martialled.’ Col Rogerson laughed and his mate, Bud Barton, joined in.

  Privates Michael ‘Bud’ Barton and Colin Rogerson were only two in the group of Australian, British and Canadian servicemen excited by the prospect of getting closer to the blast. A number of their regiments’ middle-ranking officers had signed up to be part of the newly formed Commonwealth Indoctrination Force, which, under cover and protectively clad, would stand only a mile or so from ground zero. The group of general servicemen, around forty in all, was to be positioned a further one mile back from the front-line force, and they were to be dressed in varying styles of uniform. The intention was to test whether conventional battledress was adequate for nuclear war. All those taking part in the operation had been assured of its safety; there would be no risk of overexposure, they had been told, as they would be placed upwind of the fallout. The prospect of being in on the action had been eagerly embraced by those fortunate enough to have been assigned the task.

  Preparations similar to those for the One Tree test had been made. The site had been pegged out so that, following the blast, radioactivity in the soil could be tested at varying distances, and animals and equipment had been strategically positioned, also at varying distances from ground zero. The differing factors in the Marcoo test were the absence of a tower – the bomb was to be exploded at ground level – and the direct involvement of soldiers for experimental purposes. As the nuclear device was far smaller than the One Tree bomb, with a predicted yield of only one and a half kilotons, this practice was deemed quite within the safety measures.

  As before, hundreds assembled in order to witness the detonation, but the excitement engendered amongst those at Roadside could not match that of the servicemen gathered just two miles from the blast.

  ‘Fingers crossed, eh,’ Bud muttered jokingly to Col, although, if the truth be known, he was just the tiniest bit apprehensive.

  ‘Bloody oath, mate – who wants to get fried,’ Col replied, which didn’t help Bud’s nerves.

  Col himself wasn’t nervous at all – he was excited. Why shouldn’t he be? They weren’t at war. The army wouldn’t put them in this position if there was any risk, and it was sure as hell something to tell his girlfriend about when he got back to Perth. Bugger the Official Secrets Act – he’d swear her to his own oath of silence the way only he could. Marge’d do anything for him. But then he’d do anything for Marge.

  They were standing at ease, as commanded, and Col glanced around at his fellow servicemen, who were divided into three groups according to the uniforms they were wearing. He and Bud and their mob were in cotton khaki drill, another bunch was in battledress serge, and the third lot was in gabardine combat suits. It seemed to Col that his mob, in their lightweight uniforms, had copped the raw end of the deal, but he wasn’t particularly bothered. They had all been issued with the Atomic Weapons Research Establishment combination underwear, guaranteed to provide protection.

  One minute to go.

  At Roadside, the crowd stood motionless as the voice counting down the seconds reverberated through the loudspeakers.

  Two miles from ground zero, the soldiers also stood motionless as the sergeant barked out each passing second. Until …

  ‘Ten…’

  Simultaneously, all turned their backs to the site and, as the countdown continued, all firmly placed the palms of their hands over their eyes, as instructed.

  ‘Two, one, zero…’

  Then the blinding flash of the gamma rays. Even through closed and covered eyes, the spectators at Roadside were startled to see a sudden blaze of white. The men two miles from the blast, however, could see something far more sinister.

  Bloody hell, Col thought. He heard himself gasp with shock, a quick intake of breath. They all heard themselves gasp as they saw the bones of their hands. Through their skin and their flesh, they could see their own skeletons, each bone clearly highlighted as if by X-ray. The sight was so distracting they barely noticed the wave of intense heat that followed.

  Seconds later, they were ordered to brace for the shock wave, which, when it came, knocked several men over. Then they were ordered to face the bomb site.

  In the distance, all vegetation had disappeared, and in its place was a yawning great crater, above which a burgeoning mushroom cloud billowed. Halfway between them and the crater, the men could see the indoctrination force emerge from cover in their protective suits. Officers from their own regiments, they thought, right there in the thick of it. But they were given no time to admire the sight. Their own job had just begun.

  For the next forty minutes, the soldiers were given a variety of orders. Those in battledress serge and the gabardine combat suits were sent off in different directi
ons with instructions to march through bushy areas ensuring their uniforms gathered as much contamination as possible. Those in cotton khaki drills were split into two groups, and both were ordered to crawl in the accepted military manner over a distance of thirty yards. The first group was to crawl over a barren, sandy area, and the second through spinifex grasses – it was later discovered that the grasses retained radioactive particles to a far greater degree than the soil.

  Col Rogerson couldn’t help thinking that, once again, his mob had copped the raw end of the deal. But the next day, who cared? Over breakfast in the canteen, Col and Bud and the rest of them had the best of stories.

  ‘You could see the bones in your hands, honest. Like a bloody X-ray it was.’

  ‘Yeah. And just look at that.’

  Those who’d been there compared the burns on the backs of their necks; blisters had already started to appear.

  ‘The scars of battle, mate,’ Col boasted, and they all laughed. Something to tell Marge about, he thought.

  Ngangala and his family are Pitjantjatjara — ‘Spinifex’ people of the Western Desert — and they have been travelling south for some time.

  In the good seasons, those when drought does not threaten, it is a spring pilgrimage of theirs to gather with others at Ooldea. Ngangala’s wife, Pantjiti, likes to socialise and she believes it is good for the children. Nantji is ten now, a raucous boy who enjoys the company of other raucous boys; and six-year-old Minna, who has a tendency to shyness, can only benefit from contact with those her own age.

  Several times over the past two days they have seen white men in trucks, but they have not felt threatened. They have seen white men before as they have skirted missions and towns, and the children are, by now, as adept as their parents at merging with the landscape. But Ngangala and Pantjiti have wondered what the white men are doing out here, so far away from the comfort of their towns. The white men are strangers to the desert.

  It is late in the afternoon on this seventh day of their travels that they see the smoke signal. It is preceded by a white flash that lights up the sky. At first, Ngangala and Pantjiti take this to be lightning. The lightning is then followed by cracks of thunder, and they wait for the storm to sweep up from the south. But the storm does not appear. In its place, smoke billows upwards.

  At first Ngangala thinks the smoke comes from a hunting fire and that it signifies a fine kill. Men have food to share, more than enough to meet their needs, and they are welcoming others to join them in a feast. But he quickly decides this is not so. The smoke is a mighty cloud, unlike that of a hunting fire. Indeed, it is unlike the smoke from any fire he has seen. Strangely shaped, it would be visible from a great distance. Surely it must be signalling a ceremonial event of some significance.

  Pantjiti agrees with her husband. The smoke is calling people to a great gathering with much festivity. The prospect excites her.

  They will sleep, Ngangala decides, and they will set off early in the morning. There is a good day’s walk ahead, and he hopes to arrive at the gathering before nightfall.

  In travelling towards the signal, Ngangala and his family must leave behind their familiar tracks and waterholes, but there is no danger for they can survive on mallee root water. Like all desert people, Ngangala and Pantjiti know the particular type of desert mallee tree whose long, lateral roots yield water. They will dig up these roots and crush them to extract the meagre supply they need.

  They have walked all day. Darkness has fallen, and the desert night has become chill. Ngangala is uneasy now. There is no sign of the fire, nor of the gathering. But there is endless evidence of the white man. They have passed many strange vehicles sitting derelict in the wilderness, and the ground is crisscrossed with the tracks of the white men’s trucks.

  The children are tired and thirsty, and they complain that their eyes hurt. Ngangala and Pantjiti also have itchy eyes, and a thirst that cannot be slaked by mallee root water. They are all tired. They need to sleep. Ngangala looks about for a suitable camp site amongst the scrub. He will make a fire for warmth, but they will not bother cooking the wallaby slung over his shoulder.

  He speared it at dusk, intending to offer it as his contribution to the gathering upon their arrival. But no-one is hungry now.

  In the darkness up ahead, he sees a strange light. They all see it. The land appears to be shimmering. Ngangala approaches warily, moving through the mallee scrub with stealth, Pantjiti and the children following well behind, prepared to flee should he signal danger.

  But Ngangala makes no such signal and, as they join him, they stare in silent, equal wonderment at what lies before them.

  The scrubland has gone and in its stead is a giant, gaping hole, where the earth glows with a magic, luminescent green light. They are mesmerised by its strangeness and its beauty.

  Ngangala investigates the phenomenon. He slithers down the slope and into the giant hole, discovering, to his surprise, that the earth there is warm — far warmer than the ground above. The hole is cosy and welcoming — a perfect camp site. There will be no need for a fire tonight. They will set out for Ooldea at dawn, he decides. Water has become their main priority. But for now, they must rest.

  ‘We will camp here,’ he calls to his wife. ‘This is a good place. We will sleep well here.’

  His family joins him in the crater.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Two days after the Marcoo test, patrol officers made a grisly discovery.

  ‘Stop the truck, Charlie. I just saw something.’

  Private Charlie Waite did as he was told, although he was surprised Sam had been keeping a lookout at all. They were only five miles south-east of the bomb site, halfway between ground zero and Roadside. There’d be no Aborigines in this area.

  He brought the truck to a halt and took the field glasses Sam handed him.

  ‘Over there, in the shade.’ Corporal Sam Farrington pointed to a grove of mulga trees. ‘Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m seeing things.’

  Charlie peered through the field glasses. ‘Oh, no,’ he said in his thick Yorkshire brogue, and from the way he said it, Sam knew that he hadn’t been seeing things.

  They drove over to where the woman sat holding her two dead children to her chest. Propped up against a tree trunk as she was, she could have appeared alive, if it weren’t for the flies and the ants that had gathered. The man was curled up on the ground beside them, and all four were covered in red blotches where they’d scratched away their own skin.

  ‘They’ve been contaminated,’ Sam said. ‘Better not touch them.’

  Charlie was thankful for the suggestion. He hadn’t relished the prospect of loading the bodies into the truck.

  ‘Poor bastards,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Sam contemplated the bodies thoughtfully. ‘They don’t look as if they’ve been dead for very long, do they?’

  ‘No, they don’t. Poor bastards.’

  They gazed for a moment or so longer, and then Sam contacted headquarters on the truck radio.

  ‘A special team’s being sent,’ he told Charlie. ‘We’re to stay here and accompany them back to the DC/RB area.’

  ‘Right.’

  Charlie averted his eyes from the bodies, he found them disturbing. The little girl was only around five or six, not much younger than his own baby sister. Charlie loved kids – he was eighteen years old and the eldest of five siblings.

  Sam radioed through to Pete Mitchell’s patrol truck. The news was greeted with a deathly silence at first. Then Pete’s voice returned, briskly demanding their location. He arrived on the scene a half an hour later, only minutes before the decontamination team, although he’d travelled a far greater distance.

  Sergeant Benjamin Roscoe, the young patrol officer with him, climbed out of the truck’s cabin thankful they’d arrived in one piece. Pete had driven like a man possessed. He seemed calm enough though, Benjamin thought. In fact, given the circumstances, Pete Mitchell’s calmness was just a little alarming.


  ‘Well, this hardly comes as a surprise, does it?’

  Pete acknowledged Charlie and Sam with a brief nod, and the three young soldiers stood respectfully to one side as he knelt before the bodies. He found the sight sickening, but he didn’t allow it to show.

  ‘Poor bastards,’ Charlie muttered. He seemed incapable of saying anything else.

  Poor bastards indeed, Pete thought.

  ‘They must have walked right through the contaminated area,’ Sam said. ‘Why would they do that? Where were they heading?’

  ‘They were heading for Ooldea and water,’ Pete replied brusquely.

  The signs of dehydration were obvious as he studied the caked mouths and cracked lips, but he was mystified nonetheless. Desert people rarely died of thirst. Desert people knew the secret water sources and could survive where all others would perish. Was thirst another symptom of irradiation, or had they simply lost the ability to think rationally, he wondered. Whichever was the case, judging by the self-inflicted wounds, there had been torment before death.

  To Pete, the position of the bodies told a poignant story. Regardless of their torment, the man and the woman had clearly accepted the inevitability of death. It was obvious the children had died first, as would be expected. The woman had then cradled them in her arms. The man had curled up on the ground beside her. And together they had waited.

  He stood as, behind them, a Bedford truck from the DC/RB area pulled up and four officers of the indoctrination force alighted. They were dressed in protective clothing.

  ‘Keep clear, please, sir,’ one of them said. His tone was not overly officious – he knew who Pete was – but it was, nevertheless, an order. Pete backed away – a couple of paces only, but it seemed to suffice.