by Judy Nunn
Pete had left Maralinga before daylight. He’d driven out of the township in his FJ Holden wondering if he’d ever go back, but knowing deep down that he would. If he were really on the run he’d have packed his belongings, wouldn’t he? But then he hadn’t wanted to wake Daniel. No, that wasn’t the truth either. He hadn’t dared wake Daniel. He had some vague idea that he’d spewed out the whole story last night. Or had he just dreamt that he had? He hoped it had been a dream. If it hadn’t, then he’d opened a whole can of worms, and he really didn’t want to face that right now.
Dawn was breaking. He pulled up the car and got out to watch the beauty of the sunrise. The land was waking afresh, as if newborn in the first clear light of day, and as he squatted in the dust looking out over the rolling, red Nullarbor sandhills, he thought that this could be the beginning of time. Then he recalled the Aboriginal family. He saw their bodies lying there, so accepting of a death they should never have suffered. What had he done to prevent it? What was he going to do to avenge it? What meaning could he offer for the sacrifice of their lives? One word answered every single query that came into his mind. Nothing. The same word summed up his entire existence. What purpose did his life serve? What had he achieved? What did he believe in? Nothing.
Pete no longer saw the beauty of the dawn. The miracle of a desert sunrise had never been lost on him before, but it was this morning. His head was throbbing, he had to stop thinking.
He climbed back into the Holden and started the engine. He needed oblivion, and, apart from whisky, oblivion came in just one form. Ada.
He took his time driving to Watson – no point in arriving before the fettlers had set off for work – and as he drove he thought of Ada. Even thinking about her was enough, the anticipation of her body and her mouth successfully clouding his mind.
Two hours later, he pulled up at the siding. Watson appeared as deserted as always. The fettlers’ truck used for track maintenance in nearby areas accessible by road was gone, but that didn’t mean all the fettlers were. Men were transported by rail for work well down the line and would camp out, often for days. Pete was not so distracted that he couldn’t think clearly. Harry Lampton might be down the line, or he might be waiting for the next train. There was no way of knowing which.
He got out of the car, leaned against the tray, and took a packet of Craven A from his top pocket. All he could do was follow the normal procedure and hope that she may be watching. This was the first time he’d arrived unexpectedly. As a rule he and Ada made their assignations well in advance, but their last meeting had ended acrimoniously and no plan had been set in place. The plan was always very simple. He would arrive on a given day at a given time and, if the coast was clear, she would step out onto the cottage’s small front verandah. If things had gone awry and she’d been unable to get rid of Harry, she would not appear. He would wait long enough to smoke one cigarette and then he would leave. He had never, as yet, smoked the cigarette. She had always appeared before he’d even lit up.
He took out a Craven A and returned the packet to his shirt pocket. Then he ferreted about for his matches, buying time, each step in the ritual slow, methodical.
Inside the cottage, Harry was having his breakfast – damper topped with thick slices of tinned camp pie and lots of pepper. It was the same breakfast he had when he was out bush, always accompanied by a mug of strong tea, black, scalding hot and with plenty of sugar.
‘Hurry it up, Ada, for Chrissake.’
‘Keep your shirt on. I can’t make tea draw any quicker than it wants to, can I?’
It was a no-win situation either way – she’d cop it if his tea wasn’t strong enough. Oh well, too bloody bad, she thought, picking up the cheap tin teapot with a dishrag, but still managing to burn her hand in the process. She poured his mug of tea and dumped it on the table in front of him.
‘There,’ she said.
‘Did you sugar it?’
She dumped the sugar bowl on the table and slammed the spoon down beside it.
‘Watch it, Ada,’ he said as he piled in four spoonfuls. ‘Watch it.’ The bitch was still sulking, he thought. As if she had a right to. Christ, she was lucky she’d only copped a black eye. He’d had every right to throttle the life out of her.
Harry had returned home three days previously and, in bedding his wife, had discovered a large bruise on her left breast.
‘Where’d you get that?’ he’d asked, instantly suspicious.
‘I fell against the dresser,’ Ada had replied, which had been the absolute truth, but there’d been something smug in the way she’d said it.
He’d messed her about a bit to teach her a lesson, and she’d goaded him as she always did, hinting that he wasn’t the only bloke she could have if she wanted to. But this time, with the bruise on her breast as proof, Harry’s suspicions had been raised beyond the normal jealous rage she managed to provoke. He’d started ransacking the house for proof of his wife’s infidelity and he’d very soon found the case of whisky. He’d belted her to within an inch of her life. A blackened left eye was only the outer manifestation of the beating; she’d also suffered two fractured ribs from where he’d got the boot in.
For three days now, Harry had remained holed up in his cottage, waiting for his wife’s lover to return. He’d offered no reason for his refusal to work, but Ada’s condition had given Tommo, the ganger, grounds to guess why, and he’d marked Harry ‘off sick’ on the work roster. Tommo had been only too thankful Ada had not told her husband of his own involvement. Like everyone else, Tommo was scared of Harry Lampton.
Harry sipped his tea. ‘It’s not strong enough,’ he said.
‘Well, I told you, didn’t I? I can’t make the bloody stuff draw any quicker than it wants to.’
He stood and she backed away a little. The left side of her face was swollen, she couldn’t see out of her eye and her whole body was aching. She couldn’t take another round.
‘Chuck it out and get me a stronger one,’ he said, handing her the mug.
Harry turned back to the table and, as he did, glanced through the open window. Parked by the siding was an FJ Holden. He crossed the room quickly, positioning himself against the wall, careful to keep out of sight – for a big man, Harry Lampton was light on his feet. He peered out at the railway station. A man was leaning against the Holden smoking a cigarette.
‘That’s him, isn’t it?’
Ada, too, had glanced out the window. She’d seen Pete. She’d been expecting him to turn up any day now, although she was surprised he’d arrived so early in the morning.
‘I said that’s him, isn’t it?’ Harry hissed.
She nodded.
‘Get out on the verandah. Give him the all clear.’
She looked back at the siding. Bugger it, she thought. Pete was taking another drag on his smoke, but she couldn’t tell from this distance whether he’d just lit up or whether he was about to finish the damn thing. Perhaps if she could buy some time …
She tipped Harry’s tea into the basin on the bench and was about to pour him a fresh mug …
‘Stop mucking around, Ada, you heard what I said.’ If she’d been within striking distance Harry would have belted her. ‘Get yourself out there.’ He picked up the .22 rifle that was leaning against the wall, loaded and at the ready as it had been for days. ‘Get yourself out there and call him in.’
Ada shrugged and walked to the door. What was the point anyway? She was only delaying the inevitable. Pete would come back another day, and Harry would still be waiting. She opened the door.
‘Stand up straight, you stupid cow, and don’t let him see your fucking eye.’
She stepped outside, feeling a stab of pain in her ribs as she straightened her back. Behind her, she heard the rifle being cocked. Then she heard Harry’s hissed warning.
‘Don’t forget, Ada, if he takes off, you’re the one in my sights.’
She stood with the window behind her and the knowledge that resting on its sill w
as the barrel of the rifle. She looked towards the siding and angled her head so the left side of her face was in shadow.
Having milked the cigarette to its bitter end, Pete dropped the butt to the ground. He was on the verge of leaving. And then he saw her step out onto the verandah. Salvation, he thought, grinding the butt into the dust with the heel of his boot. Here was his panacea, his oblivion, and he started to walk the 200 yards from the siding to Ada’s cottage.
Ada watched him approaching. She made no move, gave no warning signal. It was him or her. She had no choice.
Harry lined up his target in the rifle’s sights. Come on, you bastard, he thought, come on.
Pete was barely fifty yards from the cottage when he noticed something different about Ada. The left side of her face looked strange. His step slowed just a little.
That’s it, Harry thought. Perfect range … You’ve had it, you prick.
Ada saw Pete hesitate. If he ran, Harry would think she’d signalled a warning. She smiled invitingly. But the smile was lopsided.
She’s been beaten, Pete thought, and the realisation flashed through his mind that it could mean only one thing …
In that very instant, a shot rang out.
Pete Mitchell achieved the oblivion he sought. He was dead the moment he hit the ground, a .22-calibre bullet through the brain. Harry Lampton was an excellent marksman. But then the target had been an easy one.
Behind the tattered screens and curtains of the fettlers’ cottages, there was movement, but not a sound was heard. No alarm was raised.
Eyes watched as Harry dragged the body into the scrub, a shovel over his shoulder. Eyes watched as, forty minutes later, he loaded his meagre belongings into the FJ Holden. And eyes watched as Harry Lampton, his wife beside him, his roo dog in the back, drove away from Watson.
Through their windows, the fettlers’ wives saw it all. So did Tommo, the ganger, and his wife. They saw everything and yet they saw nothing. The eyes of the fettlers were blind to anything that might invite enquiry.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Daniel was puzzled and a little concerned when Pete didn’t return to the barracks that night. The following morning, he checked on the FJ Holden and, discovering it gone, made discreet enquiries amongst the patrol officers. He didn’t wish to be over-alarmist in reporting Pete missing. As it turned out, Sergeant Benjamin Roscoe, who normally accompanied Pete on patrol, was as puzzled as Daniel was.
‘He didn’t front up yesterday,’ Benjamin said. ‘I didn’t see him at all.’
Benjamin had actually wondered whether Pete Mitchell’s failure to report for duty might have had something to do with the Aboriginal deaths, but he hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t dared. He hadn’t even brought up the subject with Charlie and Sam, who wouldn’t have welcomed discussion if he had. They were all terrified of the repercussions should they be overheard. Each of the men had put the episode behind him. It was as if the Aboriginal deaths simply hadn’t happened.
‘I wouldn’t worry too much though, Lieutenant,’ Benjamin added comfortingly. ‘Pete tends to flout the rules. He’s a bit unpredictable, if you know what I mean.’
Daniel nodded; he knew only too well what Benjamin meant. ‘His utility’s gone,’ he said, ‘but he hasn’t taken any of his gear with him. I’m just hoping there hasn’t been an accident.’
Unspoken thoughts were rife in Daniel’s mind too. In the remote possibility that Pete’s wild accusations were true, then Benjamin would be one of those servicemen threatened with court martial should he break silence. But Daniel didn’t dare ask. If Pete’s story was true, then he would be placing the man in danger, although he had to admit that the down-to-earth Benjamin Roscoe didn’t appear like a soldier under threat of treasonable charges and a firing squad. In the cold light of day, the whole business was starting to seem rather ludicrous.
Benjamin and Daniel both agreed that, in the event Pete’s car might have broken down or there’d been an accident, the military police should be informed – the desert was no place to be stranded.
‘But let’s leave it until tomorrow, Lieutenant,’ Benjamin suggested. ‘Pete’s a pretty smart bushman, he can survive a day or two out there, and we wouldn’t want to get him into trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘Well, not so much trouble,’ Benjamin said, ‘more embarrassment really.’
Daniel was mystified by the remark.
‘It’s possible he might have stayed overnight at Watson,’ Benjamin added.
‘Oh. Yes, of course. You’re probably right.’ Daniel felt a little foolish. He’d forgotten all about the fettler’s wife. Was he the only person who hadn’t known of Pete’s affair, he wondered. ‘We’ll leave it until tomorrow, and if he hasn’t turned up by then, we’ll alert the MPs.’
When Pete didn’t turn up the next day, they reported him missing to the military police, whose first port of call, at Benjamin’s suggestion, was Watson. But there was no sign of Pete at Watson. Nor was there any sign of his FJ Holden.
‘Nah,’ Tommo, the ganger, said when shown a photograph, ‘haven’t seen the bloke. What about you, Mave?’ He handed the photo to his wife.
‘Nup,’ Mavis said with a shake of her head, ‘never clapped eyes on him.’
The response from the fettlers’ wives was the same. No-one had seen either the man or the vehicle, which to the MPs seemed strange as they’d been informed Pete regularly visited Watson. But then fettlers were notoriously unhelpful.
The military police scoured the surrounding area for the utility, and reports were sent to Ceduna and Adelaide seeking Pete’s whereabouts, but no news was forthcoming. It seemed Pete Mitchell had simply decided to take off.
Daniel was worried. Pete was indeed unpredictable, as Benjamin had said, but he wouldn’t take off without a word, and he certainly wouldn’t leave his gear behind. Something had happened. There’d been an accident, Daniel was sure of it.
Nick Stratton was also concerned for Pete’s safety, but his reasoning differed from Daniel’s. He didn’t believe there’d been any accident. He believed Pete Mitchell, in his unstable state, may have cracked completely. Had his guilt over the Aboriginal deaths driven him to such distraction that he’d disappeared into the desert and taken his own life? Tragic as the possibility was, Nick found it eminently plausible.
For most, the mysterious disappearance of Pete Mitchell was overshadowed by a far more exciting event. Just four days after he’d gone missing, the countdown began on the third test in the Buffalo series. As before, a heightened sense of anticipation pervaded Maralinga.
Codenamed Kite, the test was once again to differ in its form of detonation. This time, the device – a Blue Danube bomb – was to be dropped from an RAF Vickers Valiant at a height of 35,000 feet, and exploded in an airburst approximately 400 feet above the ground.
The bomb had originally been scheduled to use a service-issue forty-kiloton core, but plans had been changed.
‘What if the airburst fuse fails?’ one of the physicists had suggested. ‘A surface explosion with a bomb of that yield could result in huge contamination problems.’
Sir William Penney had admitted there was possible cause for concern, and a low-yield bomb core of 3 kilotons had been substituted.
‘Just in case,’ they’d all agreed.
The Kite test presented particular grounds for excitement. This was to be the first time a British atomic weapon had been launched from an aircraft. The eleventh of October 1956 would mark a historic occasion for armed forces and scientists alike.
Weather conditions were favourable that morning, but, as the day progressed, the upper winds began to veer and it was decided to bring the schedule forward by one hour. The drop would now take place close to two thirty in the afternoon.
At Roadside, the crowd was gathered in its hundreds, field glasses and binoculars trained on the Valiant bomber overhead. But at the start of the ten second countdown the focus shifted and all observers turned the
ir backs to the site.
In the Valiant’s cockpit, a tense silence prevailed as the final seconds of the countdown sounded through the headsets of each crew member.
‘Two, one, zero …’
Then the bombardier’s voice, calm, unruffled. ‘Bombs away.’
A slight bump was felt as the weapon left the aircraft, after which the pilot and crew sprang into action. Upon immediate release of the bomb, the pre-planned manoeuvre was to take the aircraft clear of the weapon’s detonation while simultaneously counting down the seconds for the time of the fall. The final second of the predetermined countdown would be the moment of detonation, or so they all hoped.
As the aircraft sped away from the site and the countdown began, every crew member waited breathlessly for the blinding flash, praying that it would occur at the precise moment it should. If the airburst fuse malfunctioned and the detonation took place prematurely, they were in trouble.
Then, on the final second of countdown, the sky turned white. The device had detonated safely as planned, 400 feet above the ground.
Cheers screamed through headsets; men grinned and gave each other the thumbs up. The Kite test had been a resounding success on every level of operation.
The following day, however, there was reason to question the overall success of the Kite test, although only a select few were aware of the fact.
The weather had not behaved favourably as predicted. Winds had veered in an alarming fashion and fallout from the bomb had drifted much farther south than had been expected. Furthermore, rain had been forecast to the south-east of the state. This wet weather had been presumed well beyond the reach of any fallout and therefore harmless, but the presumption had now proved wrong.
On 12 October, the day after the third test in the Buffalo series, the city of Adelaide, approximately 600 miles south-east of Maralinga, was blanketed by radioactive rain. No reports of the danger appeared in the press. Nor was the public alerted to the fact that readings of radiation levels 900 times higher than normal were secretly recorded in the Adelaide area. No-one but a handful of scientists knew. And only one was prepared to go public.