by Peter Watt
‘Yes, ma’am, I understand,’ Jessica replied. ‘Thank you for your faith in me.’
Jessica’s last comment brought an expression of pleasure from the female officer. ‘You might not thank me in the long run,’ she said. ‘You will be in a world of everyone higher than you. You are dismissed and good luck.’
Jessica stepped back and snapped a respectable salute before turning on her heel and marching out of the office.
*
It was Charles Huntley who informed Sarah of the tragedy that had befallen her best friend. As Sarah was little interested in reading the lists of those killed, wounded and missing in action, she had not read of Paul Jenkins’s fate flying the skies of Milne Bay. Charles also informed Sarah that Allison was in hospital, although he did not know why.
Armed with a bouquet of garden flowers, Sarah found her friend lying ashen-faced in a bed in the women’s ward.
Allison turned her head to see Sarah standing by the bed with the flowers.
‘I’m so sorry about Paul,’ Sarah said gently. ‘What has happened? Why are you here?’
Allison reached out to grasp Sarah’s hand. ‘I had a miscarriage,’ she said, tears in her eyes. ‘It happened just after I was informed that Paul was listed missing in action. One of his friends wrote from Milne Bay, it seems his burning plane was seen crashing into the ocean, and his body was not recovered.’
‘I cannot find the words to tell you how sorry I am,’ Sarah said, bending over and kissing Allison on the cheek. She turned and placed the flowers in a vase on a stand by the bed.
‘If I could have kept my baby I would at least have had something left of Paul,’ Allison said when Sarah sat down in a chair. ‘This bloody war can reach out and take from us, no matter where we are.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Sarah asked.
‘Do you know, I was not even sure that Paul and I should marry so soon, but the pregnancy changed everything,’ Allison said. ‘I think I fell in love with Paul after we were married, and now he is gone forever. It was as if we had never really met. There should be a law passed preventing any couple getting married until the war is over. You’re fortunate – you’re single. But at least you have Charles in your life, and there is little chance that he will be killed, not with his protected status.’
Sarah could see that her friend was bitter, and this made her uncomfortable. She wanted to blurt out that she also loved a man in uniform, but she held back. What had happened with David at the Manly cottage was like a dream now, although the memory of his strong arms holding her naked body lingered like the scent of perfume.
‘How long will you have to remain here?’ Sarah asked, changing the subject.
‘I am to be released tomorrow,’ Allison answered. ‘I have been offered a job as a legal secretary. I think Paul would have been pleased to know I was able to earn a living by myself.’
Sarah stood, leaving with a promise that she would contact Allison when she was released from hospital.
As Sarah walked away she thought about David. Could she face news that he was killed or missing in action? What if he was badly maimed? Sarah reflected on these very real possibilities and had to admit to herself that she did not want this kind of uncertainty in her life. David had never said he loved her, and what had happened to Allison brought her back to reality. Charles had a safe job, a long way from the fighting, and he had a bright career ahead of him. He was going somewhere, and that was the kind of man Sarah needed in her life. It was time to put aside the physical desire she felt for her cousin and concentrate on managing her life and the Macintosh enterprises. She had promised her father she would do anything to ensure the family fortune prospered under her leadership. All she needed to do was manoeuvre her brother out of the line of succession. She need not concern herself with David – he was no more suited to running the Macintosh companies than he was to being her husband.
*
The smell of an early spring was in the Sydney air. Captain David Macintosh stood on the platform at Central Station and watched as loved ones farewelled their men who were boarding the troop train deploying north to Queensland. That, at least, was the official story; every man in the battalion was sure their final destination was, in fact, New Guinea. David had been promoted to captain, and was the company’s second-in-command.
He glanced up and down the platform hoping to see Sarah, but there was no sign of her. He had left a message at her office to say when he was leaving today, and her secretary had said she would pass it on. The engine was already puffing up a head of steam and David knew it was time to board and join his company. He waited until the last moment when the porter signalled they were about to depart, then he clambered aboard and made his way to the carriage designated for commissioned officers. He found a compartment and slid the door open to join his comrades, lieutenants Peter Herbert and John Dulley.
‘You almost missed the boat, old chap,’ Peter said as David slid his kitbag on a rack above his head. ‘Expecting to see someone?’
David sat down on the seat facing Peter. ‘Not really,’ he said and turned to stare out the glass window at the tear–streaked faces rolling past as the train slowly pulled out of the station. Maybe Sarah was late, he thought, and he might just catch a glimpse of her, but soon the faces disappeared as the carriage cleared the platform and the train made its way through the red-roofed houses of the inner city.
‘This will be our fourth campaign,’ Peter said, reaching for a packet of cigarettes. ‘At least it won’t be as cold as it was in Syria.’
‘It gets bloody cold in the mountains at night in New Guinea,’ David said.
‘Oh, that’s right,’ Peter said. ‘I forgot that you grew up there before the war.’
David did not feel like entering into conversation. Sarah had not taken any of his phone calls and he knew he had to face the reality that she had avoided seeing him again. He did not think he loved her, but the night they’d spent together was incredible and he’d never forget it. His two companions left him alone with his thoughts as the train travelled north in the darkness, taking them closer to the war being fought in New Guinea for the nation’s survival.
18
Sarah might not be accepted by the Macintosh board of directors but they had to grudgingly admit her strategic decisions were now paying off. Such an example was the panic that hit many wealthy harbourside residents when the Japanese launched a midget submarine attack on the harbour at the end of May. The attack resulted in the loss of twenty-one sailors sleeping on the converted harbour ferry, HMAS Kuttabul when a torpedo intended for the anchored American cruiser, USS Chicago missed its target. Fearing that the enemy were closing in and on the verge of invading, valuable real estate was quickly sold as the wealthy residents fled for the safety of the Blue Mountains, selling their homes for a song. But as time passed the same residents trickled back into Sydney and were forced to purchase their old premises back at a higher price.
It was obvious to Sarah that her brother and his American girlfriend were conspiring to have her removed and Sarah knew the board would support Donald against her. She needed a strategy. Charles Huntley seemed to have influence over her brother’s business dealings; if she could sway him to her side, he might be a valuable pawn in her strategic game.
Her last contact with Charles had been difficult, thanks to her indiscretion with David, and Sarah sat in her office musing on how to mend the rift between them. She smiled grimly. Everyone except her father had underestimated her. She knew that she was beautiful and desirable and this gave a power over men that she was more than prepared to use.
Sarah reached for the telephone. ‘Please put a call through to Mr Charles Huntley,’ she said to her secretary. ‘I think you will find him at his Sydney hotel.’
The game was on, and Sarah knew there could be only one outcome. The Macintosh ship would tolerate only one captain on the brid
ge, and she was determined that the captain would be her.
*
Sergeant Tom Duffy had rejoined his militia battalion, and the clean sheets and good food in the hospital seemed like a distant memory. Crouched with his rifle as a prop, he gazed around at the rest of the men. Their uniforms were rotted to rags; they were gaunt with continual bouts of malaria and dysentery. Supplies had not arrived, and they did not even have blankets to ward off the chill of the mountain nights. They had no shelter against the torrential downpours, and their weapons rusted in the extreme humidity of the tropical air. Despite all this, they were still taking a heavy toll on their relentless enemy.
Yesterday Tom had led seven men deep into enemy territory on a recon mission. They had stumbled on a patrol of Japanese soldiers. The jungle had been so dense that the two patrols had collided, and there had only been time to clash in hand-to-hand combat with rifle butts and bayonets. Tom knew he would never forget the surprised expression on the face of a young Japanese soldier when, parrying his bayonet thrust, he had pushed his own blade deep into the boy’s chest. Tom had jerked his bayonet from the dead soldier and then looked around in desperation as to the status of his patrol. The enemy and his own men had been equal in number, and survivors on both sides had fallen back to recover. It was then that Tom had seen the young soldier who always had a habit of sticking close to Tom in battle spread over of an enemy soldier. Tom had stepped forward and been able to see that both men had died at the same time, thrusting bayonets into each other. What had struck Tom most acutely was the fact that both men were about the same age, and in other circumstances could have been friends.
‘Sarge, what do we do?’ a voice had called behind him.
‘Collect ammo and grenades from the dead,’ Tom had responded. ‘We have to leave the bodies for now. The Japs are probably all around us.’
Tom had reached down and removed a grenade from the canvas pouch of the young soldier, and his spare ammunition. He ripped off his dog tags and left one with the body. As he’d joined the survivors he’d tried to tell himself that the wetness on his cheeks was not tears.
The patrol had lost two men killed and three wounded. The wounded had been able to walk, and the patrol had fallen back to the battalion’s main position to report how close the enemy patrols were. Tom had carried out his mission but at a cost that was the devil’s due.
Now he sat staring vacantly at the jungle all around him. Lieutenant Mike Hall had been evacuated with a bad case of dysentery to a rear medical aid station, leaving Tom in charge. Tom had ensured that his dwindling platoon were dug in and prepared for an attack by the many Japanese he knew were out in the jungle. His duties done, he had time to sit and reflect on the situation. He knew the battalion was spent. The young militiamen had done more than those in Australia would ever appreciate, and Tom prayed that a miracle might happen.
It did.
‘Sarge, some blokes are coming up the track,’ a corporal called.
Tom turned to see a file of healthy and well-equipped men closing in on his forward position. He sensed from the way they moved that they were professional soldiers; they looked like gods coming down from Mt Olympus to his battle-weary men. Suddenly a rain of enemy mortar bombs began to fall in the jungle around them, exploding shrapnel.
‘You beaut!’ a voice yelled from the new arrivals, and Tom grinned. These must be the men of the AIF who had been fighting in the Middle East finally come to reinforce them. They would live to fight another day.
*
Jessica Duffy – with her newly sewn sergeant’s stripes on her uniform – stood at the corner of Queen and Edward streets in Brisbane, gazing at the multistoreyed, yellow-stoned building requisitioned as General MacArthur’s general headquarters for the South West Pacific Area.
Australian and American military guards wearing immaculate uniforms stood to attention at the main entrance, and Jessica marched smartly to them, producing the identification papers and her posting orders. She was ushered in and led to a clerk manning a desk, where she again went through the procedure of producing identification papers and movement orders. The American army clerk told her where to report, and Jessica nervously made her way upstairs a couple of floors until she found a room marked with the appropriate sign. She knocked and was told to enter.
Jessica stepped through the doorway into a large room occupied by a staff of men and women in the uniforms of Australian and American services. A row of desks was laid out with telex machines tapping away and personnel, their heads down, scribbling on paper. An American officer wearing the rank of an army captain stepped forward to greet her. He was young and handsome, with Brylcreemed dark hair, a smooth face and spectacles. Jessica thought he looked a bit like the Hollywood actor, Cary Grant.
‘You must be Sergeant Duffy,’ he said with a winning smile. ‘Welcome to the swamp. I am Captain Mark Carr.’
Jessica was surprised when he stopped her salute by extending his hand. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said and felt his hand was smooth and his grip firm.
‘We call it the swamp because our illustrious leader, General MacArthur, occupies the eighth floor and we live down here. You’re probably wondering what you will be doing here,’ he continued. ‘I have read your service file and know that you have been cleared to top-secret level. You need that, because our section deciphers intercepted enemy radio codes and turns them into useful intelligence. Your role will be to relay any information we pass on that is deemed important for your RAAF people to use in their operations. It will be up to you to encode that information for transmission. So, I should show you your section of the swamp. You’ll become very familiar with it because you will do twelve-hour shifts.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jessica said as the American captain led her to a vacant section of a long table marked RAAF Liaison. It was next to one marked RAN Liaison, where a pretty young WRANS petty officer was perusing a pile of paper slips. The young woman had her blonde hair pulled into a tight bun as per military regulations.
‘This is Sergeant Jessica Duffy,’ the captain said. ‘Petty Officer Marion Bridges.’
The navy senior NCO looked up and smiled at Jessica. ‘I hope you don’t have a love life,’ she said, ‘because Captain Carr doesn’t believe we need one. He thinks that his mere presence is enough to sate our carnal desires.’
Jessica was stunned by the informal and even disrespectful comment by the young naval NCO, but when she glanced at the American he was grinning widely.
‘You may appreciate that we put the emphasis on performance here, and I believe that the war we fight here day in and day out has better outcomes when respect overrules rank,’ Captain Carr said. ‘And Marion is right,’ he continued. ‘You don’t need anyone else in your life when you have me.’
Jessica warmed to his informality and appreciated that her standing would be in her role rather than her rank. She sat down at the table and immediately a pile of papers was placed in front of her by another member of the staff. She got straight down to work.
*
‘It’s all over,’ Sarah said in a flat voice.
She and Charles sat side by side on a bench in Sydney’s Hyde Park, surrounded by office workers taking advantage of the beautiful spring day in the city. American servicemen in their smart uniforms strolled alongside young Aussie girls eager to forget the privations of war. These were men straight from Hollywood, with their good looks, polite manners and generous bestowal of gifts such as silk stockings.
‘Did you sleep with him?’ Charles asked.
‘No,’ Sarah lied. ‘I did not even go to see him depart Sydney.’ At least that was not a lie.
‘So, where do we go from here?’ Charles sighed.
‘I’m sorry if my infatuation with David caused a rift between us, but I have realised how important you are to me,’ Sarah said. ‘I would hope we could put the matter behind us and start seeing each other again.�
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‘I would like that,’ Charles admitted.
‘Charles,’ Sarah said, placing her hand on his knee, ‘there’s something I want to talk to you about, something that needs to be resolved if we are to keep seeing each other.’
‘What is that?’ Charles asked suspiciously.
‘It’s a matter of whose side you are on – mine or my brother’s.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Charles frowned. ‘You know my feelings for you.’
‘I’m talking about my brother manoeuvring to have me pushed out of the control of the family companies. I know that you helped Donald seal a major contract when he visited the USA at the beginning of the year. It appears to me that you are working for my brother.’
‘I don’t work for anyone, except the Prime Minister, and the war effort,’ Charles retorted. ‘My contact with Donald was purely professional. I advised him how best to secure contracts with the Americans for our goods and services out here.’
Sarah turned to Charles and looked him directly in the eyes. ‘I have evidence that you are receiving secret payments from Donald.’
The expression of shock on Charles’s face pleased Sarah. She knew she was in a position of power over him and pushed her advantage. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘I am not about to divulge what I know, as it could of course hurt your political aspirations in the future. All I need to know is that you swear an oath to support me in any future dealings with my brother.’
Charles looked stunned by the smooth way Sarah had manipulated him.
‘You know that you have my absolute support,’ he said eventually.
Sarah nodded. ‘I think you and I will make a good team. Let’s have dinner together tonight. We can plan ways to increase my standing in the company. I’m sure you know of other contracts Macintosh enterprises are able to fill.’
‘I was going to bring Donald the news that there are a couple of good contracts that the Macintosh companies could fill,’ Charles said. ‘But I will tell you over dinner tonight. I will have to excuse myself as we have a press conference soon.’