by Peter Watt
One of the battle-weary marines who had obviously fought through the night replied, ‘All the dead here are heroes, pal,’ and walked away to return to the search for the dead and wounded.
‘I heard the leatherheads say the Mexican stood his ground and maybe saved the ridge from being overrun,’ said one of the medics treating James. ‘They found him with five dead Japs around him at the edge of his foxhole. He went down fighting. Too bad some officer was not around to witness what he did, or he would probably have got the Medal of Honour.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ James said with a grim smile. Fate had brought him to this battle for a reason, and now he knew why. The Mexican gunner might be dead, but at least James could make sure he would not be forgotten for his courageous last stand for a country that barely tolerated his people.
James was taken down the ridge on a litter, and eventually to the airfield medical tent where he was laid out for examination by a doctor. The bullet had entered his side without piercing his stomach. James had not realised it but a bullet had also grazed his head above his ear. It had probably been the reason he had blacked out.
As he lay on a bed James became aware that his commanding officer was standing over him with a dark expression.
‘Captain Duffy, if the Japs don’t kill you I will,’ the marine major growled. ‘You realise that you could be court-martialled for deserting your post at the airstrip.’
‘Sir, I felt compelled to go up the hill, I didn’t know why, but now I do,’ James said and even to his own ears he sounded strange – like one of those tent preachers he had heard ranting about the Lord. ‘I was witness to an act of heroism that I wish to report as an officer.’ James knew that his commanding officer was as much a friend to his men as their respected leader, and would probably be sympathetic; however, technically he had deserted his post and that was a serious breach of military regulations.
The major pulled up a camp chair and sat down beside James. ‘Son, if I report that you did not attend our briefing yesterday and could not be found, I can write it off as you being down with a fever in your tent,’ he said quietly. ‘But you’ve gone and got yourself seriously wounded up on the ridge with Edison’s boys, and I would have trouble explaining that. Fortunately you are the recipient of the Navy Cross, and I believe your family has considerable influence with FDR’s boys, so I’m going to have you sent to New Zealand to be treated for your wounds. That will get you out of the way of any awkward questions.’
‘There was a marine up on the ridge, he’s dead, shot keeping the Japs at bay. I wish to recommend him for a bravery medal. I’m not sure of his full name, but he was a Mexican in Lieutenant Guy Callum’s platoon. It’s important that what he did last night is not forgotten. If I can dictate the report and sign it, I would consider it a big favour if you could see that the report gets into the right hands.’
‘Goddamn, Duffy, that’s admitting you were up on the ridge,’ the major exploded. ‘If I send up the paperwork there will be questions. For a start, how did a flyer witness a land battle so close at hand?’
‘Sir, I would rather face a court martial than the marine not be recognised for his outstanding courage. I am here because he saved my life, so you can understand why it’s so important to me.’
‘He was a Mexican,’ the major said. ‘Is your career worth the recommendation of a Goddamned Mex for a medal? Think about it. You are the best fighter pilot I’ve got.’
‘He was an American, and died as a marine,’ James said. ‘It’s the least I can do for a fellow marine.’
The major stood up with a frown. ‘I will think about it. I could say that I gave you permission to go up the hill, but I won’t make any promises. It could all get very messy. I’m organising to have a transport plane take you out with the other seriously wounded. You should be leaving in the next few hours, and I expect you to get better and be back with us as soon as you can.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ James answered in the traditional marine response. ‘Thanks.’
Within the hour a marine clerk turned up and James dictated the events of the night before, signing the statement when the clerk had finished. James noted that the marine’s name was Pedro Hernandez, and guessed that his commanding officer had tracked down Lieutenant Callum for identification.
James laid back against the pillows and stared at the canvas ceiling of the tent. It was another hot day and his pain was acute, but he felt relief that he would soon be out of this place called hell. He had seen the devil – and lived. But he also realised that the devil had been in him all the time and it had a name – fear.
*
Charles Huntley was drunk. He had started drinking around midnight, so that he could face his wife and tell her what he had done. He sat in the living room, glancing occasionally at the clock as the sun crept above the horizon to herald a new day in Sydney. It was 6 am and finally he heard the sound of a taxi outside, the opening of the front door and Sarah’s footsteps in the hallway.
She entered the living room and stopped with a start when she saw her husband sitting in a lounge chair, an empty bottle beside him.
‘So you made it home,’ Charles slurred. ‘Just in time for us to have a talk.’
Sarah looked into her husband’s eyes. There was something in his expression she had never seen before. ‘You’re drunk and I’m rather tired. We both need to go to bed,’ she said.
Charles struggled to his feet and, alarmed, Sarah took a step back. He stood swaying and staring at her as if to bring her into focus. ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said. ‘Not like you have hurt me. I just wanted you to know that yesterday I did something I will probably regret but that will no doubt make you happy for the first time.’
‘You’re drunk,’ Sarah said again. ‘Why don’t you go and sleep it off in the spare room?’
‘Don’t you want to know what I did?’ Charles asked.
‘Not particularly,’ Sarah replied.
‘I went and signed up,’ Charles said. ‘Got myself accepted for aircrew training. A damned stupid thing to do because I could get myself killed. But that would solve your problem of having a baby in wedlock, and you would play the grieving widow well, I am sure.’
Sarah was stunned by her husband’s news. He was the last person she had expected to put his life on the line. ‘I don’t know whether to congratulate you for being patriotic, or condemn you for being so foolish.’
‘You and your bloody father are peas in a pod,’ Charles hissed. ‘Neither of you has any real human feelings. Donald might be ambitious, but at least he has genuine feelings for others. Now, I think I will go and have a lie-down. Need to have a clear head tomorrow when I report for service.’
Charles pushed past his wife and staggered for the stairs. Sarah stood for a moment in the living room and thought about the ramifications of Charles’s decision. There was a possibility that he might be killed, leaving her a respected widow of a man who had died for his country. That would be a good thing, as it would retain her respectability and at the same time rid her of a husband she had grown tired of. For a fleeting moment she thought about David and felt her desire for him stir. But his life was also on the line in faraway New Guinea.
*
Jessica stepped off the train from Brisbane at Sydney’s Central Station. Tony was right behind her, and they did not have to wait to collect their luggage as they both travelled light with their kitbags. Tony was dressed in civilian clothing and Jessica wore her uniform.
Tony flagged down a taxi outside the station and it conveyed them to a hotel in the city, where they were checked into separate rooms. Jessica knew this was an unexpected luxury as the city accommodation was at a premium with the number of high-ranking military officers in town.
Tony met Jessica in the foyer and was surprised to see that she had changed into a civilian dress. It was not an expensive or fashionable dress, although Jessi
ca had the funds to buy anything she wanted.
‘You look . . . different, and beautiful,’ Tony said.
‘I think we can call this our first date, don’t you,’ Jessica said. ‘But don’t go getting any ideas, buster.’
‘The only idea I have is to find a place that serves the best steak and eggs,’ Tony said with a grin. ‘And I just happen to know the place. It’s a hotel restaurant not far from here, and as it is such a beautiful evening we can walk there.’
He held out his arm and the two of them stepped onto the street filled with servicemen of many nations. The evening was certainly balmy, and the smell of soot assailed them as they walked along the pavement.
Within minutes they found the hotel and stepped inside. The head waiter greeted them and Tony spoke in Italian to him, then they were led to a small table in the corner of the restaurant with its starched linen tablecloths and quality silverware.
‘How did you know the head waiter is Italian?’ Jessica asked when the man had retreated to meet others entering the dining room.
‘I have to confess that I have been here before and I know Giuseppe,’ Tony said. ‘His family comes from a village not far from my own family’s back in the old country. I phoned from our hotel to inform him that we were coming, so he made sure we had a table.’
‘I’m impressed,’ Jessica said. ‘Are you sure you’re not one of those gangsters we see in your Hollywood movies?’
‘Do I look like James Cagney?’ Tony said with mock hurt. ‘I was a hardworking, honest cop back in New York, although I have to admit that’s not the rule for many of my fellow cops. I . . .’ Tony ceased speaking when he suddenly noticed the almost stricken expression on Jessica’s face. She was staring towards the door.
He turned his head to see a tall, good-looking civilian dressed in an expensive suit, an attractive young woman on his arm. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
‘Yes . . . yes,’ Jessica replied, looking away from the entrance, but Tony could see that her face was flushed.
‘That guy,’ Tony said, ‘do you know him?’
‘He’s just someone I knew many years ago before the war – when I was young and living in Queensland,’ Jessica replied.
‘An old boyfriend?’ Tony said with a frown.
Before she could reply, Donald had spotted her, and the expression of shock on his face reflected the shock Jessica had shown.
The two stared across the room at each other, until Donald was ushered to his table with his escort, Olivia Barrington.
‘Yes, an old boyfriend who I hardly remember,’ Jessica lied, turning her head as a thousand thoughts raced through her mind.
Their meal was served, but the two of them said little as they ate. Tony sensed Jessica’s sombre mood and allowed her her own thoughts. She was pleased when he suggested that they skip dessert and take a walk in Hyde Park.
They returned to the hotel and Jessica bid Tony goodnight with a quick kiss on the cheek.
The following morning Jessica presented herself in uniform at the hotel foyer where she was met by Tony, who appeared not to have had much sleep.
‘Are you up for today’s conference?’ she asked.
‘I’m only tasked to take you to and from the hotel,’ Tony said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. ‘You’ll be sitting in on some committee meetings and will take notes of anything that may relate to our work, Jessie. Our colonel will be there, and you will be his personal assistant.’
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ Jessica said, sensing Tony’s disappointment at how the evening had turned out.
‘Maybe last night doesn’t count as a date,’ Tony said with a weak smile. ‘Maybe we ought to go somewhere where you don’t bump into old boyfriends. Who is he anyway?’
‘Donald Macintosh, one of the directors of a big company in Australia,’ Jessica answered. ‘From what I know, they’re a supplier to your armed forces in the South Pacific.’
‘A lot of money in that,’ Tony said. ‘You seem to mix in high circles, Sergeant Duffy.’
A taxi took them to New South Wales Parliament House, where a heavy contingent of Australian soldiers provided security. Government cars dropped off politicians and public servants, who produced papers for the security checks before entering the building.
‘Good luck,’ Tony said as Jessica stepped out of the taxi and adjusted her tight skirt.
She turned to say something, but the taxi was already pulling out from the kerb. She gripped the small briefcase she had been given in Brisbane and marched smartly to the sentries at the front door. They were Australian military police alongside a few state police officers and they checked her papers. Satisfied, they let her pass, and she stepped inside the building being used for this special meeting. She felt out of place amongst the throng of grey-haired men in suits but was met by one of them, who directed her to a meeting room down one of the corridors. She stepped inside to find the large space filled with polished wooden tables and decorated with portraits of long-past state premiers. Men were standing around in small circles in quiet conversation, some smoking cigarettes or nursing cups of tea. The few Americans were in military uniform and drank coffee.
‘You are Sergeant Duffy?’ a younger man asked. ‘I am the aide assigned the task of identifying everyone at this meeting.’
‘Yes,’ Jessica answered, feeling a little nervous.
‘Come with me,’ he said, taking her elbow and guiding her to the group at the centre of the room. Jessica suddenly experienced a rush of excitement and nerves.
‘The prime minister noticed you arrive,’ the young civil servant said. ‘He would like to meet you.’
Jessica could feel her knees weaken, but forced herself to appear confident. ‘Prime Minister, this is Sergeant Jessica Duffy, who is with General MacArthur’s staff in Brisbane.’
Jessica felt his hand reach out for her own. He was in his middle fifties and wore spectacles. He had a kindly but serious face, and looked more like a schoolteacher than a prime minister. Jessica remembered that he had opposed conscription in the last war, and had been a journalist. She also knew that he had Irish Catholic heritage. Jessica had listened to his voice on the radio, and now he was shaking hands with her.
‘John Curtin,’ he said with a warm smile. ‘It is good to see that we have at least one Australian in General MacArthur’s office.’
‘I am not with the general’s office, I . . .’ Jessica stopped herself. Could she tell the leader of Australia what she actually worked on?
‘I understand, Sergeant Duffy,’ the prime minister said. ‘I know what you do at the AMP building.’
‘Mr Curtin, I cannot tell you what an honour it is to meet you in person,’ Jessica said. ‘You are doing a splendid job.’
‘With an Irish name like Duffy, I would presume that you’re a supporter of my party,’ John Curtin said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘And I would hope that you might be able to have contact with my department in the future.’
‘Sir,’ said the young aide, ‘the delegation representing the private sector has arrived. I would like to introduce them to you.’
The prime minister nodded to Jessica, and excused himself politely, leaving her to weigh every word he had said to her. What had he meant by having contact in the future? She had no time to work it out before she glanced over at the entrance and saw the prime minister shaking hands with Donald Macintosh.
27
If Donald was surprised, he didn’t show it this time. He said a few words to the young aide and then walked across to Jessica, who fought to keep her feelings from showing.
‘Good to see you, Jessica,’ Donald said. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ Jessica replied politely. ‘I saw you last night at the hotel dining room. You were with a pretty young lady.’
‘I also saw you and the man you were with looked as if he knew you f
airly well,’ Donald countered.
‘He is a work colleague,’ Jessica replied. ‘Nothing more.’
‘You’re obviously no longer a nun,’ Donald said quietly. ‘Why didn’t you wait for me in the foyer of my office earlier this year? I had learned how you just missed being killed in your escape from New Britain. Our island trading enterprises knew all about the evacuations up there.’
Jessica glanced around the room and could see that the small circles of men were preoccupied with their conversations. ‘I don’t think this is the place to talk about that,’ she said. ‘What’s your role here today?’
‘I’m representing a committee overseeing rationing,’ Donald said. ‘What’s more intriguing is that I am under direction to seek out a person who we know is in some top-secret office in Mac’s HQ in Brisbane. I somehow think that is you, Jessie.’
‘Why would that be of interest to you?’ she asked.
‘I suppose I should give you an explanation,’ Donald said. ‘Curtin is not my idea of a prime minister – except under the current conditions I have to admit he is proving exceptional. Otherwise, he is too socialist for the likings of myself, and other business interests. But I was approached by my brother-in-law some weeks ago to act as liaison with an Australian in with the Yanks in a cipher section in Brisbane. I still can’t believe that person is you, Jessie.’
‘Do you expect me to go back on an oath I swore?’ Jessie asked.
‘We do not expect you to reveal anything to the enemy, but the PM would like to have someone inside General Mac’s HQ to monitor the intelligence they are receiving. Curtin has virtually handed over the running of the war to the Yanks under MacArthur, but he is not sure whether they are always being honest with us. It is not really an act of espionage, rather a patriotic task in our national interest.’
‘I don’t have clearance for anything above tactical intelligence,’ Jessica said. ‘Strategic intelligence is sent upstairs to MacArthur’s office under heavy guard. Just talking about this amounts to a breach of the oath I swore.’