by Peter Watt
*
Lieutenant Tony Caccamo sat in the colonel’s office taking in the cigar smoke along with the information he had read in the file marked Top Secret.
‘The goddamned Limey Ulverstone is a traitor,’ the colonel growled. ‘Any questions?’
Tony had a thousand. ‘Why don’t the Brits handle the situation?’
‘Because the son of a bitch is a lord or earl or some damn thing,’ the colonel spat. ‘The Limeys are touchy about their royalty. We have all the proof we need from communications intercepts from Bletchley Park, and the Japs’ own codes. He was transmitting to the Japs before Singapore fell. You would have thought that the Goddamned Brits would have woken up to him a long time ago, what with his connections to that Nazi, Sir Oswald Mosley, and his British Union of Fascists before the war. But the English gentry don’t like to think that one of their own gentlemen could be a traitor. He has to be eliminated before he can do anything else to harm us.’
Tony took a deep breath. ‘Sir, where do I stand in this matter?’
‘Your job is to eliminate him, lieutenant,’ he said, leaning forward and looking the military police officer in the eyes. ‘You were selected because you used to be a homicide cop back in New York, and we figured that with your knowledge of murders you would know how to go about arranging for the target to be got rid of with not much fuss. Last report is that he is down in Sydney. The sooner he is disposed of, the better it will be for our security. Just remember, we are at war, and what you will be doing is executing a traitor.’
‘Why don’t we get the Aussie police to arrest him?’ Tony asked.
‘Because Churchill might step in and have him released,’ the colonel answered. ‘Just remember that Pearl Harbor came about because of Jap traitors in Hawaii. You are free to carry out your assignment in whichever way you think best.’
‘I’ve got it, sir,’ Tony said, wondering how he could go from hunting down killers in his past to becoming one. Only a war could change a man so dramatically.
Tony left the office to step into the area where Jessica worked. Since returning from Sydney they had had little opportunity to see each other as Tony had been sent to Townsville on a mission to question radio operators there concerning the situation of Allied intercepts in the Pacific.
She had her head down and was scribbling notes when he approached her desk. There had been a name in the report he had read concerning acquaintances of the British officer.
‘Hello, Tony,’ Jessica said with a warm smile when she caught sight of him. ‘I heard that you were back yesterday.’
‘I’m sorry that I didn’t have a chance to tell you myself,’ he said, standing beside her desk.
‘Well, it’s good to have you back,’ Jessica said. ‘I’ve missed you not being around.’
‘It looks like I might have to disappear for a while again,’ Tony said with a grimace. ‘I still plan to go on a real date with you, you know.’
Jessica knew better than to ask him where he was going. ‘I sometimes wish I wasn’t working in this office. Compared to us, the girls downstairs have a normal life.’
‘We have to win the war before we can be normal again,’ Tony said. ‘You know that Macintosh fellow you saw in Sydney, are he and his father tied up with your family in any way.’
‘Sir George?’ Jessica said. ‘Not really. He’s a man who owns a property in Queensland that my father has wanted to buy for many years. I met Donald through his family’s involvement with that property. There is no other connection between us.’
Tony was relieved. Sir George Macintosh’s name was in the report as being a contact of the British officer, Ulverstone.
‘Why do you ask?’ Jessica said with a frown.
‘Nothing important,’ Tony shrugged. ‘I have to go but will pick you up after your shift to take you home. We might get the chance for a coffee.’
Tony walked away, leaving Jessica to ponder why the American would ask her about Sir George Macintosh. She shook her head and returned to writing a report for the RAAF on some intelligence they required from the enemy intercepts. A simple question would change everything with Jessica and Tony in the future.
Epilogue
Christmas 1942
It was rare for Sir George to have his family gather in one place; Christmas was a truce in the ongoing struggle for supremacy between his son and his daughter.
Sir George sat at the head of the table with Sarah on one side next to Captain James Duffy, the grandson of James Barrington Snr, and Donald on the other, Olivia Barrington, James’s sister, beside him.
Dinner was the traditional goose served with roast vegetables, to be followed by plum pudding. It was perfectly appropriate for the northern hemisphere, but here in Sydney it was a baking hot summer’s day, and the smell of bushfires blanketed the city.
Sir George raised his glass in a toast. ‘To family, and the continuing growth of Macintosh profits in the next year.’
James did not raise his glass, but when the others had said ‘Hear, hear’ added, ‘To all our boys fighting in the Pacific. May they live to see another Christmas.’
He noticed that Sir George and his daughter were less enthusiastic in their response this time.
The goose was brought out by one of the servants and placed in the centre of the table. Sir George glanced around. ‘I think we should break with tradition in these difficult times,’ he said. ‘I think the honour should go to Sarah to carve the goose.’
His announcement met with an icy glare from Donald. Nothing had changed in the family on Christmas Day.
*
Captain David Macintosh had been relegated to company second-in-command with the return of the company commander from sick leave. In a sense David welcomed the second-in-command role as he did not have to give the direct orders that led to the death of men he knew.
It was Christmas Day and the battalion had reached the north coast of New Guinea to take up positions ringing the village of Buna, where the retreating Japanese had built substantial log bunkers to fight to the bitter end.
The area was flat at least, but scrub typhus was taking a terrible toll on the company. David sat with his back against his large pack, a rifle between his knees. He felt ill and wondered if the tiny mites that caused the dreaded disease had bitten him. Perhaps he was already in the first stages of the illness that had a high fatality rate.
‘Happy Christmas, sir,’ said a passing soldier.
Happy Christmas to you too, David thought sadly. His old friend, Lieutenant John Dulley was dead, killed in action a couple of weeks earlier when David commanded the company. He had written to John’s wife and told her that her husband had died instantly and had not suffered; for once this was true, and David thought perhaps the only thing worth having in this damn jungle war was a quick death.
The battalion was preparing for an assault on the dug-in Japanese and every man knew there would be heavy casualties. Maybe Santa Claus would bring them tanks and heavy artillery. That would be the best present of all, short of being home with loved ones and friends, celebrating the day of goodwill to all men.
For the Australian soldiers it was just another day of waiting to kill or be killed.
*
Diane Duffy had heard the men singing Christmas carols the night before as she’d lain fighting a bout of malaria in the Changi prison hospital. She had been vaguely aware that young Sam had been holding her hand and had sat with her through the night, before falling asleep on the floor next to her bed.
This morning she felt a lot better and was able to sit up. When Sam woke up and saw her, he fell on her with hugs of happiness.
‘So you decided to join us,’ the voice of Anne Bambury boomed across the aisle. ‘You just can’t lie about doing nothing, you know.’
Diane smiled at her friend. The last few days had been a blur of fevered dreams. �
�Hello, Anne,’ she said. ‘Is it Christmas Day?’
‘Must be,’ Anne said, leaning over and kissing Diane on her gaunt cheek. ‘The bloody Nips are letting the menfolk join us for a couple of hours between ten and midday. I have a present for you.’ Anne passed Diane a sweat-stained letter. ‘This came a few days ago when you were put here,’ she said. ‘Happy Christmas.’
Diane took the envelope and pulled out the letter. She strained to read the childish handwriting and burst into tears.
‘I thought it was good news,’ Anne said in a worried voice.
Diane continued to cry. ‘I have just received the best Christmas present any mother could have,’ she said between sobs.
‘What is it, Mother?’ Sam asked, leaning over to see the letter.
‘Patrick, my son . . . your brother,’ she said turning to Sam, ‘is alive and well in Australia.’ Joy beamed from her tear-streaked face. ‘Cyril kept his promise.’
In the distance Diane was aware that, despite the harsh conditions of internment under the Japanese, she could hear children cry out in joy as Santa handed out simple toys made from scraps in the prison workshops. For just a brief moment that day, even the Japanese captors recognised the meaning of Christmas. But still the war went on.
*
Fiery sparks rose in the still air when Tom Duffy stood up and stoked the campfire. The other four men who sat around the blaze on the plains of the northern Gulf Country were silently staring into the flames. It was Christmas night and they were all a long way from home; their thoughts drifted south to their loved ones. But even as they sat around the fire their loaded rifles were only an arm’s length away, reminding them that they were on active service.
Tom picked up his rifle and walked away from his grizzled comrades into the night. The low scrub did not obscure the vast starlit sky and Tom found a place to sit and gaze at the majestic twinkling myriad stars. In the distance he could hear a dingo howl its mournful cry, falling silent to listen for a response from another of its kind.
Tom took out his old battered pipe and filled the bowl with a plug of tobacco. When that was done he lit the pipe and puffed on it. He was lost in thoughts stretching back to his youth; so many memories of good times and bad. Always in his thoughts was his beloved daughter, Jessie. He had lived half a century and had witnessed many changes, but what remained unchanged were these vast inland plains and their spirits.
A falling star blazed across the sky and for a moment Tom smiled. Was it the soul of Wallarie returning briefly to his lands further south? Tom stared at the horizon and gasped. It was Wallarie! A young Aboriginal warrior stood mere yards away holding a long spear above his head. Tom blinked and was disappointed to see he was staring at a gnarled scrub tree with an outstretched branch. But that did not matter as the old soldier knew that his kinsman would always be around to remind him that one day he was to reclaim the traditional lands of the Nerambura people.
*
I am not gone from the land. I am a spirit man who lives in the night sky, and my name is Wallarie. I saw beyond the horizon war clouds gather. Now, fire falls upon the earth. I see the Macintosh and Duffy families will suffer even more tragedy in the years ahead. Their story is not over as all families continue with the birth of future generations.
I miss my baccy.
Author Notes
Many of the characters who appear within the pages of this book are real people. This is as a reminder to those of us who owe them so much for their courageous roles in the defence of this country.
1942 was probably the most critical year in our short European history. We truly faced a threat that would have impacted on our lives to this day had the Japanese succeeded in winning the battle for New Guinea and the Pacific.
Amongst the incredible real characters was Frank Holland MBE, coast watcher and commando who went on to serve with Z Special Unit Operations in Timor and Borneo. He is a man whose exploits are the stuff of epic dramas; in Timor he was given the name of El Tigre. I used poetic licence to place my fictional characters of Jessie Duffy and Bruce King in the timeframe of his operations to rescue survivors for evacuation with the New Guinea Volunteer Rifles. My information came from his diaries reproduced in the book, edited by Peter Stone, Mabel Holland and John Holland, El Tigre: Wartime rescue operations in New Britain; Z Special Unit operations in Portuguese Timor and Borneo, Ocean Enterprises, Victoria, 1999. My copy of the book is proudly signed by Frank’s widow, Mabel.
It is little advertised that many of the interned people in Changi prison were civilian men, women and children. I was fortunate to have access to books such as Sheila Allan’s Diary of a Girl in Changi, Kangaroo Press, Pymble, 1994. This novel was also an opportunity to highlight the remarkable courage and work of Dr Cicely Williams and many others who worked to keep the internees alive through the years of captivity. Many of their stories were found in Jean Teasdale’s book Facing the Bow: European Women in Colonial Malaya 1919 – 1945, Uniprint, Nedlands, WA, 1997. I have used the actual experiences of many people, lifted to provide the reality in a fashion. My character Diane Duffy has been imprinted on the experiences of those courageous ladies who should not be forgotten.
The dogfight carried out by my fictional character James Duffy over the Coral Sea was actually fought by Stanley ‘Swede’ Vejtasa. The real character of Swede Vejtasa went on to earn three Navy Crosses before the end of the war in the Pacific and have an illustrious career in the American Navy afterwards.
The treachery of Lord Ulverstone is also rooted in historical events and real traitors in the British domain. A very good television documentary, Churchill’s Traitors, illustrated that point.
I could continue with many other sources for the novel but what I have written is intended to be fiction, even as it is based on fact, but I would like to point out that one of the best sources of the Kokoda campaign I found in Raymond Paull’s, Retreat from Kokoda: The Australian Campaign in New Guinea 1942, William Heinemann Australia, Victoria, 1958. In my opinion, later published books on the subject lack his insight into the campaign.
I was tempted to give the young soldier who served alongside Tom Duffy a name, but decided he was representative of many other young men who fought and died in the New Guinea campaign, with the outgunned and outnumbered militia battalions who took the brunt of the Japanese invasion. So he will always remain the young soldier, without a name, who could have been any father, son, brother or uncle. May all the young soldiers who will never grow old always be remembered. Lest we forget.
And the story will continue . . .
Acknowledgements
My special thanks to my publisher, Cate Paterson, and agent, Geoffrey Radford. Continuing those special thanks, to all those who have worked on this book at Pan Macmillan. They are Vanessa Pellatt, Haylee Nash, Libby Turner and Eve Jackson. Also a thank you to old friends in Pan Macmillan, Roxarne Burns and Tracey Cheetham.
Thanks go to those who have assisted with my work. Daniel Huddleston for keeping my computer alive. Peter Lowe and Kaye for keeping my website up to date. Dr Louis Trichard and Christine for keeping me alive. A special thank you to Kristie Hildebrand, and her wonderful mum, Dorothy, for their work on my Facebook site. My old mate, Dave Sabben MG, and his spouse, Di. Dave and I had the pleasure of touring northern NSW to raise money for Legacy this year.
In the USA, my thanks to Rod Hardy and his son, Brett, for their work on the Frontier project. A thanks to Alan Nevins for his work as my US literary agent, and Paul Currie for his wonderful, continuing support. Thanks to Gavin Scott for his adaption of the books to screenplays, and not to forget the members of the American Legion Post 87 in Manhattan, Montana, for their support of the books in the USA.
Thanks go to friends who have had an influence on my life in the last year: Kevin Jones OAM and family, Graham Mackie and Sue Hughes, Mick and Andrea Prowse, John and June Riggall, John Carroll, Jan Dean and my yachtie
brother-in-law, Tyrone McKee.
This book is also a tribute to Vera Montague, who nursed our troops in the Pacific, and Mick O’Reilly, who fought that war. Both are from Maclean.
This is also a tribute to my Auntie Joan Payne in Tweed Heads who served with the WAAAF during the Second World War and has reached her 90th year of life. They all belong to a very special generation of Australians who lived through economic depression and a world war.
I should make special mention to those wonderful and courageous men and women I work alongside during the fire season. To all members of the Gulmarrad Rural Fire Service, Clarence Valley district and NSW RFS. That same tribute also extends to all men and women of all voluntary emergency services in Australia.
To my family in Sydney, Tom and Colleen Watt, and extended family of nieces, Shannon, Jessica, Sophia and Charlotte, a thank you. To those further north, the Payne family members, Luke, Tim and Virginia, and their respective family members. In Tasmania, my sister Lyn Barclay and her husband, Jock, and their family.
A special thank you to all my readers who gave these books a go.
About Peter Watt
Peter Watt has spent time as a soldier, articled clerk, prawn trawler deckhand, builder’s labourer, pipe layer, real estate salesman, private investigator, police sergeant and advisor to the Royal Papua New Guinea Constabulary. He speaks, reads and writes Vietnamese and Pidgin. He now lives at Maclean, on the Clarence River in northern New South Wales. He is a volunteer firefighter with the Rural Fire Service, and fishing and the vast open spaces of outback Queensland are his main interests in life.