by Mark Dapin
‘Foley and Diamond Tom were in our hut, talking about dead mates with Townsville Jack, when five men burst in wearing hoods and waving sticks.
‘I thought they must have had a concert party here and this was some kind of a rehearsal. But they were moving like bashers, like guards, rolling their shoulders, pushing, puffing themselves out, filling the space in the hut.
‘“You!” shouted the leader.
‘Diamond Tom turned away but the leader grabbed him by the back of his neck and smashed his face into the side of our bunk, crunching the bridge of his nose against the bamboo.
‘Townsville Jack jumped but Foley held him back, and the other hoods swung their clubs and stamped their feet.
‘“Stealing tobacco!” shouted their leader.
‘While two of his men held Diamond Tom’s matchstick arms, the leader dragged his loincloth down to his knees. Diamond Tom’s buttocks were already sore with scurvy, and weeping patches of pus.
‘“Ten lashes!” said the leader, and pulled a raggedy leather strop from the belt loops of his shorts.
‘“You wait a fucking minute there,” said Townsville Jack.
‘“Stay out of this, Fry,” said the leader. “This is Vigilance Committee business.”
‘“And what the bloody hell is a Vigilance Committee?” asked Townsville Jack.
‘“Forget it, Pete,” said Diamond Tom. “Let them have their fun.”
‘As we stood there, the leader thrashed Diamond Tom, while his men kept us back. Pieces of his skin flaked off on the belt. Diamond Tom squirmed and yelled and, in the end, he blacked out.
‘Townsville Jack rushed in as if he was going to try to revive him, then sidestepped like Ted Kid Lewis, ducked and lunged at the leader and tore off his hood. He was a pale fella with pissy eyes, red hair and a nose like a block of wood.
‘“Evans,” said Townsville Jack.
*
‘Katz and Myer arrived with the next truck. Myer was disorientated. He thought he was back in Changi and kept rehearsing for the concert party. Katz took a week to recover from the journey, then decided his first job was to paint the scene inside our hut, but Evans ordered him to repair a wall in the officers’ quarters.
‘“I’m not a soldier,” said Katz.
‘“We’re all soldiers here,” said Evans.
‘It was just like we were back in Changi.
‘“If you’re a soldier,” said Katz, “why don’t you go and kill someone?”
‘“I’ll fucking kill you if you don’t watch it,” said Evans.
‘“Oh, I’ve got it,” said Katz. “You’re a Japanese soldier.”
‘“Leave him,” said Townsville Jack to Evans. “He’s a mental case. I’ll go and fix your wall.”
‘As he walked off with Evans, Townsville Jack asked, “What’s the go with the Vigilance Committee, sport?”
‘Evans didn’t like Townsville Jack calling him “sport”, but at that time he still wanted Townsville Jack as an ally, so he let it pass. Besides, how can you stop a digger saying “sport”? You can hardly cave his head in. That’s what we thought at the time, anyway. We still had no idea what men could really do.
‘“When Lieutenant Colonel Duffy took command of this camp,” said Evans, “he had problems keeping control. The men were . . . you know what the men were like. They had no discipline. They were used to running bloody wild with the boongs in Darwin. They weren’t soldiers.”
‘“They fought like bloody soldiers,” said Townsville Jack.
‘“They fought like cornered dogs,” said Evans.
‘“You should try it yourself,” said Townsville Jack.
‘Evans smiled and sighed.
‘“You won’t provoke me,” he said.
‘“The Japs couldn’t provoke you,” said Townsville Jack.
‘“When Lieutenant Colonel Duffy first tried to run an orderly room,” said Evans, “to clamp down on the stealing and swearing and the slouching, the men threatened him with a bashing.”
‘Townsville Jack laughed.
‘“You don’t understand the army,” said Evans. “You never did.”
‘“I know what I know,” said Townsville Jack.
‘“You can’t keep order without an orderly room,” said Evans, “so the old man asked the Japs if he could use one of their guardrooms.”
‘Townsville Jack couldn’t believe it. He could hardly speak.
‘“He did it because he’s a gentleman,” said Evans. “You wouldn’t understand that, either. He thought there was a common bond of decency between officers – no matter what the army, no matter what the cause, we all have the same responsibilities to the welfare of our troops. The Japs told him where to go, of course – they couldn’t give a blue monkey about our welfare – but they let him build the boob, a bamboo pen where we keep criminals. Don’t look at me like that. It’s no worse than they do in Changi.
‘“But the men didn’t like the boob,” said Evans, “so they tore it down and went back to their old ways of shirking and cursing and plundering the officers’ vegetable garden at night. The old man had to do something to restore order. The men forced him into a position where he had to say, ‘If you won’t obey my rules, I’ll hand you over to the Japs.’
‘“I tried to talk him out of it,” said Evans. “I told him he’d misjudged the mood of the ORs. They’d think we’d gone Japhappy, that there was no difference between us and them. But he couldn’t see another way. There were men stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down. They were stealing from him. They were stealing from the dead.
‘“So a few of us formed the Vigilance Committee, a third force between officers and men, to act in the spirit of military law but outside of King’s Regulations. We sort things out amongst ourselves, before they ever get to the Japs. It’s been the only thing that’s kept this camp together.”
‘“You’re a fascist, Evans,” said Townsville Jack.
‘“You don’t even know what that word means,” said Evans.
‘Evans stopped walking and used his stick to draw a line in the mud.
‘“I need you on my side, Fry,” he said. “The men look up to you.”
‘Townsville Jack dug his heel into the dirt and dragged it through the line.
‘“Are you with Diamond Tom and the thieves?” asked Evans.
‘“I’m not with thieves,” said Townsville Jack.
‘“So why aren’t you with me?” he asked.
‘“When the shooting started,” said Townsville Jack, “when the shooting really started, you disappeared like a rabbit under a hat, sport. You’d left your fight on the bloody parade ground. I know it. The men know it.”
‘Evans smiled with relief.
‘“Is that all it is?” he asked. “You think I wasn’t there when the bombs were falling? I was there all right, Fry. I was manning the radio.”
‘“You’re not Signals,” said Townsville Jack.
‘“I went where I was most needed,” said Evans. “You know what your trouble is, Fry? You’re always trying to second-guess the chain of command. Stick to your job and we’ll all be right.”
‘“Is that so?” asked Townsville Jack. “And what’s my job now, exactly?”
‘“We need blokes like you,” said Evans, “to help keep order here and keep the Japs out.”
‘Townsville Jack laughed.
‘“That’s not what blokes like me do,” said Townsville Jack. “I know you, Evans. I remember you in training, all spit and bullshit. You love the bloody army.”
‘Townsville Jack looked around the camp. “This isn’t the way I planned to spend my bloody twenties.”
‘“Do you think I did?” asked Evans.
‘“You know what?” said Townsville Jack. “I reckon you did.”
‘“Then you’re a bloody idiot,” said Evans.
‘“This place has got everything a bloke like you could want,” said Townsville Jack. “Everybody’s got to follow orders or they get their b
loody heads bashed in. Everybody’s bloody yelling and shouting all the time, and it’s all bloody pointless. We’ve got a weak man in command, so you can step up and prove yourself. And,” Townsville Jack spoke slowly now, pronouncing his words one at a time, “there’s no bloody women.”
‘Evans stiffened and Townsville Jack pretended to flinch.
‘“You’re a dead man,” said Evans.
‘“We all are,” said Townsville Jack.
*
‘We quickly got our stake up from selling Katz’s pictures to Duffy’s NCOs, and Townsville Jack ended up in the centre of most things that were happening around the camp. Blokes just naturally came and told him things. The Japanese commander wasn’t a bad man, they said. He’d work us to death without a second thought, but he wouldn’t beat us to death for the hell of it. There were the usual experts in Japanese military psychology among the prisoners – blokes who’d been posties and wharfies in civilian life – and they could tell the commander knew the war was lost, and he and his men were planning their escape.
‘It was still hell. We were starving and flooded and beaten, and blokes died the day you met them, before you could even remember their name. And there was a Jap they called “Lucy” – for “Lucifer” – who was a devil with a stick and whip. But most of the other guards were moonshine-brewing drunks who slept through the working parties and would turn a blind eye to buggery for the price of a coconut. But all this made it harder for Duffy. Normally the officers could say they had to keep us in line or else the Japs would come down on us, but the Japs just ignored all his military bullshit and treated us like slaves. The commander wouldn’t see him, refused to hear his complaints, so Duffy lost authority that way too.
‘The blokes tried to get Townsville Jack to talk to Duffy and warn him about Evans, but Townsville Jack reckoned the truth was murkier than it looked, and Evans was operating with Duffy’s understanding if not his agreement, and Townsville Jack didn’t care either way anyway.
‘“I’ll tell you what,” he said, “I’ll give you six-to-one that when this war ends we’ll find out they were in it together.”
‘Townsville Jack started taking two-flies-climbing-up-a-wall-type bets. It caused trouble from the start. Evans gave him a warning, said there was no drinking, gambling or womanising permitted in the camp.
‘“Womanising?” said Townsville Jack. “You’re bloody mad.”
‘So when Townsville Jack got his orders to go and see Duffy, he thought it must be about the bookmaking – “Either that or the womanising” – but the old man just wanted a chat. There was nobody else in his quarters, and Duffy closed the door.
‘“Private Fry,” he said, “how are you finding life at – to use its semiofficial name – Camp Duffy?”
‘“One jail’s the same as another,” said Townsville Jack.
‘“Oh, it’s not so much a jail here,” said Duffy. “It’s like Changi. It’s an army camp.”
‘“It’s just run by the wrong army,” said Townsville Jack.
‘“Exactly,” said Duffy. “And, like Changi, it will be ours again soon enough. The tide of the war is turning, Private Fry. We’ll all be home by –”
‘“Christmas?” said Townsville Jack.
‘“Exactly,” said Duffy. “All we have to do is survive until then. You’ve got to understand the importance of leadership. Look at the boongs: all equal, all slaves. Is that the kind of society you want?”
‘“I don’t want any kind of society,” said Townsville Jack.
‘“It’s a question of leadership,” said Duffy. “I know you’re a communist, but tell me this: suppose you had an election here and you chose your own leaders. How much respect do you think the Japs would give to a commander elected on a platform of less discipline, fewer orders and a cake with candles on every man’s birthday? Just how long do you think your Lenin would last among the samurai, Private?”
‘“I never said we should elect leaders,” said Townsville Jack.
‘“No,” said Duffy, “you were just going to step into the gap yourself, like the Bolsheviks, weren’t you? With no official authority, no moral authority and no conscience at all. You didn’t join the International Brigades, Private Fry. The AIF is a hierarchical organisation. Commands are issued from the top down. This is because experience has shown this is the only way to win battles. If you disregard the chain of command, you are acting against the interests of the army. You are actively aiding the enemy. You are working for the IJA.”
‘“But we didn’t win the battles,” said Townsville Jack. “We surrendered.”
‘That night, Townsville Jack turned over and said to me, “They’re not going to get me, you know.”
‘“Who isn’t?” I asked.
‘“Anybody,” said Townsville Jack.
*
I had forgotten we had tickets to the fights at the Other Club – we seemed to be going out all the time these days – but Jimmy reminded me we had to support our race, even if it meant giving money to the same anti-Semites who had treated a hero so shamefully after the war.
The Other Club was only about a hundred metres from the Club, but was never visited by Jimmy or Sollykatzanmyer, even though it was a much better club than the Club. The Other Club even had a swimming pool. But Solomon had been refused entry to the Other Club in 1951, and the old men believed the bouncer had stopped him because he was a Jew – rather than the fact he was wearing a lei around his neck and singing ‘The Banana Boat Song’ – so they had spent no money there for the next thirty-nine years, just as they would never buy a Japanese or German car.
They were prepared to make an exception this time only because they knew the Other Club would make a loss on a boxing night, since the fight game was dead and buried and even Jeff Fenech – ‘Jeff Gonif, more like’ – had taken the year off.
Solomon picked us up in his Volvo and drove us to the Other Club.
Jimmy stopped for a cigarette outside the door. Solomon, bored, watched him smoke. They were both wearing hats and coats, like they were in disguise. In the lobby of the Other Club, a trestle table blocked the top of the stairs. A big, tired man with tattooed roses around his neck was taking money and peeling cloakroom tickets out of a book, underneath a poster of six sets of fighters squaring up around a V.
Jimmy tapped the table and wondered out loud if he’d made it himself.
‘I know you,’ Solomon said to the ticket seller. ‘You’re the spruiker from Bad Boys.’
The man ignored him and warned Jimmy not to break the table.
‘You told me it was free entry,’ said Solomon, ‘then I had pay ten bucks at the window and five at the door.’
‘Do you want to buy a ticket,’ asked the tattooed man, ‘or make a complaint?’
‘I’m a returned serviceman,’ said Solomon, ‘and you robbed me.’
The big man sold two tickets over Solomon’s head.
‘You shouldn’t’ve been in a strip club,’ he said.
Jimmy read the top line of the poster: ‘An Izzy Berger promotion.’
‘Tell Izzy we’re here,’ said Jimmy.
‘He doesn’t care,’ said the ticket seller.
Six boys with the same broken nose waited behind us. Solomon threw a fifty-dollar bill onto the table and the tattooed man stood aside.
The fight was held in the memorial hall, and nobody had tried too hard to decorate it like Las Vegas. There were VIP seats on the stage, looking out over the ring, and ordinary chairs scattered around the floor in loose, broken lines. Everybody in the audience looked like a boxer or a boxer’s bleached-blonde wife. There were more Aborigines than I’d even seen in one room, which was about twelve.
Men sat in clusters of gym mates, wearing the same awkwardly lettered tracksuits. The trainers smoked and drank beer from the bottle, while their boys sucked orange juice through straws. Two lightweights danced around the ring like jockeys at a ball, ignored by the crowd.
Solomon bought us drinks from a h
ole in the wall, while Jimmy took a seat next to Johnny the Head.
‘Is this your tribe, then?’ asked Jimmy, nodding to a row of empty chairs.
‘Some of the brothers thought twenty-five dollars was a lot to pay to watch a Jew get beaten,’ said Johnny the Head. ‘I told them you can’t put a price on something like that.’
The ringmaster wore a shabby tuxedo, frayed at the tails. The wing collar of his dinner shirt was buttoned tightly across his throat, making it look as though only his bow-tie fastened his head to his body. He drew out every word as long as a sentence (‘laideeeeeeeeeeeeeez and gennnnnnnnnnnelmen’) and nobody paid him any attention at all.
‘The winner of the next event,’ he bellowed, ‘will walk away with the most coveted belt in New South Wales, the Heavyweight Championship of the Sydney Area. In the blue corner, with three wins and only two losses, is –’
Two fat heavyweights with shorts worn high on their bellies squared off across the canvas. They shuffled back and forth, suddenly throwing jabs into space, but whenever they got close enough to punch each other, they bounced off an invisible cushion until they were at opposite ends of the ring. The referee tried to bully them into the middle, but they hardly touched. The bell rang and the fighters rested on stools until the ring girl held up a card marked 2. I thought it was the score, but it was the number of the round. She turned to face our table and wriggled to make her breasts wobble.
She looked tired and used, with a tight mouth and bored eyes, but it was the first time I’d ever seen a woman walk around in her underwear, except my mum.
‘That’s her,’ said Solomon. ‘It’s the stripper from Bad Boys. Do you know, she can peel a banana with her –’
‘Not in front of the boy,’ said Jimmy.
She blew a kiss into the air.
‘That was for me,’ said Solomon.
‘She probably thinks you’re some kind of banana,’ said Jimmy.
In the second round the heavyweights clashed heads and cuddled.