‘All I want you to do is make a suggestion to Mori. Convince him to start a baseball competition that gets every tent involved—a big, inter-compound competition. First the different teams in each compound play each other, then the winning team plays the winner of 14B. Mori won’t listen to us, but you’re a doctor; he respects you.’
I shook my head. ‘I am not sure I could convince him,’ I said, thinking of my failure to delay Major Locke and Mr Mackenzie on the night of the film.
‘Just try. Come on, what harm can it do?’
‘You forgot Major Locke—he will have to approve the competition. He will have final say.’
‘Locke will love it. The commander’s been going on about internee morale and sports and this and that. The baseball comp will fit right into that. Plus, I can sweet talk McCubbin and some of the other officers. They’re bored out of their brains here, too. The comp will give them something to look forward to.’
I hesitated. Although I took issue with Johnny’s attitude, it was a good idea. But I didn’t want to be seen as his ally. Wind stirred the trees, making them whisper to each other. ‘I can try,’ I said. ‘But I cannot promise anything. I might have more luck approaching Yamada first.’
Johnny curled his lip in disgust. ‘Not that bastard. Not after what he did to Stan.’
I bristled at the slur. ‘If you want my help, stop spreading lies about Yamada. He is the deputy mayor and a good man. You must treat him with respect.’
Johnny’s eyes flashed. ‘Lies? What lies? Yamada kicked Stan out of the mess hall and hit him with a steel pole, and now Stan’s so hard up he can’t work. Yamada’s a thug. People like that don’t deserve my respect.’
‘Yamada would never hit Stan. I would not be surprised if someone in your group said it was Yamada, just to hurt him. If you don’t change your attitude, you cannot expect my help in the baseball competition.’
Johnny stared at me. ‘Christ almighty, what’s wrong with you?’
A gust of wind lifted a layer of loose dirt and blew it between us. I held my hand to my mouth and coughed, but Johnny didn’t move. The directness of his gaze put me on edge. When he finally spoke again, his voice was strange.
‘You know, I used to like you in Broome. Some of the divers didn’t. They thought you were odd. The way you didn’t talk to them in hospital, letting the nun do all the talking—they thought you acted all high and mighty. Even Captain McDaniels thought you were odd. What was the word he used? Aloof. I heard him say it to Mrs Dunn once when she asked why you didn’t come to all the parties like the previous doctor. But I thought you were a decent bloke. You were quiet and you didn’t stick your nose into anyone else’s business. But now I see you’re just a coward—like the rest of the Japs here.’
In the corridors of my family home, I followed a woman with long, dark hair. It was my mother, in her silver obi that flashed in the light. Then she was Kayoko, in her colourful wedding kimono patterned with swooping cranes. I strained to see her face behind the curtain of dark hair. The hall stretched before me, impossibly long. At the end was a door leading to the storage room of the laboratory where I worked.
Don’t go there, I called. Kayo, wait!
But she couldn’t hear me. I tried to run ahead, but I didn’t get far. Helpless, I watched as she put her hand on the doorknob. And then—
‘Sensei? Sensei! Are you awake?’
A hand shook my shoulder with startling firmness. I blinked. A black shape loomed above me beneath the canvas roof of the tent. For a moment I thought it was Kayoko, her hair in a loose bun.
‘Yamada-san—is that you?’ I asked.
Yamada’s hair formed unkempt peaks at the top of his head. ‘An officer wants you. There’s a problem at the infirmary. Can you go with him now?’
I shivered. Cold wind pierced the heavy woollen fabric of my coat. Officer McCubbin buried his hands in opposite armpits as he walked, his rifle bumping against his back.
‘This Suzuki fella, we think he tried to kill himself. Tried to cut his wrist with glass,’ he said.
I caught my breath. ‘Suzuki? Not Stanley Suzuki? Stan?’
‘Yeah, that’s him. Know him, do you?’
‘He came to see me at the infirmary the other day.’ I was stunned. Stan had been upset when I’d seen him, but I hadn’t detected any deeper malaise.
‘Yeah? What for?’
‘He’d hurt his arm. A minor injury.’
‘Yeah, well, he’s a bloody mess now. Someone from his tent found him in the ablutions block, so he grabbed me and we carried him to the hospital at HQ.’
Images floated up from somewhere deep. A bloodstain on wet clothes.
‘What is his condition?’
‘Hard to say. I think he’ll survive, but I can’t be sure.’
‘Is he conscious?’
‘Yeah, but a bit out of it. When we picked him up he was telling us to stop. The commander’s worried because it’s the third suicide attempt by a Japanese since January. Any more and the authorities will be asking why.’
‘Three?’
‘There was a New Caledonian in 14B who bit off his tongue, the New Caledonian in this camp, and now Suzuki.’
‘The New Caledonian in this camp?’
‘Yeah, the one who actually died. You don’t remember? He ate a packet of rat poison from the kitchen. Someone found him the next morning. This was back in February, I think.’
‘It must have been before I arrived.’
I was unfamiliar with the nuances of treating a suicidal patient. Although suicide was common in Japan, failed attempts were rarely treated in hospital. It was usually a private affair.
‘Powell, the medical assistant, is looking after Stan because Dr Ashton is out of town,’ McCubbin said. ‘Then I remembered you were a doctor. From Broome, is that right?’ He peered at me. One of his eyes wobbled outwards. A triangle of sand-coloured hair was visible on his forehead beneath the peak of his military cap. He was younger than most of the other officers, some of whom were veterans of the First World War.
‘I worked at a Japanese hospital in Broome for several years, until I was interned.’
‘There was a Japanese hospital in Broome? Just for the Japanese?’
‘Not just for the Japanese—we treated others, of course: Malays, Manilamen, the local Aborigines and sometimes the Britishers.’
‘They brought you all the way out from Japan to work in Broome? Christ, you must be good.’
‘To be honest, the salary was only modest. But I was still young, with little experience. And I wanted a change.’
He nodded. ‘Now there’s something I can relate to,’ he said. ‘Wanting a change. That’s why I joined the army when I was eighteen. I grew up in Victoria. A town called Charlton. Couldn’t wait to get out, see the world, do my bit for my country. I was posted in Egypt for a few months, that’s how I got this bung eye.’ He pointed at his lazy eye, and pulled his scarf aside to reveal a purple-red scar that ran from his nose to his cheekbone.
McCubbin continued talking about his injury, and the horrific wounds he saw while a patient at a hospital in Cairo. I nodded but didn’t say anything. I was anxious to get to the infirmary as soon as possible.
The wind lulled, and the silence amplified the sound of our footsteps. Our strides were out of rhythm; his long, loping gait kept a steady pace against my staccato steps. Here and there stubborn weeds were growing; they held drops of dew that shone like glass beads under the floodlights.
Before long, we reached the birdcage gate, then continued along the road to HQ.
Inside the army hospital, Johnny was leaning over Stan’s bed, but when he saw me he stood up. We locked eyes. Lieutenant Powell, the medical assistant, touched his fingers to Stan’s neck to take his pulse. Then he stepped back to allow me to inspect the patient.
Stan’s eyes were closed. He cradled his right wrist to his chest, the elbow still bandaged from his prior wound. The front of his shirt was splattered with blood.
>
‘Stan,’ I whispered.
His eyelids flickered open. He stared at me with glassy eyes, then turned his head aside.
I gently lifted his arm and eased away the blood-soaked wad of gauze. A shard of glass was lodged in his wrist. Blood caked the edge of the wound at one end, forming a bridge between skin and glass; at the other end, bright red blood bubbled. I quickly replaced the gauze.
‘What do you think?’ Powell asked.
If I had been at the hospital in Broome, I would have made preparations for surgery straight away. But at camp, I wasn’t sure.
‘He has severed a peripheral artery. It is deep, but a clot has started to form. If I try to remove the glass, he could lose a lot more blood. I think it is too dangerous to operate here. He should go to the hospital in Barmera. In the meantime, I’ll dress the wound.’
Johnny snorted. ‘Some doctor you are . . .’
‘Pardon?’
‘That’s all you’re doing, dressing the wound? Stan could die in the next few minutes and all you want to do is slap a bandage on him? Oh, but I forgot: you’re the reason he’s in here.’
McCubbin had been standing near the entrance to the ward so quietly I’d almost forgotten he was there. He stepped towards us now. ‘Cut it out, Johnny. We don’t need another scene from you.’
‘What? It’s true,’ Johnny said. ‘Stan was different after he went to the infirmary. Said the doc thought he was lying about what happened in the mess hall. After that he didn’t want to talk to anyone. And then tonight he goes missing and turns up on the floor of the shower block with his wrist cut up.’
The air in the ward was heavy. I opened my mouth, then closed it. I glanced at Stan, but he was still turned away from me.
McCubbin checked his watch. ‘How about we quit fighting and take him into town. I’ll get a truck from HQ. Sound okay?’
I nodded, glad for the suggestion. Lieutenant Powell and I began to dress Stan’s wound. All the while, I was aware of Johnny’s presence nearby, like a shadow that fell over me. Hours later—long after we had moved Stan into the truck and I had returned to camp—I lay awake in bed, unable to forget what Johnny had said.
The materials to build sleeping huts finally arrived, and not a moment too soon. The temperature had dipped sharply in recent weeks. At night, once the sun sank below the horizon, we huddled in our tents with the canvas closed, playing hanafuda and shogi until it was time to sleep. In the morning, frost coated the tent ropes in lines of crystal beads.
Building the fifteen huts required a major camp reshuffle. Although there were several dozen trained carpenters and shipbuilders in the population, dozens more men were needed to complete the task. Able-bodied men were asked to work at the rate of a shilling a day, to be paid for from the profits of the canteen. At the infirmary, I was sorry to lose Shiobara to the hut-building project. He had been an attentive orderly. Hayashi, Yamada’s friend from Sumatra who’d moved into our tent, agreed to start working at the infirmary in his place.
Although training Hayashi kept me busy during the long shifts, whenever I was cutting the hard loaves of bread or washing the patients’ dishes, I found myself thinking of Stan. The operation had been successful, we’d heard, and he was recovering in hospital. The news brought me great relief, and I felt vindicated in my decision to send him to Barmera, where he was no doubt receiving very good care. But I couldn’t shake the feeling I was to blame for Stan’s attempt to take his life. As much as I tried to convince myself no one could have known the extent of his despair, the incident continued to weigh on me. There was no one I could turn to for advice. My closest friend at camp, Harada, was far too ill to listen to my troubles.
Lying in bed at night, I turned over the possibilities in my mind. Could Yamada have been the one who hurt Stan? It seemed ridiculous. I felt it more likely that in his compromised mental state Stan had misidentified Yamada, or perhaps he’d even deliberately hurt himself and somehow convinced himself that it was Yamada’s doing. His recent self-harm certainly attested to that possibility. I could raise the topic with Yamada, but the thought of doing that made me uncomfortable. If only there was a way to ask him indirectly. Then I remembered the executive meeting the next day—it was held in the mess hall every Wednesday after lunch. I had attended the meeting in my first week to familiarise myself with the executive members and the running of the camp, but since I had started working at the infirmary I’d had no time to attend. Stan’s attempted suicide would surely be discussed; then I could see Yamada’s reaction for myself, and hopefully clear up any doubts I had, once and for all.
I finally drifted into sleep. I dreamed I was searching for oysters on the ocean floor. My gloved fingers were clumsy as I felt for the shells among the sand and reeds. I felt a tug on my line, the signal for me to surface, but I pushed on. I kept seeing something before me, a glimmer of white, but no matter how much I sifted and scraped away the sand, I couldn’t find the shell.
The following afternoon I stepped into the mess hall, momentarily blind in the darkened space. The air was sweet with the scent of curry, the lingering remains of lunch. I heard a voice ahead, speaking in a monotone. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw the head of the news committee, Nishino, standing at the back of the hall, reading from a piece of paper in his hand. Tables and chairs were arranged in rows around him, occupied by about two dozen people.
‘. . . Australian–American forces in the Coral Sea. The Japanese side, led by Commander Inoue, invaded and occupied Tulagi before launching an airstrike against Allied forces.’
News of a battle in waters northeast of Australia near New Guinea had circulated earlier in the week, so everyone listened intently. I was hoping to slip in unnoticed, as it was not my custom to attend the weekly committee meetings, but as I moved away from the door, my shadow danced across the floor. Yamada’s head snapped up; he saw me. He sat with Mori and Hoshi at the front of the room. Mori’s hands were clasped on the table before him, head down as he listened. Secretary Hoshi scribbled notes.
‘Total Japanese losses included one aircraft carrier, one destroyer, three warships, plus several more damaged. One article noted Japan lacks the facilities to build new warships, so every loss is worth double. Reports on Saturday stated that after five days of action, the battle temporarily ceased on Friday, with Japan retreating. They’re expected to return soon in greater strength, with the aim to take either Australia, New Caledonia or the Solomon Islands.’
There was silence as Nishino finished and looked up from his notes. I was surprised by the news of Japan’s losses: prior to this, Japan had seemed unstoppable, with victories in the Philippines, Singapore, Burma and Broome coming one after the other.
‘Are you sure you translated that correctly—Japan retreated?’ Mori asked.
‘Yes, sir. The reports stated Japan was repulsed.’
Mori frowned. He whispered in Hoshi’s ear.
‘Well, how many ships did they lose? Why didn’t you include that?’ Yamada asked, leaning forward in his seat.
‘None of the articles specified the number of Australian or American losses. Only that they were comparatively light . . . Although a recent report from Tokyo said bad weather prevented a Japanese victory.’
‘That’s a lie!’ Old Imagawa, the leader of row eleven, thumped his fist on the table. ‘We wiped out their fleet, just like in Java. One of my men said the Germans heard it on the radio. Japan would never retreat—we fight until death!’
Nishino ducked his head. He studied the notes in his hand, as if rereading them would provide a different meaning.
Mori spoke up. ‘Yes, the Australian newspapers must be lying. They can’t be trusted. I recommend you don’t post these translations on the board in the recreation hut. It will only cause confusion and distress.’
Nishino looked alarmed. ‘But people will ask us where they are. There’s always a line of people waiting to read them on a Wednesday afternoon. What will I say?’
‘Tell t
hem the enemy is writing lies that aren’t worth reading. Tell them the newspapers can’t be trusted. All those in favour of withholding translations this week?’
Two-thirds of the room raised their hands. Nishino sat down and stared at the table with troubled eyes. I pitied him, although I wasn’t surprised at the response in the room. Had it been me, I would have avoided translating the articles in question. It is better to be discreet and present a partial truth than risk conflict.
Discussion moved to the progress of the building of the huts. The project leader explained they were already behind schedule. Not all fifteen buildings would be completed by early June, as planned. A lengthy discussion followed about how we’d cope in tents in winter, the possibility of increasing labour numbers to speed up construction, who’d be moved into completed huts first and the logistics of shifting them. It took up so much time that I wondered whether we’d cover anything else. I looked at my watch: forty minutes had passed. But before long the conversation dwindled and Mori looked up.
‘We don’t have much time, but is there any other news?’ he asked.
At the back of the group, Umino, the leader of row two, raised his head. ‘We haven’t yet talked about the attempted suicide by one of my members.’
‘Ah, yes. The half-caste, Suzuki,’ Mori said. ‘Please describe the incident for our records.’
‘Actually, I noticed Dr Ibaraki in the room. Maybe he could explain, since he was at the hospital that night.’
Put on the spot like that, I was stunned. Everyone looked at me, including Yamada. Then he smiled, his eyes full of curiosity. Seeing him like that, I was reminded of how kind he could be, and it put me at ease.
‘Yes, of course. I was woken in the middle of the night, maybe one or two o’clock. An officer asked me to come to the hospital at HQ to tend to a critical patient, as Dr Ashton was away. Upon my arrival I found Suzuki weak yet conscious, suffering considerable blood loss. He’d been found in the ablutions block, having cut his wrist with glass. Luckily, the piece of glass in his wrist stemmed some of the blood flow. I deemed it too risky to perform the operation at HQ, so the officer took Suzuki to Barmera hospital, where they operated on him.’
After Darkness Page 9