The Last Double Sunrise

by Peter Yeldham

  Carlo felt almost dizzy with surprise. “But how? It sounds spectacular, but I’m a very long way from the Villa and Rome.”

  “We want you to fly there,” Jason Chapman said.

  Carlo just stared at him, then glanced at Major Morton to see if it was some sort of joke, but Alfie Morton seemed intent on listening to what was being said by the politician.

  “I’ll let you in on a secret,” Chapman continued, “since it is no longer in a classified category. I’m sure it will surprise you to hear that Qantas has been running a flying boat service from Perth to Ceylon for the past two years. Every week since 1943, a top secret civilian service carrying government or military passengers as well as coded mail and essential freight, has flown this route without a casualty. The flights are made at night, non-stop across the Indian Ocean, using celestial navigation and keeping track of weather bulletins in Morse code. I won’t go into technical details but there’ve been two hundred and seventy-one flights without a single loss. It’s one of the great unknown epic operations of the war.

  “Which brings me to the reason why I’m here, Carlo. We’ve managed to organise it. I would’ve informed you earlier, but it was only yesterday when everything was resolved. There’s a Qantas amphibian, a Catalina flying boat leaving Perth on its routine flight to Ceylon. From there BOAC, the British Overseas Airways Corporation, takes over and will fly you to Italy. The Catalina for these flights has a minimum weight limit of only three passengers. The next crossing is all set to carry a couple of Italian trade officials back to Rome, after spending the war interned here. The third seat has your name on it, in other words it’s available as long as we get you to Western Australia in time.”

  “When would I have to leave here?”

  “Tomorrow,” Chapman said.

  Major Morton saw the look on Carlo’s face and intervened. “We did discuss the tight timetable and might be able to extend it to the day after. I know you’ve got a lot in progress at the studio, but you’ve organised it so well that Walt could take over and run it until the camp is closed.”

  “He could,” Carlo agreed, “but I don’t think I can go.”

  “Not go?” The Minister looked shocked, clearly not expecting to have a proposal like this rejected. “That would disappoint a great many people, Carlo. Including your family. Your mother has been fully informed of the details and you can imagine how she’s looking forward to it. I’ve lined everything up,” he promised. “They want to honour you, repay the years you’ve missed attending the place you won at the Villa.”

  “I appreciate that and the work you’ve done on my behalf, Mr Chapman. But it’s come as a bolt out of the blue. I’ve got other rather personal plans.”

  “Juliet Sherman,” said Morton quietly.

  Carlo nodded. “She likes to be called Julia.”

  “Could you talk to her? Explain things?”

  “Explain what? That I’m going to let her down?”

  “No. Explain that as a prisoner-of-war we’re obliged to return you and all POWs to your home country, under the Geneva Convention. Didn’t you know that?” Carlo shook his head. “Even if you hoped to settle here, you must first be returned to Italy for discharge. And with eighteen thousand Italians, it’s a long procedure. The first in captivity will be the first who go home. Which means that as a later arrival you could be waiting up to two years, with the amount of shipping we need to meet our obligations. Whereas with this you’d be back in Italy in…how long, Jason?”

  “Maximum two weeks.”

  “Then once there you can seek your discharge, and be free to meet Julia Sherman in whatever part of the world you both chose to live.”

  Carlo felt stunned. Two years delay? Eighteen thousand Italian prisoners. No one had ever mentioned that to him before. Yet he had to believe Morton. The major had been a friend for too long to deceive him.

  “Can I have some time to think about it?” he asked them both.

  “You can have my office to make a phone call if you wish,” Major Morton offered, “while I take Jason to lunch.”

  “I really need a decision this afternoon, Carlo,” the minister said.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Please do your best, because we’re in radio contact with Rome this evening and the Villa Medici is waiting for news. They want to publicise your return to Italy by arrangement with the Australian government. It’s a big deal, Carlo. For our government and for you— it demonstrates Australia’s close relationship with Italy. I’m sorry it’s come out of the blue like this, but I’m just thrilled for you. I’ll also be glad the people who wrongly banned your entry last year in the Greenway will get a real kick up the arse. Surely that would please you?”

  It would, thought Carlo. He tried to smile. But any smile had long gone by the time he used the major’s phone to speak to Julia. It came as a massive shock to her. He could sense it in her voice, trying to be pleased for him, wondering what it would mean for them, unwilling to let him turn it down while he kept insisting he should reject it.

  “But you can’t reject it,” Julia was equally assertive. “What happens if you do? We wait nearly two years before it’s your turn to be sent home. Who told you about waiting so long?”

  “Major Morton.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Yes, unfortunately I do.”

  “Did no one else ever tell you there was this crazy rule and such a long queue? Did my dad never warn you?”

  “I’m not sure he even knew.”

  “He should’ve known,” she said. “He must have known the numbers, maybe not the length of time it would take. I feel like crying”.

  “Don’t Julia, please. I should turn it down.”

  “No, you mustn’t. And I’m definitely not going to cry. You can’t turn it down! How could you even think of throwing an offer like this away just to have two more years of running the studio?”

  “It’s not the studio that matters in this. It’s being with you.”

  “I know, but listen to me, please. Just listen, amore mio.”

  “I’m listening, mia cara.”

  “This is a real honour. It’s been a shock, but I’m just starting to realise how special it is. All these people, here and in Rome, wanting you there. Not to mention a bloody cabinet minister visiting you to organise your flight.” She forced a laugh at this to prevent tears. “Something special and wonderful is happening. You know it is, and if it means you have to stay there for long, then I’ll sell the car or borrow from Dad, get on a ship, and join you. Or else I’ll wash dishes if I have to. But promise me you won’t chuck it all away. Please.”

  “It’s just so sudden. No warning.”

  “When do you have to leave?

  “The day after tomorrow. To get to Perth in time for the plane.”

  That was the worst part of it. Such short notice. No chance to even see him again before he flew to Ceylon, and then Rome.

  But she only said this to herself, after she’d hung up and wiped away the tears she’d promised not to shed. She didn’t tell him that very day she’d received an affirmative answer to her request to be discharged. Or that she’d rung her father to ask if he’d known there were eighteen thousand Italians, which he had, but the long delay for Carlo’s release came as a shock to him. Their plans had gone haywire in every possible direction!

  Julia didn’t blame her father. She didn’t blame anyone, except herself. She felt proud of Carlo, it was an honour impossible to turn down. She just realised it could have been so different, if she had not been apprehensive and timid, if she’d applied for a discharge back in December, and stayed with him. They could’ve been together every day and night for the past five months, they could’ve been an item, engaged or even…she’d been so mentally bruised, so uncertain, so utterly damn stupid, she castigated herself.

  She’d wanted him desperately, and now in two days he’d be in the air and in less than two weeks on the other side of the world. Rome: the very name, and
the vision she had in her head of the life there, it was all so impossibly romantic. A city that contained so much attraction; his mother whom he loved deeply, his sister, grandparents, and above all the Villa Medici, the famous art gallery adjacent to the Spanish Steps, full of antiquity and grandeur. Carlo had shown her pictures from his scholarship brochure, a majestic house founded by the Grand Duke of Tuscany six centuries ago, ringed by imposing fountains and the sculptured Medici lions. He would have to stay there and fulfil the conditions of his scholarship. They did not give those away lightly, or make these amazing arrangements for nothing. It was a landmark, a trophy that would help him the rest of his life. She would just have to find a way to go there, for it was unlikely he’d be coming back.

  The departure next day was hurried, almost secretive. Major Morton knew it had to be. If his POW Artist was given this special treatment, some of the right-wing activists would create a storm and the newspapers would banner it in headlines. Later, when it was accomplished and Carlo was photographed in the Borghese Gardens or against the splendour of the Villa, then the press would rush to claim him. Fairfax would likely run another erudite article on this astonishing twenty-five year old artist emerging from a simple vineyard in Lombardy. By then all the Italians still in the camp, even the agitators, would lay claim to knowing him and a few, perhaps Janet Sherman and himself, might even be accorded some praise for assisting his progress. Janet certainly deserved this, but Alfie Morton felt he’d also contributed. He’d taken a young man on trust, and it had been a singular success. He would greatly miss Carlo. He’d realised this when saying goodbye to him, just before his unruly friend Gianni had arrived—in a milk truck of all vehicles—to drive him to the station.

  On the way to the train Carlo insisted on a stop to farewell Great-aunt Win, while Gianni fidgeted to get back to Angelica, his beloved tiny daughter. “A fine mess,” he grumbled as they waited on the platform, “My lovely Angelica’s godfather racing off back to Italy. She’ll expect to be spoiled by presents from you, mate, that’s what Godfathers are for, but you’ll probably never come back to spoil her. Any response to that, or are we too important to speak to old friends now?”

  “I just don’t know what’ll happen,” was all Carlo could say, in a mixed state of high excitement and dejection. He had only a small battered suitcase with him. Mr Chapman, or Jason as he’d been asked to call him, had arranged for one of his staff to meet the train in Sydney. There he’d be given his flight schedules and all the necessary documents, then taken to David Jones to purchase some new summer clothes and a more suitable case that would not raise eyebrows in the first class travel between Sydney and Rome.

  “First fucking class,” exclaimed Gianni. “Holy shit, they’ve really pushed the boat out. I wish I was coming with you.”

  “No you don’t. You’re going to be a rich farmer, with a lovely wife and daughter. And a charitable and generous Ma-in-Law.”

  They hugged as the train came in. “Keep in touch, you lucky bastard,” Gianni shouted, and stood there feeling sad and waving until the last carriage was out of sight.

  David Jones was full of elegant ladies in black silk dresses, all eager to assist in advice on the correct clothing for his appearance in a European climate. None of them had ever been there, so Carlo was able to sidestep some of their suggestions. He did not need a dinner jacket, or a selection of ties or any three piece suits. He required cotton shirts and trousers, casual clothes only, he was a painter. No, not one who painted houses, an award-winning artist, Rupert Simpson, his guide and mentor from the Chapman office informed them.

  This seemed to attract a wider gathering of the ladies—business was evidently slow—and they all had opinions on ideal soft leather cases for such a long and interesting flight to Europe. In fact, some of them clearly had ideas about a closer liaison with the young artist before he even left for Rome.

  Rupert Simpson, under orders from Jason Chapman to look after Carlo, noticed this growing interest from several quarters. He murmured to Carlo that as he had an overnight hotel booking in Sydney before leaving for Perth, and if he felt like a bit of the other, the tall blonde with the nice chassis was definitely a goer. Might be just the thing, a farewell shag before he set off for the land of dolce vita.

  Carlo thanked him. He said he’d take the clothes and the soft leather case, but he’d skip the shag.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The sun was slowly setting as the big Catalina engines broke the silence. Sitting beside one of the cabin windows, Carlo saw the wing float ruffle the harbour water as the amphibian seemed to lurch forward. He had flown for the first time of his life in a domestic aircraft to reach Perth. It had been a nervous initiation but at least that had been in daylight. This was quite different; it was his first time in a flying boat, first by night and it was already growing dark outside. It was also a long and slow journey to Ceylon, 28 hours non-stop he’d been told, with nowhere to land if the engines failed except in the Indian Ocean. Not a comfortable feeling for a novice air traveller.

  As the engines increased power the flying boat seemed to vibrate. Some loose objects in the cabin rattled; it was enough to startle anyone who’d never flown in one of these before. He anxiously watched the wing beside his window as the view was almost obscured by a curtain of sea spray. Across the aisle from him the two trade officials who’d spent the war interned in Australia were calmly sipping champagne, raising glasses to toast their impending freedom. As the engines reached full velocity he kept his gaze fixed on the vanishing view outside the window while hoping the monster would lift off before hitting any other craft that might be anchored on the water somewhere ahead of them.

  The woman in air force blue who’d served them drinks while waiting for take-off was watching him from the seat opposite, smiling encouragement at his attempts to remain calm. At first sight she’d reminded him painfully of Julia. There was no physical resemblance; she was older and in her early thirties. It was the smart blue uniform that brought the memory, the regimental garb Julia would soon remove for the last time, a month later than originally planned. She’d told him on the phone when he’d called her the previous night from his hotel room in Perth. She’d agreed to the delay because of a staff shortage. It would help the squadron and didn’t matter to her because Carlo would be busy settling in Rome. She did not put it quite that way, just said she’d be thinking of him, and even though things hadn’t gone according to plan they’d keep in close touch.

  Would the bloody plane never start flying? He was gritting his teeth at the prolonged time it was taking; surely they’d run out of ocean soon, or collide with something in the deepening dark. At last there was relief. A sudden moderation of the engine noise and the spray was left behind, they were in the air. He shut his eyes for a moment, not wanting to see the lights on the ground below, then carefully opened them and took a deep breath as the woman opposite removed her seat belt and leaned over to speak to him.

  “First time in a Cat? It’s what we call these flying boats.”

  “First time in anything this big that can fly,” he told her.

  “Well, don’t worry. We’ve never lost a passenger yet.”

  With the flying boat on a level course and a signal from one of the pilots in the cockpit, she served the trade officials more drinks, and asked Carlo if he wanted to eat first, or drink. “My name’s Sarah,” she told him.

  “I think I’ll wait to see how my stomach travels,” he said, so she sat beside him and explained the Catalinas were so big and slow, hardly anyone got airsick. “And as they’re slow, we fly right through the night. Because of time zones we actually see the sun rising twice on this journey, which is why this Perth-Ceylon service is known as ‘The Double Sunrise’. It’s also the world’s longest non-stop flight.”

  “How long is that?” he asked.

  “Three thousand, five hundred and twenty miles,” she said.

  The length of the flight sounded impossibly long. Sarah was doing him no f
avours with this information. He almost wished he hadn’t asked. The thought of sitting in the same seat for all that time, even a large and comfortable chair, was going to be a torment. And he had another nagging concern.

  “If they are so big and slow, Sarah, it’s a wonder they don’t get attacked by Japanese fighters. There must still be a few Zeros in action.”

  “Some flying boats in the Pacific were hit,” she answered, “but none of the Cats on this route ever ran into danger. This is my twenty-third trip as cabin hostess and I wouldn’t be here if it was risky. It’s why Qantas always flies this Empire route by night and we navigate by the stars. The Japs have never been able to find us.”

  She left him for a time, to take sandwiches to the pilots and serve a snack to the trade officials, then brought Carlo a coffee and a sandwich. She sat beside him again, indicating that while she knew the other two passengers were trade officials being returned home after a long internment, she was obviously more interested in the details of his journey. Because he couldn’t sleep he didn’t mind the interrogation, spending the next few hours explaining the reason for his flight. When he felt tired she brought pillows and a blanket, and adjusted the seat so it was more like a couch. It was so comfortable that he slept through the first sunrise and barely woke for the second.

  They landed at Koggala Lake on the south-western tip of Ceylon as the second sunrise lit the landscape. Carlo looked out at what the sunlight provided, an arresting view of Galle and its heritage hotel The Closenberg, built on the site of an old fort. Arrival there was another hair-raising experience—the big bump as they touched down on the water with all the loose items rattling again. There was a change of crew in Ceylon, except for Sarah, who would fly further as a passenger, and take over more cabin duty for BOAC before they reached Italy. She’d volunteered for this she told Carlo, as she wanted the additional experience, hoping to become an air hostess with Qantas if travel in planes became popular after the war ended.