The Widow and Her Hero

by Thomas Keneally

  Two

  It was easy to wait. Lots of girls in my office were waiting. A number had absent boyfriends, soldiering banally somewhere in northern Australia, or at greater peril in New Guinea or North Africa, flying in bombers in Europe. We compared notes, we drank tea together, and wandered in a mist of God-given and state-sanctioned longing. All this gave our plain jobs, the yellow folders of acquisitions I consulted and added to and filed all day, a holiness they would otherwise not have had. We went to the pictures on Thursday nights to have our heartache further teased by tales of heroic acts but heroic longing as well. Action in the North Atlantic, So Proudly We Hail, Desperate Journey, Mrs Miniver and Sahara. We emerged chattering like birds. I think only my shyness prevented me from a sort of crazed morbidity which afflicted some of the girls in the department.

  In the meantime, without my being aware of it, Doucette was preparing to take Leo deeply into the oceans of the enemy. Doucette had already inspected a Japanese fishing boat confiscated by Australian authorities in Townsville at the start of the war. Pengulling, Doucette named it. The animal in whose honour it took that Malay title was the pangolin, a large anteater, many spiked. Cornflakes was the operational name decided on for what would be done via Pengulling. Why? Because on the morning after his proposed Singapore raid the Japanese would be too distressed to eat their breakfast!

  The fishing boat was brought up to Cairns by coastal steamer and was moored by a naval workshop on the south end of Cairns, near the Yarrabah Aboriginal reservation. She was packed with the necessary limpet mines, on models of which the men had trained in the darkest nights around their camps. And so, on a May morning, Doucette and all his Argonauts – Leo amongst them – set off, brimming with clever training, skirted Cairns harbour and headed up Australia's long north-east coast.

  After a day, his engineering officer contracted malaria and was put in a hammock on deck. Under the inexperienced care of a rating, the engine block melted down, and the Pengulling and its heroes drifted, called for help, and had to be towed back to Cairns. All Charlie Doucette's personnel, skilled in so many now irrelevant aspects of the craft of infiltration, were scattered back to their regular army and navy postings. Only Doucette and Rufus Mortmain and a highly frustrated Leo remained in Cairns. Major Doxey of IRD put out a call to find Pengulling a new six-cylinder 105-horsepower Cascade diesel engine, with its spare parts, but the latter were apparently as rare as the Tasmanian tiger. Leo and the others were aware that Major Doxey, and the Allied generals to whom he reported, were now losing interest in Operation Cornflakes.

  Conversations over evening drinks in the officers' mess in Cairns showed Leo that Doucette had absolutely no doubt that Cornflakes would go ahead. His wife and child being still lost and perhaps drowned, he clung to his Singapore dream. He kept writing for his new engine and the return of his crew, but Leo himself feared it might never happen. Leo had dreams, he told me later, in which his father, always a severe man, chided him for leaving him a prisoner.

  So Charlie Doucette, the Boss, decided on an exploit to bring the efficacy of laying mines from folboats and onto shipping to the attention of their superiors. They would attach limpets to the Allied ships in the larger port of Townsville. Doucette, Mortmain and Leo prepared everything – the entire plan – but disguised it as a training exercise.

  Doucette was able to gather a number of his original young men, Australians, and a Kipling-esque duo of Geordie and Welshman who had originally escaped from Singapore with Doucette, and took them south from Cairns on the train. Trucks loaded with their gear and with further members of the old group met them in the late afternoon by the railway lines north of Townsville, and there Doucette's people got down and then waved the coastal train and its passengers on towards Townsville. The trucks took them on a timber trail through the bush and to a stream named the Black River. Doucette's group spent the night and much of the day paddling and portaging down the river until it disgorged onto a wide-open and deserted beach. They paddled then for the high mass of Magnetic Island, where they rested in the bush behind a beach. The next day they spent plotting through a telescope the positions of a dozen Allied ships at anchor in Townsville, and then at midnight set off in a series of folboats across the six miles of sea. Leo's partner was again the little Russian Jockey Rubinsky. One of the folboat teams attached dummy magnetic mines to two ships anchored in the roadstead, waiting for a mooring. The other four, including the team of Leo and Rubinsky, came on a current through the narrow entrance and past the navy's mine control point. It was so easy, a token of how easy Singapore might be.

  The tale of this monkey business would tickle them for the rest of their mostly short lives; in fact, IRD people in general had some dreadful times ahead of them, and needed to have triumphs to sustain them, stories of impudent nights like this. Under, of course, their impudent cavalier, Charlie Doucette.

  I know from Lydon's book rather than from anything I heard directly from Leo that attaching limpets to ships was done in this way: the man in the bows of the folboat attached a magnetic holdfast to the side of the ship. The man in the stern – Leo always took the stern position – used a foldable rod he carried in the bottom of the boat to pick up a limpet mine from the cargo space in front of him and set it against the boat's hull, as deep as he could get it below the water. Each folboat carried nine limpets, and each one was a hefty weight, so that to lift one from a sitting position required great strength in chest and arms, which Leo my beloved possessed. I had judged him strong, I had dreamed of being the client of that strength. Yet still I had probably underestimated it.

  Needless to say, a sort of delicacy was also required to place a holdfast and three magnetic mines against the hull of a ship in which all sound resonated. But most of Doucette's men had by now been practising that technique for the better part of a year. Leo and Jockey placed theirs as ordered, three to each of three ships. There was a great deal of welding going on along the wharf, and up against one of the ships, a destroyer named Warradgerry, lay a lighter, a manned repair barge. But Leo set his magnetic training mines, incapable of doing damage to these friendly ships, without difficulty.

  Upright in their slivers of canoes and without being detected from the wharves, Charlie Doucette's men put their strings of pretend fatality on the Dutch freighter Akabar, on the Australian freighter Katoomba, on two of Mr Roosevelt's American Liberty ships, and on a series of other vessels. One of the Boss's crews, made up of two sailors, were attaching their mines soundlessly to the Katoomba when they saw a man on deck smoking, looking down at them. Just out for a row, mate, they told him, and he took it as a reasonable explanation and went to bed.

  But what larks, as Dickens would say! On a night like that a young man – many young men – might mistake their stylishness for immunity from wounds.

  Leo wrote an account of this which ended up in his office drawer in Melbourne. It was given to me after the war by Foxhill, one of Leo's best friends in the bureaucracy of IRD. Needless to say, it is written in the style of Boys' Own Adventures. But what else would you expect? To convince the authorities to unleash Cornflakes was for Leo the prelude to our marriage.

  Because of the barge anchored beside the destroyer, I wasn't able to work along the full length of the ship but placed a line of mines under the bows, deep as my arms would reach – we didn't want them to be exposed by the falling tide until just before noon the next day. There were actually men welding on the wharf, and the guards in their tin hats were discussing the previous year's Melbourne Cup which they'd attended baksheesh, for free. Jockey held us good and steady, as I leaned and reached, putting my own arms deep in the water. There was a metallic sort of gargle when the limpets attached. It is a wonderful thing to have an art, as my father used to say when he made my mother laugh. When I had done it, I put my hand on Jockey's shoulder so we could go.

  We had an effortless row out of harbour on the tide. The moon had gone somewhere behind Mount Louisa, and our boats were pretty ligh
t now with all the mischief taken from them. Outside the boom, we turned south to the picnic ground near the mouth of the Ross River, pulled up our folboats there, and sat eating a breakfast of compo rations, and we would suddenly laugh, remembering something from the night's business.

  The Boss organised accommodation for the men at the naval barracks. He's insisted that he take Mortmain and me to the officers' club. So a truck arrives for everyone – the same that dropped us off to the north the other day – how long ago I can barely tell. And so that's what happened – the officers' club. I got a very good room with clean sheets – wonderful. And I was so absolutely done in that I didn't hear all the alarms of the town nearby go off at ten o'clock, as the three highly placed fake mines we'd put along the length of a Dutch freighter rode up out of the water. The area near the wharves was immediately evacuated, I believe – various kids got a day off school. But I slept through all that, and I imagine Doucette was only mildly disturbed.

  Sometime after three o'clock in the afternoon, a truck pulled up outside the same officers' club where we were resting up. There was a lot of loud yelling and officious orders given, and boots in the corridors and noise of the kind of soldierly drill provosts are good at. I got up and looked out my door and saw guards and a provost officer at the door of the room where the Boss was getting a rest. Mortmain emerged from his room wearing a singlet and khaki underpants and – I swear – his bloody monocle in his eye.

  Boss, he called into Doucette's room.

  I've just been arrested, cried the Boss from within. These gentlemen thought I'd slept long enough.

  I told you the girl wasn't legal age, Boss, Mortmain yelled and winked at me, his eye without the glass in it. Could I be arrested with Major Doucette? he asked the provost.

  The provost told Mortmain there wasn't any warrant for him, and Mortmain said he understood that, but they'd missed out on arresting him so many times in the past.

  Lieutenant Mortmain is my second, I heard Doucette say. He'll accompany me. Mortmain looked over at me. And you can come too, Dig, he told me. (He always called me Dig or Digger in an exaggerated British way.) I got dressed. I have to say I didn't want to miss out on being arrested either.

  I have transportation room only for two prisoners, said the provost.

  We'll squeeze up, said the Boss.

  They took us to the harbourmaster's office under Castle Rock. There were a collection of ship's captains in there, and an American colonel. One of the captains was a very angry Dutchman. We should not have dared to touch his ship. He had recently been attacked in New Guinea waters by Japanese aircraft, and he was very jumpy. When he stopped talking, Doucette apologised and said that he wanted to alert people to the vulnerability of Australian ports. (I think he'd earned the right to tell that slight untruth.)

  And the thin-lipped old Scot who was harbourmaster asked him in a brogue that could have ground wheat if he was saying he wanted this outrage reported in the scandal sheets?

  There were some naval officers in the harbourmaster's office and they all seemed calm, laughing now and then. But the Boss, Mortmain and myself were careful not to laugh. Mortmain merely shifted that ridiculous monocle around by the muscular force of his cheek and eyebrow as if he was laughing inside. The Australian captain of the Warradgerry spoke up and said he was sure this event was merely intended to be news amongst us.

  And Doucette answered, It was a stunt unworthy of public attention, sir, but useful to those who have ears to listen.

  The captain seemed quite jolly given that fake limpet mines had been put all over his ship. He assumed that Doucette had authorisation for this exercise? The Boss undid the top button of his khaki shirt and brought forth some documents which were wrapped in cellophane. He placed them on the table, not being too definite about who would pick them up first. The naval captain did. When the cellophane was unwrapped, two separate typed letters were visible. The captain read the first one and passed it to the harbourmaster. Then read the second and did the same. Then the letters made their way around the Dutch, the three French and the Australian merchant captains and were absorbed one at a time. At the end of the line they were passed to the American colonel. They did not seem to make a huge impression on him, but his face remained neutral throughout the whole thing. He excused himself, stepped through the line of merchant captains and returned the letters to the Australian navy man in charge of the port without comment or thanks. Then he resumed his place in the far corner of the room.

  The Australian port commander declared it seemed both General Wavell and General Blamey had given Doucette open slather or carte blanche, and some of the captains might be angry and embarrassed, but a greater good had probably been achieved. He himself didn't seem angry and embarrassed.

  As we all emerged, the merchant captains walking down the docks to their sundry ships, the captain of the Warradgerry stopped to talk to us. He invited us to attend drinks in the wardroom that evening. Doucette said we would be honoured to. The captain explained why he and the local naval commander were so friendly to us. He'd been telling the Scot for a long time that a complete boom needed to be laid inside the harbour. But the old harbourmaster, who'd held the job since the 1920s, argued some of the native captains coming in from the islands would get themselves caught up in it. The captain said the harbourmaster thought it was still 1935. He saluted and so we saluted back like real gents.

  For the sun was shining on their faces, and rewarding them, or making promises they could imagine were castiron. Leo's account continues exultant, and shows that even a mock-martial triumph can endow the heroes with the better lines, and a sense of divine assurance; exactly what I would have wanted him to have.

  There was no time to go back to the officers' club before drinks hour aboard the Warradgerry. We decided we would fill in the time by going to the Townsville Hotel and having tea on their verandah, and begging a piece of their stationery so that the Boss could write a list of the ships we had marked. He was doing this while Mortmain and I drank our black tea, exactly right for a warm place like Townsville, bringing out a sort of cleansing sweat. Then we saw the high-ranked American who had been in the harbourmaster's office was standing over us, very thin and tall. His shadow fell over the Boss's page, and he looked up. The American asked us if it would be an intrusion if he joined us.

  Certainly not, said the Boss, but in that icy British way which actually means I'd prefer you went away. Doucette did not rise to salute this more senior soldier, and so neither did we. Strange, since the Brits were so crazy on rituals, but then we'd all got out of the habit of it during our training.

  So the American took a seat. I looked at his uniform – it was great tailoring. The Boss introduced us. This was Lieutenant-Colonel Jesse Creed, he told us. Creed wore the insignia of the American intelligence corps.

  The tall man smiled.

  I was wondering if I could have a confidential word, Creed asked Doucette. The Boss said certainly, and then Creed looked significantly at Mortmain and myself, suggesting we should leave. I was already standing up to go. But the Boss said, These gentlemen can stay.

  Creed agreed, making the best of it he could. He asked the Boss about the spare engine for the Japanese fishing boat, Pengulling. I hear it's turned up, he said.

  Being installed as we speak, said the Boss.

  That was the first I'd heard of it, but I really hoped it was true. It was time.

  Creed shook his head and grinned. You English, you do things all your own way, he said.

  I'm actually an Irishman, said the Boss. But he only said it for the sake of argument since he was one of those Irishmen who considered himself British.

  You'd have a hard time proving that in New York, Creed told him.

  I am, begorrah, said the Boss, without a smile. I'm Irish as Shackleton. Irish as that ponce Oscar Wilde, Irish as Dean Swift or Sheridan or Oliver Goldsmith.

  Creed said, All right then. Since your cranky old boat's getting its temporary repair .
. . the question arises. Was this morning to improve the safety of dear old Townsville, the delightful place destiny has placed us? Or was it a dress rehearsal?

  It was an expression of brio, sir, said Doucette, but still without any emphasis in his voice.

  Loosen up a bit, for God's sake, Creed said. Last time I read about it, we were allies.

  So I could tell you everything, and you would say, That's absolutely splendid and we Yanks can help. But when the time came, you wouldn't be available. As happened with young Waterhouse here. Suddenly, no sub for his jaunt. That's what happens with you chaps all the time.

  Creed was angry and his face flushed for a moment. He said, We did lose a sub off New Britain. That's eighty men who drowned, whose lungs choked with water. But a person would think we did it just to thwart IRD and cause you offence, Major Doucette.

  The Boss murmured, If that's the impression I gave, then I apologise. But I think there's a policy on your side to keep us permanently training for ops which get cancelled. And it's just not good enough.

  And he didn't give an inch.

  Creed lowered his voice. There's a rumour around that you're going up to Java, to Surabaya, say, in that cranky old bathtub of yours.

  That was indeed the rumour. The Boss might have spread it deliberately, though he told me it would be better if there were no rumour at all.

  The American said, God forbid you got into trouble, but I could make sure your distress calls were acted on. I must be crazy talking to you like this, on a hotel balcony. I'll approach you more formally and, Major, I'll expect a private meeting and a polite answer.

  Perhaps you should talk to Major Doxey at IRD, the Boss said, suddenly stricken with a fake air of helpfulness. And he smiled now, like a boy. He did have a boy's wiry build and lolly-legs, and seemed maybe fifteen years younger than he was when he did that grin.