From the Stars Above

by Peter Watt

  Patrick quickly replaced his headgear, snapped his best salute and, under barked orders from the RSM, about-turned and marched out of the office.

  On the verandah of BHQ, Patrick breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  ‘I’ll be watching you, Private Duffy – and your brother.’

  For a second Patrick swore he saw the hint of a smile on the most senior non-commissioned officer’s face. But that was not possible: RSMs were selected because they had been born without a sense of humour.

  Outside the barracks, Patrick was greeted by the grim-faced members of his section.

  ‘What’s the sentence, Pat?’ one of the members asked.

  ‘Not guilty,’ Patrick grinned. ‘I’ll be going out with the platoon tomorrow.’

  ‘You beauty!’ a couple of men chorused, and there was much back-slapping. Getting off a charge was next to impossible – but somehow Patrick had done it.

  ‘The boss must have told the CO about that bastard Morrow calling you a poofta,’ Terituba said.

  ‘Who told the boss what happened?’ Patrick asked in surprise.

  ‘All the platoon lined up and marched down to Gauden’s office an’ told ’im,’ Terituba said. ‘He went an’ saw the CO.’

  ‘Thanks, fellas,’ Patrick said.

  That night the platoon was assembled for a briefing on the next operation. This time they would be out for at least a week patrolling, gathering intelligence and laying ambushes – the bread and butter of counterinsurgency warfare.

  TWO

  He was struggling, entangled in barbed wire, shrapnel tearing at his uniform as he attempted to untangle himself.

  David Macintosh woke up screaming and slowly realised he was in the bedroom of his cottage overlooking the Tasman Sea in northern New South Wales. He was aware that he was not alone; a woman was standing in the doorway.

  ‘I heard you screaming when I arrived early this morning and thought that you were in trouble,’ Gail Glanville said as she moved towards David.

  ‘Just a memory of Africa,’ David said, sitting up. ‘It happens when the dreams come, and nowadays I’m not sure which war I’m in.’

  Gail knew that David had fought in the Spanish Civil War, the Middle East and North Africa, as well as in New Guinea and Korea where shrapnel damage to his leg had resulted in him living with a walking stick. They had met seven years ago when he returned from the Korean War, and in all that time he had not made a pass at her. She was a widow with a teenage son, Craig, who had come to think of David as his father. Gail knew that she was attractive to men and had always wondered why David had not seen that, as she had come to love this quiet man who mostly kept to himself.

  In the small community where they lived, he had proven to be generous to those in need and was highly respected. David sometimes drank at the local pub and former veterans gravitated to him; he was at home in their company. On the nights Gail had accompanied him, she would sit with the other women in the hotel’s saloon bar. Her friends would be forever questioning her about her relationship with the tall, broad-shouldered and ruggedly handsome man she was so often seen with in public. Her reply was always the same: they were neighbours and good friends – nothing more. And that was the truth, although she wished it were not. Why couldn’t David see how she felt about him?

  David swung his feet over the single bed. He was wearing boxer shorts and at the sight of his muscled body Gail felt a yearning to have him hold her. She looked away as he slipped on shorts and an old army shirt with its sleeves cut out. Outside the sun shone in the subtropical skies and a gentle breeze stirred the tops of the banana trees near the cottage’s tank stand.

  ‘I can make us breakfast,’ Gail suggested.

  ‘That would be nice.’ David followed her to his tiny kitchen where she stoked the cast-iron wood combustion stove. David sat down at the table, forcing the vivid memory of the nightmare from his mind. He had even given up his desire to create art in paintings and drank more often.

  When the fire was lit and the stove began to heat up, Gail took out a frying pan, some eggs from the kerosene-powered refrigerator and loose tea leaves from a tin on a sideboard.

  ‘I brought the local paper for you to read,’ Gail said, unfolding the paper to reveal the headlines.

  David glanced at the front page and a black-and-white photo of a familiar young man stared back at him. war hero stands for federal parliament in by-election. The article explained that former lieutenant Angus Markham was the son of a prominent federal politician who had served with distinction in the coalition parliament during the war.

  ‘That gutless bastard!’ David snarled. ‘I should have had him court-martialled.’

  ‘So it is the same man,’ Gail said. ‘The one you once told me was responsible for you losing your commission.’

  ‘That’s him, and he was no bloody hero. He was a downright coward who almost got his men killed.’

  ‘Now that my father-in-law is vacating his seat for the district, he thinks you should stand against Markham,’ Gail said.

  David knew John Glanville; the two men, introduced by Gail, had formed a soldier’s bond. John had served in the Great War as a company commander with the infantry. Often they talked politics when John was not in Canberra, and David always listened with interest. He had once raised the issue of having lost his commission because of the influence of Markham’s father in response to David having his son returned to Australia for an act of cowardice during the war in northern New Guinea. John Glanville had also informed David that the federal politician had made a small fortune profiting from the war and was not even respected by members of his own party.

  ‘I don’t have any experience in politics,’ David said.

  ‘John will be your mentor.’ Gail said. ‘He has enough influence in the party to have you nominated as the candidate for his old seat when he retires. I think you should seriously consider his offer. At least go and see him.’

  David sat staring at the photo of the man who had been responsible for stripping him of his commission. Eventually he glanced up at Gail hovering at the end of the table. ‘I will do it,’ he said. ‘From what I have seen, even a used-car salesman could get a seat in parliament these days.’

  *

  John Glanville’s house reflected his status in the community. It was a sprawling brick house atop a manicured hill, surrounded by a white-painted fence, and it had a view over rolling green fields and the ocean a few miles away.

  David drove his old Model T Ford up the fine gravel driveway to the house and was met outside by John – a big, burly man with a ruddy complexion and balding head. He was in his early sixties but walked with the step of a much younger man.

  ‘Hello, Dave,’ he greeted.

  ‘John,’ David responded, stepping from his old 1920s sedan.

  ‘Why don’t you get a new car?’ John asked, staring at the Model T held together with wire.

  ‘Maybe if I get into politics I might be able to afford a new car – or do they give you one for nothing?’

  John Glanville broke into a smile and, gesturing for David to follow him inside, called out, ‘Nancy, put on the billy and break out the scones.’

  John’s wife appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I made those scones for the CWA meeting this afternoon, so you can only have a couple of them. Hello, David.’

  ‘Damned woman,’ John growled softly when his wife disappeared back into the kitchen. ‘She’s trying to starve me to death since the doctor told her I was due for a heart attack and should lose weight and quit working. Take a seat.’

  David sat down on a lounge next to the radio in its ornate timber cabinet.

  ‘One day television is going to dominate the living room and politicians will no longer be simply a voice but also a face. Dave, you have the kind of face that inspires confidence.’

  ‘So that’
s all it takes, hey? Easier than I thought,’ David grinned.

  ‘Well, there is a bit more to being a politician,’ John said, easing himself back into a big leather chair. ‘Gail has already informed me that you and Angus Markham have a bit of history.’

  ‘The bastard was one of my platoon commanders when we were fighting up around Wewak. He panicked in front of his men, and when I found out I had him shipped back to Australia.’

  ‘In my day on the Western Front I would have just shot him,’ John said. ‘It’s different if a soldier panics, but it cannot be allowed for a commander. It’s just too dangerous.’

  David was quite sure that the big man sitting opposite would have carried out that kind of punishment. ‘You do know that I am a Jew,’ David said. ‘There is a bias against us even in Australia.’

  ‘The finest officer on the Western Front was General John Monash,’ John said as Nancy brought a tray with a teapot, small jug of milk, container of sugar – and just two scones adorned with rosella jam.

  ‘David, the scones are for you,’ Nancy said sweetly, and departed the living room to go to her Country Women’s Association meeting.

  John leaned over and took a scone. ‘As I was saying, Monash should have been commander of all Allied forces on the Western Front, but he had four things against him. He was of German heritage, a Jew, colonial and not even a regular officer – he was from the militia. Even Churchill supported him, but men like war correspondent Bean opposed his promotion. Bean was a good chap but a bit short-sighted about Monash. Anyway, enough of memories of other wars, I already knew that you were Jewish.’

  ‘How will that go down in a conservative party?’ David asked.

  ‘Well, we even have a few Roman Catholics in the ranks these days.’ John shrugged, wiping away a few scone crumbs from his ample stomach. ‘And we have been swamped with immigrants from Europe – no doubt one or two Jews have come over with them.’

  ‘Okay, how about the fact I fought in the Spanish Civil War with a Communist International Brigade?’ David said.

  ‘Were you a Communist?’ John asked, leaning forward.

  ‘No. I had been thrown into Dachau and was full of hatred for the Fascists. I was just young and stupid.’

  ‘Good enough,’ John said, leaning back in his chair. ‘You will attend our next local party meeting, sign up and give a rousing speech as to why you wish to stand for election as a Country Party representative. Just don’t mention you are out to sabotage Markham’s plans.’

  David sipped his tea and the talk turned from politics to soldiering. Both agreed that what Australia was doing in Malay would prevent the dominoes falling in South-East Asia. If the country fell to Communism it was possible the dominoes would continue to fall right up to the coast of Australia.

  Eventually it was time for David to return to his small macadamia plantation. He rose and John thrust out his hand. David felt its strength: it was the hand of a farmer before that of a politician.

  ‘You know I also have another good reason to nominate you as my replacement,’ John said.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘My grandson,’ John said. ‘Since the death of my son – who should never have been a soldier – I have seen how Craig has taken to you, and in return how you have guided him with care and wisdom. You have become like a father to him, and for that I thank you. I am surprised that my daughter-in-law has not made a play for you. I know that she loves you. You have to admit she is a beautiful woman, and I also know every single man in the district would give anything to have her. But she only has eyes for you. Do you prefer men?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ David replied. ‘It’s just that every woman I have loved has had a tragic end. Maybe I’m cursed. I swore a long time ago I would not allow another woman into my life for that reason.’

  ‘Do you have feelings for Gail?’ the former politician asked bluntly.

  David did not answer but released his grip and walked away. Did he have feelings for Gail? He knew the answer to that question.

  *

  Michael Macintosh, son of Sarah Macintosh and Charles Huntley, was at that awkward age when he was no longer a boy but yet to become a man. He stood staring vacantly across a land of scrubby trees stretching as far as the eye could see. The sun was a red ball on the horizon and this time of day brought a kind of serenity to the vast and ancient plains of central Queensland. Soon the stars would appear in a countless blaze from horizon to horizon and the sound of the nocturnal birds and animals would fill the night. Glen View Station would be an oasis in the endless plains of scrub and red earth. Michael was on holidays at Glen View, but he felt down. His old mates, Patrick and Terituba, were in Malaya fighting a war Michael’s friends hardly knew about. Patrick occasionally sent him letters filled with their escapades as soldiers in a foreign land. He had shown the letters to his friends at his expensive private school but they had little interest in the lives of private soldiers. Their eyes were on the world of banking and finance.

  Michael felt very much alone as he stared across the scrub at the setting sun.

  Behind him was the ever-expanding Glen View homestead. A packed-earth road brought wheeled vehicles to the property these days, and a telephone line brought instant messages to this remote part of the country. There was even electricity provided by a bank of batteries powered by a windmill, and a big radio in the living room.

  ‘Are you coming in for dinner? called his Aunt Jessie from the verandah.

  ‘Yes, Aunt Jessie,’ Michael replied and dawdled back to the homestead with his hands in his pockets. Over the years of travelling to Glen View at his father’s insistence, Michael had grown very fond of his Uncle Donald and Aunt Jessica. He had grown used to his Uncle Donald’s badly scarred face, which he knew was an injury from the war. Their kids were younger than Michael, and although he was fond of them, he did not have the same bond with them as he had with Patrick and Terituba. As it was, this would be his last visit to Glen View for a long time as his mother had organised for him to be sent to England to finish his schooling at one of the prestigious private schools there. She had told him this was his opportunity to make contacts with the rich and powerful families of the Old Country. As he was highly intelligent and good-looking with a quiet charm, she felt that he would fit in and establish bonds with some important families. Michael was not so sure.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Michael?’ Jessica asked when she saw the expression on the young man’s face.

  ‘I was just thinking how much fun it used to be when Pat, Terituba and I would go out in the bush to hunt for goannas with spears. That seems a lifetime ago now,’ he sighed.

  ‘It was only about five years ago,’ Jessie smiled. ‘Time is different when you grow older. It just seems to fly.’

  Michael looked at her and she could see that he was struggling with something.

  ‘Why does my mother hate you so much?’ he blurted.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Jessica replied quietly. ‘The land you stand on now is sacred to both her and me. Many of your ancestors are buried here in the little cemetery – and so are many of mine. Around the time you were born, your uncles Donald and David voted that the property be sold to my father, Tom Duffy. Your mother was enraged by the sale, and my father gave his life defending his right to own this land.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ Michael said. ‘My mother has never mentioned it.’

  ‘I suspect that your mother has not told you a lot of things, but all the ill will between your mother and me has nothing to do with you. Your father is a fine man and understands that you need to know your extended family. You are your own person.’

  ‘I have to return home on Thursday,’ Michael said. ‘Do you think I could ride out to the hill tomorrow?’

  ‘I can’t see why not,’ Jessica replied. ‘I will pack you some sandwiches to take with you, but be back by nightfall
. It is easy to get lost out there.’

  The following morning Michael saddled a horse, packed the sandwiches and canteens of water. He rode in the direction of the sacred hill and reached it just on midday. He dismounted, tethering his horse to a scrubby tree, retrieved his wrapped sandwiches, a canteen of water and a torch and proceeded to climb the well-worn trail to the top. In all the times he had visited Glen View for his holidays he had never been to the mysterious hill. Whenever he had asked Patrick and Terituba to take him there they had always refused. Terituba had simply said it was a baal place haunted by ghosts of the old ones killed many years earlier by the Native Mounted Police. Michael did not believe in ghosts and saw only an ancient volcanic plug eroded over millions of years.

  He struggled up the old trail under a fireball in the sky, sweating as he went and sipping from his water canteen. Eventually he reached the top where a great flat panorama of red earth and spindly scrub revealed itself to him. He sat down under the tiny sliver of shade provided by an overhang of rock and opened the beef and chutney sandwiches. He devoured them and sighed with contentment. A great wedge-tailed eagle drifted overhead on the thermals and Michael gazed at its majestic flight.

  Eventually he stood up to go in search of a cave he had been told was on the hill. He quickly found the entrance beside a gnarled old tree. Michael flicked on the torch, shining its beam into the dark opening. It bounced off internal walls of rock, and he stepped inside to see what the cave held. Very few on Glen View talked about the cave on the hill and Michael was curious to see why.

  Inside it was cooler. The cave had a musty smell he recognised as coming from ancient, charred wood. At the centre of the cave he could see a place that had been used to light fires. When he directed the light beam to the walls, a mosaic of Aboriginal drawings revealed itself: stick figures in ancient hunts of giant kangaroos and other creatures he did not recognise. One stick figure with a raised spear caught his attention as it seemed to be desecrated by a sharp instrument. The white warrior fascinated him and he did not know why.