by Peter Watt
During the night he had his force ferried over the river, and by four in the morning they were in place for the strike a hundred kilometres away.
Michael barely glimpsed the sun rise over the African countryside as he sat in the back of one of the transport trucks, dozing with his rifle between his knees. Beside him, Frankie was in a similar state. A couple of hours later Michael was fully awake, rifle ready as the trucks sped into the picturesque mining town that lay between green, forested hills.
The local people fell out of their houses as the trucks entered, giving the Lumumba salute, thinking the white men were Russians. At least the Simbas had realised who the men were and had abandoned a strategic bridge across a roaring torrent. A detachment was dropped off to hold the bridge against any possible counterattack.
Michael saw the flash of a body moving in the grass beside the road and he snapped off a shot, satisfied his bullet had found its mark. His comrades were also firing, leaving dead Simbas spread-eagled along the road. Michael could see the buildings of the mission station and wondered whether they had arrived early enough to save the priests.
The trucks came to a stop and he and Frankie leapt out, rifles ready. A big Simba waving a panga rushed from a verandah at them, and both men fired simultaneously, observing the man’s body flung back by the impact of the heavy rifle rounds. Blood immediately oozed from the twin wounds in his chest.
‘Go, go!’ came the order, and the mercenaries fanned out, firing at any Simba attempting to flee.
Michael crashed through the entrance to the main building and, with others of the assaulting force, made his way to rooms locked with heavy bolts. He could hear the cries of the terrified priests calling to them for their freedom. The bolts were withdrawn and the priests spilled out in their filth-encrusted white soutanes, embracing their saviours.
One of the priests babbled that the civilians in the town were also in a similar situation: prisoners awaiting execution. Orders were quickly issued, and Michael found himself in the streets, going from building to building, releasing the African workers and their families, who were as grateful for being rescued as the priests.
Michael could not help but feel an overwhelming sense of having done something good – despite the condemnation of the United Nations. He and his comrades were putting their lives on the line, rescuing innocent men, women and children.
The commander chose a triangular piece of ground at the centre of the town, near the post office, to separate prisoners from the local people. He was told that a Belgian miner and his four-year-old daughter residing about ten kilometres away were also being held prisoner by the Simbas.
‘You two,’ the regimental sergeant major roared, ‘get aboard a truck. We have another rescue mission.’
Michael and Frankie scrambled onto the truck and joined the rescue convoy headed for the mining outpost.
Michael noticed uneasily that the track to the house was narrow and surrounded by dense rainforest. There was no chance of turning around if they were ambushed by the retreating rebel force. It was an uphill drive but they reached the summit without incident to find the house backed by equally dense forest. Michael could see a group of Simbas sprinting towards the cover of the rainforest on a steep slope behind the house, but they were too far away to shoot accurately. However, the order was given for the heavy machine guns to spray the forest where the Simbas had disappeared, discouraging them from sniping at the assaulting force. The retreating enemy were called upon to surrender – but none did.
The Belgian miner appeared from his front door and immediately prostrated himself, wailing, ‘My daughter, my daughter. She is in the bush. Please, please, stop shooting.’ It appeared that she had run off when the firing commenced.
The gunfire ceased and Hoare gave the order for his men to fan out and find the girl. Michael joined the skirmish line beside the regimental sergeant major as they pushed their way into the scrub, fully aware that the enemy could still be there. They called the little girl’s name, but Frankie expressed the view to Michael that if the Simbas had seen her first they would have hacked her to death with their razor-sharp pangas. Sadly, both men had witnessed the bodies of children murdered this way in their campaign in the Congo.
It was the RSM who found her first in a clump of long grass. He rushed to the little girl who was sobbing, clutching a ragdoll. He scooped her up in his arms, tears streaming down his rugged face.
Michael slapped Frankie on the back in his joy at the child being found alive and unharmed. ‘You miserable Pommy bastard,’ he said with a grin, quickly swiping a tear from the corner of his eye. ‘See, some stories have a happy ending.’
This day had been one of saving innocent people, and for a moment Michael recalled a short poem by Alfred Edward Housman. Michael loved poetry at school, and as he walked towards the waiting trucks he found himself softly reciting the poem to himself. It was titled, ‘Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries’.
These, in the day when heaven was falling,
The hour when earth’s foundations fled,
Followed their mercenary calling,
And took their wages, and are dead.
Their shoulders held the sky suspended;
They stood, and earth’s foundations stay;
What God abandoned, these defended,
And saved the sum of things for pay.
‘Hey, Aussie, what are you blubbering about?’ Frankie asked, seeing the tears streaming down Michael’s face. ‘We’re still alive.’
‘Ignorant Pommy bastard, you wouldn’t understand,’ Michael flashed back without rancour as he slung his rifle over his shoulder and boarded the truck. He knew this day would remain with him for as long as he lived . . . however long that should be in the Congo.
*
It was that time of day when the world seemed at peace with itself. The sun was a huge orange ball over the brigalow plains and a small dust mist drifted at its edge. The temperature was dropping enough to make the coming evening pleasant. Jessica Duffy-Macintosh sat on the verandah of Glen View homestead gazing out across her property. She held a fine china cup of tea and reflected on how peaceful this remote place was compared to the hustle and bustle of the big city and the boardroom meetings she was forced to attend in managing her financial empire.
Jessica watched as her fifteen-year-old son strode across the green lawn now thriving in front of the sprawling house. She smiled at his resemblance to her father. Kim had the dark complexion enhanced by his time working with the ringers mustering cattle. He was tall and broad-shouldered, a characteristic of his forebears, and spoke with a drawl he had picked up working with the European and Aboriginal stockmen.
Over his shoulder was his saddle and on his head was his battered broad-brimmed hat covered in the fine red dust of the plains.
‘Hello, Ma. What’s for dinner?’ he asked with a slow smile when he reached the verandah.
‘Nothing – until you wash up,’ Jessica answered with her own loving smile. ‘Roast beef with pan-made gravy.’
Kim stepped up on the verandah and gave his mother a quick kiss, before disappearing inside the homestead, where she could hear him swapping stories with his father about the cattle they had recovered from the edge of the property.
Donald joined his wife on the verandah, a cold glass of beer in hand. He sat down in one of the cane chairs to watch the sun slowly disappearing behind the scrub.
‘Well, I read that you are one of the richest women in Australia,’ Donald said. ‘Have you thought about retiring and returning permanently to Glen View? There’s a vacancy for president in the local Country Women’s Association. You could make them the wealthiest branch in Australia.’
‘Could you imagine me sitting around having tea and scones, chattering about embroidery?’ Jessica said. ‘I would go mad. Besides, who in the family will take over the reins of corporate enterprise
when I do decide to retreat from the insane world of business? Bryce couldn’t leave quick enough to pursue a life at university in Sydney, and from what I can see, Kim is a chip off the old block. All he wants to do is remain at Glen View – or manage another property of ours. As for Shannon . . . well, who knows? At thirteen she has aspirations of becoming an actress. She is certainly pretty enough to do that.’
‘I gather my sister has the same problem. I have heard from Charles that Michael had enlisted with Mad Mike Hoare’s mercenaries in the Congo. I wonder if he did that to spite his mother.’
‘I remember Michael as a shy young boy when he would come to stay with us up here. And now he’s a man fighting in some godforsaken war on the other side of the world, just as Patrick and Terituba are.’
‘It seems to be a kind of curse on both sides of the family.’ Donald sighed and took a sip from his glass of beer. ‘The men – and women, when we count your exploits on the frontlines during the last war – seem to gravitate to dangerous occupations like soldiering. I wonder if old Wallarie is still out there looking over us.’
Jessica turned her attention to the place where the old bumbil tree used to stand at the front of the homestead. It was little more than a termite-eaten stump now, but many times Jessica had sat on the verandah wishing for the old man’s appearance. But, like the tree, Wallarie was long gone, and all Jessica could think was that he was the spirit she saw in the lightning of the storms over the plains, or the great wedge-tailed eagles soaring on the thermals overhead. Jessica had told her children his story when they were young, but they had little interest in it these days. Even the ancient cave on the hill was a place that held no interest to the new generation. Now it was rock and roll music, transistor radios and television – although Glen View still did not yet have that luxury. So much had been forgotten.
As if reading her thoughts, Donald piped up, ‘I got a letter from Bryce’s university asking permission to carry out a study of the cave up on the hill. It seems that Bryce mentioned its existence to a person in the anthropology department, and they would like to send out a team to examine the paintings there.’
‘There is not much interest in Aboriginal culture,’ Jessica said. ‘I wonder why they would bother.’
‘Funny story,’ Donald said. ‘It seems a young bloke, although he would not be so young now, by the name of Cyril Walker has a friend in the department. Cyril is a top journo in Sydney these days, and he told his mate about how your father went down fighting for the property. It must have piqued the interest of the academics. Anyway, do we allow the excursion here?’
‘Why not?’ Jessica replied. ‘Just so long as they understand that no woman can enter the cave.’
‘Don’t you think that’s a little superstitious?’ Donald said.
‘No,’ Jessica replied. ‘I am the only one left in the family to protect our traditions. It was the law of my ancestors.’
Donald glanced at his wife and remembered that she carried the blood of the first people to inhabit Glen View before Sir Donald Macintosh, his own ancestor, came to this part of Queensland and slaughtered Jessica’s ancestors.
‘Have you spoken to your cousin David lately?’ Jessica asked, changing the subject.
‘I met with him briefly at the Rocky cattle markets last month when he was passing through on a parliamentary fact-finding mission. He didn’t have much time to chat, but it was good to see him.’
‘I suppose he did not mention this new act they are pushing through parliament to conscript twenty-year-olds for military service,’ Jessica said.
‘No,’ Donald said. ‘But I heard from a mate that David is opposed to the bill, which has put him at odds with his own party.’
‘I have a bad feeling that this war in Indochina is going to get worse, and that both our sons will get caught up in it.’
‘They will have a lottery, to conscript young men, and the chances are that neither boy’s birthday will come out of the barrel.’
Jessica turned to her husband. ‘But what if they do?’ she asked, pain written all over her face.
‘Well, Bryce can defer, if he is still at uni,’ Donald reassured.
‘And Kim, what excuse will he have?’
‘We could send him overseas out of reach of conscription,’ Donald said.
‘What are you talking about, Dad?’ Kim said behind them. ‘If my number came up, I would go into the army. How could I run away when some of my mates will have to serve? You and Mum did your bit in the last war, and its only right that I do mine.’
‘You don’t have to prove anything,’ Donald said, turning to his son. ‘Besides, you wouldn’t have to worry about national service for at least another five years. By 1969 the war in Vietnam will be over.’
‘You’re probably right, Dad,’ Kim said. ‘I have to admit, I would rather stay here on Glen View with you.’
Donald felt a surge of love for his youngest son who loved this place like he did.
‘Daddy, can I have a transistor radio?’ Shannon asked, coming onto the verandah and sitting down in his lap. ‘All the girls at my school have one.’
Jessica frowned. She knew what the answer would be as her husband had never said no to his beloved daughter. She had Donald wrapped around her little finger.
‘I will talk to your mother about that,’ Donald said, glancing at Jessica’s frown and cringing at the thought that he might have to say no to her.
‘Possibly for Christmas,’ Jessica compromised.
‘But Christmas is forever,’ Shannon retorted. ‘I need one before I go back to school.’
‘I am sure the good sisters at your school have strict rules on the possession and use of radios in the dormitories,’ Jessica said and watched as the predictable pout appeared.
‘Daddy, please tell Mother that I will be ostracised if I don’t have a trannie like all the other girls,’ Shannon said.
‘“Ostracised”,’ Jessica repeated. ‘I’m pleased to see that the very expensive fees we are paying for your education are showing a result, young lady.’
‘Oh, Mother!’ Shannon said and jumped off her father’s lap to storm back into the house.
‘She’s just a spoilt baby,’ Kim commented, watching his sister disappear into the house. ‘Dad, can I have a Winchester .30-30 for Christmas? It’ll be good for the feral pigs at the bottom of the property.’
‘I’ll think about it.’ Donald sighed as his son went back inside, leaving him alone with Jessica as the myriad stars began to fill the night sky. ‘She’s growing up fast,’ he said. ‘They all are.’
‘And if I know you, Donald Macintosh, you will sneak a transistor radio into your daughter’s suitcase before she returns to boarding school.’ Jessica tried to sound stern but failed, and Donald accepted his beautiful wife knew everything worth knowing about him. His beloved daughter would get her wish – as she always did.
From the depths of the vast plains the cry of the curlews commenced as the moon rose to fade the stars.
What had Jessica’s ancestors believed about the eerie wailing of the bush birds at night? They were the spirits of the dead come to earth.
EIGHTEEN
Sergeant Patrick Duffy had been granted leave with his platoon at a beautiful location at the mouth of the Sungai Sarawak. With beaches, tropical seas and majestic rainforest, it was a paradise where the soldiers could temporarily forget the fear and drudgery of their patrols into Indonesian territory.
A cold can of beer in hand, sprawled out in a cane chair in shorts, Patrick leaned back with his eyes closed, thinking only of getting up to fetch another drink. He felt a shadow fall over him and opened his eyes to see Terituba standing there with two cans of beer.
‘Saved you a trip to the canteen,’ Terituba said, plonking himself in a spare reclining cane chair next to his best friend.
‘Corporal, you keep doing th
at for your platoon sergeant and I will be recommending you for promotion,’ Patrick said with a slow smile of contentment.
‘I got to get on a sergeant’s course first,’ Terituba said, taking a long swallow of the refreshing liquid. ‘At least in the army they let me have a beer. I can’t do that back home. But that Charlie Perkins showin’ the whitefella we got rights to vote an’ go where we want.’
Patrick thought about his friend’s comment. There were laws that prohibited Aboriginal people from drinking alcohol, which did not seem fair. He had seen how the Aboriginal stockmen on Glen View worked as hard as the white men, but by law they were not allowed to have a cold beer at the end of the day.
‘I see that Major Mann at the camp today,’ Terituba said. ‘He is bad news.’
Patrick had not seen the mysterious major since the Malayan campaign when they had trapped and killed Sam Po. The memory of seeing the young man die at his feet still haunted Patrick, given that had his mother lived she would not have abandoned the boy she had cared for in Changi and he might have become like a brother to Patrick.
‘Bloody hell, here he comes,’ Terituba said, getting up out of his chair, as did Patrick, to stand to attention.
Major Karl Mann was dressed in a starched set of jungle greens. ‘Good morning, Sergeant Duffy, Corporal Duffy. Stand easy and go back to what you were doing.’
‘Like a cold one, sir?’ Terituba asked politely.
‘No thanks, corp. I’m still on duty,’ Major Mann replied.
‘It’s been a while since we last saw you, sir,’ Patrick said, still standing but reaching for his can of beer. ‘What brings you out our way?’ he asked, knowing there was latitude for familiarity between a senior officer and NCO who had faced combat together.
‘As a matter of fact – you. And some other matters,’ said Major Mann. ‘I have never forgotten your ability in the field, and so, with my new posting, I thought you deserved a chance to join our newly formed unit – the Australian Army Training Team Vietnam – as an advisor. It would mean a General Service Medal with Vietnam clasp if you do join us. Sadly, Tracker, we only take sergeants and above for the team, but I will be talking to your boss to have you complete your sergeant’s course, as I know you two are a team in itself.’