by Peter Watt
Charles rose unsteadily to his feet to walk over to the large window overlooking the driveway below. ‘Are you going to tell my wife?’
‘I would rather it remain our secret,’ Jane said. ‘I suppose we both share things that should remain between the two of us.’
‘You’re right,’ Charles said. ‘Secrets not to be shared.’
‘Thank you,’ Jane said, feeling a burden lift from her shoulders. Her confession had been spontaneous, but she was glad she had made it. At least the man who had raised Michael as a father knew he had a granddaughter.
Jane excused herself, and went to her room where she undressed and slipped under the sheets. The Scotch had gone to her head in a pleasant way, and she began to doze in the darkness when she suddenly had an acute feeling she was not alone. Opening her eyes slowly, she stared into the shadows and stifled a scream, lest it alert the strange figure she was looking at. It was a semi-naked Aboriginal man – she knew that from books she’d read at school – with a long grey beard and scars on his thin chest. He was holding a spear and she could see a sad smile on his face. Then suddenly he was gone.
Jane sat up in bed and looked around frantically. She saw nothing but felt her heart pounding in her breast. It had to be a dream, she told herself. Or the invention of an overactive imagination. But as she drifted into sleep, she thought she could smell the pungent aroma of pipe tobacco wafting in the room. When she reflected on the brief encounter, she felt a chill of dread. It was as if he had come to warn her of something . . . but what?
TWENTY-ONE
Bullets bounced off the steel girders of the bridge as the column of armoured vehicles and trucks rushed across. All were surprised that the rebel army had not put up a determined defence at the township of Wanie Rukula. Even so, the rear-guard defence by the enemy still took two more lives from the assault force of mercenaries. The road ahead was clear and Mike Hoare gave the order to advance at high speed towards Stanleyville.
The word quickly went down the column that Belgian paratroopers had been dropped onto the airfield at Stanleyville two-and-a-half hours earlier.
‘Those bloody Belgian paras are good,’ Frankie said. ‘It might be over by the time we get into Stanleyville.’
Michael glanced along the line of others wearing the mercenary beret. Each man was silent, awaiting what they expected to be a major battle in an urban area.
‘Let’s hope so,’ Michael replied. ‘Let’s hope they were in time to save the hostages – poor bastards.’
In Stanleyville only hours earlier, rebel-held Radio Stanley had blasted out over the airwaves: ‘Ciyuga! Ciyuga! Kill all the white people! Kill all the men, women and children. Kill them all. Have no scruples. Use your knives and your pangas!’
The previous day the rebel newspaper Le Martyr had written, We shall cut out the hearts of all the American and Belgians and we shall wear them as fetishes. We shall dress ourselves in the skins of the Americans and Belgians.
Even as the Belgian paratroopers fought their way from the captured airfield into the city, the Simbas rounded up their prisoners and marched them to the street in ranks of three, ordering them to halt and sit down. The hostages could hear the Belgian gunfire coming closer by the minute, but their hope was dampened when they saw a grotesque figure of a man dressed in a monkey-skin cape begin to gesticulate to the guards armed with rifles, machine guns, spears and pangas to commence slaughtering the Europeans and Americans. A shot rang out and the massacre began. Women and children were particularly singled out and shot at point-blank range.
After the first shots many of the prisoners broke and ran for cover in different directions. Some made it, many did not. Many families died together, clutching each other.
The Belgian paras arrived on the site of the massacre to find the bodies of over eighty dead men, women and children.
The mercenary convoy entered the township expecting to fight all the way, but they were met by a solitary Belgian para. They shouted, ‘Viva la Paris!’ as they passed.
The convoy continued another four kilometres until they reached Lumumba Square at the centre of the town. There they disembarked from the trucks to await further orders.
While waiting, Michael and the men of his commando formed up in three ranks to be addressed by Mike Hoare, who informed them of how proud he was of each and every one of them. Michael stood tall amongst the ranks with his rifle butt resting by his right boot. Trained and led by this man who stood ten-feet tall in the eyes of his loyal Wild Geese, he felt the pride of a job well done, and only for a moment reflected on those friends he had lost over the months of vicious warfare in the jungles of the Congo.
*
‘I had the strangest experience last night,’ Jane said at the breakfast table. Only Charles and Sarah were with her as the housekeeper served breakfast.
‘Oh, what happened?’ Sarah asked, sipping a cup of tea.
‘I do not know if I was dreaming, but I am sure I was awake when I suddenly saw an old Aboriginal man standing in the room at the foot of my bed.’
Sarah’s cup fell from her fingers, spilling tea across the fine linen tablecloth. ‘Wallarie!’ she gasped, and immediately stood up and left the dining room.
‘Did I say something to upset Sarah?’ Jane asked, shocked.
‘You have seen the ghost that haunts the Macintosh family,’ Charles said with a grim smile. ‘Sarah believes that when Wallarie appears under the roof of this house it means someone in the family is going to die a violent death. It is little more than ignorant superstition, but she refuses to see that.’
‘He was so real,’ Jane said. She paused for a moment, an expression of fear on her face. ‘Do you think the old man came to tell me something bad was about to happen to Michael?’
‘Surely you don’t really think you saw a ghost?’ Charles said kindly. ‘I think something was said to put the seed in your unconscious and that fed your imagination.’
‘It is possible, I suppose,’ she conceded. She hoped so because if Sarah was right, it might mean Michael was in danger.
*
Terituba walked the last couple of miles to Glen View in his uniform. His slouch hat provided protection against the blazing sun. He had found that wearing his uniform helped get him lifts from sympathetic motorists as he hitchhiked into the interior of Queensland. It had not helped him get a cold beer – even in uniform and wearing his General Service Medal riband; in fact he had been ejected from a hotel on the coast. Terituba was bitter. He had served his country in two wars, yet the colour of his skin meant he did not have the right to enter a hotel and have a drink.
As he saw the homestead on the horizon and heard the sound of the cattle lowing not far away, he knew he was home. He had not sent a telegram to inform anyone he was on his way. It would be a surprise to his family and cobbers.
Terituba squinted at the haze to see the figure of a man on a horse approaching him at a canter. The mounted man reined his horse to a halt and blinked in surprise.
‘Bloody hell! Is that you, Terituba?’ the man asked, and the Aboriginal soldier recognised Mitch, the second in charge of Glen View.
‘Yeah, cobber, back from the war,’ Terituba replied.
‘Hop on, digger,’ Mitch said. ‘I’ll take you up to your old man at the house.’
Terituba swung onto the horse behind Mitch and they rode the last mile to the Glen View homestead. There he saw his father sitting with Donald Macintosh on the verandah sipping tea. Both men rose to their feet as Terituba jumped down from the horse, and Billy hobbled down the stairs, supported by a walking stick, to go to his son and hug him.
‘You bin away too long,’ he said when he released Terituba.
Donald stepped in and shook Terituba’s hand with a firm grip. ‘Good to see you, son,’ he said. ‘We are all very proud of your service.’
‘Terituba!’ The cry from the fro
nt door was as explosive as a Mills hand grenade going off, and the three men turned to see Terituba’s mother running towards her son, her flour-speckled dress billowing in her rush to reach him.
She grabbed her son and Terituba fought for breath as she hugged him tightly to her. She kissed him all over his face, then finally stepped back to examine him.
‘You too skinny,’ she said. ‘They not feedin’ my boy in the army.’
Terituba was not skinny. His fighting years had toughened his body, and every muscle stood out.
‘Leave the boy alone, woman,’ Billy growled gently.
‘I’ll get my boy some scones,’ Mary said, still taking in this fine-looking young man wearing the uniform of the Australian Army.
‘I have a better idea,’ Donald said. ‘How about I fetch a couple of cold beers to celebrate the return of a digger safely from the jungles of Borneo.’
‘Mr Macintosh,’ Terituba grinned, ‘I haven’t had a cold beer since I left Borneo. The bastards here won’t let me have one.’
Large bottles of beer were brought to the verandah and the three men sat down in the shade.
‘To your safe return to us,’ Donald said, raising his glass. ‘And that you remain safe in the service of your country.’
The three men took long swigs of the cold liquid, and Terituba took off his slouch hat, placing it on a table nearby.
‘You know, Terituba,’ Donald said, gazing at the hat, ‘you and I have both worn that hat at different times with great pride. How is the army treating you?’
‘Good, Mr Macintosh. In the army we don’t have white or black skin. We have green skin and my cobbers are my brothers. They stick up for me against whitefellas who call me a dirty Abo.’
Donald understood. ‘And how is Patrick? The last news we got from him was that he was thinking about not extending his service.’
‘Yeah, he got a girl an’ decided that she was more important than the army. He’s becoming a civvy after Christmas. Patrick gone down to Sydney on his Christmas leave to stay with his Uncle Sean. Reckons he’ll become a lawyer. I think he should stay in the army because he is a bloody good soldier like me. We a team.’
‘If you ever wanted to leave the army, you know you have a job and a home here,’ Donald suggested.
‘Thanks, Mr Macintosh, but we got another war in Vietnam to go to, an’ it’s going to be bigger than Malaya and Borneo. The army needs me there. We gonna get a lot of nashos an’ they will need experienced soldiers who know about jungles an’ stuff to help keep them alive.’
The mention of national servicemen going to war caused Donald to feel a pang of fear. His eldest son, Bryce, was coming of age and would be eligible for two years of military service that could take him into a war.
The day passed as Donald and Terituba swapped stories of their army days. Finally it was time for Terituba to go and look up his old friends on the station, leaving Donald pondering this war emerging in what he had once known as Indochina. The Vietnamese had beaten the best of the French army, and now the Americans felt they could do what the French had failed to do. But Donald knew from personal experience that fighting a war in a tropical country of mountains and dense rainforest was not the same as manoeuvring on the plains of Europe in great armoured divisions, supported by air power and artillery. He prayed that Bryce would continue his engineering studies and, if called up, opt to defer his service until the war in Vietnam was over. The problem was there were just not enough tough and experienced soldiers like Terituba to go around when the extra battalions were raised to commit to the war so far north of Glen View.
*
Former Sergeant Patrick Duffy felt out of place back in a world not governed by the strict rules and regulations of the army. At his Uncle Sean’s flat in Sydney, he could sleep in till whatever hour he pleased and go where he wanted without a leave pass. It took some getting used to.
The smell of bacon and eggs being cooked in the flat’s tiny kitchen wafted over to Patrick, who glanced at the alarm clock at the side of his bed. It was 8 am and Patrick felt guilty for sleeping in, even though it was Saturday morning. Later he would go to the beach to catch a wave or two bodysurfing. Then it would be time to join Sean for a cold beer at the pub, and maybe a barbecue at an old friend’s place. The only thing missing from this idyllic life was Sally, who had flown to Hong Kong for a business meeting.
‘Hey! You are absent from place of parade,’ Sean called as Patrick slipped on a pair of shorts and short-sleeved shirt to join his uncle at the breakfast table. Patrick decided to give shaving a miss and ambled into the kitchen to see his plate of bacon and eggs on the table next to a big glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a couple of pieces of buttered toast.
Sean sat down at the table, joining the young man he had practically raised after his mother died in Changi prison.
‘On Monday we will submit the application to the Solicitors Admission Board for you to be articled to me,’ Sean said, shaking copious amounts of salt on his eggs. ‘Needless to say I will be paying you more than other articled clerks receive, as you will be looking after the probate and trust accounts while you do your studies. I will pay you what you received as a sergeant in the army.’
‘Thanks, Uncle Sean,’ Patrick replied, pushing the edge of his toast into the soft centre of an egg. ‘I figure I will be a bit older than the average articled clerk.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Sean answered. ‘In a reasonable time you will be able to take over from me and my practice will be yours. It keeps the Duffy name on the front door.’
Patrick had thought about a career in law. He had been in the top ten per cent of graduating students at school and had established a good network of friends amongst the sons of the rich and powerful. His marks had been so high he could have applied for medicine, but after his experiences as a soldier he had seen more than enough blood and guts.
‘There is something else I should mention to you,’ Sean said. ‘I am getting married in January and I would like you to be my best man.’
Patrick was in the process of swallowing a mouthful of orange juice when Sean casually delivered this statement. Patrick spluttered his juice on the formica tabletop.
‘You are doing what?’ he gasped, clearing his throat.
Sean grinned at him. ‘I thought that might be a surprise,’ he said. ‘Me, a decrepit old man, getting married.’
Patrick stared across the table at this man he loved as if he was his real father.
‘Holy hell!’ Patrick said, wiping his mouth. ‘Do I know the lady crazy enough to take you on?’
‘I doubt it,’ Sean replied calmly, cutting his bacon. ‘She is a cousin to Harry Griffiths. Actually, I met her at his funeral. One could say that old Harry planned the meeting from beyond the grave.’
‘She’s not after your money, is she?’ Patrick asked bluntly.
Sean laughed. ‘She has three times the money I have earned over all the years I have been a solicitor. Her husband was a successful businessman who left her a very rich widow. Poor bastard ended up dying from the effects of gas on the Western Front. You will get to meet Rose next weekend. She is having a fondue dinner party at her Potts Point apartment and you are the honoured guest. She always has a good stock of Penfolds Dalwood claret and pinot riesling on hand. So, old chap, it’s goodbye to my beer-swilling days – except when I head down to the pub with you.’
With a broad smile Patrick shook his head. In the army, officers drank claret in their mess. Sergeants drank beer. To complete this new and sophisticated lifestyle, all that was missing was Miss Sally Howard-Smith.
TWENTY-TWO
Sarah and Charles stood in the air terminal with Lady Georgina, Jane and Victoria. It was time for them to return to England to spend time at their country manor.
‘I envy you celebrating a white Christmas,’ Sarah said. ‘Here we always seem to suf
fer the hottest day of the year, with bushfires burning in the Blue Mountains.’
‘You should consider joining us next year,’ Lady Georgina said. ‘Perhaps your son will be with you and he can take you on a tour of the countryside.’
Charles glanced at Jane, who appeared downcast at the mention of Michael. While Lady Georgina and Sarah chatted about trivial matters awaiting the boarding call, he gently took Jane aside.
‘I hope your mother is right about Michael being with us next Christmas,’ he said quietly.
‘I have been reading about the terrible things happening in Africa,’ Jane said. ‘I have a recurring nightmare that something awful will happen to Michael, preventing him from ever knowing he has a beautiful daughter.’
Jane glanced at Victoria standing quietly by Lady Georgina’s side. She was a holding a stuffed toy koala bear, given to her by Sarah as an early Christmas present and souvenir of her short stay in Australia.
‘When she smiles I think I am seeing her father smiling at me,’ Jane said sadly.
‘One day you and Michael will be together,’ Charles said. ‘And if he has half a brain, he will see what a wonderful young lady you are. I could not think of a better daughter-in-law.’
Jane hugged Charles impulsively. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
The boarding call came and the White family made their way to the tarmac baking under a hot summer sun. The jet engine Boeing sat waiting for its cargo of passengers. The flight to London would take around thirty-four hours, with eight stops along the way to refuel. Lady Georgina travelled first class, of course, as befitting the wife of a multimillionaire.
They turned and waved to Charles and Sarah who waited until they saw them disappear at the top of the boarding ladder. When they were out of sight, Sarah turned to Charles. ‘What were you and Jane talking about?’ she asked.
‘Nothing much,’ Charles shrugged. ‘Just family secrets.’