by Peter Watt
‘As soon as you’re out of here, Pat, we’ll head over to Sean’s old drinking hole and raise a glass to fallen comrades,’ David said.
‘That sounds like a plan,’ Patrick replied. ‘You know something funny,’ he continued. ‘While I was being choppered out of the AO, I could have sworn I heard old Wallarie telling me I wasn’t going to die. I was pumped with a lot of morphine at the time, so maybe I was hallucinating.’
‘Wallarie has a soft spot for the Duffy mob,’ David answered with a bitter laugh. ‘But I suspect he has never forgiven us Macintoshes for what we did to his people all those years ago on Glen View. That is, if you believe in superstitious blackfella curses.’
*
A small but heavy parcel arrived at Glen View and Donald took it into the kitchen to unwrap the brown paper. Jessica stood beside him as Donald laid a solid brass plaque on the table.
‘I think Billy and Mary will be pleased with this,’ Donald said, reading the inscribed lettering. It recorded the passing of Sergeant Terituba Duffy, killed in South Vietnam, 1968, and would be affixed to a small cairn on top of the sacred hill of Wallarie’s people.
‘He took our family name,’ Jessica said. ‘It was the least we could do for such a wonderful man.’
A car had driven up outside, beeping its horn, and Donald glanced at his wife.
‘Are you expecting visitors?’ he asked, and Jessica shook her head. They both went to the verandah to see a young man wearing an army uniform and slouch hat step from behind the wheel of the car.
It was Jessica who exploded in a demonstration of pure emotion. ‘Bryce!’ she screamed as she ran down the steps. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were coming home?’ she chided between tears of joy as she embraced her son.
‘I had to get my discharge out of the way and pick up this beauty with the money I saved. I just felt like driving home to you all as a surprise. Hello, Dad.’
Donald was down the stairs and hugging his eldest son as hard as he could. He stepped back to admire the young man wearing his ribands of service on his chest. ‘It is so good to have you back, son,’ he said. ‘I read about the battle for Balmoral and Coral.’
‘Yeah, it was a bit tough for a while,’ Bryce said, just as his younger brother rode in from mustering cattle.
‘Yer back, ya bastard!’ Kim said, flinging himself from his horse to embrace his big brother. ‘You still in the army?’
‘No, I got my discharge, and this will be the last day I wear an army uniform,’ Bryce grinned. ‘An officer warned me that if I did not sign up again I might end up digging ditches in Civvy Street. But I told him that at least I wouldn’t have to sleep in them.’
It was a scene of joyous reunion that had been repeated many times for many years of Australia’s short European history. Each generation prayed the next would not experience war – but their prayers were never answered.
*
When Patrick walked away from the solicitor’s office after signing off on the title deed to Sean’s flat, he took in the city around him. Christmas was around the corner and there was a festive air that was so different to what he had known only months earlier in the battle for the fire-support bases of Balmoral and Coral. Somehow he did not mind being medically discharged from the army, and every day his health was improving. However, his defence force pension was not enough for him to retire on, as he had not completed the twenty years needed to be granted full benefits. Patrick knew he would need to find a job.
He opened up Sean’s flat, picked up the afternoon paper, and sat down in Sean’s favourite old recliner. This alien world of being a civilian took some getting used to. The popular music had taken on a whole new sound, and young Australians a rebellious attitude to all the old traditions of his generation. He had to admit there was something wonderfully fresh in the culture, but he knew he did not fit in.
Patrick flipped through the newspaper to the employment section. One small advertisement caught his eye immediately. It was seeking men with military experience for security jobs. A Sydney office would interview applicants for the Singapore-based company. He called the number and made an appointment to be interviewed the next day.
When Patrick arrived at the multistorey building in the city’s central business district, he found the name of the company on the wall in the foyer and took an elevator to the eighth floor. Inside the reception area, three other men sat waiting. A pretty blonde receptionist beamed a welcoming smile as Patrick presented his name, along with a resume folder of his military service. She told him to have a seat, and Patrick took up an empty chair beside a man around his own age. The man leaned across and introduced himself as a former SASR member, and Patrick felt his hopes take a hit. Surely the recruiters would be more impressed with the application from the former special forces soldier.
‘Mr Duffy, you may go in,’ the receptionist said eventually, and Patrick wondered why he was so nervous. He took a deep breath and stepped into the room. There were three people sitting at a table facing him: two men in suits and one well-dressed woman. Behind them was a large glass window with a panoramic view of the city’s skyline.
For a moment Patrick held his breath as his eyes fell on the woman. She glanced up from her notes and their eyes met. Patrick could see the utter shock on the woman’s face.
‘Patrick!’ she exclaimed, causing the two older men to look at her.
‘Miss Howard-Smith,’ Patrick exhaled.
Sally pushed herself from behind the long table and walked to Patrick. For seconds they simply stared at each other.
‘How the devil did you know we were recruiting?’ she asked.
Patrick broke into a warm smile. ‘I didn’t know it was your company,’ he said. ‘I saw the ad in a paper yesterday, but I suspect there is a force beyond our understanding that actually guided me here.’
Patrick could see in Sally’s eyes that she was glad to see him. She turned to the other two members of the panel and said, ‘Mr Duffy will fill the vacancy. He does not need to answer any of our questions as I am already aware of his service record. As a matter of fact, I can say that Mr Duffy proved his competence when I first met him in Malaya in 1958. Gentlemen, you may take a tea break for now.’
‘You know I got shot again,’ Patrick grinned when the two men had left.
‘But you are well enough now,’ she said, with just a trace of worry in her expression. ‘And if you are wondering, I am no longer married. It did not work out.’
‘I never married,’ Patrick said. ‘I was always hoping that the magical lady of the lake would one day reappear above the water and see me on the shore.’
Sally took Patrick’s hand, tears in her eyes. ‘God, I missed you, Patrick Duffy,’ she said. ‘Your memory has always haunted me, no matter how much I tried to forget you. I have to face the possibility that we were always fated to be together.’
No words were needed as Patrick drew Sally to him and the kiss sealed their feelings.
EPILOGUE
The Birth of a New Century
My name is Wallarie, and this is my place of Dreaming. I was once a warrior of the Nerambura clan of the Darambal people, and for many years I have told you the story of two whitefella clans. Their story continues, but I will not be able to tell it to you because I am going to join my people amongst the stars. The Old People have told me it is time to leave your world. They say I have interfered enough.
I suppose you want to know what happened to the Macintoshes and Duffys. It was sad that Michael died because he was a good man with a bad mother but the Ancestor spirits said he could not be spared because of his blood. Mila gave birth to twins – a boy she called Michael, and a girl she called Monique. Mila finished her studies and became a pharmacist. When Michael was eighteen he left school to join the army. He served with the SASR in the Gulf War, and when he came back his mother finally told him of his real father who had se
rved with the SAS in Vietnam and been killed. Mila’s son had always been restless, and when he learned about his father and his membership of the regiment, and served in the First Gulf War he began to understand his heritage.
Monique went on to study accountancy and became a top economist in the banking system. Michael would have been very proud of his children.
Michael’s own father, David Macintosh is gone. He went for a swim below his old house on the beach and disappeared. They look for his body but never find it. That was back in your whitefella year of 1987. Gail, his missus, she now in a retirement home where they look after her.
You want a happy ending. Patrick Duffy a happy ending. He and Sally got married and had two girls. Patrick and Sally are very old now, and live in a big house in Sydney, where their grandchildren come to visit.
The sun is going down on my traditional lands. It is almost Christmas time in your year of 2000, and I can see Jessica leaning on a walking stick, holding the hand of her great-granddaughter. They are amongst old weather-worn stones that mark the graves of many of her ancestors – and those of the Macintosh clan. It has been so long since I rode the plains with my white brother, Tom Duffy, as what you whitefellas call bushrangers. Today so much has changed, but before I go to my ancestors I will tell you a story of how some things never change.
When Sarah hanged herself, the Macintosh companies were inherited by David and Donald. They agreed to sell out and both men donated their share to charities. They knew there was too much bad history with the Macintosh family fortune. The old family house on the harbour mysteriously caught fire an’ burned to the ground one night. The vacant land is now a small park dedicated to the soldiers of all wars who did not return. That was David and Donald’s idea. Now people sit on a bench and reflect on the Australian men and women of the armed forces who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country.
I will tell you a funny story. Back in 1964, Jessica allowed some people called anthropologists to visit the sacred hill for studies on my people. She warned the young anthropologist woman not to enter the cave, because it was forbidden to women. Only men could go in. The young woman listened but did not follow the rules. She went to that hill and entered the cave. That night a terrible storm rose up over the hill and a bolt of lightning hit her tent, killing her instantly. The storm went just as quickly – and so did the anthropologists. I told you it was a funny story, but I see you don’t think so.
They have all forgotten me now – except Jessie. So I will go to my ancestors in the night sky.
*
Jessica held her great-granddaughter’s hand as the little girl with the raven hair, olive skin and deep brown eyes prattled on about her friends at school and how she would like some ice cream. Mondo had spent the afternoon playing near where the old bumbil tree used to stand, which was now a shaded area under a pergola covered in grapevines. Jessica had watched her from the verandah, and had seen her chattering away to her imaginary friend, although privately Jessica thought that, at seven years of age, she was too old for make-believe companions.
Jessica was in her early eighties, yet age had not bent her back. The walking stick was to help her with a painful hip, but otherwise she was in excellent health. She walked with the little girl back to the verandah of the Glen View homestead, and the young cook, a Czech backpacker, brought a bowl of ice cream for Mondo.
Jessica watched with a smile as her favourite great-granddaughter ate the ice cream. Mondo’s grandmother, Shannon, had dropped out of society after school, joining a hippie commune in northern New South Wales. There, she fell pregnant to a young man who promptly deserted her. She named her daughter Rhea, and Rhea grew into a responsible young woman who studied medicine, and graduated at the top of her class. She married a fellow doctor and had her own daughter, Mondo. Rhea said she had once had a strange dream in which she was talking to an Aboriginal woman who had been born on Glen View many years earlier. She said her name was Mondo. Rhea always laughed about the name because it came from a dream. Jessica had never told her granddaughter, but Mondo was the name of a woman who had been killed in the nineteenth century by the Native Mounted Police in the Gulf country of Carpentaria.
Jessica was glad to have Mondo staying with her. It was lonely around the homestead these days. Donald had passed away only three years earlier from a heart attack while he was out fighting a bushfire at the edge of Glen View. After his funeral, Jessica and her son, Kim, had gone through a few old things Donald had packed in a tea chest in a shed. Amongst the mouldy items she found a moth-eaten cushion stained with what looked like the image of a man’s face. As she held it in her hands, she had a strange feeling the old pillow held an evil secret, and she promptly delegated it to a fire.
Kim was a married man now with a big family, living in a house he had built half a kilometre from the main homestead. He was a country boy through and through, unlike his brother Bryce who was a successful engineer in the city with children of his own.
From the verandah Jessica watched the land around her soften with the coming dusk. Dust hung like a gossamer curtain, stirred up by cattle on their way to a waterhole. The world had changed so much since Jessica was Mondo’s age, and civilisation had come to the most isolated regions of the vast outback. Satellite communication kept them tuned to world events in an instant. Air conditioning made life more comfortable, and some of the roads to the property were now tar-sealed for the big road trains to transport Glen View cattle to the markets.
Jessica gazed at Mondo, who was talking to herself again. She was a pretty little girl with a very different spirit to her cousins.
‘Nana,’ Mondo said, catching Jessica’s attention.
‘What is it, little one?’
The little girl looked her straight in the eyes. ‘What is baccy?’ she asked.
The moon was rising, and Jessica could hear the cry of a curlew in the eternal brigalow scrub of the vast plains of Glen View.
AUTHOR NOTES
In 1969 at the age of nineteen I enlisted for three years in the Australian Army. I was posted to the Royal Australian Artillery and in the same year sent to 102 Field Battery. At the Other Ranks canteen I would listen to the gunners who had been with the battery in 1968 tell of experiences the year before in Vietnam. They were recounting the battle of fire-support bases Balmoral and Coral in Area of Operations Surfers.
Almost a half century later, I never thought I would be retelling their stories of courage and tenacity in a novel. My aim is not to provide a historical narration but simply to use a generic canvas to remind Australians of an almost forgotten – but major action and tactically significant – event we fought at the end of the infamous Tet Offensive. Lex McAulay has covered the battle in a very readable way in his book The Battle of Coral: Vietnam Fire Support Bases Coral and Balmoral, May 1968. It is his book that I used to gain a detailed picture of early events.
From 1950 to 1972 Australian armed forces were continuously on active service. The longest period of peace came after that era.
After the Korean War, we found ourselves in action in Malaya against the Communist rebels. For this I used Colin Bannister’s personal reflections in his very readable book An Inch of Bravery: 3 RAR in the Malayan Emergency, 1957-59 as a template with author fictional input.
Even as we were sending military advisors of the Australian Army Training Team Vietnam over to what was the beginning of another major and controversial conflict, our troops were engaged in a jungle war against the Indonesian army. It was referred to as the Confrontation – or in Indonesian: Konfrontasi. It is a little recognised campaign, and for my canvas I used Lt Col Brian Avery’s excellent personal account Our Secret War: The 4th Battalion the Royal Australian Regiment: Defending Malaysia Against Indonesian Confrontation, 1965–1967.
One of the most underrated soldiers of the twentieth century was the legendary Colonel Mike Hoare whose Wild Geese campaign inspired many gr
eat fiction novels. Colonel Hoare wrote the tactical manual on fighting the war against the brutal Communist forces attempting to take control of Africa in the 1960s. A Communist East German radio report gave him the unearned nickname, ‘Mad Mike Hoare’, in a desperate effort to discredit his courageous work saving European and African lives. But then the Germans once referred to the troops defending Tobruk as the rats – a label we adopted with pride. His own account Congo Mercenary should be compulsory reading for students of a new kind of warfare that has trickled into the twenty-first century. As a young man growing up in the 1960s, I was acutely aware of the news reports concerning the Congo, and Colonel Hoare’s efforts in saving so many lives, despite the condemnation by the United Nations. Needless to say, I have drawn significant inspiration from his outstanding efforts for my fictional characters: rescue of the little Belgian girl occurred as portrayed in the book, as well as the bestial actions of the Communist-backed Simbas. Recounting their courage in the face of overwhelming odds is my tribute to a great soldier who fought for African freedom when the Western world turned its back.
Gunner Bryce Duffy-Macintosh in this novel was named in honour of a real Captain Bryce Duffy, 4 Fd Regt, RAA, who was killed in Afghanistan on 29 October 2011. The character is my tribute to all those servicemen and women who followed in the footsteps of the diggers who went before them. The real Captain Duffy constantly displayed courage in his duties. Bryce’s wonderful mum, Kerry, and his dad, Kim, are mutual friends of both myself and my author cobber, Tony Park.