Soldier on the Hill

by French, Jackie

  Dedication

  To VK2ABS, with love.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Note to the Reader

  Chapter One: Down the Hole

  Chapter Two: The Soldier

  Chapter Three: In Hospital

  Chapter Four: Sergeant Williams

  Chapter Five: Vanished!

  Chapter Six: Staying in Biscuit Creek

  Chapter Seven: Aunt Lallie’s

  Chapter Eight: Myrtle

  Chapter Nine: Miss Tidcombe

  Chapter Ten: Saturday

  Chapter Eleven: Joe

  chapter twelve: Telling Mum

  Chapter Thirteen: Fire on the Hill

  Chapter Fourteen: Hunting the Enemy on the Hill

  Chapter Fifteen: Convincing Myrtle

  Chapter Sixteen: The Overhang

  Chapter Seventeen: Down at Joe’s

  Chapter Eighteen: Port and Water

  Chapter Nineteen: The Locked Room

  Chapter Twenty: Arguments

  Chapter Twenty - One: Talking to Miss Tidcombe

  Chapter Twenty - Two: Attack!

  Chapter Twenty - Three: Up on the Hill Again

  Chapter Twenty - Four: Hunting

  Chapter Twenty - Five: Dreams

  Chapter Twenty - Six: Telegrams

  Chapter Twenty - Seven: Biscuits

  Chapter Twenty - Eight: Explaining to Myrtle

  Chapter Twenty - Nine: Presents

  Chapter Thirty: Accident!

  Chapter Thirty - One: Mum Decides

  Chapter Thirty - Two: Joe in Hospital

  Chapter Thirty - Three: Joe Comes Home

  Chapter Thirty - Four: One Month Later

  Chapter Thirty - Five: The Storm

  Chapter Thirty - Six: After the Storm

  Chapter Thirty - Seven: The Soldier on the Hill

  About the Author

  Books by Jackie French

  Copyright

  note to the reader

  The newspaper extracts in this book are taken from the 1942 Braidwood Dispatch, the Sydney Morning Herald and various recordings held by the Film and Sound Archives, Canberra, somewhat edited.

  I would like to thank Midori Iwata for the Japanese translation, the staff of the Film and Sound Archive, Canberra, the Braidwood and District Historical Association, and Angela Marshall, Carol and George Ogilvy, Terry Darcy and Bryan Sullivan in particular for all their help and research.

  chapter one

  Down the Hole

  * * *

  From the Biscuit Creek Gazette, 1942

  AUSTRALIA READY FOR INVASION!

  A message from Allied Headquarters somewhere in Australia reveals that Australian troops throughout the Commonwealth are at their battle stations.

  The strategy of the Allied Command is based on the assumption that the Japanese invasion of Australia may either be at one point or simultaneously at several points. It is believed that eight divisions of fully equipped Japanese troops — between 120,000 and 150,000 — are massed in Java and Singapore for Japan’s next large-scale offensive.

  * * *

  The beetle was brown with green–brown wings. It clambered up the dirt above him. One step … two steps … a trickle of dirt and then a third … Was the beetle trying to climb out too, wondered Joey wearily. Or did it live here, down below the sunlight, in the dirt and mud?

  The beetle stopped. It began to dig, rolling out the grains of dirt as though each one was a boulder. Which they were, Joey supposed vaguely, for a beetle.

  It was important to concentrate on the beetle. If he studied the beetle hard enough the pain might disappear. If he thought about the beetle he might forget the hole above him, the fear, the fall, the pain.

  The pain wasn’t as bad now, anyway, thought Joey dazedly. It was sort of cold instead of pain, the pain just nibbling at the edges.

  Shadows washed across the beetle. Fern shadows, far above. The ferns grew thick around the hole, so its entrance looked just like another depression in the ground; until you trod into the ferns and felt the ground ripped out from under you, felt the cold air close around you, felt roots bite you and dirt grab you, felt the pain …

  The shadows thickened. It was hard to see the beetle now. The shadows darkened even more …

  When he opened his eyes some unknowable time later, the beetle was gone.

  The pain was worse now, but different. His shoulder hurt most and his ankle. His shoulder had bashed against the wall as he fell, his ankle had cracked as he landed … but he wouldn’t think about that now. Not about the falling, the darkness and the sudden smell of cold and soil.

  He had to think about getting out.

  Standing. First he had to stand. It was possible. It had to be possible. Joey pressed one hand against the sodden floor. What if water collected in the hole? What if it rained? What if he drowned before he could get out?

  He would get out. He had to. Joey pushed.

  His upper body moved. The pain lashed through him, but this time he pushed it away. Now one knee bent, and then the other, all the weight on his right foot. Joey staggered upright and looked around.

  The hole wasn’t as deep as he’d thought when he was lying crumpled on the ground, but it was deep enough, twice as high as he was or perhaps a little more. The light danced and dappled through the ferns above; then shadows bounced on rocky walls. They looked surprisingly stable.

  It was an old mine shaft, of course. Aunt Lallie had warned him about them. The mine shafts were dotted all over the hills behind the town she said. Another of the places kids weren’t supposed to go round here. Joey could almost hear Aunt Lallie’s voice (Aunt Lallie’s vowels would be clear even underground): ‘Don’t wade in the dam in Martin’s paddock; don’t swim in the pool below the ford; don’t hang round the Royal Cafe with those …’

  The world grew fuzzy. Joey blinked to force himself awake.

  If he could just get a foothold, he could heave himself up. It wasn’t far, it wasn’t really far. If he kept telling himself it wasn’t far then … that rock there. That might hold him. He just had to reach up …

  The pain blazed through his leg as he rested on his bad foot, flooded across his shoulders as his shoulder wrenched with the movement. But he was up, his good hand grasping at a root above.

  Two more footholds should do it. He only had to grab …

  … but his hand wouldn’t grab.

  He only had to step …

  … but the darkness pushed behind his eyes as he moved … and then the rock was crumbling and he was falling, not again, he couldn’t fall …

  He landed on his feet this time. The pain bit right up through his body, so he staggered against the wall. More dirt fell down, a scattering of rock.

  If he could build the rock upward into steps. He gazed through the dimness of pain and shadow; but there wasn’t enough rock. Not nearly enough rock.

  Perhaps he could dig steps into the dirt. He could dig with one hand and a bit of rock — all he had to do was find some rock. The dizziness overcame him suddenly so he had to sit down; he had to rest his head against the wall.

  At least the dirt was cool. His head felt hot and much too big. For a moment he thought he was going to be sick. He retched helplessly for a moment, but nothing came out.

  And then the pain took over …

  Someone was yelling.

  Someone was screaming.

  It was only as the pain ebbed he realised the voice was his.

  There was no point in yelling. There was no one to hear, not way up here. No one came up here. Maybe a few rabbit shooters, before the war, but the shooters were in the army now or working, taking the place of those who
’d left.

  No one would look for him here. He’d told Aunt Lallie he was going down to the oval. But why would he want to go to the oval, with snotty local kids who sneered at him as an evacuee. Scared of the Japs, someone had sniggered. Bomb dodger! Bomb dodger! Bomb dodger!

  But it wasn’t him who’d chosen to leave Sydney and come here. Who’d want to come to Biscuit Creek if they could help it? Thousands of kids had been told to leave Sydney now the Japanese were coming. It was Mum who had decided he should come here, not him.

  What was Mum doing now, he wondered. Did she even know that he was lost? Was she working in the shop up in Sydney, or reading sprawled out on the sofa like she always did when she was tired so Dad laughed and said they’d have to spoon her into bed.

  Maybe she was in the garden. Mum liked the garden. The day Dad’s ship had sailed she came home and dug the garden; she dug it and she dug it and she dug it, as though if she stopped digging the world would split apart.

  How would the Biscuit Creek kids like to be uprooted from their homes? What did they know of searchlights across the water?

  His eyes were growing used to the dimness now. He could make out the colours of the rocks around him — mud coloured, strangely rounded, as though they’d been painted with a slurry of dirt.

  There were fishbone ferns growing in a fallen patch of mud. Had the ferns fallen too? They were long and yellow, reaching up towards the light that was never quite enough.

  There were bones too. Small bones. Lots of bones. Some were grey and brittle with age. Some were fresh, white and strong. They were scattered across one side of the hole. Rabbits that had fallen in? Or had an owl dropped them down the hole …

  How long had he been here? Six hours, or seven? It was still light above.

  Aunt Lallie would be gone all day with her committees; she wouldn’t start worrying till dark. She’d look down at the oval — she’d ask all the kids. ‘I’m looking for my nephew Joseph,’ she’d say, and being Aunt Lallie she wouldn’t just mooch down there. She’d have her lipstick on and her leave-the-house-hat and her handbag with the flowery gold clasps and when they said they hadn’t seen him she’d march down to Sergeant Williams’s and demand he do something.

  Aunt Lallie got things done. She’d get them searching, but no one knew which way he’d gone.

  The light dimmed even further. For a moment he thought it must be getting dark, and then moisture began to trickle down the walls, soaking in before it had reached halfway down. Drizzle from the world above, the world of light and air, too thin to even catch a little on his tongue.

  He hadn’t realised he was thirsty.

  Joey began to dig.

  He must have fainted again, because it was dark when he woke up. The hole was black; the walls were black; the sky was black, except for one red star.

  He watched the star until he lost consciousness again, or fell asleep.

  Heat, but even though the sky was blue above (a patch of blue no bigger than a girl’s hanky folded into four) the hole wasn’t hot. It was him.

  His tongue was much too big. His throat seemed too big as well.

  He tried to dig again, but every time he moved too much the world grew cold (or was it hot?) and dark. It was so hot he shivered. He heard himself laughing because it made no sense.

  Voices. Mum’s voice. He tried to say her name but his lips didn’t seem to move, but it didn’t matter because it couldn’t have been Mum. Mum was still in Sydney.

  Was it Dad’s voice? He shook his head to try to clear it. But it couldn’t be Dad’s voice either. Dad was dead. The Japanese had killed him up in Singapore.

  No. Dad wasn’t dead, Dad WASN’T dead. Dad was ‘Missing in Action’, that was all. That was what the telegram had said.

  Dad might be a prisoner, he might be still alive … and that’s why Mum had said Joey must come here. She couldn’t stand to lose them both, not with the enemy so near. The Japanese were coming closer, closer, closer. Every paper showed that they had moved further south; any week now, came the whispers, they’d be here.

  Not Mum’s voice then. She was still working at the shop. For the war effort and because they needed the money even more now that Dad …

  Not Dad’s voice. Dad was missing, missing, missing. It sounded funny saying someone was missing, like there was just a black hole suddenly where they’d been. His ruler had been missing last week, but he’d found it again. Martin Watson’s cat had been missing, but it had come back too.

  Were people saying he was missing now? Joey Smith missing, just like his Dad …

  Joey yelled and yelled. It was only later he realised that his yelling had no sound.

  His throat hurt. From yelling or from thirst he didn’t know. Then it was dark again; the soft dark that you could reach through and find stars and moonlight, not the impenetrable dark of pain.

  Another night.

  chapter two

  The Soldier

  * * *

  From the Biscuit Creek Gazette, 1942

  AIR RAID PRECAUTIONS — AN INTERESTING ADDRESS

  The visit of Mr T. Griffiths, an officer in the Department of National Emergency Services, attracted a great crowd at the Institute last Thursday.

  After being introduced, Mr Griffiths said his object was to give a little chat about air raid precautions. Precautions were suitable against high explosive bombs, incendiary bombs or firesticks and gas attacks. In Mr Griffiths’ opinion the time would come when Japan would throw everything into the scale of victory, including the use of gas.

  If persons were sprayed from the air with mustard gas, they should immediately discard all clothing and seek the nearest available bath and wash with soap and water, preferably hot. Respirators were invaluable, but each house should have a gas-proof room, where vents could be stopped up with pulped paper and a wet blanket spread across the door, preferably treated with a bleaching powder.

  The best method of protection from an incendiary attack was sheltering in an ordinary hole or trench in the ground five or six feet deep and, say, four feet wide at the top sloping to three feet wide at the bottom. These could be covered with iron or timber then earth and were reasonably proof against bomb splinters and machine gun bullets.

  Sand should be kept in the shelter to throw on fires or leaves of cellulose and phosphorus that burn on exposure to air. Many people in England applied a rubber appliance to their mouths to keep their mouths open when going to bed. An open mouth is the best way to avoid damage to the lungs in the event of a bomb blast.

  (‘Gee Sheila,’ whispered someone in the audience, ‘you won’t have any trouble there.’)

  Mr Griffiths warned all residents of Biscuit Creek against complacency. Enemies in the air can strike at any time. He also advised carrying cotton wool in the pockets at all times to insert in the ears in case of bomb attack.

  * * *

  It was late when he woke on the second day. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he was sure. Something about the angle of the light perhaps, the far-off sounds of birds.

  He was going to die here. For the first time he began to cry, sobbing though his body felt too dry for tears.

  He cried for himself. He cried for Mum. He cried for the loss of the sun and the air, because he was dying in the dirt and damp so far from light.

  He cried until the darkness took him again.

  Hands. Hands around his shoulders. He should try to wake up and see whose hands they were, but the pain was worse so he drifted down again …

  The hole was moving! The walls were falling down, and then he realised no, he was falling up, being dragged up against the dirt, up and up and up …

  There was a rope under his arms. There was a face above. An anxious face, yelling something down to him, something he didn’t understand.

  A strange face, with something wrong about the eyes. Tanned skin, unshaven, black hair, a bit too long …

  More words. Peculiar words. His shoulder bumped against the edge. Pain burst through
him at the same time as the shock …

  Jap! Jap! It was a Japanese that was hauling him up! They’d invaded while he had been in the hole! They’d taken over …

  Suddenly the face was gone, though the rope still pulled him upwards. His head was in the air, the sun too bright, he shut his eyes. His stomach dragged over the fern lip of the hole.

  The rope went slack. He could feel the squash of ferns below him, their soft tickle on his face.

  Hands now. Firm hands.

  ‘Bouzu, mousukosi gamansina.’

  The hands untied the rope. They felt his arms, his legs, his forehead.

  ‘Yosi, moudaizyobuda.’

  The pain washed back and forth, then retreated like a wave gathering force to strike again.

  Joey opened his eyes. The face was still there. The Jap face. The evil grinning Jap face, just like in the posters, except this face wasn’t grinning. It was frowning. Then it smiled, a faint smile, reassuring. The dark eyes watched him, dark eyes in darker shadows.

  ‘Bouzu, dokoka itamunoka?’ A low voice, uncertain.

  ‘Who are you?’ Joey’s voice was a whisper, like clay left too long in the sun till it cracked.

  ‘Sibaraku zittositena.’ The almost smile again.

  ‘What are you doing here? Leave me alone!’

  Still the face smiled. He didn’t understand, Joey realised. Of course he didn’t understand.

  Suddenly the face was gone. He wanted to cry out ‘come back,’ but that was crazy, calling back an enemy. Then there were hands pressing at his mouth, hands that cupped cold water, tasting of leaves and animal droppings.

  He sipped; he wet his lips. The hands returned again, again, again, each time bringing water.

  ‘Yosiyosi, nodoga kawaiteitandana.’

  He should struggle. He should try to hit him. Jap, Jap, Jap … but the touch of another human was too good after the isolation down the hole. Even the sound of the man’s breathing was a comfort.

  The pain seemed worse out here in the sun, as though out here, with the chance of life, everything seemed to hurt again. Joey shut his eyes. If there was darkness maybe he could drift away from pain, just for a moment