Soldier on the Hill

by French, Jackie

  ‘I’ve been making scrambled eggs without her help for fifteen years,’ muttered Mum. ‘Your father always said I made the best and lightest scrambled eggs he’d ever … Elbows off the table, Joey. How many times do I have to tell you? If Lallie sees you she’ll say it’s all my fault, I should have taught you better manners and … Oh, now look what’s she’s made me do, what a waste of an egg. It’s all over the table — pass me the cloth, Joey, before she sees it. And cut the bread will you? You can put the toast on …’

  Aunt Lallie ate her eggs suspiciously, as though she knew something was wrong but didn’t know what yet. ‘What do you plan to do today, Joseph?’

  Joey hesitated. If he said he was going down the oval, she’d only suspect he was planning something else again. And anyway, Sister had said he wasn’t to do anything vigorous for the next week. Luckily, Mum interrupted.

  ‘What about you Lallie?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I’ve got a Red Cross meeting this morning, and the Adopt a Prisoner-of-War parcels to wrap and send up to Sydney this afternoon, and —’

  ‘Will I put tea on then?’ asked Mum.

  Aunt Lallie hesitated. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said at last. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with me? Another pair of hands is always useful.’

  Mum shook her head. ‘I’ve got some letters to write,’ she said. ‘There’s the agent about the house and Joey’s grandparents up in Sydney to let them know we’ve settled in. I’ll come along next time maybe.’

  Joey studied his scrambled eggs so they didn’t see his face. Like heck she would, he thought. Mum would as soon ask a cow home for dinner as join one of Aunt Lallie’s committees. She’d find one of her own instead, he bet, as soon as she settled in. Something that wasn’t run by her older sister.

  ‘Well, there’s the chops in the icebox for tea.’

  ‘I thought I’d make a pie,’ said Mum. ‘I’ve still got a way with pastry, you have to admit that, Lallie. I thought I’d use the leftovers from last night with those old potatoes and —’

  ‘But the chops …’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Joey stood up and took his plate up to the sink, then slipped out while they were still arguing.

  chapter eleven

  Joe

  * * *

  From the Biscuit Creek Gazette, 1942

  DON’T GIVE NOTES ON WEATHER

  Reference to drought conditions in certain areas of Australia and to inadequate water supply in certain cities should be eliminated in letters to prisoners of war, Mr Forde, the Minister for the Army, said at the weekend. Enemy powers would find such information of real intelligence value, likely to be a use to them in making hostile plans. Censors were returning numerous letters to senders which contained such information. Frequently those who received the letters back failed to understand the reason behind their return.

  * * *

  The main road to Biscuit Creek wound down through the mountains like the death throes of a snake, straightening out suddenly as it passed through the town. As though it couldn’t wait to get out of it, Joey observed sourly.

  From town the road meandered down to the coast five miles away; but there were soldiers on guard there now, and you had to give a good reason for passing that way.

  Otherwise, you could leave town by train (one train a day, except on Sundays, when there weren’t any at all), or paddle down the creek if you were desperate enough and were prepared to carry your boat across the sandbanks on the bends.

  There were other roads from town, too, though none of them went far — 22 miles to Harold’s Crossing, the sign said, and 5 miles to Badgerarry.

  The road out to the hills didn’t have a signpost — but then it wasn’t a proper road, decided Joey as he trudged along it. More a track really.

  There wasn’t much out towards the hills — the doctor’s place just out of town (Joey recognised his Hillman in the garage) and another farm or two. Then nothing till the old house with the sheds and twisting creek and broken gate. The road just ended there, as though it had suddenly decided to go no further.

  Boring country, thought Joey gloomily. Paddocks and rocks, and sheep that looked like rocks, and cows that looked like they were bored as well and hills with great holes to trap you.

  His ankle ached. Joey sat on the bank and rubbed it wearily. Sister was right; he shouldn’t be walking on it so much. Maybe he should forget about looking for the Japanese soldier till next weekend, when he was stronger. But he couldn’t just do nothing.

  A strategy, that’s what he needed. That’s what Dad had always said. Wars are won by strategy, not by everyone running everywhere like a mob of chooks with their heads cut off. He needed to think things out before he went charging all over the countryside.

  If there was a Japanese, a shipwrecked Japanese say, whose sub had broken up on a sandbank maybe, what would he do?

  Swim to shore, then find a boat to sail back to Japan.

  Nah, that was silly. Everything along the coast was guarded so tightly you couldn’t sneeze without someone coming to look. And you’d never sail a dinghy all the way back to Japan.

  There was no need to try to get back to Japan anyway. The Japanese would be here soon enough.

  Well, no, they wouldn’t be, Joey told himself staunchly, but the soldier might think they would be. All the soldier had to do was find somewhere safe till his compatriots landed. So, he’d come inland, where no one would think of looking for him, even if the wreckage of his sub was found.

  I’m being a fool, thought Joey savagely. The soldier had probably moved on now anyway. He’d know that Joey would have raised the alarm as soon as he was conscious again. He’d …

  ‘Hey matey! You all right out there?’

  ‘What?’ Joey peered around. The voice seemed to be coming from the hedge inside the gate. For a moment he thought of Miss Tidcombe. But this was a man’s voice, low and slightly hoarse.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ he called.

  ‘You sure? I saw you rubbing your leg. You haven’t had an accident have you?’

  Joey shook his head. ‘No. I mean, I had an accident two weeks ago, but it’s almost better now. I just walked on it too soon I suppose.’

  ‘I could get the car out,’ offered the voice. ‘Battery’s probably flat, but I could charge it up again. Give you a lift back to town if you need it.’

  ‘No, really, I’m right. I just need to rest it for a bit.’

  There was a pause. ‘You the new kid in town? Feemie O’Connell’s, I mean, Feemie Smith’s boy?’

  ‘That’s me.’ Suddenly it came pouring out. ‘The bomb dodger. The kid who thought he saw a Jap. Well, I don’t care what you’ve heard about me! I don’t care what you think!’

  Another silence. ‘Calm down, kid. Keep your knickers on. That wasn’t what I was going to say at all.’

  Joey was silent.

  ‘I haven’t heard anything about you, to be honest. Just the doctor called in here last week. Said Feemie was back in town, she was widowed now, and her boy was with her.’

  Joey shrugged his shoulders.

  The voice said, ‘It’s true. Nothing about bomb dodging or Japs or …’

  ‘Mum’s not a widow anyway,’ muttered Joey. ‘Dad’s missing in action, that’s all.’

  More silence.

  ‘Cheer up mate. It’s not that black,’ said the voice at last.

  ‘You don’t know anything about it,’ said Joey sullenly.

  ‘I reckon I might,’ said the voice.

  A man stepped out of the shadows. He was Mum’s age maybe, but taller, in old overalls with a hat pulled low over his head. His face was white above black stubble. He looked at Joey for a moment, then pulled off the hat.

  Joey gulped.

  The scars were red and pink and fresh. They stretched across the back of his head, so a third of his scalp was rippled and quite bald, then down onto his forehead almost to his eyes. His hair on the other side was short and ragged, as though it had been shorn to st
op it touching the scar.

  ‘It’s … it’s not that bad,’ said Joey at last.

  ‘No? And a flock of koalas just flew overhead. How about that then?’ The man held out his hand.

  The hand was scarred too, one finger almost melted away, the others purple and shiny.

  ‘You can’t tell me that’s not bad,’ said the man.

  ‘Well, yes,’ agreed Joey. ‘That’s bad.’

  The man put his hat back on. It hid the scar completely, thought Joey, when it was down like that.

  ‘Going to run away?’

  Joey started. ‘No. Of course not.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Sometimes I think I even scare the chooks,’ he said.

  ‘How did it happen? Who did it? The Japanese?’

  ‘Nah, not the Japanese. It was my own silly fault. Or mostly, anyway. A fuel pump exploded back in training camp. Stuff flew in my hair and like a fool I tried to claw it out.’

  He held up his hand again. ‘And this is what I got. Out of the RAAF in three seconds flat. Didn’t even stick my nose overseas, much less get a dekko at the enemy. I’ll tell you something, mate; if you ever get burning rubber in your hair, use your shirt to get it out.’ He shoved his hand back in his pocket. ‘Look,’ he added, ‘my name’s Joe Reardon. What’s yours?’

  ‘Joe, too. Joey, most people call me. And Bomb Dodger,’ he added bitterly.

  ‘Well, there’s times it makes sense to dodge the bombs,’ said Joe. ‘What’re you supposed to do, stand underneath and try to catch them in your mouth? I reckon your Mum’s probably had enough to cope with. Makes sense for her to come back home. How is she, anyway?’

  ‘She’s all right.’ Joey shrugged. ‘Life goes on. That’s what she keeps saying.’

  ‘I was at school with her,’ said Joe. ‘Prettiest girl in the whole town. Legs that went … well, never mind about that now. Not that I ever had the sense to tell her. Of course, Lallie was pretty too, and Genie, but they were five, ten years older than me at least. Genie was already married by the time I met your Mum … You’re staying at Lallie’s now, aren’t you?’

  Joey nodded. ‘It’s all right. Not like our own home though.’

  ‘Know what you mean. Home’s where if it itches you can scratch it. I bet you can’t do that at Lallie’s. You want a cup of tea, mate? Cuppa chatter water, Dad used to call it. The kettle’s hot on the stove.’

  ‘I …’ Joey hesitated. He hated tea. But it was good to talk to someone friendly for a change. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  Joe’s house was big, with splintery verandahs around two sides of the house, strange aerials on the roof and peeling paint and three warped steps up to the kitchen. An old kelpie with a greying muzzle sat on a sagging sofa. She yawned at them and gave a half-hearted bark.

  ‘Ah, that’s right, old girl,’ said Joe. ‘You give a good woof to let me know there’s an intruder. She’s half deaf,’ he explained. ‘Must be getting on for fourteen now. Mrs Rogers looked after her for me while I was in hospital. No, shush Meg, you don’t have to show what a wonderful guard dog you are now.’

  Joe pulled open the old fly-screen door.

  ‘Don’t mind the mess,’ he said. ‘Never seem to get round to tidying things up. Hey, watch your feet there … Meg leaves her bones all over the place. Pick up your bone, Meg!’

  Meg lay down under the table and ignored him.

  ‘You live here by yourself?’

  Joe nodded. ‘Dad died just before the war, and Mum last year while I was still in hospital.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Joey. He tried to think of something else to say. ‘Hey, is that shop yours then? The electrical store in town? It says Reardons Wireless Radio’s on the front.’

  ‘That’s ours. Been shut now ever since Mum died.’

  ‘Why don’t you open it again?’

  Joe gave a half grin. ‘And serve in the shop like this? Of course, I could keep my hat on. And a glove maybe. I dunno. Maybe one day. When I’ve got used to being the way I am.’

  He opened the firebox and shoved in some wood chips. It was a wood stove, bigger and more solid than Aunt Lallie’s gas cooker new just before the war. ‘Won’t take a sec to boil. You want a sandwich?’

  Joey shook his head. ‘No thanks. I had breakfast a little while ago.’

  ‘I forget about breakfast,’ admitted Joe. ‘You don’t get round to eating sometimes when you’re by yourself.’

  Joe pulled a loaf of bread out of the bread box, sniffed at it, then trimmed the mould off the end of it with the breadsaw, his scarred hand holding the loaf down awkwardly. He opened the fly-proof safe, took out a crock of butter and an open tin of jam.

  ‘Sure you won’t have any? You’re probably right, anyway. This loaf’ll be growing a forest if I don’t watch out. Shopping’s a real sh—’ He stopped and glanced at Joey. ‘… a real grind,’ he amended. ‘Everybody looking at you. Or you think they’re looking at you anyhow …’

  ‘I could bring stuff out if you like,’ offered Joey.

  Joe bit his lip. ‘You sure, mate? I don’t want to go troubling you. But those old biddies sometimes … if one other old dame offers me her pet cure for scars I’ll … I’ll shove it down her throat. I know they mean well enough, but how would you like it? “And have you tried cold tea leaves, Joe?” “A little lanolin before you go to bed.” Or sodding comfrey juice. What do they think I’ve got, a skinned knee?’

  Joe gave his half grin again. ‘Sorry, mate. I get carried away sometimes, living here on my own.’

  ‘I’d like to get your groceries,’ said Joey. ‘I don’t have anything else to do after school or weekends anyway. Except homework,’ he added. ‘But I can’t carry too much at once. I don’t have a bike and …’

  ‘You don’t have a bike? Hey, that’s crook. A boy like you needs a bike. Didn’t you have a bike up in Sydney?’

  ‘It was too hilly and Mum said the roads were too dangerous near our place. She’s said she’d get me one as soon as someone rents our place in Sydney and she’s got some money.’

  ‘That’s too bad,’ said Joe slowly. ‘Look, I’ve got an idea. Come on then. I’ve got something out in the shed that might help.’

  Joey followed him out the door again. Meg glanced up at them, yawned, then padded behind them. Across a hard dirt courtyard, with dusty hens scratching at the tussocks, past stockyards.

  Joe nodded at the rabbit skins drying on the fence. ‘Make a few quid that way. The government pays me a few bob, too. Something’s been stealing them out of the traps though before I can get to them. Fox probably. Here we are. In here.’

  ‘In here’ was a shed of grey thick slabs stuck together with spiders’ webs and swallows’ nests, cautiously leaning as though still making up its mind whether to lie down properly or not.

  Joe pulled the wattle prop away from the doors and heaved one open.

  ‘There you are. What do you think of it?’

  It was a man’s bike, a solid pre-war model, a slightly faded red. One of the tyres was flat. Joe knelt and rubbed his hand along it. ‘Soon fix that up. There’s a pump on the back.’

  ‘Whose is it?’

  ‘Whose do you think? The ruddy mayor’s? It’s mine, of course. Haven’t ridden it since I joined up. It’s yours if you want it.’

  ‘But …’ Joey trailed his fingers over the red frame. ‘Don’t you want it?’

  Joe half-flexed his fingers. ‘What, with these? My bicycling days are over. Besides, I’ve got Dad’s Morris Minor if I need it, and me ration of eight precious gallons of petrol a month the government so generously allows us. No, it’s yours, mate.’

  He gave the shy half grin again. ‘Besides, there’s a basket goes with it. You can fit half the grocery store in it if you like.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ breathed Joey. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Joe laughed for the first time. ‘No, kid. Your Mum is beautiful. Roast lamb is beautiful. This is just a bike.’

  ‘Thank you!’<
br />
  ‘’S all right. Us Joes need to stick together. Come on, you can pump up the tyre later. You never did get that cup of tea.’

  They crossed the yard together, Meg trudging at their heels.

  ‘Joe, what’s that?’ Joey sniffed the air.

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘That smell.’

  ‘Dunno. Dead bunny maybe. One of Meg’s bones like as not. She’s probably hidden one under the bushes.’

  ‘No, it’s a sort of sweet smell.’

  ‘That? That’s the myrtle bush. Mum planted it, oh, way back before the last war when she and Dad were married. See, it’s that one over there with the purple flowers.’

  ‘I didn’t know myrtle was a bush,’ said Joey. ‘It’s sort of pretty. There’s a girl at school called Myrtle.’

  ‘She pretty, too?’

  ‘Nah. She’s a pain,’ said Joey.

  It was warm inside the kitchen. Joey gazed around.

  ‘I said it was a mess.’ Joe moved a pile of books and a map off the kitchen table. ‘I make do with the one plate and cup, so that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about. Hey, what were you saying about seeing a Japanese? What with one thing and another it slipped my mind.’

  Joey hesitated. ‘I fell down an old mine shaft up on the hill two weeks ago. I couldn’t get out. I yelled and yelled and no one came. And I hurt my ankle and shoulder — the doctor said it was dislocated. I was there for two days and then I fainted, I suppose. And then this Japanese bloke hauled me out.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No, I’m not. Really I’m not. I’m sure it was a Japanese. He had this rope made of vine or something and he hauled me out and lit a fire to attract attention. But when I told Sergeant Williams and they looked, there wasn’t any sign of him. And no one believes me,’ he added forlornly. ‘Not even Mum. They think I was delirious or imagining things. Or had Japanese on the brain after Dad — you know. Or that I’m crazy …’

  Joe stirred sugar into his tea thoughtfully. ‘Doesn’t sound so crazy to me. All those subs out along the coast — more than the government lets on about, I’ll be bound. One breaks up and one of the crew makes it to shore, steals up here to get out of everyone’s way till the rest of them invade.’