Soldier on the Hill

by French, Jackie

  * * *

  The air was gentle on the hill. It smells different up here, thought Joey, cooler, moister, like trees and rocks and lizards instead of the people and houses and cattle droppings smells below. He’d never really realised that houses had a smell before.

  The trees were thinner up here, the trunks bent as though they searched for the soil the same as the roots. Down by Joe’s the trees were thicker, solid-trunked, but sparser — being cut down for posts or firewood had thinned them out — and with wattle seedlings just beginning to crowd them.

  From up here he could see Joe’s house, squat under its pine trees, its aerials and chimney poking at the sky. The paddocks looked like squares drawn on a little kid’s drawing. Even the cows looked like toys, dark brown backs almost motionless among the yellow grass.

  All around him rose the hills — treed hills, with dark gullies twisting among the lighter green, the gleam of quartz along the ridges. Each hill seemed to run into another and another and another, as though the land was bread dough that some giant baker had pushed together.

  Joey sat down and rubbed his ankle. It ached a bit, but not too badly. As long as he took it slowly he’d be right.

  Which way now? If he were a Jap soldier, where would he hide?

  Somewhere high, where he could see anyone coming. Somewhere with an overhang of rock, maybe, to keep the rain off. Somewhere with water.

  Joey gazed around. Gullies had water in them sometimes. Which of the gullies might still have water after all this dry?

  He should have asked Joe while he was down at the farm if there were any good hiding places. Maybe Joe would have come up with him, though Joe had seemed so busy with his rabbit skins.

  Joe was a good bloke. It was funny, after a while you didn’t even see the scars. Strange, thought Joey, that the more you looked at Joe the less you saw his scars, but when you looked at the hill more, you saw the folds and different stripes of trees.

  It just looked green at first, like Aunt Sheila’s wallpaper back in Sydney — that funny scribbly green stuff in her lounge room — then, when you looked at the hill more, you saw the folds and different stripes of trees. The hill was really lots of hills, all squashed together, funnelled with gullies and ridges …

  That way maybe.

  Joey limped across the shale and tussock. That gully looked like it might have water. The trees were greener, sort of fatter. Maybe they weren’t gum trees at all … but wasn’t all the bush just gum trees, with other types of trees in gardens and parks …

  Anyway, they were wet-looking trees and the ground sort of sloped down to them …

  No one would see you down there, not among the rocks and branches — you’d have to be as thin as a rake, though, to hide behind one of the trees up here above the gully …

  Joey turned round nervously. What if the Jap was just behind him, watching, watching, watching …

  But, of course, he wasn’t. The trees were definitely too thin to hide behind …

  Joey began to walk towards the gully again.

  Of course, the Jap wouldn’t be down the gully either. He’d have a lookout somewhere up the hill. He’d have seen Joey coming. He’d be miles away by now. There was no need to worry that he’d actually find the Jap. But he might find his tracks … or his campfire … or … or something he’d dropped …

  Maybe he’d find him asleep in the gully. Maybe the Jap slept during the day and came out at night when no one would see him. He could tackle a sleeping Jap …

  How? He didn’t even have a rope to tie him up. He should have brought a rope, or a weapon. A knife … maybe the breadsaw … Joey snorted. A fat lot of good a breadsaw would be against a Jap soldier. He might have a Bren gun, or a sword …

  The Jap hadn’t had a gun or a sword up by the hole. He’d looked kind, with that sort of worried anger, like Dad had looked that time he’d pulled him out of the rip at Bondi. Dad had held him even while he had yelled at him for going too far out.

  If Dad hadn’t been missing he’d have rescued him from the hole. But if Dad hadn’t been missing he wouldn’t have been here …

  The gully was closer now. He could smell damp soil and ferns, a musty scent above the smells of tussock and thin dirt. It was like someone had scraped their thumb along the hill to make a softer place amongst the dry. Maybe the wallabies rested down in the gullies during the day. Wallabies had to have some place to go. Wombats had their holes and possums had their trees … There’d been a possum in the roof back home and Dad had …

  What was that?

  Joey stopped. It was like a voice. It was a voice … like someone singing … surely a Jap soldier wouldn’t sing?

  The voice was high and tuneless, a song without words, the sort of song you sang when you were alone, more a mutter than real music.

  Joey gulped. Maybe the Jap hadn’t seen him climb the hill. Maybe he’d been asleep or down behind the ridge. Maybe he was there after all …

  The singing stopped. It had come from the gully. Whoever had been singing was hidden by pittosporums and fig branches down in the damp soil. What was he waiting for? This was his chance! The Jap must be scrubbing his clothes maybe, or washing himself. All he had to do was creep over to the gully and …

  And then what? Grab him, tie him up? With what? The Jap was a soldier and he was just a kid. Everyone said one Aussie was worth a hundred Japs, but even so …

  At least he’d get a good look at him. At least he’d be sure. Joey bit his lip. He hadn’t realised till now how much he’d come to doubt that the soldier was really there. But he was. He was …

  Joey got to his feet. Maybe if he tackled the Jap, took him by surprise. Maybe he could knock him out.

  Did Japs play football?

  His heart seemed bigger, his whole body throbbed. Did soldiers feel as scared as this? Did Dad?

  The Jap was the enemy. He had to capture him. No matter how scared he was he had to try. No matter how kind … he shut the thought away. This was the enemy.

  Joey crept down into the gully. His ankle hurt, but he ignored it. His chest hurt too, but that was fear, not really pain. Nothing mattered now — not pain, not terror. Nothing mattered, but the Jap.

  His foot slipped. A stone shattered down the hill, its noise startling, loud against the sounds of leaves and breeze.

  Joey froze.

  The muttered singing rose again.

  He mustn’t slip. He had to be quiet. Why didn’t school teach you how to creep up on an enemy, instead of stupid things like parsing and analysis and English kings …

  The soil was damper now, and softer; silence was easier. Through the ink bushes; over dying maidenhair curling its leaves up in the shade. A kookaburra yelled. Joey froze again, and then relaxed. No one would worry about a kookaburra call. If anything the noise would cover any sound he made.

  Closer … closer. No need to hurry. Just be quiet …

  A shadow flickered through the trees. Not a leaf shadow, not the steady dapple of the branches …

  Someone was there. Someone was definitely there. He could see movement, a flash of white among the rocks. The water in the gully trickled slow and clear between the trees.

  This was it then. If only he had a rock or stick, but the rocks were boulders buried deeply in the soil and the Jap would hear him if he ripped a branch off for a stick.

  He’d creep up behind the Jap, and then he’d rush him to the ground and then …

  The person turned.

  ‘Myrtle!’ cried Joey.

  chapter fifteen

  Convincing Myrtle

  * * *

  From the Biscuit Creek Gazette, 1942

  PUBLIC NOTICE

  Owing to the manpower shortage, Gleeson’s Bakery would like to remind their valued customers that there will be no bread deliveries until further notice. ORDER your loaf now! Gleeson’s bread is made from first-class ingredients by a trusted family operation. The finest flour, finest fruits and expert baking give excellent quality to our b
lock cakes. Buy some today!

  * * *

  Myrtle!

  ‘What are you doing here!’ demanded Joey.

  Myrtle sniffed and wiped her nose, then stared back rudely. ‘What are you doing here then?’

  ‘I was …’ Joey stopped.

  Myrtle laughed. ‘You were hunting that Jap you think is up here. Weren’t you?’

  ‘What if I am? It’s none of your business anyway.’

  ‘Who said it was?’ Myrtle stuffed her hanky in her pocket and picked up her hat. She must have been having a drink, thought Joey, or splashing her face because she felt hot.

  ‘I thought you’d have been off on one of your “committees”,’ he jeered.

  Myrtle shrugged. ‘Not Sunday afternoons. I like to be by myself on Sunday afternoons.’

  ‘You? I thought you liked being the centre of attention all the time.’

  Myrtle stared at him. ‘Me? What do you know about it? The centre of attention? That’s a laugh.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you?’

  Myrtle looked down at the ground. ‘Sometimes, I suppose. At school.’

  ‘Well, what else is there? Ow!!!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. I slipped that’s all.’

  ‘Is your ankle sore?’

  ‘Of course it’s bally sore! I sprained it falling down that bally mine shaft and now I’ve slipped on it and …’

  ‘Stick it in the water then,’ ordered Myrtle.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stick it in the water,’ said Myrtle impatiently. ‘The cold’ll stop it swelling. We learnt that in Red Cross first aid.’

  ‘You sure?’ Joey looked dubiously at the trickling water.

  ‘Course I’m sure. Come on.’ She leant up and held out her hand. ‘Hold on to me so you don’t slip again.’

  ‘I can manage,’ said Joey ungraciously. ‘Well, all right, thanks.’ He slipped his sandal off and gingerly lowered his foot into the water. ‘Crikey, it is cold.’

  ‘Don’t pull it out again, you dope. Keep it in there.’

  ‘Why is it so cold?’ questioned Joey grumpily. ‘Everything else is still hot enough.’

  ‘It’s always cold,’ said Myrtle, as though that answered it all. ‘I don’t know. Maybe because it’s always shady or it’s just seeped out of the hill or something.’

  ‘But the hill feels warm,’ argued Joey

  ‘Well, I said I don’t know,’ said Myrtle, exasperated. ‘Maybe it’s colder down where the water seeps from. Ask Miss Pringle. She might know.’

  ‘Yeah. Or she might send me over to the library to look it up at lunchtime,’ muttered Joey. ‘We’re not all teacher’s pets.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Oh nothing …’ Joey tried to change the subject. ‘Hey, I think you’re right. It doesn’t feel as sore.’

  ‘Told you so.’ Myrtle sat down opposite him and leant against the maidenhair fern on the bank. They were still green here close to the water.

  ‘It’s nice up here,’ she said softly.

  ‘Is that why you come up here?’

  Myrtle nodded. ‘I come up here every Sunday after lunch. Saturdays I have to work in the shop — it’s our busiest day — or wash the dried fruit or sort the eggs or something for Mum, and then on Sunday there’s Church and Sunday School in the morning.’ She glanced up at the quiet gully for a moment. ‘But the afternoons are mine,’ she added firmly.

  ‘Don’t your parents worry about you being up here alone?’

  ‘They don’t know,’ said Myrtle simply. ‘It’s Dad’s only day off to see people. And Mum has a nap. How about your Mum and Auntie?’

  ‘I told Mum I was coming out to Joe’s. He’s got the farm below.’

  ‘I know,’ said Myrtle.

  ‘It wasn’t a lie. I did call in there. Mum made him a sponge cake. Then I came up here.’ Joey glanced at her. She looked sort of smaller without all her mob about her, her nose all red and her white hair sort of greenish in the dapples of the trees.

  ‘Joe believes I saw the Jap,’ he added.

  Myrtle looked up. ‘Really?’

  ‘He lost a shirt off his line,’ explained Joey. ‘And he says someone’s been pinching some of the rabbits out of his traps.’

  Myrtle shrugged. ‘Might have been a swaggie.’

  ‘There’re no swaggie’s about nowadays. They’ve all been called up, or are working in munitions or something. And anyway it was the shirt the Jap was wearing. I’m sure of it.’

  Myrtle looked unconvinced.

  ‘Why would a Jap hang around here?’ she said slowly.

  ‘How should I know? All I know is, I saw him. And I saw a fire up here last night, too. Just for a minute, then it was put out.’

  ‘I still think it’s probably a swaggie,’ said Myrtle.

  ‘You didn’t see the Jap,’ said Joey shortly.

  ‘Are you really sure?’ said Myrtle slowly. ‘I mean everyone’s always talking about the Japanese now. Maybe you just —’

  ‘I didn’t bally imagine it!’ cried Joey. ‘If one more person says that I’ll … I’ll dong them or something. How come everyone’s always talking about the Japs, but they don’t believe there is one?’

  ‘Well …’ said Myrtle, even more slowly. ‘Maybe they’re scared to believe in him. I mean, sometimes I think everyone’s keeping busy so they don’t have time to be scared.’

  ‘Like if you knit enough socks the Japs’ll never come? That’s what I think Aunt Lallie believes sometimes.’

  ‘Not that I think you did see a Jap,’ said Myrtle hurriedly. ‘I mean you might have seen someone, but a Jap … I mean, if a ship had been torpedoed or a plane had come down we’d have heard by now surely.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Joey. ‘Maybe the Jap was on a sub that got caught on a sandbank … or got torpedoed, but the Aussies didn’t know if they’d hit it, or …’ His voice trailed off.

  Myrtle chewed her thumb nail thoughtfully. ‘If we find a swaggie up here, that’d prove it wasn’t a Jap.’

  Joey glanced up at her. ‘You mean you’ll help me look?’

  Myrtle nodded.

  ‘Well, if it is a Jap we need to find him,’ she said practically, wiping her nose again. ‘And if it’s a swaggie … well … I don’t know what he’s doing up here, that’s all. We can tell him he should be pulling his weight with everyone else. How’s your foot feeling?’

  ‘Better,’ said Joey.

  Myrtle stood up. ‘I know a place,’ she said tentatively. ‘It’s where I’d sleep if I was a swaggie. Or a Jap.’

  Joey slipped his sandal back on. His ankle wasn’t throbbing at all now, just a slight ache from the cold water.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You lead the way.’

  chapter sixteen

  The Overhang

  * * *

  From the Biscuit Creek Gazette, 1942

  KIDDIES LIKE OUR BREAD!

  Every slice they eat helps them to grow up strong and healthy. We bake bread that is tasty and wholesome and has the lightness that only the best ingredients can give. Try a loaf today! Gleeson’s Bakery. Phone 32.

  * * *

  ‘How much further?’

  ‘Shhh … He’ll hear us.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t think there was anyone up here?’

  ‘Well, if anyone is up here they’ll hear us. Not far. Is your ankle sore?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘We can stop for a while if you like,’ offered Myrtle.

  ‘No, it’s all right.’

  Myrtle wrinkled her nose at him. It didn’t look as red up here. He wondered if there was something down in town that made it run.

  ‘You probably wouldn’t admit if it was dropping off, would you? Here, wait a sec.’ Myrtle picked up a long stick from the ground. ‘Put some of your weight on this. It’s not straight, but it’ll help — especially when we start going back down again.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Terry — that’
s my brother — broke his leg, oh, must be six years ago now. It ached like billyo for months. He always said it hurt more going down a hill than going up.’

  ‘Oh. Great,’ muttered Joey. He tried the stick. It did seem more comfortable. ‘He’s in the AIF now, isn’t he?’

  Myrtle nodded. ‘In the Seventh Division. In Palestine, I think.’ She hesitated. ‘I probably shouldn’t have told you that. Loose lips sink ships.’

  ‘Heck, everyone knows the Seventh Divvie’s in Palestine. Anyway, who’s to hear you out here?’

  ‘Your Jap,’ pointed out Myrtle.

  ‘Oh. Oh right, I see what you mean. But I bet he can’t understand English, and anyway how would he get any information out?’

  ‘Maybe he’s a spy. Maybe he has a short-wave radio.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in him? Anyway, a fat lot of good he’d be as a spy. There’s nothing to see round here even if you had binoculars. And even down in town there isn’t anyone to spy on. Unless the enemy wants to know how many socks Mrs Lucas knitted, or how many jars of jam the Red Cross made on Tuesday, or how many saucepans your gang collected for the war effort or …’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Myrtle. But she smiled as she said it. ‘We got a letter from Terry yesterday. He’s really good at writing. Writes every week mostly, though you know how it is getting mail — there’ll be nothing for weeks then a great pile of them. Fred’s not as good. Only one letter a month sometimes and then he writes page after page, but it’s all hacked to pieces by the censor. Fred never did know when to keep his mouth shut.’

  ‘Mrs Hallinan got a letter from her Ralph the other day, except it wasn’t a letter at all,’ said Joey. ‘Just a bit of paper from the censor saying, “Your son is well, but too talkative!”’