by Peter Watt
He and the rest of his men spent each day on the island of Tarakan advancing, fighting the enemy in his fortified log bunkers, and going through the ritual of deploying his sections to encircle and destroy the nests of enemy machine guns. Each time, he prayed to any god who would listen to keep his men alive. They were his true family now, each as precious as a brother. It was something he could never have imagined only a couple of years ago in his luxurious office, with its spectacular views of a serene Sydney Harbour.
Now it was the stifling heat, thirst, swamps and scrub, diseases that struck them down, and an enemy who fought to the death, with the intention of taking as many Australian soldiers with him into the afterworld.
The advance came to a halt as he and his battalion reached their objective, a fire support base. They had pushed the Japanese into a corner of the island, and Donald knew they could expect fierce resistance from a well-dug-in enemy. The Australians had named their forward bases Margy and Joyce. Here the battalions had assembled an odd assortment of supporting guns and three Matilda tanks on a flat between knolls, a couple of 25-pounders, a 3.7-inch anti-aircraft gun and a 6-pounder anti-tank gun. The nickname then became HMAS Margy or Battleship Margy.
‘Boss, the boys have been briefed,’ came the voice of Donald’s sergeant, snapping the young officer’s dreams of going home in one piece. He rose from the ammo crate, slung his rifle on his shoulder, and turned to the tired, dirty and fever-racked platoon second-in-command. Sergeant Mat Peene had refused to seek medical treatment for his bouts of malaria. Any sane soldier would do so since that meant being taken out of line and sent to a place with clean sheets and good food to recuperate. But Sergeant Peene was from a breed of soldier who refused to leave his men, and Donald knew he could do no less in similar circumstances. The men of the platoon looked up to their sergeant, and Donald was just becoming accepted by them. Some had stopped calling him ‘sir’ and started using the term ‘boss’, which was the Aussie soldier’s way of saying ‘we accept you as our leader’.
The two men stood watching as the crews of the two 25-pounder artillery guns opened fire on the bunkers in the hills facing them. Donald hoped the shells raining down on the camouflaged posts of the enemy would do the job as he feared sending men forward against them. But his hope would be dashed and his life changed forever.
*
After returning from leave to Brisbane, Jessica had found herself posted to the Atherton Tablelands in Queensland. It was a cipher post and she was bored by the paperwork in the big Nissan hut. Outside she could hear the warble of magpies, and the sun had risen enough to burn away the early morning mist that shrouded the highlands in the tropics.
Around her were other young girls wearing the uniform of the Women’s Australian Auxiliary Air Force, chatting as they moved around the office. Despite the fact they were under her command she felt she had little or nothing in common with her compatriots. They were girls who had lived in relative comfort of the cipher station high in the peaceful and scenic countryside. They would chatter about boyfriends and husbands whilst Jessica was still haunted by her mission into enemy territory.
Upon her return from her rescue operation in the islands she had expected another mission with the secretive special forces located down the coast near Cairns, but she couldn’t even return to her old posting in MacArthur’s HQ in Brisbane, where the pulse of the Pacific war pumped blood into the great campaigns now underway on the slow and bloody journey to Japan. Since she deserted they no longer trusted her.
Instead, she had been posted to this isolated place away from the war. She wore on her uniform the riband of the British Empire Medal. Those around her presumed she had been awarded her decoration for services in Mac’s HQ. They did not know it was for valour on her mission to New Britain behind enemy lines. Nor could she tell them, as she was sworn to secrecy.
Many times Jessica would relieve the last hours on the beach awaiting extraction, and the sacrifice made by her special forces companion, Warrant Officer Roland Porath. She knew he had sacrificed his life to save her and the American colonel. The painful memory haunted Jessica in her waking and sleeping hours. She would attempt to dismiss the recollections with the sweet memory of Donald Macintosh. In her privileged position she was at least able to quietly discover he was now a junior officer fighting in Tarakan. She also knew from the coded messages that came across her desk that the campaign in the backwaters of the Pacific was bloody and slow.
‘Where do I file this, Sarge?’ asked a girl barely out of her teens, snapping Jessica back into the reality of the present.
Jessica glanced at the piece of paper in the young airwoman’s hand. ‘On the RAAF clipboard for transmission,’ Jessica sighed. ‘You should know that by now.’
The girl looked sheepish at the mild rebuke. She had been informed by the other girls upon arrival that Sergeant Duffy was a bit aloof, and rarely joined in chatter.
Jessica returned to the ream of papers in front of her, stamping each one with a security clearance and noticed a change in the chatter behind her.
‘Attention,’ one of the girls commanded. Jessica swung around to see who of commissioned rank had entered the hut.
‘Ah, Sergeant Duffy, no need to salute,’ the officer said in his usual cultured tone when Jessica stood to attention to salute as the senior NCO in the hut.
‘It has been a long time since we last met,’ she said. ‘May I congratulate you on your majority?’
‘Oh, that,’ the British officer said. ‘Just came as a matter of course.’
‘Is the sergeant major with you still, sir?’ Jessica asked and saw a sad cloud come over the major’s face.
‘He went on a mission and I’m afraid it went badly,’ he replied. ‘Ladies, I’m Major Unsworthy. I had the honour of serving with your remarkable sergeant.’
Jessica noticed that besides the admiring glances for the handsome British officer, his comment also brought on a new look of respect from the girls who had disdained their supervisor. The women recognised the small badge on the handsome major’s tropical uniform as that of the Special Air Service, which made him an elite soldier.
‘I’m afraid I must take Sergeant Duffy from you,’ he continued with a disarming smile. ‘I’m sure you’ll miss her. Sergeant Duffy, if you’ll come with me.’
Jessica had to stop herself from bolting after Major Unsworthy into the bright, clear air of the grounds of the cipher station. Confused but elated, she held her breath as she walked beside him to a waiting jeep where a young, tough-looking soldier sat behind the wheel, sporting the green beret worn by commandoes.
The major stopped walking and turned to Jessica. ‘I’ve already organised for your kit to be packed, and your commanding officer, albeit reluctant to lose you, has signed you off on a transfer to us. I somehow think your talents are being wasted shuffling paper up here.’
He smiled down on Jessica, whose mind was reeling from his unexpected reappearance in her life. ‘Well, old girl, take a seat. I know you’ve learned not to ask questions in our line of work,’ Unsworthy said, helping Jessica into the back of the jeep. ‘But I also suspect you’re just itching to find out what your mission will be. I can promise all will be revealed when we get down to Cairns. Welcome back to our little family of cutthroats, pirates and generally bad people who create mayhem in the lives of the Nips in this Godforsaken part of the world.’
They drove down the narrow and twisting road to the coast. Jessica thought the sights and scents of the rainforest never smelled so good.
*
Tom Duffy had gathered his stockmen and informed them from the verandah that he was to leave the property until a legal matter was sorted. The men shuffled their feet and muttered that it was not fair dinkum that the bloody lawyers could do this to a well-liked and respected boss.
‘What happens to us, boss?’ the head stockman asked.
‘Ther
e will be a temporary manager assigned to look after the place until it’s returned to me, so you’ll still have jobs.’ Tom said. ‘Are there any other questions?’
The men mumbled amongst themselves, and slowly drifted away to return to their tasks. Only Billy remained at the foot of the steps.
‘What is it, Billy?’ Tom asked, seeing the worried frown on the stockman’s face.
‘Gotta tell you sumthin, boss,’ Billy said. ‘It about my boy, Terituba. He bin see ol’ Wallarie.’
Tom stepped down into the dusty yard. ‘What about Wallarie?’ Tom asked.
‘He tell me when they run away they find bones in the creek bed, find them before masta Patrick go south. Terituba say they saw Wallarie standing with a lot of other spirits.’
‘You believe your boy?’ Tom asked.
‘He bin a bit of a little bugga, but he always tell the truth,’ Billy said, looking nervous.
‘Do you reckon you could find the spot where you found the boys?’ Tom questioned. ‘I think it’s important.’
‘Yeah, boss,’ Billy said.
‘Then we will ride out now and find Wallarie,’ Tom said. ‘Go and saddle your horse, and saddle one for me.’
Tom returned to the empty house. Abigail had already gone to their property just out of Townsville. He reached for the rifle. Along with the .303, he packed ammunition, filled a hessian bag with tinned food and struggled through the door with the supplies.
When Tom stepped outside Billy was waiting for him astride his mount, holding the reins of Tom’s horse. Tom swung himself into the saddle, and they rode away from the station house to the place of death.
*
It was late in the afternoon when they reached the area on the old dry creek bed where Billy said the boys had seen the bones and ghosts. Billy crouched in the sand, searching for bones.
‘Nuthin but an old pipe here, boss,’ he said, holding up the battered smoking pipe.
Tom reached for it and recognised the pipe as one Wallarie treasured in his last years of life on earth.
‘Maybe the dingos dragged away any bones,’ Tom reflected, staring at the pipe from astride his horse.
‘Dingos don’t want old bones,’ Billy reflected, looking around with a touch of fear in his face. ‘This place, baal. Too many ghosts here.’
Tom knew of his Aboriginal stockmen’s views on those who were no longer alive and respected their fears. ‘I think you should ride back to the station and your family,’ he said gently. ‘I’m going to stay out here by and by.’
Billy grabbed the reins of his horse grazing peacefully on the dry, winter grass and swung into the saddle. ‘Not a good place to be,’ he said, glancing at the setting sun. ‘Too many ghosts come here at night. We see the lights rolling along the scrub.’
Tom knew what he meant. He, too, had seen the mysterious balls of bright light on the horizon in his early days at Glen View. They were enough to unlock fears and wonder.
‘You go now, Billy,’ Tom said gently. ‘I’ll camp out.’
‘Okay, boss,’ Billy said and turned his mount to ride back. He would reach his family camped near the homestead after dark.
Tom slipped from his horse and pulled out hobbles so that she could graze without going too far from a small copse of prickly bushes beside the dry creek bed. Tom quickly set up camp, made a small fire, and laid out his swag for sleeping.
The sun went down, giving way to a crystal clear, icy cold night. Tom squatted by his fire, eating bully beef from a tin with damper he had cooked in a heavy metal pot. The meal was washed down with black tea. Tom settled back, using his saddle as a pillow to stare at myriad stars slowly swirling overhead on this moonless night.
Around him were the nocturnal sounds of the bush. They were comforting and he thought how times like this cleared a man’s view of the world. Here, he could be the only human left on the earth in the vastness of a universe without limit.
He took the old pipe from his trouser pocket and with some difficulty cleaned it. He had taught himself to carry out many tasks with just one arm, and when he was satisfied it was clean, packed it with tobacco from a pouch he carried for his own pipe. Was Wallarie really a spirit man? Tom asked himself. Or was the memory of him still so strong that human imagination made him real?
Tom puffed on the pipe and tasted the strong tobacco in his mouth. If Wallarie were a spirit man, surely he would come to him now.
He waited and waited but nothing, except for the howl of a dingo and the call of an owl.
Tom finished the pipe, pulled blankets over himself and slipped into a deep sleep.
Then Wallarie came to him.
EIGHT
Tom knew he was dreaming. He did not know how, but he was in a world where a familiar voice called to him.
‘Tom, time to come with me,’ Wallarie said, but Tom could not see him.
With a sudden but gentle movement, Tom felt himself lifted from the earth. He even saw his body asleep below him and then he was flying as if on the wings of a soaring eagle.
Tom looked down and saw where his ancestors were buried. It was not a well-defined cemetery, just a few stone-marked graves.
‘Those of our blood sleep here,’ Wallarie said in Tom’s head. ‘You cannot give up this place to the whitefellas. It is land the old people walked, back to the Dreaming.’
‘What do I do?’ Tom asked.
‘You stay, Tom Duffy,’ Wallarie said. ‘You stay and fight like our ancestors did. Like I did when I killed Sir Donald Macintosh and his son with my spear.’
‘Why don’t you show yourself to me?’ Tom asked.
‘You and I will not see each other again until you join us in the spirit world. The people forget me now. They call it modern times, and all our people are gone – ’cept those with our blood. They will sit by the campfire and tell the stories of old Wallarie when he stood with the people of this land to fight the whitefellas.
‘Ah, I remember my time with the Kalkadoons. They were fighting people. I remember riding with the man you were named after, Tom Duffy. We were true brothers. When he took Mondo to be his wife a new people of both bloods was born. It was a long time ago, and now I must remain with the old ones and those I knew. I wish I could sit one more time in the cave sacred of our people and smoke my pipe with you Tom, but they are calling me to join the hunt for the wallaby and kangaroo. You still got my pipe?’
Tom suddenly felt as though he was falling but could not feel the air rush past him as he rejoined his sleeping body.
He jerked awake and blinked at the star-filled sky. Once again he could hear the sounds of the nocturnal animals foraging in the dark. The chill of the winter’s night bit into his exposed skin and with his good arm, he pulled up a blanket to his chin. The dream had been so real. But it was only a dream, and all Wallarie could say in it was that he should stand and fight for the land. That might have been good advice for his ancestors but times had changed. He could not be a one-man army.
Awake now, Tom decided to put on the billy and smoke Wallarie’s old pipe. He reached for where he had left it but it was not there. Puzzled, Tom took a burning stick from the now smouldering fire. It gave enough light to show the ground around him but he saw no sign of the pipe. For a moment Tom felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Then he picked up the faint smell of pipe tobacco he recognised as his own.
‘Wallarie, you old bugger,’ Tom chuckled as he gazed up at the overwhelming display of twinkling stars. ‘I bet I don’t find my baccy either.’
And Tom was right.
Tom knew now it was time to stand and fight, as he had done in two wars. He was the white warrior of the cave, and the only way Sarah Macintosh would ever possess the land again was over his dead body.
It was time to go to war again.
*
‘As far as we know, Mr Duffy has not vacated
the property,’ said the thin-faced lawyer.
Sarah Macintosh sat before his desk in the Sydney law firm that worked for the Macintosh legal interests.
‘He was given notice to leave weeks ago,’ Sarah said in an icy tone. ‘What can a one-armed old man do to defy the law?’
The solicitor cleared his throat before answering. ‘I’m afraid Mr Duffy is a very popular figure in his district, Miss Macintosh,’ he replied and removed his spectacles to clean them with a small cloth. ‘Our representatives in Townsville have informed us that Mr Duffy is a decorated war hero of two wars, and is a crack shot – even with one arm. He is also expert in living off the land. When one of our representatives approached the police in his area they expressed a reluctance to go out and evict Mr Duffy. They said they would need a small army behind them before they even found the man. I’m afraid, from what the local police told us, it is not likely Mr Duffy will surrender peacefully,’ the lawyer said. ‘The only way to evict him would be to kill him, and that would not bode well in the papers for us.’
‘Damn what the papers might print,’ Sarah said. ‘I want him off the property one way or another. If he’s not prepared to obey a legal decision he could be considered some kind of outlaw.’
The lawyer replaced his spectacles and did not look pleased at his client’s decision. ‘As yet, we have not established a prima facie case for repossession of Glen View, Miss Macintosh,’ he said. ‘We require solid proof that Mr Duffy purchased the property with stolen money, and that will not be easy with one of the chief witnesses up in New Guinea on active service. And that’s if we can get him to turn on Mr Duffy. At the moment the order is an interim one, and time is running out to renew it in the courts.’