While the Moon Burns

by Peter Watt

  ‘Thanks, Uncle Sean,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘This conversation never happened. Just like I was never here.’

  *

  ‘You ever thought about getting back into the ring again?’ Harry asked, gripping Donald’s hand in a vice-like grip. ‘After all, no one is capable of messing up your face worse than the Japs.’

  ‘At least I’m still prettier than you, Harry,’ Donald retorted, withdrawing from the bone-crushing handshake.

  Here was another man Donald loved like family. It had been his cousin David who had introduced Donald to Harry and his gym to learn how to fight. Harry, too, had served on the Western Front in the Great War.

  ‘The major rang me to say you were coming for a visit,’ Harry said, standing by the raised boxing ring. ‘What do you need?’

  Donald explained his reason for the visit.

  Harry listened quietly, then said, ‘It will be difficult, but I have a couple of contacts amongst the wharfies. Give me twenty-four hours.’

  Donald thanked him and hurried off to a bank to withdraw a substantial amount of cash. His next stop would be the hospital, to apply for the substantial leave he was owed by the army.

  FOURTEEN

  The battalion had been given its orders to mount a diversionary advance south of Wewak towards Sambakaua in the jungle-covered mountains. At first it was relatively easy-going as Major David Macintosh’s company moved forward across a terrain of undulating hills sparsely covered by trees. He had with him a couple of local native guides but he also had heavily reduced platoons of infantry. The main thrust by the brigade was to be made east of their axis of advance so the battalion was protecting the main unit’s right flank. So short of men was the company that even the company cook had been pressed into service for the march south. He had insisted the company cook pot travel with them. They were fortunate that native carriers accompanied them, and the cook pot was slung between two poles.

  The company was able to spread out in battle formation and were hardly into the march when they encountered their first skirmish with the Japanese. One prisoner was taken – he was so hungry he had attempted to steal food from the Australians.

  After a couple of days the country changed and the ever-present mountains and dense jungle forest reappeared to confront the advancing Australians. It was all too familiar to many of the men who had fought along the Kokoda Track.

  When the platoon bivouacked for the night, sentries were posted and relieved every two hours.

  David squatted at the base of a big rainforest tree, examining the sketch map that was being made of their progress. He used a torch under a ground sheet to conceal the light and was joined by Captain Brian Williams.

  ‘How’s it looking?’ Brian asked.

  ‘Like it always does,’ David replied. ‘Jungle, bloody jungle, and most probably Nips holed up waiting for us.’

  ‘At least we have arty support,’ Brian said.

  ‘Yeah, but by the time the Nips hit us in an ambush it’s a bit too late for our blokes who get caught.’

  Brian knew what his company commander meant. Jungle warfare was totally different from what the battalion had experienced in Africa. At least there the artillery forward observer could clearly see terrain that might support enemy troops well ahead of an advance, and lob a few shells to disrupt the enemy’s plans to ambush. In New Guinea visual references were measured in feet rather than miles. All artillery could do was react to enemy contact in terrain where a man could hide without much fear of being hit by a direct shot from the 25-pounders.

  ‘I read a paper from home before we left that hinted the war was virtually over,’ Brian said. ‘A lot of the boys were getting letters from families saying how hard it was living with the rationing. I gather the people back home consider the war over.’

  David glanced at his friend. ‘Tell that to the Yanks who will have to storm the beaches of the Japanese mainland to make the Japs surrender. I was briefed that they can expect casualties in just one day amounting to all the troops they have lost so far in this war. The bloody war will not be over until next year at the least, unless we get a miracle.’

  Their conversation was cut short by the sound of small-arms fire and exploding grenades a short distance away.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ David swore, snatching his rifle and flicking off his torch.

  A battle was being fought on the perimeter by one of his platoons and he could recognise the shouting voices were speaking Japanese. It was a still, clear night lit by a full moon. When David looked in the direction of the firefight he could see flashes of weapons and exploding grenades. The noise was deafening and every now and then he caught sight of a figure silhouetted by the gun and grenade flashes.

  ‘Brian, get over to the other two platoons and make sure they hold their fire unless absolutely necessary,’ David shouted.

  It was important his perimeter was not completely revealed to a force that may have surrounded them. Gun bursts gave away their location in the dark. David moved forward in a crouch, following a string line until he found the position of the platoon engaged with the enemy. He recognised the platoon commander shouting orders to his men who appeared to be holding their positions under heavy fire.

  ‘What happened?’ David shouted to the young officer.

  ‘I heard rustling in the grass to our front,’ he shouted back. ‘I stood up to have a quick look, and saw the little bastards crawling towards us. I did not have time to inform you, boss.’

  ‘Well done,’ David said, slapping his young officer on the back. After about fifteen minutes the firing tapered off, and the night became quiet again. The jungle creatures, shocked into silence, felt brave enough to now fill the night with their calls and cries. David crawled back to his HQ under the base of the forest giant to await briefings from his other platoons.

  When the sun rose the company found the bodies of three Japanese soldiers uncomfortably close to the forward edges of the gun pits. Bloody trails led away from the perimeter. A light machine gun on its bipod had been left behind, indicating that the Australian soldiers had surprised their enemy. The only casualty David’s company had to mourn was the big cooking pot, now riddled with bullets and out of action.

  The next day, the company’s luck ran out. Continuing the advance, a forward scout moved about seventy yards ahead of the advancing company. The rest of the company was assembling into a fighting formation when a single shot rang out. The forward scout took the enemy bullet in the chest, pitching forward. The company immediately shook out into a counter-ambush formation.

  David moved forward with the medical doctor. The wounded soldier was treated in the field before being prepared for evacuation down the line to a hospital on the coast.

  ‘Get some shells into the jungle around here,’ David said to the captain, an artillery forward. David hoped the barrage of exploding 25 pound rounds might cause the hidden enemy to fall back out of range.

  Within minutes the heavy, earth-shaking crump of exploding shells could be heard – and felt underfoot – as guns targeted the nearby area.

  David gave the order to continue the advance and near evening his company came under fire from a wooded area near a creek. Another of his soldiers was hit, but survived.

  That night David had his platoons dig in, and during the dark hours sporadic fire from the platoon Bren guns kept the enemy at bay. The retreating Japanese were far from a beaten force. The fighting dragged on.

  For David, peace was something he had given up on and did not expect to find, even when the guns eventually fell silent on the tropical battlefields of northern New Guinea.

  *

  Captain James Duffy knew he would be put back on the active roll. It was no secret that an invasion was being planned for the Japanese main islands, and the predicted casualties meant every able-bodied man was needed. There was a shortage of pilots, and his leg bur
ns had healed well enough for him to operate the controls of a fighter plane. There had been no damage to his leg muscles.

  James returned from his medical board interview and told his grandfather he was once again to be shipped out to the Pacific war, where he knew he would be facing the deadly menace of suicidal Japanese pilots. The kamikaze pilots’ efforts were not in vain – they had taken a very heavy toll on British and American shipping and naval crews off their homeland islands.

  James Barrington Snr shook his head sadly. ‘You do not have to do this, James. You have done enough already.’

  ‘I have to see out the war, sir,’ James replied. ‘I have lost too many friends to quit now.’

  ‘You do know that when the time comes to invade Japan, every man, woman and child will meet you on the beaches with anything they can use as a weapon,’ Barrington said. ‘I expect that it will be no safer in the air above those beaches. When are you due to ship out?’

  James knew his grandfather was right. It was well known that the enemy had a policy akin to mass suicide by its civilian population. How would he feel strafing lines of women and children attempting to confront the troops landing on the beaches? He did not want to even consider the possibility.

  ‘I leave tomorrow,’ James said. ‘I thought I might visit some friends before I leave, so I won’t be in for dinner tonight, but will be back to share a nightcap with you.’

  James could see tears glistening in his grandfather’s eyes.

  ‘I’ll read a book and see you when you return home,’ his grandfather said. ‘Don’t be late.’

  James shook his head and drove into town to Sweeney’s Bar. Inside the dimly lit room he could see Bernie and his daughter behind the bar.

  Bernie looked up and broke into a broad smile when he saw James in his uniform. A few patrons sitting at the bar and around the room at small tables also glanced at the handsome young USMC fighter pilot, and the coloured ribands on his chest denoting his bravery. A few raised glasses and mumbled, ‘God save America’. James nodded to them.

  ‘What’s your poison?’ Bernie asked.

  ‘Make it a Scotch on the rocks,’ James replied, placing some notes on the wet bar.

  ‘Your money has no value here, Captain Duffy,’ Bernie said, pushing the notes back towards James. ‘The drinks are on the house tonight.’

  ‘Are we celebrating something special?’ James asked innocently.

  ‘You goddamn know we are,’ Bernie answered. ‘Do you think that we Irish are so stupid that we cannot see through such a badly concealed scheme to send Isabel to college on a scholarship set up by the Barrington Foundation? Don’t even try to insult an old gyrene with any blarney about not knowing.’

  ‘Okay,’ James said, accepting the tumbler of whisky. ‘I may have had something to do with it, but my grandfather has more money than he knows what to do with, and your family has already paid a heavy price with the loss of your only son.’

  For a moment Bernie stared at the young pilot. ‘I’ll be able to sell the bar to pay you back,’ he finally said. ‘We don’t need charity.’

  ‘It’s not charity,’ James replied. ‘If you like, I can have papers drawn up to have a stake in the bar. I kind of like the place.’

  Bernie grinned. ‘How would it look if it was known that a decorated officer of Uncle Sam was a part owner in a bar on the wrong side of the tracks? I’m not sure your snobby friends in your social circle would approve.’

  ‘They can go to hell – or start drinking in our bar,’ James said, taking a swig. ‘The main thing is, Isabel gets a chance to follow her dreams of becoming a doctor. She’s a good kid.’

  James only had two drinks before he left the bar. He stepped out to walk towards his car.

  ‘James!’ a voice called to him.

  He turned to see Isabel hurrying after him. ‘I’ve not had an opportunity to thank you for the scholarship. I don’t know why you have done it, but I will not let you down.’

  She was now face to face with James in the dim light of the carpark.

  ‘I know you’ll be the best doctor this town has ever seen, although I’m not aware of too many other lady doctors in these parts.’

  ‘Times are changing,’ Isabel said. ‘This is the second time you have come to my rescue. I guess you don’t remember the first time you did, before the war.’

  Puzzled, James had no idea what she meant. ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember.’

  ‘It was almost ten years ago. I was coming home from school when some kids from another school started picking on me. I was very afraid as I was only about eight years old at the time. You came across the boys, who were about your age, bullying me. You looked very angry, and stepped in to tell them to leave me alone. One of the boys was Sheriff Hausmann – but he wasn’t a sheriff then – and he challenged you. You hit him so hard that he had a bloody nose and the others ran away, afraid of you. I was crying and you gave me a clean handkerchief to wipe away the tears. I didn’t give it back to you at the time. I still have it.’

  ‘That was you!’ James laughed softly. ‘The snotty-nosed kid with freckles who gave me an excuse to lay out that son of a bitch Hausmann. I’m sorry I had forgotten you. Well, you’ve certainly grown into a fine young woman.’

  ‘I never forgot how you stood up for me, and I’ve followed your career as a fighter pilot all through the war. I would say prayers for you at Mass on Sundays so that you’d return safely, and we would meet again.’

  James was suddenly aware she was on tiptoe and felt her lips on his own. He fell into the kiss but stopped himself and gently took her arms, pushing her away.

  ‘Isabel, you’re still a kid,’ he said, and immediately regretted his choice of words.

  She stood before him, tears welling in her eyes. Without a word she turned on her heel and ran back to the bar, leaving James cursing himself for being so clumsy. He walked back to the bar to apologise. When he entered he was aware the patrons were less warm in their greeting. He guessed Isabel was much loved.

  ‘What did you do to my daughter to upset her so much?’ Bernie growled, stepping out from behind the bar, and advancing on James.

  ‘Mr Sweeney . . . Bernie . . . I swear on my Irish blood that I didn’t harm Isabel in any way,’ James said, the words tumbling out before he could think of some way to smooth the situation. The big saloon keeper was not a man anyone would want to upset, with his rippling muscles and brawny bulk. ‘We just had a misunderstanding in the carpark.’

  Bernie glared at James, his arms folded across his chest. He turned to the few patrons in the bar staring at the unfolding scene.

  ‘What are you lookin’ at?’ he snapped, and they ducked their heads to avoid his cold stare.

  Then Bernie’s expression changed. ‘You’d better come with me,’ he said to James in a gentler tone. ‘We’ll talk in the carpark.’

  For a moment James thought this was an invitation to have his head knocked off, but Bernie grinned at his shocked expression.

  ‘I need to tell you something,’ he said, gesturing to James to follow him.

  Both men stepped into the carpark.

  ‘I think I know what upset my daughter, James,’ he said. ‘For as long as I can remember Isabel has had a crush on you. I never thought in a million years that you’d ever come into our lives, and that she would naturally grow out of her childish ideas. Did she make some kind of pass at you?’

  James nodded his head. ‘I realise she’s a mere child, and didn’t think it was appropriate. I’m ten years older than your daughter, and she should be dating the boys in high school, not someone like me.’

  ‘You’re a good man, James,’ Bernie said, holding out his hand. ‘I heard a rumour that you’re going back to the Pacific.’

  ‘I ship out tomorrow,’ James said. ‘Please make up some kind of apology for me,’ he continued. ‘The last thin
g I want to remember is the hurt my clumsy actions may have caused Isabel.’

  Bernie clasped James’s shoulder.

  ‘I will,’ he said. ‘Whether you know it or not, you’re now a part of our family, with all that you have done for us. When you return I’ll help you bring down that goddamned son of a bitch Edgar Wilson. I don’t care who his father is or that he thinks he runs this county. I know you’re not Catholic, but you carry an Irish name, and you’re a brother marine. I think you and I could prove to be a formidable team.’

  James disengaged the iron grip and looked at the big Irish American. Who could doubt that between them they would bring Wilson down? All James had to do was survive his next posting to the Pacific, and the upcoming bloody invasion of Japan.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘If anyone asks, your names are Larry, Moe and Curly,’ Johnson said to the three former Black and Tan members. ‘You figure out which name you want.’

  ‘That’s the names of those three Yankee comedians you see at the flicks,’ said one of them. The three men were in their mid- to late forties and it was obvious from their tough demeanours they had seen a lot of violence. ‘I like that,’ he continued with a hard smile. ‘Theys is always hurtin’ each other.’

  The four men travelled by train to Queensland. When they arrived in Rockhampton they left the train with their personal baggage. Johnson made them wait until a couple of heavy wooden crates were unloaded from the baggage car. The former Black and Tans stared curiously at the long boxes.

  ‘What have we got here, Mr Johnson?’ Moe asked.

  ‘You’ll see when we get to Glen View,’ Johnson replied, and looked for the truck waiting for them at the station. Johnson organised to have the boxes loaded onto the truck and the three clambered aboard for the rough and dusty journey to the cattle station.

  They arrived two days later.

  The truck pulled into the front yard of the homestead, to be met by hostile glares from a couple of stockmen astride their mounts.