While the Moon Burns

by Peter Watt

  Dear Captain Duffy,

  I must apologise for my forward behaviour the last time I saw you. I have enclosed the handkerchief you gave me those many years ago, as it has always provided me with good luck. Please accept my apology, and I promise such behaviour will never happen again.

  Please be careful and return to our town very soon.

  Yours sincerely

  Isabel Sweeney

  James held the handkerchief, aware that Hardy was staring at him curiously.

  ‘Is that all that’s in the parcel?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, I left it at home, and a nice kid returned it to me,’ James replied.

  ‘I got to go on duty,’ Ryan said. ‘No wild parties or broads while I’m gone.’

  He left James alone in the room. In the distance James could hear the B29 Superfortress, four-engined bombers roar to life for yet another bombing raid of incendiaries on Japanese mainland cities. Mustang fighters would accompany the high-flying bombers because of the incredible long-range ability of the sleek fighter aircraft.

  James knew his war would recommence reopen with the invasion of Japan. He glanced at a calendar hanging in the room. It was 5 August 1945. Tomorrow would just be another day on the flight line.

  But Captain James Duffy was very wrong. It was the day that changed everything in the Pacific war.

  *

  Major David Macintosh sat in the shade of the swaying coconut trees that edged the small beach while his men splashed and frolicked in the cooling waters of the Bismarck Sea. His company had been granted respite leave after their operations, and for a brief but precious moment the war was somewhere else altogether.

  David read and reread the letters from Allison. He gazed out to sea and imagined a life away from the hellish world of war. There would be an overhead fan to cool his body as he lay back against clean sheets on a soft bed. A chilled beer in his hand, and the few remains of the biggest steak a man could consume. He would be on a beach with Allison beside him in a skimpy swimsuit, and the world would be at peace. His daydreaming was shattered when he heard Captain Brian Williams say, ‘The boss wants us for a briefing in an hour.’

  ‘You know what for?’ David asked, dreading the answer.

  Brian squatted beside David. ‘It looks like we have to go out and join the rest of the division in the bush.’

  David slipped the letter he was reading into his shirt pocket. Another operation of sleepless nights, backbreaking climbs up steep jungle-covered slopes, leeches and always the thirst for water. Then there were the ambushes as the Japanese continued to fight fanatically to the last man, and the inevitable killed and wounded amongst his own men. It was never going to end, and the hopes he had of returning to Allison were nothing more than just simple dreams.

  Both men walked together towards the HQ area and were met by a signalman flushed with the news the battalion had just received from Brigade HQ. The signalman stopped, and stood to attention before David.

  ‘Boss, we just got news that the Yanks have dropped some kind of bomb on a Nip city called Hiroshima, and blew it off the face of the map.’

  ‘What!’ Brian exclaimed. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Yesterday, sir,’ the signalman replied. ‘I reckon the Japs will throw in the towel now.’

  Neither David nor Brian was so confident. Time after time, they had faced an enemy fully prepared to die rather than surrender, but the signalman’s happiness made them keep their thoughts to themselves. The signalman asked permission to spread the news about the new super weapon, and David dismissed him to do so.

  ‘What do you think, Dave?’ Brian asked.

  ‘I don’t think the Nips will surrender on the strength of losing one city,’ he said, gazing at the beach they had just walked away from. ‘It would take a war on two fronts before they consider how hopeless their situation is.’

  ‘The Russians have said they would help out,’ Brian offered.

  ‘Then, if the Russkies honour their promise, we might see the Japs consider an unconditional surrender,’ David said. ‘Until then the war is not over for us.’

  *

  The news of the first atomic bomb to be dropped on Japan hardly made Sarah blink, divorced as she was from the grand strategy of international politics. Her world was on home ground, and all that mattered was how she could exploit the wartime conditions imposed on Australia. She considered herself a woman of vision, and was already being mentioned as the face of the future, a beautiful young woman chairing one of Australia’s biggest financial institutions. She was a part of a successful family dynasty that prospered even more with her touch. A journalist had somehow unearthed the story that Sarah had neglected her sick child and decided to run it in an attempt to shatter her rising star. When she heard, Sarah organised for the journalist to interview her and her charm, along with some hastily arranged donations to children’s medical research, had worked. Instead of a smear story, the published article showed her as an angel.

  ‘I read the story,’ Detective Inspector Preston said, throwing the paper on Sarah’s desk. ‘You tell a pretty good yarn for the newspapers.’

  ‘Every word is true,’ Sarah protested. ‘My duties to the Australian public come before my desperate need to be with my son Michael.’

  ‘You’re talking to me now, Miss Macintosh,’ Preston said with a hard smile. ‘I know what you’re capable of, and having real feelings for people is not one of those things.’

  They sat opposite each other in the library of the Macintosh mansion, a small table between them, on which lay a plain envelope with the policeman’s payment for the month.

  ‘You don’t get paid to judge me, Inspector,’ Sarah said. ‘You earn your place on the payroll by solving problems peculiar to your occupation.’

  Preston slipped the envelope into his jacket. ‘I expect double the next time I come here,’ he said, taking a cigarette from a packet. ‘Having someone done away with is very risky business.’

  ‘But you’ll do it?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘From my experience, I don’t think it will be much of a problem,’ Preston replied. ‘There’s a way to do it without attracting much attention. I know someone on the other side of the law who owes me a favour.’

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ Sarah said, raising her hand. ‘Just get it done as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Before the end of the week,’ Preston said, rising from his chair. ‘Just keep an eye on the morning papers.’

  He left the room. Sarah wondered how David would deal with the loss of his beloved Allison. Oh, she would rush to his side to console him when he returned from the war, and David would learn who really loved him.

  Loved him, Sarah reflected. Owned him was probably a more accurate way to describe how she felt in her obsession for her cousin. As for her husband, Charles Huntley, well, he would sue for divorce by the time she finished with him.

  *

  The night nurses moved silently in the dimly lit hospital corridors. Val Keevers had been given special permission to remain beside Michael’s bed, as the rheumatic fever racked his body. The doctors were able to treat him with the new wonder drug, penicillin. The toddler whimpered in his pain, and Val held his little hand in her own, whispering soothing words to the little boy.

  She had trouble controlling her anger as she sat by his bed. Why wasn’t the boy’s mother here at this critical time? Michael’s father was flying Spitfires in northern Australia, but his mother was only a few hours away on the other side of the Great Dividing Range.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Miss Keevers?’ the kindly matron asked.

  ‘Thank you, matron,’ Val replied. ‘That would be nice.’

  The matron disappeared to organise one of her nurses to fetch the drink, and Val continued her lonely vigil.

  ‘No matter what happens in the future I will always be wit
h you, my little angel,’ she said softly.

  The night passed, and the morning shift found the nanny asleep in the chair, still holding Michael’s hand.

  *

  Daylight blazed across the plains of central Queensland as the temperature rose to replace the bitter cold of the night before.

  ‘He’s dead, boss,’ Moe said, kneeling beside the body of his former comrade in arms. ‘He must have gone before sunrise.’

  Johnson leaned over the body, still in a sitting position against the wheel of the lorry. Flies were already gathering on the corpse.

  ‘The spear must have done more damage than I thought,’ Johnson mused, observing the large amount of dried blood covering the man’s chest. ‘You two drag him away, and bury him in the scrub behind us.’

  The two remaining thugs obeyed, and after a half-hour returned to where Johnson waited by the lorry.

  ‘We’ve had a little chat about the situation,’ Curly said. ‘You either pay us double to go up that hill – or we pack it in, and return to Sydney.’

  Johnson glared at the two men still holding shovels. ‘You share Larry’s pay,’ he said. ‘He didn’t have any kin over here to give it to anyway.’

  For a moment both thugs stared up the hill to the shimmering rocks above. ‘Okay,’ Curly shrugged. ‘We’re still in.’

  Johnson shook his head. ‘A couple of blackfellas up there, and you act like you’re frightened of them.’

  Neither man answered.

  Suddenly a fusillade of shots cracked from the rocks lower on the hill, spraying dirt around their feet. All three leaped to the far side of the truck as high-powered bullets ripped through its flimsy structure.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Moe yelped. ‘There’s more than just the blackfella shootin’ at us. Larry’s share or not, it ain’t worth dyin’ for.’

  Johnson was stunned; from the rapid fire of one of the rifles, it had to be a semi-automatic.

  ‘Hey, Johnson,’ Tom Duffy called across the fifty yards between them, ‘how about you toss out your guns and leave Glen View? You know we have you pinned, and the truck is no defence against .303 and .30 calibre bullets.’

  Johnson found his mouth was dry. He knew the heavy-calibre bullets could easily pass through the body of the truck and kill them. It was obvious that Duffy and whoever else was with him had used the darkness of the night to come down off the hill and position themselves very close by. Johnson knew that they were in trouble. The threat was real and his mind raced over his options. One was to admit defeat, leave the station and inform Sarah Macintosh he had failed. Another option was to keep trying to kill Tom Duffy. The latter option would not be easy, considering the current disadvantage he and his two hired thugs faced. But the risk was worth it balanced against informing Sarah Macintosh of the failure and the financial cost involved in doing so.

  ‘How do I know that you will not shoot us down if we attempt to leave?’ Johnson shouted back. His two henchmen watched him closely.

  ‘Because all I want is for you to leave – that’s all,’ Tom replied. ‘You can take your truck.’

  Johnson turned to his men. ‘Put down your Tommys,’ he said. ‘We’ll do as the bastard says.’

  Neither man protested. They had very fresh memories of their comrade’s corpse lying behind the truck. But Johnson had other plans, and quickly briefed his men before they stepped out from behind the truck.

  *

  Tom, Billy and Donald watched from the cover of the rocks as the three men slowly emerged from behind the lorry, their hands in the air. Tom rose from behind his cover, the Garand levelled at the men.

  ‘Careful, Tom,’ Donald hissed, his rifle on Johnson.

  ‘They don’t appear to be armed,’ Tom said, and stepped out towards the three men standing despondently in a small clearing between the trees at the base of the hill.

  Tom stopped about ten paces from Johnson. ‘You can go back and tell the courts I’m still occupying my land,’ he said.

  ‘You appear to have won, Duffy,’ Johnson spat. ‘But if you were dead, it would be a moot point.’

  Johnson’s two men suddenly broke away, one sprinting back to the truck whilst the second ran as quickly as he could away from the scene. For a split second Tom’s attention was on them and not on Johnson, who produced a revolver from behind his back. The two shots from Johnson’s pistol came in rapid succession, and Tom felt the bullets hit his chest. Tom stumbled from the impact, pulling the trigger of the Garand, but his shot went high. Johnson was turning to regain cover behind the truck when the crack of a rifle spun him around, Donald’s shot taking him in the throat. Johnson fell to his knees, clutching his neck, blood pumping between his fingers from the ruptured carotid artery, trying but failing to stem the flow of blood.

  The rapid fire of a Thompson submachine gun from behind the truck ripped across the clearing, shattering chunks off rocks.

  Donald had already worked the bolt and cambered another round. He could not see his target, and guessed the man firing at him was simply attempting to throw off any repeat fire. Donald took a quick look at the clearing between him and the truck. Tom was lying on his back, clutching his chest. He was still alive.

  ‘I’ll get you out of there!’ Donald yelled, his words drowned by the rip of rapid fire from the submachine gun. One thing Donald knew about the weapon he was facing was that it was inaccurate at range. It was a weapon designed for trench warfare at close range.

  Donald saw Tom raise his arm as if to wave him off, but Donald ignored the gesture. When Donald looked to where Billy had been concealed he noticed with some alarm that he was gone. He hardly had time to think about Billy’s absence. Donald wished he still had the Garand, but it lay beside Tom in the red soil.

  ‘Hey, mister,’ a voice called to Donald. ‘You throw down your rifle, and I will not finish off Duffy.’

  Donald could see Tom lying only a few yards from the truck and knew that the man with the submachine gun was not making an empty threat. He also knew everything the man said was a lie. If he revealed himself, he and Tom would be murdered.

  ‘No deal, cobber,’ Donald replied. ‘My promise to you is, if you do anything to Tom, you’ll not get out of here alive.’

  There was a short silence. Donald thought he heard a short scuffle and a crunching sound from behind the truck. He raised his head to see Billy emerge, covered in blood.

  ‘Wallarie got the bugger,’ Billy said with a smirk.

  Donald noticed the hard wooden nulla swinging in Billy’s hand, also covered in blood. Billy had used the confusion to leave his position and slipped in behind the lone gunman.

  Donald rose from his position and ran over to Tom. Billy was already kneeling beside his friend and boss.

  ‘We got them,’ Tom said in a weak voice as blood oozed, soaking his shirtfront.

  ‘Yeah, Tom,’ Donald said. ‘One of them ran off, but I don’t think he was armed. Johnson’s dead and Billy took care of the other joker. We’re going to use the truck to get you back to Glen View, and get medical treatment.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time, Donald,’ Tom said, reaching up to grip Donald’s shirt. ‘I won’t be going anywhere.’

  Donald knew from experience that the position of the wounds meant Tom had little chance of surviving the next few minutes. ‘I want you to make a promise that when I go, you take my body up the hill, and sit me up so I can see all the land around here before you take me to the homestead. You tell Jessie and Abigail that I love them, and they were in my thoughts to the last.’

  Donald forced back his grief as he watched the tough old man die.

  ‘Yeah, cobber,’ he said, and felt Tom’s grip on his shirt relax as life went from the man who had survived two wars.

  Tom’s eyes were staring up at the sky, where the solitary wedge-tailed eagle floated on the morning thermals over the brigalow pl
ains.

  True to his promise, they took Tom’s body to the top of the hill and propped him on a ledge overlooking the vast expense of land around the sacred mountain, and sat with him for an hour.

  ‘Look! Boss!’ Billy said, staring up at the cloudless, azure sky.

  Donald followed Billy’s gaze to see a second wedge-tailed eagle joining the other great bird of prey. Both eagles circled the top of the hill.

  ‘Tom, he gone an’ join Wallarie,’ Billy said with sincerity.

  Donald accepted the Aboriginal stockman’s statement without comment. It was time to take Tom’s body down off the hill, and return him to the Glen View homestead.

  EIGHTEEN

  When Donald and Billy reached the bottom of the hill they were met by two horsemen, both of whom Donald recognised.

  Cyril dismounted, and Mitch followed. Both men stared at the carnage around the truck.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Mitch swore. ‘What happened here?’

  Donald gently placed Tom’s body on the ground. ‘We made a stand, and this happened,’ he said. ‘How are you, Mitch?’

  Mitch strode forward and shook Donald’s hand. ‘I see the Japs have done to your face what I couldn’t do before the war,’ he said with a grim smile. ‘Good to see you back here, Mr Macintosh.’

  Mitch then walked over to Tom’s body, took off his hat and stood respectfully for a time before the body.

  ‘Who shot Tom?’ he asked, replacing his hat.

  ‘That bastard over there,’ Donald replied, turning to stare at Johnson’s body. ‘I believe he was appointed to oversee Glen View, until the court case was decided.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mitch drawled. ‘Some Pommy copper who knew nothing about cattle.’

  ‘Well, as a member of the Macintosh board, I’m appointing you as manager until all things are sorted out,’ Donald said, placing his hand on the raw-boned stockman’s shoulder.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Macintosh. I promise I won’t let you down.’

  ‘If I remember rightly you used to call me Macca, when we were running wild in the big smoke of Rockie,’ Donald said. ‘Nothing has changed.’