by Peter Watt
The young boy on the train, Patrick, was not Cyril’s son but that of his former employer, Diane Duffy, now a prisoner of the Japanese in Changi prison at Singapore. Cyril had promised Diane that he would get her son safely to Australia, and he was to be taken to Sydney, to a prominent lawyer, Sean Duffy, who would be able to arrange his welfare. Cyril had also arranged for employment in the aircraft industry, as he had excellent qualifications now in great demand by a country at war.
Cyril glanced at the boy staring out of the window at what seemed to be endless plains to the horizon. Since his birth he had been raised in the Far East with its noisy, crowded cities, green paddy fields and mountains covered with lush vegetation. The country he now gazed at was harsh and dry with very few features.
‘We should reach Adelaide in the morning,’ Cyril said, sensing the boy’s frustration at being cooped up on the train for so long. ‘You will be able to stretch your legs and have a bit of a look around.’
Patrick turned to Cyril and sighed. ‘I wish Mummy was with us.’
‘She will be one day,’ Cyril said, reaching out to grip the boy’s shoulder reassuringly, but privately wondering if she would survive the horrors of Japanese imprisonment. Already stories were leaking out concerning the appalling way the enemy treated prisoners. What the Japanese had done in China before the war was well known in the west, the atrocities recorded on file and in print by eyewitnesses.
‘Is Mr Duffy a nice man?’ Patrick suddenly asked.
‘I suppose so,’ Cyril answered, releasing his grip on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Your mother has spoken highly of him, and I am sure that he will be very kind to you. Auntie Po, Lan and myself will not be far away in Sydney,’ he added. ‘He sounded very keen to meet you when I was able to speak to him on the telephone.’
Patrick returned to staring out the window and Cyril leaned back in his seat to gaze at his daughter in his wife’s lap. She had her thumb in her mouth and slept blissfully unaware of the horrors of a wider world to the north of her new home.
*
Lieutenant Tony Caccamo checked into the merchant seamen’s boarding house located in the infamous Rocks section of Sydney Harbour, overlooking the city’s Circular Quay. The building was rundown and in need of repairs, but the tiny room he had to himself was clean enough. Beside his single sagging bed he had a rickety chair and a tall wardrobe. He had not achieved his mission to execute the rogue British officer, and as he lay on his bed staring at the fly-specked ceiling, he cursed himself for accepting the covert mission in the first place. Since his failed attempt to shoot Ulverstone at the residence of Sir George Macintosh, he had spent his days wandering the city, frequenting insalubrious hotel bars around Sydney’s dock areas. Only once had he made contact with his commanding officer, when he had come down to attend a meeting in Sydney. They had arranged to meet in Hyde Park, and Tony had briefed the American intelligence colonel on what had occurred.
‘I trust in you to come up with a solution, Lieutenant Caccamo,’ the colonel had replied, chomping on his cigar. ‘I heard you were one of the best back in New York.’ Tony had wanted to say that he had been one of the best at arresting murderers, not becoming one himself. He had bitten back his retort because he knew that in time of war all the rules went out the window.
The colonel had spat a remnant of the loose tobacco on the ground and stared at the pigeons fluttering around a great water fountain. ‘I can tell you that what we are doing is sanctioned by the limeys’ MI6. They have gone behind Churchill’s back on this. They are as frustrated as we are that Ulverstone has not been arrested as a traitor. But lords seem to be untouchable in the British system. So the Brits have left their dirty work to us . . . or should I say, to you.’
Tony knew exactly what the colonel meant. Should he be caught, the American government would disown him, with the excuse that he was a deranged soldier acting on his own. The former New York detective knew that his boss was smart enough to have already written up the papers declaring him a deserter with mental problems in the eventuality of his being caught.
‘I will need some more time,’ Tony said. ‘He is not an easy man to get alone. I blew my chance with him when he was visiting Sir George Macintosh.’
‘When you finish with Ulverstone we should get you to knock off the Aussie’s goddamned Prime Minister, Curtin,’ the colonel said with a short laugh. ‘He turns a blind eye to his longshoremen sabotaging our supply system on the wharves.’
‘They call them wharfies in this country,’ Tony said. ‘I have heard stories from some of the merchant seamen about how the sons of bitches have been dumping supplies meant for our boys in the harbour. Most of their union are made up of commies.’
‘Well, if we can’t get rid of their commie-loving prime minister, we might be able to arrange for a few of these Aussie wharfies to end up in the harbour.’
Tony turned to glance at the colonel sitting beside him, and wondered if he was simply joking. But he did not see any humour in his face and shuddered. All Tony wanted was to get the job over with and return to his normal posting back at MacArthur’s HQ in Brisbane where he could be close to Jessica Duffy. It had been a long time since he’d seen her, and these weeks alone on the secret operation had given him ample time to confront the fact that he was falling in love with her.
‘Is there anything else, sir?’ Tony asked, and the American officer shook his head and strolled away through a flock of pigeons.
Tony had felt very much alone as he had watched his commanding officer disappear into the crowds of other uniformed men on the sidewalk opposite the park. He had reconciled himself to the fact that what he was doing was morally right, but he would never have guessed that his war would turn out to be fought on the streets of Sydney. Here in this city, if he was convicted of killing a high-ranking British officer, he would be hanged for murder.
*
Sarah’s appearance in the Macintosh boardroom in Sydney was like a lightning bolt. The murmuring of the grey-haired men sitting around the great table in the smoke-filled room ceased as she appeared wearing a chic blouse and skirt ensemble that showed off her trim figure. Her brother Donald was just as startled as the other ten men in the room but he rose to greet her courteously.
‘Sarah, what a surprise to see you here today,’ he said from the head of the table. ‘I am sure that I extend my congratulations, and those of the board members here today, on the birth of your son, Michael. We did not expect you back so soon.’
‘Thank you, Donald, and thank you, gentlemen,’ Sarah responded in a clear voice of command. ‘My baby is with his nanny and is well tended to. This has allowed me to return to my duties on the board of management, where I belong in these difficult times.’
She stepped to the end of the table opposite her brother and a board member rose to politely pull the chair out for her. She thanked him and sat down, removing her long gloves. Donald resumed his seat, and for a moment there was a silence as if he was gathering his thoughts.
‘I hope I have not caused you to forget what is on the agenda for today, Donald,’ Sarah said sweetly, knowing that her unexpected appearance had done just that. ‘Glancing at the papers before me, I gather we were talking about beef production.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Donald said, shuffling the papers in front of him.
The meeting continued but Sarah did not contribute anything to the discussion. Her aim was simply to remind the board members that she was back.
When the meeting ended and the other members had left, Donald walked up to his sister. ‘I have to be honest and say that I think you have returned to work too early.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Sarah retorted, rising from her chair and slipping on her expensive gloves. ‘As you are quite aware, I’m sure, not once while I was in Goulburn did I receive any company reports.’
‘You were having a baby and I thought that would be your main preoccupati
on,’ Donald answered with an exasperated look. ‘After all, is it not the role of a woman to have babies and look after them?’
‘The war has changed a lot of things, big brother,’ Sarah said, staring into Donald’s eyes. ‘My baby is well looked after, and I have the brains to run our family enterprises as well as you – if not better. I have already met with Father and he supports my decision to return. So I shall go to my office and see if it is as I left it.’
With that, Sarah turned on her high heels and walked away, happy in the knowledge that Donald was both angry and frustrated that she was back.
Three
Sergeant Jessica Duffy sat in a Brisbane cafe with a cup of tea before her. The only customer at this time of the morning, she was deep in thought when a man wearing an expensive suit sat down opposite her at the scratched, formica-covered table. He was in his mid-twenties, with aristocratic good looks, and he had the strong physique of the Macintosh men, an inheritance of their Irish Scots ancestors.
‘Hello, Jessie,’ he said warmly. ‘It has been a while since we last met.’
Jessica returned the smile. She had been in love with this man before the war, before she had taken vows as a Catholic. She had since left her order, and now she was a single woman working for the war effort.
‘Hello, Donald,’ Jessica responded. ‘You are looking well.’
There was a slight awkwardness between the two of them, which they both did their best to ignore.
‘I can see that you have a cup of tea,’ Donald said. ‘I should also order.’ He rose to go to the counter where a heavily built Greek man with a five o’clock shadow took his order.
‘I would like to tell you that the Prime Minister’s Department was very pleased with the information you passed on to me at our last meeting,’ Donald said, sitting down again and speaking softly so as not to be overheard. ‘It confirmed suspicions that our American allies do not tell us everything.’
‘From what I have overheard at HQ,’ Jessica said quietly, ‘MacArthur considers Australia a weak target to be exploited by the Japs. He does not seem to have a very good impression of us. He considers that he has secured the South West Pacific, but now the real threat is from the northern areas of Australia.’
Donald had learned from his contacts close to the PM that Curtin still harboured a private fear that the Japanese might invade the country, although he did not declare this in public.
Jessica continued with other snippets of information she had overheard or seen in transmissions between the Americans. She was able to provide information about the personalities of highly ranked American officers; the petty jealousies between them, and the internal politics that drove their careers.
Donald did not take written notes but listened intently to each name she mentioned. It was as important to know your friends as it was to know your enemy in the Machiavellian world of global politics.
That year, 1943, had opened with some victories in the Pacific, but the Japanese were far from beaten, and had the potential to counterattack with great force. Donald was also aware that the American government had thrown most of its war resources towards the European theatre of conflict, with the philosophic global strategy that the Nazis had to be defeated first.
‘There is someone else on the staff at HQ,’ Jessica said finally. ‘He is an American military policeman, Lieutenant Anthony Caccamo. He seems to have dropped right out of sight. I am hoping that your contacts might have some information about his whereabouts.’
Donald frowned. ‘He would not happen to be the man I saw you with at the PM’s Sydney conference late last year?’
‘Yes, about the same time I saw you with that American woman,’ Jessica retorted.
‘Touché,’ Donald said with a small smile. ‘Does he play an important role on Mac’s staff?’
‘Tony is a bit of a mystery man,’ Jessica said. ‘I get the impression that he is an odd-jobs man for the Americans, although of course he never speaks about his work. I tried to find out if he had been posted overseas but that does not seem to be the case. From what I can gather he is still somewhere in the country.’
‘I will see what I can find out about your man,’ Donald said just as the cafe owner delivered a pot of tea and chipped cup and saucer to the table.
‘Will you be staying in Brisbane?’ Jessica asked after the burly man had retreated behind his counter and begun to wipe down the benchtop.
‘I am afraid not,’ Donald replied. ‘I have to return to Sydney on the train tonight. I am fearful of my sister returning to work.’
‘That does not sound as though it’s anything to worry about,’ Jessica said.
‘You don’t know my sister,’ Donald said, screwing up his face. ‘She appears to have been born without human feelings for others – including her new baby. She’s a chip off the old block and she is out to take complete control of the family enterprises.’
‘I thought that you might wish to rush back to your lady love,’ Jessica said, sipping the last of her tea.
‘It was you who broke your promise to me,’ Donald said in a low, angry voice. ‘You did not tell me that you had resigned from being a nun. I had given up hope. As it is Olivia and I have tacitly chosen to separate.’
Jessica knew that he was right, but could not stop the feeling of his perceived betrayal. Then she also remembered how she had felt the attraction to the former New York policeman, and regretted her jibe. Jessica was confused at her own feelings. She had always thought that Donald was no longer of interest to her romantically, but every time she was in his presence she felt a small spark that threatened to grow into a fire. ‘I harbour fears that Tony’s life may be in danger, and he is a good man,’ she said.
‘Nothing more?’ Donald asked but Jessica did not reply. ‘I will see what I can do. I know that what you are doing for us comes at a cost. No doubt you feel you are betraying the trust of your colleagues and friends at Mac’s HQ, but the defence of this country must always be our priority.’
Jessica did feel guilt at what she was doing, as she had come to love the generosity and openness of the Americans she knew. She was also aware that they could be ruthless when it suited them.
‘I should go,’ Donald said, rising from the table and leaving his tea untouched. ‘I will pass on what we have discussed here, and we will meet in about a month’s time. Keep up the good work.’
‘I will do my best,’ Jessica replied. ‘But I can’t promise results.’
Donald looked down at Jessica sitting at the table. ‘You are an extraordinary woman, Jessica Duffy,’ he said, donning his hat and stepping away to walk outside into the bright winter sunshine.
*
Sydney solicitor and Great War veteran Sean Duffy leaned on his walking stick in his city apartment. Beside him stood a young boy staring apprehensively at the closed door.
‘Who is it, Uncle Sean?’ he asked as the door opened and a tall man stepped inside, wearing an army uniform and carrying a kitbag over his shoulder.
‘David!’ Sean exclaimed in joy. ‘It is good to see you, son.’
Major David Duffy stepped forward with a broad smile across his rugged face and embraced the older man in a great bear hug.
‘Uncle Sean, great to see you too,’ he said and turned to glance curiously at the young boy standing beside Sean, gazing up at him with a mixture of awe and fear.
‘David, this is Master Patrick Duffy,’ Sean replied, limping over to a settee to sit down and ease the burden on his tin legs. ‘He has come to stay with me until I can sort something out for him.’
‘Another in the clan, by the sounds of it,’ David said, crouching down to inspect the grave face of the little boy. He extended his hand and the boy shook it shyly, intimidated by this giant who smelled of tobacco and sweat.
‘Young Patrick here is a distant relative of yours,’ Sean said. ‘He is the son
of your cousin Matthew. His mother, Diane, is currently in Japanese captivity in Changi prison. It seems Diane named their son Patrick in honour of the original Patrick Duffy, who came to the colonies way back in the 1850s. Sadly, Matthew never got to see his son, as he was killed by some fanatic in Iraq before the war.’
‘I remember hearing about his death,’ David said straightening up and turning back to Sean. ‘What are you going to do about young Patrick?’
Sean shook his head. ‘I was shocked to hear that he was on his way, but he is blood, and it is my duty to look after him until his mother returns.’
‘Aren’t you getting a bit old to look after kids, Uncle Sean?’ David asked.
‘I bloody well virtually raised you,’ Sean snorted. ‘You were a handful, and I think young Patrick might prove to have more manners than you did.’
‘Ah, point taken,’ David grinned. ‘I guess you and Uncle Harry did keep me on the straight and narrow.’
The man Sean referred to as Uncle Harry was Harry Griffiths who was also a Great War veteran and ran a boxing gym in Sydney. Harry had worked for Sean as his private investigator, as he had been a policeman before the outbreak of the Great War. He had enlisted and, like Sean, been wounded on the Western Front. Harry had turned David into a very good heavyweight fighter who might have had a chance of representing Australia in the Olympic Games. But war had changed everything. Instead of in the ring, David had fought in the Spanish Civil War, the deserts of North Africa, the mountains of Greece and Syria, and now the green hell of New Guinea.
‘I believe that congratulations are in order for your MC,’ Sean said, gazing at the purple and white riband on David’s chest.