Beneath a Rising Sun

by Peter Watt

  ‘Yes, but not in a mock-up of a Wild Cat. I was in a Dauntless dive bomber at the time.’

  The older lieutenant shrugged. ‘This is Hollywood, we don’t let the facts get in the way of a good story. The actual enemy aircraft will be later superimposed on the screen. I had a few years here before the war, working in this studio’s management.’

  James watched men leaning down with levers below the sight of the cameras, and suddenly it was time to shoot. Smoke from a wind machine was blown at the mock-up, and James could hear the voice of the actor calling out over his pretend radio: ‘Take this for Uncle Sam, you Jap murderers . . .’

  The cockpit twisted and turned for the camera angles, but James’s attention was caught by Julianna, who was standing on the other side of the set. She was looking down at her clipboard, and he noticed that she was wearing glasses now. At one stage she looked up and caught him staring at her. She quickly returned her gaze to the clipboard, pretending not to notice his attention.

  The shoot of the scene was complete when the director called, ‘Cut!’ and the actor portraying the hero was helped from the cockpit, complaining that it was so cramped he had barely had a chance to move about in any dramatic way.

  ‘Time we earned our pay cheque,’ Lieutenant Praine said, guiding James over to the director who was in a conversation with the actor.

  ‘This is Captain Duffy,’ Praine said to the director, who glanced at James then returned his attention to the actor, a handsome young man in the prime of his life.

  ‘Captain Duffy,’ the director finally said. ‘What were your observations of our dogfight?’

  ‘Well, I have never known any of my comrades to make a statement about fighting for Uncle Sam,’ he said with a sarcastic smile. ‘Mostly we are so frightened that we are calling out enemy aircraft in high-pitched voices because we are scared shitless that a Jap 20 millimetre round is going to rip us apart.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain,’ the director said with a scowl. ‘But this is how the audience want to see things and not what you may have experienced. This movie is far more important than anything you may have done for the war effort.’

  James suddenly felt a red rage come over him and he felt his whole body tense. Lieutenant Praine sensed his anger and guessed that he might just punch the director.

  ‘Captain Duffy has an appointment at a factory lunch break to address the workers in the war bonds drive.’ He took James by the elbow and steered him tactfully away from the director.

  ‘What would that goddamned son of a bitch know about aerial combat?’ James snarled. ‘This is nothing but a joke, me being here.’

  ‘It’s called PR, and it helps win wars,’ the lieutenant said as they walked out of the huge shed. ‘A lot of mothers and fathers, wives and sweethearts have boys overseas, and they want to be able to go and see a movie where their boys are being heroic in the face of terrible things.’

  James stopped and turned to gaze back at the film set where he could see Julianna talking to the director. ‘Do you know who that girl is talking to the son of a bitch I should have laid on his back?’

  Praine focussed his eyes into the gloom of the massive building.

  ‘Julianna, yes I know Julie,’ he said. ‘Smart gal, she has avoided most of the pitfalls of the industry and made it on her own talent as a scriptwriter. Why the interest?’

  ‘I met her before the shoot,’ James shrugged. ‘Nothing in particular.’

  ‘Julie is on roster at the Hollywood Canteen tonight,’ Praine commented with a wry smile. ‘And you happen to have the night off as our next appointment is not until seven tomorrow morning when you will be addressing a Rotary meeting breakfast.’

  ‘Thanks, Lieutenant Praine,’ James said. ‘May I call you Guy, and you call me James, when we are out of earshot of others?’ James added, as he had come to like this older man he guessed in his late thirties.

  ‘Thanks, James,’ Guy said. ‘I am afraid I might be wearing the uniform of a commissioned officer, but I still feel very much like a civilian.’

  It looked like he’d be visiting the legendary Hollywood Canteen tonight, where the biggest names in Hollywood volunteered to mingle with the uniformed soldiers awaiting their postings overseas. Maybe he might even get an opportunity to share a coffee with the intriguing young lady of French blood.

  Seven

  The day commenced as usual for Sergeant Jessica Duffy. Her pass to the secret and classified intelligence section in General Douglas MacArthur’s Brisbane HQ was checked by the guard who let her into a windowless room filled with desks, clattering telex machines, bright lighting and a subdued but busy mix of military men and women mostly in American uniform.

  Jessica sat down at her desk and was barely ready to receive the first message filtered to her when she smelled the acrid aroma of her commanding officer’s cigar.

  ‘Sergeant Duffy, report to my office,’ he said and Jessica left her desk to follow him into his room. Many thoughts swirled through her mind, including that she had been discovered leaking American information to agents of her country.

  The colonel laid his fat cigar in an ashtray fashioned from the base end of a brass artillery canister. He reached down for a newspaper on his desk and held it up to her. ‘I thought that you should see this before you got the news from any other source,’ he said.

  Jessica peered at the front page and the first thing she saw was the face of Tony Caccamo. The headline read: deranged canadian attempts murder of british lord.

  Jessica gasped in shock. Tony had been absent for some months, and all she had gleaned from him when he had said goodbye was that he might not see her for some time.

  ‘Just as I figured,’ the colonel said. ‘Talk around here was that Lieutenant Caccamo was soft on you. So I thought it best for me to caution you that any knowledge you have of Lieutenant Caccamo is never to be divulged to anyone – not even those you work with. Are you clear on that? You can read the article if you wish.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Jessica dutifully responded, still reeling. She took the proffered paper and read the article. ‘But how could Tony . . . Lieutenant Caccamo . . . be accused of attempting to kill a British officer? It does not make sense.’

  ‘The Aussie coppers believe that he is a Canadian merchant seaman by the name of Peter Campbell, and that is all they have to know. If I hear that you have mentioned his name outside of this office I can promise you that you will regret it,’ he said, reaching for his still smouldering cigar. ‘The matter is of the utmost national security level, and it is in all our interests that we let justice take its course.’

  ‘Sir, in this country even attempted murder could result in being sentenced to hang,’ Jessica said in a desperate plea. ‘I am sure Lieutenant Caccamo is innocent. There has to be something you could do for him.’

  ‘Sergeant Duffy,’ the normally gruff intelligence officer said in a softer tone, ‘I liked the boy a lot, and wish I could help him, but he was fully aware of the consequences if his mission went wrong. We cannot afford to draw attention to his case – it could cause a major rift in the Aussie-American relationship, which we both know from working here is tentative at times.’

  Jessica understood what her superior was saying, and working here she had found herself torn between loyalties. She knew her own country relied on the support of the vast American resources of men and war machines, but she also accepted that meant kowtowing to men like the arrogant and vainglorious General MacArthur.

  ‘Sir, may I ask what Lieutenant Caccamo has been doing for the last few months?’ Jessica asked, knowing her question had taken her across the line.

  ‘You must be aware, Sergeant Duffy, that I cannot disclose to a foreign national anything concerning our operations,’ the colonel replied sternly. ‘You are dismissed.’

  Jessica left the room and went back to her desk, slumping in her chair and thinking over al
l that had transpired in the office. It was obvious that Tony had been on a covert mission, but why would the Americans want to assassinate a high-ranking British officer? It did not make sense. The newspaper report also mentioned that the accused man had refused legal counsel. Jessica knew how dire Tony’s situation was, and the name of Sean Duffy crept into her mind. He had fought for years to have the Queensland property of Glen View sold to her father. Sean was in Sydney where Tony was incarcerated at Long Bay Gaol, according to the newspaper report.

  Nobody had forbidden her from contacting a lawyer on Tony’s behalf. She would contact Sean to see if he could help. She needed to be careful, though; she did not want to be seen making unusual phone calls. She would wait and call from the telephone box at the end of her street.

  After her shift Jessica did just that.

  She lined up in the early evening behind a small queue of people, and after twenty minutes it was her turn to use the phone. She stepped inside the booth just big enough to take one person and lifted the warm handpiece. The box smelled strongly of sweat and cigarette smoke. Dropping coins in the slot she heard the telephone exchange operator come on the line, and as the number she requested to be dialled was a trunk call, the operator asked her to place more coins in the slot.

  After a minute or two the call was put through and Sean’s voice answered at the other end.

  ‘Duffy speaking,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Duffy, this is Jessica Duffy calling from Brisbane.’

  ‘Jessie!’ Sean exclaimed. ‘It has been a while since I last saw you. How is your father?’

  ‘From his last letter he is fine,’ Jessica replied, anxious to move on to the subject of her call. ‘My time is short and I need your help on a matter in Sydney.’

  ‘I have not dropped the matter of the purchase of Glen View,’ Sean said.

  ‘No, no, it is not that,’ Jessica said. ‘It is about a man by the name of Peter Campbell. He has been accused of attempting to kill a British officer in Sydney. He –’

  ‘I have met Mr Campbell,’ Sean cut in. ‘I offered to represent him, but he firmly declined my offer.’

  ‘His name is not Peter Campbell,’ Jessica said, pressing her mouth closer to the telephone receiver and lowering her voice. ‘His name is Anthony Caccamo, and he is a lieutenant with the American army.’

  There was a short pause before Sean spoke. ‘How do you know this, Jessie?’

  ‘I cannot say how I know, but I do,’ Jessica answered. ‘Please help him. Tell him that I sent you.’

  ‘Are you extending . . .’ the voice of the operator cut in across their conversation and Jessica realised that she was short on coins.

  ‘No, I will hang up,’ she said. ‘Please, please promise to help him,’ Jessica said before the click of disconnection sounded.

  She put down the phone back on its cradle, pushed open the door and stepped out into the serenity of the Brisbane evening. Tony’s life now depended on the legal skills of Sean Duffy. She could only hope he was as good a criminal lawyer as he was said to be.

  *

  Doors clanged and heavy boots echoed in the corridors of the dreaded Long Bay Gaol as Sean Duffy was escorted to a room to meet with the prisoner by the name of Peter Campbell.

  Inside the small interview room, the prisoner was seated at a battered table. He was in manacles and he seemed barely to notice the entry of Sean and the guards.

  ‘I would like to have a private discussion with my client,’ Sean said to the two burly prison officers.

  ‘He is in for attempted murder, Mr Duffy,’ one of the guards said. ‘You think it wise to be alone with him?’

  ‘Mr Campbell and I have met before, and he did not offer me any bodily harm then,’ Sean said, taking a chair opposite the prisoner.

  ‘As you wish,’ the guard shrugged. ‘We will leave the door open and be just outside if you need us.’

  When the two guards had departed, Sean leaned over the table and spoke softly so their conversation could not be overheard.

  ‘Jessica Duffy has asked me to help you, Lieutenant Caccamo,’ he said and he could see that his statement had taken the man off guard. ‘As a matter of fact, I spoke to her on the phone last night. She rang from Brisbane.’

  ‘She knows that she should not get mixed up in any of this, Mr Duffy,’ Tony hissed. ‘It has nothing to do with her.’

  ‘So you are an officer in the Yank army,’ Sean said. ‘What the hell is a commissioned officer doing trying to kill a Pommy officer of some standing in the English gentry?’

  ‘That is classified, Mr Duffy. I failed in my mission and now I have to accept the consequences.’

  ‘It is fairly plain to the eyes of the law that you are a common criminal, and considering who you tried to kill I do not expect our judiciary to be lenient towards you. You could even hang.’ Sean could see an agonised expression on Tony’s face.

  ‘I wish I could tell you a lot more, Mr Duffy, but I have sworn an oath of secrecy. One of the prisoners told me that you are the best in Sydney, and that you were an officer in the last war. If I needed a defence lawyer I would hire you.’

  ‘Then let me be your voice in court,’ Sean said. ‘If nothing else, I could plead diminished responsibility. It might save you from the gallows.’

  For a long moment Tony leaned back in his chair and stared at the manacles around his wrists. ‘What if I told you the man I tried to kill is a goddamned traitor, Mr Duffy?’ he said quietly, glancing at the open door.

  ‘You would have to elaborate, Lieutenant Caccamo,’ Sean replied. ‘That is a very grave accusation.’

  ‘I am off the record, and nothing I tell you can ever leave this room. Will you give me your word on that?’

  ‘I will,’ Sean said. ‘We have the same lawyer-client privilege you enjoy under your American legal system.’

  ‘Good,’ Tony said. ‘I want at least one person to know the truth before I am sentenced. I feel I can trust you, and when the war is over and Ulverstone is exposed for a traitor, you will be witness to the fact I was a loyal soldier.’

  ‘I can promise you that, but I will also fight to reduce any sentence imposed by our courts,’ Sean said. ‘Tell me about Lord Ulverstone.’

  ‘Ulverstone was communicating with the Japs back in Singapore before it fell. We intercepted his messages, and an investigation by our intelligence section traced them back to him. MI6 know of his treachery but cannot touch him because of his political influence in London. They do not want the scandal of one of their aristocrats with a seat in the House of Lords being revealed as a traitor. So our government had no choice but to quietly remove him from the scene before he could do any more damage to national security.’

  Sean had no reason to doubt what the young American officer was telling him. He figured that what he was hearing was a breach of the man’s oath to his country, but he also knew the young man did not want to be thought of as a common criminal when the appropriate time came for such revelations to be known to a peace-time world.

  ‘What were you before the war broke out?’ he asked.

  ‘I was a New York cop,’ Tony answered. ‘I guess I have proved to be a failure when working on the other side of the law.’

  ‘Did the name of Sir George Macintosh ever come up in your brief for the job?’ Sean asked.

  ‘It did,’ Tony frowned. ‘And I asked Jessie about him.’

  ‘Jessie,’ Sean said. ‘It appears you know the young lady fairly well.’

  ‘She is a friend from when I was working at Mac’s HQ in Brisbane,’ Tony answered.

  A faint smile crossed Sean’s face. ‘I think I can guess the rest,’ he said. ‘It is no wonder she called me.’

  ‘I don’t want her name coming up in any of this,’ Tony growled. ‘She knows nothing.’

  ‘I understand,’ Sean said. ‘The young lady is a dista
nt relative of mine – and like a daughter to me in many ways. I was with her father in the Great War.’

  Tony looked surprised. ‘I knew this country had a small population, but I did not know you were all related!’

  Sean smiled at the joke, and warmed to the young man who had found himself in a terrible predicament. ‘Well, I need some time to put a case together and register myself as your counsel. I will also need to see a King’s Counsel friend of mine to represent you at the court case. In the meantime your secret is safe with me.’

  Sean rose and limped to the door. The guards stepped inside to return Tony to his cell.

  Outside the forbidding walls of the Long Bay Gaol Sean walked towards his car, thinking about the ironies of Sir George Macintosh’s relationship to the British traitor. His old enemy might have a dark secret that would see his downfall if it was proved that he was an accomplice in treason with the British officer. Oh how grand would it be, to see Macintosh finally brought to his knees.

  *

  Sergeant Tom Duffy, as a member of the North Australian Observer Unit, was deep in the mangrove country of the Gulf of Carpentaria. On horseback, in four or five man patrols, the unit ranged Australia’s desolate north. They were accompanied by Aboriginal guides and their task was to act as the eyes of the nation against any Japanese landings. The men had been selected because they were true bushmen. It was not an army unit that put much emphasis on traditional discipline, as the men were used to working alone on sprawling properties. Tom himself had worked the cattle properties of central Queensland after the Great War, and was now the owner of several of them. But in time of war he felt his duty was to his country, despite his age, and he had accepted the role as the patrol commander.

  This time the bushmen had a young signals soldier with them. Private Andrew Paull had been seconded to the unit because of his skills with communications. He could ride and shoot, but he had lived all his life in Melbourne. The land around him was so different to what he knew of the crowded city; the silence was broken only by the wind and bird calls; the heat was oppressive, the terrain seemingly featureless, and they were utterly isolated from the rest of the world. It was this isolation that was hardest to bear. He was physically tough enough to endure working with the so-called Nackeroos, but out here the world looked so big and he felt so small, it would be easy to be dwarfed by insignificance. He felt it at night when the stars above were so multitudinous in a vast inky-black sky. Private Andrew Paull had expected to be posted to the Pacific campaign but had been transferred to this commando-style unit, thousands of miles from Melbourne and everything he was familiar with.