Beneath a Rising Sun

by Peter Watt

  ‘Er, no,’ the CO said. ‘It is about your sister, Olivia. According to the message we got today, she was killed in a car accident in New Hampshire three days ago. I am sorry for your loss, and arrangements have been made from Washington to fly you immediately back to the States.’

  Olivia! James stood swaying in shock. Olivia could not be dead. That was something that happened to brothers on the front – not sisters at home.

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ James said. He turned and walked out the door into the blinding tropical sun.

  Twenty-two

  Jessica Duffy’s two flatmates had followed in her footsteps and joined the Women’s Land Army, so the house in Strathfield was empty. This was convenient for Tom and Jessica when they returned from Bathurst. Tom telephoned Sean’s office and was informed by Allison of the circumstances of Sean’s absence. She passed on the message that a Mr Harry Griffiths would be in contact with him soon.

  That afternoon Tom and Jessica heard a knock on their front door. Tom was cautious and told Jessica to make herself scarce, as it might be the police searching for her as a deserter.

  Tom opened the door.

  ‘You must be Tom Duffy,’ Harry Griffiths said, extending his hand. ‘I’m the Major’s cobber, Harry Griffiths.’

  Tom invited him in and called to Jessica that it was safe to come out.

  ‘Can I make you both a cuppa?’ she asked after she’d been introduced.

  ‘That would be fine, Miss Duffy,’ Harry answered.

  When Jessica disappeared to the kitchen to prepare a pot of tea, Harry took a seat in the living room on an old couch.

  ‘I heard about you in the last lot,’ Harry said, settling himself down. ‘I heard the Hun called you the Butcher, for your sniping skills.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Tom said, trying to shrug off the old name. He did not want to think about how many German families still mourned the loss of a loved one because of a single shot from his rifle. It was still the stuff of his troubled nights when their ghostly faces floated before his eyes.

  ‘The Major has briefed me on what you are planning to do,’ Harry continued. ‘I am here to help you.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to be involved?’ Tom asked. ‘You know that we are acting outside the law.’

  ‘I have a son on a destroyer out there,’ Harry said. ‘I see it as my duty to do anything I can to stop this Pommy traitor. In my mind, your mission is no different to the ones we undertook in no-man’s-land during the last lot.’

  ‘I could do with the help,’ Tom admitted. ‘The information I have is that Ulverstone will be travelling to Newcastle on the main road there in forty-eight hours time. I am planning to carry out an ambush on his vehicle. I have approximate times of where and when he will be on the road – thanks to Sean’s intelligence.’

  Harry stood up and produced a map from inside his coat. He spread it out on a low table in the living room. ‘I reckon that this spot would be the best place to hit him,’ he said, pointing to a bend in the narrow road from Sydney to Newcastle, at the top of a hill. ‘Ulverstone’s car will have slowed considerably before it comes over the hill and around the bend. A marksman positioned nearby would get a clear shot. I have information that the Pom travels in the back seat alone, which means there is little chance of hitting his driver. I could drop you off at the point there . . . and pick you up here on a side road not far away. We would be out of the area before the alarm was raised as we have surprise and ground on our side.’

  Tom was impressed with the former soldier’s tactical grasp of the situation and agreed with his plan. All that had to happen now was for Ulverstone to be punctual.

  ‘You will need my help,’ said Jessica, walking in with the tea tray.

  Both men looked up at her in surprise.

  ‘I want you to stay out of this, Jessie,’ Tom said, and Harry echoed his agreement.

  Jessica placed the tray on the low table and for a moment examined the map.

  ‘I can improve on your plan,’ she said.

  ‘How do you know what we have planned?’ Tom asked, assuming his daughter had been in the kitchen.

  ‘You are both deaf old farts,’ she snorted. ‘Too much exposure to artillery fire in the last war, and when you think you are speaking quietly, you are talking so loudly that everyone can hear you down the street. I heard every word when I was making the tea.’

  Harry and Tom looked at each other and shrugged.

  ‘What can you do to help?’ Harry asked.

  ‘I could give early warning of Ulverstone’s approach,’ Jessie said. ‘I can get hold of a car and sit off the road at a petrol station. I know what staff cars look like, and he will also have a tactical sign on his car. I can then pull out in front of Ulverstone’s car and drive past your point a few moments before Ulverstone’s car arrives – alerting you.’

  ‘I really don’t want you out there, Jessie,’ Tom said.

  ‘I think your daughter has improved our plan, Tom,’ Harry said. ‘We need precision, because if Ulverstone gets past you then we have lost the only real chance we have of eliminating him. We don’t have much time to put all this into place.’

  ‘Okay,’ Tom sighed. ‘But that is all you do, Jessie,’ he cautioned.

  ‘Good,’ Harry said and stood to shake hands with Tom. ‘I will contact you tomorrow morning and we will get ready to move out.’

  Tom nodded and Harry left.

  Jessica walked over to her father and placed her arms around him. ‘I love you, Dad,’ she said.

  ‘I love you, too,’ he said, knowing full well that they were now officially conspirators in murder. The outcome could easily be a hangman’s noose around both their necks.

  *

  It had taken almost a week to reach his grandfather’s home in New Hampshire. Captain James Duffy stood before the great entrance to the mansion, set amongst the beauty of tall trees whose leaves were taking on the russet colours of fall. The serenity of the New Hampshire countryside was so different to the world he had left behind in the Solomons.

  James was met by his grandfather’s old butler, who ushered him into the house and took his sea bag to his room.

  James went to the vast living room with its great fireplace, and there he found his grandfather sitting in a chair, staring at the flickering flames of the fire.

  ‘Sir,’ James called softly, and James Barrington Senior turned his head to see his grandson standing in the doorway. He rose on unsteady legs and walked towards James, who noticed how much his grandfather had aged since he’d last seen him. It was apparent that Olivia’s death had taken its toll on him.

  Uncharacteristically, James Barrington Senior put his arms around James and held him as if he were a child. ‘She is gone,’ he said, tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘She was so much like her mother.’

  James gently disengaged himself from the embrace and led his grandfather back to his favourite lounge chair by the fire.

  ‘I was told that Olivia was killed in a car crash,’ James said quietly, sitting down himself. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Young Edgar was driving,’ Barrington said, still staring at the fire. ‘Sheriff Mueller told me that Wilson was drunk when they got to the crash site.’

  ‘Was Edgar killed in the crash?’ James asked.

  ‘No, he walked away without a scratch,’ Barrington said.

  ‘Was he arrested?’ James asked.

  ‘No,’ Barrington replied. ‘You know that his family has as much influence as our own in these parts.’

  ‘The goddamned son of a bitch should be behind bars – if he was drunk when he killed my sister,’ James said savagely. ‘Mueller should have done something. You helped him win the last elections and he owes us for that.’

  ‘Wilson claims that Olivia was driving,’ Barrington said. ‘But everything Mueller saw indicates that was not the case.�
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  James felt a rage rising up in him and he recognised it as the feeling he experienced before gunning down the enemy. ‘The son of a bitch will pay for killing my sister,’ he said with cold fury.

  ‘James,’ his grandfather cautioned, ‘you are the only one left in my life. If anything happened to you, I would have no reason left to live.’

  ‘I never liked Wilson,’ James said. ‘You and I both know that his father got him out of the draft. He is a gutless coward.’

  The following day Olivia’s funeral service was held in the quaint nineteenth century church that she and James had attended before the war. James wore his uniform, holding an umbrella over his grandfather’s head as the rain drizzled down and the wind whipped up the leaves that covered the graveyard. Olivia’s coffin was placed in a grave beside that of her mother and grandmother. Only a handful of business acquaintances and the servants attended the funeral service, and James could not see Edgar Wilson or any of his family in attendance.

  As the coffin was lowered into the ground, rain caused trickles of blood-red mud to follow, and James had a flashback of combat. He stood trembling, wondering why he could not cry for the loss of his beloved twin sister. They had come into the world together, and now part of James’s own soul was gone. Yet he could not cry. Was it that he had seen so many good friends die and he had used up his reserves of tears?

  ‘Come, James,’ his grandfather said gently, as if sensing his beloved grandson’s emotional turmoil. ‘It is time to go home.’

  But for James, home was in the cockpit of a Corsair, on the other side of the Pacific.

  *

  Harry and Tom drove in silence in Harry’s truck along the Pacific Highway towards Newcastle. The road was hardly more than a track through the bush and it took them past beautiful glimpses of the ocean and tiny little coastal villages, where fresh oysters were offered for sale. In the late afternoon they reached the point where Tom was to exit the vehicle on a crest covered by scrub trees and big rocks and with a view of the road below. Tom had with him a bag containing a few items of tinned food and a warm blanket. He also had his .303 rifle and was dressed in tough clothing suitable for the bush.

  ‘We will RV two miles up the road at last light on that side road,’ Harry said. ‘Be bloody careful, cobber.’

  Tom waved him away and climbed the slope of loose rocks and scrub until he found a small patch on the crest where he could look down on the bend in the road. With the truck gone a silence fell. A slight wind rustled the grass around Tom, and he hunched against the cold to wait out the night. He knew it was relatively safe to light a small fire, and he did so to heat the canned meat he had brought with him, along with the tea for a brew. According to all reports Ulverstone should pass this location just after lunch. Jessica would drive through ahead of Ulverstone when she spotted his staff car pass the petrol station down in a little fishing village on the coast. The plan was for her to continue on and then circle back to Sydney.

  The night came with a chill and Tom wrapped the blanket around him as he sat by his fire. Eventually he let the fire die out and lay back to gaze up at a crystal clear sky of twinkling stars. How many times in his life had he done this? According to Wallarie, each star represented the spirit of a deceased person, and Tom wondered where in the night sky the old man’s star would be.

  ‘Wallarie, my brother, where are you up there?’ Tom asked in a hushed voice as he continued to stare up at the heavens. Eventually he dozed off and was awoken by the sound of a vehicle on the road below. Tom sat up; the sun was starting to rise and there was enough light to peer down at the road. The vehicle was an army truck and of no interest to him.

  Tom finished the remainder of his rations and buried any scraps left over. He was careful not to leave traces of his camp, and he settled back with the rifle lying across his knees as he watched vehicles pass along the road in either direction.

  Midday arrived and the day was beautiful with just a touch of an early summer. Every now and then Tom would practise aiming at a vehicle coming from the south and conduct a dry run. He was pleased to see that vehicles coming from that direction came to an almost standstill at the top of the hard-packed dirt and gravel road. He had even stepped out the exact distance to where he calculated the staff car would slow, and set his rear sight accordingly. His artificial arm provided the rest for the fore grip, and the practice he had had at Bathurst proved to him he could still make the kill shot.

  Tom leaned back against a rock that had warmed in the sun and waited. Just before one o’clock his attention was caught by a vehicle slowly crawling up the hill. He could see that it was Jessica at the wheel. She reached the crest and continued down the other side.

  Tom moved away from the rock and lay on his stomach, his rifle ready for the shot. He controlled his breathing and waited calmly. Then he saw a dark green sedan crawling up the hill and could see that it was a staff car. There was a figure in the back seat wearing an officer’s peaked cap. The sight was on the target and Tom expertly squeezed the trigger.

  *

  James Duffy knew he only had forty-eight hours of leave left before he was to be returned to active service. That was forty-eight hours to investigate the death of his beloved sister. From the little that he did know from his grandfather, Edgar Wilson’s behaviour at the scene was far from fully explained. As far as James knew, his sister had never learned to drive a car. The first place he would start was with Sheriff Mueller.

  James walked into the sheriff’s office and was met by one of the deputies, who he knew from past experience was a good friend of Edgar Wilson. As a matter of fact, James had once been in a fist fight with Deputy Sheriff Ike Hausmann, when they were teenagers. Hausmann had been bullying a younger boy James knew and James had suggested he pick on someone his own size. James had won the fight and Hausmann had hated him ever since.

  The deputy had his feet on a table and sneered at James. ‘What do you want, flyboy?’ he asked. ‘I heard the hero was back in town.’

  ‘I am looking for your boss,’ James answered, ignoring the lawman’s animosity.

  ‘What for?’ the deputy asked.

  ‘None of your business,’ James replied, fighting down the urge to walk over and punch the man in the face.

  ‘I’m the law here, if you haven’t noticed, Barrington. You answer to me,’ the deputy said as he lowered his feet to the floor and stood up with his thumbs in his gun belt. He was heavy-set, but more fat than muscle. He had a pockmarked face, and was always bragging about his conquests of the local girls, which they vigorously denied with a shudder.

  ‘I’ve been wondering whether you ever recovered from that belting I gave you,’ James said in an icy voice. ‘You know, you could take off the badge and have a go at me around the back of the office. Maybe you just might get lucky this time,’ James goaded, but before the enraged deputy could respond, the sheriff walked into the office.

  ‘Hello, James,’ he said, placing his hat on a stand by the door. ‘I am so sorry about your sister. I was unable to attend the funeral.’

  ‘Good to see you, Sheriff Mueller,’ James said. ‘If you don’t mind, I would like to speak with you in private.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ the law officer replied. Mueller was also a big man and he had a rugged, worn face. He gestured for James to follow him into his office and closed the door behind them.

  James was invited to sit down and Mueller told him everything off the record. The lawman recognised that he owed his job to the Barrington family, and his loyalty was with James Barrington Senior and his grandson. The story that unfolded was not of an accident but of something far more sinister.

  ‘My deputy Hausmann was first on the scene,’ the Sheriff said. ‘There was little damage to the automobile, and he said that he found your sister dead in the front driver’s seat. I saw Olivia’s body at the coroner’s office, and her injuries did not look like th
ey were the result of an automobile accident. They looked more like she had been bashed and then put behind the wheel. I can’t prove anything, but the talk in the drug store is that Wilson was knocking her around. I wish I could do more but I don’t have enough evidence to arrest the Wilson boy.’

  When James left an hour later there was blood in his eyes. Wilson was going to pay for the death of Olivia.

  Twenty-three

  ‘Olivia was murdered,’ James said. ‘It was not a car crash that killed her.’

  He stood by the great fireplace and his grandfather sat in his big leather chair.

  ‘I was told that Edgar’s family had employed the services of one of this state’s best law firms after Olivia was killed,’ Barrington said. ‘I thought that strange, considering Olivia’s death was reported as an accident.’

  ‘Sheriff Mueller told me in confidence that when he saw Olivia’s body he noticed she had bruises consistent with a severe beating rather than a vehicle crash,’ James said, staring into the fire and pondering his next move.

  ‘I will speak with Mueller,’ Barrington said. ‘I never liked the Wilsons that much.’

  ‘I only have twenty-four hours of my leave left,’ James said. ‘Maybe I can make my own enquiries.’

  ‘Leave it with me and Sheriff Mueller, son,’ Barrington cautioned. ‘I will get justice for my granddaughter.’

  James knew that his grandfather was a formidable man, but he was also weak from his stroke and growing old. James knew that he could not pass the deadline for him to return to combat. But he still had twenty-four hours. If Edgar Wilson was behind his sister’s death then he would pay.

  *

  ‘Driver, get us out of here,’ Ulverstone screamed. He was aware that he had been hit by a bullet that had grazed his neck, opening a wound that bled profusely. Shattered glass covered his lap, and the panic-stricken driver almost stalled the car. He was good at his job, though, and the vehicle lurched over the hill to round the bend and commence its descent down the road.