Billy Mack's War

by James Roy

  ‘I’m sorry about your father,’ Dad said, shaking Mr McAuliffe’s hand.

  Mr McAuliffe nodded. ‘Thanks, David,’ he said, before introducing his wife, who was the woman with the stick.

  Danny looked at the casket in the back of the hearse and tried to imagine the body of Captain Mack lying in that shiny wooden box, but he found it impossible. He still found it hard to imagine that he was gone. After everything he’d been through in the jungles of Burma and Thailand, all that training, fighting, resisting, he just stopped breathing in his sleep. That seemed pretty typical, really, knowing the stubborn old bloke the way he did. He’d have done that just to prove that the last thing he ever did would be done his way.

  There was quiet music playing in the chapel, and Danny and his dad found a seat towards the back.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Dad murmured.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Why do you keep asking?’

  Dad just shook his head.

  As soon as everyone was seated, a sudden whining, howling kind of a sound came from the doorway of the chapel. Taken by surprise, Danny turned his head to see a man in full Scottish dress, kilt and all, with bagpipes, and as he played, Mr McAuliffe and five other men carried the coffin slowly down the aisle and placed it carefully on the table at the front of the chapel. Danny suddenly found it very hard to see, and he noticed that Dad seemed to be swallowing a lot. This struck him as a little strange, since Dad had only met Captain Mack once.

  When the casket was in position, two old ladies who looked exactly the same as each other came to the front and placed flowers on the lid. Then Mr McAuliffe rested a dark cap beside the flowers. It had a tartan band and a silver badge.

  ‘That’s his regimental cap,’ Danny whispered to Dad, who nodded.

  Danny had expected that people would talk about Captain Mack’s life, and he knew that he’d find that interesting. What he was really hoping to hear was how he’d won his Victoria Cross. But that didn’t happen. People talked about how he’d joined his beloved Seaforth Highlanders, how he’d fought in Burma and been captured, how he’d worked on the Railway and at Hellfire Pass, how he’d longed to go back and see it but had never managed to make the trip. They talked about how many children he had, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. They were quite talkative about the huge contribution he’d made to the Tasmanian dairy industry in the early 1960s. But no one mentioned how he’d come to believe that his nursing home was a prison camp and had therefore arranged an escape, and they didn’t mention what he’d done to win his VC. They just said it. ‘Fred was awarded a Victoria Cross for extreme valour in combat in Burma.’ And that was it. Extreme valour in combat.

  Then Mr McAuliffe stood up. He arranged his papers on the lectern before looking up at the mourners. He smiled, quickly, then cleared his throat. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said. ‘Dad would have been proud to see so many of his friends and family here.

  ‘I don’t have a lot to say that hasn’t already been said. I’m told that Dad was never the same after he came back from the war, but I was young enough at the time that I didn’t know that. So to me, and Hattie, and Margaret, he was just Dad. We have a lot of memories of Dad, but I would like to relate just one today.

  ‘I remember one day when we were milking the cows together, he and I, and he saw that a cow had been left behind in a nearby paddock. The gate was a fair way down the fenceline, and rather than walk along and go through the gate to herd the cow in, Dad climbed through the fence. There was nothing remarkable in that — farmers do it all the time — but I did notice that, before he climbed through, he glanced behind him, first to the right, then to the left. It was a very quick, practised motion, almost as if he was checking that he wasn’t being watched. Only then did he duck through that fence and keep walking, calm as you like, towards the cow.’

  Mr McAuliffe paused, staring hard at his pages for a moment. Then he looked up again. His eyes were shiny. ‘It seems to me that Dad spent a lot of his life looking over his shoulder. Later in life he didn’t seem quite sure what it was he was looking at, and it was only through the help of certain friends that he managed to gain any kind of perspective.’ Here Mr McAuliffe looked straight at Danny and smiled through his tears. ‘But he did find some kind of peace in the end, and we’re all grateful for that. And now he’s found real peace at last.’ Mr McAuliffe’s voice cracked and choked as he picked up his papers. ‘Bye, Dad. Rest easy,’ he said before sitting down next to his wife, who slipped her arm around his shoulders.

  Danny took off his glasses and blinked the tears out of his eyes. He glanced up at Dad. He had tears in his eyes too.

  Afterward, when the curtains had closed in front of the casket and the bagpipes had piped them from the chapel, Danny and Dad stood in the sun and waited their turn to say goodbye to Mr McAuliffe. Eventually the group of people around him had thinned enough for them to go across.

  ‘Daniel, thank you for coming,’ Mr McAuliffe said. ‘Dad would have been glad you came along.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ He cleared his throat nervously. ‘Uh, I wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘Of course, Daniel.’

  Danny wondered if it was the right time to ask about the VC. Then he saw the two identical old ladies standing nearby, their arms around one another, their eyes red and their white hankies at the ready, and decided it was entirely the wrong time.

  ‘I was wondering if we could meet again,’ he found himself saying. ‘I want to talk to you some more about Captain Mack … I mean, your father.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I should like that very much indeed,’ Mr McAuliffe replied.

  ‘Should I call you sometime?’

  Mr McAuliffe held out his hand. ‘I’d be delighted. Please do. You have my number.’

  As Danny and his father walked back to the car, Dad said, ‘I know you’re okay, so I won’t even ask.’

  Danny nodded. ‘I’m okay, Dad. Only just, but I am okay.’

  Danny and Caleb walked slowly along the edge of the field as some of the bigger boys tried to break each other’s ribs in the name of football. ‘It was weird,’ Danny said. ‘I couldn’t really believe that it was him inside that box.’

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t,’ Caleb suggested.

  ‘Don’t,’ Danny replied, and something in the way he said it made Caleb close his mouth, which was just as well, since Danny had the distinct impression that something smart and not very funny was about to come out of it.

  ‘Here, check this,’ Caleb said instead, pointing to a tree near the end of the field. ‘Isn’t that your friend?’

  ‘I hardly know him,’ Danny said, seeing Henry Butler and Jonathon Spivey sitting in the shade, their chessboard between them. ‘Near a footy field — that makes sense.’

  That Saturday, Danny called Mr McAuliffe. The phone rang five times before it was answered.

  ‘McAuliffe.’

  Instantly all the feelings of nervousness Danny thought that he was over came rushing back. ‘Uh … uh, hi, this is Danny Snell here,’ he stammered. This was a mistake, he thought. Why would he want to hear from me? He was only being polite when he said I should call him.

  ‘Daniel, hello. It’s good to hear from you.’

  ‘Really?’ Danny replied.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ There was a pause.

  ‘Um, I was talking to my dad, and he said I should call you. He thought we should invite you over for afternoon tea.’

  ‘Because we have some unfinished business, Daniel?’

  Danny hesitated. How did he know? ‘Yeah, I guess that’s it. I did have some more stuff I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘When did you want me to come over?’

  Danny swallowed. ‘I was thinking maybe tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow? I believe I’m free. All right, what time?’

  Danny caught himself frowning down at the phone. It wasn’t meant to be this easy to organise. ‘Um, three o’clock?’

  ‘Very good, three it is. I’ll see you then.’r />
  Danny held the phone to his ear for some time after the line had gone dead. The last time he’d finished talking to Mr McAuliffe on the phone he’d wanted to throw up. This time he found himself feeling quite excited.

  The doorbell rang, and Danny paused his game.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Dad said, standing up.

  ‘It’s okay, I was bored anyway,’ Danny said as he turned off his Playstation.

  He heard Mr McAuliffe’s deep voice at the door, talking to Dad. Then he was in the doorway from the hall into the sitting room, tall and a bit scary all over again. ‘Daniel,’ he said.

  ‘Would you like to sit down?’ Dad invited him.

  Mr McAuliffe chose the couch under the window. ‘You have a very nice home,’ he said, looking around.

  Dad smiled. ‘Thanks. We do all right, I suppose, considering that there’s none of that woman’s touch people are always going on about.’

  ‘Yes, Daniel told me about his mother. I’m very sorry.’

  Dad nodded. ‘It’s been five years now. It still keeps you awake sometimes, but what can you do? I don’t suppose you ever really get over it.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you do,’ Mr McAuliffe replied.

  ‘Well, you two relax and I’ll make tea. Tea, William?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mr McAuliffe said, and Dad left the room, leaving Danny and Mr McAuliffe face to face. ‘So, you wanted to talk some more about my father?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  ‘What did you want to know?’

  ‘Well, the other day you told me about when he got home, and how he couldn’t eat porridge —’

  ‘Because of the rice, that’s right.’

  ‘And you told me how he showed you his medal.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘But you never told me what he did to win that medal.’

  Mr McAuliffe smiled. ‘I didn’t, did I?’

  ‘Can you tell me? I mean, if you don’t want to —’

  ‘I can tell you, although you must understand that it’s not quite as simple as all that.’

  Chapter 15 Billy

  I was always trying to prise out of Dad what he’d done to earn his medal. It frustrated me, not knowing, especially since I was starting to get a feeling for the kind of life he’d been leading after he was captured. There was his thinness, of course, and his eye, plus a couple of scars on his legs where he’d had ulcers. There were welts around his wrists and a number of deep red shiny scars on his back as well, but I only ever glimpsed them, just as he was pulling a shirt on or wrapping a robe around himself after a shower.

  There was the waking up during the night as well, the strange words he used when he was anxious, words I didn’t recognise at first but soon learned to understand, like ‘speedo’. Apart from the photos I had of my father as a captain with his lads before they headed out, the role he’d played in the war seemed to be as a prisoner and nothing else. But the fact that he’d been awarded a VC told me there was something more. He’d done something heroic, and I longed to know what that was. I wanted to imagine him commanding his men, fighting bravely, gritting his teeth and doing his bit for the cause, not weighing less than I did and trying to stay alive in the jungle. Not working himself half to death building some railroad for the Japanese army. I wanted to know what the soldier Freddy McAuliffe had done, before he was the prisoner McAuliffe.

  But he wouldn’t talk about it. He didn’t refuse unkindly. He’d just smile, pat my head and say, ‘Another time, laddie, another time.’ But that other time never seemed to come. Even when we were driving together he found a way to dismiss my enquiries about the medal. He’d just point out something interesting, or change the subject, or just go silent. After a while I simply stopped asking.

  I remember the first time Dad and I drove into town together. He’d been in a couple of times with Granddad, but this was the first time I’d gone with him. He had to pick up a few things from the rural supply depot, which was at the end of the main street, just before the bridge. We parked out the front, and I helped him lift the bag of feed from the barrow onto the back of the truck. The muscles in his arms were thin and wiry, and his forearms shook with the strain. I used all of my strength to help him. Finally we got the feed onto the truck, and as he slumped against the cab, breathing hard, he flashed me a quick smile. ‘That takes it out of a chap, Billy-boy,’ he said, as he pushed his hat back and mopped his forehead with a hanky.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

  Aye,’ he said, straightening up and stuffing the hanky into his back pocket. He glanced at the sky, squinting at the sun. ‘Too early for a drink, laddie?’

  ‘I don’t know. What does your watch say?’

  He shook his head and looked at the new wrist-watch Nan had given him as a welcome-back gift. ‘I’m always forgetting to look at it,’ he said. ‘Right, time for a drink sure enough. Then we‘ll head back out. What do you say?’

  ‘Sure,’ I replied, following him as he strode off down the main street towards the hotel.

  I was proud to be seen in town with my father, although walking along that road I felt a little bad that he’d never had his chance to wave from the back of a trader behind Lionel Addison’s tractor.

  We reached the pub, and Dad stopped. He looked up at the front wall, above the verandah, where the name was painted. ‘When did they change that?’ he asked. ‘When did they call this the Criterion?’

  I shrugged. That had always been its name, at least as far as I knew.

  ‘That’s odd,’ he muttered. ‘Come on, I guess they still serve drinks.’

  I followed him inside. There were a few blokes already in there, leaning against the bar. They looked around as we came in, and a couple of them raised their glasses. ‘Afternoon, Mack,’ one said.

  ‘Afternoon, lads,’ Dad replied. ‘When did this joint become the Criterion?’

  ‘They stopped calling it the Oriental in about ’43,’ another of the men replied.

  ‘Aye, is that right? Over there,’ he said to me, pointing at a table. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’

  I sat down while he went to the bar. One of the men shook my father’s hand and offered to buy him a beer. Dad thanked him, and the barman pulled him a pint. It was lemonade for me, which Dad brought over and placed on the table.

  ‘I’ll just be a second, Billy-boy,’ he said, before returning to the bar.

  Meanwhile, the other men had carried on with their conversation. ‘Strong, real strong,’ said one.

  ‘Good ride, too, from what I read,’ said another. ‘That Cookie’s no slouch. What d’you reckon, Freddy?’

  ‘About what?’ Dad asked.

  ‘Rainbird. All right or what?’

  Dad sucked the froth off the top of his beer. ‘You’ve lost me — who’s Rainbird?’

  His friends looked embarrassed by his response. ‘Sorry, Mack, this year’s Cup winner.’

  ‘Oh,’ Dad replied. ‘Missed that, I’m afraid.’

  The men nodded. ‘Well there it is — Rainbird,’ one said.

  ‘Aye, well, it’s duly noted,’ Dad said, giving a thumbs-up. ‘Rainbird. Got it. Ridden by Cook was it?’

  The men nodded, as if this was the most important conversation they’d ever had.

  Dad was thinking. ‘The same Cook that rode the winner in …’

  ‘’41,’ someone said.

  ‘It was? Good effort then. Ta, lads. Cheers.’

  ‘No worries, Mack.’

  I watched and listened to my father talking to the other men. Once they’d got their horse-racing discussion out of the way they moved on to other matters.

  ‘Hey, now, what did I see in the paper the other day?’ one man said. ‘Something about a little something?’ He grinned at Dad and winked at the others.

  Dad shook his head. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Someone I know got a visit from someone special. Got something pinned on their chest?’

  Now Dad nodded. He also looked very embarrassed
. ‘It’s no big deal,’ he said.

  The others all laughed loudly. ‘No big deal? Are you kidding?’

  ‘What’d you do, Mack? The paper didn’t really say.’

  Dad shook his head again. ‘I’d really rather not talk about it, lads, if it’s all the same to you.’

  ‘Fair enough, fair enough.’ So they moved on to other topics. They asked Dad how things were going, how he was getting on, was it good to be back, nice to see a woman again, all that kind of banter. I looked on as he laughed along and answered their questions with good humour. I could see that one bloke, a small man sitting at the far end of the bar, was also watching this conversation with some interest. I’d never seen him before, but from the way he was slumped forward over his drink, he looked like a local. It was weird, though, because every time Dad said anything about the Japanese, the man would snort and take another swig from his glass.

  Then one of Dad’s mates asked him about his eye. He’d stopped wearing a bandage, and now sported a patch. He looked very pirate-like, I thought, and whenever I said that to Dad he’d say ‘Arr, me hearties’ or something corny like that. Which sounded pretty strange with a Scottish accent, to be honest.

  When Dad’s friend asked about his eye, he replied that it was thanks to the Japanese approach to first aid. ‘Which is to do nothing and hope you die from it,’ he said with a rueful smile.

  The small man at the end of the bar snorted again and drained his glass. My father frowned across at him. ‘What’s that you say, friend?’ he enquired.

  ‘Didn’t say nothing,’ the man replied as he thumped the glass onto the bar and slid from his stool. ‘’Scuse me.’

  ‘Is there something you’d like to say?’ Dad asked him.

  ‘Not to you,’ the man answered. He pulled a pair of crutches from beneath his stool and began to make his way towards the door, a path which would lead him straight past Dad and his friends. As he came around the end of the bar, I saw that one of his legs was gone, removed above the knee. The leg of his trousers was folded back and pinned to his backside, so it was just a loosely swinging flap of fabric.