by Robert Gott
We agreed on the importance of this, but were uncertain how to achieve it. We knew that all three earlier deaths had been of Nackeroos from A Company, and we assumed that they’d taken place at Roper Bar, or in a platoon to which either Fulton or Rufus was attached. I thought that it shouldn’t, on the face of it, be too difficult to ask a few questions that would elicit useful responses. We had to be careful, of course, not to arouse suspicions about our investigative role.
‘Archie Warmington must know something about these deaths,’ I said. ‘Even if he was in Ingleburn when they happened, he would have been told blokes had died, but not necessarily that they’d been murdered.’
‘True. I’m sure most people up here just put each of them down to illness or accident, but not murder. Army Intelligence suspects murder, though, which means that they must have someone up here feeding them information.’
‘So why do they need us?’
‘Because whoever it is isn’t in a position to find out the identity of the killer. Do you think Archie is Army Intelligence?’
‘You’d be better placed to know about Archie than I would, Brian.’
He didn’t bite, but simply repeated his question.
‘There’s certainly more to Archie than meets the eye,’ I said. ‘If he’s not Intelligence, he’s more than a humble Nackeroo. When we get back to Roper Bar, I think you should ask him a few questions — in a quiet moment.’
With his veil down, I couldn’t determine his reaction. All he said was, ‘If Archie is Army Intelligence, he already knows about us. If he’s not, he’s too smart not to work out that something is up if I start questioning him.’
‘I wasn’t talking about an interrogation — just an innocent question dropped into a conversation at an appropriate time.’
He shrugged, which I took to mean that he agreed.
In the afternoon we gave the Nackeroos some relief from watching, and took their place. After only half-an-hour I’d had enough. My arms ached from lifting the binoculars, and my head pounded from the glare and concentration. How did these men do this for hour upon gruesome hour? In the dry season, we were told, the mozzies and sandflies weren’t quite so bad, but thirst could drive a man mad. There was no water on Gulnare Bluff — it had to be brought across those stinking mudflats, and the ration was inhuman. At least in the Wet it could be collected daily. We wouldn’t have been sent across to entertain them in the Dry. There wouldn’t have been sufficient water to support such a luxury.
A squall blew in at about three o’clock, and visibility became poor. This didn’t provide any respite from watching. I squinted into the sheets of rain, suddenly terrified that the Japanese might take this opportunity to launch an assault. I almost convinced myself that I could see something, and was about to call out, but when I looked again it was gone.
Rufus Farrell had been in the sig hut since lunchtime. When a Nackeroo came to relieve me I clambered into the ditch beside him. The smoke was suffocatingly thick, but at least it was possible to remove the stifling hat and netting. He was neither sending nor receiving when I joined him, and he seemed grateful for the company.
‘Give me the Alligator River any day,’ he said. ‘This place is a serious shithole.’
I laughed companionably, eager to reassure him that he had nothing to fear from me.
‘I’m sorry that I asked you about Ashe’s death earlier, Rufus. That was thoughtless of me.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I was just a bit shocked by it, that’s all — the suicide thing. I can’t imagine ever wanting to do that.’
‘How old was Ashe?’
‘Nick? He was about my age, I reckon. Twenty-two. Why?’
‘It’s just too young to die, that’s all, let alone like that.’
Rufus scratched at the stubble on his cheek, and shot me a sideways glance.
‘I don’t reckon he killed himself,’ he said. ‘I reckon someone shot him and tried to make it look like suicide.’
He waited to see what effect these words would have on me. I watched his face carefully.
‘What makes you say that?’ I asked calmly. He met my gaze, then shrugged and looked away.
‘Dunno.’
I leaned towards him and whispered, ‘I think you’re right, Rufus. I think someone murdered Nicholas Ashe. I know someone murdered Nicholas Ashe.’
He nodded but was wary, almost afraid.
‘His gun was in the wrong hand,’ I said. ‘That was a careless mistake.’
Rufus began to cough. Had I just pointed out an error he wasn’t aware he’d made?
‘We should tell someone,’ he said.
‘I wouldn’t do that, Rufus. They’ll think it was you.’
A look of genuine fear crossed his face.
‘Why would they think it was me?’
‘Because I’d have to tell them that I think it was you.’
He looked stricken. Before he had a chance to reply, I put my hat back on and said through the netting, ‘I know Andrew Battell was murdered, too. I know that for a fact.’
I climbed out of the sig hut, absolutely confident that Rufus Farrell was a shaken man. If he was innocent he’d do nothing beyond resenting my implications and hating me for them; if he was guilty I was in no doubt that, within a very short space of time, perhaps even in the next few hours, he’d try to kill me.
The meal that night was a particularly disgusting mix of Devon and rice. Devon was, ostensibly, pressed meat. It was greasy and rank, and my mouth felt furred and violated for hours afterwards. Bully beef was prime rump by comparison. Rufus Farrell ate with us, along with two other Nackeroos. The obliterating nature of our clothes meant that I never formed any clear idea of the identities of the men on Gulnare Bluff. It was like living in a bizarre harem where we were all obliged to conform to the wearing of strange hijab. Rufus was seated on my left, but if any of the other three changed places I wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart unless they spoke. It was almost as if one of Glen’s small illusions — which pod conceals the pea — had manifested itself in human form.
‘Got any stories?’ one of them asked.
In a moment of pure inspiration I said, ‘I’ve got a story. It’s about a murder.’
I felt, rather than saw, Brian turn towards me, and I fancy that I felt Rufus Farrell flinch.
‘Go on then,’ he said.
‘It happened in Denmark a long, long time ago.’
I sensed Brian relax, and I told the story of Hamlet. They were quiet and they listened, and no one tried to hit me — something I now took as the measure of the success of a performance. I hope I don’t sound too smug if I say that I retold the plot with considerable effect, lingering particularly over Hamlet’s ploy to expose Claudius as the killer of Hamlet’s father. I used the words of the text sparingly but tellingly, and by the play’s end, when all the corpses had piled up, I’d managed to achieve a tiny part of my dream — to bring Shakespeare to a place where he’d never been brought before. It wasn’t exactly the exciting production I might have hoped for, but it was a start. The only hint that the concentration of one of the Nackeroos might have wandered was his query as to whether or not any of this had made it into the papers.
We sat for a little while after the conclusion of the story and made small talk. The squall that had blown in earlier had hung about, dousing us intermittently with showers. Now it settled into steady rain that grew progressively heavier until conversation became impossible below the level of shouted remarks into another’s ear. There was no point trying to sleep under sopping cheesecloth, so we sat with our backs against trees, imagining that the sparse leaf-cover offered some protection from the rain. At least we were able to remove the hats, and we stripped off our clothes as well. It was a blessed relief to feel cool and momentarily clean.
When the ra
in eased, and then stopped altogether, we put our saturated clothes back on and crawled into the cover of the cheesecloth. I’d become familiar with, and almost indifferent to, the rank smell of mould. I’d also become inured to sleeping in wet clothes, although I had no intention of sleeping that night. I expected Rufus Farrell to make a move, and he wasn’t going to catch me off-guard. Brian, whose sleeping kit was only a few feet from mine, was also on watch, having been briefed by me about my encounter with Farrell in the sig hut.
It seems extraordinary, given that my life may well have been in danger, that one moment I was reflecting on the possibility of changing my public performances from pure Shakespeare to enacting tales from Shakespeare, and the next I was so soundly asleep that the gunshot, when it came, initially formed part of an elaborate dream, the details of which I don’t remember.
It was the second shot that woke me. In a panic that didn’t run entirely out of control on account of the sharp pain in my neck, I crawled out from under the cheesecloth into the mud. I could see Brian flailing under his, and gave silent thanks that my injury made flailing impossible. It was raining slightly, but the wind was strong, and the general noise of trees and shrubs being whipped by it exacerbated the fear that was running riot through my body. Brian was soon beside me, along with Glen. The darkness was so complete that I couldn’t see beyond a few feet. If Rufus Farrell was standing a short distance away with a gun pointed at me, I wouldn’t have known; and I was too unnerved to make the logical assumption that if I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me either. We instinctively stayed close to the ground and remained silent. A word was as good as a flare in revealing where we were. Somewhere off to the right, where the Nackeroos slept, there was a panicked cry. At first it was a yowl of terror, and then it coalesced into words.
‘They’re here! They’re here! The fucking Japs!’
Another shot was fired, and another cry went up. I felt my guts turn to water. So this was it? We’d been surprised in our sleep. The Nackeroos on watch must have been killed already, otherwise they would have put up some resistance, and there would have been more gunfire to alert us. Had they had their throats slit by an advance party? Still we didn’t move. I could hear Brian panting. In the darkness there was the sound of running feet and a voice called, ‘Hold him down! Hold him down!’ An incoherent roar came from someone’s mouth, followed by a gunshot and a yelp of pain. It was Glen who first surmised what was happening, and he leapt to his feet and disappeared in the direction of the commotion. Whimpering reached us, and the low murmur of several people talking. Glen returned quickly.
‘The bloke named Baxter’s gone troppo.’
We’d been introduced to this man, but I’d only seen his face briefly, once. He was the silent one who’d come with us across the mudflats.
‘He thought he saw a Jap in the camp. The silly bastard’s gone and shot himself in the foot.’
We crossed to where Baxter lay on the ground, writhing in agony. Rufus Farrell was there, and two of the Nackeroos. One must have remained on watch, and the other in the sig hut.
‘He’s been edgy for days now,’ said one of them. ‘We should’ve had him taken out.’
‘He could’ve killed me,’ Rufus said. ‘That first shot missed me by a bee’s dick.’
‘So it was you he saw moving around,’ I said. ‘What were you doing?’
I knew what he’d been doing. He’d been heading for my bed — probably knife in hand, or maybe he’d intended to strangle me, just as he’d strangled Battell.
‘I was going to the dunny,’ Farrell said.
Baxter moaned. I knelt beside him and told him that he was all right, that he’d hurt his foot, but that he wasn’t badly injured. This didn’t seem to calm him down. Whatever light there was gathered in the wild whites of his eyes, and he glared at me as if I were an object of immense horror.
‘Jap cunt!’ he shrieked, and spat at me. It took all of us to restrain him after that. He jerked and pushed and convulsed until exhaustion and loss of blood calmed him. By then, dawn was slowly turning the darkness into a pellucid grey.
‘Is there any morphine?’ I asked.
‘Yes, mate,’ one of them said sarcastically, ‘and the nurses’ quarters are just through the scrub there.’
I didn’t take this personally. We were all shaken by what had just happened. I reminded myself that I was the oldest person there by a long way, and I had an obligation to assert some authority over this mess. No one else seemed capable of doing anything practical.
‘We need to see how much damage he’s done, and we need to stop the bleeding. There must be a first-aid kit here.’
In the growing light I saw that no one was wearing his hat, and for the first time I got a decent look at these Nackeroos. The sarcastic young man, who nodded when I mentioned the first-aid kit, looked about twelve years old, although he must have been at least twenty-one. His straw-coloured hair was plastered to his skull, and needed cutting. Manhood was creeping into his brown eyes before appearing anywhere else on his face.
‘Get it!’ I said fiercely, and he obeyed without demur. The other Nackeroo was probably the same age as the boy soldier, but he’d matured more rapidly. His cheeks and chin were dark with stubble.
‘Put your knees on his shoulders and, Glen, I’d be obliged if you sat on his chest. Brian, grab his good leg. I’m going to take his boot off.’
The blood drained from Glen’s face, and I thought he was going to faint.
‘Don’t you dare faint,’ I said. ‘I need you to hold him down.’
He straddled Baxter and sat with his back to me.
‘No. The other way. I want you to lean forward and press down on his thighs. When I take his boot off he’s not going to like it.’
‘I’m not going to like it, either.’
‘Close your eyes and try not to be distracted by his screams. His legs need to be held still.’
Baxter’s boot wasn’t going to come off easily. As soon as I’d undone the laces, it became apparent that the army had issued him with a size that was too small for his feet; he must have suffered awful blisters while his feet gradually stretched the leather to accommodate them. My first attempt to remove the boot resulted in a violent and not unreasonable reaction to the agony it caused. I suspected that the bones at the top of the foot had been broken. There was nothing for it but to plough on, and to pay no heed to Baxter’s appalling cries of pain.
I wrestled and worked the boot away from his shattered foot. When it finally came, Baxter’s cries intensified as if the leather had somehow been containing the worst of the injury. His sock, crusted with mud and blood, had almost become one with his flesh. He mustn’t have changed his socks since his posting at Gulnare Bluff had begun. As I peeled the wool away, I still couldn’t see how much damage had been done. I needed water. The young Nackeroo had by this time returned with the first-aid kit, and I sent him away to fetch a can of clean water. I had no idea what I was doing or even what needed doing. The only thing I could think to do was wash the wound, sprinkle disinfectant powder into it, if there was any, and bind it with a bandage.
When the water arrived I sponged the foot as gently as I could, trying not to press down around the point of the bullet’s entry. It looked a mess. I thought it might have been a nice clean hole. Whatever ammunition he’d used had blasted an ugly entry wound and an even uglier exit wound. A sprinkle of powder and a length of bandage weren’t going to do much for Baxter. It was better than nothing, though, so I opened the battered first-aid tin, hoping to find something I might use. The only thing in it was a bandage that was black with mould, and the pointless barrel of a needle-less syringe. There wasn’t even any Aspro. I looked at Brian.
‘It’s a pity that dress isn’t here,’ he said. ‘We could’ve used strips of that.’
Baxter had quietened down, and he began to sli
p in and out of consciousness.
‘Can I get up?’ Glen asked. I noticed that his eyes were tightly shut, and I imagined that they been shut throughout Baxter’s ordeal.
‘We have to cover the wound,’ I said. ‘It’s going to be tough enough stopping flies from blowing it without making it easy for them.’
‘Maybe it’ll keep raining,’ Glen said weakly.
‘Maybe he’s got a clean pair of underpants in his kit,’ said the older-looking Nackeroo.
‘Did you see the state of his socks?’ I replied. ‘I really don’t think this bloke’s underpants should be anywhere near an open wound.’
Brian suggested we find a clean-ish piece of cheesecloth from his bedding and cut it up. He did so, and washed it, even though it was already sopping wet. At least it made us feel as if we were doing something vaguely related to antisepsis.
Baxter lay almost motionless, moaning in the most unearthly and disconcerting fashion. I was sympathetic, but I wanted desperately for him to shut up.
Rufus Farrell had made himself scarce. There was no reason for him to remain with Baxter or with us, but I knew that he’d absented himself in order to avoid further questions about his movements — movements that had led to Baxter’s dreadful injury and to the inadvertent saving of my life.
‘Someone needs to sit with him,’ I said, and addressed the young man who’d fetched the first-aid kit. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Smith,’ he said. ‘John Smith.’
‘Unusual name. You must get people asking you to spell it all the time. You sit with him, John, and talk to him. Keep reassuring him that he’ll be all right, and keep the flies off his foot.’
Roper Bar had been radioed about Baxter, and the decision was made to change the personnel at Gulnare Bluff one day early. The Hurricane would arrive that afternoon, with five fresh Nackeroos. Rufus Farrell was to remain as the sixth. When they arrived we’d head back, somehow carrying Baxter with us. To this end we improvised a stretcher, using thin bush-timbers and the remains of his cheesecloth bed covering. It was strong enough to support his weight and, with a man on each of the four pole ends, we thought it wouldn’t be too onerous transporting him across the sucking mud. It wasn’t going to be easy, but we agreed we could manage it. There was, in any case, no choice.