Amongst the Dead

by Robert Gott

  Brian nodded, and the movement shook loose his grasp on the situation.

  ‘The stronger we our houses build,’ he said, ‘the less chance we have of being killed,’ and he laughed.

  I stayed with him, half-sleeping, half-waking, until Glen came for me at dawn. He handed me a piece of warm bread, spread with an extravagance of jam — a gesture I appreciated, despite my distaste for that condiment.

  ‘What do we do now?’ I asked.

  ‘We start looking.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I’m coming with you. You won’t find him on your own — and we’re taking Isaiah.’

  I followed Glen through the camp and down to the wharf, where Isaiah stood on the bank beside a long, flimsy-looking canoe.

  ‘Why are we going by river?’

  ‘Fulton took a canoe, and he was seen heading downstream.’

  This made sense. Why would he paddle above the Bar, against the current?

  I clambered into the canoe awkwardly and made my way to the back, very nearly tipping it over in the process. Isaiah followed, and sat in the middle. Glen took up his position at the front, and we pushed off into the wide expanse of the Roper River. We were carrying only one small pack of supplies, which seemed like madness to me.

  ‘We don’t need a lot of supplies,’ Glen said. ‘We’ve got Isaiah. Fulton’s got a thirty-six hour head-start on us, so we have to move fast. Fortunately, we’re better equipped. He’s on his own to begin with and, like I say, we’ve got Isaiah.’

  Isaiah turned to me when his name was mentioned.

  ‘Ulcer gone, boss?’

  ‘Yes, all gone.’

  ‘Good medicine, you bet.’

  We moved rapidly, with the three of us finding a good rhythm to our paddling. The canoe felt unsteady to me, so we were fortunate that the current was benign. The vegetation along the banks began to change as the waters of the Roper became more brackish. After several hours the mangroves began to dominate the fringes of the banks, their finger-like roots splayed and probing into the grey mud. It was Isaiah who spotted the canoe that Fulton had taken. It was lodged amongst mangroves in a section of the river that branched into a sluggishly flowing stream. Even when he pointed to the spot, it took my eyes a few moments to interpret the dark shape as a canoe.

  ‘Why would he pull in here?’

  Isaiah shrugged.

  ‘Must be reason. Must be problem.’

  The problem was apparent when we came close to the canoe. It had sprung a leak, and had taken in so much water that it was half submerged. We had no option now but to follow Fulton on land.

  Isaiah quickly discovered which way Fulton had walked, and he showed me sections of mangrove root where heavy boots had scraped at the slime and bark. Our progress through the clutching, choking mangroves was slow, and a viciously protruding branch almost put my eye out. Hour followed hour, during which we were cooled, and our thirst slaked, by steady rain. Isaiah led us on, his energy so boundless that I had to beg for a rest.

  By late afternoon I was weak with hunger, and muscles in various parts of my body began to twitch independently and rebelliously. Isaiah pulled a few berries from a fruiting tree, telling us that they were good to eat. By ‘good’ he meant ‘not poisonous’. They were sour but edible. It was the rest we took while he picked them that was more reviving than the food.

  We’d reached a point of high ground from which we could survey what lay ahead. It was a dispiriting vista of mudflats. Glen conferred with Isaiah, and they agreed that Fulton would try to stay as close to the river as he could, and that it must originally have been his intention to reach the coast — although what he’d do when he managed that was unclear. He’d taken a rifle, some ammunition, and a pack with rations that might last him two days at the most. As he was facing a journey of many days, he’d have to rely on his bush skills to furnish him with food. Isaiah was dubious. He didn’t think much of any of the Nackeroos’ food-gathering abilities, and he told us that in this country, unless Fulton encountered a water buffalo or a goat, and shot it, he’d find survival difficult.

  There are surprising patches of extraordinary stillness and beauty secreted in the vast monotony of this landscape. We came upon one such place, and drank from a lagoon of clear, fresh water, its banks thick with reeds, ferns, and pandanus. Isaiah assured us that there were no crocodiles, but I was wary nonetheless. If a place looked like Paradise up there, a serpent was sure to be lurking in it somewhere.

  Fulton had been there before us. Isaiah found the ashes of a fire — it was a remarkable feat that he’d managed to get one going in this damp world — and the remains of a few, blackened rhizomes.

  ‘Bush tucker,’ Isaiah said, and seemed impressed that Fulton had the nous and the knowledge to find and prepare it. There were also the shells of hermit crabs which he poked at, and declared, ‘No good. Not sweet.’

  The sun had almost set, and it was agreed that we’d spend the night there. Using the charcoal of Fulton’s fire as a base, we lit our own, and Isaiah gathered the white rhizomes from ferns, just as Fulton had done. They were indigestible raw, but after a good bake in the coals they became starchy, if fibrous, and the taste wasn’t objectionable. Isaiah failed to produce a cornucopia of bush food, so we ate the remaining rations — bully beef and more peaches. I swore that when this war was over, I’d never eat another peach.

  We built the fire into a smoking pile, and curled up near it on the ground. I was so sore and tired that I endured the mosquitoes, and barely noticed the rain when it came.

  There was no breakfast. We headed off while it was still dark, trusting that Isaiah had picked up Fulton’s track. The rain had obliterated any footprints Fulton may have left, but Isaiah pointed to a discarded crab shell and said, ‘Breakfast.’

  Further on, another shell confirmed that Fulton had been eating while he walked. We were heading back towards the mangroves. When we reached them, Isaiah stopped and said, ‘Good tucker here. Sweet.’

  He found a rotting, sodden log and tore it open. From within its soft fibres he withdrew a long, glistening worm that hung from his fingers like a string of mucous. He gripped one end between his thumb and forefinger, and put the protruding tip into his mouth. Slowly he began sliding the body between his fingers until a line of mud oozed from its far end. He drew the purged upper body into his mouth as he did so. He was so practised at this that it was almost a single, fluid movement, and in a matter of seconds all that remained of the worm was a neat casting of extruded mud, coiled on the ground between his feet. He found another and handed it to me.

  ‘That one tastes like oyster,’ he said, so I overcame my revulsion and began feeding it into my mouth. I didn’t get all the mud out, which made the initial experience more ghastly than it might otherwise have been. The worm had the slippery consistency of an oyster, but lacked its compactness. It tasted of brine and foul mud. I could see, though, that if properly purged it would offer sustenance to a desperate man — and I was a desperate man. I tried a second worm, after Isaiah had cleaned it out for me, and found that if the mind could see it as an oyster, it did indeed taste vaguely like an oyster, in that it was all texture and salt, with something, too, of rotting wood. These ship-worms, as I later learned they were called, would never grace the tables of restaurants, but they had a restorative effect on us all, and we moved on in pursuit of Fulton.

  As we walked I began to rehearse what I would say to him. I knew he’d be disappointed that it was me who’d been sent to find him, and not Brian, but he’d also be relieved to see that I’d been released from custody. That was at least one thing he could stop feeling guilty about. I knew so little about him that I couldn’t predict how he’d react to being discovered. I’d never thought of him as being unstable, or capable of rash, self-destructive behaviour. In truth, though, I’d never really thought of him as anything
other than a child, and so far from me in age that familial ties seemed meaningless.

  Remembered images of the small boy Fulton used to be began to crowd my mind. As I trudged wearily behind Glen, I experienced a kind of delirium of sentimentality, and fraternal feelings for Fulton welled up from a deep, unexamined part of my psyche. I was suddenly fiercely proud of what he’d done, of his measured, patient response to discovering two traitors in his section. No wonder Intelligence wanted him. His instincts were obviously superb, and unusually subtle in one so young. With careful training he’d become a formidable agent. With mixed feelings, I had to acknowledge that I lacked those qualities essential to a career in Intelligence. I could never do as Glen had done, and coolly and without remorse kill a man, even if that man was my enemy and threatened my country. I didn’t have the stomach for it. Fulton, I thought, probably did, and once the hiccough of this absence without leave had been dealt with, he would please his father no end by following in his footsteps.

  We stopped briefly, and Isaiah deftly collected a handful of small oysters. They were much enjoyed, even if they did create a strong thirst. This was easily quenched — we’d filled our canteens at the billabong. Eventually the mangroves became too dense to negotiate, and we were forced inland. I was glad of this, as having to constantly pull my limbs out of the mud was playing havoc with the leg that had been heavily bruised in the car accident.

  Isaiah was quite confident that he was still on Fulton’s trail, and just before midday he halted abruptly, crouched, and signalled that we were to do the same. Following his pointed finger, I peered through the ti-tree and wattle and saw a figure, seated, with his back to us. He was leaning forward, and his posture suggested that he was ill. He hadn’t heard our approach — not because we’d been particularly stealthy, but because the green grass and soft, damp earth muffled our footfalls. Glen, who was in front of me, pulled his pistol from its holster. I tapped him on the shoulder and indicated that I thought the gun was unnecessary.

  ‘We don’t know his state of mind,’ he whispered. ‘It’s just a precaution.’

  ‘He’s not a criminal.’

  ‘If he panics and points his rifle at us, I want to be prepared.’

  We approached cautiously. Fulton didn’t move. When we were within a few feet of him he raised his head, but didn’t turn around. His rifle was on the ground beside him, and he made no move to touch it. I was relieved, and was about to approach him when Glen placed his hand on my chest and held me back.

  ‘You’ve found me,’ Fulton said. ‘Have you come to kill me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Glen said, and in a swift, precise movement he stepped forward, put his pistol to the back of Fulton’s head, and pulled the trigger. I have no memory of the echo of the gunshot, just a sharp crack. Fulton’s body slumped forward and fell sideways. Isaiah’s face showed no shock, but his eyes were swimming with tears, and I realised he must have begun weeping before the shot was fired. My mind and my body refused to assimilate what had just happened and, for a brief period, I was in a catatonic state, unblinking, rigid, aware only of Isaiah’s eyes.

  ‘There were three of them, Will. Fulton was the third.’

  I’d emerged from my state of shock sufficiently to hear Glen’s words, if not to fully comprehend them. Fulton’s body had been removed from view, and the patch of blood where his head had touched the ground had been covered over. It might never have happened.

  ‘I did tell you.’

  ‘You told me that you didn’t think it was true.’

  ‘Yes. I lied. We do that. I needed you to come with me.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘I wanted Brian. I ended up with you.’

  I didn’t hate Glen Pyers at that moment. He seemed so remote from whatever it was I understood as human that no emotion made sense in relation to him. I didn’t feel in any danger, either. He’d done what he’d come there to do, and had no investment, for the moment, in harming any other living thing.

  ‘Why did you need me here?’

  ‘You’re a witness.’

  ‘Isaiah is a witness.’

  ‘Isaiah can’t tell Peter Gilbert what we want you to tell Peter Gilbert.’

  ‘He doesn’t know that his son was a traitor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You lie to each other in Intelligence?’

  ‘Peter Gilbert has earned the right to believe that he has raised a son of whom he can be proud, and not a misguided little fascist whose sympathies were with the enemy.’

  ‘I don’t understand the moral universe you inhabit, and I still don’t understand why you needed me, or preferably Brian, as a witness.’

  In a chilling perversion of the word’s meaning, Glen said, ‘It’s a courtesy. We wanted a member of Fulton’s family to be able to report to his parents that he’d died quickly, painlessly, in the defence of his country, and that they should take comfort in the fact that he’d made an honourable death.’

  ‘Do you seriously expect me to tell this monstrous lie to my mother and to Fulton’s father?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘We not only expect it; we insist on it. I think, when you reflect on this, you’ll agree that injuring your mother with the truth about her son achieves nothing. If, however, you find yourself unable to offer her the protection of a generous lie, the gag of the Official Secrets Act can be applied.’

  ‘Lies protect, and truth injures. My God, it’s all smoke and mirrors with you, isn’t it?’

  ‘We want you to report something like this …’ He began pacing in front of me, constructing the scenario.

  ‘We were out on patrol, just the four of us. Brian, of course, was laid up with a scorpion bite. It was a routine patrol, down along the Roper River …’

  Chapter Thirteen

  independence

  ‘… AND WE WERE GLAD TO BE AWAY FROM ROPER BAR. Fulton liked patrols. He felt like he was doing something. He knew he was one of the best signallers in the NAOU, but he liked the bush.’

  Mother had fallen against Peter Gilbert, whose face was grimly set against the threat of tears. We were seated in the front room of Mother’s house in Garton Street in Princes Hill. Brian sat beside me, his head bowed.

  The unspeakable news of Fulton’s death had been told to them before our arrival. It had taken us two full weeks to return to Melbourne, during every day of which we’d talked ourselves hoarse about Fulton and about what could have led him to despise his country so much that he would turn against it. I had no insights to offer, and Brian couldn’t recall a single word or act that hinted at his discontent, let alone disaffection. He must, we thought, have been seduced by the politics of someone he met after joining up. Battell perhaps, or Ashe.

  ‘I would never have thought he was so impressionable,’ Brian said.

  ‘Did he know that Peter Gilbert was his father?’

  ‘I’m not sure. We never talked about it. He was the only father he ever knew, and he knew that Peter loved him. I never, ever saw him express any anger or lose his temper. He was happy, always happy.’

  Mother’s eyes were open and staring into space. Her hands clung to Peter Gilbert’s arm, giving the impression that if she let go she would slip from her chair and collapse at his feet. I thought now that Glen had been right. If I’d told them the truth they might both have simply died of grief.

  ‘There was no warning. We had no radio with us. We’d only intended being out overnight. It was the afternoon, and we were sitting, chatting, having a mug of tea. I saw the shadow of a plane move across the ground, but there was no sound of an engine. It was strange. No sound at all. Suddenly it was above us, gliding low, almost touching the tree tops. There was a burst of machine-gun fire, the plane’s motors were switched on, and it banked away from us. I could see the pilot’s face, they were so close. I didn’t know that planes could do t
hat. Fulton was hit, and he died instantly. He wouldn’t have even known what had happened. He certainly didn’t suffer in any way. The wound was just above his heart.’

  ‘Who else saw this?’ asked Peter Gilbert. His Intelligence training obviously made him sceptical about the clinical neatness of his son’s death.

  ‘There were two other men — Corporal Glen Pyers, who was with Brian and me in the Concert Party, and an Aboriginal man named Isaiah.’

  He nodded. I could see that he knew I was lying, but I hoped he thought the lie had to do with the speed and ease of Fulton’s death.

  ‘There was nothing anybody could do,’ Brian said quietly.

  Mother raised herself upright.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to see your brother die, Will. Truly I am. I’m glad, though, that Fulton didn’t die amongst strangers, like so many soldiers do. I’m glad of that.’

  She came across to me, leaned down, and kissed me on the top of my head.

  ‘Thank you for telling us what happened. It can’t have been easy.’

  I caught Peter Gilbert’s eye, and felt he knew I’d made it easier than it ought to have been.

  ‘I’ll make a pot of tea,’ Mother said, and left the room. Her tone and movements were dull and muted, and I wondered whether Fulton’s death had robbed her permanently of the capacity for joy.

  Peter Gilbert cleared his throat. He and Mother had had a fortnight to accept Fulton’s death, so he was calm when he spoke.

  ‘I think Agnes and I both know that what you just told us isn’t quite how it happened. I’m grateful that you spared your mother the whole truth. I, however, would appreciate knowing it.’

  Glen Pyers had assured me that Army Intelligence would support the version of events we’d settled on, so I had to assume that Peter Gilbert had already heard that Fulton had died in machine-gun fire from a Japanese aircraft. Just because the stories matched wouldn’t reassure him of their accuracy. Brian and I had also been instructed that we were not to tell Peter Gilbert that his former position in Intelligence was known to us, or that we had knowledge of his role in sending us to the West Alligator River. Perhaps they didn’t have absolute confidence in Peter Gilbert. It was more likely, though, that this was a part of the wretched mechanics of allowing no one to see every piece of the puzzle.