The Long Green Shore

by John Hepworth

  It is a simple equation—the old blokes are the most worried—matter-of-factly worried. A soldier may have a thousand lives—no more. You can stand up just so many times and after that, no more. The longer you go, the higher the odds pile up. These old blokes have bowed to death so often—they know their time is running out.

  It was that day, too, that Pez went back to hospital. He had been up all night with vomiting and diarrhoea. He was a pale shivering shell in the morning.

  ‘You’ve got the wog all right, boy,’ said Janos.

  ‘Feels like it,’ chattered Pez. His eyes were swimming, his skin burning, he was deadly cold inside.

  Janos carried his pack for him down to the RAP.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, boy,’ he said. ‘This looks like the end of it. They reckon we’re finished now. The Second’s taken over and our next trip will be home. If we get home, the way things are shaping, we’ll never go away again—she’ll be all over before that.’

  Doc Maguire took a look at Pez.

  ‘Looks like a touch of the wog,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But even if it’s not we’ll send you back for a bit of rest—fatten you up a bit. Have you been eating all right?’

  ‘Oh, not badly, on and off, Doc,’ shivered Pez.

  ‘Thought so,’ said the Doc. ‘A bit of starvation is what’s wrong with you.’

  ‘I’ll make sure they send your letters back,’ said Janos. ‘Look after yourself, boy.’

  Pez lay down on a stretcher with a couple of blankets over him while he waited for the ambulance. He could keep nothing in his stomach. They gave him a cup of tea—he brought it up. They gave him a dose of quinine—it came up immediately and the bitter sting of it remained at the back of his nose.

  All the world is dazed and pitched off-key. The body loses substance.

  There is only one other patient in the three-tonner ambulance truck with him—a young lad from the Second Battalion with a leg wound. He grunts a little as the truck bumps and sways down the road. His eyes are a little hysterical—too much white showing in them—and his voice rambles…

  ‘I cut their throats,’ he is saying. ‘We never took any prisoners in our mob—I cut their throats—even the dead ones. After it’s finished I go around and cut their throats—even the dead ones.’

  He falls silent and groans between his teeth as the truck grinds and bumps down in a rough pinch.

  ‘My brother was in Malaya,’ he says. ‘They killed my brother in Malaya—some blokes who were with him told me—they cut his throat like a pig…’

  They waited half an hour at the ambulance station at the ’drome for the plane to come in. There are other cases there—stretcher cases mostly that have been carried down from the hills.

  From where Pez sits he can see across into the hospital itself—a casualty clearing station. The sides of one of the tents is drawn back for the light. Three or four white robed figures move around the table, bending over it. Red flesh is showing on the naked figure strapped to the table.

  The plane comes.

  On the trip down he crouches near a window and with hot, heavy eyes stares at the meaningless drift of jungle and shore that flows beneath him—the long green shore that so painfully and darkly they had fought and marched along. All the weary weeks it had taken them and now it passes in a brief twenty minutes.

  The first thing you feel when you get into hospital is a sense of your own dirtiness—the grime that has been under your fingernails unnoticed for months suddenly seems gritty and itchy on the tips of your fingers.

  There is no glory in the world like a hot shower—you come out purged and clean—your whole body is light as in a dream. It must be a thousand years since you were clean before.

  There is a rare pleasure in the lightness and cleanliness of unaccustomed pyjamas and your feet are shod with air in slippers after the heavy jungle boots.

  For the first week, Pez slept, mostly. Sleeping for a couple of hours and waking briefly to drift back again. It is an unreal world of polite voices and soups and sweets with meals and lights at night and music from the loudspeaker beating softly through the long palm-leafed ward. This is peace and rest—but somehow it is further away from home and reality than the weapon pit is. Here are books and morning tea with biscuits and women—brisk and professionally tender—so neatly starched in khaki, so sweet-smelling, so soft of face—how coolly warm their fingers are on your brow—but we are further from home, this is peaceful desolation.

  Harry Drew and Regan visit Pez. They are on their way back to the battalion. He hears news of others. Some are dead, some have gone home, some are in hospital still, some have gone back up the track.

  At the end of the first week they put a bloke with pleurisy into the end bed next to Pez. He was dying. For three days they fought for him. There was always a nurse by his side. Bottles of plasma and serum and glucose were suspended over his bed, the long red tubes snaking down. The life-liquids dripped into his veins hour after hour. The nurses sat by him and smoothed his brow and tried to calm him when he raved and brushed moist cotton wool on his parched lips when he begged and groaned for water.

  The third night he called out a lot and the doctors came many times. When Pez woke in the morning the bed was empty and the bottles had been taken down. The little nurse called Bunty was sniffling and red-eyed as she remade the bed. She had been with him at the last. It must be hard to fight so long and passionately and skilfully and then have them die under your hands.

  *

  When Pez gets up and about again he makes way a bit with Bunty. They really got acquainted one day when he strolled into the storeroom out the back of the ward to get a fresh towel.

  The linen cabinet was a dark little cubicle and Pez, groping his way in blindly from bright sunshine outside, ran bang into Bunty who was inside the cubicle doing a quick change act.

  ‘Hell! I’m sorry,’ said Pez, retreating hastily from that disturbing soft nakedness.

  He leaned against the wall outside the cubicle and lifted his eyes ostentatiously to heaven: ‘Why don’t you hang out a sign—lady undressing?’

  ‘What the devil are you doing here, anyway?’ asked Bunty, amused. ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’

  ‘I was after a clean towel,’ confessed Pez. ‘I missed out on the issue.’

  A suggestively naked arm came out of the cubicle with a laundered towel: ‘If a towel’s all you’re after, that’s a change. Usually you blokes are after something else once you get on your feet.’

  ‘Oh, I’m adaptable,’ said Pez. ‘I can turn my hand to practically anything.’

  Bunty came out of the darkness, buttoning her jacket: ‘In that case,’ she said evilly, ‘and on account of the embarrassment you’ve caused me, you can give me a hand to do some ironing.’

  So Pez helped Bunty do the ironing and spent a lot of time talking to her casually and smoking her cigarettes as he worked. It was a very casual and comradely affair.

  Once she did suggest that if he could dig up a bottle of whisky somewhere she was very partial to whisky and knew a very comfortable and private sandhill—but Pez couldn’t lay hands on a bottle of whisky.

  When he was leaving she kissed him in a friendly fashion and they made a date for a pub crawl in Sydney after the war.

  The ward next door was the troppo ward. It was closed in with heavy cyclone wire and guarded by provosts. Odd cries and yells came from it at times.

  There was one bloke Pez could see and hear through the wire. He was a big bloke. His left arm was smashed and in plaster.

  He would stand for hours looking out through the wire—the fingers of his good hand hanging onto the wire above his head, his smashed hand held against his stomach, his face pressed against the mesh.

  For a long time he would stand quietly. Then suddenly he would open his mouth wide and give vent to a long animal scream that went on and on—at the same time seeming quite detached from him. His calmly insane face was visible through the wire, the mouth wi
de open, and those agonised shrieks seemed to be coming from some other being locked inside him.

  He escaped one day.

  The first Pez knew was when he saw him running. He came with a peculiar loping run, his smashed hand, weighted with the plaster, swinging pendulum-like. He was crowing in a thin wailing voice as he ran and chuckling with childish triumph.

  He came running into the ward and went straight to the little bald-headed bloke in the bed opposite Pez. He lay down on the bed, snuggled down.

  ‘I got away from them, Eddie,’ he chuckled with childish triumph. ‘Look, see!’ He was showing his dead meat tickets with a furtive, confidential air. ‘Look, Eddie—you know me—I’m a Protestant—they’re all Hindus in there—I’m a Protestant and they’re trying to make me a Hindu—but I got away—’ he shivered again with delighted childish laughter.

  ‘Sure, sure, she’ll be right, Happy,’ said Eddie. ‘You’ll be all right here.’

  Half a dozen provosts came running into the ward. Big, beefy blokes, panting from the run. They crowded round the bed but none of them seemed to be anxious to be first.

  The man with the smashed arm cowered back on the bed, snarling. When they tried to grab him he kicked at them and beat at them with his plaster arm. He was shrieking incoherent filth at them, the teeth and red gums showing in his savage mouth.

  Eddie had his arms around him.

  ‘Get away from him! Get away!’ Eddie was pleading. ‘Leave him alone! He’ll smash his arm again—he’s smashed it three times already.’

  There was an angry growl from the rest of the ward, a swift gathering anger: ‘Provost! Provost! Let him alone!’

  The little dark-eyed Sister was in the middle of the provosts suddenly, ordering them back: ‘Get outside, boys,’ she said. ‘I’ll handle this.’

  ‘He’s dangerous, Sister,’ said one provost. ‘He tried to use a knife.’

  ‘Get outside,’ she said.

  The bloke with the smashed arm was still snarling—watching the provosts. They withdrew to the doorway.

  The dark-eyed Sister walked calmly up to the bed and stood close to him. Everyone in the long ward held their breath. Slowly her hand went out and rested lightly on his forehead.

  ‘Are you all right, lad?’ she asked.

  He looked at her a long moment—gradually the snarl faded, the distorted face relaxed. He looked at her with utter weariness—the tormented eyes finding rest in the cool and unpitying warmth of her.

  ‘Yes, Sister, I’m all right—only make them go away—see, I’m a Protestant—see, I can show you my meat tickets—they’re all Hindus—make them go away, Sister.’

  She ordered the provosts away. They go reluctantly. She stayed quietly talking to him. ‘How do you feel?’ she asked.

  ‘All right, Sister—I’m all right—just my head aches.’

  She soothed his brow—oh, those hands had the sweetness of a benediction and like cool water soothed our fevers.

  ‘I just want to stay here with my mates, Sister—I know they want to put me on a plane tonight—I’ll go on the plane, Sister, but I just want to stop here with my mate until then—this is my mate, Eddie—I just want to stay here with him and sleep.’

  The little bald-headed bloke, Eddie, had him in his arms, nursing him.

  ‘He’ll be all right, Sister,’ said Eddie. ‘I’ll look after him—he’ll be all right until the plane.’

  The Sister asked will she bring another bed in for him, to put alongside Eddie’s bed, but Eddie said no, he’s comfortable—he’ll look after him.

  The little bald-headed bloke sat there holding the big bloke in his arms all the afternoon. Sometimes the big bloke slept, other times he talked in a swift confidential little whisper and showed Eddie his meat tickets.

  He was calm in the evening but the provosts came in again and he kicked and screamed when he saw one of them with the morphia shining in his hand.

  The dark-eyed little Sister came in again.

  The provosts left him and the big bloke finally went quietly with Eddie.

  ‘I know they want me on the plane,’ he said. ‘I’ll go on the plane—just so long as they keep away from me.’

  In the small bay of the island where the convalescent camp was, a rough wooden jetty jutted out from the shrill white sand. Draped over the rail of the jetty was a long, lean American. He stared morosely down into the clear water and, with backwoods accuracy, spat from time to time at the coral-coloured fish that drifted up to the surface and flicked away.

  Another American came down onto the beach. ‘Hey, Hank!’ he yelled through cupped hands. ‘The Cap’n warnts you!’

  The tall, morose citizen spat into-the water. ‘Go tell the Cap’n,’ he yelled back, ‘tuh take a flyin’ fark at a gallopin’ goose—I ain’t a’comin’!’

  This pleasantry so intrigued Pez that he sought further acquaintance: ‘What’s the matter, Yank?’ he asked. ‘You sound browned-off.’

  ‘Man,’ said the American, ‘I been goosed and gart at—this here base ain’t nothin’ from beginnin’ tuh end but hart cark!’

  ‘What?’ queried Pez.

  ‘Cark!’ said the American. ‘C-O-C-K—cark!’

  ‘Don’t you think the Captain might be disturbed that you won’t join him?’ asked Pez.

  The American spat again. ‘He’s a cark sarker from Fifth Avenoo—I know him frum way back—when I tell him I ain’t a’comin’ he knows I ain’t a’comin’.’

  ‘You’ve got your army organised properly,’ admired Pez.

  ‘We gart organisation,’ said the American. ‘We gart organisation like I gart a hole in the head—it takes a whole garddamn army to organise me so I set on my ass arn this gard forsaken pimple arn the ass end uv the world, while I gart a redhead waitin’ for me back at Kings Crarss…man, she’s hart and she’s strong for me! She’s gart legs like Grable and tits like you never saw in a dream. And I set here on my ass on a pimple on the ass end uv the world—and the Cap’n warnts to see me!’

  ‘I got a girl up near the Cross myself,’ said Pez. ‘It’s all right—she’s not a redhead.’ He pulled his wallet out and opened it at the photo of Helen.

  ‘Say, she’s sharp,’ admired the American. ‘She’s gart class.’

  He dug out his own wallet. ‘No, nart that one—that’s muh wife. This other one—that’s muh Bella.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ admired Pez.

  ‘Oh man, she was hart,’ mourned the American, ‘and strong for me. Incidentally, my name’s Hank.’

  ‘Mine’s Pez.’

  ‘Look, I gart a case uv canned beer—tastes like parrot’s piss—would you care to join me?’

  ‘Never knocked one back yet,’ said Pez.

  ‘Well, carm on—we’ll go arp round the back way—I wouldn’t drink with any uv the cark sarkers here—they all like to play soldiers—so long as the garddamned war ain’t too close, they like it fine.’

  ‘Say, Pez,’ said Hank, a couple of nights later. Whut’s this garddamned swy—this two-arp you basstuds play?’

  ‘Come and I’ll show you,’ offered Pez. As they struck off across the island to the swy school, he instructed Hank. ‘Now, you’ve seen the game, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, uh’ve seen it,’ admitted Hank, ‘but I never gart close enough to it—looks like all cark to me.’

  ‘Well, you see, you’ve got a ring—you’ve got a boxer, he holds the stake money—you’ve got a ringie, he hands the kip on and calls the bets—a spinner comes in with two pennies on the kip…’

  ‘Whart’s the garddamned kip?’

  ‘A little piece of board that you rest the pennies on when you toss them. Then when the guts is set and you’re set on the side…’

  ‘Whart’s this garddamned guts and side?’

  ‘Well, the guts is the centre—the stake your spinner is spinning for. That’s got to be set first and then any bets on the side are set. The spinner’s usually for heads—if you’re a tail better you set t
he centre or bet against another headie on the side. Then the ringie calls, “Set in the guts, all set on the side—come in spinner,” and up go the pennies. You can bar them if they float or if you don’t think it’s a fair go—but you’ve got to bar them in the air. Down they come and the ringie calls the result—heads or tails—or ones, no result. If you’re spinning for a head and you do them, she rides and you double up to the third, then the boxer takes his drag. On the fourth you can drag some yourself—but if you let her ride she doubles every time. If you can do a dozen in a big school you got a fortune.’

  ‘Whart happens if you tail ’em?’

  ‘You pass the kip—you’ve had it.’

  The school was in some dead ground over at the back of the island. The ring was a canvas square lit with globes powered from truck batteries. There were thirty or forty at the game and the ringie, a short, villainous-looking character, was skipping around the canvas in his stockinged feet and bellowing hoarsely: ‘Come on! We want another quid in the guts to see him go—just one more fiddly from you tailies—come on, he’s done ’em five—I want a tailie for a quid to see him go!’

  ‘Why, I guess I’ll accommodate you for that,’ said Hank.

  The ringie looked up at the accent as though his favourite and long-lost brother had just walked in. He took Hank’s pound and tossed it to the boxer, who was crouched on a kerosene case at the edge of the ring, with the centre money laid out in little heaps of individual bets in front of him. The boxer covered Hank’s pound and the ringie shouted with renewed enthusiasm, ‘Come on, get set on the side—any more bets on the side—he’s done five already—any money for a head, any money for a tail. Right! Set in the centre, set on the side—it’s a fair go—come in spinner!’

  The ringie eased to the side of the ring and muttered to the boxer out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Did you cop the septic tank just walked in? We might make wages yet tonight.’

  The spinner weighed the pennies carefully on the kip and looked up to measure his objective or seek help from God…