‘Incoming!’ yelled Cliffy, launching himself from a table and knocking over several soldiers like skittles.
‘Come on,’ called Michael, pulling Jake away after he’d delivered the man who’d insulted Katie a few well-aimed punches. The whistles of the military police could be heard and it was definitely time to make an exit.
‘In a minute!’
‘Now!’ Michael said, grabbing his shirt.
‘You’re going to hell in a handbag, mate!’ Jake yelled, still swinging as he went. ‘Bloody hide of ’em.’
‘Stop grouching,’ Katie ordered catching his hand and pulling him along.
He looked down at it, surprised. ‘What’s this?’
‘Well, I don’t wanna lose you now,’ she replied, stumbling a bit as they landed on George Street and Michael hung back, pretending not to listen.
‘Why? What’s changed?’ he asked, turning her around as the police rushed by.
Katie’s dimples appeared in her cheeks. ‘You seem to have learnt how to – hic – pay a girl a compliment.’
‘By starting an all-in brawl?’
‘Well,’ she said, placing her hand on his chest, ‘it was in defence of my curves.’
A slow smile spread across Jake’s face. ‘I hope this isn’t just the beer talking.’
‘Better kiss me just in case.’
And so Jake won Katie over at last and Michael could only applaud his mate’s luck as he stood to the side, trying not to think back to the time when he too held a girl, on this very same spot, little knowing it was all about to end. Grabbing what happiness he could find.
But not every heart won fair maiden, faint or strong – it just came down to fate. It played with their hearts as it would play with their lives and there was no way of predicting who’d win and who’d lose.
Nothing fair in love nor war.
Twenty-five
December 1942
Sydney, New South Wales, Australia
She was lying on a blanket in the shade, her very blue eyes focused on the sky above her. Or so it seemed – people said she was too young to really notice very much, but Junie knew her baby was taking everything in like a wonderful little sponge, absorbing the world as it passed on by. Archie had said Francesca was ‘an old soul’, something Junie could well believe. She wished he and Bill could have spent longer at home before being shipped out once more. They’d barely had any time with their family, however their leaving had logistically prevented a confrontation with Ernest – undoubtedly a blessing.
‘That’s about it,’ Ernest said, standing on the porch, his bag alongside. ‘I’m off then.’
Junie nodded. He seemed to hesitate before walking over and looking down at the infant, whose stare turned towards him. She offered no smile, just gazed at him with curiosity.
‘Bye-bye, Francesca,’ he said. He was still very awkward with her, not taking to fatherhood naturally at all. In fact, he rarely had anything to do with her, save having some level of pride that she existed and insisting she be put on display in the expensive dresses his mother kept buying. Junie tended to take them off as soon as Constance left from her lengthy and excruciating visits. It seemed bragging about her grandchild had superseded bragging about her son.
‘Bye, Junie,’ he said, equally as awkward as he kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll call you in a few days.’
She nodded again, not really bothering to hide how glad she was that he was going. Brisbane and his new idol General MacArthur could have him for as long as they wanted. Let Ernest pay homage to the hierarchy, so long as she didn’t have to go too.
Digger watched Ernest leave without interest and Junie marvelled at how cold her husband’s world really was, yet he didn’t seem to notice. Ernest was only ever concerned with Ernest.
She stood and stretched her back, glad she wasn’t breastfeeding any more. It hadn’t come easily and the baby was sleeping through the night now that she was on the bottle. Junie felt like a new person with the extra sleep and was enjoying wine again, courtesy largely of Katie who dropped over regularly with various additions for their cellar. Junie loved her visits – her friend’s commentary on her recent marriage to Jake proving very comedic indeed.
‘No-one told me men had hair on their bottoms,’ she remarked casually one day. ‘Do all men fart in their sleep?’ she asked on another occasion.
In fact, every visit had been great fun up until yesterday when Katie had dropped the bombshell Junie had been dreading: ‘The boys are shipping out.’
No, she hadn’t delivered that piece of news casually at all. Nor the announcement that there would be a farewell party this Saturday night at the Manly cottage she and Jake had been renting. Junie had decided to go, which had her in a state of terror. What to say to the man she loved as he left for war? ‘You have a baby but I’m raising her as another man’s child; hope that’s something worth fighting for’?
Junie smiled at Francesca and the baby instantly returned it. Oh, how she looked like Michael when she did that. It warmed Junie’s heart every time, to have this part of him; something no-one could deny her. But it was tainted in the knowledge that Michael was denied such sweet parental joys. Perhaps it would be better if he didn’t know. Her rabbit couldn’t decide and Junie had given up asking it to. It may well turn out to be a decision it just couldn’t make and God only knew what would end up happening – because then the decision would have to be made by her heart.
‘Attention.’
They lined up in perfect formation these days, as well drilled and professional as any top level unit.
‘Gentlemen, it’s been a tough year, but you haven’t let us down,’ began the major.
The Elite lived up to the name: fit, skilled and prepared for a wide range of combat possibilities, but it was more than physical readiness that made them so special. The games of war had sent them deep into caves, jungles and scrub. They’d been hungry, they’d been filthy, they’d been sore. Sergeant Rory Riley knew a thing or two about frontline conditions and he’d made them feel it. For their own good, they’d grudgingly admit if you’d asked them, although Cliffy would have chosen a few colourful phrases to describe it; ‘hungry enough to eat the arse out of a low-flying duck’ being one of them.
They knew war would be a shock no matter how prepared they were. Facing death square in the eye had its inevitable terrors but at least they faced it together, with their Elite brothers. Men they’d bunked with in cabins, under stars and in the rain nearly every night for a year, men they’d eaten with, drunk with and laughed with. Even shed tears with. The Elite were in each other’s blood now and each had individually honed skills essential to the squad:
Smitty – Mr Fix Anything.
Tommy – the crack shot.
Nugget – the strong man.
Jaffa – the runner.
Liquorice and Allsorts – the explosive experts.
Nige – the communications whiz.
Wally – the technician.
Mayflower – the interpreter.
Cliffy – the machine gunner.
Jake – the tracker.
And Michael – the leader.
A specialised bunch to be sure, each complementing the other. But more importantly, they were mates. A bond had been forged, something their sergeant knew would be more important to their protection than anything else, and they were as ready for war now as they’d ever be.
They shouldn’t really be going, men weren’t supposed to see first-hand combat until they were older, but the Army was in dire need of specialist forces. The jungles to the north were still seeing fierce battle, despite victories along the Kokoda Track, and with Japan still occupying large sections of New Guinea, Australia needed infiltrators. Men who knew how to steal the advantage.
And so it was time.
As the major finished his speech, Rory watched his son stand tall in front of his mates. Yes, Michael was a man now, far more so than he’d been that long year ago. But he was still a boy in so
many ways. The years hadn’t had time yet to give him all the lessons he needed to balance experience against that youthful mettle.
But even so, it was time.
Thinking of Mavis deep in prayer at church, he sent one to Davey himself, asking for forgiveness yet again, and hoping with a father’s heart he’d done enough to save this second precious life, his youngest son.
That God would be merciful, now that it was time.
The great southern lady was in a powerful mood today, stirring uneasily in her open sea. It was windy and hot and Junie was glad she’d worn so light a summer dress, more to hide what was left of her pregnancy belly than anything else, but it also had deep side pockets that conveniently held her purse and a small Christmas gift. They could hold her sandals too, which made it easier to walk in the heavy wet sand near the Manly Beach shoreline.
Funny, really, how each aspect of the lady’s disposition today so perfectly matched her own. She seemed emotional and flighty, as if barely holding her own form. Waves flung themselves in giant fanning sprays against the rocky outcrops ahead and distant Mona Vale was misty in the residual veils, mysterious and unknown to Junie, much like this day. The sets almost galloped in their impatience to find the shore, manes falling behind them in the wind as they ran in green, tightly-wound spirals; tense, expectant and restless.
Her rabbit was restless too, it bounded from one side of her mind to the other but couldn’t find a way to make this all turn out fine. What words could it find? What choices could it really give her?
It was almost five by Junie’s watch and she made her way back for the party, aching to see the lover who’d held her in this beautiful place but aching more because there was no returning to that perfect day. The higher sands were soft as she broke into a jog, her heart taking over from the rabbit with each step. Maybe she would tell him, maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she would hold him, maybe she would leave. Too many maybes now; they were throwing themselves onto the sand and out of control.
But there was only one maybe that counted now and it was saturated in that youthful hope that hadn’t quite died. Because maybe, when she saw him, she’d somehow just know what to do.
Katie was swearing as Junie walked in, red-faced and annoyed at a big pile of twisted, knotted tinsel.
‘What are you up to now?’
‘Well, they’re – ugh – shipping out before Christmas, so I just figured – ow – bloody thing…’
‘Don’t even try to talk sense to her,’ Beryl said, appearing with Dorn, each carrying plates and napkins and cutlery. ‘Hello, lovely.’ She gave Junie a kiss. Dorn did the same but failed to hide the look of concern that accompanied it and Junie knew they were nervous of an impending scene involving their brother.
‘Where is –’ Dorn began, before stopping herself.
‘With Constance and the Colonel. I know, poor little thing,’ Junie said softly, watching the door.
‘Blast and all blast!’ Katie said, pulling hard on a piece of tinsel then banging her elbow. ‘Of all the stupid, bloody, flamin’ –’
‘Ah, there’s the sweet sound of my bride,’ said Jake, walking in and giving her a kiss. ‘Hello, Dimples.’
He was followed by his Elite mates and a bunch of other friends, all ‘fresh off the ferry and feeling merry’ according to Cliffy. One by one they filed into the little cottage, doffing hats, cracking jokes, handing over bottles of beer and other assorted offerings. Then the last man arrived and stood back to the side. His eyes met Junie’s for an agony of seconds before moving to anywhere else he could find to rest them, but not before she read ten months of pain in their depths.
‘Michael,’ said Beryl and Dorn, and Junie felt a jolt at the sound of his name, every inch of her on high alert. The room was filling with party-goers but she felt like one of those radar machines, searching for an approaching enemy ship. A destroyer, fully armed. Wherever he was in the room her radar followed, even when she was looking the opposite way.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said someone she didn’t know.
‘You must be Junie,’ said another.
‘Strike a light, here’s a sight for sore eyes,’ said Jake.
‘Hello,’ said the voice that haunted her every day.
There was nowhere else to look but at his face, so handsome above his uniform she could have cried. She smiled instead.
‘Michael.’ Her mouth was somehow forming words. ‘How are you?’
‘How are you?’ he said at the same time. ‘Good,’ he added.
Then people pushed between them and there was a drink in her hand and food on her plate, and someone turned on the music. Junie drank and ate and danced and did all the things people expected of a young woman at a party. But there was no escaping the fact that three months ago there had been a baby in her womb and that the father was ten feet away, unaware the child existed.
Then there were more drinks and it was dark and people spilt out onto the beach or sang around the wireless and Michael was on his own at last, no-one else around. And she knew he was waiting for her.
‘Walk?’ she asked.
‘All right.’
His silence felt cold as they made their way towards the Corso, but when he spoke, she wished he hadn’t.
‘Last time you asked me to take a walk I wished later I’d said no. Might not have buggered up my life.’
She opened her mouth to reply but she had no response to that.
‘What did you want to tell me this time, Junie?’
‘I – I wanted to tell you –’
‘That you’re getting a divorce?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No…I can’t.’
‘Used to living the high life now, are you?’ He stopped to roll a cigarette and she flinched at his words.
‘No, it’s just there’s family involved and there are…legal complications –’
‘And if you divorce him he closes in and takes it all away like the dog he is? I get it, Junie.’ There was venom in his tone and Junie felt a stab of regret that she’d made this beautiful man so bitter.
‘It’s not just that.’
‘Yes, I know, it’s the security of having a nice house in Mosman too and friends like that socialite, whatshername Chamberlain – and having a husband who won’t have to fight, so he won’t die on you, I guess.’
‘That’s so unfair,’ she whispered, tears scratching at her throat.
‘Don’t give me unfair!’ His voice was strained and he stopped to calm himself, rolling the cigarette with shaking hands now.
‘Michael, I need to tell you something…’
‘No, no more words – you shouldn’t have told me anything in the first place. We should have left it in Braidwood where it belonged.’ He gave up on the cigarette, throwing it into the wind. ‘It’s over, Junie. He wins. I’m going to war on Monday. You’re Mrs goddam Farthington and may you have many little Farthingtons to warm your lonely bloody days.’
Now, the rabbit said. Tell him now. But her heart cried and she fell against him instead, heaving with the painful sobs that accompany futility. For a second he resisted, then the rigid anger gave way and he held her tight, just for one desperate, sweet moment.
‘I can’t do this any more, Junie,’ he whispered, his voice breaking.
Then he was gone from her once more, off at a run, wanting distance, she knew. Distance from her.
In a swirl of emotion, Junie found her voice too late. The words had to pour forth; they had to be heard, so she said them to the great lady instead.
‘We have a child…’
But the lady could only hold her words and take them deep into her glittering depths, just another secret to lie in her seas.
Twenty-six
Central Station was crowded as the Elite made their farewells.
A new bride clung to her husband, trying to send him off with a glimpse of the dimples he was so fond of, and a final press of her curves against his lanky frame. She pressed a bottle of rum against him too, a last-
minute farewell gift.
‘Courtesy of Dad’s bar. I was saving it for Christmas.’
‘I do love a woman with appetites.’
And so her dimples faded and were covered in tears, after all.
A father stood to the side, wishing he could be their sergeant overseas as well, but wishing most of all for them to make it back home. They’d all become like sons to him now: young, courageous, funny, he added, watching Cliffy dip kiss Mayflower’s mum goodbye in dramatic style. But ultimately his eyes were drawn to their leader who held his sisters and his mother close as they said their farewells, putting a brave face on things as he always tried to do. Rory Riley was not an emotional man but tears escaped now as his blood son clasped him close too before boarding the train. They slid down his face and soaked into his uniform. Bring him home Davey. Dear God, bring him home.
And so the sweethearts and the mothers and the fathers said goodbye, and families and friends raised their hands and blew kisses to the air around these young men, surrounding them with love, with luck, with prayer.
And their leader leant out the train window only to notice a small Christmas gift his sister had put in his pocket, something from her friend. Supposed to give him comfort but it only broke his heart further when he opened it.
And a woman rushed down the platform, looking for that man, holding a child in her arms, searching every face on every uniform until she found the one that echoed in her baby’s smile. But he was looking at something in his hand. She called his name but the train sounded, drowning her out, then the man turned away and disappeared in the smoke. And then he was gone. This time too far to be found if she needed him.
Perhaps never to be found again.
Part Four
Twenty-seven
January 1943
Wau, New Guinea
Worth Fighting For Page 18