‘Doing what?’
‘You know – leading him on. He’s too nice a fella Junie. He deserves better than that.’
‘I’m not leading him on.’
‘Dancing with him all night, letting him buy you drinks…’
‘You’re doing the same with Bartholomew.’
‘That’s different – I’m not married! Besides, like I said, he probably likes you too. Men always do.’
‘That’s just not true.’
‘Yes it is!’ Dorn said, shoving her brush back in her bag. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’
There was a strained silence as Junie considered which issue to address first.
‘Dorn, I…I’m sorry if I’ve been leading Harry on. I didn’t realise…’ Dorn levelled a stare at her and she sighed. ‘All right, maybe I did. It’s just that, well it’s nice. Having a man to talk to that’s decent and… and kind. Not detesting every word that comes out of his mouth.’
Dorn sighed. ‘You’re making a mistake Junie. If Ernest gets wind that you’re out flirting with these uni chums of yours…’
‘Pfft, Ernest,’ Junie said, turning to the mirror and straightening her yellow hat. ‘As if he cares about anything but himself.’
‘He’d care about this – it’s all about appearances remember? You said so yourself.’
Junie lowered her hands, hearing some truth in that.
‘Don’t mess this up Junie – for all our sakes. I’d give anything to go to university, to have the opportunities you’ve been given…’
‘You don’t want my life, trust me.’
‘I want that part. Toying with Harry will have a cost – and more than just the poor man’s heart. It’ll cost your reputation.’
‘I don’t care about…’
‘…and it may cost your education. Don’t tell me you don’t care about that because I’ll know you’re lying.’
Dorn was right. She did care about that. She cared about Harry too, now that she thought about it.
‘Let Harry alone Junie. Give him a chance to be happy and find someone he can actually be with.’
Junie nodded. ‘I guess it just…it just reminds me a bit of what it was like being with our boys, you know?’ Tears filled her eyes at the admission.
‘Harry isn’t Michael,’ Dorn said softly.
‘No…no, that he isn’t.’ Junie took out a handkerchief and dabbed her cheeks, trying to smile. ‘When did you get to be such an expert on men?’
‘Must be from watching you all these years,’ Dorn said, shrugging. ‘Although I’d hardly say I’m an expert.’
‘Oh you’re pretty close, well, except for one thing,’ Junie said, wiping her eyes and picking up her bag.
‘And what might that be?’ Dorn said, as they made their way to the door.
‘Bartholomew hasn’t been looking at me, he’s been looking at you all night.’
‘He’s just…he’s probably just being polite,’ Dorn stumbled.
But as they returned to the table Bartholomew was looking straight at Dorn and Junie figured even her modest little friend would have to admit that look was anything but polite.
If nothing else that girl always surprised him, Marlon thought, finishing off his whisky and watching her. Junie was the only woman in the room who’d been dancing with a crippled man. Mind you, the man had done a fair job of things and Marlon had to admire his efforts. Couldn’t be an easy thing to dance with a metal frame on your leg.
Ordering another drink, Marlon noticed Junie return from the Ladies and settled in to look at her to pass the time, happy to observe life for now rather than engage. She had a friend with her and he was glad it wasn’t Eliza – he’d had enough of adventures, especially of the female kind. In fact, Junie was the first woman he’d really taken much notice of since Darwin. He found himself wishing she wasn’t wearing a yellow hat and took a deep gulp of his drink before resuming his watch.
Marlon could tell the man with the leg brace was attracted to Junie and he could also tell that Junie was fully aware of it. Weren’t a husband and a lover enough for this woman? Apparently not, he decided as she made her way to the bar and finally made eye contact with him.
‘Hello stranger,’ she said, smiling. Wow. No wonder men were lining up in droves. ‘Holding up the bar?’
‘I don’t know. Think they’re making much money?’
‘I think it’s one of the few places on earth were the owners are happy there’s a war on,’ she said, ordering a drink.
‘You’re probably right,’ he said, but felt bitter as the memory of a lone Japanese face without a helmet passed through his mind. ‘Here with friends?’ he asked, pointing his cigarette in the direction of her table.
‘Yes, just celebrating the end of my first university exams, actually.’
‘Boredom needs its pursuits,’ he said with a shrug and she looked at him strangely.
‘It isn’t boring at all.’
‘I wasn’t talking about the studies.’
She was prevented from answering by the approach of the man with the brace.
‘Care to dance?’ she said instead, grabbing Marlon’s hand before he could respond.
Marlon decided he couldn’t really refuse but felt sorry for the man, whose disappointed expression was soon lost behind them in the crowd. Then he became aware of Junie’s proximity and instantly forgot about anyone else.
‘Something strangely familiar about this,’ he said in her ear.
‘Just don’t get too familiar,’ she warned.
He decided not to comment further, enjoying the feel of a woman’s body despite himself. Junie was a perfect combination of lean and curvy and he had to admit holding her was getting him hot under the collar. And damn, did she smell good after months of only men for company.
‘How’s your husband?’ he asked, trying to remember what he didn’t like about her before his senses made him forget.
‘Away.’
He watched her face, full lips and high cheekbones lit by shadows and light. ‘And your lover?’
She looked hurt as she responded. ‘I don’t have a lover.’
‘Sorry, I should say lovers, by the looks of things.’
Junie took a deep breath and he was surprised to see she was almost crying.
‘I think this dance is over,’ she said, walking away abruptly.
‘Wait.’ He ran after her and spun her around. ‘Look, I’m sorry, all right? It just looked to me like you were trying to make someone jealous or using me to make a point. I don’t know.’
‘I was making a point,’ she admitted, eyes still catching the sparkle of tears, ‘and thank you for helping me make it.’
Marlon found himself almost feeling sorry for her and it annoyed him. ‘Well, maybe we can make a better point than that.’ He grabbed her before he really knew he was doing it, before he could remember he’d had enough of adventures. Maybe because of the dilution in his blood, maybe because of those lean curves, maybe because her face was just so beautiful at that moment, he just couldn’t seem to stop the momentum that drew her mouth towards his.
And, oh, what a kiss it was. Her whole body was against him, soft as butter beneath whatever material she had on over that skin, and her mouth had no time to protest as an immediate chemistry erupted between them.
But then she pulled away, shock and outrage crossing those lovely features as she slapped his cheek. And then she was gone and he was left standing there, wondering what the hell was wrong with him that he’d done it. But try as he might, when he lay in his bed that night, Marlon Stone couldn’t get to the point of regret. Not when something could fill his restless dreaming aside from planes and bombs and the screams of survivors.
And not when all he could think about was doing it again.
Thirty-three
July 1943
Bordubi Ridge, New Guinea
The mud made the climb almost impossible but such was everyday life here where they pushed their human forms to do
superhuman things. Heaving themselves forwards on legs of lead, carrying their packs on corded, aching shoulders. Sleeping with faces exposed to the pouring rain.
Sliding on his boot, Michael caught at a branch to steady himself, kicking off the greasy stuff and wondering if he would ever feel clean again. It was a brief wondering, like when he wondered if he would ever feel full again or if he would ever sleep a whole night without the shakes that came and went from what he guessed was malaria. Or if he would ever feel this war was over – assuming he survived.
Jake gave Michael a glance of understanding, not bothering with words. Dirt and perspiration streaked his face and Michael knew he was reflecting a similar visage. The forest was seeping mud into their every pore, and he was glad they’d said goodbye to Father Patrick several miles back, leaving him to tend the wounded; at least the priest was spared this part of their journey. The part when hell had truly arrived for the Elite.
Being attached to the militia and the commandos had seemed a logical choice when the decision was made, but weeks later it seemed a suicide mission, so hazardous was each and every aspect of this battle. The Japanese fired from invisible positions and the Allies fired back, neither willing to give way and hand the other side the strategic advantage this ridge would give the victor.
Take the ridge and we can take Salamaua. Reminding himself of the basic plan usually reassured Michael. But sometimes it didn’t work because sometimes they didn’t seem real any more, this invisible enemy. Sometimes he felt the jungle itself was trying to kill him as sniper bullets whizzed past from a screen of continuous green. And then he would feel strangely abandoned and wonder where the bird of paradise had gone.
He didn’t have time to further ponder things as they settled in for the scheduled artillery bombardment. Maybe today was the day they would dislodge those stubborn bastards from these hillsides.
The blasts commenced, shaking the ground and deafening them as they waited and watched to see what it would flush out. They didn’t have to wait long: soon Cliffy was signalling and they all dropped to a crouch as Michael made his way forwards. Cliffy pointed and Michael saw it too. Movement. Uniforms. The Japanese.
They raised their guns, glimpsing the activity on the opposing ridge as the enemy continued to absorb heavy bombing, when someone was flushed out who they certainly hadn’t expected. It was a native man and he was hurling himself down that ridge as fast as Michael had ever seen anyone take such a steep incline. And he was badly exposed.
Michael fired, giving the man cover, and the others did the same, but he had reached a rocky crevice and was stranded now, unable to move as machine guns peppered either side.
‘Bloody hell, move ’round,’ Michael called and they advanced, trying to take out the Japanese machine gunners.
The native man saw his chance and took off again, this time making it to a bushy copse but his sudden limp told Michael he was hit. And stranded once more.
‘Okello,’ said a strained voice alongside and Michael turned to see a desperate expression on Ovuru’s face.
The Japanese were still firing and Michael pelted bullets back, making a quick decision as Okello looked set to run again, despite his leg.
‘Take it,’ he told Ovuru, who he’d been teaching to shoot. ‘Cover me,’ he called, rushing forwards.
‘Shit, Mick,’ Jake yelled before firing rapidly with the others.
Michael ran, dodging and weaving. Trying to remember to be a snake in long grass. It felt like a million bullets were trying to find him as he launched himself the last few yards towards Okello, heaving the man up and dragging him back.
Pain. Impossible. Keep running.
‘Arrrgh!’ he heard Cliffy yell as he fired his Owen Gun at the enemy with precision.
Michael was straining against a distortion of forest, mud and rocks and it tore, tripped and scraped at him as the pelt of machine guns and artillery filled his ears. Almost there.
Then he was on his back on the track and hands were hauling him forwards and the noise seemed white as it deafened his senses.
Then he realised that, somehow, they had made it.
‘Okello,’ wept Ovuru, pulling his brother into his arms as Semu checked the bullet wound on his leg.
‘Ovuru,’ Okello mouthed, staring at him in shock. They exchanged a few shouted words before Okello pointed at Michael and said something else.
‘Sir,’ Ovuru yelled, wiping at his tears.
Okello took Michael’s hand and held it against his heaving chest.
‘Sir,’ he panted then nodded at him with wild eyes. Michael couldn’t hear the word above yet another blast but he could read the man’s lips as he said, ‘Wantok.’
The radio was scratchy, as per usual, but the news was good. After a ferocious, climactic battle, the Japanese had retreated towards Salamaua at last and, even though the Australians could never really relax with snipers still around, they were in good spirits. Especially after being told they didn’t have to advance – they were heading back to Port Moresby for a rest instead. Michael could already feel the warm, clean water from that long awaited shower and wondered if he would ever take such a thing for granted again. Looking at the numerous scratches on his legs and arms, it was just as well. This wasn’t a place to invite infections.
Okello was doing well and they would take him to the medics in the morning but not before he entertained them all, it seemed. Propped up against a rock and drinking a cup of tea, he was rather enjoying himself, relating his escapades in a mixture of very broken English, native language and drawings in the dirt.
It seemed Okello had given up being a spy a few weeks ago and had kept himself busy as an assassin instead. His prized stash of collar insignias was proof of how many lives he’d taken, each patch cut from his victim’s uniform and each with a story behind it.
‘There’s no private patches in here, though,’ Cliffy observed.
‘Nitōhei,’ Mayflower said, translating ‘private’ into Japanese.
Okello said something in his language and Semu explained.
‘Not important enough.’
‘Ha! I’ll remember that next time I save your arse from being mowed down by Jap fire!’
They all had a chuckle over that but Michael was a bit disturbed by the sinister collection that Okello was obviously rather proud of.
‘That’s a lot of killing,’ he said, pointing at the pile on the ground.
Okello looked him straight in the eye and found enough English to say, ‘Don’t deserve live.’
Ovuru put his hand protectively on his brother’s shoulder and Michael wondered at the depth of hatred he saw in their faces.
‘Japs kill girl…daughter,’ Semu explained quietly, nodding at Okello. ‘Destroy village.’
‘Don’t deserve live,’ Okello repeated, picking his collection back up and carefully putting it in his bag.
Michael couldn’t judge him. Perhaps if he had a daughter himself he’d feel the same way.
That night the dream came again, only this time the log bridge was slippery with mud, not blood, and he was falling into a pit of torn little patches that called out for mercy in Japanese. The flash of crimson came and he woke in a sweat but there was no saviour here, just the black of night and a cold steady rain on a track on those bloody ridges. Where anything beautiful seemed far, far way.
Thirty-four
Z-Day – 5th September 1943
New Guinea
MacArthur was enjoying himself, Marlon observed, watching the man smile for the cameras and pat paratroopers on the back.
‘All part of the glorious return,’ muttered Major Hamlin in Marlon’s ear.
‘Long way from the Philippines yet,’ he said quietly.
The general was followed by a throng of staff as well as reporters and Marlon frowned in vague recognition at one Australian officer.
‘Where do we know him from? The one on the left.’
‘Can’t say I recognise him,’ the major said, lo
oking over.
‘Hmm,’ Marlon replied.
The man was definitely familiar and not in a good way. When had he ever argued with an Australian? Well, aside from Junie Farthington…wait – that’s it! He’s Junie’s husband. Marlon hadn’t liked Ernest that night he’d had to play decoy for Junie at the Trocadero and he wasn’t feeling any warmer towards him now as he watched him hover around MacArthur and his staff like a teenage girl trying to get a movie star’s autograph. Then the thought crossed his mind that this man slept with the woman who had occupied his fantasies since Sydney and he felt himself disliking him even more.
MacArthur was heading his way and Marlon cleared his thoughts, standing to attention and saluting the general as he passed, thinking there was certainly an air of triumph around the man today. Marlon just hoped they would pull it off.
‘Must be thousands,’ Michael said as they watched the paratroopers board the planes.
Jake looked unconvinced. ‘Bloody stupid idea, if you ask me.’
‘Aw, come on. They wouldn’t send that many if they thought they’d all plummet to their deaths.’ Wally was grinning as he said it. Jake wasn’t afraid of much.
‘Need more than a petticoat to save you from gravity,’ Jake asserted, looking at the planes with distrust.
‘Nah, the Yanks do it all the time,’ Cliffy assured him. ‘We’ll be up and down like a bride’s nightie.’
Michael laughed with the others but truth was he wasn’t too keen on jumping either. After this well-earned rest they were going to parachute into battle next week to join with the 2/6th commando squadron, a mixture of a few hundred seasoned Australian soldiers. This band, known as the Purple Devils, were well used to reconnaissance and long-range patrolling, something the Elite were getting quite used to themselves. But parachuting was a new skill altogether and the powers that be had decided to give the Elite the practice, just in case they’d need it at some stage further along.
Semu and Ovuru would remain as their carriers and Okello had managed to talk his way into joining them as a scout, but none of the locals would capitulate when Michael tried to encourage them to jump too. ‘No, sir,’ was the unanimous and emphatic reply. They were currently making their way by foot.
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