Worth Fighting For

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

Junie said nothing but moved her hand to squeeze Katie’s and they stood silently until Mavis’s voice called them in for birthday cake.

  Watching her daughter’s face illuminated by the candles as her unwitting grandparents looked on, something almost painful pulled in Junie’s chest and she knew then that Katie was right. Just because she hadn’t got to him in time the day the train pulled away didn’t mean she should never try to tell him again. It wasn’t a matter of her choosing either way any more. He had a basic right to know, it was true.

  Later that night, Junie walked to the end of the street, her daughter asleep in the pram, and kissed the letter goodbye that said the words at last.

  She knew she was doing what was right. This was all about equality, in the end.

  And in her heart that really just came down to one thing: upholding her own common law.

  Thirty-six

  19th September 1943

  Kaiapit, New Guinea

  The water crossings had been treacherous, as per their expectations, but it had taken less than forty-eight hours to get to the cluster of three villages that constituted Kaiapit and Michael was grateful for that much. What he wasn’t grateful for was the large number of Japanese they’d encountered and he wondered at the inaccurate estimation of enemy presence.

  Captain Gordon King, their young commander, had ordered a three-pronged assault and they’d surprised the enemy with their bold aggression, resulting in dozens dead on the Japanese side to one Australian. The remainder had fled to the next village and Michael’s squad was settling in for the night while Captain King sent Jaffa to ask for more ammo. Meanwhile Nige and Wally were trying to get the radio working, which was proving impossible, as usual.

  ‘Nice night for a war,’ Jake remarked, handing him a cuppa. He looked spent, as did most of the men. Despite their break in Port Moresby, the constant exhaustion was already back and their combat faces had returned, pallid from sweat and strain.

  ‘Goddam animals,’ Cliffy exploded, landing next to them.

  ‘What now?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Japs set up a booby trap and two of the fuzzy wuzzies have been blown up turning over a corpse. Sick bastards. Semu knows one of them. He’s pretty cut up.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Burying them.’

  A Japanese voice could be heard nearby and it was silenced by the sound of an Owen Gun.

  ‘Don’t think there’ll be much mercy now,’ Michael said. ‘Whatever was left of it.’

  ‘Okello’s right: don’t deserve live,’ Cliffy said savagely. ‘Animals.’

  But the sound of that merciless gunshot haunted Michael that night as they tried to rest before the next assault, and images of crimson feathers visited his dreams, each one wet with blood.

  It’s always darkest before the dawn, Michael reminded himself, and it was very dark right now, in more ways than one. There’d been two counterattacks by the Japanese, both repelled by the Aussies, but they were now nearly out of ammo and the enemy seemed to have expanded. Captain King had turned out to be a courageous leader, moving among them and taking the front, despite an injured leg, but the enemy were attacking again and it was stronger this time. King had ordered bayonets to be drawn if need be and Michael prayed it wouldn’t get that critical. Swords against bullets; a few hundred against possible thousands.

  They’ve got nothing until they’ve actually got you. Until then you are free men. Fight for it, lads. Michael drew on his father’s words from what seemed like years ago, spreading that strength out to the men.

  ‘Conserve it,’ he shouted, and they took to responding to the firepower sporadically, choosing carefully, not wasting a single shot.

  Then King ordered a counterattack. So they ran and they shot and they lay like snakes in the grass until the blades on their guns were all they had left. Then Liquorice rose in the morning light and sprinted, bayonet forwards as a Japanese soldier pointed his gun at Allsorts who’d been suddenly exposed by a falling piece of wall.

  ‘Get down!’ Michael shouted.

  It was about then that the shots were fired, Michael supposed later. Who could tell in the thick wall of sound? But it must have been exactly then. At the precise second he’d yelled his warning in the orange light of that dreaded dawn.

  The brothers finished their lives as they’d lived them – together. Identical deaths at the end of bullets. Identical moments of falling to the earth. Identically, unbelievably gone.

  ‘No,’ Michael screamed, and it ripped at his throat.

  And just then the Japanese began to retreat; the Australians had their victory. But Michael knew they were no longer really winning.

  Not the Elite, anyway.

  Liquorice and Allsorts were buried side by side in identical graves and Michael wanted to say a few words but they wouldn’t seem to come. Cliffy seemed to understand and he sang instead, slowly.

  ‘Bollocks! was all the band could play, Bollocks! they played it night and day.’

  The jungle watched them through the green wall that was draining them still, now with two of their brothers forever in its grip.

  ‘Yes, it was Bollocks!’

  The drone of a plane sounded far above and Michael thought about the peace that floated above them. Just out of reach.

  ‘You could hear it two hundred miles away.’

  They were walking back from the burial when they heard it, a scraping sound. Something was moving away and it was on foot. Michael held up his hand and they took to the sides of the track. Placing his finger on his lips he signalled to Jake to check for tracks and he soon found one.

  ‘One man. Injured – he’s limping,’ he whispered to Michael.

  Michael pointed at Cliffy and Nugget and they took off silently to find him. Just let any Jap mess with the Elite today.

  ‘Found him hiding behind a rock like a bloody coward,’ Cliffy said, shoving the Japanese man forwards. ‘Where’s y’men, y’piece of chicken shit?’

  Michael looked at the captain’s insignia on his sleeve and sighed, shouldering his gun. ‘Better bring him back with us. They’ll want to interrogate him.’

  The others didn’t move.

  ‘Thought our job was to kill him, not take him prisoner,’ Cliffy said.

  ‘He’s an officer – he might know stuff,’ Michael reminded them. ‘Bring him along.’

  Cliffy looked disgusted but did as he was asked. Reluctantly.

  ‘Make sure you have his hands well tied,’ Jake warned as Cliffy shoved the prisoner in front. ‘Who knows what these suicidal bastards are capable of.’

  ‘Won’t give me much,’ Mayflower said. ‘Just some guff about how we are all damned to hell and have no honour.’

  The Japanese captain rattled off some more and Mayflower translated. ‘He says the fruits of our labour will come to nothing. Heaven will bear the righteous forwards, or something like that.’

  Major Jim Horsely ran an exhausted hand over his face, flicking the perspiration away. Michael figured he was probably thinking he had enough to worry about, getting this mosquito-ridden village operational as an air base, without half-crazed Japanese officers showing up.

  ‘HQ, sir,’ Horsely’s assistant said, handing him the line, and a minute later the problem had been taken off the major’s hands.

  ‘Corporal Riley, is it?’ he addressed Michael.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Seems they need a small force of infiltrators for the coastal push north. Get back to Port for briefing and you can move up to Windeyer.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Michael replied, wondering what Cliffy would have to say about that. ‘And what do we, er, do with him?’

  The major shrugged as the Japanese captain glared at them. ‘Whatever you want. Take him with you, or not. But you didn’t hear that from me.’

  ‘Gonna be a rough take off,’ Harris warned. ‘I nearly lost it on landing.’

  ‘Just get us back,’ Michael said, shoving food into his pack.

  ‘But, si
r, the weather –’

  ‘What do you mean he’s coming with us?’ Cliffy demanded, approaching Michael in furious strides.

  ‘Exactly what I said,’ Michael responded, throwing in a few more supplies.

  ‘He’s a bloody lunatic. Look at him,’ Cliffy said, pointing at the Japanese captain, who was muttering in fanatical undertones as he waited nearby.

  ‘He’s a danger, Mick,’ Jake agreed. ‘Just shoot him and be done with it. I’ll do it, if you like.’

  Michael turned and looked at the Japanese officer, who sent him a look of pure loathing in return. But his wrists were bleeding where the ropes cut against him and his bones showed above his collar. Filthy, emaciated, pathetic. Mad, certainly. But still an unarmed man.

  ‘I’m not committing cold-blooded murder,’ Michael said firmly. ‘He’s coming with us to Port. Let them deal with him.’

  Cliffy lifted his gun and pointed it at the man. ‘I’m dealing with it now.’

  The prisoner ceased his muttering.

  ‘Put the gun down, Cliffy.’

  ‘Filthy bastard. He’s probably the one who gave the order to booby trap one of his own dead men,’ Cliffy said, a manic edge to his voice.

  Michael slowly dropped the bag he was holding. ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Just how many of us have you killed, eh?’ Cliffy whispered as the Japanese captain stared back, fear and hatred running between them.

  ‘This isn’t your decision to make. I said put it down,’ Michael ordered, moving to stand between them.

  Cliffy blinked, staring at Michael, and his arm shook as he lowered his weapon away from his friend’s heart. Looking past Michael to the prisoner, he spat on the ground before walking away. ‘Don’t deserve live.’

  The tension was palpable as they said goodbye to their native friends and made their way towards the plane, and it wasn’t just because of the prisoner.

  ‘How are we supposed to get back in that?’ Jake said, staring at the almost green cloud front to the east.

  ‘It’s not very far,’ Michael said, hauling himself on board. Smitty shoved the Japanese officer ahead of him. The man stumbled with his bound hands, unable to balance properly, and Michael considered having him untied but knew the men were angry enough as it was.

  ‘I grabbed these from the hangar just in case,’ Harris said, throwing a load of parachutes on board. That did little to reassure anyone and Harris said nothing else as they took off, the whirr of the engine droning against the growing rumble on the horizon.

  About ten minutes later, Michael felt apprehension turn to fear.

  ‘Like looking at the gates of hell,’ said Jake in his ear as he crouched next to him near the cockpit. And so it was. The distant storm was now a massive cliff of flashing plumes, roiling and thundering alongside their thumbnail of a plane.

  ‘Can we turn back?’ Michael asked Harris, wishing he hadn’t been so distracted when they boarded. He should have taken more notice.

  ‘No. It’s right in the way. I’ll have to try to outrun it. Hold on.’

  Jake yelled to the others to grab on and the plane veered hard, the terrifying storm fast on their heels, and the Japanese prisoner fell across the floor. Nugget shoved him back, holding his shirt to stop him from breaking his neck.

  Michael noted the action but was too busy clinging on and trying not to be sick to comment. It was a race, and he felt the sweat pour down his back as Harris flew the plane as fast as it would go, the angry mass roaring behind them. Minutes passed, stretching into a long, tense hour as the storm grew ever closer. Harris veered again and again, trying to navigate a way to avoid it but it was no use.

  ‘We’re going to hit,’ Harris shouted, white knuckled, shirt soaked from his efforts.

  ‘Grab everything you’ve got. Nugget, just strap him down somehow,’ yelled Michael. Nugget grabbed a parachute strap and tied the prisoner to the rail as the storm-front arrived, flashing white then black as the wind hit with force. Then it truly was hell.

  Michael lost track of any sense of time as they were buffeted and thrown, the plane now a plaything for the monstrous storm as it toyed with them like a cat with a mouse. Anything not tied down became a missile and they grabbed and slid and threw arms across their faces, and all the while the lightning sporadically illuminated the turmoil like a demonic photographer. Michael couldn’t see anything through the rain-splattered windscreen, except how blinding the flashes were up close. Nothing could survive this, he thought with a painfully beating heart as they entered a green-grey light that eclipsed all terror so far.

  ‘Holy shit!’ Cliffy yelled in pain, blood pouring down his face.

  ‘Hold on! Just hold on!’ screamed Michael.

  But the plane was sideways, then upside down. Harris fell unconscious as his head hit the window and Michael lunged forwards to grip the controls, trying to recall anything he had observed about flying but guessing his only hope was to take his own advice and hold on, whatever that meant at this point. Gravity seemed non-existent and every direction seemed fleeting and unnatural.

  His entire physical body was consumed with survival and Michael fought to remember his training, going back to that time in the cave, long ago. Go inside, he reminded himself. Find somewhere safe. And so he retreated into that place in his mind where all the things that had ever offered him comfort resided. A girl walking out of the water on a clear summer’s day. His father’s pride when he was promoted to corporal. Cliffy and Jake running with him down a back street in Parramatta, laughing fit to burst. A stolen piece of wonder when he floated down to the earth. Junie in a crimson crown. A single, beautiful bird of paradise.

  It calmed him and he gripped the controls firmly as the storm became a fight between himself and fate; atonement for whatever choices he’d made up until now. This hell was the hell of losing the woman he loved. The hell of watching a brave captain die near a log bridge. The hell of twin souls falling to the earth. He’d survived everything life had thrown at him and he would survive this too. Not just for his own sake, but for the sake of every man in this plane. Even the bloody Jap.

  He shut his eyes, the brilliant white flashes burning even that comfort red, and he thought of those crimson feathers, holding onto them as he opened his lids once more.

  ‘Hold on,’ he yelled again. It can’t be forever.

  Hell continued to assail them but Michael met it head on and slowly, eventually the flashes dimmed, the rain eased, the darkness became a paler grey. Then, incredibly, the blue sky returned and they were no longer creatures trapped in hell. Instead, they seemed forgiven as they sailed out into majestic cloud castles, orange and soft. Like heaven.

  Harris came to and Michael checked the gash on his head.

  ‘You all right?’

  Harris nodded, looking dazedly at the dashboard. ‘How long was I out?’

  Michael looked at his watch. They’d been in the sky for less than two hours but it seemed like days.

  ‘Shit,’ Harris said before Michael could answer. ‘We’re gonna run out of fuel. Must have a leak.’ He held his head as he began to switch the controls.

  ‘Mick,’ called Jake.

  Michael went to the back to check on the others. Nugget had a bleeding shoulder, Cliffy a nasty cut on his cheek and Wally seemed concussed, but it was the Japanese officer who was the worst off. His already injured leg was now mutilated where it’d been smashed and blood covered most of his face.

  ‘There’s nowhere to land. We’re gonna have to jump,’ Harris yelled from the front.

  ‘Where are we?’ Michael moved to the cockpit and stared out.

  ‘Not sure. West. It’s pretty mountainous.’

  ‘The whole bloody country is mountainous.’

  ‘Yeah, but this is really remote. I think we’re off the charts.’

  ‘Not the best place to jump out of a plane,’ Michael said, looking down at the impossible terrain.

  ‘Better than crashing in one.’

  �
�True.’

  Michael turned to the back, making his decision. ‘Righto, fellas, we’ll have to get ready to jump. Put on your chutes. Nugget, put one on the prisoner and untie his hands.’

  ‘What?’ shouted Cliffy.

  ‘Y’gotta be kidding me,’ Jake said.

  ‘Pushing a man out of a plane is no better than shooting him,’ Michael said. ‘Do it.’

  No-one moved until Mayflower finally broke the standoff. ‘Mick’s right. There’s a difference between killing and straight-out murder.’ He walked over and began to untie the prisoner as the others watched.

  ‘He’ll kill you as soon as look at you,’ Cliffy said.

  ‘C’est la vie.’

  Parachutes were put on but there was a mutinous silence behind the whine of the engine.

  ‘Ready?’ Michael called, standing at the open door. Mayflower moved forwards but no-one else would look him in the eye.

  Michael paused. He wasn’t jumping like this.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry you don’t agree with me – I’m just doing what I think is right,’ he shouted. ‘It just isn’t who we are, is it? If we… if we lose our mercy then we may as well lose the war.’

  ‘What mercy have they shown our boys?’ Cliffy yelled back and there were nods of agreement.

  ‘That’s not the point. The point is we are fighting for what we believe in and last time I checked, Australians didn’t believe cold-blooded murder was acceptable. Not the Australia I’m fighting for.’

  No-one spoke and he tried again. ‘One day you’ll have to live with this decision.’

  ‘So will you,’ Cliffy warned, and they exchanged a long stare.

  ‘I’m your leader, for better or worse, and I’m choosing not to kill an unarmed man.’

  The whine of the engine increased as they began to lose altitude and he looked around at these men, his Elite brothers, reading their faces. Pulling rank was only alienating him further. Then for some reason he remembered Father Patrick’s words – that perhaps moments like this were a test from God. A challenge of sorts. So he challenged them instead.