‘I’m sure I can arrange for a refresher course,’ Helen grinned, then not missing a beat she abandoned the double entendre. ‘How’d you go with the dean?’
Danny seated himself across from her. ‘Well, it seems I can go straight into Law without completing Arts.’
‘Law? Oh, Danny, that’s wonderful!’ Then as suddenly she did a back flip. ‘But poor Brenda. Oh dear, I feel so sorry for her!’ Helen exclaimed. ‘She called me, absolutely tickled pink that you were going to complete your degree, and now she’ll have to wait another four years.’ That was the thing about Helen, she cut to the chase. The irony hadn’t been lost on her.
‘Cuppa tea would go down well,’ Danny said, pointing to the teapot. He wondered to himself how many phone calls there had been. ‘Is that a fresh pot or shall I get another?’
‘No, I’ve only just ordered it. I took the liberty of ordering you scones. I seem to remember they’re very good here.’
‘Yeah, beaut. I’ve hit ten and a half stone; only four stone to go. After living on the smell of an oily rag for three and a half years I seem to be ravenous all the time.’
A young waitress arrived moments later with four scones, a small pot of cream and a dish of strawberry jam. Danny noticed how she avoided looking at him. ‘Excuse me, Miss, do you have an old lady, uglier than me, working here? You know, from before the war?’
The waitress forced herself to look at Danny. ‘No, sir, nobody like that. Maybe before . . . my parents only bought the business a year ago.’
When the waitress had departed, Helen asked, ‘Danny, “uglier than me”? What was that all about?’
Danny grinned. ‘I was hoping to settle an old score.’ Then he told Helen about the white feather. ‘A good thing she’s not still here. I probably would have cocked it up.’
Helen reached out and put her hand over his. It was such a simple gesture but it was suddenly more than he could bear and Danny began to tremble. ‘Oh, Jesus, I don’t think I can do this,’ he whispered, looking down into his lap.
Helen lifted her hand from his and grabbed him by the wrist, then pulling his arm towards her she held his hand against her cheek. ‘Darling, please give me a chance . . . please,’ she begged.
Danny looked up, directly into her blue eyes. She’d once remarked that whomever their children resembled they’d be sure to be blue eyed; now hers were glazed with the tears she was attempting to hold back. ‘It’s just . . . I mean, it’s not just my face, Helen. I’ve changed. You have to understand, I’m not the same Danny.’
‘What, not the same arrogant prick?’ Helen choked, and the tears welled and began to run down her face.
‘Ferchrissake, look at me, Helen. What you see comes with a crook back as well and a filthy temper I can’t seem to control anymore. I bloody near clocked that pompous bastard at the uni.’
‘Who – the dean? McCarthy?’ Helen asked with a sniff.
‘Yeah, the one with the starched collar and cuffs . . . monogrammed gold cufflinks.’
‘Danny, Danny, oh no!’ Helen cried, shaking her head.
‘Why? What’s wrong?’
‘All four of his sons were killed in the war.’
‘Oh shit!’
‘His wife was my ancient-history tutor before the war. She had a nervous breakdown, and now I believe she’s in Callan Park. The dean, poor old codger, is in denial. He should be on an indefinite sabbatical, but he’s refusing, showing the world a stiff upper lip. Esme, his secretary and receptionist, says sometimes he closes his office door and she can hear him crying.’
‘Jesus, how do you know all this?’
‘Esme is a good friend of my aunt – Mum’s older sister. But a month after I was demobbed I enrolled to take my masters and the whole university was in mourning. His oldest son, Martin, was a senior lecturer in chemistry at thirty-one, said to be brilliant and very popular. Like you, a very good sportsman, captain of the university cricket team. He was offered an associate professorship and could have opted to stay out of the war, but he insisted on joining up, together with his three younger brothers. He joined the RAAF, and he and his crewman went missing when their Beaufighter went down over Rabaul early in August. Our forces found their bodies in the wreckage soon after the surrender.’
‘Christ, that close to the finish. And the other three?’
‘The twins, the middle two, went down with the Perth in the Sunda Strait on the 1st of March 1942, and the youngest was with Maroubra Force and also died in New Guinea somewhere along the Kokoda Track – I don’t remember the exact date – some time in July or August 1942. The McCarthys lost three sons in the same year. It was too much for Thelma and, according to Esme, she’s not expected to recover. I’ve been to see her, but she hasn’t the foggiest who I am.’
‘And all the time I thought he was a pompous prick. Well . . . so much for whingeing over a crook back and an ugly mug,’ Danny said ruefully. ‘Jesus!’
Helen, fully recovered, said, ‘Danny, I think we ought to discuss your face. It’s obviously causing you some distress.’
‘What are you saying – that I’m feeling sorry for myself?’
‘We haven’t been together long enough yet for me to decide,’ Helen replied with a grin. ‘But I’ll let you know if I think you are. I don’t suppose much can be done in the short term about the trauma, shell shock, or whatever other names they have for it. I’ve read everything I can get my hands on about that sort of thing and I must say it’s a controversial subject and precious little makes sense. Your Dr Woon seems to think there’s a lot more to it than just handing out free prescriptions for sedatives. He believes that it may be a long-term medical problem. Let’s hope he’s wrong.’
‘Yeah, bloody doctors! Woony excluded, of course. Give you a pill and think you’re a bludger when you tell them it isn’t helping.’
‘So that leaves what you’ve just referred to as your ugly mug and, of course, your back. What advice have you had about both?’
‘Not a great deal. Not much hope, according to an ear, nose and throat specialist, a fat civilian from Melbourne sent to Rangoon for a fortnight to play soldiers in his tailor-made uniform . . . He made a crack about a marble for my eye, and said my nose was permanently buggered and he didn’t think plastic surgery would help. He said I should have the chipped bone removed when I got back and that he wasn’t in the business of mending cheeks but expected some sort of plate would be needed.’
‘Oh, charming. Nothing since? I mean medical advice?’
‘Ah, Woony, er, Doc Woon, said as far as my back was concerned my footy days were over and that it had to be “managed”.’
‘And?’
‘Next week I have to have a complete medical at Concord Military Hospital. I guess they’ll be a little more specific.’
‘Possibly, but don’t expect too much.’ Helen was silent, then asked, ‘Danny, would you mind if I got involved?’
‘Hey, wait on! You want to be my nurse? Christ, Helen, you’re not backward in coming forward. We haven’t even decided whether we’re getting back together again and you’re already at my bedside feeding me soup.’
‘No, darling, you haven’t decided. I don’t have to decide. I’ve never stopped loving you and I don’t give a shit about your face – you were too pretty for your own good anyway – and I feel a lot safer now that it’s been squashed a bit.’ She giggled wickedly. ‘Too bad about your back . . .’ Then, with a look of mock horror, she added, ‘Tell me, quick, they didn’t damage your tongue, did they?’
Danny, despite himself, was forced to laugh. ‘Helen Brown, besides being a conniving bitch you also have a very dirty mind. So, tell me, do you think an MA in mouldy old mummy bandages equips you to be a nurse?’
‘Don’t be such a deadshit, Danny Dunn. I’m sorry if I offended your sensibilities, Sergeant Major.’
‘No, go on, tel
l me, ma’am.’ Danny broke a scone open and began to add dollops of cream and strawberry jam to one half.
Helen was suddenly serious. ‘Well, one of the advantages of having some rank and also being in intelligence is that you can get hold of anyone, high-ranking Australian officers as well as Americans, with lots of influence. Lieutenant colonel is just about the right rank, or was. Being a woman with rank also helps.’
‘And a very pretty woman to boot,’ Danny interjected.
Helen ignored the compliment. ‘Yes, well, I’ve talked with Dr Woon – he now sits on the Victorian branch of the Assessment Board for the Repatriation Commission – and he’s already checked out Concord. As he suspected, there’s a long waiting list for surgery, as much as a year for plastic surgery. The burn victims are getting priority. He also mentioned that the best facial reconstruction people are in the States. This confirmed what I’d heard in Brisbane.’
‘You were stationed in Brisbane? I didn’t know that.’
‘It was after your last letter, the one where you addressed the front of the envelope “Lieutenant Brown” and on the back you drew – very badly, I might add – your face wearing a slouch hat with your hand at the salute.’
‘Ah, good, you got that. I often wondered. It must have gone out on the last boat from Singapore with that excrement, General Bennett, making his escape, sneaking off and leaving his men behind to face the Japs.’
‘We worked with the Americans in Brisbane for nearly three years,’ Helen explained. ‘That’s where MacArthur’s headquarters were, where we all went to genuflect.’ She laughed. ‘Or, to use the correct term, to closely cooperate with the Yanks.’
‘And doing whatever it was you did in intelligence you met these, what . . . general staff officers?’
‘No, that happened mostly at receptions with the Americans, MacArthur’s people. My area cooperated closely with their Western Pacific operation. Our navy even had an Intelligence operator in the field with the US marines.’ Helen shrugged. ‘Staying close to the Americans was important to Canberra, and I guess I had both the looks and the rank.’
‘Not too close, I trust?’
‘Danny, we’ve already been there,’ Helen reproved him. ‘What I’m trying to say is that it wouldn’t be too difficult to arrange for you to go to the States for the surgery you need.’
Danny laughed. ‘Funny you should say that. Yours is the second offer I’ve had.’
‘Oh?’
Danny proceeded to tell her about Master Sergeant Billy du Bois, lone liberator on a Harley-Davidson, concluding, ‘It was a spontaneous and generous offer but I don’t suppose he could have pulled it off, although, come to think of it, he managed to get the US air force to do a food and beer drop in less than twelve hours. As an NCO I wouldn’t have liked my chances of achieving the same with our air force.’
Danny knew Helen wasn’t easily distracted once she’d got her teeth into something. Now, the senior rank she’d so recently held was evident as she brought him briskly back to the subject of his face. ‘Does that mean you’d consider going?’ she asked.
Danny helped himself to the other half of the scone, busying himself with cream and jam while he thought. ‘I don’t know. I’ll be starting in law next year. Only hope I can knuckle down and do it. My mind’s like mashed potatoes.’
Helen laughed. ‘It’s not your mind you need to worry about. It’s being a student again when, like me, you’ve been accustomed to having all the authority. Kowtowing isn’t easy.’
Danny was about to ask how she knew he’d been accustomed to giving the orders to his own men in the camp when he remembered she’d read his records. ‘I guess I’ve had my fair share of knuckling under. At least I won’t be beaten or shot for defying these authorities.’
‘Oh, Danny, I’m sorry. How insensitive of me,’ Helen cried.
‘No, not at all. I really have to try and forget all that shit and get on with it.’
‘Danny, it’s only been three months; give yourself a chance,’ Helen said, trying to keep it light. Then, changing the subject she reverted to Danny’s surgery. ‘I guess you could defer your studies and get your face done . . .’ She hesitated, then added, ‘We’ll need to be away at least six months. I could probably defer as well.’
It was Danny’s turn to ignore her last remark. ‘It wouldn’t be right, jumping the queue like that when there are blokes worse off than me needing surgery. I’d feel bloody guilty, and besides, I want —’
‘For God’s sake, Daniel Dunn!’ Helen exploded. ‘Here we go, the Balmain Boy strikes again! I don’t want to be an officer, my mates will think I’m a wanker . . .’
Sometimes, Danny thought later, time seems trapped in a vacuum where nothing happens, the seconds tick by unused towards our ultimate demise; then, on other occasions a passing moment is so crammed with stimuli that it sputters and spits, sending out emotional sparks like a shorting electric plug. Danny experienced a host of emotions, crowded together in sounds and pictures, a kaleidoscope of events that tumbled and danced and seemed to go on endlessly from the moment he’d left university to join up, fragments of the past, jumbled together: a flash of Helen’s long legs on the swing in her backyard; the sound of the condensed-milk can dropping from Snowy Pitt’s slouch hat and hitting the ground at his feet; the kempeitai officer’s grunt as he drove the butt of the rifle into his face; a brilliant scarlet flash of pain as he did the same to the base of his spine; the sound of the slap as Sergeant Billy du Bois hit the Japanese guard at the prison-camp gate; a snatch of discordant God Save the King as they raised Spike Jones’s flag; the barking tone of Colonel Mori’s words, ‘All men now flends!’; a decapitated Chinese head stuck on a pole at eye level; the dazzling snowy-white sheets in the hospital at Rangoon; a staring, unmoving glass eye; the poignant call of the pipes carried on the wind from the lone piper standing on a rock at South Head. While, through it all, he could hear Helen verbally lambasting him.
‘What is it with you?’ Helen’s voice was rising. ‘You’re right! Your head is full of mashed potato! You’d better make up your mind and stop this puerile bullshit! It’s the same stubborn mindset that got you hurt in the first place. If you’d been an officer this probably wouldn’t have happened. Mind you, you’d still be an arrogant prick, but not the pathetic creature you seem determined to become!’ Helen paused to catch her breath, then, close to tears, added plaintively, ‘What’s more you’ve got strawberry jam on your chin.’
Danny felt the urge to rise from his chair and run for his life, then as quickly to explode into incandescent anger, but the ridiculous thought of running away or raging at her with strawberry jam on his chin became too much and, like a little boy, he wiped it away using the back of his hand. Staring down at the smudge of sticky jam he started to laugh and said, ‘Game, set and match to Miss Brown.’
‘Phew! That was close,’ Helen said, grinning in an attempt to hide her relief as Danny reached for a paper napkin.
‘Okay, smartypants, if you’re so good at winning friends and influencing people —’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Helen interrupted. Still emotionally charged, she went on, ‘It was standing in a pair of black court shoes, the high heels an agonising civilian addition to my army uniform, which the CO of our intelligence unit insisted on for these soirees, though I might add didn’t pay for. It was endless hours spent listening to colonels and generals in every branch of the army, navy and air force trying to flirt with me or yakking on endlessly and self-importantly about their careers. It was watching them get steadily plastered until their braggadocio hopefully reached a point where they’d reveal a piece of useful information I could put in my report. Listening to their whingeing about the foolishness of Canberra or Washington or one of their senior contemporaries, usually MacArthur or one of his aides. Or on our side that fat buffoon Blamey and his toadies. I was required to bat my baby blues, stick out m
y chest, swing my derrière and appear to be fascinated while proving capable of the odd intelligent or pertinent question, all in the name of gathering intelligence for and from my own side, sustained only by a glass of soda water with a slice of lemon masquerading as a gin and tonic. My reward at the end of what seemed like an eternity was a handbagful of phone numbers and a dozen or more sloppy kisses on the cheek or a sly pinch on the bum . . . oh, and, of course, the right to request a favour at some later stage.’
‘Speaking of favours, I need one. But first, tell me how you found the time for cipher work or whatever you did? You must have been pretty good at it, for them to make you a lieutenant colonel . . .’
‘One day I’ll tell you exactly what I was doing, but, yes, I’d like to think so. Marg Hamilton, one of my counterparts in naval intelligence in Melbourne, once summed it up perfectly. We’d occasionally be summoned to Sydney or Melbourne for one of those combined forces soirees, usually in Government House and most often with MacArthur in attendance. I remember on one occasion we were both in the powder room. She was a gorgeous-looking girl, and always immaculately groomed. I made some crack about how it was a hard way to earn promotion. Too bloody hard. She’d taken off her high heels and was massaging her toes, but she laughed and quipped, “Behind many a successful man you’ll find an exhausted woman. And behind many a successful woman you’ll find a successful behind!”’ Helen smiled. ‘That just about sums up the way the female component of the Australian Intelligence Unit in Brisbane was regarded at the time. During the day they worked you like a navvy, and at night you were required to flaunt your tits and bum without, I should add, ever getting involved in an assignation, unless of course it promised to yield more information. Not exactly romantic. Most of the time I’d get back to my quarters after one of these combined army, navy or air-force shindigs almost too exhausted to wash my undies and hang up my uniform.’
‘Well, I guess I asked for all that. Now, back to my original question . . .’
The Story of Danny Dunn Page 19