We That Are Left

by Lisa Bigelow

  The windscreen wipers squeaked back and forth across her vision. They hadn’t been used for so long that they needed oiling. It wasn’t cold, but the hairs on her neck stood at attention, excitement mixed with fear. She’d never covered a prison break, but a couple of years ago she’d seen the police rounds guys buzzing in and out of the office during a manhunt for two armed robbers in the northern suburbs. The robbers were eventually found passed out in the back of a brewery. It was hard to tell how dangerous these Germans might be, but Grace knew they were murderers; they’d killed those boys on the Sydney. And they’d be pretty healthy after a few years in the prison camp—much healthier than if they were prisoners of the Japs. Poor Phil. How could anyone survive years in the steaming jungle as a Japanese prisoner of war, with only one leg and goodness knew what tropical diseases? She’d finally had a letter from Phil a few weeks earlier. The Red Cross had managed to get letters out of the prison camp so she knew he was alive, but he’d said very little, just that he was managing to walk with a crutch made from a branch and dreaming of a roast dinner. He also said that the thought of coming home to her was keeping him going. When Sam had rung her at her parents’ house earlier that night, she was barely able to hold the phone still enough to hear; she was certain he was calling with bad news about Phil. But no, when she was able to register his words, he was asking her to cover a real story about twenty German prisoners of war escaping from a prison farm near Murchison, not far from Shepparton.

  ‘Their leader’s a bloke named Detmers, the captain of the ship that sank the Sydney,’ Sam said. ‘Several of his crew are with him. Police are coordinating the search from their station house at Shepparton. There’s a press conference at nine pm.’

  Grace drove for about an hour. When she reached the police station, she saw light spilling from the doorway as reporters milled near the entrance. Several news cars were parked near the fence. Grace gathered her raincoat and handbag from the passenger seat as Scoop, one of her father’s photographers, on loan to The Tribune until another photographer could get there from Melbourne, approached her window, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Quiet out there tonight, eh?’ he said, nodding back towards the road they’d both travelled. ‘Almost nothing on the roads.’

  ‘No sign of the prisoners either.’

  Grace surveyed the other newsmen and policemen standing in groups, laughing and smoking as casually as if they were at the pub. You could tell they were in their element. Gallows humour they called it: a way of coping with serious incidents. Phil had once told her about a fatal car accident he’d covered as a cadet on police rounds. An entire family, including a baby, had been incinerated when they were hit by a truck that ran through a stop sign.

  ‘One of the older reporters said joking around was the only way to deal with what you saw, especially when there were children involved. But it builds up, he said. Police rounds men have to go home and sleep, then turn up the next day and do it all again. Some blokes can handle it for years, others only last a few months.’

  But no matter how long they’d done that job, Grace had seen enough over the years to know the police reporters all drank more and more each year.

  With an hour to wait for the briefing, the press and the police shifted to the pub across the road for dinner. Grace was more relaxed than the blokes on the morning papers, who needed to file stories right away. For once The Tribune had managed to run the story about the escape first. It was good watching the others play catch-up for a change. She read the menu, which featured various combinations of lamb and potatoes. Chops and mash, curried sausages and mash, roast lamb with potatoes and shepherd’s pie. At least it would be fresh.

  ‘What are you having, Scoop?’ she asked.

  ‘Bangers look pretty good. I’ll order if you like.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll have the shepherd’s pie and a lemonade.’

  Grace settled at a table in an alcove beside the bar. She was the only female customer in the place. The ladies’ lounge was dark through the glass panel. No one seemed to mind that she was in the wrong bar, but she was glad to have her notebook for protection.

  ‘So these escapees have got the place buzzing,’ Scoop said, nodding towards the bar. ‘No one’s saying anything about the cricket.’

  ‘Nothing like a good manhunt to work up an appetite, eh?’ The woman who’d been serving drinks behind the bar bustled towards them holding their plates of food. ‘Are you from the paper?’

  ‘Grace Fowler from the Melbourne Tribune,’ Grace said, smiling at the woman whose grey-streaked black hair was unravelling from the knot on top of her head. Her face was round, her nose and cheeks red; perspiration shone on her forehead.

  ‘I’m Shirl, love. You staying with us tonight?’

  ‘We’ve booked rooms, but I’m not sure how much sleep we’ll be getting. It depends on what the police tell us.’

  ‘Reckon those Krauts’ll be long gone,’ Shirl said, looking towards the bar but making no move to return to the growing crowd with empty glasses. ‘Had a good head start before the alarm was raised. All night, they reckon.’

  ‘Really? How do you think so many got away without raising suspicion?’

  ‘Well, you know they dug a long, long tunnel. But it was pouring too. That’s all the guards would’ve heard: rain on the roof.’

  ‘Did anyone see anything here in town?’

  ‘Nah. Pretty likely they avoided the town and went straight for the train tracks and the highway, trying to hitch rides to the city.’

  ‘What about today? Was anything out of place?’

  ‘Well, our Floss, the housekeeper, reckoned there were some men’s clothes missing from the ironing basket in the washhouse, but it turned out they’d already been collected by the gent who was staying last night. He was in a hurry to get back on the road. Salesman.’

  ‘I see,’ Grace said, making a few notes that she knew she wouldn’t use. ‘What about food going missing? Anything like that?’

  ‘Nah, love. Reckon they would have been running like rabbits, getting as far from here as they could.’ She paused to call out, ‘Yeah, Merv, keep your pants on, I’ll be there in a tick.’ To Grace she said, ‘Natives are getting restless—I’d better toddle. Let me know if you need anything else.’

  Grace turned back to Scoop, who was forking gravy, mash and sausages into his mouth with his head cocked towards the police at the next table.

  ‘Doesn’t sound like anyone knows much,’ she said, breaking the cheesy crust on top of her pie, letting steam escape.

  ‘Shhh!’ he whispered, nodding at the next table. ‘There’s been a sighting. Got some coppers out at a farm at the moment. People called about noises near their chook shed.’

  ‘Great, Nazi chicken rustlers. I can see the headline now.’

  ‘If they don’t catch them soon, I’m sure the stories will only get crazier.’

  All heads turned towards the door as four uniformed policemen entered the bar. Grace’s breath caught as she recognised the tallest of the group; it was Mick Foster, her former girlhood crush. After school he’d joined the police and now here he was, tanned skin, hair more golden than red, the same broad shoulders, now grown into a perfectly filled-out chest. It took a moment, but when he saw her, his entire face erupted in a dazzling smile.

  ‘Grace Fowler—my God! What brings you here, tonight of all nights?’

  ‘The prison break. I’m reporting for The Tribune.’

  ‘No! I don’t believe it. All those years you dreamed about being a reporter, and here you are, actually doing it.’

  She blushed redder and hotter than she had in years. Damn, she thought she might have been growing out of that habit, but here she was beaming like a lighthouse in front of all of the other reporters, including Phil’s friend Jacko from The Gazette.

  ‘You’re not doing badly yourself,’ she said, pointing to the sergeant stripes on his shoulders.

  Mick continued to smile at her and she couldn’t look away.<
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  ‘Mate!’ Scoop roared, shaking Mick’s hand. ‘Seems like only yesterday I was following you round the football ground with my camera. Now look at you. Still playing?’

  ‘Afraid not. Knees aren’t quite what they were. But I hear the Benalla juniors did well last season.’

  ‘They’ve got some real talent, those boys. A few more years and they’ll be right up top of the league.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ Mick said, before returning his attention to Grace. ‘So, Grace, I’ve never seen a girl covering a story like this. What gives?’

  ‘Right place, right time.’

  ‘Well it’s good to see you giving the blokes a run for their money.’

  ‘Were you at the chook shed incident?’

  Mick laughed. ‘Whoa. Interrogating me already.’

  Grace smiled and tapped her notebook.

  ‘Okay. Yes, we went out to the farm and looked around, but we didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. It was probably just a fox, but everyone’s on edge.’

  ‘Are we likely to hear anything new at the press conference?’

  ‘Probably not, but I’ll introduce you to the boss afterwards if you want to hold a few questions back.’

  Grace joined nine reporters, five photographers and six policemen in the hall beside the police station an hour later. Inspector Frank Wiles stood in front of the stage, looking like he was melting. Following the rain, the night was humid and sweat dripped down his cheeks and neck.

  ‘As you know, twenty male persons of German descent absconded from Dhurringile Internment Camp sometime after twenty hundred hours on Wednesday,’ he said, projecting his voice to fill the hall.

  ‘Their absence was not discovered until assembly at eight this morning. It’s believed the men, led by Captain Theodor Anton Detmers, tunnelled from a disused crockery room within the main house for a distance of about four hundred yards under the garden and the barbed-wire security fence. From there, the men decamped in as yet unconfirmed directions.’

  ‘Inspector Wiles, do you believe they’re heading for Melbourne or Sydney?’ Jacko from The Gazette asked, smirking as he waited for an answer, clearly pleased that he’d fired the first question.

  ‘We can only speculate at this point, but we believe they probably split into small groups—twos and threes—and headed towards locations where they might find transportation via trucks, trains and private vehicles.’

  ‘Do you have the dogs out tracking their movements?’

  ‘Last night’s inclement weather erased any possibility of detecting either scent or footprints.’

  ‘Sir, are any of the prisoners considered dangerous?’

  ‘These men are already responsible for killing hundreds of our naval men and imprisoning others. We have to class them as desperate at the very least.’

  ‘Are you saying they might try to kill people in their beds?’

  ‘No, I’m not saying that—who asked the question? Oh, Turner from the Truth, I might have known. No, let me be quite clear. We think they will try to get to ports in the major cities and get themselves on ships heading back to Europe. They’ll be looking for a way to rejoin their forces and complete their missions.’

  ‘Do you know if they have food and suitable clothing?’

  ‘They are likely to have some cash and maps, maybe a few tins of food, but nothing much else. They may try to buy things they can’t easily steal.’

  Grace stood silently near the back of the crowd, hoping Mick would remember his promise to organise a private chat with the inspector. She glanced across to the group of policemen. Mick was already watching her; he nodded. She relaxed and focused on the briefing, trying to think of a fresh angle she could use to build a story for the morning.

  A local reporter asked the next question: ‘Are there extra patrols at the ports and train and bus stations?’

  ‘Yes. We’re also asking for help from the community. If they see or hear anything out of the ordinary, they should call their local police, no matter what the time. We’ll be manning our stations around the clock.’

  ‘That’s a lot of extra manpower. You must be really concerned about these fellows.’

  ‘We’ve never had a POW escape on this scale before. We have to recapture them quickly and put everyone’s minds at ease.’

  ‘Is it true that you had police at a farm tonight checking a disturbance in a chook shed?’

  ‘As I said earlier, we need to investigate every disturbance large or small until we find these men.’

  Mick waved Grace over after the briefing ended. Grace signalled Scoop to follow.

  Inspector Wiles gripped her hand far too hard and shook it vigorously.

  ‘Miss Fowler, I’ve met your father many times. How is Nev? I bet he’d love to be covering this story.’

  ‘He’s keeping an eye on things in Benalla, sir. He thought some of the men might head in that direction. Do you have any idea how well they might know the area?’

  ‘Most of the men have navigational experience, having been at sea, but we don’t know what sort of access they’ve had to maps of this area and the nearest coastline.’

  ‘What about clothing? Do you know what they’re wearing?’

  ‘I believe some of the men are in their uniforms and others are in sportswear. Officers have the choice in camp.’

  ‘I guess the uniformed men might be looking to steal clothes then, to blend in.’

  ‘Possibly. But their grey uniforms look like our air force uniforms from a distance, especially if they’ve removed their badges.’

  He glanced at another policeman and nodded. ‘I must go now, Miss Fowler. But stick with Sergeant Foster. If you need anything else, he’ll be able to help.’

  Mick stepped forward as the inspector left the hall. ‘You’re very impressive, Miss Fowler. No sign of the shy little girl I knew at school. You handled the inspector like you’ve been doing this for years.’

  ‘In my head, I’ve been reporting my whole life. I’m just loving the chance to do it for real.’

  ‘Well, I’m happy to help. Do you have everything you need?’

  ‘I do for the moment. I’ll write this up tonight then check in first thing. Will someone be able to give me an update before nine in the morning?’

  ‘I’ll make sure of it. Do you have time for a cuppa now? It would be good to catch up.’

  Grace found herself smiling again as she tried to keep her gaze from straying across his shoulders, snugly encased in the dark blue of his uniform jacket. The shiny silver buttons strained against his chest, just below his tie and crisp blue shirt. Mick had always been attractive, but there was something more now; he radiated confidence and manliness. She felt the delicious grip in her stomach that she used to feel looking at Phil. Grace quickly returned her gaze to her notebook, trying to think of any more questions about the story, but her mind was blank.

  ‘I’d love to, Mick, but I have to write up my notes and get this story ready for filing in the morning. Maybe afterwards—if you’re not investigating a disturbance in a pigpen.’

  ‘You mean a pig sty,’ he teased. ‘But I shouldn’t be correcting you. You were always the smartest girl at school.’

  Grace blushed again. ‘You make me sound so dull.’

  ‘Not at all. Grace Fowler was always going to be a star.’

  She was really going to have to find a way to keep her colouring in check.

  ‘So how’s life on the beat, Fowler?’ Sam asked with a chuckle after she’d dictated her story to the copy taker the next morning.

  ‘I love it. I’ll be badgering you for a permanent police rounds spot after this.’

  ‘Steady on. You’ve only been out there for one day. Besides, the women’s page needs you.’

  Grace tried to keep her voice light. ‘The police are holding another press conference at three. We’ll base ourselves here and follow up any leads through the day. Do you want Scoop to hang around?’

  ‘Graham Ross should be
there mid-afternoon, then Scoop can get back to Benalla. It was good of your father to loan him to us.’

  ‘Thanks, Sam. I’ll call if anything more happens this morning.’

  Grace could see the police station through the front window of the main bar. She supposed it was designed that way to keep the patrons in order. The street was nearly empty of moving traffic, but every parking space was occupied by police vehicles and cars sporting the livery of every newspaper and radio station in the state. She wondered if Mick would be on duty yet. He’d been on the afternoon shift yesterday so maybe not. Grace straightened her hair neatly over her ears, touched up her lipstick and made sure none of the colour had stuck to her teeth. Dropping her notebook into her handbag she marched across the road, determined to be courteous to Mick if he was there but to keep things professional. No smiling at him, no blushing, and no flirting under any circumstances, not when Phil was suffering so badly, desperate to come home to her.

  ‘Good morning, Grace,’ Mick said, smiling from ear to ear as she walked in the door. He was standing behind the counter reading The Gazette. ‘You’re the loveliest vision to walk through that door this week—maybe even all year.’

  Trying not to match his grin, Grace kept her voice cool and even.

  ‘Good morning, Mick. Any new activity?’

  ‘Just the usual: lights in the distance, strange noises.’

  ‘Front-page news in The Gazette and The Argus this morning.’

  ‘I saw! Those Germans have certainly put us on the map. If people hadn’t heard of Dhurringile before, they’ll all be talking about it now.’

  ‘You’re probably right. Well, I have to write the story for our evening edition. Do you have time to fill me in on the search plans for today?’

  ‘Of course, come through,’ Mick said, lifting a section of the counter and opening a low door. He led her into the staffroom at the back of the police station. The table was strewn with newspapers and ashtrays, chairs at various angles, much like the Tribune newsroom.