Two Generations

by Anne Connor

  Jock’s diary shows his fascination with the local people and he wondered how they kept smiling through the constant rain and warring intruders. They waved and beamed betel-nut-red smiles whenever he saw them washing their clothes in the river or gathering water from further downstream.

  One day Joe nearly drove him and Jock into a ditch when he came across a group of bare-chested women walking along the side of the road. ‘Watch it, look where you’re going, Forrester,’ Jock said, grabbing the steering wheel just in time.

  ‘Sorry mate.’ Joe looked over and grinned. ‘What a good telegram back home. Died on active service, looking at tits.’

  Further along walked a native man carrying a spear and a small child. A few paces behind walked a tiny woman, naked from the waist up, who looked no older than fifteen. She carried a large woven bag suspended from a strap across her forehead and balanced on her shoulders. A mangy dog walked behind.

  Laughter and squeals could be heard from the native boys jumping off the rocks into the river. A small child from a nearby village had been taken by a freshwater crocodile weeks before. But the youngsters weren’t troubled. They climbed barefoot onto the rocks, grabbing the roots of the pandanus for safety. The vegetation grew out of a group of boulders and hung over the water’s edge. The boys reminded Jock of shiny black seals as they played in the water. Flashes of white grins contrasted with their dark, slippery bodies ducking, weaving and jumping on one another.

  Birds with plumage of brilliant blue, red and amber swooped among the trees. Jock had come face to face with a cassowary. It stood six foot high and had vibrant blue and red feathers on its face and neck, a brown helmet and yellow eyes that stared straight through him. After a few moments, unperturbed, it stepped back into the thick jungle. Jock had been on his way back from the river after learning the hard way about the green ants. He had swung his axe into the trunk of a palm tree dislodging thousands of insects. When they attached themselves to his bare back, he ran to the river and duck-dived in, boots and all. After that, there was an unwritten law in the camp, ‘Don’t disturb the ants and they won’t disturb you.’2

  Jock was expecting the order. While on night shift he had transcribed the command from headquarters to move into the jungle.

  ‘Fall in line before dawn tomorrow. Full kit,’ Broom yelled. ‘Could be months, you miserable bastards.’

  Jock packed small tins of bully beef, biscuits, rice, water bottle, blanket, grenades, gun, ammunition belts, notebook and HB pencil. The men’s morale was heightened at the prospect of fighting a ground force enemy. The sixty-five airborne attacks in Darwin had left them beaten, ashamed of running, hiding, finding shelter and sleeping in slit trenches, learning to fear a full moon. During their eighteen months in the frontier town, the soldiers were sitting ducks. Now they were rested, fit, well-fed, familiar with the new equipment, and technically trained. They believed they were able to read maps of a harsh landscape, taught to use 24 x 25 pounder guns, with months of gun drill and mechanism courses under their belts. In addition to hardening up and technical training, they had spent time with their families. Jock had a fortnight with Bess and Cleary in Geelong, plus extended time with Bess while stationed in New South Wales. He was as ready as the rest of them. It was time to meet the Japanese on equal ground, face to face, gun to gun, bayonet to bayonet.

  He wasn’t prepared for the rugged and hostile terrain of New Guinea. None of them were. Water and mud dominated and Jock never got used to it. The rains came in the afternoon and continued until the next morning. He shivered through the cold nights. Water seeped into everything, wet clothes stuck to his skin and didn’t dry, but fluctuated between soaked and damp. Jock remembered Bess soaking his singlets in the Rickett’s blue bag water and saw the funny side of it. If she could just see me now, he thought, as he wiped his muddy hand across the front of his singlet. The once snow-white undergarment Bess was so proud of was beginning to rot and ponged from stale sweat and nights of lying in the mud.

  A stubborn mass of forest covered the river’s edge making it so impenetrable soldiers waded chest-deep into the water. In an attempt to keep his ammunition dry, Jock clipped his grenades higher onto his pack, slipped the belts of bullets around his neck and held his gun over his head. His arms and shoulders ached from holding them up for hours. The heaviness of the ammunition around the top of Jock’s body added to the strain. Each step was taken carefully, not knowing whether water weeds, snakes or leeches touched his body. They were walking in freshwater crocodile territory and no-one spoke, in a feeble effort to be invisible. In time, they moved back to what they thought was dry ground but instead walked thigh-high into a swamp. The pong from the quagmire and rotting vegetation hit them with a force causing Jock to retch. Mosquitoes and insects swarmed around them, biting through clothes. Jock’s face began to swell, welts covered his hands, arms and legs – itching like hell.

  Day after day, the men walked without let-up. At dusk, Jock welcomed the sight of the blue and green fireflies, their pointless flittering heralding the relief of night. One evening, a scout reported swamp-like conditions continued for half a mile. Where they were was as good as any to try and rest.

  The bog was now over Jock’s ankles. He saw Joe, Horry and Sticks attempting to make rough beds from branches and vegetation covered with a canvas sheet. Jock swung his pack off his back and hung it on a tree branch. Ninety pounds lighter was a relief. He placed his Owen in the fork of two branches to keep it dry, reclined against the tree and took turns resting each foot against its trunk. He removed his cigarette tin and matches from underneath his hat, lit his rollie then tilted his head against the tree, closed his eyes and drew on the fag. Horry sloshed up next to him. Jock passed him the cigarette and they stood there together, sharing the dank smoke.

  ‘It’s got atmosphere this place, hasn’t it?’ said Horry.

  Jock opened his eyes and looked at the boy. All he could see of Horry’s muddied and slime-covered face was his cheeky grin. His teeth were turning brown and black specks dotted his lower canines. Jock noticed his recently chipped front incisor. The boy winked with a bit of a nod. For a minute, Jock stared. They began to giggle. Horry’s shoulders shook as they both tried to stifle their laughter, mindful it could alert the Japanese. Or worse, they’d be sent scouting up ahead with nothing more than their Owens and a couple of grenades as a punishment handed out by Broom.

  Thick black clouds signalled another downpour. Jock knew it wouldn’t be long before the heavens opened again. Within minutes, heavy raindrops smashed the cigarette and made a racket on the metal casing of the guns. Horry threw his canvas sheet over the both of them. Jock took one end and they stood there together huddled under the makeshift cover.

  ‘Fuck a duck, what did I do to deserve this shit?’ said Horry.

  At the first rays of daylight, Jock opened a tin of bully beef and scooped out handfuls of the salty, fatty brown muck then wiped his hand on his singlet. He lifted his pack onto his shoulders and fell in line behind Joe and in front of Horry. The unit trudged on, squelching through the swamp until it petered out to thick mud. The narrow track snaked through dense jungle. The growth was so thick, Jock could only see Joe, Tic and Horry in front of him. He was pleased there’d been no order to carry a wireless and batteries into the jungle. A radio in such thick rainforest would be useless. Every step was precarious in the thick mud. The further they traipsed into the wilderness, the more they lost track of time and days. They stepped over or around fallen logs and rocks, pushing through the undergrowth. If they weren’t slogging through mud, they were sliding on moss-covered fallen tree trunks, making it difficult to gain traction. Jock found it harder descending the hills than ascending, because of the pressure on his knees and ankles.

  He sensed the foe close, on the ground, hidden in the bush, not in the sky as it was in Darwin. He imagined there were snipers everywhere. Even thought he could smell them. He remembered the musky odour of Japanese merchants he’d met in the dusty p
ort town. Jock recalled stories describing the enemy’s uniforms being designed to camouflage in the jungle – a stark contrast to the easy-to-see light brown outfits of the Australians.

  They came upon an expanse scorched and smashed from an earlier conflict. The unforgiving landscape blackened from grenade and machine gunfire. Broken palm trees lay flattened on the ground and empty ammunition shells and missile cases littered the once pristine vegetation. The further they snaked into the wilds, the slower the progress – step followed hazardous step. Rain was relentless. After weeks of sleeping in slush, Jock’s fingernails were embedded with dirt. It was in his pores, nostrils, eyes, and ears. The rain and malaria-carrying mosquitoes were his constant companions, large clumps of slush clung to his boots as he scrambled through the mud. Visibility was poor. Giant century-old trees all but snuffed out the sun, except for glimmers of daylight flashing through the tops of leaves and branches. Fog lingered throughout the day, making it hard to breathe. The nights were bitterly cold, and the sounds from the industrious nocturnal animals added to the fear. The trek through the snarled jungle was harsh, but Jock knew once they hit a clearing they were in worse danger and they needed to act fast. Run for cover first then assess the enemy’s location before opening fire – all within a matter of seconds. While the tangled rainforest was hell, it had benefits. The dense vegetation hampered enemy fire.

  ‘Jap camp beyond clearing up ahead,’ came the word from Broom up front, each man whispering to the next.

  Jock could see the panic in the boy’s eyes when he relayed the message to Horry. ‘We’ll be right, mate,’ Jock tried to reassure him. ‘We’ll be right.’

  Another order came along the line. ‘Stop at edge of clearing, bed down for night, attack enemy camp at first light.’

  Jock kept walking, Horry was close behind, Tic and Joe followed. When they arrived at the spot where the unit had stopped, he took off his pack and stretched his neck and shoulders – relief from the weight. As light faded, he spread out in the wet undergrowth, resting on his elbows, keeping his tin hat and boots on and his gun close by. I’m so tired and old, he thought as he rested his forehead on his rolled up canvas sheet and closed his eyes. Let’s hope the practice did us right.

  Jock didn’t sleep. He was on alert, listening to the night sounds. It was still dark when the men were woken in a domino effect, each man tapping the next. He folded his canvas and pushed it hard into his pack then lifted his kit onto his back, careful not to make any noise. At the first hint of daybreak, they crept towards the clearing through the last of the jungle, in the direction of the enemy camp to surprise them while they slept. Deep dread and fear twisted itself in the pit of Jock’s stomach, the first stage of pure terror. His heart was thumping. His legs were sticks of jelly and he wasn’t sure whether they’d hold him up.

  ‘I’m shit scared,’ whispered Horry.

  ‘You’re not on your Pat Malone,’ Jock whispered back as he began to creep forward, each step slower and more deliberate. Jock’s hands were sweaty, his breathing heavy, stomach tight. Tread lightly, he thought. He recognised the stench of rotting flesh – an old battlefield. Decomposing bodies from both sides merged with mud and trees.

  A few yards to his right he heard a rustling sound coming from the edge of the clearing. On his left another sound from the trees. He tried to remember the drill: open space dangerous, stick to sides where there’s cover.

  A bullet whistled by Jock’s ear. He dropped flat, clenched his teeth and lay still. A Japanese soldier, the size of a twelve-year-old, ran from the bushes, a submachine gun held hip-height. Thud! Thud! Thud! He was light on his feet and fast – so close Jock saw his squinting eyes. Jock’s mouth was dry. He began to pant. Stay calm, he told himself. Stay calm. The enemy had taken two diggers and disappeared into the jungle before the Australians realised what hit them.

  Jock knew then the enemy had been waiting for them. They were a step ahead. He remembered the training. If you walk into an ambush, shoot in the direction of the gunfire, then find cover. Joe and Horry were either side of Jock now. The three of them ran tossing hand grenades into the enemy hidden in camouflaged dugouts and under bushes. Jock was confused by the sudden chaos. Japanese armed with machetes, guns and hand grenades jumped out from the haze, yelling over deafening gunfire, and eerie smog hung in the air. Jock shot in the direction of the attack then he and Joe took cover behind a small hill covered with bushes. Horry kept running and shooting. ‘Yellow Baastarrdssssss,’ he yelled.

  Jock saw Horry hit the ground. A grenade landed in the boy’s path and he took the full force front-on, flew into the air and fell heavily. Jock crawled to where the youngster lay in the slush and his own blood. He stretched out next to him, his hands shaking as he pushed the boy’s bloodied, shiny intestines back under what was left of Horry’s shirt and held the lad to his chest.

  ‘There, there mate. It’s alright.’

  The stench of entrails reminded Jock of pigs being slaughtered on the farms back home. The bony-boy ribcage moved in and out, the frail movement became less and less, until nothing, and then started again. Horry’s eyes rolled back, he made a gurgling sound and spent his last minutes in the older man’s arms, crying for his mother, oblivious to the din and madness around him. Jock leaned his cheek against the muddied and dented tin hat, not wanting to let go of the youngster. Such intimacy with a man was foreign in everyday life, but in the shithole of war, holding his young friend as he died was the most natural thing to do. Amidst the chaos of gunfire and grenades, Jock wept as he remembered the bull ant bites, the old man teasing and the young fella’s bright eyes.

  ‘God bless, son,’ he said and pulled the canvas sheet they had both sheltered under weeks earlier, out of Horry’s pack and covered him. Jock used his elbows and knees to lever himself along until he was behind a clump of trees to the side of the clearing. He stood and tossed three grenades in quick succession at the thicket from where the fatal missile had been flung. He waited until the enemy scattered then opened fire.

  At night, exhausted men – enemy and friend – sat motionless, speechless. They used giant leaves as cover from the continuing rain. The medics did their best to attend to the wounded. This was the first combat for many. Mates were lost and maimed. Similar to Horry, many were left in the jungle to rot.

  Jock collapsed onto a mossy log, his head resting in his hands. We’re just ordinary men, he thought. This is hell. Fatigue swamped him. After weeks of being on full alert with little sleep, his body felt heavy as lead. Joe slumped on the ground next to him, lit a cigarette and handed it to Jock. ‘Here mate, you could do with this.’

  ‘I let him slip away, just a boy – did nowt.’ He drew hard on the tobacco. ‘Just left him to rot in the jungle, to be eaten by animals.’

  ‘You were there, mate. He knew that.’ Joe lit his own rollie.

  ‘He won’t know about them animals, but he knew you were there with him.’

  ‘You’re a good lad, Joe. Don’t know I’d manage this hellhole without you,’ Jock said as he pulled out his canvas sheet.

  ‘You too, mate. You too.’

  One by one, they crawled under their covers and rested while they could. Jock stuck a cigarette in each nostril, to keep out the stink of burning and rotting flesh. Same again tomorrow and the day after and the day after …

  How do these men from different sides of the globe, thrown together to slaughter and maim, forget? Their goodness plundered, turning moral men into murderers, their souls toxic from what they have done. How do they expel the poison filling their hearts and minds? How do they stop the noise in their heads, the bombing, the shooting, the yelling, the sobbing? They want to erase this chapter – but they can’t.

  No training had prepared Jock for brutal combat. Now the men had reached the enemy, their job was to push them back into the jungle until they retreated entirely or were dead. After months of stalking and fighting, the Japanese withdrew and the surviving Australians started the long walk back
over the rough terrain to their base camp.

  Jock trekked through the jungle, still on full alert, ready for enemy attack. The heat, oppressive humidity, hunger and lack of water added to his misery. He spoke to no-one. At night, as he tried to sleep in the slush and fend off the mosquitoes and leeches, he thought of Horry and was haunted by the last sounds the boy made.

  In single file, they trudged through the unfamiliar jungle. Jock hoped the unit was headed back to Butibum and not forging further into the wilderness. It was weeks before he recognised familiar terrain. He crossed the river and the two mountain ranges came into sight. He followed the water until he saw the camp.

  The sky was overcast. The tops of the Atzera were covered with thick mists. Breaks in the clouds cast shadows over the smaller mountain range. Light rain left surfaces damp and slippery underfoot. The men cheered feebly when they saw their base camp. They walked along the riverbank past clumps of bamboo where Joe had helped Jock cut the poles for the tents and where their friendship began. Jock remembered the cassowary and washing the green ants off his back.

  Broom ordered them to fall in line.

  Jock knew army protocol called for the commanding officer to ensure ammunition was cleared from guns after deployment. But thoughts of washing off the mud, slime, Horry’s dried blood and sleeping in his own dry camp stretcher and not the wet jungle floor, consumed him. Caked in mud and looking as spent as his men, Broom stood in the middle of the clearing.

  ‘Inspection of arms.’

  Jock took his usual place in the second row beside Tic and Stan, with Joe and Sticks in front. He was mindful of the gap next to Sticks where Horry used to stand. One of many gaps left in the ranks.

  Jock was finished. His legs could only just hold him.