The Persimmon Tree

by Bryce Courtenay

  Edson smiled. ‘Well done, son. You wouldn’t like to join the marines, would you? We can arrange for American citizenship.’

  He’d said it sotto voce and while I thought he was joking, I couldn’t be absolutely sure. ‘Thank you, sir, an honour, but I feel obliged to remain Australian, sir.’

  This got an all-round laugh. ‘Pack up and get back to base, Lieutenant. Report to Colonel Woon and tell him I’d be most obliged if he’d accompany you and come to the HQ tent at 1600 hours.’

  I snapped off a salute as they turned away and I heard one officer say, ‘There wasn’t a half inch of difference in any of the head shots and all within a range of about twenty-five yards.’ While being given permission to leave the ridge, which meant a shower and some hot chow, once again my impetuosity and clear disobedience of Greg Woon’s clear-as-crystal orders had drawn unwelcome attention and I only hoped Edson wasn’t going to dob the boss in with the major general. Surely a bloke can’t get into that much trouble killing Nips — isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing, killing Japanese? I tried to convince myself. But I already knew enough about the army, or in my case, the navy, to know that taking matters into your own hands is the antithesis of what your training is all about.

  A short time later a jeep arrived and we loaded our radio gear and the wire recorder I’d barely used all night. We ground our way slowly along the muddy track to Henderson. On the way we passed weary marines, slouched, head down, too tired to march on their way back from the killing ridge to Henderson base. All the way down I became aware of grins and thumbs up and calls of ‘Hiya, Killer!’, ‘Great work, Popgun Pete!’, ‘Will you marry my sister, Lootenant?’ The bullshit was spreading and we’d soon be sloshing around up to our knees in it.

  Shit, shave and shower — the combat soldier’s glorious three ‘Ss’. A change of jungle greens, a hot breakfast and then a kip. I’d reported to Woon and explained that we’d had a pretty hairy night and that I hadn’t managed to do very much of the commentary — in fact none. I told him about Colonel Edson’s request to see him and to take me along at 1600 hours.

  ‘Did Colonel Edson indicate what this is all about, Nick?’ he asked, looking far from chuffed, I can tell you. I guess one colonel doesn’t like being ordered to front up by another.

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. I think it’s about some dead Japanese,’ I replied.

  He looked at me, leaning forward. ‘Nick, you haven’t been using your popgun, have you?’

  ‘Just a little bit, sir — but strictly in the defence of the radio intelligence unit, sir.’

  ‘I see — you were defending the contents of the commentary you didn’t manage to make,’ he said. Then with a wave of the hand he added, ‘Go on, get some sleep. You’re talking bullshit, Nick.’

  After breakfast I collapsed onto my stretcher in the tent. I awoke with a start because someone was shaking me. I grabbed for the Owen at my side. ‘Hold it! It’s me, buddy,’ Sergeant Polanski shouted. ‘You’re late, sir — better get movin’. Colonel Woon ain’t in a real happy dis-po-sition.’ It was half-past three; I’d been asleep since half-past nine.

  We arrived at the boss’s office to find him pacing, hands behind his back, grim-faced. I saluted. ‘You’re late, Lieutenant. Let’s go!’ he snapped in a peremptory voice. He hadn’t ever called me ‘Lieutenant’ in private, not even on the first day. I was clearly in the deepest shit imaginable.

  We walked the five minutes to Colonel Edson’s HQ, arriving exactly on time. We entered a large tent and I was immediately tempted to creep out again. Major General Vandegrift, Colonel Edson and a bunch of senior staff officers were standing around a map table. I just about snapped in half with the rigidity of my salute. But instead of the grim faces of an impending censure, we were met by smiles all round. The boss cursorily touched his cap, not giving an inch in Edson’s tent. Then the general said, ‘Be at ease, gentlemen, you are amongst friends, fellow officers.’

  Yeah, real chummy, I thought. The lowest rank in this bloody tent, apart from me, is a full colonel!

  The general came over and shook the boss by the hand, then did the same to me. Christ, what was happening? I’d just shaken the hand of a general in the American Marines!

  ‘Well, what can I say, Colonel? You pick your men well,’ the general said. ‘I wish all our boys would show his kind of initiative in moments of crisis on the battlefield.’ He turned to me. ‘If ever there was a young officer we’d like to have in the marines, he’s you, son. How old are you?’

  I hesitated for a moment, but you can’t tell a lie to a general when you’ve just shaken his hand, can you? ‘Eighteen, sir — I can explain, sir,’ I added hastily. ‘I was jumped up in rank from midshipman to come here. It wasn’t deserved, sir.’

  ‘If you were in the marines I’d promote you to Captain, son. Well done.’ He turned back to the boss. ‘Colonel Woon, have you told Lieutenant Duncan what we propose to do?’

  The boss grinned. ‘No, sir, I thought Nick would rather hear it from you.’

  ‘We’re putting you in for the Navy Cross, son.’ He paused. ‘I have the greatest respect for your King, but we know in advance the Brits won’t allow you to wear it. The rule is strictly no foreign decorations for His Majesty’s army, navy or air force. Nevertheless I want what you did for the American marines put on record. There will be a parade at 1100 hours, day after tomorrow. Colonel Woon will inform you when and where it will take place.’

  Gob-smacked isn’t the word! I’d been convinced I was on my way home or, worse still, about to be court-martialled. ‘Yes, sir — thank you, sir — I’m honoured, sir,’ I said, like an idiot. I mean, what else is there to say when you’ve been completely floored, flummoxed and find yourself totally bemused? Me? Navy Cross? Even if I wasn’t allowed to wear it. What can a man say? I could almost hear Sergeant Major Wainwright laughing. ‘Your shout, boyo! Half of that fookin’ Navy Cross you can’t wear belongs to me!’

  Colonel Edson walked up and stood beside the boss, who’d obviously feigned anger at our being late so as not to let the cat out of the bag. ‘Frankly, we thought we had a serious problem, Greg. I was called to inspect a number of corpses that appeared to have been murdered. You know, wounded enemy deliberately shot between the eyes. Not the marine way, serious implications, court martial… Your man was the closest to the dead enemy and, for a moment, it didn’t look too good for him. But upon closer inspection we observed that the shots couldn’t possibly have been fired at point-blank range, barrel held against the head: there were no powder burns and the entry was neat.’ Colonel Edson looked at me. ‘Where did you learn to shoot like that, Nick?’

  ‘Sergeant Major Wainwright, Fraser Island, Queensland, sir. You don’t leave his basic weapons training until you can use an Owen submachine-gun with your eyes closed.’

  ‘Sergeant Major Wainwright?’ He turned to his offsider. ‘Get the details. May get him over to talk to our staff sergeants. Maybe do a weapons course for us, eh?’

  ‘Good idea,’ General Vandegrift said, then he turned to the boss. ‘Can’t you get a man transferred from the States who can speak Japanese and train him in radio intelligence, Greg? This young officer is wasted in the rear.’ He called over to a staff captain. ‘Captain St George, how many of the enemy had the chest and head shots?’

  ‘We counted twenty-eight, sir,’ he replied.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘Yes! Goddamn, yes! Tjilatjap airport!

  What was her name?

  Anna, that’s right, Anna!

  The most beautiful young creature

  I’ve ever seen.

  Violet blue eyes, remarkable!’

  Colonel Greg Woon

  US Army Air Force Command

  Guadalcanal, August 1942

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘You try a bit of everything,

  insects and plants,

/>   if they don’t make you sick

  then you can eat them.

  It is like life, trial and error with

  occasionally a little good fortune.’

  Lieutenant Gojo Mura

  Electrical Communications Unit

  Ministry of Colonisation, Rabaul

  Seconded to Mount Austen

  Guadalcanal Island, 1942

  BATHED, BRUSHED AND BUSHY-TAILED, wearing the full blue serge never intended to be worn in the tropical heat, I arrived at the medal presentation parade. Because I was in the parade, Belgiovani had been put in charge of both the recording and the commentary for the final episode of a four-part Radio America report we’d prepared for the boss. Episode one of the first night on the ridge had been flown to Washington and a report had come back that the Pentagon was impressed and wanted more of the same.

  Colonel Woon was rather pleased with himself. Mums and dads all over America were getting an appreciation of what their sons were going through to keep the Land of the Free… well, I guess, free. But in this final episode they wouldn’t be hearing the blow-by-blow link man in the educated voice of my imitation of Colonel Woon, but the narrative would go into the homes of America in pure Brooklynese. I could almost hear Belgiovani: he’d be adopting a confidential tone just above a whisper: ‘Now folks, da General is geddin’ ready. His pudden on ’is glasses t’make da speech t’da marines all assembled heuh taday. Dis a historic occasion for one an’ all and it is a great priviluge ta be standin’ heuh ’mong da wounded an’ da brave.’

  It was decoration time for a lot of men who had fought valiantly. The parade began with a speech from Major General Vandegrift, the usual sort of thing: annals of marine history, pride in the flag, pride in the marines, in the name of freedom, naming the battle officially as ‘Bloody Ridge’, praise from the President and congratulations all round. Then a staff officer called the names of the wounded; all would receive the Purple Heart. Those marines who hadn’t been evacuated to Noumea (the more seriously injured went to Brisbane) and were able to get to the presentation, many bandaged, others limping, came forward to be pinned by the general with Colonel Edson standing beside him to shake each one by the hand.

  After the wounded came the Bronze and Silver Stars for gallantry on the field of battle, some of these also being awarded to absent wounded. The recipients who were present were pinned and congratulated, whereupon the general announced that Colonel Edson had been awarded the Medal of Honor, the equivalent of our VC and every bit as hard to earn. Spontaneous cheering followed the announcement as it was seen as recognition of the battle of Bloody Ridge and its importance to the war effort in the Pacific.

  While not being allowed to wear the navy medal I had been awarded, I nevertheless felt it was an honour being allowed to participate in the parade and to stand alongside the lieutenant in the platoon that was nearest the rostrum. I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed, because I was a bit. But I was comforted by knowing that I’d proved to myself that I had the courage to fight in a fair dinkum battle, which helped quite a lot to assuage my guilt at my lack of courage with the Java beach burials. But honour or not, I was sweating like a pig in my navy blue serge and after an hour standing in the tropical sun I couldn’t wait for the parade to finish so that I could shower and get back into jungle greens. With the general awarding the big gong to Colonel Edson, I reckoned that must be about it, time to pack up and go home.

  Colonel Edson stepped up to the microphone and announced that there was one more duty to perform, that a special citation and award of the Navy Cross was to be made to Lieutenant Nicholas Duncan of the Royal Australian Navy. He then read a (thankfully) brief outline of my part in the battle to hold the ridge: conspicuous gallantry in the face of — blah, blah, blah.

  To my astonishment the battalion was brought to attention. I confess I was physically shaking and wanted to make a run for it. I could feel a flush of heat rising up my neck and to my face. Then the lieutenant beside me came to sudden attention and said quietly out of the corner of his mouth, ‘I’m your escort. Let’s go, Popgun Pete.’ He used the playful nickname the marines had given me after Bloody Ridge.

  As we marched forward the band struck up ‘God Save the King’. It was a huge gesture and I shall never forget it. It was undoubtedly the most singular honour and tribute I have ever received.

  General Vandegrift pinned me, knowing I couldn’t wear the medal officially, then shook my hand and said, ‘Well, Lieutenant Duncan. I want you to know the United States Marine Corps happen to think your promotion to naval lieutenant was both fortuitous and thoroughly justified. Well done, son.’

  The following morning I was called from the radio tent to see the boss who, after I’d duly saluted, bade me be seated. He’d congratulated me the previous afternoon and now it was business as usual, or almost.

  ‘We’ve asked the States to find a Japanese–American soldier to be trained in radio intelligence and although Major General Vandegrift has asked me to release you for intelligence operations in the field, I’d like you to remain long enough to train the new man. How long do you anticipate that will take, Nick?’

  I thought for a few moments, knowing that it wasn’t about training but about having the courage to follow a hunch, to create your own version of a ‘Nick Knack’ while thinking not in your own language, but in Japanese. ‘Well, sir, if he’s been brought up with Japanese spoken in the home he’ll probably pick things up fairly quickly. The hard yakka is all done by Corporal Belgiovani.’

  ‘Yakka? Talk American, Nick.’

  ‘Hard work, sir — the technical aspect. But it’s more than that. Belgiovani seems to have a genius for sifting out the voices of the various Japanese field radio operators. They have all been given nicknames and we’ve created a character profile on each and the way they like to operate. After a while it’s like reading their minds, you can almost tell if they haven’t had breakfast.’

  ‘Nicknames?’

  ‘Yes, sir. “Motor-Mouth”, “Spitfire”, “Misery Guts”, “Goat”, “Greta Garbo” —’

  ‘Greta Garbo?’

  ‘Doesn’t say much and likes to be alone,’ I explained.

  Greg Woon laughed. ‘We will miss you, Nick. You certainly have developed a knack.’

  But I was quick to protest. ‘No, sir, it isn’t really that hard. It’s like being familiar with how a friend expresses himself and then judging his mood. The new bloke — er, guy, will soon enough get the hang of it. “Goat”, for instance, has a fist that transmits morse code smooth as silk, “Misery Guts” thumps it out like he’s using a three-pound hammer. It’s not hard.’

  ‘I sincerely hope it’s not, for everyone’s sake,’ the boss said.

  I hesitated, then said, ‘Sir, I know it’s none of my business. But do you think you could promote Corporal Belgiovani to sergeant?’

  The boss’s expression changed to one of alarm. ‘What did I think I just heard you say, Nick?’

  ‘Belgiovani to sergeant, sir.’

  ‘Yes, that was what I thought you said. I’ve always considered it a minor miracle that he managed to claw his way up to the dizzy heights of corporal. What are you saying? That he’s earned the extra stripe because he was on the ridge and saw combat?’

  I grinned. ‘No, sir, I don’t think he saw very much from his position at the bottom of our dugout. There has to be a worse soldier in the American army but Belgiovani, without question, would qualify for the grand finals.’ In my mind I was comparing him with the little bloke, but I reckon Kevin was half a nick on a rifle butt above him. Then I added, ‘There also has to be a best field radio operator in the United States Army Air Force Intelligence — and he has to be somewhere near the top. He has a genius for sifting out the voices and isolating the unique morse fist of every Japanese operator. The wizards as well as the brave should be recognised; in my mind he has earned the promoti
on, sir.’

  ‘That’s pretty full-on. I’ll think about it, Nick. What’s a morse fist? You mentioned the term before.’

  ‘Well, sir, every operator using morse possesses a series of rhythms, speed and pauses that is referred to as his “fist”. It’s like his signature if you have an ear for it. I can’t recognise each one very well, but Corporal Belgiovani is a whiz.’

  Colonel Woon grinned. ‘What the hell! With the acceptance of our broadcasts to the States we’re expanding the section and we’ll need a sergeant anyway. I guess Belgiovani won’t ever have to lead a squad of men into battle, so the American armed forces are not placed in any immediate danger. I’ll have my clerk draft the paperwork. Sergeant Polanski will be thoroughly disgusted and that’s not an altogether bad thing.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ I knew that I’d instantly added to the Battle-Hardened Brute from Brooklyn’s bullshit quotient. I could almost hear it now: ‘After da Battle o’ Bloody Ridge dey made me a sergeant. I ain’t saying so myself, but Colonel Woon, he said — I is only quoting him now, yer unnerstand — “Belgiovani, we is elevatin’ you to da rank of sergeant for your leadership, courage and competence at Bloody Ridge.”’ But of even greater importance, with his new rank he’d be allowed to eat in the sergeants’ mess where the chef from the Waldorf Astoria ran the kitchen. Belgiovani would think he’d died and gone to heaven.

  The new Japanese–American translator, Private Lee Roy Yamamoto, finally arrived. He was the eldest son in a third-generation Japanese–American family. This lengthy American background had exempted them from being interned as enemy aliens. Yamamoto had volunteered even before Pearl Harbor, but in the paranoid climate that then prevailed this could have been seen as deeply suspicious — enemy infiltration into the army. He’d finally been vetted by the FBI and given a high security clearance. Belgiovani expanded like a puffer frog when he realised he was now the senior rank in the radio unit.