‘Did you not take manacles?’ he asked, in an obviously disapproving voice.
‘Yes, they’re in my pack. I told you, they were unnecessary, staff sergeant.’
He shook his head, still not understanding. ‘Sorry, sir, I’ll have to do it now.’ He handcuffed poor little Gojo Mura while I explained that he was to be fed only a little rice and tinned fish. ‘Goddamn, sir, I ain’t seen nuttin’ that looks or tastes like a fish since we left San Diego.’
‘Rice and vegetables then,’ I repeated. ‘He’ll die if you put him on our diet.’
‘This would be a tragedy?’ he queried.
‘Staff sergeant, be careful. This prisoner is a major intelligence asset. Colonel Woon will fall on you like a ton of bricks if anything happens to him,’ I warned, using the boss’s name without a prickle of conscience.
The following morning, after a glorious night’s sleep and back in Colonel Woon’s office for a debriefing, he said, ‘I’m not at all sure that J.V. Mather’s advice to go it alone was such a good idea, Nick. Are all Australians determined to get their own way?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Working your way into field work and risking your life?’
‘No, sir, but Mather was correct, it was a one-man operation.’
‘Private Yamamoto acted as interpreter when I questioned the prisoner last night. As I understand it, his cave was nearly three hundred feet up a sheer rock face and you got him out?’
The rumours were already beginning. Popgun Pete was back in the marine gossip columns. ‘No, no, sir,’ I hastily corrected him. ‘I waited at the bottom in the jungle until he came down for a shit.’
The boss laughed. ‘What? Caught him with his pants down?’
‘Not quite, sir, but the rest was fairly easy. Lieutenant Gojo is not a very willing soldier; in fact he makes Sergeant Belgiovani seem practically gung-ho.’ I then told the boss the story, including the presence of the rusted rifle. ‘So, anyone could have captured him, sir,’ I concluded — which was perfectly true, although it would have helped if the ‘anyone’ spoke Japanese and liked butterflies.
‘That’s bullshit, son,’ Greg Woon said. ‘The code books alone are a major breakthrough in Intelligence. We’re putting you in for a commendation.’
‘Thank you, sir, but, I promise, it is misplaced and unnecessary. It was, like I said, a very easy operation.’
I didn’t want to diminish the honour but, as with being made a lieutenant, it was another totally undeserved recognition.
‘Could I ask a favour instead, sir?’ I asked clumsily. ‘Could you insist that Lieutenant Gojo gets only rice and tinned fish with a few steamed vegetables? Oh, and tinned pears! He has taken to our tinned pears. It’s the sugar, I think. But all to be given in very small quantities for the next few days. He’s very malnourished, having lived off insects and weeds and a spoonful of rice every day. He could die if he is subjected to a high-protein Western diet.’
‘And you’d care if that happened, Nick?’
‘Oh, yes, sir, very much. Gojo Mura is a remarkable artist.’
‘Artist? What’s he paint?’
‘Butterflies, sir.’
‘Jesus H. Christ!’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘I hope you don’t want
your uniform or boots returned because
they went into the incinerator.
A rubber-glove job if ever there was one —
never know what could be lurking in the seams.’
Dr Ross Hayes
Heidelberg Military Hospital,
December 1942
GOJO MURA WAS HELPFUL with information, recalling for us what Japanese shipping was operating in the immediate area. He was polite and answered our questions and, quite correctly, volunteered no information he had not been asked for specifically.
Colonel Woon was impressed when I showed him the sketchbook he’d given me. ‘My dad would have loved someone like this as an assistant. He was a lousy photographer, never happy with the specimens he recorded. You’re right, Nick, they’re good.’
‘Sir, I realise the prisoner was captured, so to speak, under the American flag, but do you think you could pull some strings and have him sent to Australia?’ I added, ‘That way I can keep in touch. I’d like to get to know him better after the war.’
The boss gave me a quizzical look. ‘Nick, you’re a bit of an enigma, aren’t you?’
‘Enigma, sir?’ It would have been the last way I would have described myself.
‘Well, son, take your actions on Bloody Ridge. Now you want to be bosom pals with the Japanese?’
‘One individual Japanese, sir — this bloke would apologise if he killed a fly.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, son.’
‘Thank you, sir. That way I can get someone to, you know, keep an eye on him; send him sketchbooks and painting materials.’
‘What, so he can paint all the Australian bugs?’
I laughed. ‘It will have to be a very long war — we’ve got more than our fair share of those, sir.’
Almost from the time I had brought Gojo Mura down from the mountain things had begun to change. The Japanese were now clearly on the back foot and the 1st Division marines were beginning to leave the island. US regular army units had started to arrive by mid-November and there was a general sense of happiness as preparations for the major exodus began to take place. Of course, for security reasons, nobody (that is, nobody outside of headquarters) knew the precise date when the handover would occur.
Three days after I’d arrived back from the mountain Colonel Woon began his usual short, morning briefing session with ‘Nick, while it’s not yet general knowledge, the marines are moving out on the 9th and 10th. As you are aware, we’re all in pretty bad shape and the 1st Marine Division needs a rest. You may not know the full extent of the damage but while we’ve already sent well over three thousand men off for medical attention elsewhere, we’ve got at least another three thousand who need some sort of hospital attention, mostly for malaria, but quite a lot have other tropical diseases that come from being pitched into hell. We’re starting to kick the Japs in the butt here in the Pacific and the balance has shifted, but not without cost. It’s now the job of the US Army to do the search and destroy, the cleaning up here on the island.’
‘Sir, do you know where the marines are going and are we staying here?’ I asked.
‘Affirmative and negative — that’s what I wanted to tell you. The 1st Division marines are going to Australia for rest and retraining, to Mel-bourne. Our orders have not come through, but I anticipate our unit may well be required to stay with the US Army.’ He shrugged. ‘The men coming in are fairly green and know nothing about fighting the Japanese. I guess it’s fair to speculate that our Intelligence unit will be needed more than ever. You will — we all will — be required to conduct training classes for the new field radio operators and eventually our own replacement personnel. These guys are really civilians with a few weeks in boot camp.’ He paused and looked directly at me. ‘Are you disappointed, son?’
‘No, sir; I guess we still have a job to do here,’ I replied, but of course I was secretly disappointed. Although I didn’t want to leave without the colonel, Beljo and Da Nip widda Chip, like everyone else I’d had a gutful of the island. I have neglected to mention that I’d had two bouts of malaria — nothing too bad, three or four days feeling crook, then back on my feet again. On each occasion Colonel Woon had volunteered to send me home to Australia. But I knew how it was with me and malaria, and that I’d soon come good again. Well, to ‘come good’ is the knowledge that you can get through the day but, in the process, still feel pretty crook.
Colonel Woon had come down with a bout, but he’d refused to be evacuated. Lee Roy Yamamoto had a bout as well. The exception was Sergeant Belgiovani who, despite bei
ng unequivocally the least fit soldier on Guadalcanal, had, with the exception of an upset stomach for three days (no doubt from overeating), remained unaffected. The theory was that the local mozzies couldn’t penetrate the blubber.
The original Army Air Force Intelligence unit was a team and we liked to think that each of us, in his own way, was indispensable to the others. This was nonsense, of course. With the arrival of the regular army I knew we’d probably lose the closeness of being a small but unique intelligence force. The unit had been expanded and we now had twelve operators, most of them in training, with the sergeant from Brooklyn, the survivor of Bloody Ridge, being the senior non-commissioned officer and strutting about with a sense of happy and harmless self-importance. His war memoirs were being expanded: ‘Wid duh marines gone, I hadda train duh whole goddamn U-nited States Army who don’t know nuttin’ ’bout radio in duh jungle!’ In the meantime the idea of letting down your mates because of a touch of malaria, and lying between soft clean sheets in a hospital in Melbourne with pretty nurses in attendance, was unthinkable. What am I saying?!
On the morning of the 9th of December the boss came into the radio tent. We all jumped up to salute him and he responded with a casual half wave, his fingers not even close to touching the brim of his cap. ‘Come with me please, Lieutenant,’ he instructed.
Together we strolled towards the beach where the revving of trucks, jeeps and landing craft reached us and made it obvious the big move was under way. Then emerging onto the beach we saw the marines lounging around, happy as sandboys, waiting for the signal to board the waiting ships. They looked like kids going on an excursion — and then it struck that, like me, they were in their late teens or early twenties, and in peacetime they’d still be regarded more or less as kids. ‘Lookee here!’ one of them shouted. ‘It’s Popgun Pete! Hiya, Lootenant! Hiya, Colonel!’ they called happily, knowing they would be allowed some slack on this of all mornings.
Several of their officers broke away and came to greet us, exchanging the usual pleasantries. The Americans are invariably polite as a race. General Vandegrift had left by plane but his senior colonel came over and greeted us. I snapped a salute just in case the prevailing laissez-faire attitude on the beach didn’t extend to headquarters staff. He looked at me, grinned, and gave a return salute so casual it would have made the colonel’s earlier one in the radio tent seem presidential. ‘Nick, your name came up at dinner several nights ago when we were discussing the capture of the Japanese radio man on the mountain. Well done, by the way.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ I answered, having grown weary of explaining how Gojo Mura had practically captured himself.
‘Well, the general asked me to pass on his comment to you via Colonel Woon here, but now I can do so myself. He said, “You tell Nick Duncan as long as there’s a 1st Division marine around, he’ll always have a buddy”.’ He smiled and extended his hand. ‘Thanks, buddy,’ he said quietly. It was one of those moments when you feel a lump in your throat and you know you dare not speak.
As we watched, a long line of marines began to file onto the landing craft and for the first time it struck me how beaten up and tired they looked. While the mob on the beach had seemed cheerful enough, chiacking with us, it was a last attempt at keeping their good humour. These blokes who were embarking were really down. I guess they were loading the sick first. Their uniforms were ragged and they walked with a weary gait, heads hanging, chins almost touching their chests. They were well and truly stuffed. Once a mighty division, seven thousand men had been lost — either killed, wounded or sick; the enemy probably had lost four times that number. These ragged heroes had withstood everything a fanatical and determined Japanese force could throw at them for four months without respite. They’d spent a lot of this time living in stinking, mosquito-infested mud holes and rain-lashed tents, with air raids and bombardment from the Japanese navy almost daily occurrences. They’d repulsed the enemy in several major assaults, and the way they’d fought on Bloody Ridge would be remembered forever in the history of the United States Marines. If, as Napoleon said, a soldier marches on his stomach, then somehow they’d done all this while living on C rations or alternatively, a monotonous diet that (if Belgiovani’s latest complaints were to be taken seriously) even the chef from the Waldorf Astoria failed to improve. I would have willingly killed for a steak with a spot of rich brown gravy, a fresh green salad and new potatoes. I’d dreamed once of bread and butter pudding and woke up just as the spoon was about to enter my mouth.
I turned to Colonel Woon and without thinking commented, ‘These blokes are done like a dinner, Colonel. This mob is totally whacked!’
‘I think I get your meaning, Nick. I’m going to miss your colloquialisms. It had never occurred to me that the Australian vernacular only belongs tangentially to the English language. By the way, have you looked at yourself lately? You’re a big guy, but I guess you’ve lost thirty pounds, maybe more.’
I glanced down at my faded and torn jungle greens. The knees, long since out of my trousers, had been mended by whiz needle man Belgiovani, who’d patched them from scraps of an olive-green marine uniform he’d found somewhere. ‘My grandpa was a tailor in duh Depression, he taught me. He’d say, “Lissen, kid, if you c’n sew neat den you gonna eat sweet.”’ The jungle-green trousers were always a baggy fit — the idea was to keep you cool and make it comfortable and easy to move — but now they hung off me as if they were a couple of sizes too big. The loss of weight was probably due to the two bouts of malaria and what the marine medico who was treating me termed ‘a nasty gut infection’. My spare pair of boots (the first pair had long gone to boot heaven) were in the process of giving up, the canvas uppers beginning to peel away from the rubber sole.
It’s curious how you don’t see these things when they happen gradually. I guess it must be a bit the same as ageing; it happens so slowly that the mind adjusts. Furthermore, I hadn’t seen myself in a mirror for three months at least — wouldn’t have known where to find one. I looked at Colonel Woon, who I knew was thirty-five, and realised that he appeared closer to fifty. His hair had turned salt and pepper (more salt than pepper), there were deep lines etched from the corners of his mouth and the creases around his eyes were permanent and deeper.
‘I guess we’ve all taken a bit of a hiding, sir.’
‘Nick, you’re out of here, son,’ he said suddenly.
With the revving of the landing craft engines I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘You’re going back home.’ He must have seen my surprised look. ‘The order came from higher up. Your commendation’s come through and there’s a bit of something going to happen in Australia. It’s not the marine way to wear down a good man needlessly. You’ve done enough. In fact, more than enough, and it’s time for a rest. Not my orders, but I wouldn’t countermand them even if I could. I’ve also received a medical report; you’ve got a severe intestinal infection.’ He chuckled. ‘You’re whacked — done like a dinner.’
‘When, sir?’ I asked, completely taken aback at the news.
‘Before Christmas. You’ll probably have to spend it in hospital in Mel-bourne.’
I thought for a moment. ‘Sir, would you allow me to send a letter in the priority bag? There is someone in Australia I must notify.’
‘Sure, we’ll send it out first flight tomorrow. Give it to Sergeant Polanski, he handles the bag.’
Marg Hamilton had dropped me a line once a fortnight and I’d replied promptly. My letters were of necessity circumspect — ‘we did this and then we did that’ — purely routine stuff. I wrote a fair bit about Belgiovani and Yamamoto, throwing in Sergeant Polanski for a bit of variety, trying to be amusing, but there wasn’t a lot I was permitted to say. She’d been sent to Melbourne for a three-month training course that would culminate in her becoming an officer: Naval Lieutenant Marg Hamilton. How about that? Unlike my own elevation
I knew she thoroughly deserved it.
Her letters, by contrast, were chatty and personal, though not exactly lovey-dovey. I told myself that she wasn’t the sentimental type and, besides, she’d always insisted our relationship was strictly on her terms. At first she didn’t seem to like Melbourne much, missing Timmy (her dog) and especially Her Royal Highness Princess Cardamon (her Burmese cat). Her Aunt Celia had come all the way from Albany to care for them while Marg was away. Anyway, I felt I couldn’t exactly land on her doorstep in Melbourne, arms spread wide, greeting her with, ‘It’s me, Nick, your lover!’
In a state of some excitement, I wrote, telling her I’d be in Melbourne for Christmas. I was disappointed to be leaving my mates in the radio unit, but the thought of sharing Christmas Day with lovely Marg was more than a little compensation. Now that I was leaving the island, I realised how bloody tired and unwell I felt. I was building up to another bout of malaria and the gut thing caused me to have waves of nausea followed by a longing for a good meal.
A week later, on the 17th of December (I’d been told I was flying out on the 19th), a letter arrived with Marg’s familiar handwriting on the envelope. I tore it open with huge anticipation but also some apprehension — my dread was that she was writing to tell me she was going home to Perth for Christmas. Humans who love their animals passionately don’t always put other people first.
Melbourne
12th December 1942
Darling Nick,
You must know how very dear you are to me. My most earnest hope is that we will remain friends forever. I shall always cherish the time we spent together, and standing on the platform watching you leave Perth was a moment of infinite sadness I shall never forget.
But there is also the joy I felt that first night we made love and the times we were together. You are a very special and beautiful man, Nick. As I told you that first night, whatever subsequently happened between us was to be on my terms. I am eight years older than you and, at the time, felt that it would be unfair, knowing you had a sweetheart on her way from Java to Australia, not to allow you to take your leave from me graciously when the time came.
The Persimmon Tree Page 65