Browning Battles On

by Peter Corris

  Clark went to the door and bellowed for stretchers. The two Aborigines we'd encountered before, Willy and Charlie, arrived on the double and with the assistance of the orderly and a private soldier, we were carried across the dusty parade ground to a cement block building which had that ugly, straight-up-and-down look all prisons have. I should know, I've been inside enough of them. Crawford strolled along beside my stretcher, flicking at flies with his stethoscope.

  'Anything I can do for you?'

  'It's a long story.'

  'Pity. Gordon has the attention span of a gnat.'

  'I was on an American B52 that came down a couple of weeks ago. Trouble is, it was a sort of secret mission.'

  'God help you. Anyone else on board of any consequence?'

  I groaned. 'A Major Smith, from Washington.'

  'Smith. Is that the best you can manage?'

  'It's the truth.'

  'I'm a bit worried about what might happen when word gets around that there's a Japanese in camp.'

  'He's more of an American than a Japanese. He's happy to be out of it.'

  'Americans are scarcely more popular. We may be in for a fairly rough time. But chin up, Mr . . . what was the name again?'

  I was helpless and in the hands of the Australian military authorities where there were more charges, admittedly very old, against me than against Dillinger. Mentally I ran through the names I'd used in the army—Browning? Hughes? It was hard to remember.8

  'Kelly.'

  'Kelly, if you say so. I'll see what I can do.'

  The cement-block prison was simply a series of cells arranged around a tiny exercise yard. The building had an iron roof and each cell had a window placed too high for the prisoner to reach. Good design, because there was no glass in the window; it was just a hole in the wall and a small man might have wriggled through. No hope for me, of course, at six foot two with shoulders to match. Not that I was planning to escape. For all my dislike of being in prison and concern over what attitude the army might adopt towards me, I had no wish to be out in the bush again waiting to become ant food.

  The cell doors were made of heavy planks with a one foot square opening at about head height. They were bolted at the top and bottom on the outside, well out of reach of the occupant. The floor of the cell was concrete; the mattress was about as thick as a folded newspaper, and I don't mean the New York Times. There was a bucket and a blanket. For some reason, I didn't want to be carried inside. I asked the stretcher bearers to stop, climbed down and walked through the open door. Willy Johnson closed the door and I heard something drop to the floor as he did so. I didn't look at it.

  'Clark, where's my pack?'

  'Confiscated. I'm putting the Jap two doors away so you won't be able to hold hands.'

  'I hope you enjoy fucking your mother.'

  'What?'

  'You heard me.'

  Clark cleared his throat and spat at the opening in the door. I pulled away and the spittle missed me. 'I'll make you sorry you said that. Shove the other one in number six, Johnson, and make it snappy if you don't want to be in number seven yourself.'

  Johnson had dropped a twist of paper. I picked it up and found about a quarter ounce of tobacco and a dozen wax matches. The paper was torn from the Cooktown Courier of 31 February 1944 and looked recent. I sat on the mattress and listened to the other cell door open and close and the sound of the soldiers' boots departing. The Aborigines moved noiselessly on bare feet. A few voices called from other cells—obscenities, threats to Clark, requests for water, pleas to be released. My need for the tobacco was great but the need for information was greater. I examined the scrap of paper carefully. No possibility of a leisurely read and a smoke; I'd have to read the paper before I smoked it.

  The first interesting thing was the date. Assuming the paper was only a few days old, it confirmed that I'd been lost in the jungle for about two weeks. The nearest of kin would have been notified by now. In my case that meant only May Lin, my wife. She wouldn't have shed any tears. Coalminers were threatening to go on strike over the government's plan to scrap their pension scheme. The Americans had liberated Paris. I wished I was there to celebrate with them. I'd had a high old time in Paris after the end of the Kaiser's war and I didn't imagine the booze-up this time would be any different. 'Pig Iron' Bob Menzies and that rat Billy Hughes were celebrating Hughes' fifty years as an MP.9 Bob Hope had stopped the traffic in Sydney. Again, I felt envious. If I couldn't have Paris I'd settle for Sydney.

  Working with care and patience, I tore ten cigarette-sized pieces from the newspaper. I divided the tobacco into ten equal parts and half rolled the cigarettes, leaving them loose and unsealed. Saliva will only hold newspaper down for a short time. Not a shred of tobacco lost. I didn't know how long these smokes would have to last me and, besides, making them slowly and meticulously gave me something to do. When I'd finished I licked the edges of one of the papers and rolled the cigarette tightly. I lit it and sucked the smoke deep. It was rough twist tobacco but it tasted wonderful. I exhaled luxuriously.

  'Hey, what about a smoke?'

  'Got one for a digger?'

  'Give you ten bob for a packet.'

  I went to my door opening and looked out. I could see faces at two doors opposite me and the shadow of a hand waving from a door off to one side. I puffed smoke out into the yard.

  'Have a heart,' one of the voices said.

  'It's twist in newspaper,' I said.

  'Who cares? Chuck us one.'

  Another voice. 'Don't be a mug all your life, you'd never fuckin' catch it.'

  'Got a better idea, shithead?'

  'Yeah, when the coon brings the tucker he can slip them to us.'

  'That's a fuckin' hour away.'

  I raised my voice above their quarrelling. 'I haven't said I'll give any of you a smoke. I've only got half a dozen.'

  'Half a dozen. Christ! Give you a quid for the lot.'

  'You greedy bastard. Don't listen to him, mate. Share and share alike, right?'

  'That's communism, you prick. He's a Yank. Think he's going to be in that?

  'Shut your arse. Listen, Yank . . .'

  'I'm not American. Shut up, the three of you. I might give you a smoke in exchange for some information.'

  They all fell silent.

  'Well?'

  'What d'you want to—'

  'Shut up, Blue. He's a fuckin' spy. Can't you tell?'

  'Les, I'm dyin' for a smoke.'

  'You want to get shot for helping a spy?'

  'I'm not a spy.' I'd finished the cigarette now, smoked it down to a tiny butt. I flicked the damp, smouldering scrap out into the sunlight. 'And I'm not an American. I'm an Australian, like you.'

  Les said, 'I never heard any bloody Australian talk like you.'

  Blue was desperate. 'What about Errol fuckin' Flynn? He sounds a bit like this bloke.'

  Christ, I thought, why does that man pursue me wherever I go? But this was no time to object. 'Right,' I said. 'I've been a long time in the States, but I was born in Newcastle. I'm as Australian as you are.'

  The third, as yet unidentified, voice cut in. 'Prove it.'

  'Who're you?'

  'Jacko Waters. What won the Cup last year?'

  I didn't even have to think. 'Dark Felt.'

  'What come second?'

  'Fair go, Jacko,' Blue said. 'Who remembers what came second?'

  'I do. I backed the bastard.'

  Everyone laughed. We were getting along fine. It was the first proper social contact I'd had in weeks. A few beers, a good smoke and we'd be slapping each other's backs and playing two-up.

  Les was still sceptical. 'Anyone could learn the Cup winners,' he said. 'My brother can recite them from Archer on. Who's the lightweight champ of Australia?'

  'Vic Patrick. Welter as well.'

  'Come on, Les,' Jacko said. 'That's enough for me.'

  'Hang on,' Les said. You could tell that he was the type who enjoyed this sort of thing—a barroom
quiz kid. 'Who's the dopiest, most cowardly drongo in Australia today?'

  The only current information I had came from that scrap of newspaper. I racked my brains for an answer and it came. 'To my mind,' I said, 'that'd be a toss-up between that little rat, Billy Hughes, and "Pig Iron" Bob Menzies.'

  'You'll do me, mate,' Les said.

  So we were all mates by the time Charlie came around with our food. Jacko was the least friendly, but at least he managed to be civil to the Aborigine as we organised the distribution of the cigarettes and matches. Charlie got no response when he attempted to rouse Harry.

  'What's he doing?' I asked.

  'Just sittin' there, boss. He looks orright, but he's not movin'. Doesn't want his tucker.'

  'Give it to me,' Les said.

  Charlie passed the tin bowl and enamel mug through the opening in Les' door. The meal consisted of a meat stew with a few pieces of onion and potato in it and a mug of tea sweetened with condensed milk and sugar. I'd never tasted better food in my life and I wolfed it down. I wished I'd asked for Harry's portion.

  It was six o'clock by my roughly adjusted watch and the light was beginning to fade. Three hours approximately to my hearing. I was starting to feel anxious and I was probably the first to light up an after dinner rollie.10 We all stood at our doors, puffing the smoke out into the fast cooling air.

  'Jesus, that's good.'

  'I haven't had a smoke for a week.'

  'Better than a tailor-made any day. What's your name, mate?'

  'Dick Kelly,' I said. 'Gidday, Les, Jacko, Blue.'

  'Gidday, mate.'

  'Gidday.'

  'How ya goin', Dick?'

  Harry's voice cut through the chorus. 'When you've all finished jerkin' each other off, how about telling me where the fuck we are and what's going on?'

  'Jesus Christ,' Blue said. 'It's a Jap.'

  7

  That put me back to square one with the blokes. There was a long silence, then Les spat his cigarette out into the yard. It lay there, glowing softly and sending up a thin trail of smoke.

  'I told you not to talk to the bastard,' Les said. 'A fuckin' Jap lover. Jesus Christ.'

  Blue gripped the opening with both hands and rattled the door of his cell. 'If I could only get out I'd be across there and do you and your Jap bastard mate.'

  'Go fuck yourself, Aussie,' Harry said. 'Go stick your dick in your fuckin' bucket.'

  There was a roar of obscene abuse from Blue and Jacko. Harry taunted them both, calling them gaolbirds and cowards.

  'We're not cowards,' Les said.

  'No? Why aren't you in New Guinea? Why aren't you fighting?'

  'If you yellow bastards come to Australia we'll fight,' Blue said. 'You watch us.'

  'You're safe,' Harry jeered. 'No-one's invading your shitty country.'

  That set them off into a new frenzy of abuse and door rattling.

  'Hey, Dick, old buddy,' Harry yelled. 'Whaddya think of these assholes?'

  'Shut up, the lot of you.' I said. 'Harry here's a prisoner of war, but he's more of a Yank than a Jap. Ask him who holds the world featherweight title.'

  'Willie Pep,' Harry shouted.

  'Wrong, you Jap prick,' Blue bellowed. 'He lost it last June.'

  'I ain't seen a paper or heard a radio for nearly a year,' Harry said.

  That sobered and silenced everybody. I told the Australians about how I'd met up with Harry and what we'd been through. I told them about Lieutenant Okano and the snake and how Corporal Clark had beaten the shit out of Harry while he was asleep.

  'That'd be right,' Les said. 'Clark's an arse-licking turd.'

  'How're you feeling now, Harry?' I asked.

  'Scared. Am I looking at a firing squad or what?'

  The three Australians were stunned. 'You're a prisoner of war,' Les said. 'They'll put you in a camp somewhere. You'll get fed and treated decent.'

  'Not like your lot done to our boys in Malaya,' Blue said.

  'I don't know what you're talking about,' Harry said quietly. 'But is that the straight goods? A POW camp?'

  'Right,' I said.

  Harry laughed. 'I feel better, guys. I feel a whole lot better.'

  As the light died we exchanged life stories, the way imprisoned men do. In my experience, you can believe about half of what you're told. Les Desmond was a timber worker from southern Queensland who'd refused to go to the war because he was a Communist. War was a capitalist plot. He was prepared to defend Australia if the country was invaded, but that was all. Hence his service in the militia. Blue Richardson had sought exemption on religious grounds. He'd been a member of a pacifist holy-roller sect, but his application for exemption had been rejected and he was gaoled. A few weeks in gaol stripped him off his religion and his application to join the militia got him his release. Jacko Waters had been desperate to fight. He'd volunteered the day war was declared but was rejected on account of his shortness and bad teeth. He'd had the teeth fixed but couldn't add an inch to his height.

  'I tried spine-stretching,' he said. 'Hurt like hell and didn't do a bit of bloody good. I wore built-up boots and grew me hair thick on top. No go.'

  Eventually, the militia had accepted him. He was working his way north towards the action. The three men were serving a month in the cooler on a variety of charges—insubordination, drunkenness, brawling, destruction of army property and, in Richardson's case, being AWOL.

  'What's the drum on Major Gordon?' I asked.

  Jacko hawked and spat. 'That's about what he's worth. Fat bugger struts about giving orders, then pisses off to Brisbane every chance he gets. Captain Talbot and Sergeant Rutherford really run the place.'

  This sounded promising. 'Where're they now?'

  'Talbot's away on a course,' Les said. 'The sarge should be around. Didn't you see him?'

  'No. Just Gordon and the MO.'

  'Crawford's all right,' Jacko said. 'Funny bugger with that red tie and all. Reckon he's one of your mob, Les? A Commo? Has he given you the secret handshake?'

  'There's no secret handshake, you ignorant bugger. No, Crawford's a member of the bourgeoisie. But he wouldn't be the first I'd put up against a wall.'

  'Don't talk like that,' Harry wailed.

  'You'll be all right, Jap,' Jacko said. 'You'll be back in the paddy fields before you know it.'

  'I've never seen a fuckin' paddy field in my life. I'm from Honolulu.'

  'Fair dinkum?' Richardson said. 'Hula girls and all that?'

  'All that,' Harry sighed. 'You bet.'

  'Have they got them in Borneo?' Jacko said. 'I reckon that's where we'll get to fight next. Borneo.'

  'You'll never get to fight,' Richardson mocked. 'Less it's in one of them midget submarines the Japs sent into Sydney Harbour. D'ya hear about that, Jap?'

  'No,' Harry said. 'And the name's Harry, if you don't mind.'

  Richardson spat. 'Fuck you.'

  Les said, 'You're a prick, Richardson. Jeez, I wish I had a smoke.'

  I could see how the fights would have started and how the property would have got damaged. These men had frustrations boiling inside them with no outlet. But for now they all focused on the problem of getting tobacco smoke into their lungs. It was Les who proposed the solution.

  'Dick, if you shove your hand out to the left you can pass the makings to Richardson. He's a long streak of cocky shit, I reckon with a bit of a stretch he can pass them on to Harry. From where he is, Harry should be able to toss them through my peephole.'

  'No chance,' Richardson said.

  'What?' Les' voice was a snarl.

  'I'm not giving anything to a bloody Jap.'

  I rolled four cigarettes, kept one and five matches for myself, and wrapped three smokes and three matches in what was left of the newspaper. 'He doesn't smoke,' I said. 'He'll pass them on.'

  'That's not the bloody point,' Richardson whined. 'He's a Jap. They're the enemy.'

  'Listen, Richardson,' Les said. 'Right now, the enemy for me is any bastard who
tries to stop me getting a smoke. Do as I say, or I'll kick the living shit out of you the minute your time's up.'

  'All right,' Richardson said, and I could hear the fear in his voice. 'Give us the bloody stuff.'

  'Don't you drop it,' Les said. 'Or the same thing goes.'

  I flexed my fingers and gripped the folded paper between them. Then I extended my hand through the hole, stretching it as far as I could. With my various injuries and aches it wasn't easy, but I had well-developed survival instincts and Les was the man to be in with in this little group.

  'I can't reach it,' Richardson gasped.

  'You're not trying, you bugger,' Les grated. 'Shove your shoulder through, it won't bite you.'

  I had the beginnings of a cramp, but I persisted and felt the paper gripped at the other end.

  'Easy,' Les said. 'Easy.'

  'Got it!'

  I withdrew my hand and massaged my aching arm. I was longing to light my cigarette but, childishly, I didn't want to finish first. I could hear Richardson unwrapping the paper.

  'Righto, Blue,' Les said. 'Other arm out and pass it along to Harry.'

  'Why don't I try to lob it across to you? I reckon I could.'

  'You couldn't lob a golf ball into a swimming pool at twenty feet. Do it!'

  I couldn't see very well, given the angle and the darkness, but I could hear Richardson's gasps again and Harry's quiet chuckle.

  'C'mon, Blue, old mate,' Harry said in a dreadful parody of the accent. 'You can fair dinkum it.'

  'Shit,' Richardson said. 'Grab it and shut your dirty yellow mouth.'

  'Banzai,' Harry yelled.

  'What's that mean?' Jacko asked.

  'Nothing, really,' I said quickly. 'He yells it when he's happy. It means something like "bonzer".'

  Les' voice was calm now, the captain-coach inspiring his team. 'OK, Harry. It's not far. Can you see the hole? Jesus, what're you doing?'

  'Cleaning my fuckin' glasses, man.'

  'Glasses,' Les said.

  Harry laughed. 'Might be the time to take up smoking. Got me two good ones here. Just kidding, Lez. What kinda name's that, Lez?'