by Peter Corris
'Haven't you ever heard of Les Darcy?' Jacko said.
'Less Darcy? Sure I heard of him. Middleweight. Beat Jeff Smith. That how you say it? Lez?'
'Just throw us the makings,' Les said.
'OK. Back up.'
Harry's voice was light and careless. I couldn't see what happened next, but I heard Les yelp.
'You got me in the eye!'
'I told you to back up. I was pitcher for the Nippon Eagles, very minor league, but I had a good knuckle ball.'
'What's he talking about?' Richardson said.
'Never mind. I've got the makings. Shit, you've rolled them already. Good job of it, too.'
'I was rolling cigarettes when you were playing marbles.'
Harry chuckled again. 'Yeah, Dick's older'n he looks. He probably knew Less Darcy.'
'Les,' Jacko said.
Jacko pleaded, 'Come on, Les. My turn.'
I could see the next exchange, or attempted exchange. Les stretched his hand out, the paper held in the very tips of his fingers. Jacko's stumpy arm could barely clear the hole. There were several feet of space between them.
'Sorry, Jacko,' Les said. 'It's not going to work.'
Jacko groaned. 'You bastard, Les. You're supposed to be the Commo, and look at what's happened. You've ended up with two smokes.'
Harry's laugh bubbled out above the sound of the night birds and the wind in the trees around the perimeter of the camp. 'Haven't you guys heard about the way things are in Russia? The Communist bigwigs have got everything and the ordinary people have got nothing. That's the way things are. You can't change it.'
'Bullshit,' Les said.
Harry laughed again. 'Light up, enjoy your smoke. Tough luck, Jacko. Maybe us short guys should stick together.'
Three matches flared and three smokers began to soil their lungs.
Richardson was still in a complaining mood, although he'd drawn some comfort from Jacko's distress. 'Jeez, this is rough baccy. Where'd you get it?'
'From Willy Johnson,' I said.
'Hope he didn't wipe his arse with the paper first.'
'What's the time, Dick?' Harry asked.
'Getting close to 2100.'
'Shit, I'm scared. What's a trial like in this man's army?'
'It's not a trial,' Les said. 'It's a hearing.'
'What's that?'
Jacko laughed. 'They talk and you hear them.'
'That's what I figured.'
I finished my cigarette, which I'd smoked down to the last, finger-scorching, quarter inch. I was feeling butterflies in the stomach and the evening meal was threatening to come up. Tribunals, hearings, interrogations, whatever you like to call them, always affect me this way. My own, that is. Like most people, I quite enjoy a good murder trial when someone else's arse is on the line. When it's you in the dock, it's a different matter. All that interesting legal paraphernalia just feels like a rope tightening around your neck. The waiting is the worst part. You wonder how badly things can go against you and you start to feel guilty even if you're innocent. If you're guilty, you feel more guilty, and start to act accordingly. I'd been called a spy and it was wartime. You didn't have to know much history to realise the potential danger in that situation.
As I stood there looking out into the yard, I tried to think who there might be in Australia to vouch for me. My parents had to be dead or senile by now. I couldn't imagine 'Wild Bill' still being alive at ninety-something, the way he drank, smoked and ate. My sisters were probably married to bank managers or clergymen and living in Melbourne or Adelaide. I'd heard that my brother Tom had died of drink some years back but there was always Rory, my cousin, the tormentor of my youth. I wondered if he'd changed, grown more familial? I doubted it. Odds were he'd inherited the biggest whack of whatever 'Wild Bill' had left and would swear on a stack of bibles I wasn't his kin. No hope in that quarter; the Brownings have never been close.
I hadn't told the gaolbirds much of my own story, but I did now, to check how it would be received by an Australian audience. There was a sceptical silence.
'Never heard of any B fuckin' 52 coming down around here,' Jacko said.
'It was miles away,' I said, 'and badly off course.'
Richardson sneered. 'Still, you'd reckon someone would have heard about it. We patrol a pretty big area and we never got no signal. And that yarn about making a film. You don't look like a film star.'
'I'm not,' I said.
'Well, then.'
'It was sort of a secret thing.'
Richardson went into a coughing fit that seemed to shake the walls of his cell. 'Tell you what,' he wheezed at last, 'maybe they'll give you a secret trial and a secret hanging. For mine, you're a Jap spy. I reckon they'll do the two of youse.'
Suddenly, the gate to the exercise yard opened and there was a strong light flashing and the sound of military boots on concrete.
Here we go, I thought.
A sergeant in a crisp uniform accompanied by two privates, one of them carrying a hooded tilley lamp, marched up to my door and made a gesture that was very like a salute.
'Mr Kelly, I'm Sergeant Rutherford. I'm here to offer the CO's apologies and to escort you to the officers' mess.'
I heard whistles and catcalls coming from the cells of Les and Jacko.
'You bewdy, sarge. Did you tell old fat guts where to get off?'
'Good on you, Dick. You'll be right with the sarge.'
'Shut up, you lot! Private.'
One of the soldiers unlocked my door and opened it. I strolled out and shook hands with Rutherford. All at once I felt fine. Nothing was hurting.
'This way, Mr Kelly.'
'Just a minute.' I crossed the yard and gave the rest of my supply of cigarettes and matches to Jacko and Les.
'Good on you, mate.'
'Thanks, Dick.'
Rutherford watched impassively.
'What about Sergeant Kaminaga?' I said.
'I beg your pardon.'
I pointed at Harry's cell. 'Sergeant Kaminaga, my . . . er . . . prisoner. I think he'd like some hot coffee and an extra blanket wouldn't go amiss.'
'I'll see to it,' Rutherford said.
I straightened my jacket and gave a thumbs-up to Les, Jacko and Harry. 'Good luck, chaps,' I said in my best Flynnese.
'Don't overplay it, Dick,' Harry said.
8
There's nothing like a touch of adversity to make you appreciate the good times. I strolled across to the officers' mess, chatting with Rutherford, who treated me as something like a cross between a colonel and a crooner. I felt raffish and wondered if I looked it. I'd retained a handlebar moustache, but was otherwise clean-shaven. The Aboriginal orderly had hacked off a fair quantity of hair but there was still a good deal left. My clothes were a mess but a good carriage can compensate for that. Put a drink in my hand and I'd be ready to cope with anything.
Dr Crawford was waiting for me at the door to the mess, yet another Nissen hut, along with an officer who accepted Rutherford's smart salute.
'Thank you, Sergeant. Good evening.'
'Goodnight, sir.'
Rutherford and the privates sloped off. Crawford lifted his glass to me. 'Mr Kelly, this is Captain Talbot. He's the CO at present.'
I shook Talbot's hand. He had a grip like Johnny Weissmuller. He was about thirty with a square chin, beaked nose and eyes that had seen it all.
'Welcome, Mr Kelly. Sorry for the misunderstandings. Come in and have a drink.'
Some of the best words in the language, those. I went into the hut, which had asbestos-lined walls, a carpet square and heavily curtained windows. The light bulbs were low wattage and the space was very gloomy.
'We're practising blackout at the moment,' Talbot said. 'There's talk of Japanese air-raids.'
I hadn't heard any such talk from Harry, but I kept my counsel. Talbot introduced me to a young, fair Lieutenant whose name I've forgotten and to Warrant Officer Jim Clive. We shook hands diffidently; Clive was getting used to being treat
ed as an officer, I was wondering how long I'd have to wait for the drink.
'Jim's been on a course,' Talbot said. 'We're confidently expecting to hear news of his pip.'
'I was told you were away on a course, Captain.'
'Call me Lindsay. I was. Got back today to find this shemozzle. One look at those letters in your kit straightened things out. Why didn't you tell Gordon about them?'
We'd reached the bar by this time and I had time to think of an answer while drinks were being poured. A private soldier wearing a white jacket over his khaki shirt did the honours with aplomb. Of course, I'd snatched the letters up hastily and had no idea what was in them, but that wouldn't sound right.
'Too exhausted, I suppose.' I lifted my glass. 'Cheers. Besides, I knew it'd all sort out in the end. A few hours in the cooler never hurt anyone, eh, Lindsay?'
'Certainly wouldn't hurt Major Gordon,' Crawford muttered.
'Now, now, Barry,' Talbot said. 'The major can be useful at times.'
The whisky was good and the measure was generous. Talbot produced a tin of twenty Players and left them open for us to help ourselves. He only smoked one or two himself. Crawford smoked his own brand, Senior Service. Nervous Clive and I dipped in pretty frequently. I was starting to relax. 'Where's the major now? Seems only right to have a word with him.'
'Gone to Brisbane,' Clive ventured, blushing as he spoke.
I raised one eyebrow, but let it drop when I remembered Harry's warning. 'How does he get there?'
The other three officers were silent, permitting Clive to answer. 'There's an airfield at Cooktown.'
That was good news. Amiable though the company was, I had no wish to hang around this dusty neck of the woods any longer than necessary. I still had the problem of ferreting out what exactly was said in the letters from Major Smith's briefcase. It wouldn't do to be totally ignorant. The officers had already eaten, which was a pity as I could have managed a steak or two, but the drinks kept coming and we spent a happy couple of hours.
Crawford got sloshed in a gentlemanly way, and revealed his doubts about the sanity of Field Marshall Montgomery and the masculinity of Major Gordon. The lieutenant departed early. Lieutenant-to-be Clive drank and said very little. I gathered that he was from a prominent Melbourne family which had put many obstacles in the way of his joining the army proper.
Talbot was the dominant personality. I swear that it was only after an hour or so that I noticed the stiffness of his left arm. It transpired that he'd fought in Africa and New Guinea and suffered a wound that rendered him unfit for fully active service. Second in command of the North Queensland Militia Unit Number Four was the best post he could secure and he was grateful for it, even if it did mean dealing with incompetents like Major Gordon and slackers like Blue Richardson. He drank freely without seeming to be affected. I had to slow down as I was out of practice and I wanted to pick up anything about my situation that Talbot might let slip.
'So,' he said, 'this business is all rather hush-hush, eh?'
'Mmm.'
'Well, I'm sure it can all be sorted out and we can shoot you down to Sydney. It's those Japs out there in the bush that worry me. I've heard the gist from Barry.'
'Right,' I said. 'Yes.'
'Can't just leave them there. Never know what they might get up to. What about the B52?'
'What about it?'
'Well, there'd be things to collect, surely. Chaps to bury. That sort of thing.'
This is where I made my big mistake. 'I think the Japs blew it up. Sergeant Kaminaga and I saw a big fire and smoke cloud behind us.'
'Odd,' Talbot said. 'Why would they do that?'
I shrugged. 'Might have been an accident.'
He shot me a look that suggested he wasn't buying my story 100 per cent. There were a good number of holes in it. I hadn't explained how Harry and I had come to team up, nor how we'd tried to deprive the Japanese of any chance of following us.
'Anyway,' Talbot said. 'I can fire off a few signals to HQ and get some instructions.'
'Er, when d'you think I might be on my way, Lindsay? And there's the question of Sergeant Kaminaga, of course.'
'No problem about him,' Crawford slurred. 'POW camp in Cowra or some such place. Send him there. Probably make his fortune running an opium den.'
Talbot knocked back his sixth scotch. 'No hurry is there? My understanding is that your film lark is a distraction from a real film about the invasion of you-know-where.'
This was familiar territory. 'Right,' I said. 'So I think I should get on with it.'
Talbot shook his head. 'Might be more important things to do here.'
'But—'
'We'll see what tomorrow brings, shall we? Goodnight gentlemen. Barry will show you to your quarters, Mr Kelly. I trust you'll be comfortable.' There was a look in Talbot's eye I didn't like as he put his glass down and got to his feet. I can usually tell if someone's seen through me and Talbot had. I tried to carry it off with a manly nod and a weary wave of my Players, but I didn't feel confident. He sauntered away with his stiff arm held at a slightly odd angle. Clive said goodnight, which left Crawford and me to have a nightcap while I finished off the cigarettes.
'Good man, Talbot,' Crawford said.
Too bloody good, I thought. 'I can see that.'
Crawford nodded. 'The men like him. Hard but fair. Won't ask anyone to do anything he isn't prepared to do himself. That type.'
I knew that type only too well. The trouble with them is that they're prepared to do the most hellish things themselves and expect others to do likewise.
'His arm . . .'
'Doesn't worry him. I've seen him beat fit men ten years his junior over obstacle courses that would terrify you.'
'What d'you think he has in mind?'
Crawford contemplated the dregs of his drink as if he couldn't understand how the level had got so low. 'No idea, but you can bet it'll be rigorous. Things get very slack around here when Talbot's away. Gordon likes to play the martinet, but the men get away with murder despite Clark's brutality. But Talbot and Rutherford quickly bring them back into line.'
'Good,' I said.
'How was your Japanese companion when you left him?'
'Pretty well, considering.'
'Les Desmond and the rest will all be out tomorrow, peeling potatoes and chopping wood. Talbot doesn't believe in long stretches in the cooler.'
'They'll be glad.'
'I doubt it. I'm talking about a lot of wood and a hell of a lot of potatoes. Well, time to pack it in. We've put you in Major Gordon's quarters for the time being. I'm sure he won't mind.'
I got to my feet, a little unsteadily. 'That sounds fine. I'll just take along a few of these fags, I think.'
In fact, I took the tin, which had three or four cigarettes still in it. I had things to think about and didn't expect to drop straight off to sleep. Crawford signalled to the barman to shut up shop and we lurched out into the warm, moist night air.
Major Gordon's quarters consisted of a small, prefab house with a bedroom, sitting room and kitchen. There was a portable shower and a portable toilet at the back of the building and other comforts such as a radio and a gramophone. Barry, who confided again, drunkenly, that his first name was actually Barrymore, showed me through the place with the aid of a torch. When I mocked the idea of a Japanese air-raid he stiffened.
'Don't be too sure. The Japanese aren't beaten yet.'
I made a mental note to be careful—these men might seem to be out in the bush playing soldiers, but to them they were active participants in the war. Crawford departed after telling me that if I left my laundry at the front door, Gordon's orderly would take care of it. I did and then explored the Major's possessions out of curiosity. He had a good liquor supply and a dozen or so silk vests and undershirts. Well, I thought, nothing in that. They say Churchill goes in for the same thing. I might have considered pouring myself a drink and popping on a record or two, but Gordon's collection was exclusively operatic, w
hich is a form of music that leaves me totally cold—apart from a couple of the popular numbers and I can never remember which operas they come from. I drank several glasses of water to forestall a hangover and went to bed.
I slept well and late. When I awoke the first thing I saw was my pack, neatly placed on a chair in the bedroom. I scrambled up and dug into it. Everything was there except the letters. The sun had been up for a few hours and the water in the shower was almost warm. I stood under it, soaping myself and singing, until it ran out. I spared Harry one guilty thought. With his cuts and bruises a shower would be just the thing, but there was nothing I could do about it and, anyway, an enemy prisoner couldn't expect too much. The prisoner of war camp sounded . . . what was the word? I tried to remember it from my own days in the army. It came to me as I was drying myself on one of the Major's thick towels. Cushy—that was it. The Cowra camp was probably cushy.11
A knock came at the front door. I wrapped myself in the towel and answered it. A private soldier presented me with my clothes washed and pressed and told me that Captain Talbot would be pleased to see me in the CO's office at 1100 hours.
'Have I got time for a spot of breakfast?'
'I could do you an egg and toast, sir. Tea or coffee?'
Clean clothes, from underpants to jacket, more luxury. I shaved, trimmed the handsome moustache and dressed while hearing and smelling the sizzle of bacon and eggs. It's the only way to fight a war. Half an hour later, with a solid breakfast inside me and feeling very close to tiptop, I strolled across the compound and between the huts following a sign to the admin block. The sun was high over the dark hills that surrounded the camp and the day was getting sticky, but I didn't care. My misgivings of the night before had been replaced by confidence. Pretty soon, I'd be on a plane bound for Sydney and a continuation of the VIP treatment, with a few extra trimmings.
I turned the last corner and saw a group of men standing outside a prefab hut. A sign tacked up to a palm tree read ADMINISTRATION. Hope there's a fan inside, I thought as I approached. The men were standing to attention. I wondered whether a salute might be in order. I had an inkling that something was wrong when I recognised the men—Corporal Clark, Willy Johnson, Les Desmond, Jacko Waters and Blue Richardson. Only Jacko was smiling.