Amongst the Dead (33 page)

‘There were three of them, Will. Fulton was the third.’

I’d emerged from my state of shock sufficiently to hear Glen’s words, if not to fully comprehend them. Fulton’s body had been removed from view, and the patch of blood where his head had touched the ground had been covered over. It might never have happened.

‘I did tell you.’

‘You told me that you didn’t think it was true.’

‘Yes. I lied. We do that. I needed you to come with me.’

‘Why me?’

‘I wanted Brian. I ended up with you.’

I didn’t hate Glen Pyers at that moment. He seemed so remote from whatever it was I understood as human that no emotion made sense in relation to him. I didn’t feel in any danger, either. He’d done what he’d come there to do, and had no investment, for the moment, in harming any other living thing.

‘Why did you need me here?’

‘You’re a witness.’

‘Isaiah is a witness.’

‘Isaiah can’t tell Peter Gilbert what we want you to tell Peter Gilbert.’

‘He doesn’t know that his son was a traitor?’

‘No.’

‘You lie to each other in Intelligence?’

‘Peter Gilbert has earned the right to believe that he has raised a son of whom he can be proud, and not a misguided little fascist whose sympathies were with the enemy.’

‘I don’t understand the moral universe you inhabit, and I still don’t understand why you needed me, or preferably Brian, as a witness.’

In a chilling perversion of the word’s meaning, Glen said, ‘It’s a courtesy. We wanted a member of Fulton’s family to be able to report to his parents that he’d died quickly, painlessly, in the defence of his country, and that they should take comfort in the fact that he’d made an honourable death.’

‘Do you seriously expect me to tell this monstrous lie to my mother and to Fulton’s father?’

‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘We not only expect it; we insist on it. I think, when you reflect on this, you’ll agree that injuring your mother with the truth about her son achieves nothing. If, however, you find yourself unable to offer her the protection of a generous lie, the gag of the Official Secrets Act can be applied.’

‘Lies protect, and truth injures. My God, it’s all smoke and mirrors with you, isn’t it?’

‘We want you to report something like this …’ He began pacing in front of me, constructing the scenario.

‘We were out on patrol, just the four of us. Brian, of course, was laid up with a scorpion bite. It was a routine patrol, down along the Roper River …’

Chapter Thirteen

independence

‘… AND WE WERE GLAD TO BE AWAY FROM ROPER BAR
. Fulton liked patrols. He felt like he was doing something. He knew he was one of the best signallers in the
NAOU
, but he liked the bush.’

Mother had fallen against Peter Gilbert, whose face was grimly set against the threat of tears. We were seated in the front room of Mother’s house in Garton Street in Princes Hill. Brian sat beside me, his head bowed.

The unspeakable news of Fulton’s death had been told to them before our arrival. It had taken us two full weeks to return to Melbourne, during every day of which we’d talked ourselves hoarse about Fulton and about what could have led him to despise his country so much that he would turn against it. I had no insights to offer, and Brian couldn’t recall a single word or act that hinted at his discontent, let alone disaffection. He must, we thought, have been seduced by the politics of someone he met after joining up. Battell perhaps, or Ashe.

‘I would never have thought he was so impressionable,’ Brian said.

‘Did he know that Peter Gilbert was his father?’

‘I’m not sure. We never talked about it. He was the only father he ever knew, and he knew that Peter loved him. I never, ever saw him express any anger or lose his temper. He was happy, always happy.’

Mother’s eyes were open and staring into space. Her hands clung to Peter Gilbert’s arm, giving the impression that if she let go she would slip from her chair and collapse at his feet. I thought now that Glen had been right. If I’d told them the truth they might both have simply died of grief.

‘There was no warning. We had no radio with us. We’d only intended being out overnight. It was the afternoon, and we were sitting, chatting, having a mug of tea. I saw the shadow of a plane move across the ground, but there was no sound of an engine. It was strange. No sound at all. Suddenly it was above us, gliding low, almost touching the tree tops. There was a burst of machine-gun fire, the plane’s motors were switched on, and it banked away from us. I could see the pilot’s face, they were so close. I didn’t know that planes could do that. Fulton was hit, and he died instantly. He wouldn’t have even known what had happened. He certainly didn’t suffer in any way. The wound was just above his heart.’

‘Who else saw this?’ asked Peter Gilbert. His Intelligence training obviously made him sceptical about the clinical neatness of his son’s death.

‘There were two other men — Corporal Glen Pyers, who was with Brian and me in the Concert Party, and an Aboriginal man named Isaiah.’

He nodded. I could see that he knew I was lying, but I hoped he thought the lie had to do with the speed and ease of Fulton’s death.

‘There was nothing anybody could do,’ Brian said quietly.

Mother raised herself upright.

‘I’m sorry you had to see your brother die, Will. Truly I am. I’m glad, though, that Fulton didn’t die amongst strangers, like so many soldiers do. I’m glad of that.’

She came across to me, leaned down, and kissed me on the top of my head.

‘Thank you for telling us what happened. It can’t have been easy.’

I caught Peter Gilbert’s eye, and felt he knew I’d made it easier than it ought to have been.

‘I’ll make a pot of tea,’ Mother said, and left the room. Her tone and movements were dull and muted, and I wondered whether Fulton’s death had robbed her permanently of the capacity for joy.

Peter Gilbert cleared his throat. He and Mother had had a fortnight to accept Fulton’s death, so he was calm when he spoke.

‘I think Agnes and I both know that what you just told us isn’t quite how it happened. I’m grateful that you spared your mother the whole truth. I, however, would appreciate knowing it.’

Glen Pyers had assured me that Army Intelligence would support the version of events we’d settled on, so I had to assume that Peter Gilbert had already heard that Fulton had died in machine-gun fire from a Japanese aircraft. Just because the stories matched wouldn’t reassure him of their accuracy. Brian and I had also been instructed that we were not to tell Peter Gilbert that his former position in Intelligence was known to us, or that we had knowledge of his role in sending us to the West Alligator River. Perhaps they didn’t have absolute confidence in Peter Gilbert. It was more likely, though, that this was a part of the wretched mechanics of allowing no one to see every piece of the puzzle.

‘What I told you was essentially true,’ I said, and made a show of finding what I was about to say awkward and difficult.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘Fulton
was
shot from a gliding Japanese plane.’

‘What sort of plane?’

‘I’m not an expert on planes. It was a twin-engine job. I was told it was a Mitsubishi something or other.’

That seemed to confirm something for him, and I was glad that Glen had insisted on this detail being a part of the story. It lent verisimilitude to the version Gilbert heard from me and the version he’d heard from someone in Intelligence.

‘He was shot, but I’m afraid he didn’t die immediately.’

‘Ah,’ Peter Gilbert said, and he visibly relaxed, as if now he could accept the reality of Fulton’s death, because now he was hearing the truth.

‘How long?’

It had been Glen’s idea to offer an alternative fiction of a slow death if Peter Gilbert refused to accept the preferred fiction of a quick one.

‘Not long.’

‘How long?’

Again I hesitated, apparently reluctant to speak the words.

‘He wasn’t shot in the heart. He was shot in the stomach and in the throat, and he must have …’ I stumbled ‘… he must have lived for more than an hour. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘Thank you, Will. I’m glad you were with him. I’m sure it made a difference.’

‘No, Peter. No. It made no difference, no difference at all.’

This was the only truthful thing I’d said, but Peter Gilbert heard in it only the lie of grief and impotence in the face of an innocent young man’s death.

‘I’m sure, Will. I’m sure it did make a difference.’

He offered a comforting smile, and I felt ill with self-loathing in the presence of his ability to find sympathy for me amongst all the violent emotions that must attend the death of a son. The truth injures, and lies protect, Glen had said. As I looked at Peter Gilbert I was obliged to accept and acknowledge his sympathy. Who, I thought, is protected? I felt naked, ashamed, and morally bankrupt, and that is why I began to cry. Even as I sobbed, I knew that Peter Gilbert thought I was crying for Fulton.

Brian and I arrived at Victoria Barracks at nine o’clock in the morning. It was Wednesday, 9 December — just over two months since we’d sat in James Fowler’s office and accepted his assignment. We were sitting there once more, as instructed — and I was determined that this was to be the last instruction I would take from Fowler or from anyone else in Intelligence. He was late and, as I looked around me, I marvelled that decisions made in this mean, little space he’d been allocated could go out into the world and result in three men being killed, in secret — and that the deep, obliterating shadow of secrecy could close over these acts, so that no one would mention Andrew Battell, Nicholas Ashe, or Fulton Power (he never wore the name ‘Gilbert’) again, unless it was to lament their deaths as accidents of war. I knew that if there was to be any investigation into how it was that they came to betray us, neither Brian nor I would ever be privy to it or to its findings.

James Fowler entered the office, sat behind his desk, and looked solemn. I hated him.

‘Well done,’ he said.

I didn’t trust myself to speak.

‘Our brother is disgraced and dead,’ Brian said. ‘What exactly is it that you think we did well?’

‘You stayed the distance. You did everything that was asked of you, and you may well have helped prevent a Japanese invasion of this country.’

‘Do you know of a young soldier named Rufus Farrell?’ I asked savagely.

‘He was attached to your brother’s section, wasn’t he?’

‘He was attached to
me
.’

‘Oh, yes. That sounds like it was a most unfortunate accident.’

‘It shouldn’t have happened. It needn’t have happened.’

‘It was Major Warmington’s judgement that he needed you and Private Farrell away from Roper Bar at that time. Whatever his reasons were, I have absolute confidence that they were justified and correct. Private Farrell’s death was a tragedy, but it is only one amongst thousands.’

Brian jumped in.

‘Archie wanted it to be me, and not Will, who saw Fulton’s death. I didn’t know that at the time. He thought Fulton’s father would prefer me as a witness. I confided too much in Archie. I told him more than I should have about our family.’

‘Where is Archie?’ I asked.

‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that. He’s recuperating well, and he doesn’t bear you a grudge, Will. You took him completely by surprise, and no one’s done that for a long, long time. He did want you to know, though, that the surprise wasn’t a good one. He hadn’t expected you to be quite so spectacularly wrong-headed. They’re his words, not mine.’

‘I see. I’m glad in that case that he didn’t get out of this unscathed. Please let him know that I’m proud of my contribution to his discomfort.’

‘And Glen?’ Brian asked hurriedly.

‘Corporal Pyers has been redeployed. He’s one of our best men. It’s unlikely that you’ll see him again. Intelligence is a bit like that, I’m afraid.’

‘Don’t be afraid,’ I said. ‘Intelligence seems to produce people I never want to see again. Believe me, I wasn’t looking forward to catching up with Glen over a cup of tea and nostalgically discussing his kills.’