Billy Mack's War (12 page)

‘What did you want to know?'

‘Well, the other day you told me about when he got home, and how he couldn't eat porridge —'

‘Because of the rice, that's right.'

‘And you told me how he showed you his medal.'

‘Correct.'

‘But you never told me what he did to win that medal.'

Mr McAuliffe smiled. ‘I didn't, did I?'

‘Can you tell me? I mean, if you don't want to —'

‘I can tell you, although you must understand that it's not quite as simple as all that.'

Chapter 15 Billy

I was always trying to prise out of Dad what he'd done to earn his medal. It frustrated me, not knowing, especially since I was starting to get a feeling for the kind of life he'd been leading after he was captured. There was his thinness, of course, and his eye, plus a couple of scars on his legs where he'd had ulcers. There were welts around his wrists and a number of deep red shiny scars on his back as well, but I only ever glimpsed them, just as he was pulling a shirt on or wrapping a robe around himself after a shower.

There was the waking up during the night as well, the strange words he used when he was anxious, words I didn't recognise at first but soon learned to understand, like ‘speedo'. Apart from the photos I had of my father as a captain with his lads before they headed out, the role he'd played in the war seemed to be as a prisoner and nothing else. But the fact that he'd been awarded a VC told me there was something more. He'd done something heroic, and I longed to know what that was. I wanted to imagine him commanding his men, fighting bravely, gritting his teeth and doing his bit for the cause, not weighing less than I did and trying to stay alive in the jungle. Not working himself half to death building some railroad for the Japanese army. I wanted to know what the soldier Freddy McAuliffe had done, before he was the
prisoner
McAuliffe.

But he wouldn't talk about it. He didn't refuse unkindly. He'd just smile, pat my head and say, ‘Another time, laddie, another time.' But that other time never seemed to come. Even when we were driving together he found a way to dismiss my enquiries about the medal. He'd just point out something interesting, or change the subject, or just go silent. After a while I simply stopped asking.

I remember the first time Dad and I drove into town together. He'd been in a couple of times with Granddad, but this was the first time I'd gone with him. He had to pick up a few things from the rural supply depot, which was at the end of the main street, just before the bridge. We parked out the front, and I helped him lift the bag of feed from the barrow onto the back of the truck. The muscles in his arms were thin and wiry, and his forearms shook with the strain. I used all of my strength to help him. Finally we got the feed onto the truck, and as he slumped against the cab, breathing hard, he flashed me a quick smile. ‘That takes it out of a chap, Billy-boy,' he said, as he pushed his hat back and mopped his forehead with a hanky.

‘Are you all right?' I asked.

Aye,' he said, straightening up and stuffing the hanky into his back pocket. He glanced at the sky, squinting at the sun. ‘Too early for a drink, laddie?'

‘I don't know. What does your watch say?'

He shook his head and looked at the new wrist-watch Nan had given him as a welcome-back gift. ‘I'm always forgetting to look at it,' he said. ‘Right, time for a drink sure enough. Then we‘ll head back out. What do you say?'

‘Sure,' I replied, following him as he strode off down the main street towards the hotel.

I was proud to be seen in town with my father, although walking along that road I felt a little bad that he'd never had his chance to wave from the back of a trader behind Lionel Addison's tractor.

We reached the pub, and Dad stopped. He looked up at the front wall, above the verandah, where the name was painted. ‘When did they change that?' he asked. ‘When did they call this the Criterion?'

I shrugged. That had always been its name, at least as far as I knew.

‘That's odd,' he muttered. ‘Come on, I guess they still serve drinks.'

I followed him inside. There were a few blokes already in there, leaning against the bar. They looked around as we came in, and a couple of them raised their glasses. ‘Afternoon, Mack,' one said.

‘Afternoon, lads,' Dad replied. ‘When did this joint become the Criterion?'

‘They stopped calling it the Oriental in about '43,' another of the men replied.

‘Aye, is that right? Over there,' he said to me, pointing at a table. ‘I'll get you a drink.'

I sat down while he went to the bar. One of the men shook my father's hand and offered to buy him a beer. Dad thanked him, and the barman pulled him a pint. It was lemonade for me, which Dad brought over and placed on the table.

‘I'll just be a second, Billy-boy,' he said, before returning to the bar.

Meanwhile, the other men had carried on with their conversation. ‘Strong, real strong,' said one.

‘Good ride, too, from what I read,' said another. ‘That Cookie's no slouch. What d'you reckon, Freddy?'

‘About what?' Dad asked.

‘Rainbird. All right or what?'

Dad sucked the froth off the top of his beer. ‘You've lost me — who's Rainbird?'

His friends looked embarrassed by his response. ‘Sorry, Mack, this year's Cup winner.'

‘Oh,' Dad replied. ‘Missed that, I'm afraid.'

The men nodded. ‘Well there it is — Rainbird,' one said.

‘Aye, well, it's duly noted,' Dad said, giving a thumbs-up. ‘Rainbird. Got it. Ridden by Cook was it?'

The men nodded, as if this was the most important conversation they'd ever had.

Dad was thinking. ‘The same Cook that rode the winner in …'

‘'41,' someone said.

‘It was? Good effort then. Ta, lads. Cheers.'

‘No worries, Mack.'

I watched and listened to my father talking to the other men. Once they'd got their horse-racing discussion out of the way they moved on to other matters.

‘Hey, now, what did I see in the paper the other day?' one man said. ‘Something about a little something?' He grinned at Dad and winked at the others.

Dad shook his head. ‘What's that?'

‘Someone I know got a visit from someone special. Got something pinned on their chest?'

Now Dad nodded. He also looked very embarrassed. ‘It's no big deal,' he said.

The others all laughed loudly. ‘No big deal? Are you kidding?'

‘What'd you do, Mack? The paper didn't really say.'

Dad shook his head again. ‘I'd really rather not talk about it, lads, if it's all the same to you.'

‘Fair enough, fair enough.' So they moved on to other topics. They asked Dad how things were going, how he was getting on, was it good to be back, nice to see a woman again, all that kind of banter. I looked on as he laughed along and answered their questions with good humour. I could see that one bloke, a small man sitting at the far end of the bar, was also watching this conversation with some interest. I'd never seen him before, but from the way he was slumped forward over his drink, he looked like a local. It was weird, though, because every time Dad said anything about the Japanese, the man would snort and take another swig from his glass.

Then one of Dad's mates asked him about his eye. He'd stopped wearing a bandage, and now sported a patch. He looked very pirate-like, I thought, and whenever I said that to Dad he'd say ‘Arr, me hearties' or something corny like that. Which sounded pretty strange with a Scottish accent, to be honest.

When Dad's friend asked about his eye, he replied that it was thanks to the Japanese approach to first aid. ‘Which is to do nothing and hope you die from it,' he said with a rueful smile.

The small man at the end of the bar snorted again and drained his glass. My father frowned across at him. ‘What's that you say, friend?' he enquired.

‘Didn't say nothing,' the man replied as he thumped the glass onto the bar and slid from his stool. ‘'Scuse me.'

‘Is there something you'd
like
to say?' Dad asked him.

‘Not to you,' the man answered. He pulled a pair of crutches from beneath his stool and began to make his way towards the door, a path which would lead him straight past Dad and his friends. As he came around the end of the bar, I saw that one of his legs was gone, removed above the knee. The leg of his trousers was folded back and pinned to his backside, so it was just a loosely swinging flap of fabric.

My father placed his glass on the bar and stepped into the man's path. ‘Are you sure there's nothing you want to say there, friend?'

‘Like I said, Scotty, nothing to you. Lost your eye, did you? Too bad.'

‘Aye, that's right,' Dad replied. ‘And you lost something too, I see.'

‘Yeah, that's right. In combat.'

‘Then I'm sorry,' ' Dad said. He held out his hand. ‘Freddy McAuliffe.'

‘Not in a camp,' the man said, keeping a firm grip on his crutches.

‘What?'

‘Lost me leg in combat. You've got your stories, haven't you, Scotty? Jap brutality. Yeah, I've heard you telling your mates here, impressing them with your stories.' He patted his chest. ‘Very heart-rending.'

Dad lowered his hand. ‘I don't think you heard straight there, friend. I'm catching up with my mates after three years, that's all.'

‘Combat,' the man repeated. ‘Palestine, Syria, New Guinea. Lost this just outside of Rabaul,' he added, pointing at the space where his leg should have been. ‘Combat, you see?'

By now my father's friends had all stood up as well, and were beginning to look menacing. ‘Don't like what you're suggesting there, Long John,' one of them said.

Dad held up his hand. ‘It's all right, Vic.' He turned back to the bar. ‘Not worth the bother.'

With similar murmurings and a few dirty looks the others also returned to their drinks. The one-legged man made another snort, mumbled something under his breath and headed for the exit. He reached it and began to struggle with the heavy door.

‘Billy, the door,' Dad said to me.

‘What?'

‘Get the door for the man.'

I frowned at my father. After what he'd said? After what he'd suggested?

‘Billy! The door! Speedo!'

I shook my head, and Dad raised his eyebrows at me. The man had tucked both crutches under his left arm and was still wrestling with the door.

‘Billy! Speedo!'

Again I shook my head.

Dad stood up then, fired a look of fury at me and went over to the door himself. He held it open for the man, who stepped out onto the footpath without a word. Dad walked back to the bar, picked up his glass and finished his beer with one gulp. ‘So long, lads,' he said. ‘Billy, let's go.'

He didn't say a word to me all the way home. He just drove silently. Then, as we reached home and he stopped the truck, he said in a low, cold voice, ‘If I ever see you repeat that kind of disrespect to anyone, but
especially
a returned soldier, I'll knock you into the beginning of next week, do you hear?'

‘But he was saying —'

‘I know what he was saying!' he roared, the veins in his neck and his forehead bulging. ‘Do you think he's the first to think those things? Do you think I need a twelve-year-old to defend my honour?'

I wasn't brave enough or stupid enough to try answering either of these questions.

‘Conduct yourself with dignity, Billy — that's all I ask. Courtesy and dignity.'

‘Yes, sir,' I replied.

‘Which is not what I saw today.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said.

‘Go in the house now.'

A couple of days after that, Dad came to church for the first time since he'd been back. Granddad was driving the truck, Ma and Nan were in the cab with him, and Dad, the twins and I were in the back sitting on a couple of bales of hay pushed hard up against the back window.

‘This is fun, eh Dad?' I said, looking up at him.

He nodded, but I didn't feel that I had his full attention.

‘What's wrong?' I asked him.

‘Eh? Oh, nothing, laddie, nothing at all.'

‘Don't you want to go to church?' I asked.

‘Church is fine,' he replied. ‘Nothing wrong with church.'

‘Then what?' I pressed.

‘It's what churches are
full
of, Billy-boy. People, that is. A lot of people. Not mates, not kin, but … but
regular
people. Ask-a-lot-of-questions type of people.'

It was strange watching the way everyone at church reacted to my father. It was good, too, to see that the attitude of the little man in the pub seemed to be the exception. Most of the church folk came up and shook him warmly by the hand, wishing him well. ‘Glad to see you back, Freddy,' they said.

‘Good to have you back.'

‘You look really well, Mack, much better than we thought you would.'

To each of them Dad would smile and answer, ‘Thanks, it's good to be home.'

Even Mr Morrie the bank manager shook his hand and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come and see me any time, Freddy,' he said. ‘At Central and Northern we've got some special financial deals for returned servicemen.'

‘Thank you, Robert, I appreciate that.'

‘And of course, I imagine there'll be the matter of your other affairs — the ones related to your decoration.'

‘Aye, well, that will take some managing, I reckon,' Dad replied.

‘And it would be our great pleasure, mate.' Mr Morrie cast a nervous glance at me, as if he was worried that I'd tell my father what he'd said. Or maybe he was fearful that I'd leap at him and punch him in the mouth. ‘Well, I'll be seeing you, Freddy.'

‘Aye, I'm sure you will,' Dad replied.

Doug was there. I spotted him over near the door of the church, just watching us. I tried to catch his eye, but the one time I thought I'd managed it, he looked away so quickly that I couldn't be sure.

During the service the reverend offered a special prayer, thanking God for preserving his children through times of turmoil and despair, and for returning a long-lost father and husband to his family. He asked Dad if he'd like to say a few words, but my father shook his head. It wasn't his way, I guess.