Maralinga (35 page)

‘It's quite possible there are other dead blacks out there,' Melvyn had said. ‘Keep your eyes open, and if you find a corpse, report directly to me so we can bring it in secretly. No-one else needs to know, and we'll be doing the army a favour anyway.'

Trafford Whitely was a young man of ambition. He had applied for a position on the medical research team strictly in order to advance his career, in the full knowledge that the desert living conditions would be uncomfortable and the work demanding. Both factors he had happily taken in his stride, but there were times when he had difficulty coming to terms with his superior's code of ethics.

 

Christmas at Maralinga was a bizarre affair for the British troops, who yearned for snow and the crisp, cold bite of their customary Yuletide. But it was rendered even more bizarre by the attitude of the Australians.

‘There you go. Just look at that,' said Col Rogerson.

It was Col and his mate, Bud Barton, who started it. They chopped down a mallee tree, planted it in a halved 44-gallon drum and decked it with tinsel and baubles they'd bought in Adelaide during their recent leave. They carted the tree into the centre of the dry,
dusty beer garden a week before Christmas, just to get everyone in the mood – a gnarled, stunted thing, ridiculous in its finery. And, strangest of all, they'd draped cottonwool over its branches.

A group of twenty or so men gathered around to admire the tree – or, rather, the Australians admired it, giving Col and Bud a healthy round of applause. The others seemed more bemused than anything.

‘What's the cottonwool for?' Paddy O'Hare asked the question on everyone's lips.

‘It's snow, you stupid Irish git.'

‘Oh, it's snow, yes, I see.' Paddy's good-natured face lit up in a grin. ‘Well, that's grand, that is.' He was touched that Col and Bud should go to such trouble to give them all a taste of home. ‘That's very thoughtful of you, Col, and very inventive what's more.'

‘No, it's not. We do it every year.' Col looked about at the other Australians present, most of whom were nodding. ‘Just about everyone I know does it.'

‘Just about everyone you know does what?' young Toby asked in his thick Manchester accent.

‘Puts cottonwool on their Christmas tree,' Col said with a touch of impatience. Was Toby an idiot?

Bud intervened. ‘They're usually fir trees though. You got to admit, Col, it looks more like the real thing with a conifer.' He studied the Christmas tree critically. ‘I reckon maybe we should get rid of the cottonwool. It does look a bit funny.'

Bud's response didn't clarify things at all for the British, nor for the several Canadians present. Be it a conifer or a eucalypt, why the Australians would wish to put pretend snow on their Christmas trees was an unfathomable mystery.

Further mysteries along similar lines were revealed over the next several days. A mail delivery arrived and with it hundreds of Christmas cards. The men made decorations of them, stringing them all together and hanging them around the canteen and the beer garden, and the British were amazed to discover that the cards the Australians had received were the same as their own. Snowmen, mistletoe and red-breasted robins abounded.

Then, to top it all off, there was the announcement of Christmas lunch, which was broadcast several days in advance so that the men had something to look forward to. The army chefs were going to bake whole turkeys and legs of ham, the men were told, and there would be plum pudding with brandy sauce to follow.

The Australians were excited.

‘It'll be just like home,' Bud said.

‘Do you reckon they'll put threepences in the pudding?' Col asked, and the others laughed.

The British couldn't work up the same enthusiasm. They were amazed that anyone could relish the prospect of a baked dinner served at midday in temperatures well exceeding 100 degrees Fahrenheit. But the truth had finally registered with them: despite all impracticality, and even in the hottest regions of the continent, Australians embraced a northern hemisphere Christmas. Presumably this was because their country had been colonised by the British, it was decided, but the custom seemed nonetheless bizarre. There were whole generations of born-and-bred Australians celebrating traditional white Christmases without ever having seen snow. The British troops found the practice quite astounding.

Any misgivings they had, however, proved happily unwarranted. Christmas Day was a resounding success. Regardless of the heat, the men managed in true festive spirit to stuff themselves with turkey and ham and plum pudding, after which they took their bloated bellies to the pool where they spent the afternoon lolling in and out of the water.

The real partying took place in the evening when the grand piano was wheeled out of the VIP mess and into the beer garden. The piano had been the preserve of the top-ranking officers and visiting dignitaries during the major tests, and on many a hot, balmy night it had been wheeled outside to provide entertainment under the stars as the VIPs lounged about with their ports and cigars. Tonight, however, it sat incongruously in the other ranks' beer garden, beside the mallee Christmas tree, which now sported fairy lights.

A number of the men could play the piano, some better than others, although no-one really cared so long as the tune was something they could sing along to. Then they discovered a favourite: Benjamin Roscoe was not only a talented pianist, he knew every number that had been in the top ten hit parade over the past five years.

‘Shake, Rattle and Roll'…

‘Rock Around the Clock'…

‘Sixteen Tons'…

The orders came in fast and furious, and Benjamin segued with ease from one song to the next. As an added bonus, he also knew every lyric of every number and was happy to give voice, which was of great assistance in the singalong.

‘The Yellow Rose of Texas'…

‘Mambo Italiano'…

‘Heartbreak Hotel'…

By now, no-one but Benjamin was allowed near the keyboard. The piano was his domain as he belted out every hit number the men could come up with.

‘That's Amore'…

‘Mockin' Bird Hill'…

‘Hound Dog'…

The beer flowed, the night grew raucous and men grew hoarse as the songs of the fifties reverberated across the desert plains.

 

The new year of 1957 was ushered in with little change at Maralinga. The scientists' work remained stimulating as the minor tests continued, but the troops became bored and restless. For many, football and cricket were no longer the pleasurable distraction they had been, losing their appeal in the relentless heat of midsummer, and the principal escape became the pool. Everyone craved the excitement that had attended the major test trials, but the Antler series was not planned until September, and there would be many long months before preparations commenced.

February rolled by, and some of those whose posting had come to an end were happy to escape the tedium. Fresh young replacement troops arrived, eager and as full of excitement as they themselves had been just twelve months previously. Col Rogerson and Bud Barton were two of those leaving. They'd signed on together, their year was up, and they were heading back to Perth.

The night before they left, their mates toasted them in the beer garden.

‘Wish it was me,' Big John said, ‘you lucky, lucky bastards.' Big John was a renowned whinger, but in this instance Col and Bud tended to agree with him. Even Col, who'd found Maralinga so thrilling, had had enough by now. He'd been a bit off-colour for the past six weeks – chronic diarrhoea was wearing him down.

‘It's this place that makes you crook,' he'd said to Bud, when Bud too had copped a case of the runs. ‘Just as well we're getting out, mate. Jeez, I can't wait to throw myself into the surf at North Cott.'

Col was actually looking forward to far more than the beaches of Cottesloe. As soon as he got back to Perth, he was going to propose to Marge. He announced the fact to his mates in the beer garden.

‘Next time you blokes see me, I'll be a married man,' he said, which called for more rounds of drinks and more toasts.

Col got very drunk that night, but he made no complaints on the flight back to Perth the following day. His hangover was proof of an evening well spent.

 

It was early March, and Nick Stratton was surprised by his commanding officer's orders.

‘Why would they want a press conference?' he queried. ‘There's nothing to report.'

‘Apparently
The Advertiser
has requested an update,' the very British brigadier said with the air of one who considered such a suggestion presumptuous. ‘Being the state newspaper they no doubt want to be seen as responsible, but we can't grant them exclusivity. I want you to inform the interstate press and arrange a general conference for next week.'

‘Will we need a safety committee member present?'

‘No, they're not interested, and they say it's not necessary – you can just issue a general statement. But in case someone's got wind of the minor test trials, they think you should bring up the subject and offer some minimal information – to be on the safe side.'

‘Right you are.'

The following week, armed with the latest report from the British trials superintendent, which had been supplied by AWTSC, Nick headed for Adelaide.

There was quite a gathering in the AGIO conference room. He hadn't expected so many. Perhaps there's a shortage of murders and scandal, he thought with a touch of cynicism. But then he reminded himself that this was the first general press conference since the last of the major test trials and so a healthy turnout was hardly surprising.

He walked to the podium at the far end of the room, greeted the assembled press members, then got straight down to business.

‘There's not a great deal to report, so I'll cover the basics, and then if there are any questions you wish to raise feel free to fire away.'

He placed the folder on the podium. Having familiarised himself fully with its contents, he had no need to refer to it for information, but he found it a handy prop.

‘I have here the latest report from the British trials superintendent that was forwarded to the Atomic Weapons Tests Safety Committee,' he said. ‘As I'm sure most of you are aware, the next major test trials are not due to take place for another six months – the Antler series, planned for September. In the meantime,
however, many of you may
not
be aware that experimentation does continue at Maralinga. Minor tests are currently being conducted on various components, and these tests are being carried out with the full approval of both the British and Australian governments. All safety precautions are observed, and there is close liaison at all times between the British trials superintendent and the Australian range commander. Comprehensive reports such as these,' he tapped the folder in reference, ‘are regularly received by the safety committee whose members are quite satisfied with all aspects of management in regard to the tests.

‘And that's about it, gentlemen.' Nick smiled and gave a mock shrug of apology. ‘I'm afraid things are rather dull at Maralinga.' There was a smatter of appreciative laughter. ‘Does anyone have any questions?'

‘Yes. I have a question. I have several, in fact.'

It was a woman's voice, loud and clear, and it came from the rear of the conference room. Heads swivelled to look in her direction.

‘Can you tell us more about these tests, Colonel?'

The woman was sitting in the very back row, virtually invisible to all but those beside her. Nick peered for a clearer view. He was nonplussed. Like most of the men present, he'd been unaware there was a female in the room.

The woman stood and identified herself. ‘Elizabeth Hoffmann from
The Advertiser
,' she announced. ‘You say “minor tests” are being conducted on ‘“various components”. Can you be a little more specific, Colonel Stratton? Exactly what are the tests and what are the components?'

Elizabeth's invisibility had been carefully orchestrated. As the only woman present she had not wished to call attention to herself and thereby lose the element of surprise, so she'd slipped into the conference room shortly before the arrival of the colonel when most of the reporters had already gathered. She was wearing a navy skirt and matching lightweight cotton jacket, the jacket masculine in cut and not unlike those worn by some of the men present. Flanking her in the back row were Jonathon ‘Macca' Mackay, her colleague from
The Advertiser
, and her newfound friend, Bob Swindon of
The Sydney Morning Herald
. They'd been only too eager to liven up the normally staid proceedings. Indeed, they couldn't wait to see what effect might be wrought by the feisty Elizabeth Hoffmann.

They weren't disappointed. Jaws gaped at the sight of the handsome young woman in the masculine jacket, her dark hair cropped short. She was tall, statuesque even, and she stood boldly challenging the colonel in a way most men wouldn't dare.

Having asked her question, Elizabeth did not sit. She'd gained the element of surprise she was after – Stratton had been caught out, she could see it in his face. She remained standing as she awaited his answer. Confrontation was now of far greater value than surprise.

‘I am not at liberty to disclose military secrets …
Miss
Hoffmann, is it?'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘Well I'm sure you'll appreciate, Miss Hoffmann, as your colleagues have done,' Nick glanced around the room in friendly recognition of the many familiar faces, ‘that for security purposes, both the British and
Australian governments, along with all branches of the military, will not, and indeed cannot, divulge the specifics of any test trials conducted at Maralinga.'

Although his tone was not insulting, it was the standard reply Nick reserved for those upstart journalists who were ignorant of the rules. Elizabeth Hoffmann was obviously new to the game and needed to be made aware of the parameters that had been set. He wondered why
The Advertiser
had assigned a woman to report on the Maralinga project in the first place.