She Walks the Line (6 page)

Statement of Rosemary Pearce, 25 years, AFP officer stationed at
forward base Kabul, Afghanistan, obtained by Detective Senior Constable Ronald James AFP

I was on duty outside of Kabul in June 2006 in a convoy of military vehicles and in company with Shane Wallace, also a member of the AFP. I yelled out to the driver, ‘Stop, stop.' I saw a small baby on the road. I jumped out to pick him up and saw something metallic inside his nappy. It was an M26 hand grenade with the pin just tied with fine cotton. I called out after I held the grenade and Shane took the baby. The pin lever was held down tightly with my right hand but I had no idea if precious seconds had been used up on the fuse. I called for all of the vehicles to form a semicircle and asked people to stay a good distance away. They obeyed and I walked slowly to the high point of the circle and hurled the grenade over the vehicles and ducked down. A huge bang was heard as the bomb exploded in mid-air. The shock wave threw me to the ground. I was in blackness. I floated out of that, I know. Yet I felt no pain and looked down. I saw I was on my back on the road and bleeding. I saw pins of light.

I woke up in hospital with machines attached and the doctor told me my shoulder and leg injuries were bad.

(Signed) R. Pearce.

‘What did they say about the out-of-body episode?' Martin enquired.

‘They tried to delete it but it's what I saw. They tried again and I told them to fuck off. Which they did.'

Our time had come to fly back to Western Australia and make some final farewells. We waved goodbye to Rosemary and Westie and watched as they stood in the rain on a cold frosty morning in Canberra. We'll sure miss her.

11

Suzie

Perth

Just before the plane landed, I asked Martin if he was sick of meeting relatives because there were many lined up to see both of us. For some it was a quick hello and goodbye but I had my mum's side of the family to consider, if only for a brief stop.

‘You ought to know me by now, love. I am family. You've met lots of my family on our brief tours down south but they're now fans and appreciate the gifts which we've sent to the numerous children. Can't meet them all. Not possible, love. But sure, let's meet as many as we can on this last leg of the journey.'

I gave Martin a quick summary of the West side of the family. ‘Joyce had an uncle who was obsessed with poo and its connection to good. My grandparents Noel and Elsie – they had a big farm as well – are dead now. Mum's funeral tore them to pieces and of course there was the young brother killed in Vietnam. The other brother fled away to the south of France somewhere. Elsie's cousin Joyce was a real card. Alternative for the times, with a bawdy sense of humour. I well remember Elsie telling me some stories about her. The last one'll show you what a different person she was. Want to hear it, Martin?'

‘Yep. Go ahead.'

‘A family of Aboriginal people lived a few streets away and Joyce used to speak to them, which in the racist Australia of those days was a first. The two kids of that family were good athletes and bright kids. Joyce knitted twenty-one jumpers for the local football team and the two kids were the first to receive them. From
then on, once a week she would visit them and share a pot of tea on the front veranda. Joyce would have them in fits with her acid humour mocking the pompous white folk strolling past not daring to look at the black faces. Joyce would home in on any little feature like a pimple on a nose or her favourite face, which she likened to a hat full of arseholes. They grew to love her and the fresh-baked bread she gave them, along with her pickles and preserves. She taught Dorry the mother how to cook a lot more.

‘Joyce understood their dreamtime long before it became politically correct. Some might say she was a bit patronising but those folk loved her for her spirit and her generosity.

‘Easter time was important in her calendar and she involved her indigenous friends in one lot. It all went wrong but it started out well as a re-enactment of the last supper. A large table was in place with white ironed tablecloths. Twelve chairs were provided at the head of the table which was to face an audience of onlookers. The gramophone was set up to play religious music but unknown to her, Uncle Ron her brother, a survivor of Gallipoli, had switched the records to “The old grey mare she ain't what she used be”.

‘Uncle Bill, her husband, was burnt in a factory accident and could only wear a caftan. He got to be a cross-dresser and Joyce always moaned about him stealing her underwear, which felt good against his burnt skin. He was in the front row with his socks pulled right up to hide his wobbly knees. He also had a sock fetish.

'Ted, the strange one in the family – no one knew how he got there or what he did, he just moved in and was accepted, sort of like a lounge lizard – he wore pancake make-up with poorly applied bright red lipstick. They were both a sight. And they were pissed before the solemn event started.

‘Their dogs and the neighbours' dogs smelt the food on display and were jumping up trying to pinch some of the fish tails. Only three disciples turned up – Joyce couldn't muster any more
volunteers, because of the snobbery to which she was exposed. The small group heard the sounds of message sticks and Aboriginal men turned up. They filled the seats of the absent disciples.

‘Joyce made a grand entrance dressed in a nun's outfit, supposedly Mary Magdalene. She tried to bring back some order with a narrative and urged one of her coached black kids to recite his lines. He stumbled and said, “On this night before the chooks speak, one of you will be betray me.” The Aboriginal men started to eat the food and drink wine in large gulps.

‘It was too much for the older drunken relative named Dollie, now very sloshed, and she shrieked with her drunken devil's laughter. The oldest black man looked at Bill and Ted and yelled, ‘Bloody ugly-looking sheilas, mate,' and while all of this chaos descended, Uncle Ron had put the substitute record on full blast.

‘The dogs jumped on the table and started polishing off the grub. Joyce whisked away the other wine jugs as it was forbidden then for black folk to drink. It fell silent when Mary Magdalene started to weep. Her friends comforted her and did a corroboree dance with the well known jerky movement.' I took a big breath and looked at Martin and he knew there was an ending. I had him one.

‘Auntie Joyce decided never ever again to have an Easter or a Christmas celebration. She prayed to God that night for her blasphemy, which she hoped would be forgiven. So, Martin, what do you think about that?' I asked him.

He was still shaking his head and not speaking so I had to put in my dollar's worth before he did. ‘Are we mad or not?'

He kept a straight face in spite of the memory of the recital. ‘I believe she was far ahead of her times.'

‘The sad fact, Martin, is she thought it wasn't funny.' I could see him preparing another reply.

‘I think you ought to sent it to John Cleese or some of that Monty Python cast.'

‘Nowadays, mate, some wit would say, “Well, that went well.” What do you reckon, Martin?'

He replied by rolling his eyes, with a tonsil tone, after swallowing a peanut.

We were in Perth to catch up with relatives (what's left of them) but most of them were on holidays so it was a quick trip in a tour bus to catch some sights of Perth and then back home.

We booked a taxi to take us to the terminal. The cab driver was a chatty man and thankfully he did not recognise me in my wig and great sunglasses. But on the way, the back of my head was itchy. Something's up, I thought.

‘Have you got an enemy?' the driver said.

‘No, why?' I enquired because it seemed a strange question.

‘A big black four-wheel drive is following us.'

We were close to the depot and stopped. The driver was paid and we jumped out almost into the arms of a TV journalist thrusting a microphone in my face. This isn't just fan stuff, I thought, and it wasn't: they were about to hound Martin.

A man wearing a dark suit stood alongside and produced an ID card which read ‘PI'. ‘Are you Martin MacRae?'

Martin nodded.

The PI thrust an official-looking document into Martin's hands and hopped away. I guessed he'd brought the media scrum along with him. I read the documents, which said that an Yvonne Streeter claimed that Martin was the father of her daughter – a love child from an encounter of quick lust in Sydney when Martin was supposed to be there on R&R leave in 1968. It was crap on two counts. Martin was in hospital in Vietnam and of course his medical injuries precluded any chance of fatherhood. But we didn't say anything at that time. No point raking over coals until we had a proper chance away from the tabloids.

Nevertheless, they had a field day with screaming headlines about love children, and me of course. Martin was hung out to dry, convicted in their eyes and probably in the minds of those who read the gossip columns here and in the USA, where it hit in a flash.

The same journo with her crew were camped outside overnight. We just retreated and ignored the door bell until a friendly motel manager dressed us in his mother's clothes. We fled, jumping over the back fence. Martin fell off the high heels. It was so ridiculous that I had to laugh as I tried to free his foot from a pothole. Bad idea, because a second camera crew came around the corner and filmed us dashing back inside again. The headlines the next day screamed, ‘Suzie and Martin are cross-dressers'.

Apart from getting a helicopter to rescue us, all we could do was wait for our lawyer, who was faxing the USA for medical records and hospital dates. We watched our crazy Keystone Kops moments on the TV, with the manager and staff all guffawing at how stupid we looked.

Later on we walked around the streets and encountered fans who didn't hold back. One bailed us up and said, ‘Don't worry. My grandfather's a cross-dresser and I have a creepy uncle who's produced three love children.'

It finally came to an end once our lawyer served a summons on the original TV station with attachments of the faxes and the disclosures. Our lawyer came with us to a rival TV station, where our innocence was spelt out. Martin didn't hold back his dry humour and had the TV reporter cackling.

She asked if he was there in Sydney on that day in 1968.

‘In hospital with a wound. Back in 'Nam. There for a few months.' He showed her the date, which was held up for the viewers.

‘I believe you received a Silver Star after the battle?'

Again he just smiled in answer and produced it and held it up.

‘You're a staffer at the White House?'

‘Yes.' Martin knew he was on safe ground.

‘Suzie Smith, the famous Australian country and western star, is your wife?'

He smiled again and held up his ring finger with the USMC on top for the eyes of the viewers.

‘What about the cross-dressing episode?'

He explained at length how the kind manager dressed us at the motel so we could escape and asked her if she saw it on the telly.

‘Yes, with the high heels caught as well,' she said and then she started to smile as well.

‘We laughed like crazy with the manager when we saw it. Bloody high heels. How do you walk in them?'

‘Carefully' was her reply and she moved on. ‘What was your wound. In Da Nang in ‘68?'

‘1.5 balls blown off.'

She kept her composure, which was clever, but I could see she was starting to crack up.

‘You're not able to father a child then?' Which was more of a comment than a question.

‘You got it right.' He produced the copy of the medical report and showed it to the viewers.

She paused. ‘What are you going to do about the scurrilous TV channel and papers who had you convicted before you could explain?'

‘I could go for money but I've decided to demand a spoken and written apology from the reporter and the channel's parent companies wherever they are.' Martin was still enjoying the show.

‘Has the injury caused any other problems?'

I thought that was a bit indelicate but I knew what he'd say.

He produced his best good old boy accent. ‘Yes, ma'am, it has. Only when I cross my legs too quickly.'

It was too much for her and she dropped her steely-eyed look and burst out laughing. As did the audience and, from what I heard, so did the population of Australia.

Apologies thundered in one after the other. The journo was sacked. However, I think it damaged us. Some people not reading any further would have had Martin tried and convicted. It did make a difference to Martin. Part of his mojo was gone forever. He was in turmoil some nights trying to figure out how he had been named or who named him and of course why. I had no idea back then but I did know something: my itching head after the RSL show in Australia with the woman standing with her daughter told me then about trouble looming with Yvonne Streeter. That much we knew.

Martin phoned the White House as soon as the apologies arrived and we faxed some of them as well. He was assured by his boss (and the president) that his job was safe.

‘Got any idea who the man was that gave your name?'

Martin had some sleepless nights about how to answer that question. ‘Not a bloody clue, Sam. Guess I might find out one day.'

The conversation petered out.

‘How is Suzie?'

‘Great,' he replied.

‘Oh, the first lady has a pair of size ten shoes with high heels when you get back. What a bloody buzz. I could hear her and the chief laughing right across the White House. It was after the apologies came in of course. No one knew where it was going. And neither did we.'

We boarded a plane back to the USA and I realised how much Australia had changed since I left. Apart from seeing Shane and his family, I wasn't keen to travel there again.

12

Federal Prison, Washington DC