The Long Green Shore (13 page)

And sometimes after you have overpowered them and your blood and their blood is on their hands with the violence of trying not to hurt them, the madness will suddenly leave their savage flesh. They will collapse in your arms like a child and weep with gentle despair while you carry them to Doc Maguire.

Usually when you get them there, the madness comes again and they will shriek for you not to leave them. You will have to hold them while the Doc presses the bright needle into their arm, crooning the while with a gentleness no woman ever heard from him. The strong grey medicine soothes the fever of their blood and abates the wildness of their heart and brains.

We call it ‘going troppo'.

Our Company was forward most of the time down this stretch of the shore. Sodden, desolate country it was—desolate jungle. Every afternoon about four the rain would start—you could see it come sweeping down the hills—and it would drench down solidly all night.

Our section was point section most of the time. Janos was point scout and he made himself a legend that sped back down the shore and flew inland to our troops cutting through the hills. He saved us all many times with his skill and swiftness. Ten Nips he had killed, and each time he bailed Connell up on the track and added the score.

‘Eight,' he told Connell as we held the marsh on the river.

‘Nine,' he said the day after Deacon died. He walked into Connell's tent at the edge of the abandoned aerodrome, overgrown with kunai—‘Ten,' he said.

Connell said nothing, but he boasted to others of what his battalion and his men could do.

It was at that 'drome, remember, we had a fine grog party. There was a lot of junk, plane wrecks and equipment scattered through the tall kunai grass. I don't remember who it was first lighted on the compasses filled with alcohol, but everyone was in it. Out came the chipped enamel mugs and the dixies and there's everyone busy cracking compasses, like you'd crack an egg, and draining the spirit.

It tasted fine over the tongue—smooth, like a good Scotch whisky—but about six inches down it started to expand and burn—vodka was mother's milk to it!

Our mob retired for the night as full as bulls. There was considerable indiscriminate firing at an imaginary enemy, and Janos had to be restrained from a project to shoot through the centre pole of Connell's tent so that it would collapse on top of him.

‘You remember that time in Syria,' recalled the Laird, ‘when big Johnno from Don Company was going to shoot Boomerang Billy. You remember, he staggers along to the Officers' Mess and bellows—“Boomerang Billy, I want you!” And old Boomerang shoots out, ready to fly right up to him. “Boomerang Billy, you bastard,” says big Johnno, very solemn-like, “Boomerang Billy, I'm going to shoot you.” And Boomerang Billy takes off up the hill, with big Johnno staggering after him, letting go a burst every now and then from the hip. He couldn't have hit him in a year, but Boomerang went up that hill like a mountain goat.'

Good old Boomerang. He had a completely misplaced confidence in his ability to steer a course by the stars.

You remember, too, that day he was drilling us at Kilo 69. You know how officers pick up clichés—esprit stuff—‘This is it, chaps,' kind of thing. Well, Billy's was, ‘One man spoilt the whole show!' Whenever he was drilling, you could rely on having to do it over half a dozen times because ‘One man spoilt the whole show!' This day we'd gone round and round and every time it was the same complaint. When he stopped us again—it was as hot as hell—and he bellowed: ‘One man spoilt the whole show!' a weary voice pipes up from the back row—‘Yes, it was you, you silly old bastard!'

Slapsy Paint, our Platoon Officer, rejoined us at the 'drome before we went on to Drogula Bay.

Slapsy had been fairly new to us when we sailed and we hadn't seen much of him since. He was a funny sort of bloke. A big ox-like man whom you'd take to be either lazy or stupid—he was lazy.

He'd been a Duntroon officer for most of the war—but he wasn't the usual pukka-wallah type. He told us once, in a moment of rare confidence, that he'd joined the permanent army long before the war because he was looking for a job. He had been a carpenter, but he reckoned that was too hard and too uncertain, so he joined the army. They had shot him out to us—he didn't want to come. He had been quite happy where he was at Duntroon and quite prepared to finish the war there; but there was some trouble about a major he hooked one night he was drunk in the mess and he finished up with us. He made no pretence—he didn't want to fight. He left the show to Harry Drew and old John and Janos—he just wanted to keep out of trouble.

But he was always running into trouble with Connell. Orders were that sleeves were to be rolled down at sunset and the face and hands smeared with mosquito repellent to discourage the malarial anopheles. Officers were supposed to enforce this order rigidly, but Slapsy himself would be wandering round half the night naked except for a grimy towel round his middle. Connell would come through in his jeep on inspection and Slapsy would wander out on the track to meet him, naked except for the towel round his middle, his big feet squelching in the mud.

Slapsy carried a flute with him and when we were back a bit he'd sit for hours on the edge of the bunk in his doover, the grimy towel round his waist, his muddy feet sticking out in the rain, trying to play the Brahms Lullaby.

It was the only tune he knew, and soon we all knew it—every wrong note as Slapsy played it, every uncertain pause where he started a passage over again. We would grin at one another as the sweet, quavering notes floated up through the trees and rain.

‘Jesus, he's at it again,' Pez would crow delightedly.

‘I wish he'd get another tune,' Janos would complain.

Slapsy might be pretty drack as an officer, but there was a certain pride and delight in him. We used to boast about him to other platoons and invite them up to hear him playing.

There had been some doubt about the illness that prevented Slapsy from joining us when first we started up the long green shore. But after he'd been back with us a few days, we sort of forgot about that. There was that time they struck the booby traps on the beach—Jimmy Mollison walked into one and had both his legs blown off. They called on Slapsy to come down and delouse the area. He borrowed a makings off Pez—he was constantly running out of tobacco—rolled himself a smoke, borrowed a match, hauled up his pants. ‘I'll be back in about half an hour,' he said. ‘If you hear a loud bang, I won't be back.'

Slapsy was all right. There are a number of good officers, of course, and a great number of poor ones. The ones that came up through the ranks on the field are generally the best—they know what it's about. Most of the blokes that haven't been in a blue before aren't worth a bumper. We've all got to learn, of course, but most of this batch of Duntroon boys imagine that they know it already—just because they read a book. They're all right in standing camp—they bellow very nicely and impressively on the parade ground and know the regulations backwards—but in a blue they're dangerous with their regulations—you've got to tell them to get the hell out of the way and not make nuisances of themselves.

So we didn't mind Slapsy—he didn't try to interfere—and he's a character.

It was a heavy march to the bay. Not that we struck much opposition on the way there—only one Nip, dug in like a weasel between the twisting roots of a big tree.

Snowy Myers' platoon were ahead that morning and big Tomo had got this Nip with a hand grenade. From what we could see of him in the hole, he was a mess—we didn't search him for souvenirs.

We were carrying full packs, and ammunition besides—mortar bombs and .303. It was just a matter of marching—clambering and sliding and slogging, until your mind is black with exhaustion, and your body aching with the weight of your pack, and your chest burning.

When the word came to halt, Pez stumbled off the edge of the track—dragging Janos and the case of mortar bombs they carried between them. He dropped his end of the case and fell backwards on his pack, sliding down it until his head and shoulders rested.

Gradually…the heart's thunder ceases—the breath eases its labour—the red blood fades from behind the eyes.

Pez sat up, dragged out his makings and rolled a cigarette. He stuck the weed between his dry lips and scratched a wax match on the serrated bottom of the tin. These tins were usually made too smooth, so that the match wouldn't strike—or too sharp, so that they tore the head off. The head tore off Pez's match.

‘Here,' says Janos, whose cigarette is going. ‘Ignite yourself, my friend.'

Pez leans across painfully and lights his cigarette from Janos' bumper.

‘All those as have tobacco may smoke,' says Regan. ‘All those as haven't can go through the motions.'

Old Whispering John is talking about the girl he knew in Panama and describing her amorous powers with detailed relish.

Young Griffo is sceptical: ‘You tell me that? You think I'm a bunny because I come out of a hole?'

‘Man came up out of the mud,' declaims Harry Drew. ‘He makes and destroys a thousand cities; and now he flies through the air, drives ships under the sea and has touched the stars! And where does it get us?' His gesture embraces the jungle and the track: ‘Back in the mud!'

Somewhere up ahead a heavy machine gun starts beating. There is a momentary silence down the line.

‘Woodpecker,' says Janos.

Then comes the smaller, stinging rattle of the Bren and the Jap gun beats again in a long, heavy burst.

There is always someone firing up near the front, but you can never get quite used to the sound of the enemy—a tightness bands around the chest and stomach and the nerves and brain become light and sharp and clear.

After the guns stop, old Whispering John forgets to resume his amorous tale and Harry Drew leaves his philosophising.

‘Wonder if they got anyone?' says the Laird. ‘That Bren gun didn't fire again—only rifles and Owens.'

‘Big Tomo would be scouting,' says Janos. ‘He'd be awake.'

‘I got a feeling we're going to strike trouble at this bay,' says the Laird. ‘It's been too quiet.'

No one disagrees with him.

Myers' platoon had reached the edge of the bay when they struck the woodpecker. Janos was half wrong about big Tomo—he was point scout, but he wasn't awake. They killed him as he slipped from the shadow of a tree and waved his section on.

Five are wounded and we've got to get them back. The barges can't come into the beach until dark, and that's too long. The obstacle is the river about four hundred yards ahead of us. It is not very wide but it's armpit deep and fast, ripping straight through the beach and smashing into the sea. We can't take them any other way—they've got to come over that river. We can't bridge it, but the Laird sends word back and some empty four-gallon drums and some long ropes are rushed up to us. Some of us cross the river—it tears at you like you were chained to horses.

They bring the first of the wounded down the beach. Young Sad Saunders, it is. He's copped it somewhere in the legs. His rifle lies between his thighs and his legs are strapped to it to keep him straight.

‘It's OK,' he says. ‘It's not too bad—poor old Tomo copped the lot.'

We lash an empty drum at each corner of the stretcher to float it and tie the long ropes, two at each end. We take the two front ropes across the river and the men on that side haul as the others pay out. Some of them go with the stretcher. We manage to keep it fairly straight, but the current drags at it and bucks it against the ropes. The men in the water are fighting against the current themselves all the way and can't help much except to steady the raft. ‘It's a rough trip,' Sad groans once, but says quickly: ‘She's right, keep her going.'

The black stubble of his chin shows up against the deadly yellow-white of his skin when we lift him up on the other side. He's a bit wet, but all right. The relief stretcher bearers take him over and continue down the beach.

Maguire arrives just as they are taking Sad. He examines him swiftly and lightly: ‘You'll be all right, lad—I'll be back by the time they get you on a bed.'

He comes up to the river: ‘How is it?'

‘Oh, bloody lovely,' says Harry Drew. He shows the Doc our ferry. ‘Two hundred Yankee ducks rotting down at the camp there, but when we want one here to ferry casualties we don't get it…we've got to drag them across the river like this.'

‘Yes, I know,' says the Doc. ‘I know how it is.'

He crosses the river—goes up along the beach to check the wounded they are bringing down and comes back before the next case arrives at our ferry.

‘They'll all be pretty right if we can get on to them tonight,' he says. ‘Be gentle as you can with them.'

He goes back down the beach with long strides.

So we cursed and struggled across the river with the wounded. Cursing our own inevitable clumsiness with them, cursing the river, cursing the goddamned, bumble-headed brass hats that let amphibious craft rust down on the shore so that we had to hurt these men, already hurt, dragging them across the river.

We get them across. Darby Munro is the last. In the face and chest he's copped it. We can't see much of the face for pads, but his eyes are shining bright with pain and drugs and he tries to grin at us: ‘I never did like that nose of mine much, anyway,' he mumbles.

We nearly lost him crossing the river. The stretcher bucked and he rolled half into the water. Pez and Janos were on that side and they got their hands under him. For long, long seconds they struggled, cursing and panting and praying, against the fierce drag of the current—while Harry Drew snarled savage, impotent curses from the bank and the Laird bellowed prayerfully: ‘Hold him! Hold him! For Christ's sake, hold him!'