The Persimmon Tree (71 page)

‘Sounds a bit like surviving at boarding school, sir,’ I said, relaxing in his presence just a little.

‘Not a bad analogy. I see you went to a private school. You’re going to find it very similar. I don’t expect you’ll have any trouble. Cadet captain, eh?’

If only he’d known my greatest hope was that HMAS
Cerberus
would in no way replicate my school career. Commander Rob Rich seemed a decent sort of cove and moreover, though I felt sure it was mentioned more than once in the transcript he’d been sent, he never once mentioned butterflies.

I passed the medical test and the less said about the next twelve weeks the better. I found it difficult to keep silent when I knew the answer to a question with which some of the others were struggling. My years as a kid who kept his mouth shut stood me in good stead. At best, the rest of the class would have taken me for dead average, which was true enough in some ways. It was familiar territory and not unlike my earlier years at boarding school when I’d read most of the books in the school library and was frequently forced to bite my tongue when a schoolmaster made a blatant error of fact or expressed an arguable opinion.

As for the rest, it was twelve shillings and sixpence pay each day. Drill, drill and more drill, with basic seamanship lessons that encompassed navy history, law and etiquette, basic coastal and celestial navigation, small arms practice (where I was allowed to excel; perhaps even show off a bit). Then there was PT, PT, PT! This was followed by unarmed combat, where the average-sized instructor, Wayne Bloggs, nicknamed ‘Joe’ of course, delighted in taking on the big bloke. I was soon covered in bruises, but I learned a fair bit in the process and decided to take unarmed combat further if I was ever given the opportunity. And there was lots of sport — I was good at cross-country running, despite my size, lousy at boxing and Aussie Rules football, in which I had not the slightest interest.

That was about it, really. In a sense it was much of what I’d done, one way or another, for most of my teenage life, both at boarding school and during the school holidays. That time had been followed by a period when I’d spent a fair amount of time at sea, either on a clumsy, difficult-to-sail missionary boat with an indifferent native crew, or if I got lucky, on a glorious ketch like the inimitable
Madam Butterfly
.

For the passing-out parade we had ourselves measured at the Myer department store in Bourke Street for our uniforms. These were ready two days later and basically fitted where they touched. But we felt grand and very important, each a legitimate snotty at last. All the particular friends I’d made over the course put in to hire a hotel room at the London Hotel in Elizabeth Street and we had a party. A lot of the blokes were from Melbourne and so they brought their sweethearts. Mary Kelly, the pretty redhead petty officer who’d been behind the desk when I’d registered as a naval recruit, accompanied me. When I’d left Commander Rich’s office and come back down again in the lift to the reception hall she’d risen from her desk and walked over to me; without saying a word, she’d pushed a small piece of paper that had her name and contact number into my shirt pocket and returned to her desk.

I’d taken her out on the four occasions when we’d been granted shore leave, not counting this graduation party. She was an excellent kisser, with a tongue that was a better explorer than David Livingstone. But anything below the chin was strictly off limits. She was a Catholic and pronounced that anything else was ‘for the marriage bed’. Or, as she once replied to my urgent pleading, ‘That sort of malarky is for between the sheets and they’re folded in cellophane paper in my glory box, Nick!’

Still, she was fun, with a quick Irish–Australian wit. I always enjoyed her company, even though after spending my shore leave with her I’d invariably return in the train to HMAS
Cerberus
nursing a severe attack of lover’s balls. I was learning that when in the company of a pretty woman my brains seemed invariably to migrate and take up residence roughly eight inches below my navel. But afterwards, when the ache finally wore off, knowing that I’d been faithful to Marg I felt terrifically noble.

I guess all young blokes are hypocrites. I secretly knew that if Petty Officer Mary Kelly, for whatever unlikely reason, decided to metaphorically rip the cellophane from a couple of double-bed sheets in her glory box, I’d be down to the barber’s shop in a flash, or I’d put in for a packet or two of standard naval issue.

No such luck. On our night ashore at the London Hotel most of the blokes got pretty pissed and so did some of the girls. One or two couples even paid for a room for a short time, something the London Hotel seemed to accept as standard practice. But, as usual, I didn’t get past Mary’s chin, even though she’d managed to down eight brandy crustas and needed a fair bit of physical support at 5 a.m. when I finally escorted her home to Fitzroy on the early tram. She slept with my arm around her and her head cushioned against my shoulder for most of the trip, which was really nice. It felt good, taking your bird home at dawn after a big night. Then, when we got off the tram and walked the short distance to her home, she’d kissed me at the front gate and said, pointing to a lighted window in the small house, ‘Dad will be getting up to go to work at the docks. Better make yourself scarce, darlin’. Thanks for a t’riffic night.’

Two more lessons learned — never step out with a girl who lives at home, and a good Irish Catholic girl is a peak too high to scale, even with a pocket full of naval issue condoms. In the tram going back to Flinders Street Station I recited ‘Sweet Mary O’Rourke’, the ballad the broken-down jockey, Tony Crosby, the cadge-a-drink guitarist in the pub at Rabaul, used to sing. This met with laughter and applause from the early-morning passengers and a demand for an encore. I guess I must have been a bit more pissed than I’d thought.

The day before our passing-out parade Commander Rich summoned me to his office. This time I entered and stood at rigid attention and saluted. ‘Sit down, Sublieutenant Duncan,’ he invited. When I was seated he took the chair beside me. ‘Well done, Nick. Your written material is of a very high standard and thanks for keeping your presence in class low-key.’

‘I’m not so sure if it was always deliberate, sir,’ I grinned.

‘Enjoy the course?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’ll never make a footballer or a boxer but your small arms results are as good as any I’ve seen.’

I grinned, rubbing my chin. ‘I guess I’ll have to learn more about martial arts, sir.’

He laughed. ‘Yes, you seem to have taken a tumble or two from Petty Officer Bloggs, who reports you have lots of guts. That’s good. The navy, as you will have come to know, is obsessed with the subject of guts.’ He paused, then said, ‘Guts isn’t always a physical thing; sometimes it takes considerable guts to change one’s mind.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I replied, not entirely certain what was coming next.

‘Nick, you will make an excellent officer and, if you decided to stay in the navy, I feel quite sure you would have the ability to excel. Wars are very good for rapid promotion, Nick. I believe you have the ability to reach Lieutenant Commander before this war looks like finishing. I don’t say this sort of thing too often; some of our brightest have been known to disappoint. I think you should know that if you change your mind about reporting to Airlie after you’ve had your post-graduation break, the navy would think no less of you. You would go with the other graduate lieutenants to the UK. What do you think? Have you made up your mind to stick with Intelligence?’

‘Thank you for your confidence in me, sir. Yes, I think I —’

Before I could add another word he said quickly, ‘Nick, you’re only eighteen and the task they want you to undertake is a highly dangerous one. I feel compelled to tell you that were it not for your fluency in Japanese I am sure DNI would not have entertained the idea of recruiting you. It’s a job for old hands — men who have been in the islands a long time and know their way around.’

‘Yes, sir, I understand what you’re saying.’

‘But do you? Do you really?’ he urged. I was aware that I was forcing him to be more persistent and persuasive than he might have preferred to be in the presence of a snotty. Naval commanders don’t generally ask for cooperation. They simply demand compliance.

I felt certain that if I hadn’t been expressly sent to HMAS
Cerberus
for training by the Department of Naval Intelligence, Rob Rich would not have permitted me to choose the task Commander Rupert Basil Michael Long (as I’d come to think of him) had persuaded me to undertake. Moreover if it hadn’t been for my father’s presence in New Britain — though no doubt he was already, or very soon was likely to be, a prisoner of the Japanese — I might have changed my mind. I had enjoyed the basic course and felt sure I would have liked to undertake further study in Britain.

I felt I owed Rich an explanation. ‘Sir, in a manner of speaking, except for my age, I feel I have the qualifications needed. I speak pidgin and several, though certainly not all, of the many coastal native languages. I know the coastline of both New Britain and New Guinea, and all Pacific islands are similar in topography. I can handle a rifle, sail a boat and understand how to survive in the jungle. As you yourself indicated, a thorough knowledge of Japanese is a very useful component, although I would doubt if any of the old-timers speak or understand it. I would, of course, just as they would, be required to learn those other skills you cautioned me never to mention.’ Anticipating that he might raise the matter, I added, ‘My father is a missionary. I am well accustomed to being alone, sir.’

He sighed. ‘Yes, well I don’t suppose butterfly collecting in the field encourages group activity.’ It was the first mention he’d ever made of butterflies, though he hadn’t spoken in a manner that suggested he thought butterfly collecting an arcane pursuit.

He spread his palms. ‘Well, Nick, while I personally think you’re making the wrong decision, you have guts and you’re obviously stubborn. Both characteristics will stand you in good stead. As for your other qualifications and prior experience, I can’t argue, they’re first-rate in every respect. Those additional technical skills you’ll need you’ll acquire easily enough.’ He grinned and stuck out his hand. ‘It’s a damned shame, Commander Long wins and the navy loses. I wish you luck.’

We shook hands and I stood to attention and saluted. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you for the talk. I appreciate the advice.’

Commander Rich rose from his chair with a half-smile on his face. ‘Go on, piss off, Duncan, you’re dismissed.’ He wasn’t a man who liked to lose at anything and especially not to someone like Commander Rupert Basil Michael Long. I couldn’t help feeling that he was a little surprised that he’d failed to persuade me, but he’d nevertheless accepted my decision with more or less good grace.

I’d been invited to spend the two weeks’ leave on a property on the Mornington Peninsula that belonged to the parents of a fellow snotty, Bill MacKenzie, but, of course, I was forced to refuse. Bill was a thoroughly decent bloke and, knowing I was alone (travelling to Perth to see Marg was out of the question and I couldn’t get a railway travel pass anyway), suggested that I stay with his family until the boat sailed. His parents would see us sail off to what he claimed his second-generation Australian father referred to as ‘Going home’. Telling lies is never pleasant, especially to people who are kind and generous. And, of course, I wasn’t sailing to England with the rest of the blokes.

Instead, I took a room Mary Kelly’s mum found for me in a boarding house in Fitzroy where she worked as a day cook. I spent the days studying Japanese and walking around Melbourne, a city I immediately warmed to. That is, as much as one can enjoy a city environment. At night we went dancing — Mary training my two left feet into some kind of coordination — or to the movies, or we just wandered around the city.

Sailing day approached and I was beginning to panic. How was I going to tell Mary not to come to the docks to see me off? Her dad had already organised for her to stand on a special spot where I would be able to see her as virtually the last hand waving when we (that’s supposedly me) drew away from the shore.

Two days before the boat was to sail, a tearful Mary informed me that she’d put in for leave on sailing day but permission had been refused; she’d tried every ruse she could think of to no avail. ‘It’s not as though we’re doing anything special, Nick,’ she protested. ‘I even got Erica Kransky to agree to stand in for me, but they got quite cross. “You’ll be at your desk at 9 a.m. as usual, Petty Officer Kelly,” the Chief Petty Officer said. “Why, Ken? Erica says she’ll stand in for me,” I begged him. He’s usually pretty good; I mean, if someone has a wedding to attend or something. As long as the recruitment desk is manned he doesn’t really care.’

‘It’s the command mentality. Even if it’s your grandma’s funeral, dying isn’t the excuse it used to be — it’s what you’re supposed to do in a war,’ I replied, trying to comfort Mary while, at the same time, saying a silent thank you to Commander Rich.

‘I tried the grandma thing, even though the old chook died ten years ago — she’d be well out of purgatory by now. The chief just said, “Mary, it comes from above, ’fraid there’s nothing I can do.” Bloody navy! I told them why I wanted the morning off. You’d think they’d bloody well understand seeing off your sweetheart was important, wouldn’t you?’

‘It doesn’t matter, we’ll have the last night together. There’ll be a big crowd at the wharf. It’s not much of a way to say goodbye anyway.’ I was remembering Anna on the
Witvogel.
How quickly she’d become a blur in the late afternoon light and how afterwards I’d walked back to the yacht, lonely and confused, wondering what was going to happen to us. I’d found somebody I
really
loved and then lost her almost as quickly in a crowded, tearful farewell amongst cranes and
godowns
, ships’ horns and yelling, waving people.