The Story of Danny Dunn (23 page)

‘Not too close, I trust?'

‘Danny, we've already been there,' Helen reproved him. ‘What I'm trying to say is that it wouldn't be too difficult to arrange for you to go to the States for the surgery you need.'

Danny laughed. ‘Funny you should say that. Yours is the second offer I've had.'

‘Oh?'

Danny proceeded to tell her about Master Sergeant Billy du Bois, lone liberator on a Harley-Davidson, concluding, ‘It was a spontaneous and generous offer but I don't suppose he could have pulled it off, although, come to think of it, he managed to get the US air force to do a food and beer drop in less than twelve hours. As an NCO I wouldn't have liked my chances of achieving the same with our air force.'

Danny knew Helen wasn't easily distracted once she'd got her teeth into something. Now, the senior rank she'd so recently held was evident as she brought him briskly back to the subject of his face. ‘Does that mean you'd consider going?' she asked.

Danny helped himself to the other half of the scone, busying himself with cream and jam while he thought. ‘I don't know. I'll be starting in law next year. Only hope I can knuckle down and do it. My mind's like mashed potatoes.'

Helen laughed. ‘It's not your mind you need to worry about. It's being a student again when, like me, you've been accustomed to having all the authority. Kowtowing isn't easy.'

Danny was about to ask how she knew he'd been accustomed to giving the orders to his own men in the camp when he remembered she'd read his records. ‘I guess I've had my fair share of knuckling under. At least I won't be beaten or shot for defying these authorities.'

‘Oh, Danny, I'm sorry. How insensitive of me,' Helen cried.

‘No, not at all. I really have to try and forget all that shit and get on with it.'

‘Danny, it's only been three months; give yourself a chance,' Helen said, trying to keep it light. Then, changing the subject she reverted to Danny's surgery. ‘I guess you could defer your studies and get your face done . . .' She hesitated, then added, ‘We'll need to be away at least six months. I could probably defer as well.'

It was Danny's turn to ignore her last remark. ‘It wouldn't be right, jumping the queue like that when there are blokes worse off than me needing surgery. I'd feel bloody guilty, and besides, I want —'

‘For God's sake, Daniel Dunn!' Helen exploded. ‘Here we go, the Balmain Boy strikes again!
I don't want to be an officer, my mates will think I'm a wanker
 . . .'

Sometimes, Danny thought later, time seems trapped in a vacuum where nothing happens, the seconds tick by unused towards our ultimate demise; then, on other occasions a passing moment is so crammed with stimuli that it sputters and spits, sending out emotional sparks like a shorting electric plug. Danny experienced a host of emotions, crowded together in sounds and pictures, a kaleidoscope of events that tumbled and danced and seemed to go on endlessly from the moment he'd left university to join up, fragments of the past, jumbled together: a flash of Helen's long legs on the swing in her backyard; the sound of the condensed-milk can dropping from Snowy Pitt's slouch hat and hitting the ground at his feet; the
kempeitai
officer's grunt as he drove the butt of the rifle into his face; a brilliant scarlet flash of pain as he did the same to the base of his spine; the sound of the slap as Sergeant Billy du Bois hit the Japanese guard at the prison-camp gate; a snatch of discordant
God Save the King
as they raised Spike Jones's flag; the barking tone of Colonel Mori's words,
‘All men now flends!'
; a decapitated Chinese head stuck on a pole at eye level; the dazzling snowy-white sheets in the hospital at Rangoon; a staring, unmoving glass eye; the poignant call of the pipes carried on the wind from the lone piper standing on a rock at South Head. While, through it all, he could hear Helen verbally lambasting him.

‘What is it with you?' Helen's voice was rising. ‘You're right! Your head
is
full of mashed potato! You'd better make up your mind and stop this puerile bullshit! It's the same stubborn mindset that got you hurt in the first place. If you'd been an officer this probably wouldn't have happened. Mind you, you'd still be an arrogant prick, but not the pathetic creature you seem determined to become!' Helen paused to catch her breath, then, close to tears, added plaintively, ‘What's more you've got strawberry jam on your chin.'

Danny felt the urge to rise from his chair and run for his life, then as quickly to explode into incandescent anger, but the ridiculous thought of running away or raging at her with strawberry jam on his chin became too much and, like a little boy, he wiped it away using the back of his hand. Staring down at the smudge of sticky jam he started to laugh and said, ‘Game, set and match to Miss Brown.'

‘
Phew!
That was close,' Helen said, grinning in an attempt to hide her relief as Danny reached for a paper napkin.

‘Okay, smartypants, if you're so good at winning friends and influencing people —'

‘It wasn't like that,' Helen interrupted. Still emotionally charged, she went on, ‘It was standing in a pair of black court shoes, the high heels an agonising civilian addition to my army uniform, which the CO of our intelligence unit insisted on for these soirees, though I might add didn't pay for. It was endless hours spent listening to colonels and generals in every branch of the army, navy and air force trying to flirt with me or yakking on endlessly and self-importantly about their careers. It was watching them get steadily plastered until their braggadocio hopefully reached a point where they'd reveal a piece of useful information I could put in my report. Listening to their whingeing about the foolishness of Canberra or Washington or one of their senior contemporaries, usually MacArthur or one of his aides. Or on our side that fat buffoon Blamey and his toadies. I was required to bat my baby blues, stick out my chest, swing my derrière and appear to be fascinated while proving capable of the odd intelligent or pertinent question, all in the name of gathering intelligence for and from my own side, sustained only by a glass of soda water with a slice of lemon masquerading as a gin and tonic. My reward at the end of what seemed like an eternity was a handbagful of phone numbers and a dozen or more sloppy kisses on the cheek or a sly pinch on the bum . . . oh, and, of course, the right to request a favour at some later stage.'

‘Speaking of favours, I need one. But first, tell me how you found the time for cipher work or whatever you did? You must have been pretty good at it, for them to make you a lieutenant colonel . . .'

‘One day I'll tell you exactly what I was doing, but, yes, I'd like to think so. Marg Hamilton, one of my counterparts in naval intelligence in Melbourne, once summed it up perfectly. We'd occasionally be summoned to Sydney or Melbourne for one of those combined forces soirees, usually in Government House and most often with MacArthur in attendance. I remember on one occasion we were both in the powder room. She was a gorgeous-looking girl, and always immaculately groomed. I made some crack about how it was a hard way to earn promotion. Too bloody hard. She'd taken off her high heels and was massaging her toes, but she laughed and quipped, “Behind many a successful man you'll find an exhausted woman. And behind many a successful woman you'll find a successful behind!”' Helen smiled. ‘That just about sums up the way the female component of the Australian Intelligence Unit in Brisbane was regarded at the time. During the day they worked you like a navvy, and at night you were required to flaunt your tits and bum without, I should add, ever getting involved in an assignation, unless of course it promised to yield more information. Not exactly romantic. Most of the time I'd get back to my quarters after one of these combined army, navy or air-force shindigs almost too exhausted to wash my undies and hang up my uniform.'

‘Well, I guess I asked for all that. Now, back to my original question . . .'

But he'd hit another sensitive spot. ‘What – a woman's place is in the cipher room?'

‘Christ, Helen, you haven't changed, have you? I said I need a favour, but it's not for me. I need your help to get one of the blokes in the camp, a Welshman named Paul Jones, a citation.' Danny then proceeded to tell Helen the story of Spike Jones and the raising of the Union Jack.

The story Danny told of the little Welsh medic seemed to finally calm Helen down. ‘That's a lovely story. I'd love to try and help, although I didn't have a lot to do with the British – not a lot of them about – but I met the British high commissioner at Government House on one or two occasions and he seemed a very approachable chap. I'll see what I can do, but I'm sure he'd like to hear the story directly from you.' Helen grinned. ‘Of course, it would be simple to get to General Bennett. Give you the opportunity to tell him what you think of him.'

‘Jesus, you watch it, Brown. You're skating on very thin ice,' Danny laughingly threatened. He suddenly realised that he was back with this impossible, witty, intelligent and forthright woman and loving every moment of it. He couldn't wait to make love to her. The miracle was that she seemed to want him back in her life. ‘The dean said there would be eleven hundred first-year students enrolled in the law faculty at Sydney University next year. I guess they'd happily allow me to defer for the operation.'

Helen's eyes widened. ‘So you'll go to the States?'

‘Yup. Your tantrum convinced me.'

‘May I come?'

‘Sure. But that means you'll have to defer as well.'

‘
Tut-tut
, with a masters degree, and eventually a doctorate, I'll probably be around universities for years to come, so six months or more away would be lovely. We'll try for the Mayo Clinic.'

‘Why? That the best place?'

‘I keep forgetting you've been incommunicado for a few years. You've got a bit of catching up to do. The American Army had a huge General Hospital in Brisbane, over two thousand beds, where they treated their serious medical and surgical casualties from the islands – New Guinea, the Solomons and New Britain. I met a lot of high-ranking surgeons and doctors. They'd have regular hospital dances and throw great parties. They were the only ones I really enjoyed – there are no dark secrets to wheedle out of a doctor, so we could have a glass or two of champagne, forget the war for one night and have some fun. I've already . . . I mean, I
could
easily contact two surgeons I knew, was particularly close to. Both are known to be among the best in their field at reconstructive surgery.'

‘How close exactly?' Danny asked, somewhat tongue-in-cheek.

‘Oh God, you're a suspicious idiot, Danny Dunn. One of them married one of my lieutenants and the other married a gorgeous Australian nurse, also a friend. I'll write tonight.'

‘You mean you haven't already?'

‘Yes, but I'll have to confirm possible surgery dates.'

Danny shook his head. ‘Jesus, Helen! What if I'd said no?'

‘Ah, but you didn't.'

Danny discovered to his surprise that he'd eaten all four scones and that the cream pot and jam dish were empty. He licked his forefinger, then, dabbing at the scone crumbs on his plate, placed them on his tongue.

‘Hmm. Is that confirmation that your tongue is in perfect working order?' Helen teased gently.

Danny ignored the dig about his table manners. ‘By the way, you haven't by any chance spoken to Brenda about all this, have you?'

‘Danny, what kind of a question is that?' Helen cried, taken by surprise.

‘A straight one, which deserves a straight answer.'

She gave Danny the full benefit of her baby blues. ‘Well, yes . . . now that you mention it, we spoke briefly on the phone this morning. How very perspicacious of you, Danny.'

‘Perspicacity be buggered! How bloody
stupid
of me to even bother asking.'

Helen leaned down to pick up her handbag and briefcase, then, rising from her chair, she bent over and kissed him lightly on the forehead. ‘Come on, Danny, darling,' she said softly. ‘I now have a bedsitter in Glebe Point Road, five minutes' walk from here. Time you resumed your French lessons.' She reached to take his arm.

‘Hang on, I haven't paid.' Danny hesitated and gave her a questioning look. ‘Unless . . . ?'

Helen grinned. ‘No, I haven't. Some things ought to remain sacred.'

Danny spent two full days in the company of Lachlan and the
Sydney Morning Herald
classifieds. They'd put in several hours on the telephone on both days, almost becoming accustomed to rejection, the usual reasons being lack of experience or age. There wasn't any doubt that a bias existed in favour of returned servicemen. They'd finally secured five interviews that seemed promising, all for the following week. Two had requested that a parent or family member accompany the job applicant to the interview, but Lachlan had returned the following day to declare that his mother didn't have the right clothes to wear and his father, now a garbo with the council, had practically passed out at the prospect of having to front up with him, hurriedly claiming that he couldn't leave his job. Furthermore, Doreen, his sister, was expecting her baby any day and the doctor had confined her to the house. ‘We'll have to give them two appointments a miss,' Lachlan had concluded.