The Turning Tide (15 page)

‘Yes.’

After a moment she said, ‘Have you … had to …’

‘Yes,’ I said quietly. I looked up from the potatoes. She’d turned her head away from me.

‘Mum, they’re not like our friends, the Japanese we knew. They’re a different generation, brought up like beasts. They act like beasts too. You wouldn’t, couldn’t believe …’

‘Dear God, Mike, you’re a child, killing other children,’ she said. ‘That’s what I can’t believe.’

‘Mum, we’ve got to do it.’

She groaned at the back of her throat. ‘All I know is you got
shot
in your shoulder, Mike, your beautiful, perfect baby’s shoulder.’ She began to cry.

Dad came in and put his arms around her. He looked at me helplessly and led her out of the room.

Later, when Mum was in bed, Dad and I sat in the lounge. He was in his usual grey trousers and white shirt, sleeves rolled, braces loose at his sides. He was lighting his pipe.

‘Did you kill anyone in the Great War, Dad?’

He looked at me in surprise. ‘Jesus no, son. And thank the Lord, too. I wasn’t in the navy, I was master of a merchant vessel, a steel windjammer. We were carrying scrap metal to America and a submarine caught us off Ireland. Men died, but it was the sea and the Germans did it, not me.’

‘I don’t feel anything about it,’ I said. ‘I’ve killed three, perhaps four men, and it’s just something that happened. Will I care about it later, when I get older?’

His face was still. ‘I’ve seen such regrets catch up to others, Mike, and take them by surprise. It’s a cruel thing for anyone to bear, but trying to forget it sometimes makes things worse.’

‘But we’re doing our duty for the country, Dad. Why should we have to regret it?’

‘I have no idea, son. But perhaps “doing it for your country” isn’t a concept that stands up very well to a bit of critical scrutiny.’

He arched an eyebrow at me. Dad was always a bit of a radical on the quiet.

‘Your country’s only a bit of dirt,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’re doing it for your government, or your friends, or your family. And if it’s your family, quite frankly, I’d prefer you didn’t.’

‘Come on, Dad,’ I said, half-laughing.

‘I mean it, son. Listen. The Japanese navy’s broken. Their army’s not going any further. The Americans have the equipment, the men and, by God, they’ve got the lust for revenge. The tide’s turned for the Japanese.’

‘But I’ve a responsibility –’

‘I know you have, Mike. But don’t take any risks you don’t have to. Your mother’s the bravest person I ever met. She’s had more than her fair share of sorrow but she’s never lost her humour, her kindness. She’s your responsibility too.’

‘You’re not allowed to put your family before your country.’

‘Why not?’

I had no answer then. Now I can see how wise he was.

Chapter 15

It was time to go. The farewells were painful and I left with a sense of relief they were over, haunted by my mother’s face. As well as my pack I had a bag of food and six pairs of knitted socks. It was like returning to boarding school.

I had to report to the leave and transport depot in Perth, where they said we were off to Canungra in south Queensland. Five days later the train pulled into Melbourne and I was delighted to see Johnny’s fair head on the platform. I found us a couple of seats together.

He looked a lot healthier now. We settled in for the long trip north, talking over what had happened on leave. I told him about my kind parents, my smart sister, my perceptive brother. He loved the story of Liam painting my unspoken memories. In return I heard all about Foster and our friends and Johnny’s baby son Ian, seven months
old, infant perfection in every way. Finally, late at night, he spoke about Helen.

‘She’s working hard, too hard. My father’s failing and my mother has to spend a lot of time with him, so running the farm’s up to Helen and my brother Richard.’

‘Losing his hand’s not looking so much of a tragedy now, is it?’ I said.

‘No, and he thinks the same, too. A friend of his lost his legs. And two others didn’t come back at all.’

‘It must be difficult for Helen, the farm and the baby too.’

‘Yeah.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘It was a bloody nightmare, Mike. When we got married it was all right between us – you know – but we’ve been apart so long. And I’ve changed.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m not lying to myself about Alan anymore.’

‘Did you tell her about him?’

‘I wasn’t quite that brave.’ He grimaced. ‘But I couldn’t play the loving husband either and she was pretty hurt. I said it was because I was still unwell from Timor. It was half-true.’

He nudged me in the ribs. ‘I put in a good word for you, though. Told her how noble and courageous you were. Once she’d got up off the floor from laughing she sent you her love.’

‘Thanks buddy. With friends like you, the Japs look pretty good.’

After a long silence he shook his head wistfully. ‘I don’t know what we’ll do. I don’t think we can ever live together, not now. Maybe it’d be better if I don’t come back at all.’

‘Are you crazy? Don’t say that. Don’t even think it.’ I shook his arm. ‘I mean it, you stupid bastard. You and
Helen can work it out. You can get divorced if you have to. For God’s sake, Johnny.’

He sighed. ‘Yeah. You’re right,’ he said. ‘Thanks Mike. I’ll stop being a drongo.’

‘Is that even possible?’

He pretended to punch me, very gently. But his eyes were sad.

Alan joined us at Sydney, plus a bunch of the boys with plenty to tell about their recent exploits, erotic and alcoholic. As the train trundled north for a couple more days, I had time to notice Johnny wasn’t as recovered as he’d first appeared. His mood was darker, angrier, and he was irritated now by things that would once have made him laugh. Alan noticed it too.

Johnny saw my face when he almost thumped a man who’d accidentally bumped him with the swaying of the train.

‘Shit, Broome, don’t look at me like that. I’m feeling a bit black, that’s all. Couldn’t sleep last night.’

‘Me neither, fella. You were groaning and flinging your arms around for hours.’

He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. ‘Nightmares. Still getting them. Those bastard native raids, Japs urging them on. The things they’d do. If only I’d had a real crack at them.’

‘You couldn’t help being so sick, Johnny. You did all right just to get out alive.’

‘But if I’d had a kill, even one, I could feel better about it all. I want to go back to Timor so badly, I want to make them pay.’

‘Jesus, Johnny,’ I said, appalled, ‘killing Japs doesn’t make you feel any better.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ he said bitterly.

I looked helplessly at Alan. ‘Al, you wouldn’t go back, would you? By choice, I mean.’

He thought for a moment. ‘You know how I feel about Timor. Yeah. If I had the chance I’d go back, help push out the Japs. It’s the least we could do.’

I shook my head. ‘Look. I have nightmares myself about what’s happened to the Timorese, but we got away by the skin of our teeth. We can’t do anything to help them now.’

Johnny’s jaw was rigid. ‘I’m going back, Mike, somehow. Scores to settle.’

It was a rare moment of discord between us. This wasn’t the Johnny I used to know, but then, we’d all changed. We were quieter now, our laughter grimmer, our eyes harder. War was no longer a game we could win with youth and skill and cunning. We’d seen some of the best fall victim to trivial mishaps, the worst fumble unscathed through pitched battles. Luck, not skill, was the only shield. And you couldn’t train for luck.

We arrived at Canungra in April 1943. A jungle warfare centre had opened there the previous year, and a few months ago they’d moved the Prom commando school to the same site. It was comfortable enough, but we found our independent company was now attached to an army corps, which meant a bit too much toy-soldiering. The much-vaunted jungle training consisted of swinging on ropes over creeks and the odd obstacle course. To blooded commandos it was something of a joke.

Johnny, Alan and I attended NCO training courses but we were bored. Almost half our boys now were reinforcements. Although most were good blokes, it was hard to get used to the new faces. But one old face I was glad to see was young Davo, who’d gone AWOL. He’d had enough of civilian life, he said, and wanted to come back to the unit. He was given a symbolic week in detention, then slotted back in as if he’d never left.

In mid-May we were sitting around a tent having a smoko when Kanga bounced up calling ‘Yee-ha, pardners!’ He poked his pointy nose in the tent and said, ‘Have you heard?’

‘I’m sure we’re about to,’ said Johnny.

‘We’re not going to be independent companies anymore. They’re putting us in the 7th Cavalry Regiment!’

‘Don’t be absurd, Kanga, you idiot,’ said Alan kindly. ‘We can’t drive tanks.’

‘Too right, tanks are useless against Japs. That’s why the 7th got kicked around in Papua. So they’re not going to re-form, they’ll be administration for us and the 2nd and the 6th. We’re going to become the 7th Cavalry Commando Regiment. The Commando bit is in brackets,’ he added helpfully.

Davo groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. ‘I didn’t come back for this,’ he said sadly. ‘I want to be an Independent. Not part of a bloody regiment.’

‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘Are you sure, Kanga?’

‘Come on, Broome. It’s me telling you,’ said Kanga with justifiable confidence. ‘And another thing –’

‘Please no, I can’t stand anymore,’ said Johnny.

‘We’re taking the choo-choo to a new base in the Atherton Tablelands in a week.’

‘Where’s that?’ said Davo.

‘Near Cairns, I think,’ Alan said.

‘We knew we’d be moving soon,’ said Johnny. ‘But you’re sure about the timing?’

‘Yeah. It’s on, fellas. Whacko!’

‘Thanks, Kanga. Piss off and ruin someone else’s day, will you?’ said Davo gloomily.

We looked at each other. A move might be more interesting than hanging around here, but the thought of our fierce little independent company being merged into a large, clumsy regiment was depressing.

In the mess next day I realised the curly-haired bloke standing in line beside me was someone I knew, a brilliant Tetum-speaking sig who’d volunteered for the stay-behind party in Timor.

‘Alfy, is that really you?’

He grinned and said, ‘Hello, Broome. I’m back.’

‘How the hell? Jesus. Last time I saw you –’

‘Yeah. The beach at Quicras.’

‘Come over here and tell us about it.’

Alan jumped up to shake his hand and Johnny pulled out a seat for him.

‘Well, tell us all about it, Alf,’ I said.

He chewed a mouthful of food, then said, ‘You know it wasn’t only us there, the stay-behind party? There were a few men who hadn’t made it to the beach on time, and later we ran into twelve more blokes from Z Special Unit. Been there seven months, they said – sabotage, intelligence, training natives. So we all dodged the Japs for a few weeks,
half-starving, then the Yanks, God bless them, rescued us by sub.’

‘Z Special Unit?’ said Alan. ‘Sounds like a bunch of cowboys.’

‘Yeah, not far wrong. Run from Melbourne by SRD, Services Reconnaissance Department. Small special ops all over the place – got a base at Darwin they call the Lugger Maintenance Section.’

‘Luggers?’

He smiled at my sudden interest. ‘No, Broome, no real luggers there. Fair few Timorese and Portos, though, itching to get back and harass the Japs.’

‘Jeez, it’s great you got home in one piece, Alf,’ I said. ‘None of us would have put money on it, I can tell you. Hope you can have a breather now.’

‘Yeah.’ He smiled shyly. ‘Getting married in a few weeks.’

We congratulated him, then he said with a small frown, ‘But the bastards won’t leave me alone.’

‘Who?’

‘SRD. They want me to go back again, help some Portos start a resistance movement. They’re dangling a promotion, which means more pay. I could use it, that’s for sure.’

‘But you wouldn’t go back to Timor, would you?’ I said, surprised.

‘Well, I’m going to get shot at wherever I am, and at least I speak the lingo and know the place. Could be worse.’

Then he paused and said, ‘Sorry, Broome, but I may have dropped you in it.’

‘How?’

‘When they were talking to me I said, look, there’s even sigs in the unit who speak Japanese. What do you want me
for? They got bloody interested in that. I said I forgot your name, but it won’t be hard for them to find you.’

‘Oh.’ I wasn’t sure what I felt.

Johnny said thoughtfully, ‘Special ops. Real commandos, not bloody tank drivers without tanks.’

Alan said, ‘I heard they’ve been quietly asking some of the 2nd and 4th boys with Timor experience if they feel like transferring over to SRD. There’s a few interested, as well.’

He gazed at me with a half-smile. ‘You wouldn’t let us go by ourselves, would you, Mike?’

Chapter 16

The phone rings in my office. The departmental secretary says I have a visitor in the foyer, Captain Something. I’m puzzling over this as I go downstairs because I don’t know anyone in the army anymore. Then I see it’s Ian Erikssen and think, Of course, he’s a captain, a ship’s master. Not in uniform though, just a grey shirt and tidy jeans.

We shake hands then he says, surprisingly, ‘Look, I’m sorry for being such a prick the other day.’

‘Me too,’ I say. ‘I mean, not about you being a prick, I was one too.’

He nods. ‘Can we try again? Something I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘Okay. Lunch?’ We take the familiar path over to Lygon Street without saying much. It’s a calm blue autumn day.

We settle at a table. He doesn’t want a drink. I don’t have one either, I’m lecturing later.

We chat a bit, waiting for our meals. I notice the green of his eyes, the familiar line of his cheek; the unfamiliar frown. He takes a breath.

‘Okay, Mike. Something I wanted to ask you about.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘Liz and I’ve been divorced for a long time now. I’ve had a girlfriend in Hong Kong for a while. We got married and recently had a baby.’

‘Well, congratulations.’