The Turning Tide (8 page)

I drained the last of the beer. ‘Yeah, that’s true. Sorry, Al. Sorry for both of us.’

We mournfully contemplated the waves.

After a time, Alan sighed. ‘Anyway, we’re soon going to have a lot more than this to worry about. You busy now? Come over to the signals shed. I want to show you what I figured out about the gain on that new aerial.’

I looked at him sideways, mock suspicious. ‘Yeah?’

‘Think you’re God’s gift?’ he said laughing as we got up from the sand. ‘Not even my type, fella.’

‘No one’s type, by the look of it,’ I said gloomily.

He slapped my back and we wandered away to work on an equipment problem.

On 23rd February we heard the Allies in Dutch Timor had surrendered to the Japanese. We knew the 2nd Independents were in Timor too, but there was no news of them, though rumour had it they were in Portuguese Timor, the neutral half of the small island.

The most intensive part of our training was over. We – the newly formed 4th Independents – were desperate to get going, but were held up waiting on essential equipment. The word going around was we’d be away in early March.

Johnny came back from his honeymoon, the envy of anyone who’d ever set eyes on Helen. But although he was as professional as always, I could see a tension in him that only eased when he was around Alan. I found to my surprise I was almost sorry for him: I understood now how painful it was to live with a secret love. When we had a moment together I shook his hand in congratulations.

‘It’s been something of a whirlwind to be honest,’ Johnny said, half-embarrassed, ‘and marriage is a bit trickier than I’d expected. But, well, I guess we can’t hide it for long – Helen’s going to have a baby. Not that we wouldn’t have done it anyway,’ he added. ‘But you’ve got to hurry up when there’s a bun in the oven, eh?’

‘That’s good news, Johnny,’ I said.

‘Oh shit, Mike. Look, I always knew you were carrying a torch for her. You’re a great bloke, I’m sorry it couldn’t work out – you know.’

‘Torch? Try a bloody bonfire, mate. Yeah, I know. I’ll have to be the godfather to make up for it.’ Not that Helen would have me within a mile, but I could pretend.

A day or so later I was called in to see the commanding officer. He gazed at my yellow and purple bruises, courtesy of Bullock, then said, ‘Apart from this recent stunning imbecility, Signalman Whalen, you’ve done well. How would you like a little more responsibility?’

I had no idea what he meant but said, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘See the quartermaster and pick up what you require. And understand that from now on it’s not only yourself you have to protect in battle, but your men too. That’s a burden heavier than you might imagine.’

It was slowly dawning on me. ‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

He stood and shook my hand. ‘Congratulations, Corporal Whalen.’

Old men, young men. I don’t know why that nod across the generations is so moving, but for a moment there I worshipped him.

Chapter 8

In my dream I’m sewing stripes onto a shirt, surrounded by mates teasing me about the promotion. Happiness changes to a terrible ache in my throat and chest as I gaze at their brilliant young faces. Some of them have only months to live.

I come suddenly awake, groaning, tears in my eyes, and realise the phone beside my bed is ringing. I glance at the clock – 6 a.m. Who the hell’s ringing me at this hour? Then adrenaline kicks in as I lift the handpiece and I know.

‘Mike? Alan.’

‘Old mate. What is it?’

‘Jan. An hour ago.’

‘Jesus. Where are you?’

‘The hospital. I’ve been helping his parents fill out forms, next of kin. Twenty-six years together but I’m nothing. No forms for me. No fucking forms.’

‘Is someone there to take you home?’

‘I’ll get a taxi.’

‘Oh God, Al. I’m so sorry.’ I wipe my eyes. ‘Look, I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll fly up this morning.’

‘Yes. Please, Mike. I don’t understand what to do. No idea. You know?’

‘Yeah. I know. I’ll see you soon, fella, just be careful.’

‘Why?’ he says and puts down the phone.

I take the ten-thirty Ansett flight to Sydney. It’s the start of the new year, 1983, so the plane is half-empty. A few hours later I’m at Alan and Jan’s house in Balmain, a nice old terrace they bought for pennies when no one else wanted to live in the working-class suburb. It’s not far from a big park with a harbour swimming pool and it’s worth a lot more these days.

Alan opens the door. His eyes are exhausted. We hug and I bring in my bag and drop it in the familiar guestroom. I go through to the kitchen where he’s putting on the kettle.

‘I’ll do that,’ I say. ‘You take it easy.’

‘Sit down, you stupid prick. I’m not disabled.’ He puts two mugs of tea on the table.

‘You’ve been up all night. You need a rest.’

‘Later. The doc prescribed me some sleeping pills.’

‘Now don’t you take too many, young man,’ I say, mimicking a medic we’d known who’d stupidly given a bottle of pills to a suicidal recruit.

Alan chuckles, deep, raw. ‘No. I won’t do that. Jan made me promise.’

‘Good on him.’ I drink some tea. ‘What needs to happen now? I can stay three weeks, help you get everything sorted out.’

‘Three weeks? I thought you had a real job, mate.’

‘Long vacation, mate. Gives me an excuse, too –’

‘What?’

‘Now I don’t have to think about going down to Foster to see Nana Helen. I’d half-promised. Good of Jan to get me out of it.’

Alan chuckles again. ‘He’s a thoughtful fella.’ His cup stops halfway to his lips and tears well in his eyes. ‘Was.’

I squeeze his hand. ‘The best. The best.’

Alan rubs his face. ‘I should try to get some sleep. There’s a lot to do.’

‘I can tidy up a bit. Else you’ll never win housewife of the month.’

Alan stands and looks around. ‘Jeez, it is squalid, isn’t it? Haven’t had much time lately –’

‘Go to bed. Go on.’

I wash the piles of dishes and wipe down the dusty surfaces and sweep the kitchen floor. I do some vacuuming, put a load of washing in the machine and hang it to dry in the small backyard. Alan loves plants: there’s wonderful ferny things there I can’t name and cheerful flowers and a wisteria (I know that at least) over a pergola.

I sit in the shade and read the paper, then go and have a snooze. A few hours later I get up and some time after that Alan comes to the kitchen door, rubbing his eyes.

‘I’ve made a stew for dinner and found a nice red in the cupboard,’ I say. ‘Hope you weren’t saving it for a special occasion.’

‘This’ll do. Special enough,’ he says. I pour us both a glass.

After dinner and a few more glasses we go for a walk around the park in the long twilight, then have coffee and watch some telly. We keep it casual – we’re good at that. And by next morning Alan is rested, and ready to face the slog of obligations of the newly bereaved.

Jan’s funeral is a few days later. He was a doctor and a lot of people are there – male, female, young, old, straight, gay – who thought the world of him. Alan bears up well, dignified and handsome. It’s not fair, I think. He’s lost a lot over the years, and now Jan too. Still, they had a couple of good decades together. Does anyone get much more?

Terry’s standing on one side of Alan, Sue the other. She’s a lovely girl – well, woman – with Marion’s dark auburn hair and Alan’s long legs. And Terry’s a good man, thoughtful, with Alan’s grey eyes.

Alan’s children. My stepchildren. How lucky we are to have them. I suddenly think of Lena’s merry turquoise eyes and feel a pang of shame. I haven’t treated her well, Johnny’s granddaughter. For his sake at least I owe her honesty, an explanation of why I’ve been so elusive. A limited honesty, of course, but she should know that Helen and I don’t really want to dredge up the past.

Johnny, Alan, me. A generation of loss, with more, inescapably, to come. Our wonderful kids, bright and loving and brave: until their turn arrives, of course. But even a passing thought of their non-existence is almost unendurable. Marion once said all she asked of life was for her children to outlive her. Dear Marion, you got your wish.

I think,
Golden lads and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers, come to dust
. To dust, to dust: millions of mounds of beloved dust. Now Jan too. I weep like a child.

On 2nd March 1942, the 4th Independent Company finally left Tidal River in convoy. We camped overnight at Foster, and despite orders men quietly disappeared to say goodbyes or have a last beer. I stayed in the tent wondering about the future. We’d played at combat for months now, though it hadn’t been a game at all – one poor bloke had even got blown up. What would the real thing be like?

Next morning we assembled at the station to take the train to Melbourne. In the hubbub I heard Johnny calling my name. I turned and pushed my way over to him through the soldiers and parents and friends and sweethearts – because of his height he was always easy to find in a crowd. As I reached him I realised Helen was by his side, his arm around her.

‘Mike, I couldn’t let you leave without saying goodbye to the prettiest girl in Gippsland,’ he said. ‘Come on, I know you two had a tiff. You’ve got to kiss and make up before we go.’

Helen looked at me, tears in her eyes. To my surprise she whispered, ‘Mike darling, I’m so sorry.’ She hugged me fiercely and kissed my cheek. ‘Take care of yourself. Take care of Johnny. Come back to us safely.’

The stationmaster blew his whistle. The company sergeant roared, ‘Men, aboard,
now
.’

Moist-eyed, we parted. Johnny and I grabbed our packs and rifles and climbed into a carriage. Looking through the
window we could see Helen waving. The train tooted and slowly pulled away.

Neither of us said much in the next few hours, preoccupied with our own thoughts. My slouch hat sat on my lap with its brand-new colour patch, the dark blue double diamond of the 4th Independents. It made me proud. And afraid. Could I live up to it?

When the train reached Melbourne, some of the blokes, wild with high spirits, let off a smoke bomb and shot up some fire buckets. We headed north, sleeping despite the overcrowding; stopped in Newcastle for a few hours’ leave, then after another uncomfortable night reached Brisbane.

Rockhampton the following day, Townsville the next. The train turned west for Mount Isa where we had our first shower in ages. Afterwards we climbed into trucks and left for the Northern Territory. I remember one glorious overnight camp, but I couldn’t sleep for gazing at the sweep of stars above us.

Two long days later we were going north up the Stuart Highway, red hills and scrub all around. A stream of cars and trucks was heading the opposite way. Another day, overnight at Larrimah, then next morning we climbed into rail trucks all too recently vacated by cattle. Any high spirits we’d had were long since crushed.

We finally reached Katherine, two hundred miles southeast of Darwin: deserted houses, four pubs and some Chinese shops. We’d been travelling nonstop for nine stinking days.

We hoped we’d be there only a short while. We were superbly trained troops but we knew that, even now, the brass found it hard to fit the concept of independent
companies into their Great War style of thinking. But surely they wouldn’t waste us. Would they?

The Japanese raids had continued while we were on the move. I was distressed to hear Broome had recently been bombed. Twenty-odd flying boats bringing evacuees from the Dutch East Indies had been destroyed on serene Roebuck Bay, and perhaps one hundred people – many of them women and children – had died.

A few people came over to chat about the bombings with me. Because we already had one red-haired ‘Blue’ in the unit, I had to be called something else. My nickname became ‘Broome’ because I never shut up about the place, they joked. Well, I hoped it was a joke.

I also heard the navy was taking up the best of the pearling luggers and burning those they couldn’t use. I knew my parents would be heartsick at that. They both loved the luggers. Dad had built quite a few and Mum even owned one. Thankfully they’d left for Perth some weeks before, so I knew they were safe. Mum had sent me a letter while we were still at the Prom but I’d just skimmed it. Now I found it at the bottom of my pack and read it properly.

24th January 1942
Dearest Mike,

You wouldn’t recognise Broome today. For the last few weeks they’ve been rounding up the Japanese seamen, cramming them into the gaol, but it was hopeless: two hundred in that little place! Then they had to let them out so they could bed
down the luggers and go shopping for dinner. It was ridiculous.

Well, indentured sailors are one thing because you can’t really be certain where their sympathies lie, but then the police started arresting the town Japanese, some of whom have been here forty years, completely loyal to the Empire. Darling, they took old man Egawa and Yoshi and Mary. I couldn’t believe it. They’re residents, free Asiatics. Mary was born here!

 Then last week they sent them all away on the
Koolinda
. The scene on the wharf was terrible, everyone crying. I don’t know where they’ll take them. It’s simply unthinkable.

Most people are leaving Broome now. Your father and I are sailing to Perth in a few days. We’ll stay with Auntie Rosa and Uncle Anton – write to me there. If nothing else we’ll see more of Liam.

All my love, Mum

There was bugger-all at Katherine. No preparations – food, camp, storage, transport – for over two hundred and fifty men. We were marched to a spot covered with seven-foot high cane grass and told to cut it down with bayonets and machetes. So we did.

We dug trenches and latrines, scrounged for food, fished in the river and waited. The Japanese bombed us about ten days after we got there but they missed. After a couple of weeks the brass decided we should go and patrol pretty much the entire Northern Territory.

Company headquarters remained near Katherine, while A Platoon went west to Victoria River; B went north-west
to Daly River and C to Roper River in the east. No one knew if the Japanese would land, but they’d landed everywhere else in Asia and the great river systems were the obvious places. Our job was to harass any invading forces, but with only sixty to seventy men per platoon, even that was a fairly ambitious task.