‘Will you be back in Brisbane at all?’
‘I hope so.’ Dan stole another glance at
Faith. ‘I really hope so.’
They drove on and the jeep passed through the
working-class district of South Brisbane heading for a bridge
spanning the Brisbane River. The darkened streets were alive with
uniformed American soldiers. Almost all were Negroes, looking for
whatever entertainment was on offer within an area specifically
designated for black servicemen. Although it was still early
evening, the dark recesses of the shops and businesses on the
street were occupied by soldiers and young girls embracing in the
shadows. There was also a large presence of American military
police
Dan drove over the Victoria Bridge linking
South Brisbane with the city centre. Like South Brisbane, there
were uniformed soldiers everywhere, some Australian but mostly
white Americans. With the central district out of bounds to blacks,
there were no Negroes at all. But the white GIs, like the Negroes
across the river, plainly held a monopoly on the affections of the
hundreds of young Australian girls on the streets.
‘Do you have to go home right away?’ Dan
asked as they neared New Farm. ‘Perhaps we could stop for dinner
some place.’
Faith laughed. ‘In these dungarees. No, I
don’t think so.’
‘Then maybe we could pick up something
somewhere and eat it in the jeep and talk?’
‘My Aunt Helen’s expecting me.’
‘I won’t keep you late,’ Dan persisted. ‘I’d
just like to talk. I may not get another chance.’
They drove on in silence for a few moments.
Then Faith said, ‘I know a place not far away that makes the best
fish and chips in Australia. We could get some, then drive up to
the lookout on Mount Cootha. You can see the whole city from there.
Do you know where it is?’
Dan smiled. ‘No. But you can give me the
directions as we go along.’
Dan had meant to be true to his word but it
was almost midnight when they pulled up outside the Sharkeys’
house. They had spent the entire evening just sitting in the jeep
on the mountain, talking, and looking down in the moonlight over
the blacked-out city below them.
‘Will you come in for a moment? ’ Faith asked
when he opened the door of the jeep for her.
Dan and Faith tiptoed up the garden path and
up the stairs onto the veranda When they stole into the house they
found her aunt and uncle fast asleep in easy chairs in the lounge
room. They woke with a start when Faith switched on the light.
‘We were so worried dear, we waited up,’
Helen said. ‘But I suppose we must have fallen asleep.’
Faith smiled. ‘Aunt Helen, Uncle Dick, I’d
like you both to meet Captain Dan Rivers. Joe and I know him from
Darwin.’
Helen stood up and touched her hair and
straightened her apron. She held out her a hand. ‘I’m very pleased
to meet you, young man.’
‘I hope I’m not intruding, Ma’am,’ Dan said
apologetically.
‘Oh no, you’re not intruding, Captain
Rivers.’ Dick said, rising sleepily to his feet. He gripped Dan’s
hand firmly and shook it. ‘It’s good to see you again, son. And
you’re very welcome in my house.’
*
As Faith walked through the factory gate at
Rocklea the next morning, a B-17 roared by overhead. It had just
taken off from Archerfield and Faith stood for a few moments and
watched it climb steadily into the clear blue sky then bank away to
the north. She smiled and wondered if Dan was aboard.
Faith’s factory produced small caliber
handgun and rifle projectiles. Like many others of its kind around
the country, it was set up solely to manufacture ammunition for the
Australian Army. Over eighty percent of its production was standard
.303 inch rifle rounds. While the production of the ammunition was
largely automated, the inspection and packing of the finished
product was not. Faith was just one in a long line of women who sat
at long inspection and packing stations, often for ten or twelve
hours a day.
The work was hard, repetitious and boring
beyond belief. All the girls found it hard not to let their minds
wander and think of other things, as each live round passed through
their fingers before being packed into wooden cases destined for
far-off battlefields. Often they had to force themselves to
concentrate on the task at hand, particularly the inspection of the
shell casings, knowing that a single bullet not properly inspected
might be the one which would blow a young digger’s face off.
The girls were supervised by men, all too old
to be conscripted into the armed forces and too young for
retirement. Few of them had ever seen women in the workplace before
the war and none had ever been in such close contact with so many
women on a daily basis. The first day she arrived at the factory,
Faith had been warned there were a couple of supervisors who
couldn’t help themselves when it came to a friendly slap and
tickle. Some of the girls even encouraged them. Faith noticed those
that did were usually given preference for lighter or less tedious
duties.
Faith took up her position at the inspection
bench and began sorting cartridges. It wasn’t long before the
teasing from her work mates started.
‘I’ve been picked up by Yanks before, Faith,’
a girl beside her called out. ‘But never at a bus stop by an
officer in a jeep.’
‘What do you have to give to get that kind of
service, Faith?’ another girl sang out.
Faith laughed off the good-natured jibes but
her ire rose when a male voice chimed in, ‘If she gives what I
think she does, I’ll give her a ride on my crossbar anytime.’ A
loud laugh came from Trevor Lipp, her fifty-year-old, overweight
day-shift supervisor. ‘And I’ve got a ladies bike.’
Lipp laughed his raucous laugh again and
his hand squeezed Faith’s buttock's briefly as he passed down the
line behind her. She turned around angrily.
‘Don’t look at me like that, Faith.’ Lipp
said quickly before she could speak. He winked knowingly. ‘Pay
attention to the job. Think of all those diggers out there fighting
for you. Don’t you think you should wait for them instead of
dropping your drawers for the Yanks?’
When Lipp wandered away, Faith settled down
to work. ‘Watch out for that one, Faith,’ said a workmate beside.
‘Lipp’s always bothering someone. He’s fairly harmless when he’s
sober but he can turn nasty if he’s been drinking.’
After a few minutes the corrugated steel
building reverberated as another huge airplane from Archerfield
thundered overhead. Again Faith wondered if Dan was on it. He
hadn’t been out of her mind since she woke up that morning. They
had talked for so long the night before about everything under the
sun. He asked had her so many questions, she must have given him
her entire life history.
She had asked questions too. Dan had told her
he’d been an only child, that his father had died when he was a boy
and that his mother lived in Gallup, New Mexico. He seemed to enjoy
telling her about New Mexico. Of how the Spanish came almost four
hundred years ago and of how for three hundred years it had been a
part of New Spain and then Mexico. And he told her of how the
Americans had finally come in 1846 and had eventually granted the
New Mexico Territory statehood in 1912.
Faith could tell Dan was proud of his
heritage and that he had a close affinity with the land. She
assumed it was Spanish blood that gave Dan his dark good looks. But
there were still so many things she wished she knew about him,
things she hadn’t asked, but now wished she had. And she wondered
when and if she would ever see him again. As she carefully examined
the shell casings passing through her fingers she hoped she would,
and someday soon.
*
As soon as Dan’s plane touched down at
Garbutt, he was whisked across the busy Air Force base to a room in
an administration block where a meeting was already in progress. An
American Army colonel and an RAAF wing commander were standing
beside a huge wall map of Cape York, New Guinea and the Coral Sea
Islands. The American colonel was addressing a small group of US
Army engineers.
‘Unlike what you’ve probably heard from the
Navy, they are not the only ones doing something about kicking the
Japs’ ass,’ the US Colonel said. ‘Unfortunately the Army Air Corps
can’t just up anchor and sail our airplanes to battle on mobile
airfields and fight hit and run battles. While those naval
engagements using carrier-based aircraft have been useful in
stalling the enemy’s advance, only the power of land-based fighters
and heavy bombers backing up ground forces are ever going to drive
the Japs out the Pacific. With more aircraft becoming available to
us, the number of operational Allied Air Force squadrons is now
increasing and we desperately need more airfields from where we can
attack the enemy. It is your job to get these airfields built.’
The Colonel turned to the RAAF officer beside
him and gave him the floor.
‘Gentlemen.’ The wing commander tapped a
pointer on the wall map. ‘These red pins indicate the positions of
over two dozen proposed strategic new airfields in Far North
Queensland. Work is already under way at some new sites and
expansion has started at a few existing civil and RAAF locations.
Unfortunately you will not find conditions at any of these places
conducive to normal construction practices. Almost without
exception, all the locations are extremely remote, with few
facilities of any kind. But wherever possible it is planned to get
heavy equipment in by road or by sea. You gentlemen will to be
flown into the areas to which you have been assigned by RAAF.’
The colonel took the pointer from the wing
commander and turned to the wall map.
‘Gentlemen, you will be going to two of the
highest priority locations. The first is here,’ the officer pointed
to a spot on the map, ‘in a rain forest jungle several hundred
miles north of Townsville at a place called Iron Range on the east
coast of Cape York.’ He moved the pointer up the map. ‘The second
is here at an existing bomb dump field at Horn Island, just off the
northern tip of Cape York. This field is to be enlarged and
upgraded.’ He moved the pointer again over the sea to New Guinea.
‘Now, here at Port Moresby is the only operational airfield in
Papua that stands between the Japs and us. It is exactly the same
distance from Iron Range and Horn Island and it is essential that
these two fields be operational as soon as possible to provide
fall-back bases for Allied squadrons at Moresby which are being
bombed constantly. I don’t think I need to tell you the position
we’ll be in if the Japs take Port Moresby and use that field
against us before the two fall-back fields are completed.’
*
The RAAF Catalina circled over Portland
Roads, a calm bay nestled behind a high headland, protected from
the strong south-east trade wind blowing over the Coral Coast.
There was an old jetty at the almost abandoned outpost. It had been
built years earlier in water deep enough to allow ocean-going
vessels to disembark men and material destined for now played-out
iron and gold mines at Iron Range located just a few miles
inland.
After a second circuit, the flying boat
glided in to a smooth landing and taxied over close to the jetty
where a large American transport was disgorging huge Caterpillar
bulldozers, trucks , graders and all types of construction
equipment and building materials. Dan and a group of engineers
travelled by four-wheel drive transport along an old road leading
up over granite ridges, then through tropical jungle swamps made
passable only the day before by the latest in American
road-building equipment. Eventually the truck emerged from rough
scrub into the area known as Iron Range. A sea of tents housing
hundreds of black soldiers who would build the airfield were
pitched in long rows.
Within hours, communications had been set up
and clearing and grading had commenced on the three planned
runways, aircraft dispersal strips and on the erection of
semi-permanent screened canvass mess halls, latrines and various
storage enclosures. Because of high rainfall conditions in the area
and the sheer size and weight of the B-17 Flying Fortresses and
B-26 Liberators that were to be based at Iron Range, the runways
had to be paved with asphalt and engineers scoured the surrounding
countryside until they found suitable materials to set up a batch
plant.
In spite of difficult terrain and working
conditions, Iron Range began to take on some semblance of an
operational airfield after a few weeks. It was around this time
that Dan and another engineer made the short flight to Horn Island
aboard a Catalina. They were sent to assist in accelerating the
expansion of the old bomb dump airfield to accommodate surveillance
and bombing squadrons. As an existing airfield, Horn Island was a
favorite bombing target for Japanese planes based in New
Guinea.
As the flying boat began its descent onto the
strip of calm turquoise water separating Horn Island from Thursday
Island, Dan and his companion were looking down at the airfield
when it suddenly came under attack. All at once they could see
bombs exploding on the ground, then a burst of machine gun fire
raked through the fuselage of the Catalina as Zero’s covering a
squadron of high altitude bombers swarmed down to strafe the
airfield.
Neither Dan nor the other engineer were
hit. But when their pilot took evasive action they were hurled
violently around the plane, grabbing onto whatever they could to
hold themselves steady. The pilot banked hard to the south-west
away from Horn Island towards neighboring Prince of Wales Island,
where he tried to avoid being seen by skimming low over the tree
line on the steep slopes leading down to the sea from the islands
lofty peaks. But there was no second attack. The Zeros lost
interest in the Catalina when they were engaged by a hastily
scrambled P-40 squadron on Horn Island. The raid lasted no more
than ten minutes and when it was all over the Catalina put down at
the sea plane base on Thursday Island.