‘A POW camp? Joe looked horrified. ‘How do
you know that?’
‘I was at that Aboriginal Control Camp at
Phelp River a couple of months ago. The one where you told me your
Aboriginal crewman, Monday, was detained. I made enquiries like you
asked me to. They told me Monday was working on a road gang. But
the talk of the camp was the ‘Japanese spy’ they’d caught. You
could have knocked me over with a feather when they said his name
was Koko Hamada. I talked to the lieutenant that interviewed him.
He said it was as plain as the nose on your face that Koko was a
spy. He said he should have faced a firing squad, but he ended up
in the Japanese concentration camp at Cowra in New South Wales.
‘The rotten bastard.’ Joe took a long swig
from his tin mug. He stood up quickly, picked up a pebble from the
sand and hurled it angrily at the sea. ‘Are all officers so bloody
stupid and arrogant?’
‘Without exception,’ Herbert said bitterly.
‘And they’re treacherous bastards too. It turns out that when Major
Stanner set up the Nackeroos, he and the top brass, including the
Minister for the Army, decided we were expendable. The swine sent
us up here to die just to help save the cozy little patch of
Australia occupied by themselves and southern commercial
interests.’
‘What do you mean by that, Sarge?
‘Last week General MacArthur dropped them all
in the shit. His review of his first year in Australia was
published in all the papers and reported on the radio. It seems
even the Prime Minister can’t censor what the Supreme Allied
Commander tells the media. The opposition are calling for a Royal
Commission. MacArthur said when he arrived here from the
Philippines, Curtin and the Australian Chiefs of Staff planned to
let the Japanese occupy all of Australia above a line drawn between
Brisbane and Adelaide. They called it the Brisbane Line. Of course,
they didn’t bother to tell anyone who lived north of it. And they
sent poor buggers like us up here so we could let them know exactly
when their new neighbors arrived—before the bastards chopped our
heads off, that is.’
Joe shook his head as he pondered what
Herbert had said. ‘Do you really think Stanner thinks we’re all
expendable?’ he asked after a few moments.
‘Of course he does. He’s just another
military donkey. So is our Company Commander. And I told them both
so, right to their faces, when Stanner came up to Roper Bar last
week.’
‘You really said that to Major Stanner and
the CO?’ Joe said incredulously. He sat back down on the log. ‘What
happened then?’
‘Stanner told his aide to “get this bloody
ratbag out of my sight”.’ Herbert topped up Joe’s mug. ‘So here I
am. The CO sent me off with the supply boat next morning. Stanner
will be safely back sipping pink gin in the Melbourne Club by the
time we get back.’
Joe stared into the sand. ‘Why did you join
the Nackeroos in the first place, Sarge?’ he asked after a moment.
‘You’re a famous writer and you must be a year or two over the age
limit, anyway.’
Herbert shrugged. ‘I told you at Roper Bar,
Joe. I just wanted to do my bit for Australia. And besides, my wife
Sadie and I needed a steady income. Writers royalty payments are
few and far between, you know. So it seemed like a good idea at the
time I volunteered. But even in wartime it seems you can’t avoid
the smug, born-to-rule hypocritical clods in the establishment.
They just take leave of absence from their boring little jobs in
the ‘professions’ or the civil-service, get commissions, then bring
their autocratic tunnel-vision into the armed forces.’
Joe couldn’t help but smile at Herbert’s
disdain for authority. ‘But you’re brother, David, is a
commissioned officer, Sarge.’
‘Yes, but he’s a practical man like you, not
a mindless, academic twit. He’s a master mariner, you know. That
why he’s in charge of the Nackeroos’ fleet of little coastal
vessels. For once the Army put a round peg in a round hole. He’s
got eight boats now, but he says he could use double that many,
especially now.’
‘Why, what’s happening?’
‘The word is there’s a large Japanese force
massing in Timor. If they attack the Top End, the Army wants to
make sure they don’t get any more help from fifth columnists. Now
we’ve got RAAF Spitfire squadrons in Darwin and American bomber and
fighter squadrons at Batchelor Field, most of the Japanese air
raids come at night to avoid being intercepted. Lately, just before
the raids, fifth columnists have been showing lights and lighting
fires along the coast to guide the Japanese bombers to their
targets. There plenty of traitors around. A lot of them are
probably in small boats like your mates, the Horan brothers. They
can disappear for months on end and hide in shallow water, in
places where naval boats can’t get into. With the end of the wet,
that force in Timor may strike at any moment. Stanner told David he
wants as many Nackeroo boats as possible to patrol the coast to
hunt for fifth columnists.’
Joe stood up again and slammed one fist hard
into the other. ‘God I wish I had a bloody boat, Sarge. I know the
Top End coast better than any man alive.’
‘That what I told David when he told me
he was getting another boat. It’s an old ketch they brought up from
Broome called the
Walrus.
David’s in Darwin now making sure she’s seaworthy and ready
to go on patrol.’
‘Did you put my name up to your brother for
that boat, Sarge?’ Joe asked urgently.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And what did he say?’
Herbert poured the last of the white
lady into the tin mugs and smiled a rare smile. ‘I think
congratulation are in order, Corporal. David said, after we get
back to Roper Bar you were to report to the
Walrus
in Darwin as her new skipper. He says
there’ll only be a crew of three including yourself. He said if
there’s anyone special you want to take along, you can do
so.’
‘Good.’ Joe grinned. ‘I’ll take Weasel.’
Herbert looked surprised. ‘Does he know
anything about boats?’
‘About as much as he knows about horses.’
‘What about a third crewman?’
‘I’d like to take Monday. He’s knows boats
well. What do you think?
‘Those bastards at the Aboriginal
control camp will whinge about it. They treat the blacks like
chattels. But I’ll tell the CO at Roper Bar that he’s indispensable
to the
Walrus
and get him to
authorize a release.’
‘Thanks, Sarge.’ Joe drained the last of the
liquid from his tin mug. ‘And what will happen to the rest of the
section now I’ve got a boat?’
‘Well, Snow will stay here with the new
section. Smokey and young Tasker will get transferred to
another.’
‘And what’s going to happen to you Sarge, now
you’ve got Major Stanner and the CO offside?’
‘I’ve already made an application for
discharge. If I can’t get that, I’ll settle for a transfer. Joining
up was a mistake. How I ever thought I could work with such
insufferable clods as Army officers, I’ll never know. But the
feeling’s mutual. I’m sure they’ll be quite glad to see me go.’
*
The distant chatter of machine gun fire had
been getting closer and closer all morning. Now it was much louder
and more frequent and often interspersed with the roar of exploding
mortars and the thunder of tank guns. Only Colonel Toki and Dan
were left in the grass hut. When it had become plain the Americans
were mopping up the last of the isolated pockets of banished
Japanese units on Mt Austen, Toki’s men had fled to higher ground
taking the last of the food and morphine with them.
Since the supply of morphine had ended, the
frequency of Dan’s malarial attacks had intensified. He had spent
much of the time unconscious in the grip of fever during the
American push westward across Guadalcanal but somehow he had
managed not to let go of his tenuous hold on life. Now, little more
than a filthy, naked skeleton, he lay on the floor, saturated with
sweat and listening to the sounds of the advancing Americans and
the endless transmissions crackling over Toki’s field radio.
The static on the radio ended abruptly and a
moment later Dan sensed Colonel Toki’s presence beside him. The
Americans were so close now he could hear the dull clanking of the
steel tracks on the approaching tanks. Too weak to move his head,
Dan rolled his eyes slowly toward the Colonel. He saw Toki was
holding his sheathed samurai in his hand.
‘You have suffered much, Captain,’ Toki said
softly. ‘But your strong will to live has carried you through. But
has it been worth it? In minutes we shall both be dead. We will
join the tens of thousands whose lives have already been snuffed
out on this awful island. And thousands more will die yet. Since
the battle for Guadalcanal has been won by the Americans, what
remains of our forces are left with only one honorable option—death
on the battlefield.’
Now the soldiers outside were so close their
excited voices carried into the hut between the bursts of gunfire
and above the rumble of the tanks.
‘Captain,’ Toki continued calmly, ‘you must
tell me before I die. Did you ever fully understand the messages
the Navajo code-talkers were transmitting?’
Dan knew death was near. It didn’t matter
whether it was in seconds at the hands of Colonel Toki, or in
minutes from the deadly hail of American bullets and grenades which
he knew would soon annihilate the little hut and anything in it.
‘Yes, Colonel,’ Dan admitted. He took a deep breath. ‘I’ve known
almost from the very beginning.’
A burst of machine gun fire raked through the
hut sending splinters of mud and grass flying everywhere. Another
long burst hit the radio, blasting it into smithereens. Toki
dropped to his knees but he was unhurt. He pulled his samurai from
its scabbard.
‘You are a brave man,’ Toki whispered. ‘But
are the Americans really worth your life, after all they’ve done to
your Navajo people?’
‘Yes, they are.’
Dan closed his eyes and awaited the blade.
Instead he heard a gush of air and a hoarse, gasp when Toki impaled
himself on his sword. Dan opened his eyes just as another long
burst of machine gun fire began. He watched the hut disintegrating
in as the hail of bullets descending lower and lower down the sides
of the hut as the soldiers outside tried to ensure nothing inside
was left alive. The last projectiles passed no more than a foot
above the floor of the hut and an inch above Dan’s face. Then he
was horrified to see a hand grenade rolling towards him.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Dick Sharkey arrived home exhausted
after another long day at the crammed wharves along the Brisbane
River. It was Friday afternoon and with Saturday being a rostered
day off, he was looking forward to catching up on some sleep. He
had started his shift at midnight at Newstead Wharf, loading
munitions aboard the destroyer USS
Mugford
. Around 7 a.m. his gang had moved to the
Dalgety’s Wharf in Teneriffe to load supplies aboard the AHS
Centaur
. Built in Liverpool in the
1920’s, the former Blue Funnel Line passenger steamer was on a
shakedown cruise from Melbourne after being converted and
commissioned as an Australian hospital ship.
Since the tide had begun to turn in favor of
the Allies in New Guinea and Guadalcanal, more and more ships were
arriving in Brisbane with war casualties. Seeing first hand the
horrendous sacrifices the Allied forces were making and with the
battlefields being so close, the wharfies and shipping operators in
Queensland had set aside many of their long held differences and
were working in a new spirit of cooperation. Nobody even minded
working continual long hours of overtime, especially when a
hospital ship was involved.
After Dick had eaten a hot meal, he showered
and went to bed, falling asleep even as Helen drew the bedroom
blinds to keep out the afternoon sun. It only seemed like he had a
few minutes sleep when he felt her hand on his shoulder gently
waking him. He opened his eyes and squinted towards the window and
seeing it wasn’t yet dark outside he closed them again.
‘Ian McDougal’s here from the Union Hall,
dear,’ Helen said softly.
Dick eyes remained closed. ‘What does he
want?’
‘He says there’s an emergency. I told him
you’d only come off shift a few hours ago, but he said it’s very
important he talks with you.’
Dick swung his legs over the side of the bed.
He ran a hand through his hair, pulled on some trousers and walked
out to the kitchen.
‘What is it, Ian?’ Dick asked as he sat down
across the table from the red-haired union secretary.
‘Sydney’s stopped work again.’
‘What the hell is it this time?’
Helen put a pot of tea down on the table and
poured two cups. McDougal added milk to his cup and stirred it.
‘Someone decided to change pay day from Saturday morning to
Thursday afternoon. One of the gangs said no and stopped work, so
the Sydney Branch called a strike.’
‘God Almighty. Don’t they know there’s a war
on?’
‘That’s what the Minister for Supply and
Shipping said. He’s threatening to cancel Sydney Branch member’s
call-up exemption.’
‘Serve the silly buggers right.’ Dick sipped
his tea. ‘But you didn’t come here and wake me to tell me that.
What’s up?’
‘The Yanks are hopping mad, Dick.
They’re diverting shipping here. There’s a transport entering
Moreton Bay right now with a huge number of casualties from
Guadalcanal. She’s the
George
Washington,
and she’s big—almost fifty thousand tons
and draws over thirty feet. She needs deep water, that’s why she
was heading for Sydney.’