Territory (3 page)

‘They've bombed Darwin!' Flight Lieutenant Terence Galloway stared at the opened newspaper on the table before him. Page five. Only a small article, no picture. ‘Japanese Attack Australia', it said, ‘Air Raid on Darwin', and a short column followed. ‘Just look at that!' He pushed the newspaper across the table to Robbie seated opposite. ‘They've bloody bombed Darwin!'

It was Monday morning in the officers' mess at the RAF Fighter Command Base, Biggin Hill, Kent, approximately fifteen miles south-east of London.

Robbie Roper swallowed the last of his toast, shoved his cleanly mopped-up breakfast plate to one side and examined the article. ‘Doesn't say much,' he commented, picking up his mug of tea and taking a swig. ‘Last Thursday, that's four days ago, and just a mention like this.' He gave a laconic shrug. ‘Probably means bugger all. A Jap reconnaissance flight, I reckon, and the locals have overreacted.'

‘I don't think it's a recce at all,' Terence disagreed. ‘The Japs have been flying recces over Darwin for months, Dad tells me.'

The homestead of Bullalalla cattle station, where Terence had been born and raised, was only sixty miles from Darwin, and his father, an ex-military man, kept Terence regularly posted with the news. Indeed Jock Galloway's recent predictions had been of an imminent attack.

‘Better check it out with Harry then.' Robbie took another swig of his tea, slurping as he did, and annoying Terence further. A lot of things about Robbie annoyed Terence, most of all his indifference. Some saw his lackadaisical attitude as a sign of strength, and Terence reluctantly agreed that to newly trained pilots about to face combat Robbie's nonchalance was probably a comfort. But to Terence, the man's lack of passion was both uncaring and soulless, and his reaction to the newspaper article typified his apathy. He was an Australian for God's sake, didn't he care that his country might be under attack?

‘Yes, I'll do that,' Terence replied and he all but snatched the paper from Robbie's hand as he rose abruptly to his feet. ‘I'll get Harry to check it out right now.'

Robbie watched as Terence crossed to the far end of the mess where Harold Crighton-Smith was sitting with his cronies. It was quite obvious that he'd somehow annoyed Terence, but Robbie couldn't for the life of him think what he'd done wrong. It was often like that. As the only remaining Aussie pilots on the base one would suppose they'd have more in common, particularly having been through so much together, but they were chalk and cheese, all right.

Terence and Robbie, like many Australian airmen, had been seconded to London during the Battle of Britain. They had been amongst the lucky survivors, seeing many about them die, and when the battle was finally over they'd been offered positions as Spitfire pilot instructors at the Royal Flying College in Cranwell not far from Biggin Hill. Robbie had jumped at the opportunity; he would
willingly live out the war as an instructor, at thirty he was getting too old for battle. It surprised him, however, when Terence accepted the offer. He'd have expected Terence to insist upon a posting to the Middle East. In his mid-twenties, intrepid and reckless to the point of foolishness at times—in Robbie's opinion, anyway—Terence Galloway had a lust for battle.

It was ego which had dictated the decision, Robbie had decided. Terence's ego would have demanded he accept the position of chief flying instructor at an establishment like the Royal Flying College, it was the consummate endorsement of his skill. A skill which Robbie would be the first to acknowledge. Terence Galloway was the finest pilot he'd known, and Robbie himself was no slouch. Now, however, well over a year after the Battle of Britain, Robbie could sense the frustration in his countryman. Terence had flown on a number of operations but it wasn't enough, Robbie could tell that he longed to be back in the thick of it.

Robbie couldn't understand why. Bloody awful business, war, he'd decided, and he couldn't fathom Terence's desire to do battle. But then there was a lot he couldn't fathom about Terence. In Robbie Roper's opinion, Terence Galloway was a strange bastard.

Harold Crighton-Smith was the base's intelligence officer and an obliging chap, particularly when it came to Terence Galloway whom he very much admired. Terence possessed all the criteria necessary for hero status. Tall, handsome, dashing, daring, he was everything Harold had always longed to be.

Terence knew full well that Harold had a ‘crush' on him. There was no evidence of homosexuality in the man's behaviour, but Terence was scathing of him nevertheless, considering him soft and weak, despite the fact that Harold was extremely efficient and very good at his job. ‘Typical Pommie public school boy,' he'd said to Robbie
on numerous occasions. Terence did not suffer what he considered to be any form of weakness kindly. But he was not averse to using Harold when he felt it was necessary.

Harold knew nothing of the attack upon Darwin, he said, but he would get on to the War Office and have information for them by lunchtime.

As always, Harold was true to his word. He met Terence and Robbie in the mess shortly before one o'clock.

‘The Japs made two raids,' he said in his precise, clipped tones. ‘Twenty-three aircraft were destroyed and the RAAF base virtually demolished.' Terence and Robbie exchanged a look of incredulity. ‘Five merchant ships and three warships were sunk,' Harold continued, ‘and thirteen other vessels damaged or beached.' He reeled the list off without referring to any notes; he rarely made notes. ‘It was a massive raid evidently. Reports, as yet unsubstantiated but rumoured to be true, are saying that the Japs dropped more bombs on Darwin last Thursday than they did on Pearl Harbor.'

Shocked from his normal complacency, Robbie looked at Terence aghast, but Terence continued to stare at Harold who, in turn, continued to reel off the inconceivable facts.

‘They're not releasing the death toll as yet.' Harold spoke dispassionately as he always did when dealing in statistics, particularly the horrifying ones. ‘But casualties are likely to be considerable, a lot of the town was destroyed.'

It was only then that Terence looked at Robbie and, when he did, each read the fear in the other's eyes. For the first time in its history their country was experiencing warfare upon its own soil. Both men were deeply shocked.

But several days later Harold's contact at the War Office divulged the most horrifying news of all.

‘Been looking for you everywhere, old man, thought you'd want to know as soon as possible.' Harold caught
up with Terence in the carpark, Terence having just returned from a trip into nearby Bromley.

‘They're not publishing the facts in Australia,' Harold told him, ‘not to the general populace anyway. The Government's decided to keep the public in ignorance. For fear of panic or whatever.' There was a flicker of criticism in Harold's normally bland eyes. ‘Heaven only knows why, surely the Australians have a right to the truth, the people are strengthened when they can share their losses. I tell you, the English wouldn't stand for it, being kept in the dark.' Then, quickly back to business. ‘The official toll at this stage is at least 238 dead, including women and children, and between 300 and 400 wounded. But that's a conservative estimate,' he added, ‘the numbers are probably far greater.'

My God
, Terence thought as he stared at Harold in horror.
Oh my God. The war has landed in Australia
.

 

‘Five pounds!'

There was a moment's silence. Most present were thinking ‘that's a week's wages', while they peered behind them to see whose voice it was that had shouted from the back of the crowded Masonic hall.

Henrietta peered, along with the others. In her Red Cross volunteer's uniform, lined up with WRENS and WAAFS and ATS, there were fifteen of them in all, she stood on the stage and searched the servicemen's faces as they jostled each other and waved and laughed. Who amongst the sea of men in army, air force and navy uniforms had bid a whole week's wages just for a dance? And with her!

One by one, the girls had been called to the stage and introduced, each receiving a generous round of applause. Then they'd lined up in front of the dance band, beneath the huge portrait of King George which hung from the proscenium arch, and the bidding had begun for each girl.
One by one, numbering from the left and starting at five shillings a pop. Girl number five, a pretty blonde WREN, was so popular that her final bid had come in at two pounds five shillings.

Fourteenth in line, Henrietta had waited, cursing her stupidity in volunteering. ‘Go on, Henrietta,' her workmates had urged, ‘it's all in good fun and it's for a good cause.' It had seemed harmless enough at the time. Until the volunteers had been called up on stage. To Henrietta's horror every one of the servicewomen looked as though she'd stepped out of a beauty pageant, or off the pages of
Vogue
. Willowy and elegant, or petite and pretty, their hair perfectly coiffured, their makeup immaculate, Henrietta felt large and clumsy and untidy in their company. She'd dreaded the arrival of her turn. What if nobody bid? Well, some poor sod would probably feel sorry for her and offer five bob, but how humiliating!

‘I bid five pounds for Miss Henrietta Southern!' The voice with the lazy drawl repeated itself strongly from amongst the balloons and streamers which festooned the walls at the back of the hall. There was a huge round of applause.

‘Thank you, sir, most generous,' Alfie, the cockney MC announced through his microphone. ‘If you'd just make yourself known to one of our two stewards, we'll move right along.' No point in trying to push up the price, nobody was going to go higher than that. Funny choice though, Alfie thought, the big girl with the unruly copper-coloured hair. Good looking enough, he supposed, but he would have gone for the little blonde WREN himself. And the bidding moved onto the next and final girl.

This was the highlight of the NAAFI Ball, the moment everyone had been waiting for, the buy-a-belle dance to raise contributions for the Orphans Welfare Scheme.

As the girls stepped from the stage, the dance band struck up a rendition of ‘Amapola'.

‘Flight Lieutenant Terence Galloway,' he stepped out of the crowd and introduced himself.

‘Henrietta Southern, how do you do,' she said and they shook hands. She was taken aback. He was tall and well built, sun-tanned and sandy-haired, with arresting hazel-green eyes. In fact he was so handsome that Henrietta was shocked. She'd expected her benefactor to be a middle-aged philanthropist—who else would have five quid to spend on a dance?

‘You're Australian,' she said, noting the RAAF uniform. She'd thought he was a Yank from the twang of his accent.

‘Yes,' he replied. ‘Shall we?'

He offered his arm, she took it, and he led her through the jostling throng and onto the dance floor.

From the moment he'd seen her up on the stage, Terence had known he must meet her. Her chestnut curls bouncing disobediently whenever she moved, her skin, free of makeup save for a touch of lipstick, glowing with vitality, she had put the other women to shame, he thought. Their prettiness was manufactured, synthetic beside the natural beauty of Henrietta Southern. Just in case other potential bidders had been thinking the same thing, Terence had cut to the chase and bid five pounds. He'd recently received a money order from his father so he could afford it.

She wasn't a nurse, hers was the uniform of a volunteer worker. ‘What do you do?' he asked. ‘For the Red Cross, I mean.'

‘I drive,' she replied. ‘Courier cars, supply trucks, you name it.'

He smiled as he nodded. She looked like she could handle a truck. Practical. Capable.

There was a wry twist to his eyebrows, she noted, and his mouth was a little lopsided when he smiled, none of which detracted from his looks, if anything they made him even more attractive.

‘Where are you based?' she asked by way of conversation. He was a good dancer too.

‘At the moment, Biggin Hill,' he said a touch evasively. ‘Where do you live?'

‘Chelsea. With my grandmother,' she added, although she didn't know why. Perhaps it was because he was so direct. She wanted him to know that she wasn't one of ‘those' girls, just in case he was wondering.

It charmed him even more. She could dance too. ‘Chelsea, that's not far from here, is it,' he said.

‘About a half a mile.'

‘Perhaps I could walk you home after the ball,' he said, and then quickly added, ‘Taxis'll be hard to come by with this crowd.'

‘Perhaps.'

‘Amapola' had finished and the band now began to play the introduction to ‘The White Cliffs of Dover' as the MC stepped onto the stage and took the microphone from its stand.

‘Would you like a glass of punch?' Terence asked. He wanted to get her away from the dance floor before another prospective admirer cut in. ‘Or a cup of tea?' he suggested at her slight hesitation. Lined along one wall of the hall was a row of trestle tables with tea urns and huge bowls of punch. The table at the end, with crates of beer, was surrounded by men; he'd steer clear of that one.

‘Yes. Punch. Thank you.' It was a warm June night and the air in the crowded hall was close. Too hot to drink tea.

‘Our special guest for tonight,' the MC was announcing. ‘A young lady who has sung her way into all our hearts. Take the arm of the girl of your dreams, gentlemen,' Alfie was milking it for all he was worth, ‘and dance the night away with our most loved songstress! Our mistress of melody! Our very own … Miss Vera Lynn!'

The music swelled and there was a huge ovation as the singer appeared. The band repeated its introduction to
‘The White Cliffs of Dover', Vera Lynn took the microphone from Alfie and, to hushed silence, she started to sing.

‘
There'll be blue birds over …
'