Tears of the Dragon

by Jean Moran

  Today’s dead in the ground, the minds of some turned to the future. ‘Who do you think will be next? Anyone willing to wager?’

  The betting on death had already begun.

  Connor had expected Vicky to be under the bottom bunk waiting for him, but she wasn’t. He checked his bunk, calling her name, in case she wanted to jump into his arms and do her business in a dark corner, which he would clean up and take to the latrine, but she wasn’t there.

  ‘Vicky?’

  No sign.

  ‘Anyone seen Vicky?’

  ‘Only machines, Paddy. And powder flying up into my face. What is that stuff anyway?’

  ‘Fertiliser of some sort. One bomb on this place and we’re all blown to kingdom come.’

  ‘Care to wager when that might be?’

  ‘Care to wager where the dog’s gone? I reckon she’s found a hole in the wall and crawled out of here. Wonder where it is. Be nice if it was big enough for a fellow my size to crawl through.’

  Connor ignored their remarks and set off for the other cellars.

  Harry offered to help.

  ‘No need.’

  ‘I’ll come anyway.’

  With Harry in tow, he asked the same question in the next cellar and the next.

  Men were eating, the lucky ones smoking. A few already lay snoring on their bunks.

  ‘Been working same place as you, mate. Up top all day.’

  ‘I ain’t.’

  The man coughing up his lungs in one of the very last beds spat a trail of green slime into a pot he’d placed on the floor. ‘Me lungs are shot. Even the Nips know that. Left me alone today. I tried sleeping, but heard a bit of a kerfuffle. Think somebody fetched her and she went through that door.’

  He pointed to the flimsy barrier between the military section and that housing the civilian Tamil workers.

  Connor felt a sinking feeling. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure as I can be. I bin here all day coughing my lungs up, mate. Just waiting for the call. Shame, mind, I was looking forward to going back to Adelaide. Keep dreaming of a cold beer... one last cold beer...’

  Connor looked to where he’d pointed.

  Harry grabbed his arm. ‘Connor, if she’s gone...’

  Two men were responsible for guarding the door between the military prisoners of war and the civilians. Clasping their weapons across their chests they attempted to hold back the Europeans who, although thin, were far taller than they were.

  Connor barrelled through, still strong enough to sweep them aside as though they were wooden skittles.

  The Tamils and other native workers imported from abroad stared at him with frightened eyes.

  He searched their gaunt faces and saw fear in their eyes. ‘Vicky? Have you seen her? My dog. Have you seen her?’

  At first there was a stony silence, then a low hubbub of conversation, shaking heads and a nervous sinking back against the wall in an effort to escape the man who shouted at them.

  Suddenly all hell was let loose as guards came running, reinforcements summoned by the two guards he’d knocked over. Even then he and Harry lingered, noticing that the civilian labourers were even thinner than they were.

  ‘Poor sods,’ muttered Harry.

  Some of the dark brown men could barely stand and quite a few were just skin and bones, lying on thin pallets, other men attempting to feed them from steaming bowls.

  ‘Time of reckoning,’ shouted Harry.

  The guards were upon them.

  Connor was grabbed by the first wave of soldiers, hitting him with their rifles while dragging him back to his own domain.

  Harry was shouting and swearing as only a man of his background could do, the words straight from the gutter, his pronunciation giving them a veneer of civilisation. In broken Japanese he tried to explain what they were doing there, which earned him the same treatment as Connor had received.

  The guards swarmed over them, dragging them away until they crashed back into their own area. Other guards, inflamed that they’d dared to attack their compatriots, beat them with rifle butts until their ears, their noses and mouths were bleeding and their spines felt as though they’d been cracked into pieces.

  Both men knew that insubordination didn’t necessarily mean death, but it did mean a period of solitary confinement in a cell the size of a coffin with no food, no water and no daylight.

  Connor tasted blood on his tongue. His brain felt like unset blancmange in a broken mould but he held on to consciousness, determined he’d be the same man when he was released as when he was thrown into the black hole of a cell. He’d seen others broken, some of his own countrymen who hadn’t died living with madness, their eyes vacant, their speech slurred and slow.

  Starvation didn’t help. Without certain vitamins and minerals, the brain became distorted.

  ‘Vicky. I’ll come for you, girl,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

  She’s just a dog, said a voice inside his head. ‘Yeah. My dog.’

  He closed his eyes. Islands of pain throbbed all over his body and his swollen feet felt icy cold. If Vicky was there she would snuggle up against them and they would borrow her warmth. She might even be enticed to a titbit, something as tasty as the Tamils were cooking.

  Whatever they were cooking had smelt good. Definitely meat, such a rarity in recent days.

  Although only half-conscious, the dying man had been adamant he’d seen Vicky entering the civilian domain, but not alone.

  The truth hit him like a sledgehammer. Vicky had disappeared and they were cooking meat. He retched but brought up only bile and, in the unrelenting darkness, he cried.

  *

  Light, sharp and painful, pierced his eyes. That was how it was after a time in total darkness.

  How long had it been? Three days? Four?

  Human contact at last, but at the end of rifles and staves, forcing him to double over.

  Satisfied the treatment had made him more malleable, the guards dragged him by his hair and his arms out of the cell.

  Sweat and blood trickled into his eyes. Blinking it away, he raised his head to see Harry in pretty much the same state. It wasn’t until the guards slung them against a wall that their eyes finally met.

  Despite the blood, the sweat and the state of his body, Harry was his usual exuberant self. He grinned. ‘This could be it, old chap. Nice knowing you. Remember that promise you made to me about getting my miserable remains back to the old mater. Okay?’

  When Connor laughed a spasm of pain racked his jaw and he realised it was broken.

  Three days without food and water and his body wouldn’t easily straighten but his feet were no longer swollen. His knees felt like water and his legs as though every bone in his body had been removed. He had been looking forward to climbing up onto his top bunk. The mattress was thin, the pillow stuffed with straw, but a great improvement on a stone floor.

  ‘Somehow I don’t think we’re going home any time soon.’

  ‘Sod it.’

  They were dragged out into daylight, the first time they’d been outside for weeks, thanks to the bombing. They were pushed to the ground, their backs against a wall beneath the factory windows. A layer of frost covered the earth and their breath came out as steam.

  The guards stayed close, bayonets aimed at their heads.

  Connor narrowed his eyes against the light and looked around.

  ‘Fresh air,’ said Harry. ‘And glad I am to be breathing it.’

  ‘And glad to see they’re being hit hard.’

  The two of them took in the many bombed buildings, the scorched streets, the signs that an inferno had ripped through the fragile construction of Japanese houses.

  While the guards’ backs were turned a shower of ragged strips of blanket fell from a narrow window not far above their heads.

  With every ounce of what little strength remained, Connor wound them around his feet. Harry watched him with one eye, the other closed, thanks to the beating he
’d received.

  ‘I don’t want a bullet in the head. I prefer to stand in front of the firing squad,’ Connor explained.

  A few pieces of raw fish followed the blanket, which they devoured quickly, wiping their mouths on the ripped material, which Connor then bound to his feet. ‘At least our stomachs won’t be rumbling.’

  ‘That would be terrible. Put them off their aim, old chap. And I for one would like a clean death.’

  ‘If we’re to have one at all.’

  The guards became mobile when a truck rumbled into the yard and failed to switch off its engine, which meant a swift turn-round.

  Connor and Harry exchanged puzzled but hopeful looks. ‘For us? A fun day out?’

  ‘Or a ticket to nowhere?’

  Their question was answered when the guards prodded their lean ribs and dragged them to the rear of the truck.

  When Connor’s legs crumpled beneath him, they swung their rifles and hit him in the backs of the knees. When he fell, they half lifted, then threw him in face down.

  Lying on the wooden planks of the truck floor, he found himself face to face with a pair of boots next to a pair of feet. Both were in a bad way, the boots split and the toes of the bare feet blackened by foot rot. Harry was heaved in after him.

  ‘You all right, cobber?’

  ‘Antipodeans, are you?’

  ‘If you mean Australians, then yeah. Your companions for the foreseeable future.’

  Three pairs of hefty arms helped him, then Harry to sit up against the side of the truck. His gaze travelled over the ravaged faces and ragged clothes. A few still exuded an air of defiance but he could see from their faces that they’d all been through hell.

  ‘Where we going?’

  ‘Bali, mate. We’re going to the island of the gods.’

  ‘Excuse me for asking, but what would the gods want with us?’ asked Harry.

  ‘The Japanese airstrip there is in need of repair, thanks to the pasting they’ve been getting from Uncle Sam. They need labourers to rebuild it.’

  ‘You mean slaves.’

  ‘Of course I do, but, hey, I used to be hot on navigation back in Sydney. My brother-in-law had a sailing yacht and Bali is a damn sight closer to Darwin than Osaka. I’m going home, mate. One way or another, I’m going home.’

  18

  ‘Doctor, I wanted to ask you if we could borrow Dawn for the Christmas pantomime the society is putting on this year. I thought she would make a wonderful fairy and we have just enough pink net to make her a very pretty dress. With a bit of luck it will draw audience attention away from the shabby costumes of the rest of us. Are you in agreement?’

  ‘I’m grateful to you for taking her under your wing.’

  ‘We love her,’ said Alice, perhaps a little too pointedly.

  ‘She’ll like being a fairy, Marjorie.’

  ‘Takes my mind off things,’ said Marjorie, ticking her list with an air of finality, another job well done.

  Rowena watched Marjorie stride off across the yard with Dawn toddling at her side.

  Her daughter had grown from a beautiful baby into a lovely little girl. Her black hair was as glossy as a blackbird’s wing. Her face was pretty and she moved lightly but unsteadily on slim but sturdy legs. Despite the sickness, deprivation and death all around her, she had thrived and was happy, shielded from the worst aspects of imprisonment by Alice and O’Malley.

  Rowena let them take charge of her child, throwing herself into her work, taking on more shifts and responsibilities than anyone else, purposely laying herself open to the most infectious diseases. She claimed, quite truthfully, to be too tired to play with or feed the child.

  It was early evening, the sun had gone down and night sounds filled the air. Rowena leaned against a pillar outside the main entrance. She turned towards the sound of a mouth organ being played by somebody at the pantomime rehearsals, which was followed by a loud, though out of tune rendering of ‘Only a Rose’.

  ‘Marjorie,’ she murmured, and smiled.

  Marjorie’s voice was resonant, and she began humming along, thinking of Connor and wondering how he was faring in Japan.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ O’Malley didn’t wait for her to respond but offered her a cigarette, which Rowena refused.

  ‘I hear Dawn is to be a fairy in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was a fairy in Snow White.’

  ‘Marjorie created the part just for Dawn so that she feels wanted.’

  Rowena winced at the implication. ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘Somebody has to be.’ O’Malley blew smoke rings and her eyes slid sidelong to Rowena, who noticeably bridled at her comment.

  ‘Dawn is very happy.’

  ‘But you’re not. I’ve seen the way you look at her sometimes, pushing her away if she attempts to put her arms around you. It won’t do, Rowena. It won’t do at all.’

  ‘She’s well taken care of.’

  ‘Yes, and perhaps deep down you love her, but you don’t show it and it’s time you did. You’re a doctor and have some idea of how children’s minds work and how their treatment in the early years can affect them in later life.’

  Rowena folded her arms and ground her teeth. ‘I...’ She’d been about to make excuses or tell O’Malley it was none of her business, but she stopped herself. ‘You don’t understand. I look at her face and see them. I didn’t want a child and I certainly didn’t want one of them to be its father. It happened and I can’t help thinking that somehow I’m partly to blame.’

  ‘Blame? How can you be? To put it in the old-fashioned way, you were taken by force, Rowena. Showing the child kindness is no admission of guilt. You didn’t encourage those men and Dawn didn’t ask to be born. She can’t help being half Japanese and neither of you is guilty.’

  Rowena rounded on her hotly. ‘Of course I’m not guilty. That’s not how it is. Anyway, she’s happy enough, especially with the attention you, Alice and Marjorie shower on her.’

  O’Malley raised pencil-thin eyebrows. ‘That’s now, but what about when we finally leave here? It’s going to be just the two of you. What then, Rowena? You will be stared at and you will be asked questions. What then?’

  Rowena rubbed at her tired eyes. She was working every hour she could, just to get through. She’d only half considered the future once the war ended, but there were options.

  ‘When she’s old enough I’ll send her to boarding school.’

  ‘So you’ll keep her at a distance. But there are still holidays, Rowena – and, anyway, it’s more than that. A growing girl will need her mother more as she gets older.’

  Rowena tossed her head and tapped her fingers against her folded arms. ‘We might never leave here. The Japanese will win the war and then it won’t matter, will it?’

  ‘You don’t really believe that.’

  ‘Perhaps I do.’

  ‘You have a family at home?’

  ‘A brother. Our parents are dead.’

  ‘Does he have a family?’

  ‘I believe so. We’re not in touch that often. As you may have noticed, there’s not a bright red pillar-box in sight!’

  ‘No need to be facetious. And the future may not be like that at all. Do you have a sweetheart?’

  Connor’s blue eyes and tenor voice came immediately to mind, and she smiled faintly at the thought of him. ‘I think so.’

  O’Malley looked thoughtful. ‘And you’re thinking this is a secret you’d prefer him not to know about.’

  Rowena locked eyes with her. ‘I grant you some men are willing to accept another man’s child, even an illegitimate one. But a child fathered by a Japanese?’ She shook her head. ‘He’s in Japan, probably being worked to death. Imagine it. “My daughter is half Japanese, Connor. How do you feel about adopting her?” No. Let me be, O’Malley. Let’s see where this war’s going.’

  ‘Have you ever considered that her father is already dead?’

  ‘I don’t n
eed to. I know he is.’

  O’Malley frowned.

  Rowena turned away, unwilling to enlighten her about a man who held Hong Kong in the palm of his hand. ‘Anyway, thanks for our little chat.’

  Determined to have the last word, O’Malley called after her. ‘Oh, and Dawn called Alice Mummy. The child’s confused, Rowena. She needs you to put her straight. Now that’s my final word on the matter.’

  It was Rowena’s final word too. Trying to survive the privations in the camp was bad enough and, no matter her feelings towards her daughter, she had every intention of ensuring her survival.

  Conversations between the women often consisted of wondering what might have happened if they had done that instead of this. Rowena had her own version.

  Back in the summer of 1941 Clifford, her brother, had written, suggesting she come home for Christmas since she hadn’t been able to make it for his wedding. In letter after letter he’d enthused about Wendy, his fiancée, and how she would make him a wonderful wife and how much he wanted them to meet: ‘I’m sure you’ll get on well together and Wendy is looking forward to meeting someone who’s spent so much of their time abroad. She hasn’t gone much further than Bognor Regis, but then, she loves her home more than she wants to see foreign climes.’

  It was debatable that she and her sister-in-law would get on, but even so she regretted not going back, perhaps not regretting attending the wedding, but not being there for Christmas 1941. What Clifford failed to grasp was how dangerous it was to travel back. The only possible route was around the Cape of Good Hope in South Africa, and even then there was danger from submarines and surface raiders. ‘Wendy says that families matter and I agree with her. Quite frankly, sis, we want to have children as quickly as possible. There, I’m blushing...’

  In time when the war was over – and surely it had to be over at some point – she would see him again and meet his wife, with whatever children he had. But how would she explain Dawn? Clifford had never been that broad-minded – and as for his wife, was a woman who’d never gone much further than Bognor Regis be accepting of a mixed race child?

  *

  Shimmy was one of the more approachable guards, who had gained the familiarity of a nickname. His real name was Shimida, and as the task of guarding women was regarded by his superiors and compatriots as demeaning, it was usually given to the lowest of the low. It was rumoured that as a civilian he’d been a simple fisherman who had had to sell his daughters to train as geishas because he couldn’t afford to keep them.