‘I have already told you –’
‘And have Harley Woodcock brag about how he did you down in a deal? A creature like Harley Woodcock getting the better of the great Dermot Black? Think what that would do for your reputation! You’re always saying you can get information on anyone in the world. We need a way to destroy him. My sister wants that island. She needs it. And you need to win. It’s in your blood, so don’t pretend it isn’t.’
‘And you want to be the first chef in history to operate a four-hatted restaurant in the Whitsunday islands,’ Dermot said.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Win–win. Wouldn’t you say?’
She might have expected a screaming fit; instead he sounded amused.
‘You see, Gilbert? Passion… What a pleasure it is to meet a woman with true passion in her soul.’ He turned to Jess. ‘You and your sister,’ he said. ‘Two for a pair.’
‘I didn’t know you knew her.’
‘As you’ve just said, with contacts and money, you can get information on anyone or anything in the world. It was passion that took her into the war, was it not? After all, she didn’t have to go.’
Yes, Jess thought, that was true. But he still hadn’t answered her question. What are we going to do about Harley Woodcock?
Silence. She could sense the thoughts taking shape behind Dermot’s expressionless face. She waited.
‘Gilbert…’
‘Yes?’
‘Get some of your people to work. See what they can dig up about Woodcock and his associates.’
That night Jess lay in bed, thinking about the meeting she’d had with Dermot Black. A man like Harley Woodcock was bound to have plenty of snakes in his past; hopefully Gilbert’s men would come up with something they could use.
She remembered what else Dermot had said. He’d been right: both she and Shannon were passionate, in their different ways. Passionate in what they wanted to do with their lives; passionate in what they believed was right.
Shannon had wanted to join up during the war because she’d known it would make her feel closer to Hal. She remembered how distressed she’d been when Shannon, like Grace before her, went away. Yet the way things worked out, it was Shannon who’d had the harder time.
1941–42
Shannon
When Shannon joined up she expected to have a hard time, at least to begin with, and so she did. What she had not expected was the stupidity, a hard, stupid, violent time of polishing boots and pressing uniforms, of harridan voices screaming orders; gigantic-bosomed women whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to conduct themselves like drill sergeants. Because the army had apparently decreed that the unspeakably vile, disgusting, horrible volunteers for the Australian Women’s Army Service should be proficient in what the army called drill.
‘Quick march! Halt! Quick march! Left turn! Right turn! About turn! Double march! Halt!’
‘Dear Christ,’ the biggest of the big women said in a quiet, almost prayerful voice. ‘I’ve seen everything. I’ve really seen the lot.’
She prowled: one step, another step. She walked down the all-over-the-place line of women. She was balancing on the toes of her boots, a contented smile on her fat face. She stopped and screamed. ‘You are the most disgusting group of women it’s been my misfortune to encounter. You are the Germans’ secret weapon! What are you?’ she yelled.
The squad swayed like a field of ripening wheat before a storm.
‘What are you?’
‘The Germans’ secret weapon, Sergeant.’
Nobody questioned their treatment. They had already been told they’d be cleaners, cooks, bakers, drivers, clerks. They would not, repeat not, be involved in any fighting. They would not, repeat not, be permitted to travel outside Australia. What did cooks and cleaners and drivers need with drill?
Nobody knew but nobody dared argue, either.
Quick march! About turn! Halt!
On and on.
It lasted a month, followed by another month in which Shannon, who’d been driving vehicles since they’d owned the sugar acreage, was taught how to be a driver. Army style, the instructor told her.
‘Yes, Corporal.’
What army style meant in the context of being a driver he did not say, nor did Shannon ask. She had decided within twenty-four hours of entering the training camp that it was all nonsense anyway, so she did what she was told, obeying orders like the mindless automaton the army obviously wanted her to be, and occupied her brain with more pleasant thoughts. Mostly of Hal.
She’d written to tell him she’d joined up. She’d had no reply but told herself that meant nothing. There was a war on, right? Maybe the censors had thought the news that Shannon Harcourt had joined the army might be of value to the enemy. In which case the letter might not have been sent.
She prayed for him every night, unsure whether there was anyone there to hear but praying anyway, reckoning either way it wouldn’t hurt.
She finished the course and passed out as a fully qualified military driver. Army style. It meant she could drive a lorry, five toner, one, also an Austin saloon, one, in case she ended up driving officers around. ‘Both at once, Corporal?’
‘Don’t push it.’
On 1 January 1942 Shannon, at the wheel of a lorry, five tonner, one, drove herself and a load of supplies along a track rutted by long-ago rains across north Queensland to her new posting in the far north. To the 17th heavy ack-ack battery in Darwin.
It was the afternoon of 3 January when she arrived in the little town and was directed to what she later learnt was called the Oval, with a fence of concertina wire on three sides, while the fourth edged the cliff overlooking the harbour. There were two gun-emplacement sites, a few wooden buildings and tents. There were trees here and there, an open space that might have been a parade ground and an air of nothing ever happening. She saw what she later learnt was a three-inch fixed anti-aircraft gun on what was mysteriously described as a stand-by bearing. There was a sandbagged pit with what she thought was a machine gun of some kind. The hot air was as heavy as soup. Nothing much seemed to be happening but there was a gate in the barbed-wire fence and a sentry carrying a rifle.
Shannon drew the truck to a halt.
The sentry came to the driver’s window and stared at her. ‘What do you want?’
‘I got some stores to deliver.’
‘What you doing in an army vehicle?’
‘Driving it. What’s it look like?’
‘But you’re –’
‘A woman. I know. They got women in the army now. Hadn’t you heard?’
‘Blimey. Things are looking up.’
But he still scrutinised her papers several times before he let her through the gate.
She found her way to a wooden building with a sign outside saying Stores. Here she had the same performance with a sergeant who, unlike the sentry, did not think things were looking up.
‘I dunno what this bloody army’s coming to. My oath I don’t.’
With the stores stored she reported to an officer, a Lieutenant Winchester, who told her he was duty officer of the day and that she should have reported to him first.
‘Yessir. Sorry, sir.’
‘First time in Darwin?’ His voice was as crisp as a biscuit and he had a film star moustache.
‘Yessir.’
‘I’ll get someone to show you round. Then I suppose we’ll have to find you a billet somewhere. God knows where, but we can’t have you kipping down with the men, can we?’ He sighed, a man sorely tried by the problems of a woman in what until now had been a blokes-only outfit. ‘I doubt very much they considered the practical problems when they let you lot into the army.’ He raised his voice. ‘Bombardier Jenkins!’
‘Sir?’
A man with two stripes on his arm appeared like magic.
‘Get 119 on the blower. See if they can accommodate Driver Harcourt.’ He turned to Shannon. ‘119 military hospital is just down the road. They’re in the middle of movi
ng from their old site at Bagot Compound but I’m sure they’ll be able to fit you in somewhere.’
It turned out that room would be found for Driver Harcourt at the new hospital. And for any other willing pair of hands that might be available. The gravel road was pitted and full of potholes but Shannon managed it, the truck swaying and shuddering, but at least without breaking an axle.
‘You can give us a hand with the move,’ a staff nurse told her when she arrived. ‘It’s chaos but you’ll get used to it.’
Shannon spent the rest of the day hauling beds and carrying crates.
‘You’re a worker, I’ll say that for you,’ said the staff nurse, whose name was Hilda Barclay. ‘Whose idea was it to send you here?’
‘Lieutenant Winchester.’
‘Teddy Winchester? Not a bad bloke, as blokes go.’ Staff nurse Barclay had a wicked smile. ‘One of the advantages of there being so few of us, we get the pick of the crop.’
‘And Teddy Winchester is the pick of the crop?’
‘Better than some, I’ll tell you that. And I’ve sampled a few. As I daresay you will, soon enough.’
‘I’ve a boyfriend,’ Shannon said.
‘Here in Darwin?’
‘No. I dunno where he is but not here.’
‘Then he wouldn’t know, would he?’
‘I would know.’
‘Celibacy isn’t for me,’ Hilda Barclay said. ‘Nor for anyone I know, either, the climate the way it is. The heat and humidity make you real itchy, know what I mean?’
Shannon reported back at the Oval that evening. No one had told her she should but she had the feeling it might be expected.
‘Stand-to 0700 every morning,’ Lieutenant Winchester said. ‘There’s another three-inch mobile gun site at Parap and four three-point-seven-inch guns at Berrimah. We need to keep them all supplied so you won’t be short of things to do.’
‘Are the shells very heavy?’ Shannon asked, thinking, Oh my poor back.
‘Heavy enough, but you won’t be needing to move any of them. Each gun has its own supply and the Darwin Council won’t let us use live rounds in practice, so none needs to be replaced.’
‘If we’re not allowed to practise, how do we know they’ll work, sir?’
‘We’ll find out soon enough if the Japs ever come. Not that there’s much chance of that.’
Shortly after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, the government had ordered the compulsory evacuation from Darwin of all women and children not required for military or administrative purposes.
‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ Hilda Barclay told Shannon. ‘They kicked out all non-essential personnel, so what are you doing here?’
‘Because they know I’m essential,’ Shannon said.
‘In your dreams,’ Hilda said.
‘Come and have a drink with us this evening,’ Hilda Barclay said.
It was 18 February and Shannon had been in Darwin for just over six weeks. The news was dire; Singapore had surrendered three days earlier. The war was getting closer every day and it was not a good feeling. Shannon had not heard from Hal since she’d arrived at the top end. Probably the post hadn’t caught up but she decided an innocent night on the tiles, as Hilda called it, was just what she needed.
‘I don’t have a bloke,’ she said.
‘That we can provide,’ Hilda said. ‘The one thing we can be certain about, there’s never any shortage of blokes.’
She laughed but there was a brittle edge to the laugh and Shannon gave her a sharp look. ‘You still seeing that Darren?’
Darren Childs was the pilot of one of the Lockheed Hudsons that were carrying out bombing raids on the advancing Japanese. The Hudsons were obsolete, no match for the first-line Japanese aircraft, but they did the best they could, although the bombs they dropped were so small they were no more than a minor inconvenience to the enemy.
‘No,’ Hilda said. ‘I won’t be seeing Darren any more.’
‘Off with the old and on with the new?’ Shannon said.
‘Something like that.’
The moment she’d said it, Shannon could feel thin ice cracking beneath her feet. She took Hilda’s hand. ‘Tell me.’
‘There was a sortie a few days ago,’ Hilda said. ‘Five of them and only one made it back.’
‘Darren?’
Hilda shook her head. ‘One of the four.’
Oh God.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘No worries!’ But Hilda’s attempt at gaiety foundered. Her smile became a wound, the pain raw and ugly in her face. ‘Where does it end, Shannon? Where the hell does it end?’ She laughed, and the laugh had a harsh edge. ‘Never say die. That’s what they tell us, isn’t it? But they do die, don’t they? They die, all right. Never say die,’ she repeated savagely. ‘I reckon that’s gunna be my motto from now on.’
The two boys she brought that evening were nice enough. Laurie was an Aussie, a crew member of the hospital ship Manunda; the other an American, John J Gardner, an officer off the US destroyer Peary, which had recently arrived back in harbour after a few days patrolling in the Timor Sea.
‘If you’re a member of her crew, shouldn’t you be on board?’ Shannon said.
Gardner laughed. ‘Why? You expecting the Japs to turn up tonight? Or tomorrow, maybe?’
‘Impregnable Singapore didn’t last long, did it? I don’t think any of us knows what to expect about anything, at the moment.’
‘Well, aren’t you the cheerful one?’ John Gardner said.
They went to the New Darwin hotel on the Esplanade, the road that skirted the Oval. The New Darwin was long, low and classy. Pricey, too, the five-course meal costing seven and six, but at least there were real tablecloths in the dining room.
‘Quite a change from what we’re used to,’ Hilda said.
They had wine, too, which they sampled like the experts they weren’t, and all in all it was a great evening.
John Gardner was doing his best to flirt with Shannon; she enjoyed the attention without having any intention of letting things get out of hand.
‘What do you plan to do when all this nonsense is over?’ he asked her.
‘I was working in a hotel before the war. I thought I might like to go back to that.’
‘What as? A receptionist?’
‘I thought hotel management.’
‘That right? I got a chum in that line of business. Zac Petrovsky’s running what used to be the Grand Hotel in Mackay. The US army’s just taken it over as a rest and recreation centre.’
‘Mackay’s not far from where I live,’ Shannon said. ‘And you? What do you plan to do?’
‘I don’t let myself think about after the war. Just in case. You know?’
After the meal Hilda smiled at Shannon. ‘This is where we split up.’
Shannon looked at her, not understanding.
‘Things to do,’ Hilda said. ‘I’m guessing you probably have, too.’
Shannon and John Gardner strolled around the Oval. They reached the cliff edge and stared out at the sea. The moon was only three days old but bright enough to set the harbour waters a-glitter with silver light. There were many vessels in port, their outlines dark against the shining water.
Poacher’s moon, Shannon thought, remembering what a Pommy acquaintance had said to her once, though she had an idea that name related to a full moon, not to the crescent which was all she could see now. Poacher’s moon. Which reminded her of another expression she’d heard. Bomber’s moon. At once Shannon’s mind clamped shut. Let’s not think of bombers, she thought. Or bombers’ moons, either.
John put his arm around her waist.
‘It’s been a lovely evening,’ Shannon said. ‘Thank you very much for buying me my tea. It’s been a real pleasure.’
‘I see,’ John said.
For a moment his arm did not move, then, slowly, he withdrew it.
‘I’m sorry,’ Shannon said. ‘I’ve got commitments.’
‘Sure. Don�
�t worry about it. You’re married, right?’
‘Not married. But committed.’
‘My bad luck,’ he said. ‘I’ve taken quite a fancy to you.’
‘Thank you,’ Shannon said.
‘But still no go. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘I hope your guy knows what you’re worth,’ John said. ‘The way things are at the moment, I guess fidelity isn’t at the top of most people’s list.’
‘It is on mine,’ Shannon said.
‘You know what? I respect you for it. Really.’
He ran her back to the hospital in his little car.
‘You rich?’ Shannon said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You must be rich. I can’t even afford a bicycle.’
He laughed. ‘Neither can I. I borrowed this car from a friend on board the Peary.’
‘When are you going back?’
‘Six bells tomorrow morning.’ He grinned. ‘That’s 0700 in landlubber’s language.’
He dropped her off at the hospital. ‘Any chance of seeing you again?’
‘You sure you want to?’
‘Sure. Like I said, I’ve taken a fancy to you. I plan to persuade you you’re not as committed as you think.’
Shannon smiled. ‘That’s your plan, is it?’
‘Got it in one.’
Before light the next morning Shannon got up. It had been the usual stifling night under the mosquito net, but without the net the mozzies would have a field day, with dengue fever an almost guaranteed consequence. A shower, the usual powdered egg muck for breakfast and she was on her way, with the dawn coming in the eastern sky. By the time she had jolted her way to the Oval down the track that with every day was becoming more and more like a ploughed field, the rising sun was burning a hole in the breathless air.
She was in a really toey mood, caused partly by a headache from the wine she’d drunk, but mainly because she’d slept badly. She’d felt too twitchy to sleep; she’d been up close and personal with an attractive man, had sent him away and now was paying the price for her fidelity. She knew she’d have regretted it if she’d done anything else, but her body wasn’t into regrets and it felt as though ants were crawling over her skin.
White Sands of Summer Page 14
