Close to the Wind

by David B Hill

  ‘Bloody eucalyptus, mate. Gum trees. Aw-fuckin’-stralia.’

  Len tried again. With each deep effort, the odour of fat and smoke diminished, but he still couldn’t smell eucalyptus.

  A dishevelled Jock squeezed in beside him. ‘What are they on about, Lenny? I can’t see anything. Can you?’

  ‘No, I can’t. The Aussies say they can smell eucalyptus, but I can’t smell anything.’

  ‘What the hell is eucalyptus?’

  ‘Gum trees, mate. Can’t ya smell it?’ the same Australian sailor interjected.

  It was Jock’s turn to breathe deeply through his nose. He muttered to himself between breaths. It was clear he couldn’t smell anything either. He sniffed, hoicked and spat a soot-laden gob over the side.

  From across the water, the Maryborough rent the air with three long blasts of her ship’s horn. When the Verspijk answered with three long blasts, the whole ship’s company, the majority of whom were now up on deck, let out a huge shout, and set about congratulating one another.

  When Len and Jock turned to make their way back to their cabin, they found Johnny walking towards them. He beamed.

  Len spoke first. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Johnny told them. ‘We had a signal from Glen Cant on Maryborough, and he confirms it. We are west of somewhere called the Pilbara, and only two days sailing from Fremantle. It’s almost over. We’re nearly there.’

  The three grasped each other around the shoulders, and briefly their heads came together. Their brows touched, and Len had to employ all his self-control to stifle the emotion of the moment.

  ‘Let’s get on with it then,’ Johnny said. ‘Not long to go.’

  Johnny climbed the ladder to the bridge, and Jock trotted off towards the heads.

  Len turned back to look once more towards the east, and could see nothing, but something on the superstructure did catch his eye. He took a closer look. Around the sill of a porthole was a rust-coloured film. He reached out and ran his finger along the sill, and then looked at the residue. He thought it should have been soot from the funnel or the generator exhaust, but it wasn’t black. It was red. Underneath, the paintwork was in good condition. He looked out to sea again, towards the east, from where the prevailing breeze was coming – a breeze that brought with it the unmistakable rust-red dust of the ancient continent.

  Aw-fuckin’-stralia.

  Only then did Len raise a smile and allow himself to think that, just maybe, the end was indeed in sight.

  ★ ★ ★

  They arrived in Fremantle at midnight on 10 March, eight days after leaving Tjilatjap. Both vessels sailed through the open submarine boom and navigated their way slowly into the docks. The port was a lot busier than Len remembered it. Nearly two years had passed since Tim, he and the others had been here. Today there were several US Navy ships and submarines evident, as well as vessels from the Royal Navy, the Dutch Navy and the RAN. Scattered among them were a host of other vessels that had come from Java like themselves: a ragtag group of minesweepers, corvettes, coastal traders and small boats of varying shapes and sizes. Maryborough was directed to the naval dock, while Verspijk was obliged to wait before space was found for her on what had served as the passenger terminal before the war. Then, Australian officials boarded the Verspijk and began to process the personnel on board. Servicemen lined up and were placed on a roll, but the civilians were another matter. Some regarded themselves as too important for the process, and attempted to pre-empt it by heading down the gangway laden with their personal possessions. Len was watching from the bridge when a group that included the Consul General from Batavia and his small party were apprehended. One minor official in the group felt particularly aggrieved by his treatment. When it was pointed out that this was wartime: there were issues of infiltration by enemy sympathisers, and proper identification was essential, he became almost apoplectic. Len heard the interaction.

  ‘Don’t you know who we are?’ the passenger demanded.

  ‘That’s exactly what we’re trying to ascertain, sir,’ the immigration official replied testily, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

  Then someone recognised Charles Moses, the Director of the ABC East, still covered in soot and grime from his service in the stokehold, and things calmed down. The group’s baggage was searched, yielding a variety of objects, including small arms, before they were allowed to go ashore.

  Len, Jock and the rest of the scratch crew who were left on board were suddenly conscious of the silence. Gone was the thump of the engines and the all-pervading sound of the wind and sea; instead, they were enveloped by an overwhelming sense of relief and exhaustion. While shore authorities and Navy staff inspected the vessel, they were allowed to rest, and immediately fell into an unfamiliar, fathomless sleep.

  ★ ★ ★

  The following morning Johnny sought out Jock and Len. ‘I have instructions to report to Commodore Collins,’ he told them.

  ‘Collins?’ asked Jock. ‘The same bloke from Java?’

  ‘That’s right. He got away – by air, I think. You two stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ll try and organise something.’

  Clapping his cap on his head, off Johnny went, down the gangplank and towards the dockyard gates, satchel in hand. For a while, Len and Jock sat topsides, in the shade, looking to the land and enjoying the absence of humidity. There was plenty of activity on the wharf below.

  A waft of cigar smoke indicated the Captain had woken. They joined him and his two officers on the bridge and shared a pot of coffee. But as the day progressed their idleness began to nag.

  ‘Fuck this,’ Jock said. ‘I could kill for a beer. Come on, Lenny, grab your handbag. There’s got to be a bar around somewhere. This is a port, isn’t it?’ He clapped his cap on and marched down the gangplank, with his steely eyes fixed on the dockyard gates.

  Len hesitated for only a moment before following. He knew exactly where there was a bar. The two marched purposefully through the gates, saluting grandly before anybody thought to challenge them.

  Len steered Jock towards a side street. ‘Down here, mate.’

  Jock was impressed. Len hadn’t told him that he’d been here before. The two went down the street a hundred yards, and there it was. The sign was still above the door. Jock looked up and read it to Len: ‘No blacks allowed’.

  ‘You’d better watch yourself then, laddie. You’re looking pretty damned black to me.’ His own face had peeled badly, and was almost entirely a vivid pink. ‘C’mon, I’ll buy you the first one.’ And he barrelled on into the pub.

  Strangely, it was not busy, and so they quickly found themselves at the bar. Jock threw his cap down on the bar in a gesture designed to attract attention. The barman looked down his bar at the newcomers, turned away and continued talking. Len began to think that maybe his colour was an issue, but then an older woman, perhaps the barman’s wife – or maybe he was the publican – appeared in front of them.

  ‘Ya better hurry, boys,’ she said. ‘There’s only a few minutes before curfew.’

  ‘Curfew. Christ, are we under attack already?’ Len was confused.

  ‘You blokes straight off a boat, are ya? Ever since the brawls. Been a few fights around here lately, between uniforms. Can’t stop the bastards fighting. So we got a curfew now. What can I get ya boys?’

  When the schooners arrived, they were full to overflowing. Jock reached out for one without thinking.

  ‘Ya haven’t paid for that yet, mate.’

  As Jock began to pat his pockets, it dawned on both of them.

  Jock voiced the thought for both of them. ‘Shit. We haven’t got any money!’

  The men looked helplessly at one another. Len’s Straits dollars weren’t worth anything here.

  The barmaid smiled and pushed the glasses across the bar towards them.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s on me. You look as if you haven’t had a beer for a while.’

  They couldn�
�t believe their luck, and both downed half a glass in the first draught.

  ‘Jesus, that’s good,’ Len said, and then reflected that he’d better start tidying up his language before he got home.

  Jock climbed onto a bar stool. ‘Come here, lassie. You don’t know how good that tastes.’

  He flung his arms around the unresisting woman and planted a kiss on both of her cheeks. She shrieked in feigned embarrassment. The barman started towards them.

  ‘Oi. You bastards. Drink up and get out. Before I call the MPs.’

  ‘Get off the grass, Frank.’ The barmaid gave him a withering look. ‘It’s more than you’ve managed in the last twelve months, ya useless bastard.’

  The two sailors almost choked as they suppressed their laughter and downed the rest of their beer. Winking at their benefactor, they left the pub and headed back to the docks. Without money there wasn’t much point in going anywhere else. And if anything, they needed to get back on board Verspijk before Johnny returned, not wanting to show him any disrespect.

  Unfortunately getting back into the docks was not as easy as getting out. When they went to enter without passes, they were challenged. They were still arguing with the sentries when a car pulled up at the gates and their CO got out. Len snapped to attention, but, without batting an eyelid, Jock appealed to the sentries once more.

  ‘See? I told you. Here he is. Lieutenant Commander Bull. He’s our Commanding Officer. He’ll vouch for us!’

  Johnny gave the pair of them a stern look, and turned to the sentries. ‘These men are under my command. If you would kindly let them pass I will see they cause no further problems.’

  Jock beamed at the sentries while Len remained at attention and looked stolidly front and centre. The sergeant of the guard nodded, ignoring the papers Johnny was offering in support.

  ‘You blokes come from Java, have ya?’

  ‘That’s right, sergeant. It’s been an interesting few weeks.’

  ‘Yeah, well you’d better smarten up your men, sir. They’re not in Java anymore.’

  ‘Thank you sergeant, we’ll remember that.’

  The sergeant waved the three on, and Johnny shepherded his men into the dockyard.

  On board the Verspijk once more, Johnny took them into the officers’ wardroom. Captain Oudenaarde sat in his wingback, reading a newspaper and puffing on a Sumatran as usual; blue smoke hung in the air. Len had discovered a real pleasure in the aroma of cigar smoke. He drew it slowly in through his nostrils now. Noticing Len’s behaviour, Oudenaarde graciously offered up his box of number sixes; Len accepted, choosing one.

  ‘Sit down, the pair of you,’ the Captain said.

  Johnny brought four glasses to the table and took a bottle from his satchel.

  ‘Whisky!’ Jock eyed the bottle fondly. ‘God bless you, sir.’

  Johnny poured, and took a glass to Oudenaarde before sitting down. He raised his glass and the other three raised theirs in return.

  ‘Absent friends,’ called Len. He didn’t know what made him say it.

  The whisky disappeared, and Johnny poured again before pointedly screwing the cap back on the bottle. Len let the second glass sit. He felt the warmth of the liquor in his belly; along with the beer and enhanced by the cigar, it caused him to glow almost immediately. Jock was not so restrained; he downed his own second glass quickly, then fixed his eyes back on the bottle with the concentration of a sniper. Unfortunately this didn’t seem to make any impression on Johnny.

  ‘I’ve been into Perth and spoken to Commodore Collins,’ Johnny told them. ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid.’

  He paused, and Len wondered what was coming. Johnny seemed disturbed by what he was about to say, and took a sip from his glass.

  ‘I’m told a submarine was sent to the island to try and rescue our friends. They were unable to make contact, even though they made several attempts.’

  Oudenaarde remained silent while Johnny watched his men thinking. Jock was the first to respond.

  ‘They might have got off some other way, sir?’

  ‘Yes, they might,’ Johnny replied. ‘Or they are still there, and failed to make contact with the sub.’

  ‘Or they have been captured,’ added Len,

  There was a fourth consideration that none of them wanted to entertain.

  They sat silently staring into their cups, even the Captain, who sensed the depth of feeling that prevailed between them at that moment. Len thought of Tim. And Jackie and Johnno. He was suddenly aware that, since they had landed at Merak, the events that had followed had been so all-consuming that Tim had slipped from his consciousness. He felt ashamed, and drained his whisky, banging his glass back down on the table just a little too hard.

  ‘Absent friends.’

  More silence followed, before Johnny spoke again. ‘I have some good news too. We have been drafted to the Ascania. She sails for Melbourne and Auckland, leaving tomorrow on the tide. I’m not sure what the Navy has in mind for you, Jock. You are to report to the Australian Navy in Melbourne, but Len and I should be home in a week or so.’

  Len’s head was suddenly filled with a confusion of thoughts: about Tim, the others, himself and his mother.

  Johnny reached out for the bottle and unscrewed the cap.

  ‘Maybe I’ll get to stay in Australia,’ said Jock. ‘It’s supposed to be the place of the future, and it has to be better than Fife.’ It seemed that he, for one, was willing to seize his chance in a newly ordered world.

  ‘To the future,’ offered Johnny, and poured them all another glass.

  ‘Carpe diem,’ Jock replied.

  ‘Absent friends,’ offered Len, beginning to feel a little melancholic this time.

  ★ ★ ★

  It was late the following morning when Len woke, and with a pounding headache. As he struggled to gather his senses and unglue his mouth, he realised that some of the pounding was real – his CO was banging on the cabin wall. Sleeping on a bunk again was a pleasure that had been largely wasted. If he’d had to, he could have slept as soundly on the deck. He rose delicately, to discover that the higher his head was the worse it ached. The taste in his mouth was vile, and he resolved never to smoke cigars again. He stood under a cold shower for an age, arms out braced against the sides, watching the rust-coloured water swirling around his feet before disappearing down the drain. When he emerged into the sunlight of the new day, it was as if daggers had been thrust through both of his eyes to strike the back of his skull. He reeled back into the shade and covered his eyes with a hand.

  ‘Top of the mornin’, Lenny,’ Jock greeted him. ‘How the hell are ye?’ He gave Len an almighty slap on the back. If nothing else, it shifted the focus of his pain.

  ‘Jesus. I didn’t think we’d drunk that much.’

  ‘You’re out of practice, lad, and I dare say lacking in Scottish genes. Ah, whisky. Mother’s milk.’ He put a hand on Len’s shoulder and gently steered him along the deck.

  ‘C’mon, the skipper wants to see us.’

  When they entered the day room they found Johnny seated and browsing some papers.

  ‘OK, boys, pack your kit. We’re off to join the Ascania. Meet me back here in thirty minutes. It shouldn’t take you too long to get organised.’

  It didn’t. Thirty minutes later the three men said their goodbyes to the Verspijk. Captain Oudenaarde and his two remaining officers had gathered at the top of the gangway to see them off. The Dutchmen had taken the trouble to wear as much of their uniform as they could find, and each wore his cap. The sailors had the best bits of their uniform on too. They all shook hands with genuine gratitude, the Dutch for the service the sailors had delivered, and the sailors for their delivery back into service.

  14

  Return to Eden

  The Ascania was a twenty-year-old White Star liner of about 14,000 tons that had been converted into an armed merchant cruiser at the outbreak of the war and was now assigned to the New Zealand Station. Johnny reported to the
acting Captain, Alistair Davidson, while Len was relieved to find himself assigned to a cabin of only four bunks, the Ascania being an ex-liner. His cabin mates were English: Liverpudlian merchant seamen who were being repositioned to man another vessel. They spoke in broad, mostly unintelligible Scouse, which proved something of a protection for Len, for he had no desire to talk.

  Without the pressures he had felt during the escape, Len fell into a void, consumed by an indescribable loneliness and raging self-loathing. He felt remorseless nagging guilt that, in his inertia, invaded his thinking and filled him with shame. He was afraid that his friends and comrades were dead. They were lost and he had abandoned them.

  He had learned to express his fear, to turn it into something powerful, but there was no opportunity to do that. Without expression, his fear turned to anger, a silent, seething anger so intense that his cabin mates stopped even trying to talk to him, and others avoided him. Johnny was out of reach, accommodated elsewhere, and Len had no desire to expose his frailties to his commanding officer. He was grieving, a confused, destructive grief.

  Fortunately, the voyage to Melbourne took only three days. One night, while Len was sleeping, the ship’s klaxons called out the fire crew, and Len woke in a panic and broke out in a hot sweat. It turned out that there were problems with the Ascania’s boilers, and it was announced shortly afterwards that the vessel would not be able to continue to New Zealand as planned.

  The three men disembarked in Melbourne, where Ascania would remain for repairs and maintenance. Johnny and Len were instructed to collect transport passes at the liaison desk at Flinders Street Station and take a train to Sydney. There would be passage home to Auckland from there. As expected, Jock had other instructions.

  ‘Jock, you’re to report to the Australian Naval authorities here,’ Johnny told him. ‘Looks like you might get your wish after all.’

  The three comrades stood on the dock, clutching their meagre possessions. For a moment they were lost for words.

  ‘So I guess this is it,’ said Jock eventually, offering his hand to Johnny at the same time.