Close to the Wind

by David B Hill

  The two shook hands and clapped each other on the shoulder. Then Johnny spoke. ‘Thank you, Jock, for your fortitude and the fine example you have shown. We would not have managed without you.’

  Jock stiffened. The Scot in him had returned.

  ‘Nae, sir. It wasn’t any fortitude of mine, or example. We could nae have done it without ye.’ He delivered a salute of parade-ground quality – not something he offered as a rule, and certainly never as well as he did now. Johnny returned the salute with equal gravitas.

  Jock turned towards Len and embraced him fiercely. ‘And we would nae have done it without you, Lenny. God bless ye.’

  Len briefly relaxed in the security of his friend’s embrace. They owed their lives to each other. He couldn’t distinguish precisely the chain of events that had signified their odyssey, it had been such a blur of action.

  Len stood back first. His eyebrows flicked upwards. ‘Good on you, mate. Better start practising your Aussie accent. I’ll be seeing you.’

  ‘In your case I hope so, laddie.’ Raising his eyebrows in return, Jock added a wink, spun on his heel and marched off to get his instructions.

  ★ ★ ★

  The rail journey was a novelty of sorts; a distraction. Len slept, and when he wasn’t asleep, he pretended to be. Sometime around midnight they arrived at Gundagai where the train stopped. Everybody got out and strolled along the platform while the engine was changed, the faint aroma of eucalyptus drifting by in the cool of the night. A disparate crowd of servicemen and civilians lined up at the Red Cross, to grab cups of hot tea and fresh Anzac biscuits. Len thought of his mother. He had resisted any thought of contacting his parents until now, reasoning that any attempt might be premature, for any number of reasons. He knew about false hope. All his mates had expected to return home, yet, one by one, he had left them all behind.

  ‘Here y’are, love. Ya look as if ya need somethin’ warm.’

  An older woman with a Country Women’s Association badge on her lapel draped a jacket over his shoulders. She was right. It was a lot colder than the tropics, and he was feeling it.

  ‘Where ya from, love? Ya look a bit hungry. And ya’ve seen a bit of sun, haven’t ya?’

  Len was a bit taken aback. Nobody had said much to him lately, and he hadn’t spoken much himself. ‘Thank you. That’s great,’ he managed. ‘Thank you.’ He didn’t know what else to say. The old tweed did warm him, in spite of the torn stitching in the shoulder.

  ‘Oh. So ya’re a Kiwi, are ya? Well, we won’t hold that against ya.’

  It was a compliment, of sorts. Looking along the platform he caught sight of Johnny, enjoying the comfort of a first-class carriage. They acknowledged each other with a nod and a wink.

  The journey was slow, and they were sidelined on several occasions while freight-laden trains passed by, before finally rolling into Sydney’s Central Station. Len and Johnny met up again on the platform before seeking out a Naval liaison desk. There they were given chits for accommodation, Johnny in a King’s Cross hotel, and Len in naval barracks at Woolloomooloo. They were only half a mile from each other, and Johnny promised to stay in touch and press for their repatriation at the earliest opportunity.

  There were upwards of thirty vessels, merchant and Naval, in and around Sydney’s vast harbour. When Len reported to the gate at the Garden Island RAN base, he was directed to Kuttabul, a harbour ferry permanently moored at the island and reconfigured to accommodate junior ratings and Naval personnel who were in transit. He gratefully accepted hammock space on an upper deck, where the breeze at least mitigated some of the humidity.

  ★ ★ ★

  Days passed, but the ennui did not. Both men attended various routines while they waited for news of their repatriation. Len attended numerous musters, while for Johnny it was invariably social events. Len found it particularly hard; he drifted, directionless in a pool of despondency. The same questions kept spinning through his head. How would he cope meeting with Ava? How could he avoid the awful truth of what had happened to Tim? How would he control the emotions that would inevitably visit him then, when he could hardly control them now? How could he resist having his sensibilities cross over, from empathy or sympathy to something beyond? All he wanted was to draw Ava close and bury his nose in her hair. Then his self-loathing overflowed. And he drank.

  Johnny came by to see him, shortly after visiting Malcolm Henderson’s parents. He didn’t say much about it, and Len didn’t ask, but the encounter seemed to have made Johnny unnaturally despondent. That caused Len to dread even further the inevitable conversation with Ava.

  As personnel came and went, Len’s continued presence on Kuttabul began to attract the interest of some of the Australian junior ratings. Two weeks had passed when he was challenged about his dishevelled state and perceived inactivity.

  ‘Mate, what are ya?’ one of the ratings asked him belligerently, gesturing at the way Len had organised his possessions and his apparently permanent situation.

  ‘Leave him alone. He’s probably seen more than you will ever see.’

  Len squirmed at the intervention, offered by a tall, blond Dutchman, also billeted temporarily on Kuttabul. In spite of Len’s passive aggression, the Dutchman seemed to have gathered some understanding about the moody Kiwi.

  The Australian now became aggresive, and the situation became almost inflammatory, before a passing Petty Officer intervened.

  ‘All right, all right, you bastards. You’ – he looked directly at his countrymen – ‘you get on with whatever the hell you’re supposed to be doing. And you two,’ he said, looking at Len and his defender, ‘you make yourself scarce before another one of these idiots wants to have a go.’

  They didn’t need another hint, but swept up their caps and together headed off the vessel and out the gates. It was late morning. They walked up the hill through Potts Point, and eventually found a suitable pub in the Cross. For a while they sat drinking in grateful silence. Len sat propped in shadow in the corner of their booth, studying his companion through half-closed eyes. It occurred to him that this man was probably nursing his own losses. ‘You have family?’ he asked him.

  The man quaffed deeply. ‘Had. I left my wife and daughters behind. She’s Javanese. I hope to God they will be all right.’

  Len didn’t need to ask why; he was well aware that mixed marriages had been another focus of Japanese victimisation.

  It turned out Len and his new friend had both survived the final evacuation of Java. The Dutchman had been fished from the sea by a friendly vessel after his own had been sunk by a submarine.

  They drank on for an hour or more, downing several more schooners, until a large group of American sailors barged into the pub and swamped the bar. The raucous sound of American accents and their almost celebratory conduct contrasted heavily with the mood of the two men.

  One of the Americans detached from his group, and made as if to slide into their booth.

  ‘Howdy, guys. Mind if we join you?’

  Len looked at his empty glass and back at the American. It was not the sort of company he wanted. He stood up and gestured at the booth.

  ‘No thanks, mate, if you don’t mind. But make yourselves at home.’

  The Dutchman stood too. Several more Americans gravitated to their table. It was clear they had already been drinking.

  ‘What’s the matter? Don’t like company?’

  ‘No, mate, not particularly. Not today.’

  The frankness of Len’s reply confused the Americans. Some of them thought they had been insulted, and switched in a breath to a more menacing posture.

  ‘What did the little fuck say?’

  ‘He said nothing.’ Len’s Dutch friend had interceded again on his behalf. ‘Come on, my friend. Let’s go now.’

  The Dutchman put his hand on Len’s shoulder, and the two of them headed for the door. At first the Americans, most of whom were now aware of the situation, if not actually involved, appeared unwilling to let
them through, but they parted reluctantly nevertheless. Insults followed them towards the door.

  ‘Who the fuck are they?’

  ‘One’s a Brit. The dark one sounded like a Brit.’

  As they reached the door, someone blocked their way.

  ‘You a Kraut? Ya look like a fucking Kraut.’

  ‘Jezuz Christus,’ the Dutchman said. His hand shot out, and he thrust his antagonist out of the way. A glass sailed through the air and smashed on the wall beside Len’s head, at the very moment a jeep with four burly US Navy MPs in it pulled up outside the pub. Len felt a trickle run down his temple, and wiped a small amount of blood away with his hand. ‘They’ve got the attitude,’ he commented.

  ‘Ja,’ his friend replied. ‘But not the aim.’

  The MPs jumped from their vehicle clutching long batons and, barging past the two men, went inside. To the receding sound of men shouting, breaking glass and furniture being overturned, Len and the Dutchman made their way downhill towards the barracks once more.

  Several hours later, Len was roused from an inebriated slumber by someone pulling on his hammock, swinging it violently. The effect did nothing to assuage his nausea.

  ‘Wake up, Len, wake up.’

  It was Johnny. Len threw his legs over the side so quickly he nearly landed on the floor, but fortunately Johnny steadied the hammock. Len looked around with bleary eyes. The sun was gone, a glimmer on the upper harbour. Dusk. He’d been asleep for a couple of hours.

  ‘We have orders at last. We sail for Auckland. Tomorrow. Aboard the Strathallan. We’re going home.’

  This time there was no elation. After Johnny had explained the details, he left, leaving Len somewhat disoriented. He made his way to the fire hose, meaning to douse himself and restore himself to a more conscious state. The water was slow to fill the hose, and so he turned the pressure up: so much so that when the water did arrive, it came at high velocity, thoroughly drenching him and the surrounding deck. He slammed the valve shut, rushed to the rail and vomited violently into the sea below.

  ★ ★ ★

  The 4th of April 1942 was Easter Saturday. It had been over seven weeks since the fall of Singapore, and Kate Hill was in her garden planting dahlias. Len stood silently watching. Kneeling at the flowerbed near the rimu, with the sun at her back and a tray of bulbs beside her, she quietly loosened the soil with her trowel, systematically pulling the weeds, spacing the bulbs and bedding the soil back down, moving the cushion beneath her knees every so often. Behind her, plump tūī swooped towards the feijoa trees at the bottom of the garden, whistling, chortling and tootling as they fluttered through the foliage.

  He opened the gate and called quietly to his mother, almost reluctant to disturb her.

  ‘Hullo, Mum.’

  He wasn’t sure she had heard.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Leonard?’ She cocked her head. ‘Is that you?’

  Kate was confused. The fear was familiar. The hope was not.

  She reached out and he helped as she struggled stiffly to her feet. Briefly he needed to support her. She drew back to help her focus. It didn’t look like him. Nor did it feel like him – so hard under her touch.

  ‘Hullo, Mum.’

  It was him. For a moment she felt entirely drained, emptied of doubt at last.

  ‘Take me inside, son.’

  She turned to the house. He took her hand and led her down the driveway, with its immaculate mowing strip, up the steps of the enclosed veranda and to the settee. She turned and lowered herself gently, then sat down abruptly and banged on the floor with a stick left by the door for the purpose.

  ‘Arthur! Arthur! Get up here. It’s Leonard.’ She swallowed. ‘He’s …’ She swallowed again. ‘Leonard’s home!’

  There was a noise from under the house and the rumble of a voice below. Len’s sister Joy appeared in the doorway, holding a bundle of freshly ironed tea towels, her mouth half open. He reached out to touch her, to prove he was real. When he turned to his mother again, he noticed a tear rolling down her soft brown cheeks. She reached out to him and briefly held him close, he standing, she sitting, one of her arms around his waist, the other reaching for her handkerchief. Tears began to well in his eyes, too. He gently loosened her grasp and turned away.

  Stunned, Joy went inside and flung the towels onto the dining table. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Len watched as his father came into view. Arthur was beginning to stoop. Clad in oversized khaki overalls, a half-smoked rollie tucked behind his ear, he wheezed his way up from his workshop under the house.

  ‘What did you say?’

  As he reached the top of the stairs, he paused a moment and deftly spat a speck of tobacco off his tongue into the garden. He turned and stepped into the small veranda.

  ‘Gidday, Dad.’

  Arthur stopped dead. He looked at the apparition in front of him for only a moment, then gave a nod and a wink.

  ‘Gidday, son.’

  They stood eye to eye, man to man, and shook hands. They touched their brows briefly, then separated. Len thought of Haami Parata, with a deep and intense gratitude. From the neighbour’s piano the sound of ‘Für Elise’ came wafting through the trees.

  Arthur looked carefully at him. ‘How are you, son?’

  ‘Fine, Dad. Really.’

  But Arthur wasn’t convinced. The boy did not seem present.

  He lowered himself onto the settee beside his wife.

  ‘Sit yourself down, son. We’ll have a cup of tea. When you’re good and ready, you can tell us what you’ve been up to.’

  Epilogue

  In the mid-1950s, to celebrate the arrival in Auckland of a group of American Navy destroyers on a goodwill visit, a private dinner was held at the Royal New Zealand Yacht Squadron headquarters, below the Supreme Court buildings on Anzac Avenue. On the day, at around five in the afternoon, a car pulled up in front of the building, and Johnny Bull got out.

  ‘We should be finished by ten, darling. Are you sure you don’t mind picking me up?’

  Cecily nodded and blew him a kiss as he shut the door. Johnny turned and walked towards the Yacht Squadron club rooms as she drove away. He signed the book on entering and headed for the bar, acknowledging certain other members in passing. He ordered a whisky and water and waited. Through the door to the dining room he watched staff making last-minute arrangements for the dinner. As he gazed around the establishment, he could not help but notice the memorial on the house bar wall, nor avoid being reminded about those members who had not survived the war, whose names were regularly invoked in solemn toasts.

  Johnny’s personal war knew no end. Even now, years later, he needed no prompt to see those men’s faces, and their voices invaded his thinking without warning.

  ‘Here you are, sir.’

  He took the proffered tumbler just as the honoured guests and their hosts entered the house bar. Jack Gifford stepped forward.

  ‘Here he is. Johnny! Let me introduce you to our guests. Gentlemen, this is Johnny Bull: Lieutenant Commander Johnny Bull, ex-Naval Reserve, and a member of our committee.’

  Johnny was introduced to each of the Americans in turn, before coming to the last guest.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Johnny. Commander Monk Hendrick, USS Buck. Call me Monk.’

  The group, about a dozen, were ushered into the dining room and took their assigned places at the table. The atmosphere was warm, his companions were affable, and the conversation became more animated as the evening progressed. The oysters were well received, and while they waited between courses, Monk Hendrick ordered another bourbon.

  ‘Rocks. Straight up, with a twist.’

  Monk liked his liquor hard.

  ‘So tell me a little about your tour of duty, Monk,’ Johnny said. ‘I understand you’ve been away from home for a while.’

  Hendrick described a twenty-month tour patrolling the China Sea as escort to a carrier force. ‘But I started my naval career on a battleship,’ he said
.

  ‘Good heavens. When was that?’

  ‘1939, but it was only for a year.’

  The young American Ensign seated opposite Johnny regarded the Kiwi with scepticism, wondering what the war experience of an ex-New Zealand Naval Reserve Lieutenant Commander might have been. As Johnny took a mouthful, the Ensign took the chance to question him.

  ‘So you saw service? During the war? Whereabouts?’

  ‘Most of my time was spent in the Solomons,’ Johnny replied.

  ‘Oh, yeah? Didn’t know you Kiwis fought in the Pacific.’

  Johnny wondered if this was a deliberate slight, but thought better of it. ‘Yes. We were. There weren’t many of us. Most New Zealanders were fighting in Europe.’

  ‘So what did you Kiwis do?’ The Ensign pressed him.

  This time, the inflection did seem deliberate, but Johnny indulged his inquisitor. ‘I served in an anti-submarine flotilla working out of Renaud Sound.’

  ‘Guadalcanal!’ This time it was Monk Hendricks who replied. ‘Hell, we Americans know all about that.’

  Jack Gifford joined the conversation from across the table. ‘Johnny commanded the flotilla.’

  ‘That right?’ Hendrick looked across at his junior officer. ‘I have to say we were a bit late to the party, but I was involved here myself, in the Pacific. In submarines.’

  Now Johnny’s interest was pricked. ‘Subs?’

  ‘Yup. Thirteen years. Helluva job,’ said Monk, shaking his head.

  ‘I’m sure it was.’ Johnny nodded in agreement.

  Wine was refreshed and toasts offered, and when, with a coordinated flourish, the waiters presented dinner, the visitors cooed with appreciation. For a while the conversation was suspended, and the room filled with the sound of cutlery on china and the clinking of glassware.

  Monk Hendrick belched, quietly.

  ‘Beg pardon, gentlemen. Damned good spread, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ He took another mouthful, then asked, ‘So tell me, Johnny: you Kiwis were in the war from the beginning. Where else did you serve?’