Enemy Camp

by Hill, David

  Afterwards, we three kids kept saluting one another. ‘I’m a general,’ Clarry told us.

  Barry nodded. ‘Yeah. A g-general n-nuisance.’

  SUNDAY, 13 DECEMBER Don’t know what I’m going to get Mum and Dad for Christmas. There’s hardly any new things in the shops. Maybe I’ll try to make something, or do extra jobs. Mum reckons her best Christmas present last year was Dad coming home safe.

  We all rode out to the camp after lunch: Dad and me, and Barry towing Clarry in his trolley. Dad was wearing his uniform and lemon-squeezer; we must have looked like an army convoy.

  A couple more buildings have been finished since we were out there last. Through the wire, we could see blue uniforms sweeping, shaking mats, washing big pots near some new taps. Two of them had arms in slings; another was on crutches. Nobody was wrestling today. Outside the wire, the gardens of flowers and vegetables glowed bright. A few prisoners bent over them, while two guards smoked and watched.

  We three kids breezed up to the barrier with Dad. ‘Hello, Jack,’ went the guard there. ‘Brought the family?’

  ‘Brought two families, Hec,’ Dad replied. ‘No problems if we take a few flowers? There’s an old lady in town who’d appreciate them.’

  The guard nodded. ‘Help yourself. Blowed if I can get used to the way these Nips have them.’

  We pushed our bikes along a hard dirt path to the flower beds. The prisoners glanced up as we approached, looked at us kids, looked longer at Clarry on his trolley. One of them — the little older bloke, the carver — sneaked a glance towards the military prisoners’ area, then gave Dad a small bow.

  ‘Just getting some flowers for old Mrs Laurie in town, Bill,’ my father told the closest guard, an older, almost bald man.

  The guard grinned. ‘Fine, Jack.’ He turned to the prisoners. ‘Hey, you blokes? Some flowers here, eh? Chop-chop!’

  The prisoners began carefully breaking off red, yellow, white flowers (don’t ask me their names — they were flowers!) with their fingers. They didn’t have any knives or scissors, and I could guess why. When they had a decent bunch, the little guy gave them to Dad.

  ‘Here, Ewen.’ Dad passed them to me. Me, a bloke, holding flowers! I handed them quickly to Barry, who handed them quickly to Clarry, who put them down quickly on the trolley beside him. Dad and the guard burst out laughing, and even the prisoners smiled.

  ‘Can we stay and watch, Dad?’ I asked. ‘We won’t get in the way.’

  My father hesitated. The guard went, ‘It’s OK, Jack. They’re no problem.’

  Dad nodded. ‘Thanks, Bill. You lads move when you’re told to, eh?’

  As he began wheeling his bike away, the other guard called after him. ‘Better make sure your hat’s on straight, Jack. The new commandant arrives today or tomorrow, and he’s a terror for doing things by the book, they say.’

  Another group of prisoners was working on a patch of ground closer to the fence. ‘Let’s l-look there,’ Barry said. ‘I’ll wheel you, Cl-Clarry.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ his brother went. ‘Wait.’ He’d taken off his leg braces again. Swinging himself off the trolley, he grabbed the back of Barry’s bike and levered himself up. He began to walk slowly, step by step, along the dirt path. His whole body was stiff with the effort. We left our bikes and followed him.

  The prisoners ahead watched us. Others gazed from behind the double barbed-wire fences. I didn’t really notice them; I was concentrating on Clarry, ready to grab him.

  Clarry kept panting. ‘I’m — doing it! I’m — doing it!’ He had nearly reached the next patch of garden.

  ‘Boy.’ The voice wasn’t loud, but we all stopped.

  He stood on the far side of the second fence. The short black hair; the burn mark on his face. His eyes were fixed on Clarry, who stood swaying and gazing back at him.

  ‘K-Konnichiwa,’ Barry went. The officer — Iti? — glanced at my friend, then back at Clarry.

  ‘You are hurt?’ His English was clear, with a funny soft sort of accent.

  ‘I’ve got polio. It ruins your muscles. But I’m going to walk. See?’ Clarry took another two steps, stopped, and swayed again. Nobody else spoke. Nobody else moved. Then Clarry asked, ‘Did you get wounded in the battle?’ He touched his own face where the Jap’s — Ito: that was his name — was scarred.

  The figure beyond the wire didn’t reply, but someone else began calling out. A guard, also inside the wire, moving towards Ito. ‘Hey, you! Get away from there. Move!’ The enemy officer took no notice; kept gazing at Barry’s younger brother.

  He spoke again. ‘Hold.’ I glanced sideways. Clarry’s legs were starting to crumple. Barry and I grabbed him, held him upright. When we looked across at the barbed wire again, Ito had turned, still ignoring the guard, and was moving silently away.

  We were halfway back to Featherston and I was towing the trolley, when Barry murmured, ‘L-Look.’

  I glanced back. His jersey draped over the flowers so nobody could see them, Clarry was fast asleep.

  MONDAY, 14 DECEMBER Last week of school! Next year, 1943, I’ll be in Standard Six. In 1944, I’ll be at secondary school. I hope the war finishes long before then.

  ‘I’m writing about the Japs in my journal,’ I told Barry on the way to school, and felt surprised at my words.

  He nodded. ‘You’re good at writing.’

  I felt pleased, and a bit embarrassed.

  ‘I’m writing about Cl-Clarry,’ Barry went on. He kicked a stone along the footpath. ‘It’s st-stupid, but if I write about his p-polio, I sometimes think he w-won’t g-g-get any worse.’

  A lady on a bike went past. Dad says that when the Nips invaded Malaya last year a lot of them rode bikes. They could move along jungle tracks; they were silent. Still seems strange: an army biking to war!

  We rehearsed for the concert this morning and this afternoon. Some kids are reciting poems; some are doing Scottish dances. The whole school is singing Christmas carols, and we finish by marching past snobby Susan Britannia.

  This afternoon, Anzac and Terry both went ‘Howdy, ma’am’ in fake American voices as we went past. Susan started giggling, and Miss Mutter snapped, ‘Shushan Proctor! Shtop being shilly!’

  Mum took the flowers across to Mrs Laurie today, and the old lady nearly burst into tears. She hasn’t heard from her grandson, the coast-watcher, and she’s frightened for him.

  Oh, and I might as well mention it: WE’RE GOING ON A HOLIDAY!

  TUESDAY, 15 DECEMBER We’re going to Castlepoint for three days. A lady from the committee told Mum yesterday. We’ve got a bach. It’s tiny, and we have to take our own food and bedding, but there’s a truck to drive us out and back, and we’re going next week! There are fishing lines in the bach we can use. After Mum told me, I took down the little carved fish from the mantelpiece. ‘We’re going to see your cousins,’ I told it.

  Big dress rehearsal at school today. Dad had got Barry and me battledress tunics and army caps — the sort that sit at an angle on your head. So we looked like soldiers, even though we had to wear our ordinary shorts and shoes. Some blokes had blue shirts and shorts so they could be air force or navy. There were girls dressed like nurses, or WAAFs and WRENs and WAACs. (That’s women in the air force, navy and army.) Susan Proctor was in a white frock, with a Union Jack pinned around her to show she was Britannia.

  But Anzac looked best. Remember I said his sister Moana is going out with a Yank? Well, the bloke had lent Anzac some American uniform brown trousers, light-green shirt and tie, and a proper uniform cap. Primer kids kept asking, ‘Is that a real American?’

  I still can’t think what to do about Christmas presents. I looked in my pocket-money tin, and I’ve only got a shilling and sixpence. That is … nine ice-creams. Wonder if Mum and Dad would like those!

  I was heading to the kitchen when Mum’s voice stopped me. ‘Is it dangerous, Jack? Tell me.’

  What was going on?

  Dad sounded thoughtful. ‘Not dangerous,
Molly. But ever since the new camp commandant arrived on Sunday, the place has felt different. His name is Wallace. He’s a lieutenant colonel, so he can change what Major Parsons did whenever he feels like it.’

  I stood still and listened. A match scratched. ‘He’s started talking about putting up pictures of King George in every hut, so the Nips can see who’s in charge now. And he wants the Union Jack flying in both compounds all the time. Don’t know how they’ll react to that.’

  I kept still.

  ‘Has there been any trouble?’ my mother asked.

  ‘Nothing definite. The civvie ones are OK, but the military lot — a bunch of them were wrestling last night while the others watched. When the guards said it was time to go to their huts, they took no notice. Then this officer — Ito, the one who speaks good English — came strolling along. The corporal told him to move his men back to their huts, and Ito just looked at him and said “We will move when we are ready.”’

  Feet moved in the kitchen. I didn’t want to be caught listening, so I moved, too.

  WEDNESDAY, 16 DECEMBER We’re going away on Sunday and coming back Tuesday night. I can’t wait!

  Break-up and concert tomorrow. All the kids are in a good mood about school finishing. When I met Barry, this morning, he and I started singing the song we always sing when the summer holidays start:

  No more spelling, no more sums;

  No more teachers to whack our bums.

  Clarry got grumpy. ‘It’s alright for you jokers. Doing lessons at home is boring.’ As we left, he yelled after us. ‘I’m coming back to school next year! I am!’

  Mr White told us about the Christmases he had had in France during the Great War. They sat in their trenches eating Christmas pudding out of tins, with bullets whizzing overhead. But one year there was hardly any shooting, and they could hear the Germans singing carols. So the New Zealand soldiers sang, too, really loudly, and when they finished the Germans clapped. Next morning, they were shooting at one another again. Snobby Susan says the Japs don’t celebrate Christmas much, so I wonder what the prisoners out at the camp will do next Friday?

  We had an extra half-hour for lunch, and we blokes played bull-rush. In the afternoon, we had a Room Six Quiz, boys versus girls. We won! Barry was able to name nearly every country in the British Empire, although he forgot Rhodesia.

  Then Mr White read us A Christmas Carol. Some of the girls cried when they thought the kid called Tiny Tim was going to die; then they cried again when he didn’t die. It was a long story, but I liked it. I wonder if I could be a writer some day? I suppose I am already, with this journal.

  ‘We’ll look forward to tomorrow’s performance,’ Mr White said, as we lined up beside our desks at bell-time. ‘No need for trepidation.’ I looked up trepidation in the class dictionary. It means ‘nervousness or anxiety’. Mr White saw me checking and went ‘Good lad, Ewen.’

  THURSDAY, 17 DECEMBER My last day in Standard Five. Hurray!

  I’m really looking forward to the holidays, and especially to Castlepoint. I wonder who my teacher will be next year. Wonder if I can sit next to Barry again. I’m going to work hard next year; I’m going to make Mum and Dad proud of me.

  Clarry says he is going to boo really loudly at the concert. He walked along to our place to give me cheek, and as Barry and I headed for school I saw him starting back home, one hand on the fence for balance, swinging along in his braces. If his parents find out he’s been walking with them off, they’ll probably go crook. He could break a leg if he falls, with his weak bones.

  We spent most of the morning tidying our classroom. We cleaned out ink wells, washed the blackboard, took down the VEGETABLES FOR VICTORY posters.

  We played cricket at lunchtime. Even some of the girls joined in. Mr White had a turn batting: he hit Anzac for two sixes — and Anzac is a really fast bowler.

  After lunch, we got our report cards to take home. I have an A for Spelling, A for Composition (story-writing), B for Arithmetic and Social Studies and PT, and C-minus for Handwriting. Barry got two As and three Bs, too, and C-minus for his Handwriting. It’s only girls who worry about writing neatly.

  We ate tea early. Then the Morrises and my parents and I set off for the school. Barry and I carried our army uniforms; Mr Morris towed Clarry.

  It felt strange, arriving at school as the sun was setting. The hall and the office block had lights on. Heaps of people stood around talking on the warm asphalt. Over to one side were a group in uniform. Yanks!

  We changed into our costumes. The hall was packed; people clapped as we came in, and the little primer kids started waving to their parents. Clarry saw Barry and me, put his hands to his mouth in a silent (I hope) boo, then clapped, too.

  The concert went really well. A lot of the audience joined in with the Christmas carols. Miss Mutter banged away on the piano. After we sang ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’, the Americans stood up and cheered.

  Everyone cheered when we marched past Britannia. Anzac threw an American-style salute to Susan Proctor in her white frock and Union Jack.

  The mayor made a speech, saying how he hoped the year ahead would bring peace. Then we had supper. Barry and I ate about ten pikelets each, and some of the Yanks passed out lollies and chewing gum to the kids. One was a Negro, so dark that his skin seemed to gleam. He handed Barry and me a packet of chewing gum each. He turned to Clarry, went ‘Here y’are, li’l buddy’, and gave him three packets!

  We walked home through the soft, warm dark, saying ‘Happy Christmas … Have a good holiday … No more spelling; no more sums’ to different people. Barry told Clarry the charge for towing him was a packet of chewing gum. Clarry told Barry to get lost.

  FRIDAY, 18 DECEMBER First day of the holidays. I’m going to keep this journal going. I like the idea of being an author. I’m going to read lots, go for rides with Barry and Clarry, help Mum and Dad — and try to think of a Christmas present!

  I finished the library book about Deerfoot the American Indian. He escapes from his enemies by floating down a river underwater, breathing through a hollow reed above the surface. Maybe I can try that in the Tauherenikau River sometime? Except it’s so shallow in summer, I probably couldn’t fit under the water!

  Over at the Morrises’, Clarry was in a bad mood.

  ‘We were nearly home last n-night when someone went “There’s that cr-crippled k-kid,”’ Barry told me. ‘And Clarry yelled “I’m not cr-cr-crippled!”’

  ‘How about we all bike out to the camp this afternoon?’ I said. Barry nodded. When he heard, Clarry nodded and grinned.

  We went after lunch. Mrs Morris made Clarry take his sunhat, with its big flap down the back. The moment we turned the first corner, Clarry whipped it off.

  Nobody was working in the camp gardens. No wrestling or anything interesting. A few blue uniforms moved between their huts, and bowed to a stocky bloke walking up and down. Must be another officer.

  One thing we did notice in the civilian area — a big Maori guard inside the barbed wire was standing, rifle and bayonet in hand, talking to one of the prisoners. The Nip was even smaller than the one who did the fish carving; he hardly came up to the Maori guard’s chest. They were both laughing, like … well, like friends.

  We’d almost reached the barrier before the main gates when we heard the yelling. We looked to where the guards were pointing, and I heard Barry gasp.

  A dusty blue car had stopped on the road, and a grey-haired man stood beside it. In one hand he carried a length of wood. Then I gasped, too: it was a rifle.

  He started heading towards the barrier. His eyes stared and his mouth hung slightly open. The rifle looked old, like him, but it was a real one alright, barrel blue-grey and gleaming.

  ‘Halt!’ The guards at the gate and the one at the barrier were all shouting: ‘Halt! Stay where you are!’

  Prisoners and the other guards behind the barbed wire looked on. The man kept moving, rifle by his side. ‘Halt!’ the barrier guard yelled again. His own
rifle was gripped tight, pointing towards the advancing figure.

  The man stopped, just a few yards from the barrier. The whole camp was hushed.

  ‘I’m going to shoot the little yellow sods!’ His voice sounded cracked and harsh. ‘They tortured my son. I heard about it. They captured him and they tortured him. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. I’m going to shoot them!’ He swung his rifle up, and, even though we were off to one side, we kids all ducked.

  The man held the gun to his shoulder, and aimed it towards the wire and the prisoners behind. His voice rose. ‘I mean it! I’ll kill you! Murdering bloody Nips!’

  Some prisoners had thrown themselves on the ground. But others stayed standing. We kids twitched as a couple of them started yelling back. One with a bandaged head shook his fist at the man. Another ripped his shirt open suddenly, showing his bare chest. What were they doing? Didn’t they realise—?

  ‘I’ll do it!’ The old bloke shook and sobbed. ‘My son! I’ll shoot you!’

  More Japs shouted, jabbed a finger at their chests. The man lifted his rifle once more.

  Two new voices spoke from inside the compound. The officer who’d been walking up and down, and Ito, who’d appeared from nowhere. Just a few words, but the Japs stopped yelling straightaway. They bowed, turned, moved away. Ito and the other officer watched the man with the rifle. ‘Run away, you yellow cowards!’ The old man was shaking worse than ever. ‘I’ll bloody shoot you!’ The two enemy officers stood unmoving.

  ‘Please put your rifle down, sir.’ A different voice. A figure with crowns and other badges on the shoulders of his khaki uniform was striding towards the barrier from the main gates. The guards stood to attention as he approached.

  The bloke with the rifle stared at him. He seemed lost, as if he hardly knew what he was doing. ‘They captured my boy,’ he mumbled. ‘They tortured him.’

  The officer nodded. He was quite old, too: tall, with a moustache. ‘I am Camp Commandant Colonel Wallace. May I have your rifle? Then let’s go to my office and talk, shall we?’