So much for the Beatrice River Memorial Service held in lieu of the Races of 1941 — a fitting end, perhaps, to what might be called the Ancient History of the settlement, since such drastic changes were wrought upon it so soon afterward. As well the Service was held then and not after the incident that caused the change, since from it Pat Hannaford had a fresh furphy to cause the name of Jack the Ripper to stink to very Heaven, and for a certainty would not have been able to get away with voicing it as lightly as he had in the case of the sinking of the Lusitania. The incident was, of course, that one which, to date, ranks as the most devastatingly treacherous in history, and has come to be known simply as Pearl Harbour.
Pat got into a lot of trouble with his furphy here, and but for his status as a War-hero of a class ranking only second to that of the Glorious Dead, would certainly have copped it a lot worse. As it was, he was soon compelled to be careful in choosing those he would enlighten. Amongst these was Jeremy Delacy, who was even more careful in listening than Pat in telling.
Where Pat got his astonishing story was anybody’s guess. He talked as if it were on the best authority, but could give no more that sounded authentic than that the Russians claimed they had picked up and decoded a message from Admiral Tojo to Adolf Hitler giving a hint of the Pearl Harbour atrocity several days before it took place and had passed it on to their new Comrades, the British. Something like that could have come to him from the Communists, who were still fawning on him as a Hero of the People, despite his continued contempt for them in their new role of Soolers. Nevertheless, it would not have been confided to him by the Commos with anything like the suggestion of the evil he put into it: for just then, with their Glorious Red Army in headlong retreat, they were yelling as hard for a Second Front as their master, Joe Stalin, himself, and wouldn’t have cared any more than he how and where it came from, since The End Justified the Means is a basic Communist concept.
What he said was that Pearl Harbour was another piece of Churchillian connivance and for the same purpose as that other, but this time carried out in conspiracy with President Roosevelt, who everybody knew was just bellyaching to get into the war with his old pal Winny. To those who argued or wanted proof, he would say: ‘Now, for chrissake, how’s that great Jap fleet going to sail halfway across the Pacific, through some of the busiest shippin’ lanes in the world, with the Asiatic fleets of the British, the Yanks, and the Dutch keepin’ watch as they must be at such a time . . . and not a bastard’s a wake-up till the Japs’re droppin’ their bombs on Honolulu Sunday mornin’? What’d bring the Yanks in quicker? Even if they did’n wan’ ’o come in . . . they’d bloody ’ave to.’
Jeremy also had opinions he had to be careful of voicing, even to Pat. Fergus was his only confidante. The fact that Storm-the-barricades had fairly screamed for help from America within hours of the outbreak of the Pacific War made Jeremy fairly groan: ‘God help us! That stupid bastard gets us free of British Imperialism, only to hand us over to the Yank, the most ruthless stand-over merchant in the world. He’s offered Australia as the base for the Pacific War. That means it’ll become in perpetuity an American colony, like every other place they ever went into with their dollars to spend and their rapacious capacity to get ’em back fifty-fold. I had a lingering hope that what looked like his Australianism would have brought us at last to stand on our own feet. Maybe the old leg-irons hang too heavily on us for us ever to be able to stand alone.’
Jeremy had to tell his household that he feared the traditional Blackfellows’ Christmas at Beatrice would not be held this year. The reason was that the locality was in turmoil over the arrival in Port Palmeston of the first of the Americans — as refugees from the Philippines. That brought the land into the zone of war. Already people were packing up and heading for the comparative safety of the South. There was talk of official evacuation, of putting all civilians and civil industry behind a barrier that was to be called the Brisbane Line. A new command had been formed, with Australian authority seemingly having small say in it. The title of the command was ABDA, in accordance with modern military style. It was abbreviation for American, British, Dutch, Australian, in that order. Jeremy remarked: ‘It’s a wonder they bothered to include us at all . . . and I don’t suppose inclusion’s worth tuppence, anyway, seeing that in fishing round for a C-in-C for it they haven’t made mention of a man of ours.’
II
Eventually the C-in-C, ABDA was named. He was Field Marshal Lord Wavell, a man of considerable titular aristocracy and hence military honours, formerly C-in-C Middle East.
Jeremy and Fergus heard the announcement while listening to the midday news in the lounge at Lily Lagoons. Jeremy was struck with the inappropriateness of the appointment, not as it affected Australia, which actually delighted in crawling to such people, but America, which after all had bagged first place in the junta. He said, ‘The Yanks have always been distrustful of the English . . . they understand the kid-glove arrogance better than we do . . . yet here they are submitting their men to the very worst type of British Brass Hat. It must be Churchill . . . half a Yank himself . . . and having that strange fascinating influence he evidently has on the crippled would-be benign ruler of the world, Roosevelt. What are Wavell’s attributes for the job, anyway? He chased a mob of half-hearted Dagoes out of Ethiopia and Somaliland and the Western Desert of Egypt . . . then ran into the Hun and went back to Cairo. Now he’s to conduct a jungle war against an enemy that has the only army in the world trained for such warfare. How right was poor old Whiskers!’
Jeremy had scarcely spoken, when the Watchers of the Keep shrilled their warning of Intrusion. Nanago came bursting from the kitchen. Jeremy and Fergus rose to look through the windows towards the gate and the road beyond.
A distant cloud of yellow dust. Soon a flash of glass in sunlight. Then a car appeared, a military vehicle, as easy to see by the camouflage painting effected these days. When it halted at the gate, a soldier leapt out to open up. It came on in. The same man leapt out again to open a rear door. A round ruddy face under an officer’s cap appeared. Fergus gasped, ‘For cryin’ out loud!’
The officer was Fabian Cootes. He was in tropical kit, which is to say, cotton khaki shirt and shorts and so-called top-socks, the last particularly striking, since bright yellow, as also were his suede boots, a new military type effected by officers, called Desert Boots. He was accoutred for action, with officer’s webbing and a pistol at his hip. Out after him came another officer, no less tubby and ruddy but of bigger size. Again Fergus exclaimed. The second was known here as Sigs Sarge Sims, but now wearing the insignia of a Lieutenant. The Coot was a Lieutenant-Colonel, no less. There was still another to appear, out by the other rear door and unaided — another old acquaintance, Eddy McCusky.
Jeremy went slowly out to meet them. The Coot greeted him heartily, thrusting out his pudgy little hand. ‘Good to see you again, Jeremy. Long time no see . . . eheeee!’ Cootes waved to his companions, that is those out of the back seat, saying, ‘You know these chaps, I think.’ Both shook Jeremy’s hand, babbling pleasantries.
Jeremy asked, ‘To what do I owe this unexpected honour?’
Cootsey made a moue with his little Napoleonic mouth and shrugged, as Bonaparte might have done, even answering in the language, ‘C’est la guerre.’
A moment of hesitation. Then Jeremy said, ‘Well, you’d better come in.’
Nanago had vanished. Fergus was standing in the middle of the lounge with arms folded. His eyes flitted over the trio, coming to rest on Cootes, to whom he gave his split grin, saying, ‘Well, you made it, eh, Cootsey . . . congratulations!’ He didn’t unfold his arms.
Cootes, eyeing him warily, nodded shortly. ‘Thanks.’
Fergus added, ‘You certainly knew which way that cat was going to jump.’
There was a military snap in Colonel Cootes’s voice: ‘What cat?’
‘Political pussy.’
Cootes frowned in the Napoleonic way. ‘I presume you’re b
eing your usual facetious self?’
‘Not at all, mate. How many people were as astute as you in predicting a swing to Labor in the midst of a state of war?’
‘I’ve always been a keen student of politics . . . and of military science. You know that.’
‘I know you’re a smart boy, Cootsey . . . hence the congratulations.’
Cootes turned from him. Jeremy said, ‘Well, I suppose you could do a drink.’
Cootes smirked. ‘The famous Lily Lagoons brew, eh . . . my word!’
Jeremy seated the visitors. Fergus still stood. When Jeremy had served them, he raised his glass. ‘Well . . . L’chaim!
Cootes stood for a moment puzzled, then smiled his chubby smile. ‘Oh, yes . . . To Life . . . old Whiskers’s toast. After sipping, he added: ‘Poor old Whiskers . . . I suppose you know he’s dead?’
Jeremy nodded, sighed: ‘Just as well, poor fellow, I suppose. It’d’ve killed him to see everything he predicted happening, and not be able to do anything about it.’
With evident surprise Cootes remarked, ‘I didn’t know you were so well disposed to him.’
‘On the contrary . . . I had a deep regard for him . . . as a man . . . and maybe as a soldier, too, because I don’t think he was the destroying type.’
‘Then why did you let him down?’
The grey eyes snapped. Reddened slightly and stiff of tone, Jeremy asked, ‘What’s this about letting him down?’
Cootes read the signals, shrugged, murmured, ‘Only quoting the Brass.’ He drank off his beer.
There was an awkward little silence while Jeremy replenished the glasses. Cootes broke it with a nervous giggle, saying, ‘Well, what about a toast to victory?’
In the same tone Jeremy replied, ‘Yes . . . we’re not getting so much of it, are we.’
Cootes became his military self again, putting on the Napoleonic frown, and the voice as he raised his glass: ‘La victoire! At the same time he raised his left hand with first two fingers spread to make the V sign popularised by Churchill.
Fergus chuckled, and when Cootes shot him a suspicious glance, said with that grin of his, ‘You know what that sign used to mean, don’t you?’
Obviously Cootes didn’t. Fergus went on: ‘Of course you know that the Thumbs-up sign originally meant Up Your Bum, Bertie?’ Cootes frowned. Fergus chuckled again: ‘Well, the two fingers were for the girls . . . Up Your Snatch, Susie! . . . yaheeeah . . . Funny how everything’s got mixed up lately, ain’t it!’
Cootes flushed, swung away swiftly to glare at Sims, who’d guffawed. Then to his glass he remarked, ‘Still the same puerile-minded Bunny, eh?’
Fergus, always sensitive to that nickname, flushed now, and flung back, ‘Still the same prurient squirt, Cootsey.’ Then he added: ‘You wearing those boots and socks for camouflage, eh?’
Cootes looked at him sharply, questioningly, but was too wary to ask. Fergus let him have the answer with the grin: ‘In case you shit yourself in face of the enemy . . . they won’t notice it . . . aheeeeeeah!’ He swung away laughing towards the dining-room.
Cootes stared after him, face aflame. But as Fergus reached the curtain the scowling warrior had asserted himself. He barked, ‘A minute, Ferris!’ He strode after him with little fat man’s dignity, broad beam asway.
Jeremy intervened sharply: ‘Gentlemen!’
Without looking at him, Cootes answered shortly, ‘This’s official.’
Fergus had turned to lounge insolently. Cootes halted out of reach of him, snapped, ‘Are you aware that this area’s been declared a Combat Zone?’
Fergus dropped smirking eyes to the yellow socks. ‘Hence the camouflage!’
Cootes drew a deep breath to control himself. Evidently he had become used only to respect. He said heavily, ‘I’d advise you not to take liberties with me, Ferris.’
Fergus grinned at him widely. ‘Now, you know I’m not a boy like that, Cootsey.’
Cootes swallowed hard on it, then shot out a demanding hand, saying with difficulty, ‘Where’s your permit . . . to . . . operate in this zone?’
Fergus regarded him for a moment, then asked, ‘What’s that got to do with you?’
‘Everything. I happen to be MI One in this area.’
Fergus snickered: ‘What’s that mean? If you told me you were calling yourself IM one, that would be easy . . .’
‘It means I’m chief of Military Intelligence here.’
‘Well, we all know what military intelligence is . . .’
‘Your permit, please . . . otherwise I’ll have to deal with you drastically. The country’s in a state of war.’
The grin vanished. The greenish eyes snapped with anger. But evidently Fergus saw what he was up against. He only growled, ‘I’ve authority to operate, granted by the Director of Military Intelligence, GHQ.’
‘You did have such an authority.’
‘I’ve still got it. It’s in my nav-bag on my kite.’
‘It’s become null and void since the area’s been declared a Combat Zone.’
Fergus snapped, ‘With the DMI’s signature on it, it’ll do me.’
‘But it won’t do me. I’m the DMI’s deputy here . . . and what I say is what he wants done. Only service aircraft can operate in this area from now on.’
Fergus swallowed it, then snapped, ‘Put it in writing!’ With that he swung into the dining-room.
For a moment the Coot stood, then turned back to the others. He said, ‘Smart alec!’ As he came up to them, he said to Jeremy, ‘You know, he’s an awful bloody fool. As an airman he could’ve had really high rank in the RAAF now, if he’d only played his cards right. The Raff tell me they’d even have bought his plane at a high price . . . and he probably got it for nothing.’
Jeremy answered dryly, ‘Fergus isn’t a gambling man . . . and he doesn’t like war. But what’s this about a Combat Zone?’
‘It’s been declared so by ABDA. That’s what I’ve come to see you about, actually.’ Cootes turned to Sims, addressing him with superior’s shortness: ‘My map-case.’
‘Yessir.’ Sims snatched up the khaki-bound satchel, opened it on the low table.
Cootes pointed to the map revealed, a small-scale one of the northern half of the Australian Continent, a goodly section of which was stamped in purple in several places COMBAT ZONE. The zone extended almost from coast to coast, its southern boundary at this longitude a line that cut the Telegraph Line somewhere about the Prospectors’ Arms Hotel. He ran a chubby finger along the line, saying, ‘Southern perimeter. All persons, stock, plant, et cetera, not deemed essential to military ops in the area must be moved out as soon as possible . . .’
Jeremy cut in: ‘But isn’t this the Brisbane Line Strategy . . . condemned by the new Government?’
‘Not exactly. See, practically the entire eastern sector’s excluded.’
‘That’d be the very region where evacuation and scorched-earth tactics would be of value in case of invasion. The geography of this country would be its first defence.’
‘Geography doesn’t count in modern war.’
‘Then why bother to evacuate any place?’
The Colonel shrugged, as an expert might dealing with an ignoramus.
Jeremy pressed: ‘Are you expecting a blitzkrieg?’
‘We have to expect anything. We’re up against a tricky and ruthless enemy.’
Jeremy drew a deep breath, asked, ‘Well, what is it you want of me?’
Cootes said it quite blandly, ‘Oh . . . just to get out with the rest.’
Jeremy gaped. Cootes avoided the intense grey eyes, addressing himself to the map-case as he closed it: ‘Everybody else is going who’s got nothing to contribute . . . all women and children, of course . . . but also people like Finnucane, McDodds, Barbu . . . and Billy Brew. You can’t have pubs and stores and donkey teams in the midst of military operations . . .’
Jeremy’s face had darkened, his husky voice become a rasp: ‘But, dammit . . . I’m not keep
ing a pub or a store. I can contribute militarily.’
Handing the case to his Lieutenant, Cootes said dryly, ‘You haven’t tried very hard to do that so far.’
The rasp deepened: ‘What do you mean by that?’
The Coot met the eyes boldly now. ‘Well . . . you had rank, and an important appointment . . . even if it was rather snide . . .’
The grey eyes blazed. The voice rose to a hoarse roar: ‘How dare you talk to me of snide rank, you . . . you up-jumped political opportunist!’
A quiver of scare in the chubby face. A blink or two. Then Lieutenant-Colonel Cootes remembered who and what he was, put on the Napoleo-Churchillian scowl, and while yet avoiding holding the angry eyes too long, said with dignity, ‘Mr Delacy . . . you are required to leave the Combat Zone with as little delay as possible. I’ll give you ample time . . . say till the middle of January.’
Jeremy had control of his utterance, but was breathing hard. He asked, ‘What of my household? It’s mostly comprised of Aborigines.’
‘That depends on Eddy, here.’ Cootes half-turned to McCusky.
Eddy thrust his jaw out importantly. ‘I’m mustering the entire Aboriginal population, Jeremy.’
Jeremy swallowed that, asked again with difficulty, ‘What for?’
‘Get ’em out of the firing-line, of course.’
‘What firing-line?’
Eddy avoided the eyes, to look out through the side windows towards the Aboriginal quarters, peering somewhat, as if to show how much what was there was his lawful business. ‘You never know. But the first thing is, you can’t have blacks wandering up and down a country occupied by troops . . .’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 218
