Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Pickles followed the direction of the projected lips, snatched up his binoculars.

  They were rounding the Garrison point, getting an almost complete view of the inner limits of the harbour. Now that the first vaporous blanket of the strike was lifting, thinned by the rage of the spreading fire of which it was the first suffocating breath, the jetty and adjacent foreshores could be seen, and the as-yet-unsullied sky southeast of the smoke-obliterated town. Three ships were at the jetty, all looking knocked askew, and one redly ablaze from stem to stern. Yet the shunting engine was puffing along as usual, the only difference being that a man was standing up on the coal-tender with what was evidently a rifle levelled at the sky. But those things would be taken in only at a glance. In the clear space above, not so high above the pleasant greenery of the intervening bush, were to be seen about a dozen aircraft, dark against the wall of cloud, obviously climbing.

  Pickles didn’t look long. Lowering his glasses he said, ‘They’re ours. The Air Force ’drome’s over there.’

  But he had scarcely let the glasses dangle and was turning again to see to his ship, when Prindy cried again, ‘Look-see, Mist’ Pickle!’

  No need of binoculars this time. Amidst those climbing aircraft was a rosy bloom, which an instant later opened wide with spurting black edges, like an hybiscus unfurling in sudden sun, as which it came floating down. Another such blooming! Then the cause was visible in the form of a flight of what seemed vengeful hornets, diving out of the Sun’s eye. Pickles raised his loud-hailer again: ‘Enemy aircraft attacking from east’ard!’ He reached for the telegraph, at the same time turning to the captive passengers and bawling to them, ‘Put on life-jackets and get below. I’ll put you ashore soon’s possible.’

  But they were looking at the falling flowers — a rain of them now — and the hornets, seemingly undeterred, were swooping in to take revenge on everyone — on Captain Shane, by the look of it, he who had lorded it over their kind as semi-slaves so long, since spikes of flame were leaping from the locality of his pearling-station along with chunks of things that could have been his shattered grandeur and maybe even bits of the grand old man himself — all lost in smoke and dust, as were railway station and railway yards and approaches to the jetty — then all obliterated by a fireball that seemed to gather from the four corners of the view and meet at the stricken ships and shunting engine — WHAM!

  Wide-winged shadows on a boiling sea — and BRRRRRAAAAT! like a shower of great stones — and holes gaping in the roof above and through one of them blood pouring as from the cut throat of a bullock. Rents in the deck, too, and shattered windows. Blood was streaming down Pickles’s cheek. Rifkah stepped towards him. But he waved her back, roaring, ‘Get below . . . the three of you!’ He made a menacing move at them as they stared. They grabbed each other and staggered towards the stairway, went down in a bundle, slid on blood, fell and rolled into the concrete drain behind the bulwark that was the base of the bridge.

  They stared at what the blood had come from: Eddy McCusky lying flat on the deck amidships. Also staring, from the other side, were the other passengers: the Coot, Sigs Sims, Monsignor Maryzic. Monsignor came from the cover there, approaching Eddy, looked up to see Pickles looking down, wiping his bloody face with a white handkerchief. Reading the slaty eyes, Pickles bawled, ‘I’m okay. Just a bit o’ glass. He’s dead, eh? You better keep under cover, Father . . . till I get you ashore.’ Pickles turned to Cootes and Sims. ‘You use a machine-gun?’ Sims nodded. ‘Well get up top here . . . the crew’s been killed . . . ladder just be’ind you.’ Sims moved slowly, disappeared. Cootes only stared, stunned, perhaps. Pickles raised his voice at him: ‘You, too. Feed him ammo. They might be back again.’ The Coot lurched after Sims as if an invisible hand had hauled him.

  Monsignor Maryzic bent over Eddy, closed his eyes, signed his bloodied brow with the Cross, while his lips moved soundlessly in the engine din and the dying din of war in the background. He was climbing the stairs to the bridge when Pickles looked again, and waved him back, crying, ‘Get below and into cover. You’ll ’ave plenty to do on shore.’ The old man hung there for a moment, then stepped down, went to join the three cowering on the port side.

  They were close to the point now round which lay the Mission Landing. But no one was looking that way at the moment. Out of the holocaust to starboard a Yankee destroyer had come bursting, down by the stern so deeply that her greyhound bow was clear of the water, but with all guns cocked aloft and some still blazing at the sky. Also to be seen now was what remained of the jetty and its shipping and its railway — nothing but a heap of ruin from which smoke billowed black as from a funeral pyre and fire leaked to make a lake of Hell.

  They rounded the point. There was the Mission Landing intact, and apparently the buildings back of the cliff-top. Another floating landing had been built in the locality, off what was called Residency Beach, a couple of hundred yards further in, beyond a clump of mangroves. Evidently it was now a seaplane base, since a couple of craft, one with the insignia of the Royal Air Force, the other with that of the Netherlands, were riding at buoys. The beach was now crowded with small buildings of military kind.

  They swung towards the Mission Landing, slowing down. With the tide at almost full they could run right in. Pickles leaned over again, to tell his departing passengers to be ready, and to loud-hail his men to see to their swift disembarkation. He disappeared. The telegraph tingled. The ship boiled the water in reverse. Pickles appeared again, to shout, ‘Look after yo’selves. Get into cover. See you later.’

  Prindy called back, ‘I leave my clarinet in cabin.’

  Pickles answered, Til look after it for you, sonny. Go on . . . get going.’

  They were helped through the rails onto the pontoon.

  The telegraph rang again. The iron heels kicked hard astern. Pickles looked over the bridge to wave. But those ashore weren’t watching for him, at the moment concentrated on someone else in the act of disembarking, a tubby man in khaki, with a stockinged leg and suede officer’s boot already on the pontoon, but too big in the behind to slip through the rails. A dicey position with the ship already on the move. Then the loud-hailer bellowed: ‘Stop that man going ashore!’ A couple of sailors pounced. It was the Coot who stood goggling in their grasp, still looking like Napoleon, but Napoleon very young and very scared, as that bravo must have looked for at least a moment that day at Waterloo. The hailer blared again: ‘Get on that gun with your mate, you yeller bastard!’ The sailors shoved Cootes at the vertical steel ladder, left him, to attend their proper duties. Those ashore saw him grasp the ladder, not so much, it seemed, to scale it, as to support him. Then the sloop swung him out of sight as she turned sharply to head for the Yankee destroyer.

  But there was Sigs Sims standing bravely by his gun. He waved. They waved. Then they turned and bolted for the cliff-face — for there on the sea again was the shadow of death and the sea behind boiling with its obliterating magic. As they fell into a concavity at the base a shower of splintered rock and earth and torn bushes came down like the first hot flurry of a thunderstorm.

  Then the thunder — CRACK!

  Huddled, they stared out.

  The strike had been to the left of them, the seaplane base, the seaplanes, which were now only tarry smoke and flame like the setting Sun.

  Whee-whoop! The familiar sound called them.

  What had happened to HMAS Melville? Her foremast down, bridge looking like a crushed hat. No Sigs Sims on top. But the gun in the stern was spitting and barking at the sky — and still she was heading for the Yankee and able to yell encouragement — Whee-whee-whoop . . . Hang on, Brother Swabbers!

  But how hang on now, when only the bow of the destroyer was pointing to Heaven and the Lake of Hell was licking down those who clung to it?

  Whee — It never finished — because above the crimson lake the very mouth of Hell blazed, with the sloop steaming right into it.

  Sight, blinded by the blaze, did not reco
ver till hearing was assaulted by the blast — WHAM! Down came another shower of cliff debris. Then it was seen that the blaze had been dowsed by a great pillow of black smoke. They watched the smoke thin out, to become drifting feathers of grey. By then the pontoon was bouncing like a dray behind bolting horses that, white maned, were leaping up the rocks.

  No Yankee warship. But still the Melville was there, now looking like a red-backed whale with her bottom up. Dots abobbing on the smoking water beside her would be men — dead men or live men it did not matter, since all would be wearing life-jackets. The watchers drew a single breath, heaved out of hiding, as if impelled together by some futile impulse to help. Fire was leaping up again on the other side of the red hull.

  But real help was coming. Quick-eyed Prindy saw, and cried, ‘Pinnace come!’

  She was coming with a great bow-wave, as mid-morning yesterday years ago she had come to drag them from the felicity of Avalon. As she rounded the now rearing bow of her stricken mother ship, it could be seen that she was already so crowded as not to be able to save another soul — mostly crowded with a pile of dead, it seemed — yet those who stood, together with the coxswain, were bending to supplicating arms, making it look certain that they must capsize her.

  ‘Oh!’ the watchers gasped.

  For suddenly the sloop heaved her bow up to the perpendicular, sending a great wave that tossed the pinnace high and her able crew overboard, then went down like a sounding whale, dragging everything after her, except the pinnace, which still under way, ported her helm herself and left them to it.

  Where to now? She swung in a slow arc, set her course for that wall of fire behind which the mass of destruction lay. Where else for a shipload of dead men to go?

  The watchers gulped. Then suddenly they breathed again: ‘Ah!’

  Someone was struggling from the heap of dead, getting to feet, a figure in khaki, not Navy whites, stumbling over the inert passengers, making for the cockpit, assuming command.

  ‘Ah!’

  The pinnace was swinging from the fire. She was heading this way, zig-zagging, as if her skipper were coming back from shore-leave. No — she was veering away to starboard, heading for those sunken pontoons further in and tangled bits of seaplanes floating off them. For there the awkward skipper would have seen people. They could not be seen from here, because of the mangroves, but could be heard shouting. Yes — and there were some in a dinghy rowing out to meet him.

  As the pinnace passed so as to give a rear view of the new coxswain, Prindy said, ‘That the Coot, I reckon.’

  All stared.

  The men in the dinghy were lucky the erratic skipper didn’t run them down. They jumped aboard, took over from him. Steering a straight course now, the pinnace disappeared behind the mangroves.

  Prindy said, ‘I go look-see.’ Savitra would have followed when he started out, only he turned on her, saying sharply, ‘You stay behind.’

  Monsignor stirred, as if coming out of a trance, asked, ‘What are you going to do, boy?’

  ‘See who come. Might-be Pickle.’

  ‘You’re in my charge, remember.’

  Starting to run along the track, Prindy flung back over a shoulder, ‘I see you Mission House.’ In a moment he was out of sight of them behind the mangroves.

  He skirted the mangroves, hung in the last of them to reconnoitre. The numerous small buildings appeared all to be deserted, the people of the place all down by the beach attending the stricken ones off the pinnace. To see who these latter were needed much closer approach, which was possible without exposing himself by slipping from shed to shed. This he did, till halted by sound of voices in the very last place. He would have to pass the entrance, and in doing so be seen. There were open canted windows, shoulder-high to him. He peeped through one, started at what he saw, popped back out of sight, but to stand rigid listening. The voices were very familiar — likewise the faces he had seen.

  The Coot was there, sitting sagging in a cane chair, attended by Major Maltravers, Old Malters of happier days, and Denzil Dickey. Prindy hardly would have noticed that though these old acquaintances looked much the same as before, according to the insignia they wore they were greatly changed in status. Denzil was a Major, Old Malters no less than a Major-General. Much less acute hearing than Prindy’s easily could have followed their talk.

  Malters, of old usually the silent watchful one, was now even voluble, evidently in anger over the prevailing military state of things. Evidently he and Denzil had lately come from Singapore or some such place, aboard one of those flying boats, the destruction of which he was not cursing the enemy for, but those he was calling, ‘These impossible local fellahs . . . goddammit!’ In that stiff clipped way of his he was saying, ‘This complete lack of comprehension of the military situation is going to give the enemy the cheapest victory heah he’s so far had any whereah . . . goddammit, mark my words! Something will have to be done to take command of this rabble . . . from General Staff down . . . and not by this Yankee, MacArthur . . . ridiculous, absurd . . . a defeated man, and a Yankee, goddammit! Must get to Australian GHQ as soon as possible and put a stop to all this. But now I’ve lost my means of rapid transit, thanks to these damned colonial muddlahs, what am I going to do? It’s a certainty amphibious assault will be made heah . . . otherwise why did they spareah the oil tanks . . . every damned oil tank intact, when everything was just a sittin’ shot for ’em! Six ack-ack guns of obsolete type, when Imperial Staff advice, based on Battle of Britain experience, was thirty-six . . .’

  Denzil cut in, speaking to Cootes, ‘I say, old boy . . . you’re wounded, don’t y’ know?’

  Cootes answered feebly, ‘No . . . I’m all right.’

  ‘But blood’s runnin’ down your legs, dear boy. Let’s get your jolly old pants off and see what’s happened.’

  The Coot’s voice grew feebler, sounding as if he were about to sob, ‘No . . . no . . . it’s only . . . haemorrhoids.’

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Oil is their greatest need at present,’ snapped Malters.

  Perhaps to justify the strain that had been put upon his bowels, Cootes whimpered, ‘It was bad out there.’

  ‘Of course, old boy,’ said Denzil soothingly. ‘Jolly good show you put up . . . jolly good show, eh, what, Sah?’

  ‘Jolly good show,’ agreed Malters. ‘If I get my way I’ll see you get recognition for it. Only wish I had you with me. For a start you’d be handy as liaison dealing with those bounders at GHQ . . . especially now with this anti-British socialist Government. You were good in the political game, I recall.’

  The Coot’s voice changed: ‘Could you really use me?’

  ‘My bally word . . . but not much hope of that, eh, what?’

  ‘I could work it.’

  ‘But this commando thing of yours they tell me about. Gad, man, you’re going to have your work cut out if there’s invasion. I’m all for return to the Brisbane Line strategy myself. That’s what I’ll press for . . . that’s what I’ll get, goddammit!’

  Cootes’s voice became a little boy’s pleading: ‘I could hand over that command, Malters . . . General . . . and I would so love to be with you. I . . . I’ve had enough action . . . for the time.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ snapped Malters. ‘We’ve had our share, too. Staff Corps from now on. Now, if you can get me transport . . .’

  The Coot said eagerly, ‘I’ve got my own MT here. I could get you to my Rear HQ . . . Lily Lagoons, you know . . . facilities for direct contact with GHQ, from there . . . and getting you an aircraft . . . two or three days at most . . .’

  ‘Jolly good show! Consider yourself on my staff as from now . . . Liaison Officer, Full Colonel. Shake on it!’

  Prindy took another peep — to look straight into the eyes of Denzil, whose eyes popped. Prindy withdrew in a flash, to go running back along the iron wall. Hurried stamp of feet inside. But the corner was near, and round behind it the road that ran up to the town, and beyond the road thick scrub to
hide in. He whizzed round the corner — ‘Oootch!’

  He had run into a mass of white, which on the instant locked him to it. He drew back his head, to see the ruddy face with blue pop-eyes under bushy black brows of Captain Toby. He tried to pull free; but the Captain hung on, booming in that voice which never really needed a megaphone, ‘Don’t panic . . . everything’s under control . . . my control.’

  They stared at each other. Still keeping his grip, now on the boy’s upper arms, Toby tilted his head, said, ‘I know you. You’re from Leopold Mission. You were one of those Melville brought in . . . right?’

  Prindy only blinked. The Captain shook him. ‘Speak up! I want to know what happened to the sloop.’

  Prindy muttered, ‘I don’ know properly. Mist’ Pickle put us lot ashore.’

  ‘He did, eh?’

  But there was Denzil, so excited that, without seeming to see Toby, he grabbed Prindy as the other released him, took him in his arms, kissed him on the mouth, without drawing to gasp, ‘Oh, my dear, it’s true, then . . . thought I was seeing things!’

  ‘What’s this?’ demanded the Captain. ‘Sod Street, Smyrna?’

  Becoming aware of him, Denzil went very red, said stiffly, ‘Sah!’

  The Captain snapped, ‘I know you, too. You’re aide to that Pommy General who was throwing his weight about at our Service Dinner last night . . . telling us how to run things . . . when all he’s been doing is running since Dunkirk.’

  Denzil looked indignant. ‘Reahlly, Sah!’

  The megaphone boomed: ‘I’d’ve told the pompous Pommy donkey, too, but for presence of junior officers . . . so you can tell him for me . . . Swaddy!’ The last word was uttered with all the contempt it expresses by a sailor for a soldier.