Trembling now with outrage, Denzil declared shrilly, ‘Reahlly, Sah . . . I must protest!’
‘Protest and be damned to you. I’ve had a ship sunk and a crew lost through the propeller-footed likes of you.’ Toby turned to Prindy, now standing by staring. ‘You, boy . . . did that up-jumped schoolteacher, Colonel Cootes, go ashore with you?’
Prindy shook his head then jerked it towards the shed, saying, ‘He in there now.’ Perhaps it was said with intent to shake the Captain off. He seemed about to add something, but broke off at sight of another white-clad and familiar figure approaching from the road . . . Judge Bickering.
Captain Toby didn’t notice. The megaphone bellowed: ‘He is, is he? Well, I’m going to have a piece of him . . . because this would never have happened, but for that Schoolmaster Swaddy going over my head to use my ship. That’s all this bloody Army consists of, poofters like this one here, schoolteacher prigs, and lawyer pricks . . .’
The Judge, now just behind, announced himself: ‘Present company excepted, I hope, Captain?
Toby swung on him, scowled when he saw who it was. ‘All lawyers are pricks as far as I’m concerned.’
The Judge’s tic jumped for the joy of a battle of words. ‘As far as you’re concerned, Captain. But on the evidence, there are pricks in all walks of life. You surely have pricks in the Navy?’
Captain Toby roared, ‘No, Sir, we do not!’
The tic was turned on Prindy and Denzil, as if on opposing counsel to prepare them for a neat one, then back to the square red face that appeared to be about to remove itself with irate abruptness. ‘Ah . . . then you still continue that practice of the ancient captains?’
Captain Toby swung back. ‘What practice?’
‘Of unmanning their crews with the castrating iron, so as to keep them at the galley-oars for life.’
The Captain spluttered with the rage of having been caught. As he swung away again, His Honour added: ‘My reading of Naval Law does give me the impression that it hasn’t changed in barbarity since the days of Drake . . . but never did I dream that you still cut off your sailors’ jocks.’
The megaphone boomed: ‘Bah to your legal barratry!’ The Captain vanished round the corner.
The Judge chuckled at the others, then put an arm about Prindy’s shoulder: ‘Well, young man, and how come you’re mixed up in this terrible business? I’d have thought you would be amongst those evacuated.’
‘Just now we come . . . on Melville.’
The Judge stared. ‘Good God! But I was told just now she’d been sunk.’
Prindy nodded. ‘That after we put ashore.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘Rifkah and Monsignor and Savitra.’
‘Monsignor, eh . . . is he all right?’
‘Yas.’
‘That’s good. I suppose he’s looking after you, will take you South? I must say Goodbye to him . . . Tell you what . . . I have to go out to the Jail to release the prisoners. Come with me . . . and say Goodbye to that mutual friend of ours, Cock-Eye Bob . . . and we’ll drop in on Monsignor on the way back . . . right?’
The grey eyes widened with the nod.
‘Right then,’ said the Judge. ‘Just want to have a look at things down here, while I’ve still authority.’ He dismissed Denzil with a nod. Moving Prindy still with arm about his shoulders, he said, ‘Martial Law will be declared at any moment. As head of Civil Law I want to do what I can before that rather inhuman condition is imposed.’ He chuckled. ‘Not that Civil Law has much dignity left. We were bombed out of court. Everybody bolted, leaving me with the prisoner, who showed me to a drain-pipe they were about to put under the road. We finished the trial together, head to head. He was obviously guilty. I sentenced him to the Rising of the Court.’
They didn’t approach the dead and dying too cloosely. With tic jerking violently at the sight of the terrible maiming wrought by fire and explosive, the Judge drew Prindy away, murmuring, ‘Man’s inhumanity to man is beyond believing. Come, let’s get my car . . . presuming I still have one.’
As they began to climb the steep road leading to the administrative part of the town, the Judge mused: ‘What is it in us that can make us do such things? We can’t accuse the Japs alone of barbarism . . . because worse things are happening in Europe. And would the Jap be here practising European barbarity, if not forced to adopt it by the brutal Yankee Trader who forced Yokohama in Eighteen whatever it was, and blew his ancient dignity to smithereens . . . for Trade? Perhaps all mankind had some dignity and honour before the Yankee Trader came into being. But the Yankee Trader is something we had to expect in our evolution, it may be. The Republic of Vulgar People . . . the USA. Perhaps it is the Age of Vulgarity . . . in which there is no nobility even in the illusive chivalry of war. I wonder, if the Jap should win, whether he would consider his outraged ancient dignity avenged, and go back to it and set us all the example . . .’
Prindy interrupted by saying, jerking his lips to the left, ‘Light there . . . in ground.’
A strange sight: a luminous streak amongst the rocks and scrub. The Judge stared, then said, ‘Ah . . . the famous Silvertails’ Funk-hole. I’ve never seen inside. All mod. cons, they say. Let’s take a peep.’
There was no need for over-cautious approach, because of the noise beyond the slit, which was a ventilator with its steel shutter open. Nor had they need to go right up to see in, because the slope of the ground let them look right in from a little distance. It was a big chamber, cut into the rock and cement-walled, entered by a stairway descending from the other side. An incandescent pressure lamp hung from the ceiling. It looked cosy, and at the moment was packed with a goodly number of the local Civil Service elite. A conspicuous one was Fatty Doscas, Clerk of Courts. A bar at the end was being operated by a Police Sergeant. The Judge whispered, ‘Amazing! What more convincing proof that we are a Bureaurocracy? The Bureaurocratic Masters guzzling in safety, while the people bleed! God, I wish I could throw a stone in at that light and give the bastards a real good fright. They’d come running like rabbits out of a dynamited burrow.’
They exchanged glances. The Judge asked, ‘Could you hit it?’ Prindy nodded. ‘Good,’ said the Judge. ‘But wait a bit. Let me get up top to bear witness to the noble exodus. Wait till you see me stop in the square there. Don’t be scared when they come up. I am still head of the Law.’
Prindy selected a missile while he waited.
Through the trees he saw the white-clad figures halt in Anzac Square. He threw the stone.
Crash!
A moment of blackness and silence. Then a burst of flame — and pandemonium. He ran to join the Judge.
The result was as His Honour anticipated. The Bureaurocratic Bunnies dashed right into the square, before realising, at sight of the well-known practical joker, that they’d been had. When they halted, looking foolish, Judge Bickering addressed them dryly: ‘Gentlemen . . . there’s a war on . . . right here in this town. Thought you’d like to know. Goodday to you.’ He held out a hand to Prindy, to go sauntering away to a pall of heavy smoke that had been his background.
The smoke didn’t come from the wrecked Government buildings, which were of stone and had soon burnt out. It was in the region of the Post Office. Nothing could be seen till they got close. No Post Office. But these ruins weren’t giving off the heavy smoke, because they were of similar material to that of other Government buildings. It came from sheds at the back, causing indistinct figures working amidst the ruins to cough. They approached the figures, climbing over scattered stone and splintered timber. The Judge asked of those delving in the wreckage, ‘Is anyone under there?’
One coughed and puffed, ‘Whole staff . . . telephone exchange, too.’
‘My God!’
One of the men moaned, ‘My wife was working on the exchange . . . my wife.’
‘Where’re the police?’
Sergeant Nullity, wearing only pyjama pants, came out of the smoke, gasping, ‘Police here, Judge.�
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‘Where’re the others?’
‘Can’t say. Came from home. Night duty. Blown out o’ bed.’
Prindy had seen something under the wreckage near at hand. He said, ‘Somebody there.’
Nullity and the Judge looked, tore away the wreckage. It was a plump figure in male attire, lying face downward, with a scattering of stamped letters about it. No movement. Nullity turned the head. Fay McFee looked at him with a glazed blue eye. All caught their breath. Nullity raised his voice: ‘Hey, Doc . . . here!’ Then he murmured, ‘She protested hard against evacuation. Must’ve put on this outfit to beat us.’
Dr McQuegg came up, puffing, reaking of booze, red-eyed, blotchy-faced. He took a look at Fay, said what was obvious, ‘She’s had it.’ He looked at the Judge, adding, with a nod backwards, ‘Her mate, Kitty Wyndeyer, too.’
‘No!’ breathed the Judge. Then he sighed: ‘Poor Kitty. I was speaking to her on the phone only an hour or so ago, while I was in chambers. After putting me through, she told me rumours of a raid were flying about. She came back to the exchange because it was a way to beat the evacuation. Poor Kitty!’ His voice shook slightly.
The man digging for his wife howled, ‘If the bastards’d only given us proper warning . . . someone will pay for this if my wife’s dead . . . oh, Peg . . . oh, Peg!’
The doctor muttered to the Judge, ‘Jesus, I could do with a drink!’
The Judge whispered, ‘Come along home and I’ll give you one . . . presuming I’ve still got a home.’
It was only up to the next corner. The Judge still did have a home, amidst ruins. The doctor said it was because the Devil looks after His Own. The Judge said it was likely, but that the doctor was the one the Devil had in view just now. He gave him a slug of whisky, had one with him, and gave him the bottle to take away. Then he got out a bottle of brandy, ‘To put our old friend on the road,’ as he said to Prindy, as he wrapped it in a copy of The Palmeston Progressive. He paused in the wrapping to read a little. It was a criticism of the defences of the region, undoubtedly in the style of Fay McFee if signed by Rollo Ramstones. Who is in command? it demanded. Are we a Regiment or a Rabble? ‘Poor Fay’s parting shot,’ he commented. ‘Well, come on . . . let’s get out the car and on our way. This isn’t the time for words, but deeds . . . everyone his own commander till we get one for us all.’
They got out the car, drove off. There was no traffic in this street, lined with shattered burning houses, but glimpses down cross streets showed them numerous cars on the main thoroughfare leading out of town. It was close enough to see that the cars were piled with luggage and at least of what breed the hurrying travellers. ‘Greeks and Chinese,’ said the Judge. ‘Rats leaving the sinking ship. Still, I don’t suppose you can blame them, seeing it’s not their country and they haven’t been so well treated in it. They wouldn’t show such arrant cowardice in their own. Both are noted for their patriotism.’
Soon they discovered another stream of outgoing traffic, similarly laden but very differently manned, as His Honour observed with evident expression of shock. It was coming out of the better class section of the town. Not only would he call these fellow-countrymen, but even friends and colleagues. There was the manager of the biggest bank, manager and accountant of the biggest store, the Crown Solicitor. Judge Bickering had to pull up, such was the stream. He fairly gaped in unbelief — until there was Fatty Doscas. That must have been too much. The Judge drove in and stopped him, yelled at him, ‘Where the hell d’you think you’re going?’
Fatty hung all his chins out of the window and answered mildly, ‘South, Your Honour.’
‘What for?’
‘Going to be invasion, they say.’
The cars behind were tooting.
‘Who says?’
‘Everybody. Japs didn’t hit the oil tanks . . . means they want to use ’em.’
‘And you’d let ’em?’
‘Can’t do much . . . no command.’
Cars at the back were coming round Fatty’s.
‘Better come along, Your Honour,’ Fatty said. Seeing no one was immediately behind now, he backed.
It was unnecessary. The Judge bawled, ‘Rabble is right!’ He let in his clutch, shot across the road.
He was still heaving with anger, his tic jerking violently, when several hundred yards further on, as they approached the hill running down past the old Delacy place, he demanded of Prindy, ‘Is this to be Australia’s Day of Glory, or Day of Shame?’
When the grey eyes met his gravely, he added: ‘You’re too young and too ill-informed to realise it, I know . . . but let me tell you that you are witnessing the testing of the worth of this social entity we call Australia. What is a nation but a great family, bound together by a special identification. You start with the blood-brotherhood of family. Then you have the brotherhood of the tribe. Ultimately we hope for the brotherhood of mankind. The family that breaks up at a threat of its identity, that cries Every Man for Himself, is not a true family at all, but a gathering of rabble, which is another term for a herd of beasts, with no higher feeling than the instinct of self-preservation.’ The tic worked furiously again. ‘What you saw back there, my boy, was the scattering of a rabble.’ His voice was hoarse with feeling as he concluded: ‘What you have witnessed, I fear, is Our Day of Shame.’
If Prindy were following it, his attention was distracted as they passed the old house and he caught a glimpse of a diminutive figure slipping into the cover of the trees of the drive. It was Hanno, that supposedly most faithful of servants, who had but one loyalty, so it was said, to the family he served. Despite the obvious furtiveness of the little Japanese, Prindy said nothing of seeing him. However, a moment later, spotting something hanging like a moon of green cheese above the silver Shell tanks, craning through the windscreen, he asked, ‘What that something?’
Judge Bickering looked. ‘Meteorological balloon. They have little radios in them . . . for telling weather conditions at a distance.’ He added bitterly: ‘Air Force uses them . . . but not much use to our Air Force now.’
He went on as they passed the deserted Oil Tanks: ‘It’s not three-quarters of an hour since the raid . . . yet everybody’s in full flight. Perhaps even the native-born will use the excuse that they don’t belong to these parts, that they come from Melbourne, like Doscas, or Sydney, like McSawley. But is it conceivable that an Englishman born in Birmingham would run away from Dover if it were attacked? God Almighty, if these people are representative of the Nation as a whole, then none of us is less alien to the soil than a Greek or Chow and no more right to tenure to it . . . and if we are overrun, may the conqueror show us no more mercy than we did the poor ill-armed innocents we seized the land from and who did fight for it, and who I’ll now set free and arm to fight again for it . . . to the eternal shame of the whiteman!’
Prindy eyed the jerking tic.
The Council Depot was deserted, too. A repair job on the road had been abandoned with such haste that the tea-billy for smoke-o still boiled. Yet there was no damage hereabout, perhaps owing to the proximity of the Tanks — or Hanno?
They didn’t come on damage again until they came within sight of the Civil Aerodrome, which with a couple of small aeroplanes, had been completely wrecked and gutted. From that same point they also got first glimpse of the Jail, so odd-looking with most of the wall down, like a secret revealed. Yet without a wall, the figures to be seen were all inside. Because of wide-flung debris the Judge had to stop well away from where normally he would before the entrance. There was Major O’Dowdy coming to greet him, skirting the wreckage, awkwardly climbing over some.
‘Your Honour, Your Honour!’ panted the Major coming up.
The Judge eyed him as he might a witness he was summing up, asked shortly, ‘You have control?’
‘Yes, Your Honour. Only a couple of white prisoners unaccounted for.’
‘Casualties?’
‘Only slight injuries. The prisoners in question escaped.’
‘Record them as jail-breakers. The rest are to be set free.’
The Major’s pale blue eyes popped. The Judge went on: ‘You and your guards report to whatever authority remains in town. You could be used for police duty.’
‘Begging your pardon, Sir, I’d prefer to be relieved of duty, so that I may return to military service.’
‘At your age . . . and in the face of invasion?’
The Major drew himself up. ‘I am first and last a soldier, Sir.’
‘Hmm! Last will probably be right. Look, there’ll be martial law proclaimed within a matter of hours. That leaves me free to be a soldier, too . . .’
The Major gaped. ‘You, Your Honour?’
‘Why not? I’m not for the mayhem and murder of war, as you well know. Nevertheless, any creature that won’t fight in self-defence, to the death if need be, isn’t deserving to live. Our country’s facing a ruthless enemy, Pat. I don’t want other men to die defending me. They say we were Blooded as a Nation at Anzac. With all due respect to you as an old Anzac, I say we were only Bloodied then, like louts in their first push-fight. It’s in this we’ll be blooded truly . . . if we fight. This is the test of our true courage as a people. Leave it at that. My last word as your superior. Seeing that I’ll make a hell of a bad soldier . . . except, I hope, in the heat of battle . . . will you take me under your wing to start with . . .’
The Judge was interrupted by swift movement nearby, turned from the Major, to see Bobwirridirridi, spider-legged, coming leaping over the debris, and Prindy as eagerly going to meet him. With interest he watched the Aboriginal embrace, the fondling that is like the so-called Grooming of apes, so naturally expressive of fellow-feeling that the whiteman seems to have lost, particularly odd-looking in view of the difference between the pair, the old scarecrow with a black death’s head topped with a fuzz of grey bristles, the beautiful golden-headed boy.
Poor Fellow My Country Page 233
