Glascock told of how he had protested that the region was an Aboriginal Reserve, only to be laughed at and told that half of America was once Indian Reservation: ‘They’re quite ruthless about the rights of simple people. One of ’em said to me, “Who’s going to let Stone Age savages play about with stones the blast-furnaces of the world are roaring for?” Our people are bad enough. But you have to see the Yank in action in the matter of race to really know a whiteman. They have Negroes doing the most menial of tasks, and treat them as if they weren’t human. On one occasion, when a naval padre assisted me at Mass and I asked if there weren’t any Catholics amongst the Negroes of the crew, he said, “Yes . . . but we’d have to hold a separate service for them . . . or the whites would walk out of the church!”’
Pulling even harder, he said, ‘It’s a job for us, too, girl, to keep these greedy grasping dogs from taking the country over. If we can map the sacred sites, and see to it that the Government recognises them as sacrosanct to their owners in perpetuity, we’ve got something real to live and love for, haven’t we? Well . . . if we can talk this crazy couple into joining us in it . . .’
The Sun was rising as they landed, setting fire to the tallest of the mangroves of the islet across the channel and burning out the egrets and the shags. It made a golden grove of the casuarinas for them to walk in, caused the nervous hermit crabs to cast long blue shadows of themselves in which crazily they tried to take refuge. The triangle of the radio antenna looked like new-spun spider’s web with — oh! — the cross on the church looking like a St Andrews Spider. Smoke was rising from the flue of the presbytery kitchen.
The youngsters came out of the kitchen, stared at the bundles the pair were carrying. Savitra asked, ‘Where you been go?’
Rifkah replied gaily, ‘Fishink.’
When the quizzing eyes sought for the catch, Glascock said as gaily, ‘We felt sorry for the fish and chucked ’em back. Got anything cooked for breakfast?’
‘We been open tuttle-hegg to mek omelette.’
‘Lovely! Come on, Prindy boy . . . leave the omelette to the girls, while we go and call up Fergus.’
The official radio set was still housed in the shed beside the Boys’ School and Dormitory, but in a much more spectacular way than when last seen by Prindy. Not only was the place now surrounded by a barbed wire fence with padlocked gate, but encased in sandbags. Noting Prindy’s stare, Glascock told him the protective devices had been installed soon after the raid on Palmeston. An alarm system was connected to his own quarters to give warning of sneaking intruders, to deal also with whom of nights or if he were away the place was booby-trapped. The trap was set now, he said, and they must go to the church to switch off. ‘Yankee idea,’ he said. ‘They put it in for me only recently, because Jap submarines have been detected close at hand. Quite ingenious, with a counter-device to stop me from being the booby. Look.’ He attempted to unlock the gate. ‘Won’t work unless the switch in the church is opened. The lock’s easily enough busted by raiders . . . and the door of the shed. But, get inside there with the switch closed, and . . . Boom! They let off a charge down on the beach to show me. Terrific. They say that here it would kill at twenty yards.’ As they went on to the church, the priest continued: ‘See what a lovely business war is . . . all that flag-waving and cheering and medals and things . . . and they leave things lying round for simple people to pick up and get their heads blown off. The Yanks are past masters at it, the way they talk. They probably invented it. They brag that the poor silly Nip, as they call him, is a real Sucker for the booby-trap. Makes you think the Nip, for all we hear of him, has a much more chivalrous view of war than our gallant allies, eh? But I suppose he’ll learn.’
Whether Prindy was able to follow the discourse cloosely would not matter to Glascock in his gay expansive mood.
The booby-trap switch was rigged inconspicuously under the holy water stoop. It could be manipulated as one signed oneself with the cross, as indeed Glascock did, although with so little show of reverence as at once to walk out again. Prindy was more circumspect, and looked in through the door of the church at the Red Eye of God. Before turning, he genuflected.
They opened up and entered the radio-shed. Seating himself before the set, Glascock switched on his batteries, and while things warmed up, studied the slip of paper Fergus had sent over with Rifkah. The calls were in Clear, which is to say weren’t coded, but so simply worded as to cause little curiosity if overheard, being the usual test-calls operators all over the place made to test their equipment.
Donning earphones, he spoke into the microphone: ‘Zono to Fergo . . . Zono to Fergo . . . over.’ He had to call several times to get an answer. Then he said, ‘How do you read me, Fergo? Over.’ He replied to the answer, ‘Loud and clear this end, too. Repeat, Clear. Over.’ A moment more of listening, then, ‘Roger, Fergo. Out.’
They went out again, merely closing door and gate behind them, no doubt because Glascock must soon come back to make his scheduled calls. The sou’easter was rising with the Sun. Glascock sniffed towards the presbytery. ‘Do I smell that turtle omelette?’ Prindy said it was only the sea-smell. Glascock chuckled: ‘You might have a better nose than mine, son . . . but my binji tells me it’s omelette. Come on!’
They had not long been finished their tasty breakfast, a portion of which was set aside for Fergus and Alfie, and were all doing something about clearing up their own mess, when Prindy announced the approach of the awaited ones. A moment or two of listening by the others: and there it was, the deep drone of the Junkers. Then there she was in sight, flying so low as to seem to be hopping from islet to islet, raising a great scattering of birds. They all came out into the street to greet her. Bobwirridirridi, greasy to the waist with omelette, fairly hopped for joy at sight of her, the complete scarecrow in his flapping khakis.
Fergus came in by way of the back channel, at barely a hundred feet, swept in over the station, but with none of the old bravura, only a slight roll of salute.
Glascock, Prindy, and Bobwirridirridi, the last with all his gear, evidently thinking he would be boarding the plane again, got into the truck and set out for the air-strip. They found Fergus with the aircraft not at the usual parking point, but over the other side, close to the scrub, evidently as close as possible to his cache of fuel. They drove round to him.
Fergus was surprisingly short in returning Glascock’s cheery welcome, going on with what he was doing in preparation for fuelling, saying dryly, ‘Thought you reckoned the coast was clear?’
Glascock stared. ‘Why . . . did you see someone?’
‘Launch in the mangroves . . . couple of miles down the passage there. Your people?’
‘No. Our launch’s on the slip. Was it big or small?’
‘Quite small. Couldn’t see much of it. Looked like they’d ducked into the mangroves to dodge me. Flying so low, I didn’t spot ’em till right on top of ’em. It was really the mud they’d churned up caught my eye. I didn’t dare go back for another look.’
‘That’s queer. There’d hardly be a small launch about without a ship of some size. Any sign of ships?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Anybody aboard the launch?’
‘They’d hardly be likely to show ’emselves when they took the trouble to hide the boat.’
‘Well, it licks me,’ said Glascock. Unless it’s from Beaumont and they took you for a Jap. There’ve been Jap float-planes about lately, according to reports . . . supposed to be launched from submarines.’
‘They’d need a lot more gas than that little hooker could carry, to come all the way from Lady Beaumont.’
‘Might be that crazy David come back . . . pinched a launch from them, the same’s he pinched a dinghy from me. He might’ve sailed it.’ After a moment the priest added: ‘What about refugees from occupied islands? I hear some small boats are still making it.’
‘Whoever it is, I’m getting out as soon as I’m fuelled up.’
‘To go to T
imor?’
‘Go along the coast a bit and wait till midnight.’
‘I was hoping you’d stay a few days.’
Fergus shook his head, went on with his task.
‘Mad what you’re doing, you know.’ The green eyes shot a sharp look. Glascock sighed: ‘Okay. But have another think before you take off.’ When Fergus concentrated again on his job, Glascock added: ‘I’ll be getting along, see what’s doing. I’ll get these boys to reconnoitre. If it’s dangerous I’ll send young Prindy over to warn you.’
Fergus only nodded. Glascock got only a short nod from Alfie, as, passing her to go back to the truck, he bowed.
As they ran back to the station, Glascock explained the situation to Prindy, who said he would take the canoe down the back creek and see what could be spotted from the mouth. Glascock set him and Bobwirridirridi down at the entrance to the track through the mangroves, then went on to the presbytery.
Rifkah and Savitra were alarmed at the news. However, Glascock calmed them by saying that he was convinced the intruders would turn out to be refugees: ‘So don’t go bolting clean away. Hole up in the convent till Prindy gets back. If you have to go, we’ll easily sneak you out . . . and maybe you won’t have to go right back to the mainland, but camp on one of the big islands till they’re gone and I come out for you. Let’s get you some tucker ready . . . some of the Yankee canned stuff . . . and, of course, a pot of that marvellous mozzie cream.’
Prindy and the Pookarakka, in the canoe, approached the mouth of the creek warily, with ears cocked to engine-sound to be heard distinctly in the passage beyond. Taking no risks this time, Prindy called a halt short of the end of the horn of mud, because the tide, despite its being just past the neap, was running swiftly enough to carry them out. He stopped their progress with a paddle stuck in the mud, jumped overboard with the mooring line, and knee-deep, fastened to the nearest mangrove root. Then he climbed up the roots, reached the top, stopped — to stare.
There was the small launch, about quarter of a mile away, packed with men in white with brown faces, not heading this way, but swinging into the northern passage that would take them to the Mission beach . . . and what else? That strange craft coming up the southeastern passage, so swiftly, yet looking as ungainly as a pelican treading water with wings outstretched. It was that from which the engine noise came, drowning out the motor of the launch. The grey eyes stared unblinking in intensity. The red mouth gaped. Then the spy came clambering down, to hiss on indrawn breath, although such caution was unnecessary, ‘Japanee come, I think. Ngangula . . . tell him Father umbborera jeriminji.’ He slipped the mooring as the Pookarakka dipped paddle to hold the canoe, leapt in, applied his own paddle to swing the craft. Dip, dip, dip — stripling and ancient — but making her fairly fly. Out to the middle where the bobbing line of mangrove-shoots showed slack water — dip, dip, dip! while Prindy explained that the pelican-thing was a seaplane.
Back at the landing, Prindy left it to his master to moor the craft, went racing to the presbytery.
Glascock was standing out, listening to the engine-hum, distinct and coming from straight ahead, so that already the plane would be off the southern end of the beach. As Prindy told the news the hum went on northward.
The priest’s first comment was: ‘Fergus will have to take you and the girls now.’
‘What you goin’ ’o do, Father?’
‘First I’ll have to get on the radio and give the alarm . . . then blow it up.’
‘I give you hand.’
‘No time, boy. Go on . . . off you go now. Girls are in the convent. Go on foot, so’s not to give the game away. Go the back track.’ Glascock cocked his head to the hum, murmured, ‘Wonder where they’ll land. Might be going right round the island, eh?’ He turned back to Prindy: ‘Fergus is not to take you to Timor. Tell him take you back to the mouth of the Leopold . . .’
Prindy interrupted: ‘I give you hand with wirelitch, we all-lot go Fergus.’
‘No . . . listen . . . they must be landing. Quick . . . I’ve got to get to the radio.’ Glascock started running for the road. Rifkah ran out of the convent. He waved her back, but stopped when she came on.
‘Vot is matter?’ she asked.
‘We think it’s Japs . . . not sure. Prindy’ll tell you. Go with him to Fergus . . . back to mainland.’
‘Vot you do?’
‘I’ve got to radio.’
‘You come vit’ us.’
‘If I can catch you up . . . but if I don’t, I’ll follow in row-boat . . .’
‘No, Stephen.’ She tried to hold him.
He kissed her quickly, saying, ‘You’re holding me up, darling . . . please!’ He pushed her away, saying to Prindy coming up, ‘Take her!’ He went racing up the road.
‘Kulli-kulli!’ cried Prindy, grabbed her hand and tugged. One last glance with bubbeh’s eyes after the nuggety racing figure; then she turned with Prindy and ran.
They took nothing from the convent; only called Savitra out and ran to the back track, Prindy in the lead. They had just entered the scrub, when Prindy halted, cocked his head. No need for concentrated listening. The sound was a roar. Fergus was starting up. Prindy shot away. Scarcely a hundred yards more covered when the other engine bellowed. He tripped over a root, came a buster, rose half-dazed, to be driven on again by the moving of the sound.
Prindy reached the clearing to see the Junkers already at the far end of the strip and swinging to line up for take-off. As he went racing to it an engine howled in run-up. Fergus would be concentrated on his instruments. The other engine raised its voice. The dust and grass flew out behind. Prindy was within twenty feet when the aircraft shot away. Fergus saw him, answered his wave with a nod, went storming on his way, smothering Prindy with his dust.
The dust cleared to reveal the Junkers over the station, but not flying straight and level at a hundred feet or so as usual in taking leave of those below, instead up to five hundred and climbing hard with all the power of its donks. The reason became evident in a moment. The seaplane was in the air, looking like a pigmy-goose striving for its second element, seeming to be kicking off the first in silvery cascades from cumbersome webs. By comparison the Junkers was an eagle.
Obviously the midget was rising to challenge the eagle, since it was cutting across its flight-path; a presumptuous thing to do, with much less power and the encumbrance of floats, but being done cleverly, at an angle so as to have the aid of the sou’easter. Perhaps the presumption was that the Junkers, evidently unarmed, would swing away sharply to avoid attack and hence in the turn lose enough speed to bring it into range. But the Junkers kept on, flew over the midget with a couple of hundred feet of clearance. The pigmy spat venom upwards. The wind caught the phosphorescence of its tracers and spun them like flying spider-webs. The eagle went over, high into the blue. The midget turned after it, but with no hope of catching it. But, no — the Junkers was stall-turning, was coming back, hurtling down a stream of phosphorescence of its own. It pulled out of the dive just short of the pigmy-goose, leaving it in the act of what seemed like folding up its wings, swung away to a southward heading, as the little thing vanished in a ball of flame and smoke. The ball blew away, to reveal bits and pieces like rubbish being chucked out of the blue heavens into the sea.
The Junkers would be well over the back passage and a couple of thousand feet up when smoke was seen to burst from her. She appeared to halt in flight. She rolled. She was in a spin. Her engines howled in agony. She vanished. A sound — Clop! Then dully — Boom!
Egrets and cranes and cormorants could be seen rising high, to wing away to quieter waters than those now about the Ocean Island, Avalon.
Prindy returned to the others, at a trot, but slow enough to betray the perplexity that they, too, showed in their blank staring at him when he reached them. They all turned their staring to the sky where the astonishing thing had happened — as if expecting it to happen again — and were astonished again, to see a sudden growth,
like a spiky-branched tree, storm-tossed, arisen from where the station stood, a rusty red.
BOOM! The tree vanished, leaving only faint red haze.
Booble-boomble-boomble. Echoes rolling. More birds rose and fled.
Prindy spoke: ‘Father been blow up wirelitch.’
Bobwirridirridi murmured, ‘Properlee!’
Again the others stared at Prindy. He blinked, after a long moment said, ‘Father reckon he clear out long o’ row-boat . . . meet him we Leopold River.’
Rifkah asked, ‘Vot ve going to do?’
Prindy considered a while: ‘We go tchinekin, gitchim canoe, clear out.’ He pointed with lips southward. ‘Come on . . . we go now.’
He led them through the scrub to the mangroves, then along the edge of the swamp towards the station, reached the track through to the landing. No view from here, except the back of the Convent. No sound to be heard. Prindy told the girls to go through and wait, while he and the Pookarakka went and got the things they’d left at the convent, and to ‘Look-about’.
Poor Fellow My Country Page 243
