Maralinga

by Judy Nunn

  In a bid to alleviate the boredom and frustration of men denied ready access to leave, the military keenly encouraged competitive sport, and the venue of greatest significance was undoubtedly the oval. Complete with grandstand, and with the proud title ‘Durance Oval’ erected in huge letters over the metal-framed archway of its entrance, the oval stood as a magnificent example of man’s impertinence against so primitive a backdrop. There were times when it hosted events of gladiatorial proportion, for here the British played soccer, the Australians Aussie rules football, and rugby union matches were fiercely contested by all.

  Ample provision had also been made for leisure activities, with separate dining and recreation messes for officers and NCOs, a canteen and beer garden for other ranks, and a cinema that screened the ever-popular Ealing comedies from back home or the latest of Hollywood’s offerings.

  Maralinga was by now a fully functioning town, with administrative offices, a hospital, a post office, a fire station and a chapel. There were repair garages, workshops, laboratories, and even an army barber’s shop and bakery. Together with the rows of barracks, all of these tidily arranged and, for the most part, prefabricated buildings were neatly dissected by she-oak-lined streets bearing comfortingly familiar names. For the British there was London Road, Oxford Street, Cardiff Road and Belfast Street, and for the Australians there was Perth Road, Canberra Road, Sydney Road, Melbourne Street and Adelaide Crescent. There was even an Ottawa Street for the Canadian engineers of the radiation detection teams.

  For all its community appearance, however, and for all the army’s provision of recreational facilities, there was a social aspect missing in Maralinga. The open camaraderie normally shared by men marooned in a remote army base was somehow lacking. Even before the tests had started, it was evident that Maralinga was a secret military state within a state. One and a half miles east of the village was the highly restricted and heavily guarded area where visitors, having gained prior permission, entered under military police escort. Here were the laboratories where the plutonium was stored and the bombs constructed. Although the average serviceman had no involvement in this exclusive domain of the scientists, he was affected by the surrounding secrecy and, above all, by the need-to-know policy adopted and strictly observed at Maralinga. Each man worked in his designated field, and mateship was not encouraged between those qualified in different areas of expertise or working in different locations. Even during normal social discourse, conversation about one’s duties was officially frowned upon.

  Which was probably why the swimming pool and the football oval were so popular, Daniel had decided. They were places where men could simply be men. It was also why he enjoyed the company of Pete Mitchell. Pete might not give much away about himself, but, when in the mood, he talked quite freely about his job, albeit at times with an intense irritation that Daniel found understandable.

  This evening, however, Pete’s irritation was at a minimum. He was affable and in the mood for a chat.

  ‘What the stupid buggers around here fail to understand,’ Pete said, halting for a second to take a swig of his beer, ‘is that this land we’re sitting on is a veritable highway to the desert Aborigine.’ He plonked his glass back on the table and wiped the foam from the stubble of his upper lip in a gesture Daniel had come to recognise as characteristic.

  They were once again in the officers’ recreation mess. The place was more crowded than usual, further teams of experts having arrived for the first in the series of tests, which was scheduled to take place in only a few weeks. Things were becoming busy all round in the central block of the township, where the buildings housed the social amenities. Men wandered out into the dusty square, cigars and glasses in hand, from the special VIP dining room reserved for the upper echelons of the visiting hierarchy while, on the other side of the common kitchen that served all, soldiers flocked from the canteen into the beer garden, ignoring the chill air, to smoke and drink and socialise. The general ennui that had pervaded Maralinga was being replaced by a sense of anticipation.

  ‘You see, when this site was surveyed,’ Pete continued, oblivious to the burgeoning crowd around him, ‘the large permanent water base at Ooldea was a major consideration. But the boffins and the military don’t seem able to credit a 40,000-year-old race with similar intelligence. When you apply a bit of common sense, it’s pretty understandable that a permanent water source to the south would be the ultimate destination for a desert people leading a nomadic lifestyle, wouldn’t you say?’

  Daniel nodded. They were only halfway through their first beer and yet Pete was waxing loquacious the way he did when he had quite a few under his belt. He’d probably downed a hefty amount of the whisky he kept back at the donga before meeting up at the mess, Daniel thought. Pete regularly drove into Ceduna to top up his supply. He was a heavy drinker, Daniel had discovered.

  ‘The Ooldea soak’s an important gathering place. They come from all over – from the east and the west as well as the north.’ Pete gave an airy wave of his hand. ‘Even the Arrernte from the central ranges up my way – they all head for Ooldea. The Ooldea soak’s more than a watering hole; it’s a focal point for trade, and for ceremonial events and general socialising. They’ve been heading for Ooldea from the beginning of time. Christ, that’s why Daisy Bates set up her camp there.’

  ‘Daisy Bates?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Pete paused, his expression enigmatic as he waited for a reaction. But there was none. ‘A remarkable woman, pretty famous – I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her.’

  Daniel looked duly chastened, but Pete shrugged forgivingly. Hell, the kid was a Pom, he could hardly be expected to know about Daisy Bates. Christ, the majority of Australians didn’t bloody well know about Daisy Bates, why should the kid? Pete knew that he was getting a bit pissed, but he didn’t care. He enjoyed imparting his knowledge to young Dan. Young Dan was one of the very few who appeared remotely interested in the Aboriginal situation.

  ‘She was Irish by birth, Daisy Bates. I met her once, in Adelaide just before the war, at a lecture she was giving to promote her book. She was well into her seventies by then, but still a pretty formidable figure. Handsome woman. Tall and regal and very Victorian, with a little hat and metal-framed glasses. Difficult to imagine her out there in the desert living with the blackfellas, but that’s what she did. Back in 1919 she pitched her tent near Wynbring Siding, east of Ooldea, set herself up as a sort of one-woman welfare centre and stayed there for a whole sixteen years.’

  ‘So she was a missionary?’ Daniel asked. He was fascinated.

  ‘Christ, no – just the opposite. She didn’t want to convert the Aborigine, she wanted to protect him from the white man’s influence that she believed was destroying him. She devoted her life to the Aboriginal people, recording their language and culture, tending to the sick and looking after their babies. Her work’s been recognised by the government and she’s respected in anthropological circles, but it was always the people themselves she cared about.’

  Pete paused long enough to take a healthy swig from his glass before continuing. ‘The stories about her are bloody amazing. When livestock was taken from the rail cars and butchered by the siding to supply the fettlers’ camps along the line, Daisy Bates would be standing by with her wheelbarrow – primly attired, as she always was. She’d collect the sheep heads and offal and cart the whole lot away to her tent, where she’d feed the Aboriginal families who’d flocked to be near her.’ He skolled the remains of his beer. ‘Like I said, a remarkable woman!’

  Daniel waited expectantly for the next instalment, but it appeared there wasn’t to be one.

  ‘My round,’ Pete said.

  ‘What happened to her?’ Daniel jumped in quickly before Pete could rise from the table.

  ‘She died in her nineties, just a few years ago.’

  Any number of questions were gathering in Daniel’s brain, but, knowing the call for beer took precedence, he was prepared to bide his time.


  ‘Hello, Pete, Dan. There’s a shortage of tables. Do you mind if we join you?’

  Looking up at the handsome face of Gideon Melbray, Daniel realised that the moment had passed. The subject of Daisy Bates would not be revisited over the next round. She’d been one of those brief glimpses into the Aboriginal world that Pete shared with him and no-one else, because, as he said, ‘No-one else is interested.’

  ‘G’day, Gideon,’ Pete said as he stood. ‘G’day, Nick, haven’t seen you around for a while,’ and he offered his hand to the man with Gideon, a tall Australian of around forty whose uniform displayed the rank of colonel. ‘The bigwigs running you ragged, are they?’

  ‘Yeah, sort of.’ Nick’s smile was wry as they shook. ‘Canberra for a fortnight,’ he said. ‘It’s good to be back amongst real people.’

  Pete returned the smile. He and Nick were aware of each other’s background and shared the knowledge that they’d both served in delicately diplomatic areas. Pete knew only too well the political tightrope Nick Stratton would be expected to negotiate over the coming months. Pleasing two masters was never easy, but fielding the press into the bargain? He wouldn’t have Nick’s job for quids.

  ‘I’m grabbing a beer for me and Dan – I take it you blokes are all right?’ Gideon and Nick held up their glasses, which were virtually full. ‘Pull up a pew then, I’ll be back in a tick.’

  As Pete walked off to the bar, he couldn’t help thinking that if anyone was capable of handling such a job it would certainly have to be Nick. Strange that he liked the bloke as much as he did – Nick was such a product of the military, but there was something admirable about him. Perhaps it was the fact that in doing his job, he wouldn’t sell others down the river, Pete thought with a familiar sense of bitterness. Something he hadn’t been able to achieve himself.

  ‘Have you two met?’ Gideon asked, and Daniel rose from the table.

  ‘Not in the official sense,’ Nick said pleasantly as he offered his hand, ‘although I think we’ve swum a simultaneous lap or two of the pool.’

  ‘Colonel Nick Stratton, Lieutenant Dan Gardiner.’ Gideon made the introduction.

  ‘How do you do, sir,’ Daniel said as they shook.

  Nick briefly considered suggesting that over a beer in the mess, the young man might call him Nick, but he decided against it. The lieutenant was, after all, British and the British were sticklers for protocol. Dan Gardiner might well find such a suggestion confronting.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant.’

  Gideon and Nick pulled up a couple of chairs.

  ‘Dan’s with the transport corps, we work together a lot,’ Gideon said chattily to Nick as they sat. Then to Daniel, ‘Nick’s our official go-between.’ In response to Daniel’s understandably blank look, he added, ‘Liaison officer between the British and Australian defence organisations. And he’s soon to become Maralinga’s conduit to the world!’ Gideon ensured the delivery had a suitably dramatic ring.

  ‘Give it a break, Gideon.’

  Nick’s warning look was wasted on Gideon, who made a regular point of flaunting the need-to-know rule, which he openly stated did not apply to him.

  ‘I’m hardly revealing top-secret information,’ he said reasonably. ‘You’re the press liaison officer as well – good God, you’ll soon be the voice of Maralinga. The eyes and ears of the world will be –’

  ‘Fair enough, you’ve made your point. I’d just prefer it if you got your facts right, that’s all.’

  Nick’s tone, although not disagreeable, sent a clear signal. Gideon was amusing and, like most, Nick enjoyed the man’s company – indeed, he considered the likes of Gideon valuable to the social fabric of Maralinga. The cloak-and-dagger policy the British had adopted was not only un-Australian, it was unproductive in Nick’s opinion. So long as there was no threat to security, surely mateship should be encouraged amongst men stranded in so remote an outpost. But there were times when Gideon’s garrulousness jarred and Nick found him just a little bit grating.

  ‘Well, if you’d tell me the facts, then I’d be able to get them right, wouldn’t I,’ Gideon replied with a grin. ‘But of course that would be breaching the need-to-know rule.’ He backed off, albeit cheekily. He always knew exactly how far he could push, and Nick was the last person he would wish to offend.

  Gideon had a crush on Nick, he had to admit, but then he’d always been drawn to the rugged type. And Nick Stratton was certainly rugged. Dark-haired and strong-boned, there was a bit of the Gregory Peck about him, Gideon thought. Perhaps in another time and another place …? But no, he’d only end up with a broken jaw. Ah well, there were plenty more fish in the sea.

  ‘So who’s going to win the match tomorrow?’ he asked, and, with a wink to Daniel, he added, ‘I’d put us at two to one.’

  When Pete returned with the beers only minutes later, Gideon was running a book on the following day’s rugby match.

  ‘Are you in, Pete?’ he asked, marking down the bets in the notebook he always carried, as Dan and Nick placed their money on the table.

  ‘What are the odds?’

  ‘Two to one the British, and three to one the Australians.’

  ‘I’m in,’ Pete said, digging a fiver out of his pocket.

  Gideon had wasted no time in ingratiating himself throughout Maralinga. Everyone knew him, he was well-liked by most, and even those of his countrymen who found his behaviour at times inappropriate respected his talents. For Gideon had substituted his calling card of good looks with a sporting prowess that was of great significance in such a man’s world. Admittedly, he’d been forced to concede defeat to the Australians in the swimming pool, but he was Britain’s star soccer player, one of their most valuable rugby team members, and on the athletics track he’d proved himself second to none.

  Gideon Melbray had also successfully infiltrated every area of Maralinga, including the heavily restricted zone to which he had a regular pass. He hadn’t needed Harold Dartleigh’s influence to gain access – necessity had sufficed. He was, after all, senior requisitions officer, and everyone needed supplies, including the scientists in their laboratories. Those very men who had been instructed by Sir William Penney to answer to none other but him, and to allow no intimidation whatsoever by Lord Dartleigh, did not suspect for one minute that they were regularly welcoming a covert MI6 agent into their midst. Gideon’s was the perfect cover. Just as Gideon himself was the perfect personality.

  ‘Only three weeks to go! I must say, I’m frightfully excited about the whole thing.’ It was an hour and several rounds later, the mess was more crowded than ever and Gideon had to pitch his voice above the noise. ‘I mean, it’s thrilling, let’s face it – a nuclear explosion before our very eyes! Well, that would be silly, wouldn’t it,’ he corrected himself, ‘if we keep our eyes open we’ll be blinded, but you know what I mean. How many men can say they’ve seen an atomic bomb go off and lived to tell the tale? I for one can’t wait!’ He raised his glass in a personal toast to the powers that made such things possible, then downed the rest of his beer.

  Daniel glanced at Nick Stratton. Gideon’s behaviour was overly flamboyant and very much out of place in the officers’ mess, surely the colonel agreed. The colonel plainly did. But as Nick’s eyes met his, Daniel saw in them a truth that he instantly recognised. Let’s be honest, Nick’s eyes said, he’s only voicing the feelings of us all.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The de Havilland Heron made a perfect landing, slowed to a near standstill, then taxied towards the apron, guided into its position by the ground crew. The huge parking area adjacent to the runway boasted an extraordinary collection of aircraft. There were the sturdy Hastings transport planes, the Herons and Doves reserved for the VIPs, the Shackletons used for weather reports, sundry Dakotas and Vulcans, and the Canberra bombers, especially rigged for air-sampling tests after each of the nuclear detonations. With just one week to go before the first test in the Buffalo series, Maralinga’s airfield presented a remarkable
sight.

  Daniel wished yet again that he could paint the extraordinary picture of Maralinga in his letters to Elizabeth. He longed to share everything with her. Oh well, he thought with a wry smile as he looked at the profusion of scarlet and pink and white blossom that formed a welcoming pathway to the terminal, at least there were the oleanders. In the early spring, the desert oleanders were proving even more colourful than their English counterparts. Alfred Hoffmann would be most impressed, he thought, as he returned his gaze to the Heron from which Harold Dartleigh was alighting.

  Five minutes later, he introduced himself.

  ‘Lord Dartleigh, how do you do, sir. I’m Lieu tenant Gardiner. I’ve been assigned to drive you to your accommodation in Maralinga.’

  ‘Oh, good show.’ Harold gave the young first lieutenant a cursory glance, then looked around as if expecting something more of a welcoming committee.

  Daniel was quick to respond with his colonel’s instructions. ‘Sir William Penney wishes to convey his apologies, sir. He said he would have liked to have been here to greet you personally, but –’

  ‘Good heavens above, lad, Sir William has better things to do with his time. Besides, this is hardly my first visit – no need to stand on ceremony, what?’

  Harold perceived a distinct message in William Penney’s absence. On the two previous occasions he’d visited Maralinga – during the early days of the township’s construction, and then for the first in the series of minor tests – Penney had personally greeted him upon arrival. Now that they were about to embark upon the major detonations, Sir William was clearly stating he was in total charge and that the deputy director of MI6 was present in the capacity of observer only. Harold refused to take offence. If a personal snub was intended, he didn’t give a damn, and he had his own methods of gaining the covert form of control he wished anyway. Gideon would have been very busy over these past months.