Maralinga

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Yes. Yes, I can see that.’

  Taking the letter from her, Kenneth carefully placed it on the sideboard, away from the food and out of harm’s way. It was his intention to have it framed. Then he returned to the table, but he did not sit.

  ‘I propose a toast,’ he said, picking up his glass, ‘to Captain Daniel Gardiner, who made the ultimate sacrifice for his Queen and country.’

  Billy leapt to his feet. He realised now why he’d incurred his father’s displeasure, and he felt guilty. On the eve of Dan’s memorial service he should have shown more respect.

  Prudence and Elizabeth stood also, and all four raised their glasses.

  ‘To Dan,’ Kenneth said.

  ‘To Dan,’ they repeated.

  The bittersweet pleasure Prudence had been enjoying had suddenly been snatched from her, and there was resentment in her eyes as she looked at her husband over the rim of her water tumbler. The young ones had been celebrating her son’s life with their reminiscences, and now Ken had ushered the empty nothingness of sacrificial death back into the room. She understood his reasons, but she nonetheless cursed him.

  That was when Elizabeth had seen the veil lifted.

  Kenneth took over the conversation. ‘It’s a tremendous blow to us all that Dan’s body can’t be brought home to England,’ he said to Elizabeth. ‘Prudence finds it most upsetting, as I’m sure you must too.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Elizabeth glanced at Prudence, but the veil was once more in place, she was giving away nothing. ‘In fact,’ Elizabeth added, emboldened by her feeling for the woman, ‘I wondered whether there might be some grounds of action you could take to have that decision rescinded.’

  Kenneth felt a flicker of annoyance, but it quickly disappeared – women, after all, did not understand such things. ‘I don’t think so, my dear.’ His answer was patronising. ‘Dan died as a result of a nuclear detonation, after all.’

  He and Billy exchanged a knowing look. If there had been any remains they would have been highly irradiated, but one didn’t say such things in the presence of women.

  ‘I’m aware of the effects of a nuclear detonation, Mr Gardiner, but I still think an appeal to the authorities –’

  Kenneth stopped it right there. ‘The army knows best, Elizabeth.’ He didn’t even need to look at his son to know that Billy was nodding agreement. ‘The army knows best.’

  Again Elizabeth glanced at Prudence, but Prudence’s eyes did not meet hers. ‘The apple crumble needs to come out of the oven so that it can cool,’ she said to no-one in particular, and she left for the kitchen.

  Now, Elizabeth sat in the church, fighting back the urge to scream at Kenneth Gardiner as he concluded a eulogy that must surely, she thought, be as sickening to his wife as it was to her.

  ‘My son knew the ultimate price he risked in the choice of his career,’ Kenneth said, ‘and he was prepared to pay that price. Dan loved the army with a passion, and he loved serving his country.’ Kenneth Gardiner fought manfully to control the sudden tremor in his voice. ‘I’m proud, very proud, to have had such a son.’

  He returned to sit beside his wife, his eyes staring fixedly ahead, and Elizabeth was surprised to see Prudence quietly take her husband’s hand in both of hers. The simple gesture said everything. Without his belief in the purpose of his son’s death, Kenneth Gardiner would be a broken man. And, furthermore, his wife knew it.

  The service continued. There were other eulogies, and, although none matched Kenneth’s in pomposity, they were delivered by military men for the most part and therefore along similar lines. Elizabeth no longer heard the words. Her mind was elsewhere. Only minutes earlier she’d wanted to burst Kenneth’s bubble of complacency. She wasn’t so sure now. She wasn’t sure she could do it to any of them – Prudence or Kenneth or Billy. All was neatly in place. Daniel had died accidentally in the service of his country. The family needed no further complications. In showing them the letter and trying to elicit their help, she would be exposing them to the Maralinga military’s suicide report, and to what purpose? Reg had told her categorically that the army would take no investigative action, and there was not a man in the country who knew the workings of the British army better than Reg Dempster. What was it he’d said? Even if the parents support your enquiries, the report will remain the same, and you’ll cause the family untold grief. You must say nothing.

  Then and there, with Reg’s words echoing in her mind, Elizabeth made her decision. She would follow his advice and say nothing to the family. She would not, however, heed his further advice and acknowledge Daniel’s death as a suicide. She remained totally committed. She would find out the truth, but she would do so alone. And she would need to be alone, she realised. If the army would not listen to the family, then they were hardly likely to listen to her. She would need to infiltrate the system.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the glorious tenor voice of Mario Lanza. It flooded the church with its richness, reverberating amongst the old stone walls and arches.

  One of Danny’s favourites: ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. How very appropriate, she thought as the tears sprang involuntarily to her eyes. For the first time throughout the service, Elizabeth felt herself moved, and, beside her, moist-eyed himself, Billy smiled, pleased that his personal selection had hit the mark.

  ‘I picked that one,’ he whispered. ‘Dan loved Mario Lanza.’

  ‘I know.’ She fumbled for her handkerchief.

  ‘So does Mum,’ he said with a meaningful nod.

  Elizabeth looked at Prudence standing beside him. She had finally allowed herself to let go and the tears cascaded unchecked down her face.

  ‘A good choice, Billy,’ Elizabeth said.

  A good decision too, she thought. She would leave the family to grieve in their own way, but she would discover the truth, if only for herself. And discover it she would, no matter how long it took.

  BOOK III

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Following the completion of the Buffalo series of tests, the township of Maralinga underwent a radical change. Virtually overnight, a residency of several thousand was reduced to just several hundred, and life took on a more relaxed style. Army disciplines, although still observed, became less rigorous, and duties, which now revolved principally around maintenance, less arduous. Leave was granted more readily, and those lucky enough to score a week of freedom headed straight to Adelaide and the pubs, clubs and bars of Hindley Street, leaving their mates to loll enviously in the pool. As November crept into December, the heat continued to spiral.

  The ‘accident’ was no longer discussed and hadn’t been for some time – more out of respect for Daniel Gardiner and his family than in observance of any official oath of silence, although the army had indeed sworn the men to secrecy. At the start, despite orders, there’d been a great deal of talk amongst the men; in fact, they’d talked of little else, the news of Daniel’s suicide had so shocked them. Those who knew him were aware he’d been severely affected by Pete Mitchell’s death – it had been common knowledge, they told the military police – but they’d not realised the degree of his devastation. Gideon Melbray, however, the last person to see Daniel alive, and on the very night of his death, had found him in a terrible state. ‘I’ve never seen him so drunk,’ Gideon told the MPs.

  When Daniel hadn’t turned up in the officers’ mess that evening, Gideon had called around to his barracks to confirm the train delivery arrangements for the following morning. ‘Dan wasn’t a big drinker as a rule,’ he said, ‘but he was crying drunk that night. He went on and on about Pete’s death – seemed obsessed that there’d been some sort of plot to kill the fellow. He wasn’t making any sense at all, so I told him to go to bed and sleep it off. Never thought it’d come to this.’

  Harold Dartleigh, although extremely surprised that young Dan should take such desperate action, was in agreement that the lad had appeared somewhat obsessed with the murder of Pete Mitchell.

  ‘Don’t know w
hy he had suspicions,’ Harold said. ‘I’d have thought it was a pretty simple case myself. Chappie has an affair and ends up getting shot by the woman’s husband – classic crime of passion, what? But young Gardiner was desperate for positive proof that the fettler had actually done it. I even agreed to have enquiries made for him – just to help put his mind at rest, poor boy.’

  Harold hadn’t felt it necessary to tell the MPs that not only had he had enquiries made, thereby encroaching upon their territory, but that he had achieved a breakthrough just the previous day, the very afternoon of Daniel’s death. In response to a healthy bribe, Tommo the ganger had admitted to seeing everything from start to finish, and with the promise of further money had agreed to come forward as a witness – but only when Harry Lampton was safely in custody. ‘You won’t get a word out of me while Harry’s on the loose,’ Tommo had said, ‘and you won’t get a peep out of the others neither.’

  Harold Dartleigh, having honoured his promise, was disappointed that young Dan would never know the trouble he’d gone to on his behalf. But then, he had to admit, his motives hadn’t been altogether altruistic. There’d been a degree of personal satisfaction in discovering that the army hadn’t killed off Pete Mitchell as Dan had clearly suspected. That was one bonus to come out of this whole sad business, Harold supposed. It was a relief to know that the army hadn’t been keeping him in the dark.

  These days, Daniel’s death was rarely mentioned, and on the odd occasion when it was, it was always referred to as ‘the accident’. The men used the term not only because they’d been ordered to do so for the sake of the family – a kindness with which they entirely concurred – but because they wished to believe it had been an accident. They needed absolution. Even those who’d barely known Daniel felt guilty to have been so unaware of a fellow soldier’s distress.

  Although life on the range was more relaxed and the troops less hard-worked, the scientists of Maralinga were as busy as ever. Nuclear experimentation did not cease at the end of a major test series and, following the general exodus, the hardcore team of boffins remaining in residence devoted themselves wholeheartedly to the minor test trials.

  The minor trials had been allocated the colourfully eccentric codenames of Kittens and Rats and Tims, with further tests planned for introduction that were to be known as Vixens. Their purposes were quite specific. Kittens examined various forms of triggers or initiators required to start the nuclear chain reaction in an atomic weapon; Rats and Tims measured the compressibility of materials used in the make-up of a nuclear device; and the planned Vixens were intended to investigate the effects of accidents that might befall a nuclear weapon, such as a fire in a weapons store or the crash of a plane carrying a nuclear device.

  While less spectacular than the major detonations, the minor tests offered limitless opportunities, for they could be conducted in far greater secrecy with less accountability and therefore more freedom.

  ‘It seems you blokes are out of a job these days,’ Nick said at his meeting in Adelaide with the principal directors of AWTSC. ‘I hope we’re not being kept in the dark.’

  The remark was made in a jocular fashion so as not to offend, and Leslie Martin, the Australian, smiled obligingly, but Ernest Titterton and Alan Butement were not amused. In their opinion the colonel was out of line. It was his job to liaise not comment.

  ‘I hardly think so, Colonel Stratton,’ Titterton replied dryly. ‘Approval from members of the safety committee is not necessary for these individual firings. The British are simply required to issue a safety statement to the Australian authorities in advance of the test. This is the agreement that has been reached between the two governments.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that, Professor Titterton –’

  ‘I have here a report from the British trials superintendent, which covers the recent firings.’ Titterton placed a manila folder on the table in front of him. ‘You may wish to take it to Canberra for your meeting with the minister next week, although I’m sure it won’t be necessary. And should a press conference be called, you’ll find any general statement you want in there. Everything is very straightforward.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Shoving the folder under his arm, Nick stood abruptly. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said, and left the meeting.

  Ernest Titterton was plainly telling him that his job was that of a public relations officer only, and that he should stick to it. Nick could find no grounds for disagreement – in principle the man was right – but it was not pleasant to be reminded of the fact and with such deliberation. Yet again, Titterton had managed to annoy him intensely.

  Dr Melvyn Crowley and his team of pathologists and biochemists had never been busier. Dead animals were being discovered on a daily basis – rabbits, kangaroos, emus and even wild camels – all forming an excellent source of random survey. Then there was the additional workload the team had inherited due to Dr Hedley Marston’s ‘present state of health’.

  Melvyn Crowley was aware that Hedley Marston’s ‘present state of health’ was a euphemism and that Sir William Penney wanted the independently contracted CSIRO scientist out of the picture. Marston was deemed a security risk, and his work was to be reallocated to those in-house scientists who could be trusted. The decision meant that a number of biochemists upon whom Melvyn had relied for assistance were now required to travel far afield collecting and analysing data that had previously been Dr Marston’s realm. In the true spirit of scientific research, however, Melvyn had raised no objections. He preferred to work on his own as much as possible anyway, with assistants who would unquestioningly accept his leadership, rather than colleagues who might challenge it. A man as dedicated as he was needed full autonomy.

  Melvyn considered himself a pioneer and Maralinga his personal gateway to untold discoveries in the effects of nuclear warfare. Here, away from the limited perspective of society, actual experimentation on humans could bypass in one fell swoop years of tedious laboratory work. A number of tests involving troops’ exposure to minor levels of radiation had already been carried out, but Melvyn longed to take bolder strides. He’d secretly hoped for a mishap during one of the detonations – nothing shockingly catastrophic, but something that might have resulted in a death or two. To Melvyn Crowley, the most valuable research commodity possible was a human cadaver that had been exposed to the full effects of radiation. The loss, just six weeks previously, of such material had been his greatest disappointment.

  ‘It’s such a terrible waste, Harold,’ he’d said at the time. ‘There must be something you can do, surely?’

  He had contacted Harold Dartleigh urgently the moment the body had been delivered to the DC/RB area. Dog-tag identification had proved it to be that of a young lieutenant by the name of Daniel Gardiner.

  ‘I’m told they’re not going to release the corpse to me,’ Melvyn had complained to Harold as they sat in the offices adjoining his laboratory. Young Trafford, his laboratory assistant, was filing documents in the corner cabinet. ‘Apparently I’m not going to be allowed to examine it –’

  ‘By examine, I presume you mean dissect,’ Harold had interrupted, and Melvyn had seen his lip curl in distaste.

  ‘Well, I am a pathologist, after all,’ Melvyn replied, his voice displaying as much disdain as he dared allow show to a peer of the realm.

  ‘For God’s sake, man, Lieutenant Gardiner was your fellow countryman.’

  ‘The corpse can provide us with invaluable information,’ Melvyn had continued, ignoring the interruption. ‘The army should recognise the need for –’

  ‘The army recognises the need for its officers to be buried with full military honours and, whenever possible, intact!’

  ‘We are men of science, Lord Dartleigh.’ Melvyn had made the bold leap from mild disdain to blatant superiority. ‘We do not over-sentimentalise. Our purpose is the advancement of knowledge that will serve mankind.’

  He realised too late that his tone had been a mistake – the sort of mistake tha
t under normal circumstances might have left him with cause for regret. But Harold Dartleigh was off to England the following day and, luckily for Melvyn, couldn’t be bothered pursuing the issue. Instead, he’d simply refused to help.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t intervene for you on this score,’ he’d said. ‘The army will not release the body to you and, in the interests of self-preservation, I strongly suggest you do not attempt to pursue the matter. Men do not take kindly to those who wish to dissect their friends, whether for the advancement of science or not.’

  Harold had stood and turned to young Trafford, giving him a jovial beam. ‘You, young man, had best take great care. God forbid where you might end up should you meet with an accident.’

  Melvyn had walked Harold to the door, fuming inside but unable to risk offending the man further.

  ‘Keep up the good work, Melvyn,’ Harold had said. ‘I shall expect to receive ongoing reports from you in London. In the meantime, you have my full support in all areas, as you well know. Bar the dismemberment of our fellow countrymen,’ he’d added with a laugh.

  ‘Yes, of course, Harold, of course,’ Melvyn had responded deferentially, but once Harold had left he had reverted to his usual autocratic manner.

  ‘So that’s it,’ he’d said to Trafford in annoyance. ‘If Dartleigh can’t get the body released to us, then no-one can. The army’s certainly not going to sign it over. Just as well they turn a blind eye to the blacks is all I can say.’

  Now, six weeks later, Melvyn remained determined in his quest to acquire a human cadaver. His latest target was the child of the woman who had suffered irradiation after the One Tree test. He had expected her to give birth prematurely to a still-born and had been most eager to gain possession of the corpse. Surprisingly, the woman had carried her child fullterm, but had given birth in secret, after which there had been no evidence of the baby. The search for where she might have buried it had so far proved fruitless. But Melvyn had not given up hope.