To Love a Sunburnt Country

by Jackie French

  ‘Sir, should we take our prep with us?’

  ‘Sir, can I get my …’

  ‘Go!’ shouted Mr Fothergill.

  Michael and Taylor broke into a run as soon as they were out of sight, over to the boarding house and into the bathrooms, hopping from foot to foot as they filled. Thunder boomed, over towards the harbour …

  Not thunder. He looked at Taylor.

  Taylor’s face was white. ‘Bombs,’ he said.

  Michael nodded. No time to run for the shelters now. Visions of the dust and shreds of blitzed London flashed before him. Would that be Sydney tomorrow morning? He could hear the sound of an aircraft’s engine. Ours or the enemy’s?

  ‘Under the stairs,’ he said. They dived for the space and sat together as an explosion, louder now, shook the timbers above them. He tried to listen for more aircraft engines, but all he could hear was Taylor’s breathing and his own.

  It was stuffy under the stairs. Stuffy and quiet. No point keeping his eyes open in the dark …

  ‘Thompson?’

  Michael opened his eyes. Mr Fothergill’s teeth loomed above him. It was daylight. He had fallen asleep, leaning against the wall. It was now early morning. Taylor yawned behind him. ‘Sorry, Mr Fothergill. Didn’t hear the all-clear.’

  ‘There wasn’t one. Bad show all round.’

  ‘How much damage, sir?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. Wireless reports say that a ship’s been sunk in the harbour. By Japanese submarines.’

  ‘Submarines? Here?’

  ‘Apparently.’ Mr Fothergill’s mouth tightened. ‘Chapel in twenty minutes. Better get yourselves tidied up.’

  ‘Chapel,’ said Taylor disgustedly, as Mr Fothergill hurried away. ‘You’d think they’d give us the morning off after this.’

  Michael said nothing. The war is here, he thought. Enemy submarines in our harbour …

  Was Sydney about to fall to the Japanese too? Impossible … but that was what they had been told about Singapore, until the very end.

  He followed Taylor to the showers, felt the cold water sting his body. Stupid, to be here at school, when all he loved was being threatened. But what could he do at sixteen? Enlist in the navy, but not without his parents’ permission, and he knew they’d not give that. Nor would he be allowed to go on overseas duty until he was twenty-one and in the regular forces, or eighteen if he joined the militia.

  Two years, he thought, till I can do anything worthwhile. Two years of parading with cadets, learning semaphore, bayoneting dummies slung between the gum trees. At least at home he’d be able to train with the Volunteer Defence Corps, though he suspected that he’d be doing much the same as they did at school cadets. He could already march, and a fat lot of good that would be against the enemy. Could already pot a rabbit in the dusk so quietly it never knew he was there; clean a rifle or a shotgun; even make his own ammunition, though he doubted the army would require him to do that. What more did he need? Would the ability to shave every day instead of twice a week make him a better soldier?

  English boys could join the merchant marines at fourteen, would face the enemy at sea as they brought desperately needed supplies through the U-boat blockades. Now that Australia was under direct attack, would they change the age limit here?

  He grabbed a towel and began to dry himself. Chapel, he thought, to pray for victory. That was all he could do now.

  Chapter 23

  Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 6 June 1942

  Citizens of Melbourne are working hard to dig an air-raid trench for every household. Melbourne parks and gardens are ringed by trenches now, even around the Shrine of Remembrance.

  The Gibber’s Creek Council is divided on the issue of digging trenches in our own fair town. According to Councillor Bullant: ‘If General MacArthur says we need to dig trenches, then that means we have to dig in Gibber’s Creek too. We have got two important factories here. We’re kidding ourselves if we don’t think they can be targets too.’

  Councillor Ellis commented: ‘If Councillor Bullant and General MacArthur want to dig trenches in ground as dry as my back paddocks, I’ll lend them a mattock.’

  Mrs Matilda Thompson

  Drinkwater Station

  via Gibber’s Creek

  7 June 1942

  To the Editor

  Gibber’s Creek Gazette

  Perhaps if your worthy journal spent less time eulogising General MacArthur and more time championing our own troops’ achievements, our district would be better informed. What of the many Australian fathers now fighting for their country, the fathers working in our fields and factories as their sons fight overseas?

  Is the editor aware that General MacArthur has decreed that any Australian victories should only be referred to as ‘Allied victories’ with no mention of our forces? Is he also aware that only official communiqués are allowed to be posted by journalists attached to headquarters or in the field? If Australians wish to know about our own forces — or any information not pre-digested for the American public — they must go to the British or even foreign-language papers for information.

  I am not denying the sterling, or even corn-fed, worth of General MacArthur, nor the debt we owe America and the American forces. But Australians too have a right to know of the successes for which we have all sacrificed and turned our shoulders to the wheel. It is to be hoped that in future editions this paper might do more than ponder these questions, and give the people of Gibber’s Creek the standard of journalism they deserve.

  Yours faithfully,

  Mrs Matilda Thompson

  A note to the editor: please do NOT put my name as Mrs Thomas Thompson. Proud as I am of my husband, I do have a name of my own, as do the other women working so hard for the war effort in our town.

  PULAU AYU PRISON CAMP, 7 JUNE 1942

  NANCY

  Nancy watched old Miss Smith and Miss Beatty and Mrs Hughendorn trudge back down to Hut Number One from the Japanese quarters. Each day the three women were assigned to scrub floors, with a bucket of water and a scrubbing brush each. Nancy suspected it was no coincidence that the most proper of the ‘mems’ had been chosen for the most menial of jobs. It was a way of saying, ‘We are your masters. You must not only bow to us, but bend.’

  They scrubbed. No work, no food. Nancy worried the older women might have a stroke with the unaccustomed work. But there was no choice, not here, not now. So far no jobs had been found for the other women in the camp. Nancy hoped that perhaps she might eventually be sent out to work on the plantation. She could at least pick leaves, skinny as she was. She looked down at her chest in disgust. It had taken sixteen years to grow a decent bosom, and three weeks to lose it. Even Mrs Hughendorn’s skin hung in loose flaps about her chin now.

  ‘Tenko!’

  Not another roll call! They came at all hours of the day lately. How hard was it to keep track of twelve women? She sighed, and got up from her bunk, where she had been playing clap hands with Gavin. He could manage to meet her hands almost every time now, grinning with delight as he did so. Somehow, miraculously, Moira was able to continue to feed him, despite the meagre diet.

  Soon the food bin would trundle down again, with the evening’s offering. Last night it had been a mush of cassava and a single coconut, not even any vegetables. But that was better than the days when no food arrived at all, not as a specific punishment — or if it was, they were not told of the transgression — but as a sign of power. We give food, or not, to you, as we choose. They kept a little cassava or sago each night now, in case there’d be no more the next day. Adults could survive a day or longer without food. Gavin might not.

  At least near starvation meant that she no longer had to worry about her periods. Nurse Rogers had told her privately that none of the women were menstruating, nor were they likely to without more food.

  Food! It was the focus of their days. Last night’s cassava mush had been roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, fresh peas and cauliflower cheese — Mrs
Harris’s choice — followed by Miss Beatty’s favourite dessert of trifle: ‘Sponge cake and strawberry jelly and stewed peaches and custard and cream. May we be very naughty and soak the cake in sherry?’

  It was Mrs Mainwaring’s turn to choose the breakfast menu today. Even when there was no food, the pretence continued.

  Nancy hoisted Gavin onto her hip and headed out into the compound, dust now, instead of mud, and the incessant stench of wood smoke from the gambir pots. Moira lined up next to her. ‘Will I take Gavin?’

  Nancy shook her head. Moira looked more fragile than ever, her hands almost transparent. ‘I like to hold him,’ she said truthfully.

  ‘Me too.’ Sally smiled at them both, then quickly bowed as a small line of guards appeared, the commandant at the front.

  Nancy looked at the commandant sideways as she bowed low. The commandant rarely came out to the prisoners’ compound. Nancy suspected his more important duties lay with the rest of the island and its plantation. He was in his fifties, perhaps, his uniform always freshly ironed, his face smooth and clean-shaven. Even without his uniform it would have been impossible to miss his officer’s bearing. This was the first time she had seen him close up.

  He stood and looked at them, then said something quietly to the translator.

  ‘Women stand straight,’ barked the translator.

  They stood up, Mrs Hughendorn and Miss Smith with audible sighs.

  ‘Silence.’ A guard lashed a bamboo cane against Miss Smith’s arm. She bit back a cry.

  The commandant watched impassively. He nodded to two of the guards. They marched back to their living quarters and brought down a table.

  What is going on? thought Nancy.

  Away they marched again, as if on parade. They came back almost at once, this time carrying a brown Bakelite wireless, its cord trailing back to the house. They placed it on the table and stood to attention on either side.

  The commandant nodded again. One of the guards leant over and switched the wireless on.

  The radio gave its preliminary whine. A voice spoke, a man’s voice, in English with an Australian accent, so clear that Nancy jumped. It sounded as if he was standing nearby.

  ‘In place of the news commentary this evening, it is our pleasure to convey to you a special message of cheer to the families of those Allied soldiers now in prisoner-of-war camps. It is a message of good cheer.’

  The Australian voice sounded relaxed and confident. ‘From my personal experience of living as a prisoner of war in these camps, I can tell you that our men are being treated considerately by the Japanese. I have personally been shown so much kindness by the Japanese that this is an opportunity for me to repay that kindness. There is one place I know of where civilian prisoners are interned. Regular concerts are held and there are no restrictions on internees going for walks, unescorted, through the countryside. Some suffered from the Eastern diet of rice at first but now thrive on it, milling the rice and baking cakes with it, with very good results. Sentries insist on compliments being paid to them, but they never fail to return them, so there is no problem on that score. When your men return to you I am sure that they will agree with what I tell you tonight, and express their gratitude for the compassion and kindness shown to them by those who were, a short time ago, their enemies.’

  Nancy kept her face still. Impossible to smile, to laugh, even snort to show contempt. This was just another humiliation to accept.

  The voice changed. It was a woman’s now, soft and melodious, with a slight American accent. ‘In other news, Australia today is almost totally under Japanese domination, with our aircraft sweeping down as far as Port Hedland in Western Australia, our bombers reaching into the very centre of Australia and ships shelling north of Newcastle and Sydney on the east coast. Supplies from Britain and America have now been completely cut off. Australia today is the orphan of the Pacific. Military collaboration with America is impossible.

  ‘Today the Australian Prime Minister banned the manufacture of all swimming costumes and announced a day of prayer. Australia has no choice now but to accept the friendly hand of Nippon, as offered on so many occasions by Premier Tojo —’

  Nurse Williams gave a small cry beside her, hurriedly cut off.

  Was it true? It couldn’t be! Or not the whole truth. The BBC World Service had not told the truth either. But she suspected the BBC’s lies had been smaller than the Japanese ones.

  She bit her lip. She had to believe, believe no matter what, that Overflow was safe, her land still hers. She knew it was a lie that civilian internees could go for walks and were baking rice cakes. Bombers reaching to central Australia must be a lie too. It must all be a lie …

  And yet …

  She closed her eyes. And suddenly there it was: Overflow, its channels dry now, the grass brown, but safe, serene, sheep nibbling at the earth, no helmets and no war.

  She opened her eyes again as the translator shouted the order to bow. I would know if my land was taken, she thought. Surely I would know.

  Chapter 24

  ST ELRIC’S SCHOOL, 8 JUNE 1942

  MICHAEL

  He was asleep when the explosions came again, the booms loud enough to wake him. He was already hauling on his dressing gown when the siren went. He grabbed his gas mask, the flask of water and box of food they kept by their beds now, and hurried with the others to the trench shelters the boys had dug behind the oval.

  At least the air was fresh here. You could see the stars, with so many lights blacked out. He wondered if he would see a torpedo or bomb as it fell on them. Only if it came straight down, he thought. The ‘air-raid shelter’ was a joke anyway. As if a trench could save you from a plane’s bomb or a submarine’s torpedo. The most the trench would do would shield them from debris if the school buildings were bombed. Buildings would be more of a target than trenches and an oval …

  Part of him wanted the school to be hit — it would provide an escape from maths and Latin grammar while the world suffered and fought. He had left nothing of value in the buildings to lose; even the photo of Nancy was as usual in his wallet, in his dressing-gown pocket. But if the school was to go … To his surprise, he felt a sudden affection for it. It was like winning a game of rugger: ultimately completely unimportant, but a symbol of the strong teamwork that made it happen. If the Japanese bombed his school, then that would be a victory for them, and a theft from his life.

  No more, he thought. They have taken Nancy. They had Ben and Dr McAlpine, had killed Bluey White who worked in the Gibber’s Creek butcher’s shop, and Anderson’s dad. They will not take my school now. Though he ruefully admitted that if a bomb was dropped or a torpedo shot from a lurking submarine, he knew no way to stop them.

  I’m a ‘gunna’, he thought. Gunna stop the Japanese, while doing nothing about it.

  He heard the noise of a plane, chugging through the air. Ours or theirs? Another roar, closer now, so near he could hear the clatter of falling rubble, women screaming, a man yelling, ‘Watch out! Turn off the gas.’ If the gas mains had been broken, any spark would make them explode too …

  He waited; he felt the others around him wait too, no whispering or even movement. The second attack in a little over a week … How many submarines were out there, beyond the Heads? How many planes waiting to attack? The bombing of Darwin and Broome had seemed remote, so far north and west as to be almost another country. But if Sydney could be bombed, then nowhere was safe.

  There were no more explosions. He leant against the rough dirt wall, angry, tired, helpless.

  Helplessness was worst of all.

  Chapter 25

  Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 18 June 1942

  General MacArthur Named Father of the Year

  Heroic General MacArthur has just been named Father of the Year. The new Father of the Year breakfasts with his son Arthur each morning before heading out to the day’s command. The General states that his son is the only one who can tolerate his singing, and they sing duets togethe
r.

  PULAU AYU PRISON CAMP, 20 JUNE 1942

  NANCY

  She couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t just the heat, which sucked at her bones despite the sea breeze that grumbled around the bamboo-leaf roof. It was hunger, deep sinew-weakening hunger, as if her body had used up almost its last reserves.

  She stared at the gecko on the ceiling, almost invisible in the moonlight. In the bunk next to her Moira lay with Gavin — he at least still looked, not plump, but not gaunt either. Moira was still feeding him, and was thinner than anyone else in the camp.

  They had asked again for more food. Vivienne had even cried. The translator had watched with emotionless contempt. Nancy was good at reading the emotions on his almost expressionless face now.

  ‘No more work, no more food.’

  ‘But we don’t have any other work to do!’ said Nurse Rogers.

  The translator looked her up and down. ‘Will you work for Japanese soldiers in the Japanese hospital?’

  ‘No, of course not. You can’t ask prisoners of war or internees to work for the enemy army. It is against the Geneva Convention.’

  Which the Japanese didn’t sign, thought Nancy, remembering what Mr Harding had told her. She wondered if Nurse Rogers knew that small but possibly important detail. But Nurse Rogers had known one of the nurses bayoneted by the Japanese when they’d taken Hong Kong. Perhaps she suspected that Australian nurses would be no safer in a hospital controlled by the Japanese. So many atrocities, Nancy thought, as the nightmare bodies on the beach seared across her mind again. But here we are at least alive.

  ‘No work. No food. Nippon soldiers are kind to give you food at all.’