To Love a Sunburnt Country

by Jackie French

  According to Mrs Councillor Ellis, there may still be a problem with the licensing scheme. ‘I am happy to go back to teaching, but when I applied for petrol to get from Sevenoaks to the Gibber’s Creek Central School I was told by the Board that teachers are to “catch a train to their respective schools”. The Board do not appear to realise there never has been a train from Sevenoaks to Gibber’s Creek.’

  Mrs Ellis’s son, Rodney, told the Gazette, ‘Mum can ride on my horse with me, but she’s heavy so school might have to start later.’

  AERODROME LABOUR CAMP, MALAYA, 11 APRIL 1943

  BEN

  Ben bounced on his heels, fists out, his eyes on his opponent, blood dripping from his cheek. The flesh about his eye was swelling. He ignored it.

  He swerved as a punch hit him in the gut, let himself sink down as if it had winded him, then lashed out. One blow to the nose, the other to the stomach, two more to the shoulders. His opponent fell gasping.

  ‘One. Two. Three! The winner!’

  Ben let the referee lift his arm in triumph, enjoying the cheers. The Japs might have beaten him, but here in the boxing ring he was the champ. He grinned, wiping the blood from his face, then bent down to Corporal Martin.

  ‘You all right, mate?’

  ‘Should have known better than to take you on. You’ve got hands like pumpkins.’

  ‘And feet like a kangaroo’s,’ Ben added for the benefit of anyone listening in the crowd as he helped Martin towards the medic hut. But the blokes were tallying their bets.

  He hadn’t bet on himself — that would have been bad form. But the Japanese camp captain gave a basket of fruit to the winner of any of the sports the men organised. Just a way to see who was fittest for the work parties, Ben knew.

  As an officer, he wasn’t required to work, but those who did got ten cents a day. You could buy a turtle egg for a cent or a coconut or a few small bananas. Add that to their rations, as well as the vegetables from the gardens, and Ben reckoned he was eating better than when he was part of the Australian Army. And the work wasn’t too crook: an eight-mile march in the heat to what was going to be an aerodrome. But he was used to heat. Days of chopping back the jungle or old rubber plantations, wheeling barrow-loads of gravel to fill in the swamp. If you worked hard enough, you got a cup of coffee as well as lunch. They even had breath to sing on the way home.

  Ben deposited Martin, then ambled over to the outdoor kitchen. It was growing dark. The generator began to thud. Lights glowed around the barbed-wire camp perimeter. Ben picked up a pannikin, then stood in line for stew.

  ‘How’s your face?’

  ‘Probably looks worse than it is.’

  ‘Nah. Anything makes your ugly mug look better.’ Curly bent his head and whispered, ‘Cockatoos in place.’

  Ben nodded. Cockatoos were lookouts, in case any of the Japanese guards approached. But they rarely did after dark. The shadows of the many men and their chatter were an effective cloak over what was really going on.

  He took his stew — dried fish boiled up with rice and vegetables; Cookie was no chef — and sat on one of the blocks of wood, carefully chattering to Curly, their ears alert for any sound inside the hut.

  And then it came. A hooting whistle and then a plummy English accent, quiet but clear on the radio waves: ‘… and then manure the cucumbers well for a good crop. To ensure each flower is fertilised …’

  Someone called out, ‘I’ll fertilise him.’

  ‘Shh.’

  The chatter rose again. The sounds inside the hut changed to a whistle, a lower voice, and then more clearly, ‘The BBC World Service …’

  ‘Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb,’ Ben said softly to Curly.

  ‘Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb,’ answered Curly. All around them men spoke similar nonsense as they listened: ‘… where General Bernard Montgomery is sweeping to victory at El Alamein …’

  ‘Good old Monty,’ whispered Curly. The Australian 9th Division was fighting under Montgomery.

  ‘… in the biggest raid in Italy so far the RAAF has …’ The radio sank to an indecipherable mutter as the power level fell. Ben could hear the men who helped Ah Chee pile more wood in the boilers.

  ‘Wish they’d give us some Aussie news,’ said Curly.

  ‘It’s the BBC. They think all that happens down this way is cricket. If we’re lucky, they might give us the scores.’ Or perhaps events were too bad for the British public to stomach. Ben suspected that just as the bulletins delivered by Tokyo Rose only gave news of Japanese victories, the BBC carefully selected its news too.

  The one hard fact was that in their months here they had neither seen nor heard an Allied plane, or even the sound of bombing. Which meant that this part of the world must be surely under Japanese control, the war itself moved elsewhere.

  South.

  Australian iron ore was desperately needed for the Japanese war effort. Australian coal was essential to smelt the ore, as was Australian copper for wiring, and Australian labour to smelt it, just as the 9th were already labouring for the Japanese. Australia, where Moira and Gavin and Nancy must now be back home at Overflow. He’d heard they’d gone south with time enough to get out. Moira and Nancy would have got Gavin on a ship home even if they’d had to cling to it with their fingernails. But if the Japs were coming after them, then …

  … he could do nothing. Sit here, eating fish stew, listening to a secret radio cobbled together from bits and pieces bought from the locals …

  Ben stopped eating. ‘Curly?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘If we can build a receiver, we can build a transmitter.’

  ‘What, and tell the cheese and kisses you’re fit and happy?’ They had been allowed to send one Red Cross postcard to their families. Ben hoped his had got through.

  ‘Tell them what Japanese planes fly over. How many guards. Ah Chee might know more. You never know what bits the blokes in Intelligence can put together.’ Better yet, thought Ben, see if Ah Chee could put them in touch with Malay traders heading to other islands. There’d been rumours that not all the Malays had accepted Japanese rule. If they could smuggle in arms, they could break out of here. Join local guerrillas …

  Nah, I’m dreaming, he thought. Or that blow to the head has given me concussion.

  But the seed was there. Escape. And fight.

  Chapter 38

  Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 14 April 1943

  No Hot-Water Bottle for Winter?

  Shortages of rubber from the Malay plantations have meant that Lee’s General Stores are unable to acquire hot-water bottles. Try a brick or a large clean rock heated in the fire, suggests Mrs Matilda Thompson of Drinkwater, but be sure that it is dry or it may explode if heated too long. Wrap well in an old blanket and it will keep its warmth.

  With coffee, potatoes and prunes now reserved for the armed forces, and tea rationed, Mrs Thompson suggests planting a crop of potatoes now for early-spring eating, and a further crop in spring. ‘There is no reason why any home should not grow all its own potatoes. As for prunes, they are simply dried plums, of which Gibber’s Creek and the local fruit bats have no shortage at all.’

  Mrs Thompson did admit that ‘nothing can really replace a good cup of tea’ but reminded us that our boys overseas face far worse than an empty teapot.

  PULAU AYU PRISON CAMP, 17 APRIL 1943

  NANCY

  Nancy looked around the outdoor kitchen. The armchair stood empty, mildewed now and tattered at the edges. ‘Where’s Mrs Hughendorn?’

  ‘Having a rest,’ said Nurse McTavish. Nurse McTavish had moved into Mrs Hughendorn’s empty second room now, while Sally had moved in with Nurse Rogers and Nurse Williams. Moira and Nancy had refused beds in the more sturdily built structures. They might have been more waterproof, but they were also hotter. At least their hut let in every breeze, and they welcomed the privacy. ‘It’s all right,’ added Nurse McTavish. ‘I looked in on her. She’s just tired. I promised to take in her stew.’


  Too tired to preside over the evening gathering? To make sure no one discussed religion, politics, business or any of the other socially unacceptable subjects Australian nurses — or farm girls — might bring up?

  ‘I’ll take it to her. Sure she’s not sick?’

  ‘She says not.’

  Nancy carried in the bowl. At least the flower buds and greens gave it some bulk as well as vitamins and minerals, though she hadn’t managed to provide any ‘island rabbit’ today. She knocked on the bedroom door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Mrs Hughendorn sat up in bed. A nightdress, thought Nancy, trying not to smile. How long since she’d seen a nightdress? The other women slept in their clothes — less revealing for the guards’ night patrols. But Mrs Hughendorn had a door, and to get to it a guard would have to step over two other beds jammed into the tiny living room. Perhaps they didn’t bother.

  The nightdress was pink, with lace; or rather grey-pink, after many washings in muddy water. Mrs Hughendorn had a pillow behind her. A real pillow, not rolled-up cloth. ‘I was worried,’ said Nancy. She held out the bowl.

  ‘I … I’m just tired.’ Mrs Hughendorn took the bowl without looking at her. ‘Thank you, my dear.’

  It was a dismissal. Nancy didn’t go. Instead she sat on the end of the bed. It wasn’t much of a bed, no wider than hers. But it still almost filled the room, already crammed with a wardrobe and a pile of trunks, presumably hauled down from the main house when the Japanese took over.

  ‘Really, I am quite …’ Mrs Hughendorn broke off. She put her bowl down on the bed and stared out the window, its bamboo shutter open to let in the breeze. If there had been a breeze.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Nancy softly.

  ‘Nothing, my dear. Really.’

  Well, she’d never been good at being tactful.

  ‘Of course there are things wrong. We are imprisoned. Starving. Filthy. I’ve got mosquito bites on my mosquito bites, and I’m sure that the one on my leg is a flea bite …’

  ‘My dear, one doesn’t …’

  ‘Talk about flea bites?’

  ‘One doesn’t. Although you do,’ added Mrs Hughendorn dryly, a little of her spirit back.

  ‘Something is bothering you. Not just fleas and …’ Nancy nodded to the bowl ‘… slush for dinner.’

  ‘It’s Mr Hughendorn’s birthday today,’ said Mrs Hughendorn suddenly.

  ‘I … I’m so sorry.’

  ‘There is nothing to be sorry about. It … it didn’t seem to matter last year. I was so sure I would see him soon again. But I won’t, will I?’

  ‘No,’ said Nancy.

  Mrs Hughendorn laughed. ‘You should have said, “Of course you will.”’

  ‘Of course you will. But it won’t be soon.’

  ‘No. Not soon. I … I always used to make a ceremony of his birthday. I never gave him a child, you see. He never reproached me but … well, I could give him a birthday party. In Singapore, at the Raffles. Once a trip to Scotland. Back home several times. Chocolate birthday cake, his favourite.’

  ‘Then that’s what this is.’ Nancy nodded at the slush. ‘Chocolate cake. With candles.’

  ‘Oh, not candles. Not and tell everyone his age!’ The eyes had a definite twinkle in them now. Her expression sobered. ‘That young woman made a play for him, you know. His secretary. She thought I didn’t know. Fluttering her lashes at him. “Oh, Mr Hughendorn. You ARE funny, Mr Hughendorn.” I don’t think he even noticed. She could have given him children, perhaps, but we were happy. So happy.’

  ‘You will be happy again. But to do that you have to live.’

  Mrs Hughendorn looked at her shrewdly. ‘And to live I need to get out of this bed and stop feeling sorry for myself?’

  ‘I couldn’t have put it more tactlessly myself,’ said Nancy.

  Mrs Hughendorn nodded. ‘You are a good girl. Tell me, while we are being tactless, what is your background?’

  She wasn’t asking about Overflow, or Ben. Nancy had shared that with them all, as they too had shared much of their former lives, as much to fill empty days as with friendship … but the friendship was there too.

  ‘My grandmother is Aboriginal.’

  ‘Ah. So you are a quadroon. That explains your ability to get a fire going …’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. Any bushie can do that.’

  ‘Bushie?’

  ‘Someone who lives in the bush.’

  ‘Ah. I was thinking of men with bushy beards.’

  Nancy grinned. ‘Some of them have those too.’

  ‘You don’t think your … heritage … matters then?’

  Nancy considered. ‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘I think … Gran taught me to see things.’

  ‘Like “island rabbit” as potential meat? And flower buds and green leaves to try to keep us alive?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe. But that’s knowledge, I don’t think that’s inherited. Or maybe it is. Who knows.’ She looked at Mrs Hughendorn directly. ‘Does this make any difference? My being quarter Aboriginal?’

  ‘To our select social club at the Pulau Ayu Prison Club? No, my dear.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Nancy lightly. ‘I wouldn’t want to miss sharing the chocolate cake. Without candles. What does Pulau Ayu mean anyway?’

  ‘Pretty Island,’ said Mrs Hughendorn expressionlessly. ‘And it was, you know. So pretty. Still is, perhaps, outside.’ She swung her legs out of the bed, mottled, the ankles still thick. ‘I’ll just get dressed, then meet you outside. Chocolate cake should not be eaten by oneself.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Nancy. She reached up and kissed the woman’s drooping cheek. ‘We need to sing happy birthday, dear Horatio Hughendorn, too.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Mrs Hughendorn quietly. ‘And if … when you see your grandmother, could you give her my thanks too?’

  Chapter 39

  Jim Thompson

  AIF

  20 August 1943

  The Thompson Family

  Drinkwater Station

  via Gibber’s Creek

  Dear Mum and Dad and Michael and whoever else you read this out to,

  It was grand to see you all last month. Sorry I haven’t written before, but they always seem to move us before we can get to a post box and no one has been collecting mail. But Wilton will make sure this is sent off.

  Did I tell you about Wilton? He is my batman! One of the perks of being made an officer. Could have used him in the Middle East but am dashed glad that promotion has meant I have him now. He knocks on the door and brings me tea in bed each morning — well, it’s not quite a bed and nor is there a door on the tent but it IS tea. And then he brings me my shaving water and my uniform all pressed and socks inverted for putting on. He has even found a clean hessian sack to give me a ‘bedroom’ carpet. He has scrounged me more blankets and two nights ago I even had a hot-water bottle, though I think medical must since have snaffled it to use as an enema bag. Pardon the gruesome details there. I am still learning how to be an officer and a gentleman.

  Anyhow, New Guinea isn’t going to be too bad at all if it has early-morning tea and hot-water bottles, not to mention no blinking sand. I don’t ever want a holiday at the beach again.

  Love to all,

  Jim

  Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 21 August 1943

  Mrs Councillor Bullant thanks all involved in the magnificent costume ball last Saturday. First prize was won by Mr and Mrs Andrew McAlpine, in their gorgeous outfits as trapeze artist and circus strongman. Mr McAlpine’s leopard-skin garment was much admired by the ladies. The door prize of a leg of lamb and a pumpkin was won by that lucky Land Girl, Annabelle Strong. Strong by name, strong by nature!

  The ball raised five hundred and seventy-six pounds and six shillings.

  Where the money went:

  Red Cross POW Fund

  Australian Comforts Fund

  Material for CWA needle and wool work

  Books for soldiers’ children<
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  Bombing for London Relief

  Mobile education unit

  YWCA for accommodation for single munitions workers

  Greek war victims

  Two pianos for the army

  AERODROME LABOUR CAMP, AUGUST 1943

  BEN

  The troops came at midday, bayonets ready, helmets down. Most of the POWs were away finishing the road to the aerodrome; only the sick and those on camp duties were left. Ben had taken a turn in the medical hut. He half carried, half supported a one-legged man — the amputation the result of a tropical ulcer gone gangrenous, but healing surprisingly well, thanks to medical supplies they’d smuggled in.

  The POWs stood in the shadowless sun outside the barbed wire as the troops took the huts apart, pushing down the bamboo walls, ripping apart the thatch, turning over bunks and tables.

  ‘Think they’re going to find it?’ whispered the man he was supporting, his face grey with heat and pain.

  Ben shrugged.

  Six hours later, as the work party marched back, the troops had still found nothing.

  ‘You!’ The camp commandant pointed at Captain Grey. The commandant spoke English, and well. ‘We know you have a radio.’

  ‘We have no radio.’

  The commandant hit him three times, under the chin. Captain Grey just stood and took it.

  ‘Where is the radio?’

  ‘We have no radio.’

  The commandant grasped the sweat rag around Captain Grey’s throat. He pulled it down, then twisted it. Tighter, tighter. The captain’s face grew red, then purple. He dropped to his knees.

  ‘Cripes,’ said the man Ben was supporting. ‘He’s going to kill him.’

  Or kill us all if they find out half of what we’ve done, thought Ben. Only he and a few of the men knew they had a transmitter now, as well as the receiver; had been able to pass on information about the landings at the aerodrome, estimates of troop numbers; had even been able to get enough information to plan an escape. Ben and Curly were lined up to try to get on a Malay boat and island-hop down the coast of Java to Timor. If my ancestors could do it, so can I, thought Ben.