To Love a Sunburnt Country

by Jackie French

  Or might have done, till now. He suspected that at best the camp’s easy discipline would be tightened after this. At worst …

  ‘Where is the radio?’

  ‘There is no radio,’ the captain gasped.

  The commandant kicked him. ‘Where is the radio?’

  ‘There … is … no … radio …’

  The commandant nodded. Two Japanese soldiers with bamboo rods began to beat him. Slash. Slash.

  ‘Where is the radio?’

  ‘There … is … no … radio …’

  Shadows became night. The lights flicked on, showing nothing but the barbed wire, the sentry posts, the man lying on the ground, the commandant, the troops. The prisoners knelt or lay in the shadows, forbidden to move. No water. No food.

  Someone groaned. Was it the man who now lay beside him? Ben’s gaze was fixed on Grey.

  A soldier approached, with a plate of what looked like rice and a shred of meat. For a moment Ben thought they were going to tempt their prisoner with food, before realising that the rice was raw.

  A soldier pulled the captain up, opened his mouth, shoved in the raw rice. The captain gagged, then swallowed.

  Another soldier, with a hose. They thrust it into the captain’s mouth. He convulsed, choking, as the water splashed over him, choked him. Finally he lay, gasping on the ground.

  The commandant picked up the shred of meat, placed it carefully on the end of a bayonet, then thrust it into the captain’s ear.

  The captain screamed. His scream went on and on.

  At last it died away.

  ‘Where is the radio?’

  This time there was no reply, though the captain still lived, his eyes still open.

  The commandant turned to the men kneeling on the ground. ‘There will be no food, no water, until you give us the radio. Where is the radio?’

  The captain gasped something. Ben tried to hear. ‘Under … Hut … Two.’

  Not the cookhouse, where the radio sat. Not the hospital hut, where they had the transmitter. Hut Two’s hidden pit had only spare valves, spare wire and tin foil in it. Would the Japanese think that they were assembled to make the camp’s radio?

  Night turned to day. They waited as the soldiers ransacked Hut Two, thorough as a careful housewife hunting every cockroach. The sun glared at them, slowly moving through the sky. The captain began to scream. The raw rice inside him was swelling up. His body arched, over and over. He screamed again.

  One of the Japanese called from inside the compound. He held up the spare valves, the wire and tin foil. The commandant nodded. He turned to the prisoners. ‘Look at this man. You will not see him again. Japan has been lenient with you. Now you will pay.’

  Two soldiers carried the still-screaming captain away.

  The barbed wire was doubled around the camp. There were double sentries now too. Double guards who marched the work parties to the work site, refusing to let the men buy coconuts or fruit. Dogs were placed in the camp each night; dogs that bit, dogs that fought you for the half-rations that were poured into a trough each night. Every man in camp had dog bites now.

  A starving man can fight a dog, and win.

  Beatings every day. Beatings if you did not work fast enough, or hard enough. Beatings anyway: beatings with bamboo rods that knocked out eyes, opened flesh down to the bones.

  If you did not work, if you did not bow each time a sentry passed, you were beaten; if you tried to swap a watch with one of the locals for quinine for malaria, you were thrust into the ishu cages. These were made of bamboo and sat on stilts about a yard off the ground, a yard high, too low for a man to stand, no room for him to sit or lie down. You knelt, in the glare of sun, your sweat mingling with that of those who had gone before you, till your body grew too water-starved to sweat at all and you slumped, held up by the bodies of your companions.

  You might be caged for hours, for days, for weeks. Ben was thrown in there one afternoon. He had not noticed the commandant pass. He had not bowed.

  He straightened himself on the bamboo bars and knelt, taking up the smallest amount of room he could, apologising to the men he’d landed on. Three of them, for ‘crimes’ committed today too. He didn’t know their names, though their faces were familiar, like everyone’s in camp. None were Aussies, though few in the camp had recognisable uniforms now. They all wore shorts and a scrap of shirt, or even native cloth wound into a sort of nappy that hung between the knees. Boots had worn out with work and socks were just a memory, rotted in the heat and damp.

  Ben glanced over at the next two cages. The men in the far cage had been there over a month. Most were still alive. The blokes in the next cage to his had been there just over a week. You never knew how long you might be caged. That, thought Ben, was the worst of it.

  It wasn’t.

  They continued kneeling. Lice circled over them, from one man to the next. The fungal infection on his legs itched. Impossible to scratch. His legs and back ached; then screamed at him. He shut his mouth hard to stop from crying aloud.

  The afternoon heat closed its fist about him. He was used to heat, but not like this, the heat of four men together. No water. No shade. They knelt, heads bent, smelt the food poured into the nearby trough, longed even for the jostling with the dogs, for at least then your limbs could move.

  Night, a blanket of dark. They weren’t allowed to speak, but they could whisper. ‘How you going, mate?’

  ‘All right, mate. All right?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m all right.’

  Another day. A night. Day. It was better now. He was so dazed he could not think or feel.

  Shadows that must mean that night was coming again. More shadows. Men. The guards. The cage door opened. He let his body go limp, knowing what would happen now. Dragged onto the ground, kicked and punched, while about him the three others were beaten too. Water, held to his mouth. Drank, and drank. He tried to stop. They poured the water in. At last he lay, gasping and gagging on the ground. He felt his body as if it was far off, felt it lifted, thrust back into the cage, felt a bayonet point on his back till he found the strength to kneel once more.

  Somehow they slept that night, all leaning against each other. Morning came in a blaze of pain and light. A guard approached. He opened the door. He left it open, opened the next cage too, then walked away.

  Ben couldn’t move. If he couldn’t move, none of them could get out, for he was by the door. But there were Curly’s hands, hauling him out onto the ground, already back, helping the others too.

  He looked towards the third cage, its door still shut. Saw the men inside look at him, no envy and no hope.

  He tried to stand. Couldn’t. He staggered, bent over, to his hut. For three days he tried to straighten up and each time it was agony. On the fourth day he managed to stand, holding a stick.

  That night after the radio broadcast he risked the dogs to stand by the cage, holding his stick to keep them off, and whispered news to men who didn’t answer, perhaps could not even hear now or understand. ‘The Yanks have landed in Italy, at Anzio. Russians have smashed the German lines at Leningrad. Anthony Eden was talking about Jap camps on the BBC tonight. They’ve picked up some Aussies who were on a Jap ship, torpedoed by a submarine. Left to drown — they kept the hatches locked — but our blokes got to them in time. Three Yanks who escaped from the Philippines have told their stories too. Bad as here, I reckon. Starved. Some poor blighters buried alive. Know what old Eden said?’ He’d memorised it.

  There was no reply from above.

  ‘“Let the Japanese reflect that their war record will not be forgotten.” The world knows about us, cobbers. Our side is on the move now. They’re coming to get us. Any day now they’ll be here.’

  At last a whisper from the shadowed cage. ‘And miss our holiday camp here? They’ll have to drag us out.’

  And that, thought Ben, as he staggered back, lifting his stick at an approaching dog, might well be true.

  The days dragged on; the weeks,
the months. Still no one came, not even a change of guard. No Allied planes. No Aussies marching down the road with the tramp of boots, the sound of ‘Waltzing Matilda’.

  No medicine either. No way to buy it now. Malaria and cholera, gasping above the latrine trench while your insides slid out, left you so weak you crawled on your stomach back to your bunk.

  Men died.

  Ben lived. For now.

  Chapter 40

  Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 10 September 1943

  Sugarless Desserts for Sweet Tooths

  Fruit Salad in Jelly

  Prepare two thinly sliced bananas sprinkled with lemon juice in a mould and cover with the pulp of four passionfruit. Dissolve a dessertspoon of gelatine in a cup of hot water. Add the juice of a lemon. Pour into a fluted mould and allow to set. Unmould by running under the hot water for a few seconds. Arrange on a plate and decorate with fresh passionfruit.

  Contributed by

  Mrs Councillor Bullant

  Easy Desserts for Busy Women

  Get the kids to dig a strawberry patch. Ask Gran for some strawberry runners. Send the kids out to pick berries after dinner. Tell them to pick some for their parents while they’re at it then ask the cow for cream.

  Contributed by

  Mrs Councillor Ellis

  GIBBER’S CREEK, 10 SEPTEMBER 1943

  BLUE

  The man was waiting for her in her office, a stranger in a blue suit — the wrong kind of blue — and brown shoes. No gentleman would wear brown shoes with a blue suit. Why isn’t he in uniform? wondered Blue.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  He grinned, showing a gold tooth. ‘It’s me as can help you, little lady.’

  ‘I am not little, and I am the owner and manager of this factory.’ Blue tried not to let her anger show. ‘But I am a lady, so I will ask you again, politely. How can I help you?’

  ‘You won’t be like that when you hear what I’ve got to offer you.’ The man oozed confidence. ‘What would you say to another four gallons of petrol a week, eh? Might be useful to a businesswoman like you.’ He took her shocked expression for acceptance, and winked. ‘Could throw in a pair of silk stockings too. Might even be able to get me hands on some lipstick.’

  She made herself smile politely. ‘How would you manage that, Mr …?’

  ‘Just call me Sport. Always like to be a good sport, especially to pretty girls.’

  I am twenty-seven, thought Blue. And I have earned the right not to be called a girl.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Like what? Reckon you don’t need butter nor sugar here. Can help yourself from the supplies for the biscuits, eh?’

  Blue squeezed her palms together so he wouldn’t see her anger. Rob men who were fighting a war for them all? But she knew what he wanted from her now. She forced her voice to be friendly. ‘I was thinking about a few yards of silk, Mr, er, Sport.’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll make a bargain with you. You get me, say, ten pounds of butter a week and ten pounds of sugar. Won’t even be missed in a place this big. Just make your bikkies a little less sweet, eh? And in return I can get you petrol and all the pretties you want. Maybe even a ham at Christmas.’

  ‘That is an interesting proposition, Mr Sport.’ She gave him her best ‘fool the punters’ smile, well practised from her days with the circus. ‘Why don’t you sit here and I’ll get my secretary to bring you in a cup of tea?’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind one of your biscuits too. Heard they’re real good.’

  They are, she thought. And they are for the army, not for you. ‘Of course. I won’t be long — I just need to tell my partner. She’ll be as interested in your offer as I am.’

  ‘Chinese lass, ain’t she? Ah, you ladies will do anything for pretties.’

  Blue stood, shut the door behind her and turned the lock. Tea! She wouldn’t waste even the dregs on that man in there. As for a biscuit …

  He was bashing at the door by the time she returned, Mah at her side. ‘You let me out of here! One more minute and I’ll break this door down!’

  Blue turned the key and opened the door.

  He stopped, his fists still in the air. ‘What the flaming hell —?’ he began.

  ‘So sorry to keep you waiting. It took a while to get hold of the sergeant. But he should be here any minute.’

  ‘Sergeant! What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Stopping a black marketeer. He should get five years for this, don’t you think, Mah?’

  Mah nodded.

  He gazed from one to the other, furious. ‘If you think I’m waiting here for any sergeant, you got another think coming. I’m getting out of here.’

  ‘Oh, no, you’re not.’ He found himself gripped by four strong hands. How did women get hands like steel?

  ‘We were trained by an expert,’ said Mah calmly, as if she knew what he was thinking. ‘Exercise every day. Somehow never quite got out of the habit. Never know when you might need to stand on your hands again.’ She glanced out of the window. ‘Yes, that’s the police wagon now. He’s mostly on his bicycle these days. The wagon is specially for you.’

  She looked at him steadily, her hands still gripping like iron. ‘My brother died up in New Guinea defending this country. Blue’s husband is a prisoner of war.’

  Blue shut her eyes. Please, she thought, let Joseph truly be a prisoner …

  ‘What I’d really like to do is kick you where your mother never kissed you. But I was taught to be a lady by an old woman who was most respectable. So instead I’m handing you over all in one piece.’

  Mah turned and smiled at the sergeant who had appeared in the room. ‘Sergeant, he’s all yours. And I wish you joy of him.’

  Chapter 41

  Jim Thompson

  AIF

  3 October 1943

  The Thompson Family

  Drinkwater Station

  via Gibber’s Creek

  Dear family,

  Excuse this, must write it in a rush. There may be a gap in my letters for a while, so don’t want you to worry. All is fine and will be fine, but expect mail services will be few and far between.

  Wilton sends you his best wishes, and wants to know if there might be a job as a shearer’s cook after the war. I said you’d probably snap him up!

  Love to all,

  Jim

  PULAU AYU PRISON CAMP, OCTOBER 1943

  NANCY

  ‘Wire,’ said Sally.

  Gavin looked out the door at the barbed-wire fence, rusty brown after two wet seasons. ‘Vire,’ he said.

  Water from the late-afternoon storm dripped through the roof. It was impossible to keep anything dry; impossible to keep anything damp free from mould. Rope was forbidden to them, but every day when she picked the basket of hibiscus buds, Nancy managed to gather some of the long tropical grass too, then plaited it into string the way Gran had shown her.

  Washing lines now stretched from hut to hut, festooned after every storm with their blankets and clothes, steaming gently in the sun.

  ‘W. Wire,’ repeated Sally.

  ‘Wire,’ said Gavin. He gave her a cheeky grin, as if he knew he’d got it right that time.

  ‘Very good!’ Nurse Rogers clapped as well as Sally and Moira. Nancy smiled as she twisted more string. Gavin might have no proper toys, no playmates his own age. But he had six aunties and a mother lavishing him with love and attention.

  ‘Green tree,’ said Sally. ‘Green bush. Blue sky. Blue dress.’ Gavin stared at Sally’s dress, vaguely puzzled. Its cloth was a long way from sky blue these days.

  Nancy looked back down at her plaiting. The string was strong, but rotted as fast as cloth in the heat and the wet. Gran had shown her how to run stringybark rope through a fire to make it waterproof, but when she’d tried that with the grass string it simply frizzled and burnt. Which meant she had to make new string every few weeks.

  A shadow made her look up. The translator stood there, the commandant behind him. She stood hurried
ly with the other women and bowed.

  The translator made the signal to rise. Nancy looked from him to the commandant. Even now they no longer had dysentery — more or less — neither she nor any of the other women had been called to the officers’ house again.

  The commandant held out a small packing case. Nancy took it automatically.

  ‘A present from a Japanese officer to the child,’ said the translator. For the first time he looked at his superior uncertainly. ‘The commandant says that it is International Children’s Day. It is proper for children to get presents on Children’s Day.’

  Nancy had never heard of International Children’s Day. Nor had there been presents or any celebration the year before. She met the commandant’s eyes. He looked at her, his mouth stretched in an emotion impossible to read. He said something briefly to the translator.

  ‘The commandant says to tell you he must leave the island now. He says he has left orders that the food for the child will come every day. He wishes you and the child a good life.’

  ‘Where is he going? Will we get another commandant?’ All at once she realised that life in the camp could have been far worse, with a crueller man in charge. They had not been beaten in camp, except the odd flick with the bamboo poles, which hurt enough but weren’t life threatening. Other than that one night there had been no demand for company. She tried to thrust away the memory of the grey bodies on the beach. That could have been all of them, with another man in charge.

  We are alive, she thought, despite being nothing more than a nuisance at best, at worst an insult to honour. And if we have far too little food, our gaolers are almost as thin as us.

  ‘You must not ask Japanese officer questions,’ said the translator.

  ‘I … I apologise. Please, thank the commandant.’ Nancy nodded to the box, wondering what it contained.

  The commandant spoke before the translator could say anything more. ‘Sayonara,’ he said.

  It was one of the words he had tried to teach her, that night she tried to forget.