by Peter Watt
Ilsa and Karl had grown close during the journey back on the sub, and had swapped many stories of their families. Ilsa had wanted to know as much as she could about her father and half-brother, and Karl had spent hours recalling their childhood and schooldays together. It was only when he had met with Featherstone in the Philippines that he had learned of Lukas’s death.
‘If you will excuse us,’ Karl said, turning to the two senior officers. ‘I haven’t seen my cousin for a while.’
Karl walked with Ilsa onto an open verandah overlooking a well-kept tropical garden. Ilsa took out a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her trousers and offered Karl one. He accepted, although he rarely smoked. Ilsa lit both cigarettes and they watched the smoke curl lazily on the late afternoon breeze.
‘Do you know that Jack and my mother got married a couple of weeks ago in Australia?’ Karl said, and knew by Ilsa’s expression that he’d surprised her.
‘How do you feel about that?’ she asked. ‘Your mother and . . . my father!’
Karl broke into a deep, low laugh. ‘I think it’s good,’ he replied. ‘But I suppose it does rather complicate family relationships.’
Ilsa thought for a moment and burst into laughter. ‘Well, I did say I always wanted a big brother . . . now I’ve got one.’
‘I know that Jack would like to see you again,’ Karl said, suddenly serious. ‘Have you tried to contact him?’
Ilsa drew on her cigarette and looked away. ‘So much has happened,’ she said. ‘When I got sent home, back to my old job with the paper, I found out about an operation that was intended to rescue me in New Guinea. It was planned and carried out by my father. But, of course, you probably know all about that. I cannot understand why, if God is meant to be merciful, my father saved the man I was to marry, then lost his son in an attempt to rescue me. It seems like some kind of cruel trick.’ Ilsa turned to look Karl directly in the eyes. ‘How can I face my father knowing that I have cost him so much?’
‘Ilsa, you were not responsible for Lukas’s death,’ Karl said gently. ‘Knowing Jack as well as I do, I know he would never blame you. Besides, you know from your own experiences during the war that death is all a matter of luck. There’s nothing fair about who gets to live and who dies. Lukas’s death was never your fault. It could have happened to him many times over before he even went on that mission.’
Ilsa could see that Karl was trying to reassure her and she appreciated the gesture. ‘I’m sorry, Karl,’ she said, ‘but I will always live with the guilt of my half-brother’s death. I think he would still be alive today if I had never existed, or had not insisted on meeting Jack.’ She gazed out at the garden in silence. Finally she turned to Karl. ‘I so badly want Jack to give me away when I marry Clark,’ she said softly. ‘But I am still afraid of how he might react to me after everything that has happened.’
‘I think you should get in touch with Jack,’ Karl said, gazing across the peaceful garden of butterflies and flowers.
‘Do you think the Japanese will surrender unconditionally?’ Ilsa asked, changing the subject.
Karl glanced at her and was about to reply when he heard a commotion from the great hall. Someone was calling for silence for an important announcement and the words drifted through the wide French doors onto the verandah.
‘Gentlemen, the news has just come through. The Japanese have surrendered. The war is over and we’re all going home!’
The room erupted into shouts of joy. Karl turned to Ilsa and hugged her. ‘It’s over,’ he said, as though he couldn’t quite believe it.
Ilsa knew she should be happy – she was happy – but her thoughts were still with her father. The war was over but they would all live with the consequences for the rest of their lives.
*
Jack Kelly was on leave in Townsville when the Japanese surrender was announced. He was outside, repairing the henhouse, when Karin suddenly burst out the door.
‘Jack,’ she shouted down to him. ‘The war is over.’
Jack straightened up, feeling the creaking of his bones from the manual labour. Sweat poured down his body. ‘The Japs have thrown in the towel?’ He had expected it, of course, but somehow he could hardly believe it.
‘Yes, the prime minister has just made the announcement. The war is over and Karl will be coming home to us.’
Jack dropped the hammer and walked towards Karin. That the war was over was wonderful news but somehow it made things worse to know that his son had been killed in the last few months before the surrender.
‘I think you should go into town and celebrate with your army mates,’ Karin said from the verandah.
Jack climbed the steps and stood before his wife. He reached out and drew her to him. ‘No, you and I will celebrate together, and raise a glass to those who cannot be with us.’
Together, hand in hand, they stepped through the door of their home to celebrate this happy, but sad, day together.
EPILOGUE
Townsville, Far North Queensland
June 1946
There were only three men standing by the newly dug grave, whilst a fourth, the grave digger, hung back in the shade of a gum tree some yards away.
One of the men sprinkling the dry earth onto the coffin in the grave was a Lutheran pastor uttering the timeless words, ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’
The two mourners were men, one young, one old, standing side by side as if requiring each other for physical support. Although the day was warm, both men wore dark suits and ties.
‘C’mon, Jack, it’s time to go,’ Karl said gently, taking Jack’s elbow to guide him back to the car parked outside the little country cemetery.
Jack Kelly hardly knew the world was going on around him and he let Karl guide him from the place where Karin now lay in eternal rest, far from the land of her birth. A week earlier, having complained of a severe headache all day, Karin had collapsed; a blood clot in her brain, Jack found out later. Jack had held his wife as she died. He had been helpless when she collapsed, as the nearest doctor was a long drive into town and he had been forced to make a decision. He had sensed that she was near death and had chosen to be with her in her last minutes, whispering words of love as the life ebbed from her body.
Karl had come as soon as he’d heard the news. The two men had spent the evening before the funeral sitting on the verandah of the house Karin had loved. Few words had passed between them; they had sat mostly in silence into the early hours of the morning, sharing a bottle of gin. Karl knew that Jack was a man who kept his grief to himself, but when they finally retired he could hear Jack sobbing inconsolably from the bedroom he had shared with Karin.
Karl had lain awake staring at the ceiling, guessing that not all Jack’s tears were for Karin alone. In his lifetime Jack had buried three wives and one son – along with many friends. It was a lot for one man to bear.
After the Japanese surrender Karl had returned to a world where civilians talked about how tough it had been on the home front because of rationing. Karl had kept his mouth shut, but he’d wanted to explode at their petty complaints when his memories were of men who had gone without sleep, food and medical attention in the stinking hell of the tropical battlegrounds. Many of them hadn’t survived; those that had were still haunted by the horrors they had seen. Karl couldn’t stand the complaints that there had not been enough sugar or tea during the war, so he found himself avoiding company, unless it was that of other soldiers, who understood without a word needing to be said.
When he arrived back in Sydney he considered contacting Sarah again, but he was unsure of himself. What if she had forgotten him? What if she had met another man, as Marie had? He had made no attempt to contact Sarah since he’d left her flat that morning – perhaps she would be angry with him for that. But after a few days he forced himself to hail a taxi to her flat. He was still in uniform and the ribbons on his chest reflected his courage in the face of war but not in that of love.
He knocked on her
front door and held his breath. A voice asked who was there and Karl answered, although he wanted to walk away. Better just to have kept the memory of their wonderful encounter that New Year’s Eve than to spoil it like this. The door opened and Sarah was there, just as he had remembered her. Then she was in his arms and Karl was surprised to see the tears of happiness in her eyes. They had barely been apart from then on. At night, when Karl would invariably relive the horrors of combat, Sarah would hold him as if he were a child, whispering soothing words until he was able to stop trembling. Her gentle ways impressed Karl as much as her extraordinary beauty.
He had been about to ask her to marry him and go with him back to New Guinea when he had received the news of his mother’s death.
‘Uncle Jack, is there is anything I can do?’ Karl asked now, as the two men drove from the cemetery.
‘No,’ Jack replied. ‘Just having you beside me today is enough. I’ll be all right.’
Karl frowned. He was worried about Jack. ‘What do you plan to do now?’ he asked. ‘Will you go back to the plantation?’
‘I can’t see any reason to,’ Jack answered in a distant voice. ‘Without your mother beside me the place would be haunted by too many ghosts . . .’
‘You’re not thinking about doing anything stupid, are you?’ Karl asked, glancing sideways at him. ‘The bloody war’s already taken enough from me.’
Jack reached over and gripped Karl’s arm. ‘Promise I won’t do myself in, but right now I’m lost for any real purpose in life. It seems that God has singled me out for a cruel joke. I get to live, but I have to bury my son and three women I loved very much.’
Karl could see the bitter tears welling in Jack’s eyes. ‘How about we get you home and have a beer,’ he said gently as Jack released his grip on his arm. ‘I’ll cook us something.’
They reached the little house, and Karl escorted Jack inside. He stayed with Jack for another night before catching the train back down south. As the train puffed away from the station, Karl could see Jack standing alone on the platform. Even at a distance he could see how beaten Jack looked. Karl would have shifted the very foundations of the earth itself if it meant giving Jack his old life back.
*
The Island of Okinawa
No one took much notice of the solitary Japanese man wearing a battered naval cap and trudging along a winding dirt road towards a village set amongst fields of rice. He was just another wretched and beaten man returning from some front of the war.
Fuji had travelled to Okinawa after he had been released from the prisoner of war camp in Australia. This island still bore the scars of a bitterly fought and bloody war, and its people were still raw from the American invasion twelve months earlier.
A jeep containing two smartly dressed American officers bounced past Fuji, but he barely noticed. He was exhausted after the endless journey from Australia. He had been proved to be a model prisoner and had been given the opportunity to be repatriated to a place of his choosing in the Japanese islands. At least now he could honour his promise to a dead comrade.
When Fuji finally stumbled into the village he walked to the square, where he found a well from which he drew water to slake his thirst. The day was hot and he had walked a long way. Fuji had noticed the lack of fit young men in the village, and a cluster of old women, old men and children seemed to dominate the square. A couple of old women stared at Fuji with expressions of curiosity as he sat on the edge of the well.
‘You are not from here,’ one of the old women broached boldly. ‘You do not look like one of us.’
Fuji had trouble understanding her, as the Japanese she spoke was heavily accented. ‘No, old mother,’ he replied politely. ‘I am from a country to the south and was a dear friend of Petty Officer Oshiro, who died for the Emperor in a faraway land.’
‘Oshiro!’ the old woman gasped. ‘He was my son!’
Tears began to flow down the old woman’s wizened cheeks. Fuji had not expected to meet Oshiro’s family so soon and was at a loss for words as he attempted to comfort the old lady stooped over in age and grief. Her friend uttered soothing words to her and put an arm around her shoulders, speaking into her ear before turning to look at Fuji.
‘You are Japanese but speak with an accent that is not Japanese,’ she said. ‘Oshiro’s mother thanks you for coming all this way to relate the death of her son. Until now she did not know of his fate, but she suspected that he had been killed.’
‘I promised her son that I would go to his wife and children to tell them that he had died bravely, honouring the Emperor with his death,’ Fuji said. ‘Could you tell me where I might find them?’
‘Oshiro’s wife was killed in the fighting when the bombs landed on our village,’ the woman answered. ‘Only her sons and daughters survived. They live with Oshiro’s mother. She can barely feed them on her own and will need help now that we know Oshiro will not be returning to us. Can you help?’
Fuji had promised his friend that he would do all he could for his wife and children.
Oshiro’s mother wiped away her tears and took a step towards Fuji. ‘You come with me and stay at my house,’ she said. ‘My family needs a man to plant the rice, and all the men from the village are gone.’
Fuji allowed himself to be led to a hut that was badly in need of repair, having obviously suffered the effects of an explosion. Oshiro’s mother took him inside and Fuji met the children of his dead comrade: two boys and three girls, ranging from three years of age to twelve. They stared at him with a mix of curiosity and animosity. The little girl was the only one who smiled at him.
‘This man has come to help us,’ Oshiro’s mother said. ‘He will be your new father and I will find him a wife to be your new mother.’
Stunned, Fuji listened to the old woman’s declaration. This was going beyond anything Oshiro would have expected from him, but when he looked into the trusting eyes of the little girl he knew that he would never leave this place. His mother and father had died in internment, supposedly from natural causes, but Fuji suspected they had died from broken hearts at being taken from the land they called home. Fuji had had no home or family, then suddenly this old woman had given him both.
Fuji bent down and scooped up the little girl.
‘What is your name?’ he asked her.
‘What is your name?’ Oshiro’s mother countered and Fuji turned to her, holding the little girl in his arms. ‘My name is Fuji Komine and I was born in the Australian territory of Papua, but this will be my home and I will look after your family.’
*
Sydney, New South Wales
‘Sir Rupert Featherstone,’ Karl chuckled. ‘Do you know, all that time I worked for you, I didn’t know your first name.’
‘Well, old boy,’ Featherstone smiled self-consciously, ‘at the time it did not seem to have much importance.’
‘So the King recognised your services during the war,’ Karl continued as the two men sat at a table in one of Sydney’s finest restaurants, sipping Scotch from iced-filled glasses.
‘I am pleased that my recommendation for your DSO was approved,’ Featherstone countered as a waiter hovered nearby, waiting to take their lunch order.
‘How long will you be staying in Australia?’ Karl asked, signalling the waiter to approach.
‘I will be returning to London as soon as I finish some business in Malaya,’ Featherstone replied, scanning the menu. ‘You colonials are fortunate that you do not have the severe rationing we have in England. What I see here is fit for any of the best tables back home.’
When they had ordered and the waiter had departed, Featherstone leaned forward to speak. ‘Have you considered my suggestion of resigning from the territorial administration and taking a position with us? I have reason to believe that the young lady you have been courting in Sydney is not very eager to live with you in Papua.’
‘I never fail to be surprised by just how much you know about my private affairs,’ Karl growled. ‘I a
m not even going to ask how you knew that.’
Featherstone leaned back slightly and picked up his glass. ‘You were the best agent I have had the pleasure of working with,’ he said, raising his glass in a toast. ‘Your considerable talents in intelligence are wasted on those headhunters and cannibals. The world is moving into an undeclared war between the free world and the communist bloc. Working for us would promise a better future for your young lady.’
Karl groaned. Featherstone had identified his Achilles heel – Sarah Kensington. Karl was in love with this enigmatic and beautiful young woman, and she had agreed to marry him – on the condition that they remain in Sydney. Karl had considered resigning his career as a patrol officer to go into the world of finance, but the thought did not appeal to him. He was restless and had grown too used to living off adventure and adrenaline.
‘What are you offering?’ he asked.
A broad smile spread across Featherstone’s face. ‘Dear chap, do you remember your short time with those Chinese guerrillas in Malaya? Well, we need a hand to sort out a few problems they’re causing us. If you accept my offer I will have you put on the payroll with a salary commensurate with that of an army colonel. I promise that it will be more than you are getting now, and it will solve your delicate problem of Miss Kensington not wanting to live in Papua.’
Karl sighed. One life was over and another about to commence. ‘There is just one thing I need you to do for me before I sign up,’ he said. ‘I know that you can call upon your considerable contacts in the United States to do me a favour.’
‘Within reason,’ Featherstone replied cautiously. ‘Just what can I do for you?’
Karl explained and the matter was settled. When lunch was over, both men went their respective ways knowing that they would meet again as comrades in this new war between democracy and communism.
Karl picked up an afternoon newspaper on his way to the cinema to meet Sarah. He was early, though, and had time to sit in the foyer with his feet up, perusing the latest news of the world. As he flipped through the paper a photograph in the social pages caught his eye. He recognised Megan’s face immediately. She was wearing a stylish hat and was standing beside a rather handsome but gaunt man. Karl read that Dr and Mrs Charles Crawford had returned from their honeymoon. Dr Crawford was a well-known Sydney specialist with a practice in Macquarie Street; he had a distinguished service record with the RAAF, serving in the Pacific Islands towards the end of the war. Dr Charles Crawford had met his bride during his time overseas and they had married six weeks earlier.
