Berlin shook his head. ‘Let’s just stooge around for a bit, I need to get my bearings.’
There was a small dip where the hotel’s car park met the road, and Roberts stopped the car there while several cattle trucks rattled past on their way to the saleyards.
‘I know you’re going to have your hands full driving me about and reporting back to Sergeant Corrigan …’
The constable stared straight ahead, waiting. Berlin was glad that the boy hadn’t tried to deny it.
‘But I’m going to need your help. A copper’s only as good as his local knowledge, the word on the street, the stuff he gets from his informants – but I don’t have that knowledge here. I get the feeling that you’re someone who knows how to keep his eyes and ears open. I’d like to know what you think.’
‘Well, Sergeant Corrigan thinks …’
Berlin shook his head. ‘I’m not interested in what the sergeant thinks, Roberts.’
The constable looked at Berlin for a few moments before speaking. The man who’d stepped off the aeroplane in Albury wasn’t quite what Roberts had been expecting. He’d figured a big-city detective and a bomber pilot would be a brash know-all but this Berlin character was nothing like that. He was hard to read and he played his cards close to his chest, that was for sure. There was violence in him too, even though he seemed easygoing, and he certainly looked like he could handle himself in a stoush. Roberts was chuffed that Berlin was asking for his help. No one else at the police station was interested in his ideas or opinions.
‘Wodonga’s a small town, Mr Berlin, and pretty much everyone knows everyone else and all their business. We get a lot of stockmen through because of the saleyards, but mostly they’re only trouble after they get paid. On the whole the soldiers out at the army camps are pretty well behaved, well, in public anyway. Sergeant Whitmore and his MPs keep them in line.’
‘So you think this gang’s not local?’
Roberts shook his head. ‘There’s a bunch of builders out at Bonegilla who’ve been getting into a bit of trouble lately. They might be worth looking into.’
‘Bonegilla?’
‘Bonegilla and Bandiana were the biggest of the army camps round here during the war. Bandiana is pretty much the only one still fully operational, though. They’ve got huge repair and storage depots for vehicles and weapons – trucks and tanks and artillery and stuff. And besides all the mechanics they’ve also got engineering and ordnance people based there.’
‘What was the attraction of Wodonga?’
‘It was far enough from the coast to be safe from Japanese planes taking off from aircraft carriers, and with the change of railway gauges at Albury it meant you could ship stuff north or south pretty quickly in an emergency. They had lines running out to the camp in both gauges.’
‘And Bonegilla?’
‘That’s out past Bandiana, near the Hume Weir. It was this massive training establishment with barracks and mess halls and a hospital. The two camps had ten thousand people based there between them but now Bonegilla’s been scaled right back and a lot of its facilities are being turned into a reception place for all those displaced persons and migrants who’ll be coming out from Europe soon. I reckon this town will be a bit of a shock for them.’
‘Trust me, Roberts, some of the places these DPs will be coming from would be an even bigger shock to you. What’s the gen on these builders?’
‘Lot of work for tradesmen out there, getting the camp up to scratch, and this mob turned up a couple of months back. Half a dozen of them, and real hard bastards. Probably ex-military, but that’s nothing new. They drink too much, cause a lot of trouble. And some of the local girls have had problems with them.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Some of them ride around on motorcycles.’
‘That sounds like a pretty good reason to make Bonegilla the first stop of the day.’
Five minutes after they left the outskirts of Wodonga the flat countryside gave way to bare, gently undulating hills with outcrops of lichen-covered rock. They passed a pub on the right side of the road and then, behind sagging barbed-wire fencing, rows and rows of neatly parked military vehicles appeared – there looked to be thousands of them.
Roberts slowed the Dodge down. ‘That’s Bandiana.’
On both sides of the roadway Berlin could see canvas-topped khaki and jungle-green four- and six-wheeled military trucks, jeeps, small-tracked Bren gun carriers and large tanks. There were also rows of canvas-wrapped objects in the distance that he reckoned were probably field guns. He twisted in his seat for a better view as they drove past a long double row of brand-new, six-wheeler Studebaker trucks.
Berlin whistled. ‘That’s amazing.’
‘Oh, that’s nothing. Stacks of equipment has already been sold off and they’ve still got warehouses further back crammed full of stuff. They say at the peak of the war there were maybe fifteen, twenty thousand tanks and trucks and jeeps and bits and pieces parked around the joint.’
The ranks of vehicles seemed to go on for miles and then finally the fences ended and Bandiana was behind them, and they were back in open country. Somewhere far ahead Berlin saw the glint of sun on water, but before they reached the weir they arrived at Bonegilla.
Roberts turned the car off the main road and into the driveway of the army camp. They stopped at a small guard post where a soldier in a slouch hat and khaki battle dress was sitting outside in the shade, reading a copy of the Australasian Post. As Berlin wound down his window the soldier glanced over the top of the buxom swimsuit girl on the magazine cover and asked, ‘You right?’
‘You’ve got a bunch of carpenters here, I’m told.’
‘We got carpenters, plumbers, tilers. Take your pick.’
‘Riding motorcycles.’
‘Oh, those bastards.’ The sentry folded his magazine and stood up. ‘Down that way about half a mile and then hang a left at the dunny block and keep going till you run into a bloody great pile of dead marines, you can’t miss ’em. And watch yourself with those blokes, if there’s trouble you’re on your own.’
TWENTY
Roberts drove slowly, following the guard’s directions. The camp was sprawling, with sealed roads and street names, but had a desolate, forlorn feeling. There were people around, soldiers and civilians, but not enough to make the place look or feel lived in.
As they drove down the rows of wood and corrugated-iron sheds and barracks, the lethargy of the camp sentry became a common theme. Soldiers and officers ambled across parade grounds or in and out of the buildings, and any saluting Berlin saw seemed casual, or even downright resentful.
‘This must be a bastard of a place in summer.’
‘That’s the truth, Mr Berlin. You get those hot, dry days when it’s a hundred and twenty in the shade and there’s willy-willys whirling down the main street and you can feel all the water being sucked right out of you. And then in winter you freeze your nuts off and the wind blows right through a bloke, no matter how much stuff you’re wearing under your coat.’
They turned left and drove another couple of hundred yards before Roberts slowed the car. ‘I guess this has to be the place.’
Dead marines were empty brown beer bottles, and the height of the pile indicated Berlin would be dealing with men who liked a drink or seven. Roberts pulled the Dodge up next to a half-finished corrugated-iron building. As he climbed out of the car, Berlin could hear the buzzing of blowflies and caught the stink of urine and worse coming from the bushes near a battered ex-military truck.
The sound of hammering stopped and a tall, red-haired man wearing a khaki work shirt, shorts and battered boots stepped into the doorway. He was in his late twenties, with an acne-scarred, weather-beaten face, and he was holding a hammer loosely by his side.
‘Morning. Nice day for it.’
The man studied Berlin’s face before speaking. ‘What the fuck do you want?’
‘I’m not looking for any trouble, sport, so let’s keep it polite.’
Roberts glanced across at Berlin. His voice was even but there was an icy tone that indicated while he might not be looking for trouble, he’d be up for it if it came along.
‘My name’s Berlin. I’m a police officer and I want to talk to you.’
‘I figured you weren’t one of the foremen ’cos those bastards know better than to come bothering us.’
‘I’ve got a few questions. Won’t take long.’
‘You bloody got that right, copper, ’cos I don’t know nuthin’, haven’t seen nuthin’ and I’m not sayin’ nuthin’.’
‘You got a name?’
‘What’s it to ya?’
There was a long silence and then another figure appeared in the doorway.
‘Problem, Blue?’
The red-haired man shook his head. ‘Nothin’ I can’t handle, Stumpy. Just some Johns nosing about.’
The second man was dressed in a plaid shirt, shorts and boots, with a battered slouch hat on his head. He had long, greasy hair, a beard and eyes that twitched constantly, even though he was in the shade of the shed.
Stumpy whistled and three more men appeared from somewhere behind the hut. Two carried hammers and the third was holding a piece of steel pipe. Berlin could smell beer and tobacco and a distinct lack of care about personal hygiene.
Roberts moved around the car to stand beside Berlin.
‘Bringing up reinforcements, copper? I think you and the boys brigade yonder are a little outnumbered.’
Stumpy pulled a half-smoked roll-your-own from the mess of lank hair over his right ear and took a box of wax-tipped, green tropical matches from his shirt pocket. A match flared, lighting up the shadow under his hat brim, and Berlin saw the patch of smooth white flesh on his temple. Stumpy noticed Berlin staring and rubbed the patch of skin with a dirty finger.
‘Woodpecker. Bastard almost took my head off.’
‘Woodpecker’s a Jap light machine gun, Mr Berlin,’ Roberts said.
Stumpy snorted. ‘Very good, give the lad a teddy bear, every child player wins a prize.’
The one named Blue grinned. ‘Your mum get you The Boys’ Bumper Book of Machine Guns for your birthday?’
Berlin sensed Roberts starting to move towards the two men and put out his hand.
‘Let it go, Roberts,’ he said quietly. Then, ‘His old man got knocked by the Afrika Korps, so why don’t you give it a rest.’
‘That so?’ Blue said. ‘In that case, I apologise, Constable. If we hadn’t drunk it all for breakfast I’d offer you a beer.’
‘He could pour it on his Weet-Bix,’ the man with the steel pipe said and the others laughed.
‘Leave it.’ The tone in Blue’s voice killed the laughter.
‘There’ve been some robberies around the area.’
‘It’s a hard, hard world but like I said, seen nothin’, heard nothin’, saying nothin’. Same thing goes for my boys.’
‘I hear you blokes ride motorcycles.’
‘And?’
‘They parked around here someplace?’
Blue shook his head. ‘Too many dubious characters about the place, foremen and officers and the like. We leave the bikes somewhere safe during the day.’
‘Any chance we can get a look at them?’
Blue spat on the ground. ‘Buckley’s. But if you come back with all your mates and all their mates and maybe those nancy-boy MPs from Bandiana, we can discuss it again. For right now I reckon you should just fuck off, we need to get back to work. These palaces for the reffos aren’t going to build themselves.’
Berlin studied the hut for a moment. ‘My brother was a carpenter. My guess is he’d say those walls aren’t all that square.’
Blue shrugged. ‘As if I give a rat’s arse. I never said we was real carpenters. They needed blokes to nail ’em together and me and the boys were looking for a job in the open air where no bugger gives you grief.’
‘Looks like you found that, then.’
‘Yeah, well I had a good long look in the positions vacant pages when I got demobbed and there weren’t a whole lot of jobs advertised for a bloke who was good with a bayonet.’
‘Maybe you could have got a job in a slaughterhouse,’ Roberts said.
Blue spat on the step. ‘No thanks, sunshine, I already had one of those.’
TWENTY-ONE
‘Where do I find Sergeant Whitmore?’
‘He expecting you?’ The sentry at the entrance to the Bandiana camp was reading a copy of the Australasian Post, too.
Berlin held his police ID out the window.
‘Righto, down to the end there and then follow the signs to the Provost Office, you can’t miss it.’ The soldier turned his attention back to the magazine.
Berlin wanted more background on Blue and his boys. Since they were ex-army, he figured Whitmore might be just the man to help.
Roberts stopped the car outside a low wooden building with a verandah. The soldier leaning on the verandah had an MP armband around his right arm, just above the elbow and below his corporal’s chevrons. He was rolling a cigarette.
‘Sergeant Whitmore about?’ Berlin asked.
The corporal indicated the office with a tilt of his head.
‘Why don’t you wait with the car, Roberts,’ Berlin said as he headed up the wooden steps. He knocked on the door and went in.
Whitmore was sitting with his feet up on a wooden desk, reading a copy of The Border Morning Mail. The office had three desks, half a dozen filing cabinets, a notice board with some flyers pinned to it and an old ice chest in one corner. Behind Whitmore’s head, a large Japanese battle flag with a red rising sun on a white background was pinned to the wall. There was a samurai sword in a black lacquered scabbard mounted beneath it.
Whitmore looked over the top of the paper at Berlin. ‘Morning, Charlie. Seems like the government is dead keen on bringing in this forty-hour week, and according to the dairy farmers it will be the end of civilisation as we know it.’
‘I’d be happy if I could get mine down to sixty.’
‘Pull up a pew, mate. You’re just in time for tea. The lad’s got a brew on.’ He walked over to a side door and yelled, ‘Private Champion! I hope that bloody tea is strong this time, none of that witch’s piss you’ve been making lately. We need two clean cups and see if you can find some of that fruitcake your auntie sent. We’ve got visitors.’
‘Champion? Is that Cec Champion’s boy?’
‘Yep. Young Kenny. He’s a good lad.’
Whitmore was limping slightly as he walked back to his desk, and the soldier winced as he sat in his chair.
‘Last night catching up with you?’
‘Must be getting old, Charlie. Time was I could eat blokes like that for breakfast and still take down a copper for morning tea.’
‘Then I guess I’m glad you’re past it.’
Private Champion came into the room with a tray. There were two enamel mugs, a teapot and a plate with several thick slices of fruitcake. He put the tray on the sergeant’s desk and turned to Berlin. ‘You want milk or sugar?’
‘Milk and two, thanks. It’s Kenny, right? We bumped into each other in the pub last night, remember?’
The private nodded, but seemed preoccupied. ‘Sorry about that, I was in a hurry.’
‘I heard about your brother. I’m sorry. I lost my brother up north, too.’
‘Yeah, thanks. I’ll take a cup out to Bob, shall I?’
‘That’d be nice.’
‘That’s us now, Charlie,’ Whitmore said, ‘the nice army. No more celestial Sons of Heaven to slaughter and from next year we become a real standing army for the first time. Don’t know why since we won two world wars with just the blokes who showed up when the shooting started. Now there’ll be new uniforms and a new command structure and even more buggers to salute. All they’ll probably keep is the flag and the hat.’
‘You staying in?’
‘I’ll be army to the bitter end, old son, and you can quote me on
that.’ He raised his mug in a toast. ‘To absent friends, Charlie, and brothers.’
Berlin lifted his. He sipped his tea then reached for a slice of the fruitcake. ‘You from around here, Pete?’
Whitmore shook his head. ‘Country New South Wales, Bathurst. Like Mo McCackie, I’m just a boy from the bush.’
Berlin smiled. He’d seen the comedian Roy Rene do his act on stage at the Tivoli theatre more than once. Rene would walk on stage as Mo McCackie, dressed to the nines like every wannabe local gangster and street corner spiv, and deliver the ‘just a boy from the bush’ line to uproarious laughter from crowds who had heard it dozens of times already.
‘Family still there?’
‘No family to speak of. Never knew my mum, she ran off when I was just a bub. Pegged out not long after – Spanish flu.’
That would make Whitmore a bit under thirty, Berlin calculated, but he looked a lot older.
‘The old man raised me on his own. Had a hardware store and I had a bit of a knockabout time growing up. It was grouse, riding horses and building forts in the bush and shooting rabbits with my pea-rifle. The Depression knocked the hardware store and the rest of Bathurst on the head and the old man and me hit the road. I guess I was twelve or thirteen.’
‘Must have been tough.’
‘Nah, not really. I was still a kid so it was all a bit of an adventure. Missed a meal occasionally but we got by okay and I got to meet a lot of interesting people. I missed out on school, too, which I figured was no loss. If the old bloke scored a job for a couple of days in some country town he had me down at the library or the Mechanics Institute catching up on my reading. And when we camped by a railway line the passengers would sometimes chuck out their newspapers and magazines for us. Kept us up on the day to day.’
‘Where’s your old man now?’
‘Dead. Died a long time back. We were jumping the rattler in north Queensland, trying to get onto a goods wagon. They slow down on the curves and I’d just got on board and turned round to give the old man a hand and an express train going the other way came out of nowhere and cleaned him up.’
‘Jesus.’
The Diggers Rest Hotel Page 8
