The Diggers Rest Hotel

by Geoffrey McGeachin

  ‘Yeah, one moment we’re laughing and yelling and I’m calling him a slow old bastard and our fingertips are just touching and the next minute I’m a bloody orphan.’

  Berlin didn’t say anything.

  ‘I was on my Pat Malone until the stoush with the Jerries started and I joined up. Then when the Japanese jumped in I wound up with one of the independent companies, like I said, since I was a bit too independent for the regular mob. Me and the jungle got along okay so I managed to make it through to VJ Day pretty much in one piece.’

  Berlin noted that Whitmore always used the word ‘Japanese’ rather than the almost universal ‘Jap’.

  ‘When it was over they asked for volunteers to go to Japan as part of the occupation force, so I put my hand up. Not a lot to come back to in Aussie and anyway, I was a bit scrambled in the head after some of the things I’d seen and stuff we had to do.’

  ‘How was that? Japan, I mean?’

  ‘Amazing. And awful. The Yanks gave the Commonwealth Occupation forces the shitty end of the stick, but what else is new? Our mob got Hiroshima Prefecture – you know, where they dropped the first atom bomb. It was a lousy job, bad quarters, supplies were crook and the locals were all shell-shocked. The Japanese have immense respect for authority and the higher-ups had been giving ’em all this bullshit about how well the war was going right up to the moment their hometown was vaporised, along with most of their friends and families.’

  On the forced march back into Germany from his POW camp in Poland, Berlin had passed through towns and cities pulverised by Allied air attacks. As bad as the destruction was, nothing he’d seen had come even close to the newsreel footage of the devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the A-Bombs.

  ‘Tell you one thing, Charlie, I was glad I did what I did up north because when you see what an occupying force can get up to in a defeated country you’d never want to have enemy soldiers strutting around Melbourne or Sydney or Brissy. You give one man total power over another and it gets ugly real quick.’

  Berlin’s mind flashed to a slush-covered Polish roadway but he quickly forced the thought out of his head.

  ‘Pick any bloke in any pub,’ Whitmore continued, ‘pick the one who’s all smiles and jokes and bloody hail fellow, well met. Tell him he can do what he likes to anyone in the room and no one would lift a finger to stop him or ever breathe a word about it and he’d have the barmaid naked and bent over a table in about ten seconds flat or he’d get a knife from the kitchen and cut off some bastard’s cock or gut him or chop off his head. Trust me on that.’

  ‘Stuff like that happen in Japan?’

  ‘Human nature is human nature, Charlie. To make us kill the Japanese they had to make us hate the Japanese, which wasn’t too hard since your average Aussie already had a head start disliking all Asians. So they filled the fellers up with a lot of horror stories and some were true and some were bullshit. A lot of blokes in the Commonwealth Occupation Forces hadn’t seen action – joined up or finished training too late – but they knew blokes who got knocked: family friends, relatives and such. Plus all that stuff about what happened to the POWs under the Japanese had come out.’

  ‘The Japs started it, didn’t they?’

  ‘That they did and the Imperial Nipponese army did some bloody horrendous stuff and they deserved all they got and then some. I never once regretted pulling the trigger up north but every second bastard on both sides has a wallet with a photo of Mum and Dad or the wife and kids and pretty much everyone’s homesick and frightened.’

  Berlin wondered if his brother had been homesick and frightened. His brother had been a soldier, a man like Whitmore, someone who did his killing up close, seeing the results of his actions. Berlin’s killing happened after, after ‘Bombs Gone’ crackled in his headphones and he wrenched the aircraft around with its engines screaming. That was all the screaming he’d had to listen to.

  ‘Look, Charlie, I’m not saying some of our blokes treated the civilians in Japan anywhere near how they would have treated us if they’d had the chance but, you know, I saw a few pretty nasty things over there and the funny thing is I always thought we were supposed to be the civilised ones.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  While Berlin sipped his tea he could hear shouting and the familiar sound of boots on a parade ground. Whitmore finally put his mug on the tray, leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. ‘We’ve had the tea and the cake and you know more about me than I do about you so we should probably get down to tin tacks, what d’ya reckon?’

  ‘Truth is, Pete, I wanted to pick your brains.’

  ‘Might be slim pickings, digger, but fire away.’

  Berlin opened his folder and handed over the photograph.

  Whitmore studied the picture for a minute and then shook his head. ‘Can’t really help you, mate. Picture’s a bit blurry. You get it off your Miss Green?’

  ‘Yes, but she’s not my Miss Green.’

  ‘You two had your heads pretty close together at the pub last night. Put in a decent bit of spadework, Charlie – take her to the pictures, buy her a nice bunch of flowers and a box of Winning Post chocolates, and you never know your luck. I’ve seen blokes worse looking than you score big with the sheilas.’

  ‘Winning Post, you reckon?’

  Whitmore grinned. ‘Yep, works every time.’ He studied the photograph carefully. ‘Harley-Davidsons, looks like, army issue. Nice bikes.’

  ‘So if they’re military bikes and the blokes riding them are waving Tommy guns about, logic says there might be a military connection.’

  Whitmore handed the photograph back. ‘If you’re talking about the army, Charlie, logic has very little to do with anything. And there are a hell of a lot of demobbed ex-soldiers out in civvy street who know how to handle a Tommy gun. Probably one or two Tommy guns floating about, too, given how soldiers feel about snaffling the odd souvenir.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. What do you know about some carpenters with motorcycles out at Bonegilla?’

  ‘Me and my boys have had the odd set-to with those bastards, but now they know the limits. Just another bunch of demobbed diggers having trouble getting themselves sorted.’

  ‘Since they’re ex-military, any chance you can dig up some background on them for me?’

  ‘Happy to try, old son. I can get their real names easy enough, but having someone hunt through army records down at Vic Barracks for more info could take a while.’

  ‘Whatever it takes. I can’t go home till I’ve got this sorted.’

  ‘Lucky you, stuck in Wodonga, the Paris of the north. Of course, that’s assuming Paris has an arse end.’

  Whitmore stood up and reached for his slouch hat from on top of the filing cabinet.

  ‘Fancy a bit of a tour of the camp? Since you’re looking for military-type motorcycles I want to show you something.’

  He smiled when Berlin picked up his folder.

  ‘No need for that, she’ll be safe in here while we’re gone.’

  Berlin smiled back. ‘She’ll be safe in your jeep too, right?’

  ‘Charlie, old son, nothing and no one is safe in my jeep, as you are about to find out.’

  Outside, Berlin walked round to the left side of the parked vehicle and was stopped by a whistle from Whitmore.

  ‘Other seat, mate, it’s a Yank vehicle, remember. Bastards put the steering wheel on the wrong side.’

  They left Roberts sitting in the Dodge with a couple of copies of Man magazine. Whitmore pointed out the massive repair workshops and giant storage sheds full of all kinds of transport and attack vehicles, then he took the jeep off road, speeding up and bouncing through rutted and churned countryside and in and out of the neat rows of trucks and jeeps. Berlin grabbed on to the windscreen as the jeep bucked and tossed, nearly throwing him out of his seat.

  ‘Warned ya, Charlie!’ Whitmore yelled. ‘Run a tank or two across the old vegetable garden and you bloody know abou
t it.’ Berlin could see from the grin on his face that Whitmore was having a good time.

  They skirted a parade ground where a corporal was berating a small squad of marching soldiers, screaming comments about their mothers, grandmothers and the legitimacy of their births, before driving into one of the large warehouses.

  ‘You’re looking for military Harleys, so here you go, take your pick.’

  Under the corrugated-iron roof of the warehouse, Berlin was staring at row after row of neatly parked olive drab motorcycles, all looking brand-new.

  ‘Three hundred and ninety-seven bikes,’ Whitmore said, ‘and you’re welcome to count ’em if you want. And these are just what we have on hand after flogging a heap off.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘Local and interstate army-surplus dealers and a couple of police departments. Pretty much anyone with enough cash. Might be a list somewhere but I don’t have it.’

  ‘So this gang’s bikes could have come from anywhere?’

  ‘Sorry, but that’s the drum. Wangaratta police came up and checked the inventory when this whole business started. My blokes have no missing motorcycles or weapons, nothing unaccounted for. Same goes for the Bonegilla camp but that’s pretty empty anyway, what with them getting it ready for the reffos.’

  ‘What’s the local feeling on the DPs being billeted here? You think there might be trouble?’

  ‘These people are gunna be Balts and Dutchies and Poles and Hungarians. Probably even some krauts. And most of them won’t speak any English. Strangers make some of the locals nervous, Charlie,’ Whitmore said, ‘even just people from the big smoke, regular Aussies, such as yourself.’ He smiled. ‘No offence intended.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Whitmore slid the jeep to a sudden, jarring stop outside the Provost’s Office. A couple more MP jeeps were parked in front of the building and three corporals were waiting on the verandah, smoking.

  ‘Detective-Constable Berlin, meet the boys: Cliffy, Boof and Spud. Corporals Mackris, Bailey and Murphy to their mums.’

  The three soldiers nodded to Berlin. Berlin recognised Corporal Mackris. He was the one who had been abusing the soldiers out on the parade ground.

  ‘Charlie here’s up from town looking for those blokes tearing around the countryside on motorcycles, giving Railways a headache and scaring the shit out of the populace.’

  The men all looked fit, and Berlin noted their relaxed stance and casual arrogance. He also noted that, like Whitmore, they were all wearing multiple rows of ribbons.

  ‘Lot of fruit salad up on that porch.’

  ‘You got that right, we oughta get the mess to whip up a pavlova.’

  ‘You blokes all serve together?’

  ‘Just me and Boof. But we all saw the same kind of action.’

  ‘Life must be a bit dull now compared to what you were doing up north?’

  ‘That’s the army for you, Charlie. It’s all battle or boredom – just filling in time till the next stoush.’

  ‘You reckon another one’s on the cards?’

  ‘Go and have a chat to Captain Bellamy sometime.’

  ‘Who’s Captain Bellamy?’

  ‘Boss cocky out at Bundaroo Downs. Big sheep and cattle property. Been in his family since this town was a pup. He’s a local councillor and just lately he’s been putting together a sort of homemade private-army-cum-militia – the Bushman’s Battalion. If you’re interested in a band of roving nutcases you should probably check them out.’

  ‘And they’re armed?’

  Whitmore nodded. ‘Farm guns mostly, shotguns and hunting rifles. Plus some ex-military .303s. They drill on Bellamy’s land. There’s around thirty of them in the group, give or take, depending on the weather and what’s on at the pictures. Anything with Humphrey Bogart or that Veronica Lake sheila showing at the Melba usually puts a real crimp in the rollcall.’

  ‘Motorcycles?’

  ‘Bound to be a few. Like I said, anyone could buy ’em.’

  ‘Why a militia?’

  ‘He reckons he’s getting them ready to protect property, the local populace and womenfolk against commies, trade unionists, immigrants and the yellow peril sweeping down from Asia.’

  ‘Is he serious?’

  ‘Dead serious. Real captain in the first war, lost a leg at Pozières. Went over to Germany in ’37 or ’38 for a stickybeak and came back saying Hitler had the right idea about how to run a country. Obviously he’s had his head pulled in for the last ten years but just lately the Prime Minister has been getting on his wick. Got a bee in his bonnet with all the industrial trouble we’ve been having recently, and now with the PM wanting to nationalise the banks.’

  Berlin had been reading a lot of fiery newspaper editorials on those subjects lately. ‘You have any feelings on that one way or the other?’

  ‘Not me, Charlie, I’m just a soldier. I try to stay out of politics – it’s a mug’s game. Anyway, our Captain Bellamy did okay during the war selling livestock to the government to feed the troops but things got a bit tough after the war ended.’

  ‘All good things must come to an end.’

  Whitmore grinned. ‘For some people. From the sound of it, Bellamy must be getting back on his feet though. I’ve heard he’s been splashing the cash about recently.’

  Berlin mentally added Bellamy to his list of suspects.

  ‘One last thing, Pete, the local cops are a little outgunned, so if I run into some real trouble down the track any chance I can count on you and your men for a bit of support?’

  Whitmore shook his head. ‘Nothing I’d like better than to sign my boys up for a bit of adventure, Charlie, but unfortunately this is a civilian matter. So I’m afraid you’re out there all on your lonesome.’

  ‘Just thought I’d ask.’

  The two men climbed out of the jeep.

  ‘Thanks for the tour and the tea, Pete.’ They shook hands.

  ‘Anytime, Charlie. Us NCOs got to look out for each other cos no other bugger will.’

  Roberts backed the Dodge out and as they headed down towards the sentry post he glanced over at Berlin. ‘Where to now?’

  ‘Back to town, I need to make a phone call to Melbourne.’ He pulled a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit a match. ‘What do you know about this Captain Bellamy and his militia?’

  Roberts laughed. ‘The Bushman’s Battalion? They’re a real bunch of drongos, those blokes.’

  ‘But they’re drongos with access to vehicles and weapons, and a need for cash to build up their army, Roberts. At this stage we can’t rule anybody out.’

  ‘Right you are, Mr Berlin.’

  Berlin took a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘You get any of that fruitcake with your cup of tea?’ he asked.

  Roberts smiled. ‘A couple of pieces. Kenny and me both play on the local footy team, in the reserves.’

  ‘What’s your position?’

  ‘Ruck-rover.’

  ‘I’d have pegged you as too big for a rover and too short for a ruckman.’

  ‘We don’t win a lot of matches, if that’s what you mean. Kenny’s our full-forward. Got a handy boot on him. Kenny’s a good bloke, bit quiet, but, you know … his brother and everything. You play?’

  ‘I used to.’

  ‘We’ve got an away match on Saturday, if you’re interested.’ He glanced over at Berlin. ‘And if you’re still here, of course.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I don’t think there’s much chance I’ll be getting this mess all squared away in a couple of days.’

  Back at the police station Berlin picked up the telephone on the front desk and had the Wodonga operator connect him to Melbourne. No one answered the phone in the detective squad office and he remembered that it was lunchtime on a payday, which meant everyone would have already left for the pub.

  Berlin went out for a sandwich and when he got back he found a pile of folders on his desk. The Wangaratta police had sent up every single piece of paper they
had on the robberies. They were obviously happy to wash their hands of the whole investigation. He sat down at his desk and began to read, scanning every page carefully, but there was nothing new in the files – just confirmation of what he had been told on the phone.

  He left the office at half-past five, passing the noise and frantic activity of several pubs where patrons fought to get served in the half-hour that remained till closing. Berlin considered joining them but changed his mind. On the walk to the Diggers Rest he found himself wondering if Rebecca would be in for dinner. But there was no sign of her when he got there, so he ate alone.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The gravel driveway from the front gate to the old Bundaroo Downs homestead was lined with a neat row of tall English oaks, which cast long shadows in the mid-morning sun. A single-storey brick structure surrounded by a wide, flywire-screened verandah, the house had a dam behind it, several steel water tanks and a windmill. Set further back were workshops and sheds, an assortment of trucks and farm machinery, and a kennel with a mob of kelpies on chain runs. The dogs began yelping and jumping at the approach of the car.

  As they drove up to the front of the house, Roberts let out a soft whistle. ‘Now, she is nice.’

  ‘She’ was a sleek, pale blue two-door automobile parked in the driveway. The car had white sidewall tyres, covered rear-wheel wells, a matching blue visor over the windscreen and hooded headlights. And anything that wasn’t shiny blue duco was sparkling chrome.

  Roberts slowly pulled the Dodge up alongside. Berlin had very little interest in cars, but this one did have beautiful lines.

  ‘Imagine getting to drive her, Mr Berlin. Chevy Fleetmaster, the latest model and brand-new. Can’t be too many in the country and she wouldn’t come cheap.’

  ‘Whitmore said that things were looking up for Bellamy recently.’

  Roberts glanced over at Berlin but quickly looked away. ‘I guess they must be.’

  They climbed out of the car and the screen door on the verandah swung open. A tall man in jodhpurs, riding boots and a fitted tweed jacket stood in the doorway, leaning on a walking stick. He was smoking a pipe.