When we arrived in Canberra, there was no snow on the Brindabellas out to the west, and the town seemed ominously vacant, still mainly populated by eucalyptus foliage, as if everyone who had an answer for us had fled. We caught a taxi to our boarding house, and despite inquiries about buses, were forced to take another cab to the Department of Defence in its bark-strewn parkland. Though Parliament was not in session, the minister had agreed to see us here. Mr Philip McBride had been a regular member of the cabinet of Prime Minister Menzies. I had seen his face in the press and on newsreels. His office at the department was a plain big room with a massive desk, for which one or two native cedar trees must have been plundered. The office was heartened with pictures of fighter planes and bombers, an aircraft carrier and a cruiser. The planes in the pictures were at ease with the sky. The ships had the sea where they wanted it.
We three were already seated in there when Mr McBride entered with a young man who carried a number of files. Don't get up, ladies, said the minister, as he made his way around the desk. We did half stand in honour of his political gravity, but we were not as innocent as we had once been, so did not overdo it.
The minister settled in his chair and the young man sat on a harder one by the corner of the business end of the desk. Mr McBride began briefing himself on who we were from the notes on his desk.
Rhonda said, Perhaps you remember? We're the women calling on you about the Memerang men.
Ah yes, ah yes, said Mr McBride. Brave men.
He looked up at us, and caught our eyes. Every one of them, he assured us.
Rhonda explained, I was merely the fiancée of Sergeant Bantry. Mrs Waterhouse and Mrs Danway were married to the officers of those names.
Mr McBride asked, The men were . . .?
His secretary muttered something. Oh yes, said Mr McBride, dolorously. Terrible, terrible. Members of the enemy were never charged over it, I've been told, but I believe that most of the people involved were caught for war crimes of another stripe.
Rhonda sat back to allow Mrs Danway and myself to take up the running. We were both guiltily reluctant, but at last I said, We are all concerned that none of the men have been honoured for that last operation.
Mrs Danway stepped in, anxious to emphasise she knew it was no substitute for a husbandly presence. Not that it will bring them home, sir. But they did something very adventurous, and it seemed that no one gave them a lot of credit for it.
Mr McBride turned to his secretary. Was it normal for men to be honoured for secret operations? he asked. Were other IRD men honoured?
The young man looked up from his files. Not normally, sir, he told his master. Only in special circumstances.
I said, My husband, Captain Waterhouse, was awarded the DSO for an earlier mission.
The young man rose and whispered further to Mr McBride. The cabinet minister knotted his broad brow as the whispers entered his ear. At last he said, Ah yes, Mrs Waterhouse, that was for Cornflakes.
He shook his head. These names, he said, chuckling a little. But that was exceptional.
Pat Bantry got the Military Medal, Rhonda said. In North Africa. But Singapore was where he gave everything. And yet there is nothing at all for that.
Mr McBride said, I'm sure it was given every consideration at the time. His secretary was passing another file to him which he quickly read. Oh yes, the policy was reinforced in 1943 after the Cornflakes expedition.
But he read further into the file, squinting his eyes up into a frown now and then. You see, he explained, on Cornflakes they all came back. So they were all witnesses to each other's valour. Sadly, there were no witnesses left after Memerang, and hence no military awards.
He looked up. I know it's harsh, but it is apparently the rule.
I believe we all became simultaneously annoyed at this pettifogging. Mrs Danway said, But there are enough witnesses now. We know what happened, don't we? From witnesses. From the records.
I said, Captain Gabriel told me even the enemy thought they were brave.
And they gave more than most people ever did, said Sherry Danway with an edge. More than any general ever gave.
The minister let a painful smile cross over his face, left to right. Well, you're probably right about that, he admitted. Of course they had cyanide pills . . . Did you know that? All such operatives were issued with them.
I hadn't known. Though I'd heard rumours about it, mainly from Dotty, no one had told us that officially. We took a while to absorb it.
I can't imagine Leo taking a suicide pill, I told McBride. And I don't think he should have been expected to.
Hugo would never have taken his, said Sherry. It was against his religion.
Would you give them a medal if they all took their suicide pills? asked Rhonda.
No . . . The minister knew he had made a tasteless mistake and was back-pedalling. No, suicide is contrary to my principles too.
Though I had sustained myself to this point as well as I could, I wanted the meeting to be over. I wanted it to end in Mr McBride's reasonable surrender. Now that we'd done our duty, I wanted him to say, Of course! What an oversight! I'll take it up immediately and achieve justice for these men.
Then I wanted to gallop down the stairs without the burden of any further knowledge. If you had asked me what I was scared of I wouldn't have been able to tell you. Poor Leo deserved a more valiant wife. But then I thought, What are Dotty or Minette doing? They were fussy women. Though Dotty wrote to me and kept me informed of Minette, she had never mentioned their trying to make a fuss about the men in Whitehall.
So I summed up the feelings of my sisters in grievance. It seems strange to me, I said, that they were decorated for Cornflakes, which didn't kill them, and not for Memerang, which did.
Well, said McBride, it was considered at that time by a thoroughgoing military commission, young lady, and there are no grounds on which I could reverse their decision. Anyhow, look how often the story of Doucette's raiding parties are told in the press. The Memerang people will always be honoured and known to future generations. I really think you'll have to be content with that.
I doubt very much that Sergeant Bantry is happy to let it go at that, Rhonda told the minister.
McBride smiled at her with a sort of heavily tested tolerance.
We're sadly in no position to know that, young lady.
I prayed she would not admit to having seen the ghost, which of course would enable him to end the meeting very promptly. He took this moment of confusion to break away from the mid-desk seat and go to lean over his male secretary for yet another muttered conference. The secretary pointed out paragraphs in files he handed to his superior. McBride scanned them before putting them down again on the desk with a Yes, yes.
Through this, Sherry Danway's eyes remained fixed on his vacated chair. She was pale but – like me – was sticking it out. As the minister returned to his seat, she said suddenly and in a near shout, I think if we tell the newspapers . . . I think they'll find it all pretty strange like we do.
This did upset the minister a little. Look, they can't make any judgement on this matter. At least I am operating on full information. Besides, why now? There is another war raging. Perhaps you should have come forward earlier.
That idea struck us hard – that we'd delayed. In fact, all Sherry Danway and I could do was look at each other, surrendering the advantage to the minister. But Rhonda went on fighting for us. Come on, you have to be fair, Mr McBride, she protested. In those days it was hard for these women to say anything. Memerang were missing. Then every month they learned something new, and it was never good news. They were as scared as billy-o of what they'd hear next. And in any case, they're here now.
The minister nodded, conceding all this. Look, he said, I sincerely urge you all to leave this issue where it stands. I could tell you some committee or other would return to it. But that would be a lie. The matter is finally settled. I wish you'd take my word on that. So, for your own sakes . . .
Our only power, I could sense, was that he was worried we might weep, scream or do some of the other things that made men his age lose their natural colour and close one eye and wince at the messiness of the world. And we could not leave. We didn't know whether his advice was kindness or a lie. He turned to his secretary.
Would you like to talk about this, Mr Henley?
A man unleashed, Mr Henley was happy to. But McBride had a sudden doubt. He held his hand up. Ladies, why not just accept my word on this and go away from here certain of the bravery of your husbands, your . . . men.
Rhonda leaned forward to check our faces. She said, We can't all go away now, Mr McBride. You've raised a mystery.
All right, then, he said, and nodded to Henley. Henley told us that the Memerang men had been considered for awards and decorations. But, he said, there was a further problem than lack of witnesses. As part of the operation, the group had been trained to use a new and very valuable submersible craft. This craft was of such revolutionary design that it allowed operatives to approach enemy ships without being seen. During their training the men learned to handle these craft, and it was impressed on them that if intercepted they were to destroy these vessels and say nothing to the enemy about them. When things did go wrong, they destroyed the vessels. But fragments were retrieved by the Japanese from a shallow sea floor, and presented with these fragments, a number of the Memerang personnel were betrayed into giving information . . . I stress they were probably tricked. Your husband was one, Mrs Waterhouse, and yours another, Mrs Danway. I'm afraid SOE in London, who had ownership of the craft, were very angry about it. And it certainly vitiated any chance of awards and honours.
At this news I felt my consciousness departing and leaned forward in my chair, letting out a great Oh!
McBride said, It doesn't matter at all. They were still heroes, and no one's going to bring out the matter of the submersibles publicly. It would need to come out, of course, only if you made public accusations that we were niggardly towards those men. Are you all right, Mrs Waterhouse?
He was rising in his seat. I felt heeled-over, hanging at a disastrous angle, and when I tried to correct that I stumbled off my chair. I certainly could not speak. There was a flurry of people entering the office and bringing water, but that made me angry for some reason, and with normal irritation, I returned to myself.
Does it mean they were tortured? I asked. I meant, tortured about the submersibles.
For the first time the minister showed some unease. He mumbled, I think it was more a matter of deception and feint –
I stood up. I said, I can't bear it if they were tortured!
My ears were ringing. I knew I was failing Leo, not up to his strength. I have no clear memory from that point until Rhonda and Sherry were taking me down the stairs and assuring various women staff that I was fine now and that we didn't need tea. It would have been impossible for us to drink in McBride's shadow. I couldn't have borne it.
We were fortunate that in the vacant parkland beyond the front door, a cab was discharging a passenger. Rhonda ran and captured it, and we all got in without a word. The only things said during the journey were by Rhonda. I probably shouldn't have pushed this trip on you, she told us wanly. Neither Sherry Danway nor myself was speaking.
We arrived at the boarding house, and Mrs Danway got out immediately and hurried inside, still without saying anything. Since Rhonda insisted on paying the first fare, I applied my confused mind to paying this one. Then we caught up with Sherry – she was in the lobby asking the girl for her key. Rhonda took her by the arm and said something about hoping she was not too upset. She did not get an answer. Well meaningly, she followed Sherry to the stairs. Don't go up to your room, Sherry. Let's have a cup of tea and all cheer up. Why should we give a damn about these submersible boats? If it saved any of them from getting beaten up, all the better!
Sherry Danway said, I wish I'd never seen you. You'll go home to your husband. Nothing's lost to you. Grace and I go home knowing our husbands are blamed, and the blame will always be there, in some file. I thought I was as lonely as a person could be. But you've managed to make it worse. I have a different picture of Hugo I have to live with now.
She covered her eyes with a web of fingers. Poor bloody Danway, she said. Wanting to build his house. Poor helpless big bugger!
I went up to her and held her, and began to feel her inner collapse and the release of tears. It was as if the impact of the original news of execution had occurred all over again. It was exactly as Sherry had said. The minister had given us a new dimension to the version of their deaths we had become accustomed to and managed to live on with. We both doubted we had the strength to absorb new versions.
Rhonda moved to join us in our mourning, but I dissuaded her with a severe look. I felt Sherry Danway's crazy, unstoppable anger too.
Rhonda's face filled with colour. You blame me for this? she asked. Do you?
Yes, I admitted. Don't worry. We can't help it. But it was never your business!
On the way back to Sydney on the train, we all read and moped. Rhonda knew that whatever she said it could call up a fury in us. I went especially to get a cup of tea with her in the buffet car, and I was able to summon the grace to say to her again, Don't worry. It's not your fault.
If I were married to Bantry, she said, I wouldn't blame him for anything he gave away.
Do you really think we blame our husbands? Of course we bloody-well don't.
I felt a desire to hurt her badly – even with a blow. But it had to be suppressed. I warned her though. You're in no position to understand it or be impatient with us.
She sighed and looked out the window. She was a good woman, slow to take offence.
I realise I shouldn't have come, she said, only partly in chagrin.
Twelve
It was not easy of course, but I adjusted to the new terms of Leo's death because people do that, changing the course of their thinking even while believing it can't be done. In some ways I didn't want to examine too closely, the new version of Leo, once painfully digested, made it easier for me to enter a new phase. I married Laurie Burden in 1953, and – in defiance of doctors and nurses who considered me an 'elderly primapara', a first time mother of advanced age, an opinion they expressed in terms such as my making 'a late run' or 'leaving things a bit late' – I gave birth to a healthy boy, Alexander. Alexander was one of those children who carry an air not of being a stranger visiting the earth but of having the ways of the world worked out. He was what we sometimes called a happy warrior, perpetually engaged in cricket, rugby and surfing, an adequate scholar but not to an extent that interfered with his social life. His father considered him not adequately serious. I blessed the balmy star under which he'd been born.
We were suddenly a sanguine and fortunate family, living above Balmoral Beach, sailing every second Saturday on Laurie's boat, opening up Laurie's house and garden to a tide of visitors, contacts of Laurie's, many of whom I found myself liking.
Occasionally a Memerang story would surface without warning in the press – brave Doucette, brave everyone, the gallant Captain Leo Waterhouse. A tale of confrontation, escape, betrayal and tragedy, etc. I knew by some instinct I had not heard the last of any of it.
In the 1960s, Memerang came to a head again through the researches of a young man named Mark Lydon. He was one of those Australian journalists who heavily populated the British press in the days when Fleet Street was a name synonymous with newspapers. A handsome, mannerly young fellow whose clothes had the appropriate scuffed look of a graduate student, he worked for the Observer in England and was contemplating a book on the history of Memerang. From the way he carried himself when he came to see me on a journey home to Sydney, I noticed in him a doggedness which might raise awkward questions all around. The Beatles had just become big, and I wished his mind was set on them rather than the 1940s. But he was easy to talk to, and I did enjoy revisiting such subjects as what an extraordinary
pair Dotty and Rufus were.
The submarine? he asked me at last. You know, it came back late to the meeting place, this NE1, Serapem. But Moxham did come back in the end. And Eddie Frampton, their conducting officer, landed there but decided they weren't there to be picked up. He landed once. And that was it.
I said, He landed once? To look for them?
Yes, I regret that's the situation.
For the moment, I felt impaled.
Look, that's all it seems from the documents I have.
But if you want to pick men up, you have to look more than once.
When I go back to England, said Mark Lydon, I've got to try to see Frampton. He invented the Silver Bullets, you know. But why did he land on the pick-up island just once?
He certainly had a hunger to question Major Frampton. Look, I said, I'm sure he did all he could. I was almost tempted to say, Leave Eddie Frampton in peace.
Is it possible, I asked myself, for the dead to appoint their archivist? For Lydon was as relentless and painstaking as a brother. Maybe more so.
A year or so later I received a letter from Dotty, and enclosed in it a suicide letter from Eddie Frampton addressed to Dotty and Minette and none of the rest of us. Eddie Frampton had been found dead in his car at Doncaster station.
This applies to you as much as it does to myself and Minette, wrote Dotty. In fact, more so. I think Frampton meant we'd send it on to other involved parties, and though I hate to subject you to this stuff, Grace, I also feel it would be criminal not to.
The letter was written on the stationery of Frampton Engineering, Single Girder, Double Girder, Torsion Girder with Cantilever, Gantry Portal Cranes, and Traverser Cranes. It was an excruciating document, occasionally falling away into self-pity, but ruthless as well.
The Widow & Her Hero Page 15
