While the Moon Burns

by Peter Watt

  About While the Moon Burns

  In the war across the seas, the Duffys and the Macintoshes are on the same side. But on home turf, the battle between these two dynasties rages on . . .

  After fighting in two world wars, Tom Duffy’s purchase of his ancestral property Glen View means a home for the next generation of Duffys. But the Macintosh family won’t easily surrender this land, and when they challenge his ownership, he knows he’s in for one hell of a fight.

  Meanwhile in Sydney, Sarah has taken over from her father as the head of the Macintosh firm. She has big plans for herself and the family business, and she isn’t afraid to play dirty.

  Sergeant Jessica Duffy, Captain James Duffy and Major David Macintosh have survived countless battles the world over, but will all they are fighting for still be waiting for them when they return home?

  ‘With tense and immediate battle scenes, a blockbuster plot and unforgettable characters, Peter Watt has crafted a sweeping epic befitting Australia’s dramatic and inspirational history.’ Peter FitzSimons

  Contents

  Cover

  About While the Moon Burns

  Dedication

  Family Tree

  Prologue

  Part One: Rumours of Peace 1945

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Part Two: Echoes of War 1946-1951

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Author Notes

  Acknowledgements

  About Peter Watt

  Also by Peter Watt

  Excerpts from emails sent to Peter Watt

  Copyright Page

  A tribute to Emergency Service Volunteers

  who have made the ultimate sacrifice

  in the course of their duties.

  PROLOGUE

  May 1945

  My name is Wallarie. I was once a warrior amongst my people but now you cannot see me – unless you go out at night and look up at the stars.

  A long time ago a whitefella called Donald Macintosh had all my mob killed. I survived – and now I am also gone.

  But, sometimes I fly to the earth as the great wedge-tailed eagle, and soar above the lands I once hunted. There, I see my kin who sometimes go to the sacred cave on a hill at a place they call Glen View. The cave has the pictures on the walls made by the Darambal people from a time that goes back to the Dreaming. The old ones were wise. They draw the white warrior on the cave wall. They know the white warrior would come one day, and he did come to us when I was young.

  You ask me who is the white warrior. He is more than a man or woman – and more than one person. He and she are the people of my blood who fight as warriors in the whitefella wars. Jessie Duffy, she a warrior. Her father, Tom Duffy, he a warrior.

  Tom now walks our land the whitefella call Glen View. He the last who give me baccy before I go to the place in the sky.

  But you don’t want to hear old Wallarie talk ’bout blackfella stuff. You want to know ’bout whitefella stuff. You want to know ’bout the Duffys and Macintoshes.

  Mebbe I fly back to the earth on the wings of an eagle an’ visit you in your dreams.

  Part One

  Rumours of Peace

  1945

  ONE

  Here come the Aussies, to capture Tarakan,

  It’s just the kickoff, we’re heading for Japan,

  If you could see the grim-faced men,

  And their mates the R.A.N,

  And backed up by the Air Force,

  We’ll capture Tarakan

  Lieutenant Donald Macintosh leaned against the forward ramp of the flat-bottomed landing craft. The words of the song, sung to the popular German tune ‘Lili Marlene’ ran over and over in his mind. Donald’s hands were trembling. To his left and right, similar landing craft slapped their way through the tropical seas. He and his platoon had witnessed the massive bombardment against the beach they were about to land on in this backwater of the Pacific war and now the invading force had shifted further inland to seek out and destroy Japanese defensive positions.

  Sixteen shilling and sixpence a day was far removed from the income he was used to as a member of one of Australia’s richest families. Yet he had always wanted to do his bit in the war, so he had signed up as an officer and now found himself leading thirty men into battle. At least a third of his men had seen action in the Middle East but the rest were as green to combat as he was. Donald could feel his legs trembling now, and hoped none of his men noticed. His biggest fear was not of dying – although he was afraid of that too – but of freezing and letting his platoon down. Ahead was the shell- and bomb-ravaged beach of the tiny island almost on the equator.

  He was not particularly interested in why the American General Douglas MacArthur had directed Australian forces to this island off the coast of Borneo. For Donald, the only war that counted was within himself, and the fighting that would take place in the few yards of territory waiting beyond the ramp when it dropped for them to storm ashore.

  ‘Not long now, skipper,’ his sergeant said. ‘You’ll be okay.’

  Donald was grateful for the sergeant’s words because he was one of the battalion’s original members, and had served from the beginning. Donald turned to him and nodded his thanks. The tropical heat was intense and the sun baked the men huddled in the landing craft.

  The landing craft beached and the ramp went down. Acrid smoke swirled around Donald as he leaped from the ramp into the oily mud. He struggled forward through the bog to the beach cratered with shell holes. His platoon followed him into the hell that was to be the battle for Tarakan.

  Donald’s first impression was of smoke and noise: men shouting, ear-deafening explosions and the constant crack of small arms. As they struggled forward he encountered a lone Japanese soldier firing wildly at the advancing Australians. A bullet cracked near Donald’s ear and the young officer realised an inch closer would have killed him. Donald froze, and found himself speechless, unable to issue orders. He dropped to the blackened sand and realised that in a small part of his mind this was the thing he was afraid of: he was failing his men. If only the war would go away, and he could return to his comfortable civilian life. He was vaguely aware someone was shouting at him, ‘Skipper, skipper, what’s your plan?’

  It was his sergeant, and he did not have an answer.

  *

  It was as if New York was in the midst of a massive bout of hysteria. Newspaper headlines blared GERMANY SURRENDERS! and those two words had given the population of the great American city permission to explode with joy after the years of pent-up living under the shadow of war.

  From his hotel window, Captain James Duffy, a United
States Marine Corp fighter pilot, gazed down on the packed streets. Steamers of white paper were being thrown from building windows. It almost looked like a covering of snow. The distant shriek of shipping sirens blended with the singing below. People danced joyously, and men swigged from bottles of whisky, sharing them with strangers.

  Colourful bales of silk, rayon and wool were disentangling as they came down from manufacturing shops to drape the crowd. James lifted his own bottle of whisky, saluting the wonderful madness that was gripping the citizens of New York. He was not smiling though. The war in Europe may have ended, but it was not yet over in the Pacific where he was being posted. There the fighting had become increasingly vicious, and the death toll was rising steadily against an enemy who refused to surrender.

  James took a gulp of whisky to calm his nerves. Although he did not want to admit it to himself, he was showing signs of battle fatigue – as some called it. It all seemed so surreal to him that despite today’s revelry he might not survive the war but instead be killed in the Pacific theatre of fighting.

  A rapping on the door brought him out of his thoughts. He was not expecting anyone. and was puzzled.

  ‘Come in,’ he commanded.

  The door opened and James registered his pleasure and surprise at the figure standing there. It was an older man in his late thirties, wearing an expensive three-piece suit.

  ‘Guy, old buddy,’ James said. ‘What in hell brings you to my humble – or at least temporary – abode?’

  Guy Praine stepped inside, a bottle of champagne at his side. ‘I just happen to be in New York, celebrating my release from uniformed service with Uncle Sam,’ he said, popping the bottle and glancing around for appropriate glasses. ‘I saw your name on the register for returning heroes here to convince us all to buy war bonds. It wasn’t hard to track you down, and I can see that you’ve already got a start on me celebrating our victory in Europe. As a matter of fact, I’ve just returned from London where Uncle Sam had me working on PR for Ike.’

  ‘Goddamn!’ James said, rising from his chair and taking his old friend’s hand. ‘It is good to see you again.’

  ‘I presume an expensive hotel like this will have clean glasses,’ Guy said, as James produced a couple of tumblers. The champagne poured, Guy raised his glass of sparkling wine. ‘To the end of one war, and the quick end of another.’

  James responded, and both men sat down.

  ‘I tried to call Julianna,’ James said after taking a large swallow of the cold wine. ‘Her old number has been disconnected.’

  ‘You would expect that after a couple of years of being out of the country,’ Guy said. ‘You know that she has left LA and returned home to New Orleans? I saw her last year at a cocktail party here in New York, just before I shipped out for England.’

  ‘Is she married?’ James asked.

  ‘I don’t know, old chap,’ Guy replied. ‘The last I heard was that she was hooked up with some well-known director.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’ James asked.

  ‘That guy whose head you wanted to knock off back on the set of his movie, Furious Eagles.’

  James remembered the man. It had been the same time he had first met Julianna and been intrigued by the beautiful young woman clutching a clipboard and hovering at the edge of the movie set. He also remembered how she had given him an ultimatum to leave the Marines and be with her: she would leave him if he returned to flying combat missions in the Pacific. He had chosen the latter, for reasons he suspected she could never understand.

  ‘Should have gone ahead and knocked his block off,’ James sighed.

  ‘I don’t think it would have solved anything,’ Guy said. ‘I always thought that you two were meant to be together, but you made your choice, and Julianna hers.’

  ‘You’re right,’ James said. ‘All I have to do is survive this goddamned war, and get the chance to show her it is all over for combat flying for me.’

  ‘Are they sending you back?’ Guy asked.

  ‘Next week I ship out for the Pacific again,’ James answered. ‘I might be getting a posting as a squadron leader – if I’m lucky.’

  ‘Is there an alternative?’

  ‘I could make a telephone call to my grandfather, and ask for a stateside posting until the end of the war,’ James said, taking another swig from his glass.

  ‘But you’re not going to do that, are you?’ Guy sighed. ‘James Duffy, you are a stubborn son of a bitch. With a bit of luck you could be with Julianna instead of returning to the shooting war.’

  ‘I have to see this thing through,’ James answered, finishing his champagne. ‘Hey, let’s you and I go out and paint the town red like we used to do back in Hollywood. I think we should celebrate your freedom from the arms of Uncle Sam.’

  Guy finished his champagne and followed James from his hotel room. He had a sneaking suspicion that by morning they would either be in a police cell or asleep in the gutters of New York.

  *

  Sarah Macintosh was irritated by the torn up telephone book pages drifting around her ankles as she pushed her way through the crushing mill of joyous people gathered in Martin Place. People climbed onto the two stone statues of the Great War – the soldier and the sailor, forever back-to-back – watching over the plaza. Singing, laughing and hugging civilians and servicemen mingled to celebrate the end of one war. But for the very attractive woman attempting to walk to her office a short distance away, the celebrations meant very little. The vast Macintosh financial empire, of which she was head, had been established in the Australian colonies long ago by her proud Scottish ancestors. Germany had surrendered, and the secret Macintosh investments in German industry were in tatters, but the secret Nazi connection would remain well concealed in Swedish and Swiss bank accounts, as both neutral nations had a reputation for being very discreet.

  She eventually reached her building and was greeted by the old lift operator in the deserted foyer. ‘Good evening Miss Macintosh,’ he said with a slight nod of his head. ‘You wish to go to your floor?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sarah said, and he pulled back the metal lattice door to the elevator.

  ‘Has Mr Price arrived?’ Sarah asked as they ascended. The lift operator replied that he had, a half hour earlier. Sarah was annoyed. Her lover was supposed to have picked her up, but had instead left her to fight her way through the unwashed throng in Martin Place.

  When the elevator reached her floor Sarah stepped out without a word and went directly to her lavishly decorated office.

  Inside, William Price stood by a window smoking a cigarette and gazing down on the darkened street. He was tall and suavely handsome, the very picture of a city nightclub owner. He had evaded military service with the help of a few well-placed public servants who he knew as patrons of his club. It was quietly rumoured that Bill Price was well connected with Sydney’s dark underbelly, and not a man to cross. He was strategically placed to pass on information concerning political machinations and stories of indiscretions of the rich and influential.

  ‘Where were you?’ Sarah snapped. ‘I was jostled half to death by the crowds in Martin Place. You said that you would meet me in George Street.’

  ‘I am sorry, my dear,’ William said, offering Sarah a cigarette from an expensive silver case. ‘The streets were blocked.’

  Sarah took a cigarette and William lit it for her with an equally expensive lighter. She inhaled and blew a stream of grey smoke into the stillness of the office. ‘Well, you can take me to dinner. I’m sure you have a permanent table at Romano's.’

  ‘We can do that,’ William replied smoothly, offering his arm. ‘I heard that your husband has been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for his service in Darwin. You must be proud.’

  Sarah’s lip curled. ‘I thought that the Japanese might have done me a favour by now and sent his Spitfire into the earth,’ she said contemptuously.


  ‘You are a hard woman, Sarah Macintosh,’ William said. ‘I wonder what secrets you hide. I would hate to cross you.’

  ‘Then don’t wonder,’ Sarah snorted as they made their way to the door, and had a flash of a memory: she was straddling her father’s body, smothering him with a divan pillow until he was dead.

  *

  Major David Duffy kneeled in the tall, reed-like kunai grass, examining the map spread out before him as the sun set and a full tropical moon rose, streaked by flames from a burning native hut nearby. Wewak was the next target, and his company of men would be used in the attack on the small town built on a peninsula, located on New Guinea’s northern coast.

  Behind David stood his second in command, Captain Brian Williams, chewing on the end of a reed and gazing at David’s map.

  ‘We just got the news that Jerry has thrown in the towel,’ Captain Williams said. ‘The war in Europe is over.’

  ‘Nice to hear,’ David muttered, and the words were hardly out of his mouth when both men heard the distinctive crump of a mortar being fired. Immediately Captain Williams dropped to the ground and within seconds the enemy mortar bomb exploded a few yards away, shredding the top of the kunai grass around them. It was followed by another five bombs in rapid succession, falling amongst the dispersed company.

  ‘Too bad the Nips haven’t got the message about surrender,’ David said, attempting to fix the location of the Japanese mortar base plate by ear, and already calculating how his company would find and destroy the deadly tube-like weapon. ‘The bloody sun might be rising over Europe and a world at peace,’ he muttered, glancing at the flame-wrapped rising full moon, ‘while the moon burns here.’

  David’s battalion was exhausted. They had been pursuing the Japanese along the north coast in mopping-up operations, and losing men to both enemy action and a virulent form of malaria. It seemed to David that he would forever be doomed to live and fight in the tropical green hell all around him, where there were only two seasons: hot and dry, hot and wet. Sometimes the jungle opened up to clearings and the kunai grass took over to shelter the heat and biting insects that made life miserable for the soldiers beating their way through it.