by Peter Watt
‘This Jack Kelly character sounds as shady as Tom Duffy,’ Sarah said. ‘But I have never known a man who could resist a generous offer. I’m sure he’ll turn on his old comrade if the price is right.’
The lawyer was not so sure. It was obvious his client was unaware men of honour existed, and he suspected this Jack Kelly he had investigated was one such man. ‘I’ll contact our representative in Townsville and see what he can do,’ he said. ‘But I cannot promise this will be resolved quickly.’
‘If that is all,’ Sarah said, rising from her chair, ‘I expect the good money I pay to retain your legal services will be met with due satisfaction. Good day.’
The lawyer watched gloomily as the young woman swished from the office, deep in thought for how he would organise to remove Mr Duffy. No matter how he looked at it, he could only see bloodshed and bad publicity. Queensland was still a vast region, barely out of its frontier days, and its capital Brisbane was hardly more than a big country town.
All Queensland would ever be was a good place for growing bananas and sugarcane, he mused. And breeding tough frontier characters such as Tom Duffy.
*
Lieutenant Donald Macintosh led his platoon through twisting gullies of tree-covered terrain into the remnants of the Japanese HQ on Tarakan. Artillery shells and air strikes had brought down a tangle of timber. The threat of sudden death from rear parties of retreating enemy soldiers was constantly with them. Men sweated in the tropical humidity as they came across numerous decomposing bodies and scattered papers in the ravines. They were ever wary of booby traps left behind. The operation was taking a toll on their nerves.
Donald had to fight back the instinct to vomit in the putrid, oppressive heat. His men scavenged for any military papers, and brought what they thought might be useful to him.
‘It looks like most of them headed north-east from the trail they left behind,’ Peene said.
‘Then we follow them,’ Donald said, stuffing captured documents in a canvas shoulder bag.
The order was given and his men fell into small formations to move forward in a nightmare world of heavy forest. They advanced silently. Hand signals were the only means of communication until a sudden burst of machine-gun fire ripped into their ranks, followed by the crump of small mortars lobbed at the pursuing Australians. The explosions hurled red-hot shrapnel amongst the Australians who had gone to ground. Donald was immediately on the radio to battalion HQ to report his contact and to call his section commanders to keep advancing.
Donald rose to his knees to glance around when the smashing pain in his face flung him backwards. His signaller clambered forward to inspect his officer’s condition, and saw a piece of shrapnel from a mortar bomb had landed only a few feet from them and ripped away half of the platoon commander’s face. Donald was still alive, but from the expression in his eyes the pain had set in quickly. The signaller could also see other shrapnel wounds to Donald’s body.
Donald rose to a sitting position, staring his frightened signaller in the face. He tried to speak but blood gushed from his mouth.
‘I’ll get a message through to have you evacuated, boss,’ the signaller said, removing a battle bandage from Donald’s first-aid kit to cover the wound.
Donald shook his head to indicate he did not want to be evacuated as the signaller applied the broad, padded bandage. His men were in contact and it was his duty to remain with them.
‘Sarge!’ the signaller cried out in desperation. ‘The boss has been hit.’
Sergeant Larkin crawled across to Donald, and quickly ascertained the wound was not critical at this stage.
‘Give him a shot of morphine,’ he told the signaller, by now covered in Donald’s blood. ‘Look after him.’
Donald was able to remove his field notebook and, despite his condition, scribbled orders to his sergeant.
Sergeant Larkin read them. ‘Will do, boss,’ he said, and crawled away to meet with any section commanders he could find in the twisted terrain. They advanced cautiously until one of the sections was close enough to view a crew of three enemy soldiers packing up their heavy machine gun, falling back for another ambush. With grenades and small arms fire the Australians killed two of the enemy gunners, whilst the third was able to escape. It at least halted the immediate threat, and the jungle fell silent.
Larkin returned to Donald, who was barely conscious but had been able to write another brief set of orders: they were to advance, and he would continue the pursuit with them.
‘Sorry, boss,’ Larkin said, shaking his head. ‘I’m going to disobey your orders, and have you taken back to the Regimental Aid Post at the battalion. You’re in a bad way, and your wounds need to be seen to.’
Donald looked at his sergeant with despair, but understood he was now a burden to his men. He shrugged his shoulders. Within minutes a section was reassigned to make a litter and carry Donald back to battalion HQ. They lay him down and the Regimental Medical Officer, a former surgeon from Perth, examined Donald’s face.
‘Not pretty, I’m afraid. You’re going to need specialised treatment to reconstruct the left side of your face,’ he said. ‘In the meantime I’m arranging for you to be taken back to a hospital ship, and from there they’ll get you back to Australia.’
Donald said nothing. All he could think of was how guilty he felt leaving his men behind on this hell island of Tarakan.
*
The ground support mission had not gone well. A stream of heavy Japanese machine-gun bullets had ripped into the belly and engine of Captain James Duffy’s Corsair as he released his bombs on the cave entrance. With a great effort he had nursed his stricken fighter bomber back to the airstrip. Already fire licked at his legs and the thought of being burned to death overtook him in the final approach. He was desperately screaming for help as the crippled aircraft slid along the airstrip, flipping over halfway before finally coming to rest. Hanging upside-down in his harness, the flames began to wrap around him, turning him into a human torch. Hands gripped at him and he felt his body ripped away from the smashed fighter bomber.
After that all he remembered was the terrible pain in his legs, then a series of hospitals that led back to the USA, and eventually home to his grandfather’s estate in New Hampshire to recuperate from his wounds.
It was warm outside the bedroom and James could hear the sound of people going about their civilian lives under the shade of the great evergreens. Independence Day was very soon, and that meant the usual round of picnics, fireworks and courting rituals. James knew he would probably miss the social round of celebrations, bedridden while the burns to his legs slowly healed under the watchful eye of the best specialist James Barrington Snr could hire.
‘Good morning, Mr Barrington,’ the old black servant said, bringing James his breakfast on a silver tray.
James had chosen years earlier to be known by his father’s name, honouring the memory of a man he had first hated for the perceived desertion of him and his now dead sister. But he had come to love him when they had finally met in Iraq before the war. His most precious memento of his father was the much worn leather and wool flying jacket now hanging on the back of his bedroom door. The old servant still referred to James by his mother’s maiden name.
‘Thank you, Samuel,’ James said, struggling to sit up in bed. The crisp, clean sheets were a long way from what he had known on Okinawa.
‘I also have the morning paper, Mr Barrington. I see your return is featured on the front page. Congratulations on your award of another Navy Cross,’ Samuel said. ‘We are all very proud of you.’
‘I would rather my legs were not burned,’ James said. ‘The medal was only a going-away present.’
‘It says in the paper that you flew your plane low in support of our troops on the ground, drawing fire from the Japs, until your Corsair was riddled with bullets. You are a very brave man, Mr Barrington.’<
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‘I was just looking after the men who deserve all we can do to help them,’ James shrugged, not bothering to look at the paper.
‘Mr Barrington has said he will be up to see you after breakfast,’ Samuel continued, adjusting the curtains so that the summer light could flood the room.
James nodded and the servant left the room. When James had finished his breakfast of orange juice, coffee and scrambled eggs on toast he pushed the tray aside and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he heard a knock at his door.
His grandfather, James Barrington Snr, entered the room, leaning on a walking stick. He settled himself into a chair beside his grandson’s bed.
‘Good morning, James,’ he said. ‘You’re looking much better than when you first arrived. The doctor has informed me you should be able to start walking again very soon.’
‘I’m going to try today,’ James said. ‘Lying around in bed is driving me nuts.’
‘Did you read the article in the paper about you?’ Barrington asked, holding up the paper to his grandson. ‘It’s a glowing account of your war service.’
‘No,’ James replied, ‘probably just a lot of propaganda.’
‘You don’t realise that people around here see you as a true hero,’ Barrington said, putting down the paper. ‘I know from my sources in Washington that they’ll be discharging you from the marines on medical grounds. You’ll be a civilian again, and need to consider your future.’
‘If you think I should go into politics you have to remember the idea is yours, not mine,’ James said. ‘I really don’t know what I’m going to do, except get justice for my sister’s murder.’
‘You have to forget any foolish ideas of seeking revenge for Olivia,’ Barrington said, placing his hand on James’s bedsheets. ‘As you know, our old friend Sheriff Mueller lost the election, and the Wilson family made sure his deputy became sheriff.’
‘You mean that goddamned son of a bitch Hausmann, right?’ James asked, feeling his rage rise. ‘How very convenient that he’s a close pal of Edgar Wilson, who murdered Olivia.’
‘We don’t have enough proof for a case against young Edgar,’ Barrington said.
‘Who said we need proof?’ said James with an expression of cold anger.
‘You have too much to lose, James, if you’re thinking of taking the law into your own hands,’ Barrington countered. ‘You’re the only family I have left, and very precious to me. All that I have achieved for my time on this earth means nothing if it cannot be passed on to you.’
James turned away from his grandfather and stared out the window at the green manicured lawns and stately leaf-covered trees. He knew all this would be his, but after almost four years of war – the men he had seen killed, the friends he had lost and the harsh way of living in the tropical hellholes – it all seemed so surreal. That night when sleep finally came, he was back in the cockpit of his aircraft, wrapped in flames and fighting for his life.
Now there were only two things worth putting his life on the line for: revenge for his beloved sister’s murder, and finding the woman he had never stopped loving, Julianna Dupont.
NINE
Nothing had changed in Jessica’s old quarters in Cairns. The only difference was the dust and gecko excrement on the surfaces of drawers.
‘Welcome home, Sergeant Duffy,’ Major Mike Unsworthy said, standing in the doorway. ‘You’re the only woman we have on the team and I made sure your quarters were kept intact for your return.’
‘I don’t suppose you can tell me why I’m here, sir?’ Jessica asked, patting down the thin bedspread.
‘I cannot tell you at this moment,’ Unsworthy replied. ‘All I know is that the Yanks asked for you, and I assume they’ll also request your transfer to them in the near future. It seems you made a big impression on them when you rescued their colonel. I heard about your bronze medal for bravery. The way you’re going, you’ll soon have as many medals as your illustrious father.’
‘What happens next then?’ Jessica queried, plonking her bottom on the end of the bed.
‘You get yourself squared away and I expect to hear from our Yankee cousins in the Office for Strategic Services tomorrow. In the meantime you have twelve hours’ leave but don’t go too far. Report to me at 0800 hours tomorrow. There’s a good collection of magazines and papers in the anteroom, and help yourself to biscuits, tea and coffee.’
Jessica thanked her superior officer. After he left she took off her shoes and walked into the anteroom, which was also used as an office. On a small side table rested a recent newspaper. Jessica glanced at the headlines and froze. She scooped up the paper announcing the death of Australia’s prime minister, John Curtin, and a memory of meeting him flashed to mind. The quiet but determined man who had led them through the worst of the war was gone. The Labor man, Ben Chifley, was to take his place.
The war seemed so close to ending and the great man would not see the Japanese brought to their knees, Jessica thought with a great sadness. Major Unsworthy must have known of Curtin’s death but he had failed to mention it, as if it was of no consequence. Jessica knew many conservatives in the armed forces did not like the Labor PM. When she went to the front door to look at the flagpole she noticed it was not at half-mast but fluttered in the tropical breeze as if nothing had happened.
She returned to the anteroom to look through the paper. On page three she saw a small article about a property owner in central Queensland refusing eviction from his property. Jessica gasped when she saw her father’s name, the passing of Australia’s PM temporarily forgotten. Jessica felt frustrated she could not simply take leave to help her father. Leave was not an option when you were posted to the top secret military unit.
*
Sean Duffy was pleased with the reports in the Queensland newspapers, even though they were not considered as important as the war news from the Pacific. He had ensured the local reporters knew of Tom Duffy’s stance to retain his land, and also made it known that Tom had served his country in two wars with courage and distinction – only to be targeted by a vast financial empire interested in persecuting a man for private vindictive reasons.
‘Major,’ Allison said, knocking at the office door, ‘the Queensland court has set a date for the hearing about the Glen View ownership.’
‘Good,’ Sean said, ‘I’ll ensure I attend on Mr Duffy’s behalf.’
‘Do you think Tom will win his case?’ Allison asked.
‘I’ll make sure we have the best KC as his mouthpiece,’ Sean said. ‘From what I’ve learned, all the Macintosh companies – or should I say, Sarah Macintosh – are basing their case on is that the land was acquired with stolen money. Well, it is a long bow to draw, and I strongly suspect the flimsy case will be thrown out of court. But, for the moment, Tom is in a very awkward position. I just pray he does not do anything foolish to jeopardise his rightful claim to Glen View.’
‘What could he do?’ Allison asked.
‘Shoot someone,’ Sean replied calmly.
*
From the top of the sacred hill Tom had a panoramic view of the surrounding scrub. He sat facing the north towards the location of the homestead.
It was near midday and the winter sun warmed the rocks for the lizards to bask. High in the sky a great wedge-tailed eagle soared in search of small creatures. Tom strained his eyes to see the tiny figure of a man on a horse approaching through the prickly, dry scrub. He knew it was Billy from the way he handled his horse. Tom smiled and hoped Billy had included in his supplies a couple of tins of condensed milk. He rose to his feet, picked up his rifle and began to make his way down the ancient track to the bottom of the hill.
After they greeted each other, Billy removed a hessian bag bulging with tins and packets of flour. ‘Got what you asked for, boss,’ Billy said. ‘Maybe have a brew with you now.’
Tom nodded, and Billy set about buil
ding a small fire to heat the blackened tea tin. He also removed a tin of bully beef and some freshly baked bread. Soon the two men were seated on a log, eating bully-beef sandwiches washed down with sweetened tea.
Tom took his pipe from his trousers. ‘You include baccy in the supplies?’ he asked.
‘You out of baccy?’ Billy asked.
‘Bloody Wallarie took my last,’ Tom replied and Billy looked at him as if he was joking, only to see an expression of seriousness on his employer’s face. He reached into his bag to produce a pouch of pipe tobacco, which Tom used to fill his pipe.
In the dappled shadows of the scrub Tom puffed with contentment and gazed at the horizon. In time the hill behind them would cast its own shadow over the land they now sat on.
‘The boys don’t like this bloke they sent out to manage the place, boss,’ Billy said, poking with a twig at the small fire. ‘He says he’ll find you an’ kick you off.’
‘Got to find me first,’ Tom said quietly.
‘I hear him saying he knows you up on the hill, an’ when the coppers come, he’ll come out an’ get you.’
‘He and the coppers can try,’ Tom said, watching the grey smoke slowly swirl away on the gentle breeze.
Billy did not ask but glanced at the rifle beside Tom’s boot. He knew that his boss was a crack shot, even with one arm. ‘When I was little the old people used to tell stories how Wallarie and another whitefella called Tom used to hide up here a long, long time ago. Mebbe you that Tom.’
Tom glanced at the Aboriginal stockman and saw the seriousness in his face. ‘Just stories, Billy,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’s true that history repeats itself. That Tom Duffy is long dead.’
‘Mebbe,’ Billy said sounding unconvinced. ‘I heard the coppers from Burketown got him an’ now the coppers from all aroun’ here come to the hill and get you.’
