by Peter Watt
‘What ya lookin’ at?’ Curly snarled. ‘Bloody colonials.’
Johnson had the two big wooden crates lugged inside, and with a jemmy prised open the lids. Larry, Moe and Curly gathered around and stared with awe at the heavily greased weapons inside.
‘Bloody hell!’ Larry said, reaching for a Thompson submachine gun with a round ammunition magazine. ‘This is some kind of firepower.’
Johnson opened the second crate and from the straw packing produced a quantity of Mills bombs. The hand grenades only needed fusing to become deadly weapons. The rest of the crate contained .45 bullets for the three Tommy guns. Johnson lifted a rifle with a grenade launcher attached and passed it to Moe.
‘You’re going to need all this to get Duffy off his hill,’ Johnson said. ‘This country is so big that we can make him disappear.’
‘I had trouble with Duffys back in Ireland,’ Curly said, stroking the infamous weapon of Chicago crooks. ‘Only wish we had these little blighters then. It will be a pleasure killing another Paddy.’
‘Don’t underestimate Duffy,’ Johnson cautioned. ‘He knows this country like the back of his hand, and is a crack shot. As far as I know he’s armed with a Lee Enfield and will have trouble operating it with just one arm.’
‘When do we go after this Duffy?’ Curly asked.
‘I would say as soon as we can. We clean the Thompsons and test-fire them,’ Johnson said. ‘We have a good supply of Mills bombs and where Duffy is holed up is far enough away so that any noise we cause will not be heard. We leave in the truck the day after tomorrow. I’m expected to telegram Sydney soon after that to say the job is done.’
‘With what we got here,’ Curly said, ‘we could take out a small army.’
Johnson distributed the rest of the weapons and issued grenades and ammunition to each man. He had a pistol with which he hoped to deliver the final shot to Duffy’s head.
‘Don’t let the men here see your weapons,’ Johnson said. ‘Duffy is well respected by his men, and I don’t want him tipped off that we have enough firepower to overwhelm him.’
That night, after the guns had been cleaned and spare magazines loaded, the four men sat around swapping stories of their experiences in Ireland fighting the IRA. Johnson let them get drunk on the cheap whisky he had supplied. He knew they were proven killers, and listened as their stories grew wilder and wilder. In the morning they would drive to an area to test-fire the Tommy guns, away from the hearing of the Glen View stockmen. Then, the next morning, well before the sun rose, they would drive to the hill along the rutted track that led to the string of dry waterholes. From there they would make their assault on the hill before first light. One man against four armed with automatic weapons had no chance at all. Johnson planned to take him from all sides. He’d once heard an American describe a turkey shoot. This would be a turkey shoot.
*
The Criterion Hotel in Rockhampton – only a short distance from the Fitzroy River – was young Cyril Walker’s preferred place to go after work. In the past the hotel had been used by MacArthur’s staff to plan operations in the Pacific campaign, and he had dropped in from time to time to mix with the patrons, who were mostly military men from the USA.
Cyril was nineteen and had attempted to enlist in the armed forces but failed because of a heart murmur. He was able to obtain a cadetship as a journalist because his father owned the local newspaper. The ambitious young man knew that drinking – albeit underage – in the hotel meant he might pick up information of worth for his editor. There was even the dream he might one day get credentials as a war correspondent, but it seemed time was running out. The Japanese were in full retreat, and after the invasion of their homeland would eventually be overwhelmed by superior American firepower.
Cyril stepped off the footpath from a beautiful, blue sky and balmy day into the smoke-filled interior of the hotel’s main bar. He glanced around at the many uniforms of Allied soldiers, sailors and airmen leaning against the bar with glasses of beer in their hands. His gaze settled on a man sitting alone in the corner of the smoky room. What attracted Cyril’s interest was his badly scarred face, the scars appearing to be fairly recent. The man was not in uniform but rather the rough dress of a cattle stockman. Cyril guessed the stranger’s wounds were similar to others he had seen on wounded servicemen in distant battlefields. Beside the man’s leg was a military-issue kitbag, and a single, long canvas bag.
The stranger noticed the young man staring at him and met his gaze with a slight smile and nod.
Cyril turned away and purchased a glass of beer at the bar. The man with the interesting scars might have a human interest story about his service, Cyril thought, and pushed his way through the drinkers to reach the corner of the bar. He stood at the edge of the small table.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said politely. ‘I’m a journalist with the local paper here, and I could not help noticing you appear to have been wounded recently. I was wondering if you would grant me an interview.’
Donald looked up at the cadet journalist hovering near his table nervously. ‘Have a seat, young man,’ he said. ‘But I’m not your story. A lot of cobbers were wounded on Tarakan Island. Your story is much closer to home. As a matter of fact, your story is happening now.’
Cyril removed a pencil and notebook from his shirt pocket, ready to write. Donald told him the story of a decorated war hero of two wars standing alone to defend his land from unscrupulous businesspeople south of the border. He named Glen View and Tom Duffy, and could see the young newspaperman’s mind working on the angle of the story for his readers. Cyril remembered a story they had run about Tom Duffy’s possible eviction from his property, but was unaware the man had chosen to stand and fight.
When he had finished Donald said, ‘You know, this story has eerie echoes of events out west of Rockie almost a hundred years ago. If you look back through your records you’ll find stories of a bushranger, Tom Duffy of the same name, and an old Aboriginal warrior, Wallarie. Tom is descended from that bushranger.’
Cyril looked up from his notes and Donald could see his expression of genuine interest. It had all the angles he needed: evil businesspeople from down south, a defiant stand against the legal system, and a decorated war hero fighting a new war against his own country.
‘How do I get to Glen View?’ he asked eagerly. ‘It’s a fair way west.’
‘You find someone who has a plane who can fly us to Glen View, and you’ll get your story,’ Donald said.
Cyril held out his hand. ‘I should introduce myself more formally,’ he said. ‘Cyril Walker.’
‘Lieutenant, Donald Macintosh,’ Donald said, accepting the handshake.
‘Macintosh!’ Cyril exclaimed. ‘But wasn’t that the name you said was behind Tom Duffy’s persecution?’
‘Yeah, my sister,’ Donald replied. ‘Now, the deal between us can only go ahead if you get hold of an aircraft.’
‘I know a farmer who lives outside of town who owns a small plane that could fly us to Glen View,’ Cyril said. ‘But he’d want a lot of money – he has a reputation for being as mean as they come.’
‘Money is not a problem,’ Donald said. ‘Just get us to him.’
‘I’ll have to clear the matter with my boss first,’ Cyril said, going over in his mind a thousand things he would have to do before flying to Glen View. ‘If you wait here I promise I’ll be back within a couple of hours.’
‘No problem, cobber,’ Donald said.
Cyril gulped down his beer and hurried from the hotel. Good to his word, he returned within a couple of hours with a small suitcase and portable typewriter. The two men caught a taxi that took them to the outskirts of town and the farmer’s property.
Both men left the taxi and Donald slipped the driver a pound note to wait for them. They walked towards the house. The yard was littered with old, rusting agricultural parts and a s
mallish but solidly built man in his late forties stepped from the doorway of the house.
‘G’day, Mr Parsons,’ Cyril greeted. ‘Do you still have your Puss Moth?’
‘Young Cyril,’ Parsons said, striding across the yard towards them, ‘why do you want to know?’
‘I have a gentleman who might be interested in hiring you to take him for a flight west over the hills.’
Parsons stopped before them and looked at Donald’s face. ‘Last time I saw a bunch of scars like that I was flying with the AFC in Palestine, when my cobber had a bad landing.’
‘Infantry, a Jap mortar bomb,’ Donald said extending his hand. ‘So you flew in the last war.’
‘Yeah, got to fly the mail run up this way after the war, but the government grounded me,’ Parsons said without elaborating. ‘To answer you, young fella, the crate is in the shed.’
Both Donald and Cyril looked over to a large shed not far from the house. Looking beyond Donald could see a flat paddock with a windsock hanging from a tall post.
‘I’d like to hire you to fly us to a cattle station west of here, Glen View, as soon as possible,’ Donald said.
‘Tom Duffy’s place. Good bloke,’ Parsons said. ‘There’s a rumour he’s in a bit of trouble. Why do you two want to go there?’
‘I’m hoping to help Tom out,’ Donald said. ‘And Cyril is planning on getting a scoop for his paper.’
‘Does your old man know?’ Parsons asked Cyril.
‘Sort of,’ he replied, shifting uncomfortably at the question. He turned to Donald. ‘My father is also my boss at the paper.’
‘It would probably cost you more than you can afford Mr . . .’ the former fighter pilot said.
‘Sorry,’ Donald said, ‘I should have introduced myself. Donald Macintosh.’
‘Are you related to the Macintoshes who used to own Glen View?’ Parsons asked, the tone of his voice no longer friendly.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Donald said. ‘But I’m genuinely concerned for Tom’s safety, and need to get to Glen View as quickly as possible.’
For a moment Parsons stared at Donald and then mentioned a price to cover precious fuel he had left in his dwindling stock. Donald did not hesitate, reaching into his pocket and producing a wad of notes. He peeled some off and placed them in Parson’s hand.
‘That enough?’ Donald asked.
‘More than enough, Mr Macintosh. For that I will fly you directly to Tom Duffy, wherever he is.’
‘The fee also is intended to cover Cyril’s passage,’ Donald continued.
Parsons nodded. ‘You’re lucky the Puss Moth can carry the three of us.’ He pocketed the pound notes. ‘Be back here by 0600 hours and if the weather is right we’ll fly out to Glen View.’
Donald and Cyril walked back to the waiting taxi. When they returned to Rockhampton Donald made his way to a boarding house where he had rented a room. The next morning, he was ready to leave with his army-issued kitbag, and the long, mysterious bag.
*
Sarah Macintosh liked to stand by her office window at night and gaze out across the city lights below. It was a quiet time when she could reflect on how far she had come at such a young age. It seemed that all she surveyed belonged to her. It was obvious the war in the Pacific would eventually end after the invasion of the Japanese mainland. The men would return, and she had pushed her various departments to seek out land for urban development around Australia’s capital cities. The undeveloped properties would be subdivided into small urban lots for the returning servicemen and their families to settle.
She had also invested in construction companies and their suppliers of building material. Sarah knew it would all pay off when the war ended, and fill the company coffers to overflowing. Money was power, and it was power that really motivated the young woman.
She turned away from the window to ponder the situation in Queensland. Johnson had the credentials to get the job done, and when he reported Duffy was gone from the situation, she could then focus on removing her only competitor in life, Allison Lowe, one way or another. David would be returning from the war, and Sarah’s obsession with her cousin knew no bounds.
Her telephone rang unexpectedly. Sarah picked up the receiver and was asked by the exchange operator if she would accept the collect call from Goulburn. Sarah agreed and was connected.
‘Mrs Huntley,’ the voice of Val Keevers said. The use of Sarah’s married name annoyed her. ‘I have some bad news. Young Michael is in hospital with severe breathing problems.’
‘So, what do you expect me to do?’ Sarah asked, annoyed. There was a pause on the other end of the telephone.
‘I thought you might come to Goulburn to be with him,’ she replied.
‘That’s what I pay you to do,’ Sarah snapped. She could not remember the last time she had held her son. ‘Just call me when he gets better,’ Sarah said, replacing the handpiece, leaving the nanny flabbergasted at the other end.
Sarah stared for a moment at the telephone on her desk, pondering the situation. Her baby’s existence sometimes proved to be an annoyance in her life. Tomorrow she had meetings with her department heads to discuss their progress with the building projects. Her toddler’s illness could not distract her from what she must do if she were to corner the market on building homes.
*
Donald Macintosh stood at the edge of the paddock used as an airstrip, watching the sun rise on the horizon and the airsock at the top of the mast fluttered gently in the breeze
The Puss Moth had been refuelled, and Parsons went about conducting his pre-flight checks. The single-engine aircraft, with its main wing placed above the fuselage, was the same model flown by the famous Australian aviator Bert Hinkler when it went down over the European alps years earlier. This thought did not cheer Donald.
Cyril joined him. ‘It looks like a good day for flying,’ he said cheerily, excited by the adventure that lay ahead on the other side of the low hills.
Parson walked over to the two men. ‘Get your gear aboard, Mr Macintosh,’ he said. ‘We take off in five minutes.’
Donald and Cyril packed their gear in the cramped cockpit. Parsons climbed into the pilot’s seat. The engine kicked over with a cough and splutter, and soon roared into life. In minutes they were airborne and rising steeply to clear the high ground of the low range of hills ahead. Donald gazed out at the massive expanse of flat, scrub-covered land that lay beyond. He only hoped he was in time to help Tom. The long canvas case in his luggage might make the difference.
SIXTEEN
Donald had a good idea where Tom would have retreated to on his property. As any soldier would, he selected the high ground, and the highest point on Glen View was the ancient volcanic plug that had become the sacred hill of Tom’s Aboriginal ancestors. Donald had visited the hill before the war when his father had exiled him to the family property. It was also then he had met Jessica Duffy.
Donald leaned into Parsons and shouted in his ear that he would like a flyover of the prominent landmark. Parsons nodded and steered a course towards the hill and in a short time was over it.
‘God almighty!’ Donald swore when he saw the plume of dirty smoke erupt from the summit. He knew what he was seeing and could hardly believe his eyes. It was either a mortar bomb or grenade going off. Parsons also saw the explosion and immediately pulled back on the controls of his aircraft. Donald could feel Cyril’s hand gripping his shoulder and just made out his question, ‘What in hell was that?’
Donald ignored the question, scanning the earth below to pick up the sight of a lorry hidden amongst a copse of trees at the bottom of the hill. He could see four men clustered around something and guessed it was a rifle with a grenade-launcher attachment. Within seconds he saw another explosion amongst the rocks of the hill but he could not see Tom.
Was he too late? Donald cast about the terrain near the hil
l and saw the flat, open stretch of ground where it might be possible to land a small aircraft. He gripped Parsons’ shoulder and pointed to the potential landing strip about a half mile from the hill. Parsons nodded and turned to fly over the tract to satisfy himself it was a potential landing field, grateful for his years of experience flying in the rugged lands of Palestine during the last war, which had equipped him to undertake unscheduled landings.
Satisfied the strip of land was safe to land, he turned again to make his approach. Donald could feel Cyril’s hand gripping his shoulder like a vice as the little plane floated in to touch down on flat stretch of sandy soil and dry grass. There was a line of scrub at one end and Parsons desperately cut back his power to roll to a stop only a few yards from what could have been disastrous. Donald thanked him with a slap on the back and over the noise of the engine gave directions to get airborne again, and take Cyril with him. Already Cyril was attempting to clamber from the aircraft but Donald pushed him back as he dragged out his own kitbag and the long case. Cyril tried to protest but Donald closed the cockpit door and already Parsons was swinging the nose of his aircraft for a take-off. The last thing Cyril saw was Donald pulling out a rifle from the leather bag and slinging his kitbag over his shoulder as he jogged towards the hill.
‘I’m to fly you to the homestead,’ Parsons shouted. ‘Macintosh’s orders. He said something about writing your story from there. He doesn’t want anything to happen to you.’
On the ground Donald could hear the distant drone of the Puss Moth making its way to Glen View homestead as he jogged towards the hill. He was approaching from the opposite direction to the men lobbing grenades at Tom Duffy. It was warm. Donald hoped Tom had a good supply of water wherever he was holed up.
Very soon he was at the foot of the hill and from there he began climbing, acutely aware the explosions were continuing on the other side of the crest. He dragged the American military-issue .30 calibre Garand, semi-automatic rifle with him as he clambered amongst the rocks. Maybe Tom was safely in the cave where the grenades could not harm him, Donald thought. But that would be foolish as it only had one entrance, and Tom would be trapped if the enemy were able to advance within grenade range. A grenade going off in the cave would be devastating.
