by Peter Watt
David collapsed and his lance corporal hurried a couple of the men over to pick him up. It was then that the extent of his wounds was discovered. David would be going home.
The enemy had not finished with its attempt to break through the Kapyong Valley. Now it was the turn of the Canadians on the higher ground on the other side to feel the full fury of an enemy frustrated by the stubborn resistance by a much smaller force then their own. That night they threw themselves against the courageous Canadians in a last-ditch effort to break through. The closeness of the fighting forced the Canadians to direct artillery fire onto their own positions on top of the hill. Sheer courage by the Chinese soldiers was not enough to break the Canadians and they eventually fell away to consolidate their formations. The Commonwealth Brigade had suffered grievously but had saved Seoul by stalling the Chinese advance. The only Aboriginal officer in the Australian army, Captain Reg Saunders, commanding officer of C Company, 3 Royal Australian Regiment, later summed it up: At last I felt like an Anzac, and I imagine there were 600 others like me . . .
David’s war, however, was over. The shrapnel wound to his knee was severe enough for him to be shipped down the line of field and, eventually, to Australian hospitals for reconstruction. Meanwhile, the war between the United Nations and the Communist North Koreans and the Chinese People’s Liberation Army went on without him.
Epilogue
Malaya, 1951
The young man in his early-teens gripped the pistol handle of the Sten gun and felt knots in his stomach. He lay prone, concealed by the thick scrub along the dirt road winding its way through the rainforest into the hills of Malaya. This was his first operation as a member of the Malayan People’s Army, sworn to oust the imperialist British from the country. Beside him was an older Chinese man who was a battle-hardened member of the communist resistance force that had fought alongside the Allies for years in the war that had seen the Japanese invade Malaya. Other than the chirp of the birds and insects in the surrounding jungle, there was no sound. The ambush had been laid in an attempt to surprise a military truck convoy, kill the British soldiers and recover their firearms and ammunition.
Years earlier the young man had been a boy in Changi prison and had gone by the name of Sam. The loss of the only real mother he had known caused him to flee into the streets of Singapore. In his grief he was soon discovered by a Chinese merchant who recognised that the young boy’s knowledge of the English language could be useful dealing with the Europeans returning to the island. The man and his family were kind to Sammy and treated him like a son. Sam became infatuated with their daughter, a young woman four years older than he, who was a nurse and member of the Malayan Communist Party. It was she who recruited him into the ranks of the armed resistance to British occupation.
Now he waited with sweating nervousness a hundred kilometres from the capital of Kuala Lumpur. He was with a large party of comrades off a jungle trail on high ground called Frasers Hill. This was to be a test to see if he was worthy of joining their ranks as an active fighter.
‘Listen!’ the older Chinese man hissed. ‘There are vehicles coming up the hill. Be ready, comrade.’
Sam could hear the sounds of more than one vehicle engine, and he gripped his submachine gun with sweaty hands. The vehicles drew closer and drowned the sounds of the jungle. Then they appeared: a convoy of military trucks – as the ambushers had hoped – and near the middle, Sam could see an expensive Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith appear. It was opposite him when the blast of small-arms fire ripped into the convoy.
‘Now, comrade!’ the man beside him yelled, forcing Sam to raise himself into a kneeling position and fire a full burst of his weapon into the Rolls-Royce. He saw the side windows shatter and thought he glimpsed an older man in a civilian suit slump forward in the back seat.
The ambush was met with a trained response from the British soldiers in the convoy, and the ambushers knew it was time to fall back. Sam was still kneeling when he felt himself yanked to his feet and unceremoniously dragged into the cover of the surrounding rainforest.
It took days for Sam and his comrades to make it back to their jungle hideout, where his party had a commercial radio.
‘Have you heard the news?’ a young female fighter said when they joined their comrades. ‘You have killed the English High Commissioner to Malaya, Sir Henry Gurney.’
The older Chinese guerrilla fighter glanced at Sam. ‘It was Comrade Sam who killed him,’ he said, and the communist fighters in the vicinity stared at the teenager with a look of respect.
‘You have struck an important blow for our cause,’ the young female fighter said. ‘You will be a great asset in our struggle to throw the British out.’
Sam did not know what to think. The memory of the man slumping in the back seat of the car did not please him, despite the fact that he was the hated enemy. Still, he warmed to the acceptance his deed had granted him within the ranks of the seasoned guerrilla fighters.
‘We will win our war of liberation,’ another guerrilla said.
‘It will not be easy,’ the older Chinese cautioned. ‘The British will call on their allies, the Australians and New Zealanders, to assist them. I fought alongside Australian advisors when we fought the Japanese, and the Australians are tough fighters in the jungle. Our war has a long way to go. Maybe even a decade before we win our struggle for freedom.’
Sam listened to his words, but when he looked around the camp hidden in the jungle, the spirit of youth told him that they would win in the end, now that he had proved himself in battle.
*
Young Michael Macintosh did not know whether he should be afraid or excited. He was in a world so very alien from the noise and bustle of Sydney. Even though his nanny stood beside him, he felt alone standing at the steps of the verandah around the sprawling house. There were people on that verandah with welcoming smiles, but he did not know them. The only member of the family he knew was his uncle with the scary face who had picked him up from the railway station in Rockhampton. But he seemed kind and told funny jokes.
The lady holding a baby in her arms spoke. ‘Welcome, young Michael. These are your cousins, Bryce, Kim and this is baby Shannon and I am your Aunt Jessie.’
Michael looked at the two little boys gathered around their mother. They looked tough and eyed him with suspicion.
‘Hello,’ Michael said shyly. ‘It’s good to meet you.’
‘So you’ve come with Miss Keevers to spend Christmas with us,’ Jessica said. ‘I think you’ll have a lot of fun here. Patrick, come and meet Michael,’ she said over Michael’s shoulder, and he turned to see a boy in his early teens standing beside a young Aboriginal boy around the same age. Patrick approached and held out his hand.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘I normally live in Sydney but come here just about every holidays. It’s a bonzer place. This is my cobber, Terituba,’ he continued, indicating the Aboriginal teen behind him.
Michael warmed to the older boy. ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ he said, accepting the handshake.
‘Aunt Jess said your dad suggested that you come and meet us for Christmas,’ Patrick said. ‘You get the top bunk in my room.’
Michael could feel the warmth of his virtually unknown family, and any trepidation about travelling to Glen View began to disappear as he took in the unfamiliar smells, sounds and sights of a Queensland cattle property. For some strange reason he was already feeling at home. They were not terrible people, like his mother had yelled at his father. They were the only relatives he had, his father had pointed out, and he had a right to meet them. It was his father who was right and not his mother.
That holiday at Glen View would prove to be the happiest days yet of Michael’s lonely life. He returned to Sydney a different boy. He had learned to ride a horse, shoot a rifle and make a spear. More importantly, Michael had been able to show his cousins, and himself, that he w
as just as tough as them.
*
The train steamed and puffed its way through lush green hills and plantations of bananas as it travelled north from the town of Casino to the small villages south of the New South Wales–Queensland border.
Corporal David Macintosh stared out the window of his carriage at the green fields and rainforest as the sun rose over the ocean and wondered at how much work he would have to do to restore his macadamia trees. He knew he was wearing his uniform for the last time: his medical discharge for his wounded knee meant that he was no longer classified fit for combat. The doctors at Concord Hospital had done a very good job to save his leg from amputation, but the best they could do was bring his mobility to the stage where he would require a walking stick for the rest of his life.
Whilst he’d been in Concord, Sean had visited on almost a daily basis, with young Patrick by his side, whose hero-worship of his Uncle David shone from his face. Sean had joked with David about the best walking cane to buy and smuggled a bottle or two of beer into the ward for them to share. It was while he was in hospital that David was informed that his actions in Korea had earned him a Military Medal for bravery and leadership.
David recognised there would be no more medals or wars for him. Now and for the rest of his life he knew that he needed to find peace within himself. Maybe it was the incident at Kapyong with the Chinese soldier that haunted him most, although he could not understand why – after all, he had seen many terrible and shocking things in wartime. Now he simply enjoyed the serenity his train trip north granted him, remembering that this time last year he wondered if he would survive the bitter cold of the Korean Peninsula.
The train stopped at a seaside town and David saw the familiar large metal milk containers on the station as people departed the train to return to the dairy farms of the north coast. On the third last stop of his journey a boy around thirteen years old entered David’s carriage. He looked around and sat in a seat a few rows ahead, but facing David, and seemed to stare at him with almost a sad expression. David ignored him and turned to gaze at the passing scenery.
‘Hey, boy, get outta my seat.’
David looked up to a beefy man standing over the boy in a threatening manner. The carriage was almost empty and there were many seats available. David could see that the boy was frightened.
‘Hey, sport, leave the boy alone. You can sit somewhere else,’ David said casually.
‘Mind yer own bloody business,’ the beefy man snarled. ‘I sit wherever I choose. And I choose to sit here.’
David rose to his feet, gripping the seat so that the big man facing him could not see he required a walking stick. ‘If you don’t shove off, mister,’ he warned, ‘I will personally rip out your arms, shove them in your ears and ride you off the train like a motorbike.’ It was an expression David had heard many times used by drill instructors on the parade ground.
The beefy man saw a soldier with many medals who was big and powerfully built. But more than that, he could see a deadly intent behind the cold grey eyes staring at him.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he said and, with a wave, departed the carriage for another.
‘Thanks, corporal,’ the boy said. ‘But I could have handled him.’
‘Yeah, I know you could,’ David smiled, easing himself back onto the seat. The boy left his seat and made his way to David, sitting down on the bench opposite him. He held out his hand. ‘I am Craig Glanville. My dad was in the army and served in New Guinea during the war.’
‘Is that how you know about my rank?’ David said, taking the young boy’s hand, impressed by his forthright but polite manners. ‘Is your dad waiting for you up the line?’
‘My dad is dead,’ Craig said. ‘He died in an accident last year.’
‘Sorry, son,’ David responded. ‘That has to be tough.’
‘My mum is waiting for me,’ Craig said. ‘I get off in two stops.’
‘So do I,’ David said.
‘Who are you spending Christmas with?’ Craig asked.
‘I’m on my own,’ David replied.
Before the last stop, the uniformed railway guard walked down the aisle between the few passengers left, announcing the next stop. He came alongside David and looked down at him. The guard could see the many campaign ribands on his chest and recognised both the Military Cross and the Military Medal.
‘Were you in Korea?’ he asked, and David nodded.
‘I had a boy over there,’ he said. ‘He was killed at Kapyong.’ The guard mentioned his name, and with a shock David recognised it as the young man who had been in his section. ‘Did you know him?’ the guard asked. ‘I know there were a lot of diggers in Korea.’
‘No,’ David lied. The guilt of losing the young soldier still haunted him. ‘It was a bloody mess.’
‘I suppose you’ll be glad to get out of uniform when you get home,’ the guard said as the train slowed to a jolting stop at David’s destination. ‘Well, good luck, digger,’ the guard said, moving on down the aisle.
David rose stiffly, grabbed up his kitbag and walked to the doorway with the help of his walking stick. The train came to a halt, hissing steam and puffing black smoke.
Craig followed David with his small suitcase and they both stepped onto the nearly deserted platform, taking in the warm air tinted with the strong smell of soot.
‘Craig.’
David saw a woman he guessed to be about his own age waving from the end of the platform as she hurried towards Craig. David could see that she was very pretty. She wore a light summer skirt and her long blonde hair was tied back into a ponytail.
‘Mum, this is Corporal Macintosh,’ Craig said.
‘Gail Glanville,’ Craig’s mother said, “And I know who Corporal Macintosh is. It was in the local papers that you had been awarded a medal for bravery. We’re your next-door neighbours up on the headland. My husband and I were given a macadamia farm last year by my father, who owns a lot of land in the district. We hoped that moving here would help my husband deal with his demons from the war. Are you still in the army?’
‘Until midnight tonight,’ David said. ‘Then I turn into a civilian for the rest of my life.’
‘Corporal Macintosh does not have anyone to spend Christmas with,’ Craig butted in. ‘Can he spend it with us?’
‘What a grand idea,’ Gail quickly responded. ‘If you would like to join my son and I for Christmas lunch the offer is open, Corporal Macintosh.’
She was looking directly into his eyes and David felt her warmth. ‘I’ll accept your kind offer, if you promise to call me David,’ he said with a smile.
As the railway station was only a couple of miles from the headland the three walked side by side along a pretty tree-lined lane to the headland. The peace David sought in his troubled soul began to grow in the company of mother and son.
*
The journey on the hard-packed dirt roads west from Sydney seemed to go forever. Isabel sat beside her husband as the car traversed the great flat plains of western New South Wales. On either side of them stretched miles of dry grass, burnt white by the searing summer sun, but the monotony was often broken by the appearance of big kangaroos and emus trotting alongside the narrow road.
‘Oh look!’ Isabel exclaimed when she spotted a mother emu trailing a brood of young striped chicks. ‘They look like ostriches.’
James smiled. Although he had visited Australia during the war, he had to admit that the vast plains were a totally different experience to the crowded city of Sydney.
‘Are we getting close?’ Isabel asked, sinking back into the front bench seat sticky with their sweat.
‘According to the map we’re almost there,’ James replied. ‘Look, I think we are there.’
Isabel strained to see a couple of small, solitary fibro houses in the distance and felt her excitement rising. ‘Oh God, I ho
pe it’s them,’ she said, leaning forward to observe the crossroads ahead.
James pulled into a large dirt area in front of one of the two buildings. A painted signed across the front proclaimed Bernie’s Store. ‘This has to be the place,’ he said, ‘How many Bernies could there be this far into the Aussie outback?’
Isabel eased herself from the sticky seat and stood gazing at the front door of the small store. For the blink of an eye she did not recognise the solidly built man framed by the doorway. ‘Poppa,’ she shrieked and ran to her father.
Then it was a flurry of tears and hugging as her mother joined the reunion in front of Bernie’s Store.
‘So you found us,’ Bernie said with a broad grin. ‘I come to the most goddamned hidden place on earth and you found us anyway.’ He shook James’s hand in a crushing grip of welcome.
‘It wasn’t hard when you left your forwarding address with your brother back in Maine,’ James grinned, disengaging his hand from that of his father-in-law. ‘Good to see you, Bernie.’
Mary gave James a warm hug and kiss on the cheek. ‘I wish we could have been with you for the wedding in Tokyo,’ she said, tears of joy still streaking her face.
‘I think I should get my son-in-law a cold beer,’ Bernie said, guiding them into a small room with three battered tables surrounded by chairs. A wooden bench acted as a counter, behind which was a small assortment of tinned foods for sale.
Mary disappeared and within a short time returned with two large bottles of beer.
‘I have a big fridge at the back,’ Bernie said. ‘Most of our profits come from selling beer to the farmers when they all come in at the end of the day to get the dust out of their lungs. This is a soldier-settler area and my customers are all former Aussie diggers. They get very thirsty out ploughing fields and chasing sheep.’
