by Robert Gott
‘What I told you was essentially true,’ I said, and made a show of finding what I was about to say awkward and difficult.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Fulton was shot from a gliding Japanese plane.’
‘What sort of plane?’
‘I’m not an expert on planes. It was a twin-engine job. I was told it was a Mitsubishi something or other.’
That seemed to confirm something for him, and I was glad that Glen had insisted on this detail being a part of the story. It lent verisimilitude to the version Gilbert heard from me and the version he’d heard from someone in Intelligence.
‘He was shot, but I’m afraid he didn’t die immediately.’
‘Ah,’ Peter Gilbert said, and he visibly relaxed, as if now he could accept the reality of Fulton’s death, because now he was hearing the truth.
‘How long?’
It had been Glen’s idea to offer an alternative fiction of a slow death if Peter Gilbert refused to accept the preferred fiction of a quick one.
‘Not long.’
‘How long?’
Again I hesitated, apparently reluctant to speak the words.
‘He wasn’t shot in the heart. He was shot in the stomach and in the throat, and he must have …’ I stumbled ‘… he must have lived for more than an hour. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you, Will. I’m glad you were with him. I’m sure it made a difference.’
‘No, Peter. No. It made no difference, no difference at all.’
This was the only truthful thing I’d said, but Peter Gilbert heard in it only the lie of grief and impotence in the face of an innocent young man’s death.
‘I’m sure, Will. I’m sure it did make a difference.’
He offered a comforting smile, and I felt ill with self-loathing in the presence of his ability to find sympathy for me amongst all the violent emotions that must attend the death of a son. The truth injures, and lies protect, Glen had said. As I looked at Peter Gilbert I was obliged to accept and acknowledge his sympathy. Who, I thought, is protected? I felt naked, ashamed, and morally bankrupt, and that is why I began to cry. Even as I sobbed, I knew that Peter Gilbert thought I was crying for Fulton.
Brian and I arrived at Victoria Barracks at nine o’clock in the morning. It was Wednesday, 9 December — just over two months since we’d sat in James Fowler’s office and accepted his assignment. We were sitting there once more, as instructed — and I was determined that this was to be the last instruction I would take from Fowler or from anyone else in Intelligence. He was late and, as I looked around me, I marvelled that decisions made in this mean, little space he’d been allocated could go out into the world and result in three men being killed, in secret — and that the deep, obliterating shadow of secrecy could close over these acts, so that no one would mention Andrew Battell, Nicholas Ashe, or Fulton Power (he never wore the name ‘Gilbert’) again, unless it was to lament their deaths as accidents of war. I knew that if there was to be any investigation into how it was that they came to betray us, neither Brian nor I would ever be privy to it or to its findings.
James Fowler entered the office, sat behind his desk, and looked solemn. I hated him.
‘Well done,’ he said.
I didn’t trust myself to speak.
‘Our brother is disgraced and dead,’ Brian said. ‘What exactly is it that you think we did well?’
‘You stayed the distance. You did everything that was asked of you, and you may well have helped prevent a Japanese invasion of this country.’
‘Do you know of a young soldier named Rufus Farrell?’ I asked savagely.
‘He was attached to your brother’s section, wasn’t he?’
‘He was attached to me.’
‘Oh, yes. That sounds like it was a most unfortunate accident.’
‘It shouldn’t have happened. It needn’t have happened.’
‘It was Major Warmington’s judgement that he needed you and Private Farrell away from Roper Bar at that time. Whatever his reasons were, I have absolute confidence that they were justified and correct. Private Farrell’s death was a tragedy, but it is only one amongst thousands.’
Brian jumped in.
‘Archie wanted it to be me, and not Will, who saw Fulton’s death. I didn’t know that at the time. He thought Fulton’s father would prefer me as a witness. I confided too much in Archie. I told him more than I should have about our family.’
‘Where is Archie?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that. He’s recuperating well, and he doesn’t bear you a grudge, Will. You took him completely by surprise, and no one’s done that for a long, long time. He did want you to know, though, that the surprise wasn’t a good one. He hadn’t expected you to be quite so spectacularly wrong-headed. They’re his words, not mine.’
‘I see. I’m glad in that case that he didn’t get out of this unscathed. Please let him know that I’m proud of my contribution to his discomfort.’
‘And Glen?’ Brian asked hurriedly.
‘Corporal Pyers has been redeployed. He’s one of our best men. It’s unlikely that you’ll see him again. Intelligence is a bit like that, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t be afraid,’ I said. ‘Intelligence seems to produce people I never want to see again. Believe me, I wasn’t looking forward to catching up with Glen over a cup of tea and nostalgically discussing his kills.’
I hadn’t heard the door behind us open, and when Nigella Fowler spoke I turned my head rather more quickly than was good for my almost-repaired neck. Consequently, the expression on my face was one of pain and not pleasant surprise.
‘That’s not a look that makes a girl feel very attractive,’ she said.
When she spoke, I became immediately confused about the antipathy I’d been feeling towards her. Proximity to her disrupted all my powers of critical thinking. I’d once, in what now seemed a distant time and place, made a declaration of love to her, and I had hoped then that the success of this enterprise would encourage finer feelings in her for me. Through the static of the adolescent emotion I was feeling, I was only faintly sensitive to those qualities in Nigella Fowler that gave one pause. She could deceive without compunction — I knew that — and she was fearless. She’d also killed a man — a salutary achievement in a woman one might wish to marry. Through all this I felt, as I looked at her now, what I’d felt on our first meeting: beneath her plain, dressed-down exterior there were great reserves of kindness and sympathy — and kindness and sympathy were elements I would welcome into my life.
She held out her hand, and I rose and shook it. She shook Brian’s hand as well, and asked if he’d fully recovered from the scorpion bite. Clearly, she’d been properly briefed.
‘There’s still some numbness in the foot. Apparently I should avoid scorpions,’ he replied.
‘You’re not in uniform,’ she said to both of us.
‘They were rags,’ Brian said. ‘And the Tivoli isn’t going to be happy about the state of the costumes. They’re mostly mould with a bit of fabric in between.’
‘So you’ll need new ones,’ she said lightly.
I was smiling, and my smile froze. Something passed between her and her brother, some flicker of unease that she’d made a misstep.
‘Will,’ she said quickly, ‘can we walk for a bit? It’s stuffy in here.’
Brian seemed oblivious to this rather obvious ploy to separate us, but I had no real objection to leaving James Fowler, who’d become the focus of all my disquiet about Army Intelligence.
I’d forgotten, in the humidity of the Northern Territory, that a Melbourne summer could produce days of enervating, blazing heat. This was such a day. It was barely nine-thirty in the morning, but it must already have been close to a hundred degrees
in the shade. We stood on the curb of St Kilda Road, waiting for a break in the traffic so we could cross into the gardens opposite.
‘I see your propaganda unit is still busy,’ I said. On a lamp post there was a poster showing the mask of a smiling Japanese face being removed to reveal the sneering, leering creature beneath. ‘Beware the mask of friendship,’ it read. ‘It hides Japanese greed and treachery.’ Above it, a simpler poster reminded people what to do, ‘If the air-raid siren wailed tonight … Don’t rush. Don’t panic. Don’t telephone.’ Having experienced a Japanese air raid, my own inclination would be to both rush and panic.
‘The crypt in the Shrine is cool,’ Nigella said.
‘Maybe we could just sit in the shade of a tree and pretend that this bloody war isn’t happening,’ I replied.
We sat cross-legged, and I enjoyed the relative luxury of having only a few flies to swat away.
‘How much do you know about what happened up there?’ I asked her.
‘I know what they want me to know.’
‘Fulton?’
‘Yes. I was sorry to hear about that.’
‘How can you work for those people, Nigella?’
‘I am one of those people, Will.’
Her expression was cool.
‘Yes, I suppose you are. Are you meant to be talking me into another job? Is that what this is about?’
She looked back towards Victoria Barracks.
‘No, Will. You’re here with me so that James can talk with Brian.’
I thought about that, and was seized by a chest-gripping sadness.
‘When Brian walks out of there,’ I said, ‘I’ll never be able to trust a single thing he says.’
‘He mightn’t want to work for us. He might want to return to his normal life.’
‘I’ll never know though, will I? Not for sure.’
‘No,’ she conceded quietly. ‘Not for sure.’
There was silence between us after that, and the distance that separated us became unbridgeable.
‘What will you do?’ she asked.
‘I really don’t know. I might have to learn to juggle.’
‘You’re too old to run away and join the circus.’
‘I used to think the circus and the Tivoli were grubby professions. Now I know there are worse choices that people can make.’
Nigella stood up and dusted off her skirt, immune or indifferent to the insult.
‘Goodbye, Will.’ This time she didn’t offer her hand.
On the opposite side of St Kilda Road, Brian appeared at the gates of Victoria Barracks. He saw us and waved. I waited while Nigella crossed the road. She spoke briefly to him and went through the gate. He stood with his hands on his hips, clearly deciding what to do. His mind made up, he began to dodge the traffic, and when he reached the footpath on my side he was smiling broadly. He walked up the grassy incline towards me, and I arranged my features carefully in readiness to hear his first lie.
Acknowledgements
For information about the North Australia Observer Unit, I am indebted to two books: North Australia Observer Unit: the history of a surveillance regiment by Dr Armoury Vane, Australian Military History Publications, New South Wales, 2000; and Curtin’s Cowboys by Richard and Helen Walker, Allen & Unwin, New South Wales, 1986.
For information on the concert parties, I am indebted to An Entertaining War by Michael Pate, Dreamweaver Books, Sydney, 1986.
I would also like to acknowledge with gratitude my extraordinary editor, Margot Rosenbloom, whose tact and unerring judgement are peerless. Thank you, too, to Henry and to everyone at Scribe. It is a privilege to be published by such a house.
