Worth Fighting For

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

  Joe.

  Marlon stood to find him but Slim held his arm fast as a soldier fell right in front of them, red pock marks lining his torso. Rat-a-tat.

  Marlon had never seen a man die before.

  The smoke came in thick choking waves then, and the death planes seemed to leave but explosions continued as oil found fire. Marlon and Slim grabbed the opportunity to run to the barracks and mess hall, now a scene of apocalyptic destruction, destroyed buildings shedding into the heat. All was chaos and confusion: men covered in blood trying to lift others out; torn, maimed bodies. A severed leg lay near a book in the rubble. Of Mice and Men. Marlon would never forget the title for the rest of his life.

  ‘Marlon!’ he heard Slim yell over the cries of pain and roaring fires. Joe was in his arms, eyes closed and chest stained a deep claret. Marlon ran, helping Slim to drag him over to where the wounded were being gathered, placing Joe on the ground and searching for a pulse. He found one and took a shaking breath.

  ‘Alive.’

  Slim nodded, pale and shaking too. They could see many weren’t so lucky. The dead and dying were being lain in a sickening line and Marlon wished the fire could burn the images from his mind.

  ‘You men,’ he heard Major Hamlin shout at some mechanics. ‘Get over to the flight line! Get some goddam planes ready!’

  Marlon stared at the major, vaguely registering something about his tall, blonde wife in the back of his cluttered mind.

  The major pointed. ‘Stone, get yourself up there.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. He took one last look at Joe and ran off, Slim following.

  Finding a plane that wasn’t on fire or damaged took some time, and all Marlon could think was that it was like playing blind man’s bluff with all that smoke – they couldn’t see a damn thing. The mechanics managed to find a B-17D but had to get it combat ready, and Marlon and Slim helped them carry a machine gun on board and set it in place.

  ‘Need some more ammo. Oh shit, look out!’ Slim shouted as the whirring returned. Marlon decided this time he wasn’t going to sit idly by.

  ‘Come on!’ he yelled at Slim as he lifted the machine gun back out.

  ‘You gotta be kidding!’ But Slim helped him all the same and they hauled the gun across the road just as a Japanese pilot rounded in and fired, hitting the dirt behind them and finding the B-17D. The tail was obliterated and the right side crashed into the ground as it caught fire. One of the mechanics caught fire too and the sight enraged Marlon, prompting him to ram the ammo into the gun and begin firing with a mighty roar.

  This time the rat-a-tat was from him as he hurled death back at the enemy. He missed. But then another plane came, and another. He and Slim fed that gun as hard as they could until they caught one of those meatballs right in the heart.

  ‘Yeah! Cop that from Milwaukee!’ shouted Slim, punching the air. Then a bullet flew through his chest and Slim looked at Marlon, his eyes filled with surprise before emptying as he fell, lifeless, to the ground.

  ‘Slim! No – oh God…’ Marlon dropped to the ground too, blinded by tears.

  Eventually he found the gun again, and fed it with ammo until every plane was gone. But nothing would ever erase the fact that Slim’s life had been ripped away and, no matter how many meatballs he found, Marlon couldn’t shoot down the moment that stole it.

  Marlon would later hear many things about that day. How the Japanese had never declared war, just snuck up like thieves to snatch their prize, one sunny morning in paradise. The American President would call it an act of infamy. Overnight the nation would rally and declare war themselves and the whole country would seek revenge for the loss of 2,403 American lives, and for the 1,178 wounded. Half their air force planes had been destroyed and all eight battleships in the harbour were hit. The Arizona would never be raised again, nor the thousand souls who perished, some days later, trapped forever in an iron coffin under the waters of Pearl Harbor.

  The Hawaiian gods never came as the iron Japanese sharks sent their torpedoes into Wai Momi. They never came as the might of America’s fleet sank into her sandy depths. But they did protect the grandson of Liwa, whose tribal name means water. He who was Miwok, with the tide running in his veins.

  Only they couldn’t protect him from the new dreams that came in the black of night, where dots in the sky turned into sharks too, circling their prey with blood on their fins. Sinking their teeth through Slim’s white-man heart.

  And where Joe writhed in the nets, caught and beached, only to die a slow death as the claret ran dry.

  And part of Marlon’s soul that had never known death perished too, sinking into the sand to wash away, abandoned. Lost forever as it blended with the remains of his countrymen, left now to flow in Hawaii’s blood-soaked sea.

  Twelve

  January 1942

  Braidwood, New South Wales, Australia

  The double doors opened and there she stood, raised on a pedestal like a queen in front of the windows. The sunlight was in brilliant caress and it lit the silk and lace to a shimmering white, the fabric hugging her narrow waist and long silhouette, causing her to appear almost ethereal. Junie’s curls had been lifted to the nape of her neck where her grandmother’s pearl comb clasped them in an elegant twist and the effect drew the eye to her face, even more exquisite than the rest of her; all cheekbones and large, blue eyes.

  ‘Junie,’ Lily said in a breath. ‘Oh, my dearest girl.’

  ‘As long as I live I will never see a more beautiful bride,’ said Marguerite, the seamstress, who stood nearby, her eyes brimming with proud tears.

  Junie turned to look in the mirror, the long veil trailing the floor like angels’ wings at rest and saw a bride too, only not a beautiful one. She saw an actress wrapped up in finery; an elaborate white lie.

  ‘Ernest is a lucky man,’ said Marguerite, wiping her face and then her hands before she gathered the train to spread it across the floor for them to admire.

  Junie’s heart weighed heavily at those words. Oh, for it to be Michael she came to as a bride, for him to take her hand so she could promise him her life.

  Katie stood to the side, silent, and Junie knew she was reading her mind.

  ‘Look at the lace – so intricate! Marguerite, you’ve done a wonderful job,’ Lily told her, and they went on to discuss the finer points of the woman’s handiwork. It was good to see her mother engaged in something, even if it was this.

  Junie watched as Katie skirted around to the drinks cabinet and mimed the pouring and gulping of some of its contents. It made Junie smile and Katie returned it as the secret passed between them. If nothing else, at least Katie knew the truth; she, Dorn and Beryl. Without that, Junie didn’t know how she would have withstood these past few weeks.

  There was a scratching at the door and Junie smiled again. There was another little friend giving her comfort too.

  A bundle of black fur peered over the timber at the base and pawed at the glass of the front parlour’s door.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t! I don’t know what Ernest was thinking, giving her that puppy,’ Marguerite scolded, shooing him away from the door. ‘Go on, back to your blanket. She’s spoiling him,’ she said to Lily.

  Lily smiled indulgently. Truth be told, they all were. Even though Ernest had only given him to Junie as part of his act as the doting husband-to-be, she did adore that pup.

  ‘As long as he doesn’t spoil this lace,’ Lily said, and they gathered it gently to take off Junie’s veil.

  Junie bent her knees, accommodating, but she was busy watching Katie sneak out to the verandah to play with Digger. She’d kept the name from that day in the barn with Michael. Had it really only been in November? So much had happened since then. Another death, her own engagement. Michael joining the army, only to now stay in Sydney with the Elite until the end of the year. The declaration of war against Japan after the shock of Pearl Harbor. More and more things to worry about as everything they knew sat beneath the chilling threat of invasi
on. Junie could only cling to the hope that America’s might and force would recover and help them defeat the rampaging Japanese.

  But overriding all the worry there was something else, something that eclipsed even the war: the ever-present obsession she had with matters of the heart as her own impending battle loomed before her. It was easier to look backwards instead, back to that place of comfort where a brief armistice had been called. A pause in time for happiness.

  Burning Palms.

  Her mind flooded with the intoxication of the name, and her own palms seemed to burn at the memory of Michael holding her hands tight in his. That final moment before he went and the plea left his mouth; those impossible, longed-for words: ‘Don’t marry him, Junie. Marry me instead.’

  Her response had plagued her every waking hour since.

  Marguerite and her mother helped Junie out of the dress and she was careful not to ruin the woman’s work. It wasn’t Marguerite’s fault it felt more like a shroud than a bridal gown. She put on a blouse and a pair of trousers, thinking a nice walk with Digger and Katie might help her cope with the pain of the afternoon, but Lily’s voice stopped her as she reached the door.

  ‘Wait for a minute, Junie, I need to speak to you.’

  Even though she knew her mother couldn’t possibly know what had transpired this summer, Junie still felt the guilt clamp in her stomach. ‘Yes, Mum?’

  ‘Come, sit.’ Lily patted the settee and Junie sat slowly, wondering what else this day would ask of her.

  ‘Ernest came to see me. He…he says he thinks it may be best if we don’t come to Sydney.’

  ‘But Mum, the wedding…’

  ‘Oh, we will be there for that, don’t worry. Of course,’ she said frowning. ‘Yes, at St Mary’s. Saturday the twenty-first.’

  Junie waited. It still took her mother some time to remember certain things. She wondered if that would ever change.

  ‘You’ll be such a beautiful bride – we just won’t be there before. Ernest says we need to stay to supervise things here with the new cattle arriving and…everything…’

  ‘But, Mum, you haven’t really been –’ she searched for the right word, ‘– involved with that side of things much lately. Surely someone else can take care of it for you?’

  ‘Ernest says we’re not to come,’ Lily said quietly.

  Junie watched her thoughtfully, wondering at her true motives. ‘Mum,’ she said, after a pause, ‘Ernest isn’t your boss, you know. And I am your daughter. I need you to help me set up house and prepare –’

  ‘Constance said she will do that,’ Lily said, twisting her handkerchief in her lap.

  So that was it. Already the bars of the prison cell were forming and she wouldn’t even get to choose the colour.

  ‘I’ll have a talk with Ernest,’ Junie said.

  ‘No, no, don’t do that.’ Lily looked very distressed now and Junie became more concerned.

  ‘Mum, what is it? Tell me.’

  ‘I just…don’t want any stress on your father. He hasn’t been well, what with the news about Japan. He’s…he’s very worried about the boys…and about you being in Sydney. But I suppose Ernest knows best.’

  Junie felt concern slide into fear. The doctor had been earlier in the week. ‘Is Dad – is he sick?’

  ‘I can’t – you don’t need to know anything just yet –’

  ‘Mum,’ she pleaded.

  Lily’s eyes were watery and she raised them to the door where Henry was approaching. He walked past them, unseeing, and headed for the cabinet, helping himself to a scotch.

  ‘Dad.’

  Henry jumped, then turned to the two of them. ‘Good Lord, don’t do that to a man.’ He finished pouring his drink, some of which was now on the floor, and sat down heavily on the chair opposite. ‘Terribly hot, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not bad, considering yesterday,’ Junie said distractedly, looking at him closely for the first time in weeks. His face was mottled pink and she noticed the red dots on his cheeks were very pronounced today. He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot, and the weight had grown around his belly. It was as though someone had blown air into him, like the puffer fish Junie had seen washed up on the beach.

  Lily was composing herself for her husband’s benefit and forcing a light tone. ‘Perhaps we’ll have a nice salad for tea. And some river trout. Bob Burgess caught some this morning and sent it over.’

  Henry coughed, taking a minute to recover. ‘Sounds good, love.’

  She took his hand and Junie saw the concern on her face. There was love there still between the two of them, despite their individual sorrows.

  ‘Mum…Mum said you won’t be coming to Sydney until the wedding. She says you’re not well,’ Junie said haltingly, afraid of the answer.

  ‘Bah, doctors,’ Henry said, finishing his drink. ‘They want to run some blasted tests in Canberra, so we’ll be delayed. But don’t you worry, my beauty. We’ll be there on the day. Wild horses couldn’t keep me from my little girl’s wedding.’ He gave her a reassuring smile and she tried to smile back but her eyes filled instead.

  ‘There now,’ he said, frowning. ‘Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts? I could see you weren’t happy about marrying the man at first but then you seemed right as rain at Christmas.’

  Christmas. The biggest performance of her life. Sometimes she wondered if she really was channelling that Gene Tierney, so convincing had become the lie.

  ‘No, no…I’m just worried about you.’ Junie began to cry at the hopelessness of it all and the new shadow upon them. ‘The doctor –’

  Henry held out his arm and she buried herself against him for a rare hug. ‘What’s all this eh? I’m going to be fine. Just fine.’

  So they sat for a stolen moment, just the three of them, and Junie knew it was one she would remember, like a photograph framed in her mind.

  But gilded cells and wedding dresses and big city society drew steadily towards her, and she could no sooner freeze time in a frame than stop her heart from still wanting to move forwards, despite it all.

  Because Sydney held so much more than all those things. It held her other fiancé too.

  Thirteen

  January 1942

  Shoal Bay, New South Wales, Australia

  It was stinking hot. So hot Michael could feel the sweat trickle down to the already damp part of his shirt that was clinging to his lower back. But that was the least of his problems. Cliffy and Jake had disappeared well over an hour ago, along with the others, and he was isolated in this piece of scrub near the beach, unable to move. He eyed the blue patches on the two ‘enemy’ soldiers in front, new members of the Elite who had been allocated to one of the opposing groups today. They were having a smoko in the grass and chatting about the barmaid in the village. Michael tried not to listen to their descriptions of her generous endowments – he didn’t need more images of women’s bodies in his head right now. As it was, five minutes didn’t go by without some thought of Junie: Junie combing her hair with her fingers after a swim; Junie eating an orange and licking the juice from her fingers; Junie wearing a crimson, feathered crown and lying naked with the moon reflected in her eyes.

  Michael cleared his head, forcing the thoughts away before they consumed his ability to focus. He’d have time enough with his love once she became his wife but right now he needed to get out of these bushes, and with these two jokers preoccupied with their own witty exchange, the time was probably now. Shouldering his gun as carefully as he could, he crept along behind them, wondering what his chances were of taking them prisoner.

  Actually pretty good, he surmised, as one of them lay down and put his hat over his head.

  ‘Bugger this, I’m taking a kip,’ he heard him say.

  The other man sat down next to him and started rolling another cigarette. ‘Wonder what the poor people are doing,’ he said, rather contentedly.

  Michael couldn’t blame him. The beach was like a postcard, all turquoise water and white sand,
and Tomaree Headland reached towards the cloudless sky in a steep, forested slope of green. Michael had counted seven dolphins while he waited, their silvered backs glistening in the sun as they sliced up and out of the water, then dived to make their playful, rolling way along. Idyllic spot for a picnic, really.

  But today was no picnic. Today they were playing at war.

  Michael took off his shoes and carefully placed his foot on the sandy, scrub-littered earth, remembering what Daku, an Aboriginal drover mate, had taught him once about hunting: Ease your weight gently. You weigh nothing at all, you are part of the earth, the air. Easy now, boy. Slow steps, light of foot.

  Flick. The soldier’s lighter found its mark.

  Michael paused, frozen like a wallaby raising its ears at the snap of a twig. Lightly, lightly. You are the earth.

  ‘Reckon we should just stay here until they give up,’ said the one lying on the ground.

  ‘Yeah, bloody code word. Who gives a –’

  Click.

  ‘Captain does actually. Captured, gents, let’s go.’

  The two soldiers gave a rather comical performance of scrambling and gaping before looking at Michael’s gun and realising they were well and truly caught out.

  ‘Bugger,’ said one. ‘Nearly made me swallow my ciggie.’

  ‘Look lively,’ Michael said, grinning and pointing back to the scrub. The two soldiers walked in front, grumbling about the unfairness of being ambushed as Michael stuck his boots on with one hand and held the weapon with the other.

  ‘We were on smoko,’ complained the man who had been lying down.

  ‘Japs’ll still shoot you when you’re lying down. Saves them a bit of time actually,’ Michael replied. ‘Come on.’

  Nigel ‘Nige’ Rollings was fiddling with the radio when Michael lobbed a she-oak cone at his neck and the sudden yelping made the others stare in bewilderment.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Cliffy asked.

  ‘Think there’s some bloody drop bears around,’ Nige said nervously, looking up at the trees.