*
Admission seemed expensive to Mick in the local coins, called ‘Balboa’. The club was full of primitive masks and artefacts, revolving colour wheel lights everywhere, hanging beads and fabrics, a new world for Mick, certainly. He’d never been to a strip-tease show before…
As the aircrew boys filed past the entry counter, Carlos Raoúl Enriquez, white-tuxedoed owner of the Palais, reflected as he did most nights: Si, money off dead men he was taking… For their money a last ‘fling’ he was giving them, was he not? For most of them, their first ever sight of the naked woman. And they could get rid of their erections, si, at their choice of several other Enriquez establishments located conveniently nearby – to which he would refer the most influential-looking faces of their number after the show. This, he well knew, would be a first for probably all of them. Also, for most of them, a last. Carlos smiled his most welcoming smile at each of them as they filed in.
*
After a few drinks, Mick gathered that Sergeants Matthews and Toohey clearly had been to a strip-tease show before, the pair very soon leading the crowd in chants of ‘ Take it Off - Take it Off - Take it Off…’
The house musicians were a serious bunch to say the least, and applied to their task with solemn fervour. On guitars and stringed instruments of all shapes and sizes along with hand-clapping and conga drums, the rhythms they produced were urgent, hypnotic. To Mick, it seemed a cross between the Mexican music he’d once seen played in a matinee-feature at the flicks and what he could only guess might be the local ‘native’ sounds round here… He’d never heard anything like it. Nor seen anything…
As with the music, the girls were intense, both in their movement and presence. As each revealed more, ever more of her olive skin, her level of undress led up to the final ‘ harrah’ of each song: At that split-second moment, the girl was nude, the stage lights cut, her slender form silhouetted from behind. After a while, even Matthews and Toohey seemed quietly impressed. Mick guessed their anticipation of the night’s ‘main attraction’ was starting to kick in…
Seventh and last on the bill was a so-called ‘Freda’, ‘star’ of the Palais d’Ersulie.
After the sixth girl, the lights dowsed. This time to total darkness.
A single disc of white light then appeared – in it, a face.
Mick saw the same Latino features as the other girls, except – whether from the light, by make-up or naturally, he couldn’t tell – this one’s skin was milky white. Her dark, dark eyes held the whole room silent.
The music recommenced, though now, only two of the musicians played – a lone pan-pipe, and a single skin drum. The tempo was slow, and haunting. Like a snake-charmer, Mick thought.
The woman certainly moved like a cobra, the spotlight upon her gradually widening. It now revealed her hair, black, long and lustrous down to her hips in a thin black wrap, the rest of her skin purest white to her feet. Though her breasts were barely hidden by her hair, Mick was genuinely distracted from these by her eyes…
Her slow dance had begun, the spotlight matching her floating as if on air round the floor. Hardly a sound came from the tables, least of all from the aircrew boys, Mick noticed… Focusing back on the woman, he knew deep within him they were in the presence of something special.
Her body swayed, willowing left, willowing right, drawn into curves like the arch of a bow. As her rhythm intensified, Mick barely perceived the pipe and drum quickening, nor one by one the other instruments rejoining, barely at all until the whole ensemble was going hell-for-leather once again. He was aware of little, little except the young woman. Her eyes actually met his as she spun faster, faster – now into a frenzy – her hair flaying higher, higher, her breasts now fully revealed. Mick’s gaze had darted to them, only to be stolen right back; it was those eyes of hers he couldn’t tear his own away from if he’d tried… Until the music and dancer reached their mesmerising climax, the music cut, for an instant the woman statue-still. Then blackness.
Mick had seen it – just before the lights cut – at least, he thought he had…
Her eyes had been filled with tears.
*
As they filed out onto the street, Mick noticed Sergeant Matthews by his side.
‘Hey, Mick… Whaddya reckon?’ He handed Mick a small card, on it, an address. ‘Got it from that Carlos bloke… Just down the next corner, he said. You’re only young once, eh?’
Mick looked down the street – he couldn’t deny it, he felt sorely tempted – then turned back to Matthews. ‘Remember what our good friend Bernard said, Dave…’
Matthews grinned. ‘A fate worse than death, eh?’
‘S’what the man said,’ winced Mick. ‘How about we sample a bit of the local Tequila instead… One degree less fatal, evidently.’
Christmas Eve 1941
As it slid darkly by, the surface of the Atlantic Ocean was quite still. From their dim blue stern lights, Mick could make out the position of other ships, usual formation port and starboard, to the front, though, in stark silhouette; the forward horizon was an orange glow. The ‘Wolfpacks’ were out. And dead ahead by the look of it.
‘Here we are, sirs…’
Bernard had just brought up mugs of hot cocoa for Mick and Dave Matthews on lookout duty on the bow of the Spirit, so far north since Colón they had to stamp their feet in an attempt to keep warm even though in RAAF great-coats over woollen jumpers, woollen mittens and beanies, deflated life-belts over the lot. Lookout duty? Matthews called it ‘freeze-ya-tits-off duty’.
‘And there’s a tot of rum in them, too,’ smiled Bernard. ‘Nice for Christmas Eve, sirs.’
‘ Thank you, Bernard,’ breathed Mick. It helped. It actually did: Being in the presence of these two characters right now took his mind just a fraction off how fucking scared he was. He saw Matthews was smiling, patting duffle-coated Bernard on the shoulder.
‘Merry bloody Christmas to ya, Bernard,’ issued the Queenslander with frosted breath.
‘And a Merry Christmas to you, sir,’ returned this man clearly well used to such conditions. ‘Well then. Bristol tomorrow. I won’t be seeing you all after tonight, will I.’
Mick’s amazement never failed at this man: It was bitingly cold, with the threat of U-boats in the area and Bernard remained, as always, steadfastly cheerful. ‘Bernard,’ Mick managed, ‘it’s been a privilege knowing you.’
‘Oh no, sir,’ he replied. ‘The privilege has been all mine.’
Mick motioned to the horizon ahead. ‘Whaddya think, mate?’
The merchant mariner scanned it hard, then up at the sky. ‘Well, sir, it’s a U-boat’s night… So clear, so still. Filthy weather favours us.’ He looked ahead again, then at his watch. ‘Yet I’d say by the time we reach the position of the dreadful business ahead we’ll have daylight. And so air cover. Thank God for Coastal Command… Just as long as no U-boat pops up between here and first light.’ He stared forward. ‘And they appear rather busy at the moment…’
Matthews was warming his mittens on his steaming mug. ‘Y’know, Bernard, some of the blokes and me were wondering, well, why you joined this mob… I mean, I imagine a bloke like you coulda done a lotta things…’
‘Why, thank you, sir.’
‘So why off to sea n’that?’
Bernard smiled, though hesitated. ‘It was such a long time ago, sir…’
Matthews was fixed on him. ‘Nah, really. I’d like to know.’
‘Well… If you must…’ The steward stared ahead. ‘Towards the end of the last war – I was your age…’ His smile reprised. ‘I was working in the theatre, in Melbourne… With a group of dear friends – We were stage-hands. Anyway we agreed we’d all join up together. I put my age up to do so – I think we all did… It was 1917, we all enlisted and were just about to be called up when I fell most terribly ill – I was ill for a year in fact, nearly starved, being put out of work. In any case, my friends were not. They all shipped off. And in due course went to France w
here they…’ He paused for quite a long moment before continuing. ‘Where they remained. All of them.’ He took a breath. ‘Anyway… By the time I saw the sun again it was October ’18, and the war was all but over. …I never went back to the theatre; I couldn’t.’
‘So why the Merchant Marine?’ put Matthews.
‘Well, I saw it as my only means of travelling…’ He paused again. ‘To where my friends were.’ He turned to them, smiling slightly. ‘You must think me quite round the bend…’
‘Not us, mate,’ said Matthews.
Mick spoke up after a moment. ‘They must’ve meant a real lot to ya, Bernard.’
‘Everything, sir.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Matthews, and drained his cocoa laced with rum, as did Mick.
Bernard moved to take the mugs. ‘Well, sirs,’ he said, ‘I’ll take my leave of you now. I wish you both the very best of luck for after tomorrow. And a very Merry Christmas.’
‘You too, mate,’ said Matthews, shaking his hand warmly.
‘Thanks for everything, Bernard,’ followed Mick, shaking his hand in turn, and with that the older man departed, Matthews’ stare lingering down the foredeck back along which he then shuffled, and for a while after he’d gone from sight. When Matthews spoke once more, there was a softness in his voice that Mick hadn’t heard before now.
‘ He’s been looking after us, hasn’t he.’
‘From what I gather, Dave,’ returned Mick, ‘he’s looked after hundreds just like us already. Probably more.’
‘Nah, I really mean that,’ Matthews persisted. ‘I mean really looking after us. That bloke’s made it ’is mission in life.’
Mick nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s what I meant too…’
Matthews took a good minute before speaking again. When he did, his voice was resolute.
‘What a fucken hero.’
‘And no error,’ said Mick. ‘I just hope he’s not doing it ’cause he sees us goin’ the same way as his mates.’
Matthews remained silent.
Turning back to the bow Mick saw the glow ahead of them seemed to have dimmed a degree. The silhouette of the convoy ships ahead having softened as a result, their blue stern lights had become clearer. Brighter. For a moment they reminded Mick of Christmas lights: the ones in the city when Mum and Dad used to take him in to see them on Christmas Eve. In his pyjamas. The happy memory gave him a grin.
But then he saw something strange ahead… Or thought he had… And focused hard.
Between the silhouettes of the ships, and their blue lights, were tiny pin-pricks of red. The harder he looked, the more he saw… Like glitter on the water. And some of the pin-pricks were now pin-heads.
They were red lights. Floating on the water! And all the time getting closer… And with every passing moment there were more… and more… and more of them.
‘ Je-sus Mary and Joseph…’ Mick turned aside to Matthews for a second: Matthews said nothing, his face fixed dead ahead, aghast: On their life-belts – which except for through Panama they’d not taken off since Sydney – were three attachments: a mouth tube for inflation, a whistle for attracting attention, and a small light bulb which went on when exposed to water. A red light.
Mick counted 20. 50… There must be a hundred… Double that – He’d stopped counting long before the first audible ‘clump’ on the keel of the Spirit, by which time he could see very clearly indeed what was floating past. Men. In the water. Stone frozen dead. For each one a bobbing red light.
If ever he had to think twice about killing a German, Mick vowed to himself, he would only have to recall this.
As far as he could see on all sides now…
A vast plain of twinkling red.
CHAPTER FIVE
Having alighted at the British seaport of Bristol, of the view from the troop train to Bournemouth on England’s far south coast Mick didn’t see much. Nobody did; Christmas Day was dark, freezing cold and it rained like buggery the whole way. Changing at Salisbury, then again at Southampton, it was still bucketing on their arrival at Bournemouth, and Mick had never known such a cold rain either: By the time he’d tramped with about a hundred other aircrew boys from the train station to Bournemouth’s Commonwealth Aircrew Reception and Dispatch Centre, Mick’s face, neck and wrists were so cold they hurt.
Mightily grateful for the dry towel and mug of hot tea he was handed once inside the Centre, Mick was taken aback at the sight of the large and brightly lit hall into which his dripping, musty-smelling throng were herded: The place was packed with RAF clerical staff hard at work behind their desks on Christmas Day. If anything, there seemed a surplus of clerical staff on hand and Mick’s administrative processing passed quickly and efficiently.
When, however, he asked about the possibility of wiring some sort of message back to 1BAGS Evans Head enquiring as to the safe arrival of a certain Avro Anson crew, the immediate answer he got was a blank stare. The RAF clerk having established that Mick was not, in fact, joking, he assured the Pilot Officer there was no chance. None at all. Signals channels already stretched beyond capacity. Perhaps if the Pilot Officer had been announcing Victory in Europe… With no international telephone calls possible for the Duration even if the Pilot Officer could mount the expense of one, he might try posting a letter by surface mail. For the moment Pilot Officer O’Regan, M., 217831 was to be billeted in commandeered lodgings, where, in due course, he would receive his orders as to his AFU posting – up in Scotland, most likely. He might try his luck with a signal to Australia once up there ‘but from civilisation forget it’ said the clerk who handed Mick his billet chit and bid him good luck.
Back out through the Centre’s bustling foyer, Mick was confronted by a familiar smile at the street entrance, Dave Matthews one of many trying to hail the taxis that rushed past in the rain. Checking a town map they’d each been issued with, Dave insisted Mick share a taxi with him – not so much for the fact that Mick’s billet seemed on the way to his own as for the fact that though it hadn’t come to the use of their revolvers yet in stopping a cab it well might and two might be more convincing than one… He handed Mick a card, continuing his hailing attempts as Mick read it.
The Bournemouth Crystal Chandelier Dance Palace is pleased to invite all Commonwealth Aircrew to its Annual Christmas Night Dance Gala. 8pm – Free Admission – Dress: Service/Formal – Refreshments available.
Event proudly sponsored by the Bournemouth Townswomen’s Guild
‘Where’d y’get this, Dave?’ put Mick.
‘Centre noticeboard, mate. Whaddya reckon, eh? … Townswomen’s Guild,’ he stressed with a maniacal grin.
‘I dunno, Dave,’ Mick smiled. ‘I hear they’re a pretty raucous bunch… Loose morals.’
‘Here’s hoping,’ nodded the Sergeant-Pilot. ‘It’s bloody Christmas, Mick; you’re coming an’ that’s an order. Besides, w’been couped up so long, I wanna shake a leg.’
Seeing a taxi slowing across the street, Matthews drew two fingers to his mouth and blew a piercingly loud whistle.
*
In slightly crumpled Number 1 Service Dress, Mick entered the foyer of The Palace at the appointed hour, cloak-roomed his cap and great-coat, a crimson-uniformed usherette motioning him through the portals of the dancehall’s Grand Ballroom…
And there right before him was dancing in full swing: civilian girls in shiny ball-gowns, ear-rings and red lipstick; less lipstick and certainly no jewellery on the ‘Waafs’ – girls of the British ‘Women’s Auxiliary Air Force’ – yet at a glance dancing most intently with aircrew boys, tunic shoulder lettering proclaiming AUSTRALIA, CANADA, NEW ZEALAND, SOUTH AFRICA… Yet most surprising to Mick was how many times POLAND and CZECHOSLOVAKIA flashed past.
Beyond them all, up on the stage, as per the silver-on-black worded signage of their music stands, the black-tuxedoed Chandelier All-Stars were belting out a glorious noise: from one side of the stage to the other a section of trumpets, one of saxophones, trombones, a guitar, a double-bas
s and a piano, their leader wailing up front on solo clarinet. On a raised platform in the rear, their drummer played like a man possessed. The room was darkened though with coloured spotlights everywhere and an enormous central ‘mirror’ ball reflecting disks of light in perpetual motion onto the dancers and around the walls.
‘Hey, Mick!’
Matthews approached with his usual athletic trundle.
‘Dave, old son,’ Mick smiled.
‘Come t’the bar… Come t’the bar….’
*
‘Shit, they drink this?’ Mick grimaced.
The beer was warm.
Matthews chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, mate; not so bad after a few, not on a cold night… Now look. I’ve got two girls lined up for us – met ’em on the way in. Ruby an’ Suzette – though I get a funny feeling that’s not ’er real name… But they’re real lookers, Mick, an’ I’m almost certain they’re not prostitutes…’
Over the noise of the band, only those standing directly by Mick and Dave ever noticed their convulsions of laughter.
*
Ruby Baxter was 21 and from Manchester – Mahn-ches-dair, she pronounced it, op north. Hundreds of miles north, apparently. She now worked in the Supermarine factory at nearby Southampton: ‘Riveting Spits,’ she smiled at Mick. ‘Pear-haps yours.’
Considered nice-looking by many, Ruby had privately accepted that she was no pin-up, instead making the very best of the looks she had: make-up, eyebrows, she liked Ava Gardner; hair, Vivienne Leigh. She wore the most stylish gowns she could afford – which meant rarely the latest fashions so she snapped up what she could and altered them herself. One thing she did have, though, was an hourglass figure on which to drape them. This she made sure she kept. And tonight she didn’t even have to draw the usual fake stocking seams up the back of her legs; tonight – the holy grail – she wore a brand-new pair of nylons.
As they danced she told Mick she adored being so far from home: the independence, the paypacket, doing her bit for the War Effort. She didn’t tell him, though, what she most adored about being so far from home… Nor how deliciously abundant it had been to date. Nor how she’d discovered, as a result, that she possessed talents she’d never imagined back in what now felt like a past life.
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