by Susan Toscan
In his mind, his handicap was much more than just a missing limb. He had convinced himself that he was not capable of a normal life. The medical staff knew that he was in a very bad place emotionally but had neither the skill nor the doctors to help him. The first two months Michael spent in the hospital were a blur of pain and anguish. He was now totally dependent on morphine and alcohol. He was well liked, but people could see that he was a very disturbed man.
During his time in hospital, he had been given a discharge from the army after being deemed medically unfit for further active service. In his mind, this translated to ‘useless’.
The words ‘medically unfit’ were the only commendation he would receive for the long months spent in that hellhole in Tobruk. There was no written recognition of his bravery, of his leadership skills or of his heroism. No recognition that prior to the war, this young man was whole, happy and healthy, with a beautiful family and a promising future.
In January 1942, Michael was told that he would be released from the hospital within the week and transported back to Australia. Even though somewhere in his drug-fogged brain, he was aware that it was incredibly unfair to his family, he could not face returning home the way he was. He did not know if he had any chance of ever becoming the person he had been before the war, but he had to give himself time to regain control of his life.
Michael knew that he needed help if he was to find his own way back to Australia. He befriended one of the nurses. He even went so far as to lead her to believe that he was interested in her romantically so that she would keep giving him extra doses of morphine—and help him get out of the hospital.
Michael often laughingly congratulated himself on how good he was at manipulating people to get what he wanted. His addiction had driven him to perfect this skill: when it needed to be fed, he would do anything to get what he wanted, including bribery and lying. This gave him great satisfaction; in his wounded mind, he convinced himself that everyone owed him for what he had lost.
The nurse, Mary, was an Australian girl who was desperately homesick. Young and naïve, she had used her nursing skills to obtain a job overseas during the war, but when she ended up in Cairo, she realised that it was not the romantic adventure she had been expecting.
Michael told her that he would pay her fare if she could give him the assistance that he would need to get to Australia. He had not told her about his family; he did not want anyone trying to contact them. Mary felt sorry for him and also thought that he seemed to be a nice fellow; she liked the way Michael seemed to pay more attention to her than the other nurses. And she desperately wanted to get home. On their journey back to Australia, they could pretend to be married, which would make the process easier. They planned to leave the hospital just after midnight.
Michael had decided that he would head for Darwin. He had met a soldier in Tobruk who spoke about his family having a mango farm not far from there, and he thought that he would go and see if they could give him some work. Darwin was also attractive because it was thousands of miles from his family—but still home, still somewhere back in Australia. Michael had no idea what he would be able to do there, but he knew that he had to work; his funds were diminishing quickly. Getting alcohol was his main focus and the biggest drain on his savings.
Just before her late shift was finished, Mary helped Michael dress in civilian clothes that she had stolen from another patient and then helped him back into bed to wait for the staff changeover. She knew that at midnight there was only one nurse on duty in Michael’s ward. When all was quiet, she rang the buzzer of a patient down the corridor from Michael, and when the nurse left her station to attend to the call, Mary quickly got her charge into a wheelchair and pushed him out of the hospital. They made their way to a cheap hotel near the docks that Mary had found for them earlier in the week while off duty. She had made sure that they would not have to negotiate stairs to get to their room. It was an ideal location as they wanted to secure passage on a ship going to Australia as soon as possible.
Michael was exhausted by the time they got to the hotel. Mary was concerned. She checked his blood pressure and temperature. He was definitely feverish. She gave him some aspirin. “I’m beginning to think that perhaps I shouldn’t have taken you from the hospital. You’re still very weak.”
“Mary, I’ll be fine once I’ve had the morphine and a good sleep. Tomorrow morning, you can go down to the docks and find out when the next ship is heading to Australia.”
At the shipping office, Mary was informed that a freight ship was due at the end of the week. It had limited, basic passenger accommodation. She was pleased about the timing as it would give Michael a few more days of rest and help him get stronger for the trip. The ship would take them through the Cape of Good Hope all the way to Fremantle in Western Australia. From there she knew they could easily book passage on another ship that would take them to the Northern Territory.
The voyage was a blur of pain and morphine for Michael. Mary nursed him all the way, rarely complaining, but she had made up her mind that once she got him to Darwin, she would find her own way further south, perhaps to Brisbane. She did not want to be stuck looking after an invalid who seemed unwilling to help himself.
Once they had left Cairo, it had quickly become obvious that Michael was not really interested in Mary romantically, and she was feeling used. While Michael was in hospital, she had thought that he just needed time to get stronger and then he would ease off the morphine and alcohol. Instead, Michael’s dependence was getting worse, and he refused to try to use his prosthetic leg. When Mary tried encouraging him to use it, he would throw it into the corner of the cabin and yell at her to give him more morphine. The supply—which Mary had stockpiled while they were back in Cairo, ready for the trip to Australia—was getting low; they would barely have enough to get to Darwin.
The stopover in Freemantle was uneventful. The customs officer who dealt with them was very sympathetic about Michael’s health, and he knew that many soldiers were returning without the appropriate papers.
The shipping line had a sister ship leaving for Darwin the following day. With the assistance of a member of the crew, Mary got Michael settled, hoping and praying that he would manage to survive the last leg of the tedious journey. Michael was vaguely aware that they had finally arrived in Australia. He was relieved—but extremely anxious to get to Darwin.
When they finally reached Darwin and disembarked, Mary asked a taxi driver to take them to the nearest hotel. She was able to get a room on the ground floor so that Michael did not have to climb any stairs—and so he could get to the bar without too much trouble.
As she booked the room, she explained her situation to the publican. “Look, I don’t really know him. I met up with him on the ship, and I felt sorry for him. He’s in a bad way, and he needs to see a doctor. Can you arrange for someone to call on him?”
“This isn’t a hospital, lady,” the publican replied. He looked at the anxious young woman standing in front of him and softened. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
The time had come for Mary to say goodbye to Michael. She tried to make him understand that she was leaving, but he appeared to be in a daze. It made her sad to see this man so completely helpless and seemingly determined to destroy himself. She knew that she could not stay and watch him do that; she did not know how to help Michael if he would not help himself. She loved nursing, but she had had enough of hopeless cases. Mary kissed Michael’s cheek and thanked him for getting her back to Australia, and then she left.
War wounds
Two days after Mary left, Michael became aware that she was no longer with him. When he began shouting and calling out for her, the publican went to his room and asked him to keep his voice down. “The lady left two days ago, mate.” The publican eyed Michael up and down; what he saw confirmed his suspicions that the man was out of it, on drink or drugs or something like that. “She asked me to get a doctor to come and see you, but I thought that I’d
wait a bit and let you sleep it off.”
“I need morphine for the pain in my leg,” Michael said. Desperate to convince the man who was looking at him so sceptically, he pulled back the bed covers, revealing his damaged body.
The publican visibly flinched. “I’ll call the local doctor then.” Shocked, the man left Michael’s room, shaking his head. Back at the reception desk, he described to his wife what he’d seen. “That guy should be in a hospital. He looks awful, and he seems to be in a lot of pain. Poor bugger. I’ll go down and see the doc myself and try to get him here sooner rather than later.” After having given the doctor Michael’s name and what little information he had, the publican was pleased to hear that the doctor would see him.
The doctor arrived promptly, and when he saw Michael, he was surprised that the young man had been able to leave the hospital in Cairo. He tried to convince the injured man to go to hospital in Darwin, but Michael refused.
“Look, Mick,” he said to Michael firmly, “you have a bad infection. That leg does not look good.”
“I’ll be fine, doc, if you just give me some antibiotics and some morphine for the pain. I’ve had enough of hospitals. Please help me, mate. I lost my leg fighting in Tobruk, and I now want to try to get my life back.” Michael played on the sympathy of the doctor. He was very good at it, and it worked.
“Okay, Mick, but I’ll need to see you again in a week’s time.”
The antibiotics worked quickly, and Michael soon began to feel better. The doctor had also given him a limited supply of morphine.
Michael finally decided to try using his prosthetic leg, even though it was uncomfortable and often chafed his skin. At least it gave him a sense of normality. Being in this strange place where no-one knew him, he could pretend that he was normal. He always wore long trousers, and even though he walked with a very exaggerated limp, he knew that he could boast of a war wound and gain sympathy.
While he could handle the sympathy given to a returned soldier, he could not handle the disgust on the faces of those people who he believed saw him as somehow less than human, less than whole—a cripple. His pride would not let him ask for help, and this made his life extremely difficult.
Michael’s worst days were the ones in which he thought about Agnes and his children. The pain of those memories made the pain of losing his leg pale into insignificance. His heart was so broken with sadness that he would find it difficult to breathe. These were the days in which he would not leave his small, hot room. Michael would drink until he could no longer see the faces of the four people he loved most in the world.
He knew that they would be suffering not knowing where he was, or even if he was alive, but he just could not bring himself to even consider the possibility of returning to them. He knew that he was an alcoholic like his father. But unlike his father, he did not want his family to deal with the violence that he had witnessed as a child. He did not want his children growing up with memories of a father screaming abuse at his wife and of feeling helpless to stop the violence that left bruises on her face and arms. He just could not risk going home.
He would try not to imagine his beautiful children—and fail. Frances would be seven by now and a real little lady, he was sure. Patricia would have started school, and Neil would be a busy three-year-old. He wondered if they remembered him. In his dreams he would see Agnes’s beautiful face, her dark curls framing brown eyes that sparkled with life and fun. Then he would see the sadness in those eyes. He was beyond depression. The hotel staff would often have to bang on his door to wake him when he was screaming in his sleep.
Michael knew that he had to leave the hotel and try to find a job. He had pinned all of his hopes on finding employment on the mango farm, which was situated about 20 miles out of Darwin in a small place called Humpty Doo. The publican of the hotel knew the owners, the family of Bob O’Connor, the soldier who’d served in Tobruk with Michael. He arranged a ride for Michael on a delivery truck going out to the mango farm.
When Michael arrived, he asked the first worker he saw, “So you know a bloke by the name of Bob O’Connor?”
“Sure, Bob’s the boss. He’s over in the big shed. I’ll take you over there. How do you know Bob, mate?”
“We met when we were both in Tobruk,” Michael replied. He had not been sure if Bob had returned from the war; he’d simply taken a chance that the other soldier had.
“I see. He’ll be pleased to see you.”
“I hope so. I need a job, and he had said that if I was in the area to look him up, so here I am.” Michael tried to sound like he was on a working holiday.
“Bob, someone here to see you,” the worker called out as he and Michael entered the shed. Michael recognised Bob immediately. He had gained weight since Michael had last seen him, but that was to be expected. It was obvious that Bob had not recognised Michael quite so quickly. Michael held out his hand. “Mick—Mick Griffiths. Not sure if you remember me from Tobruk? We met when your regiment first arrived in that hell hole.”
Bob walked over to Michael and looked carefully into his face.
“Can’t say that I remember you. Sorry, mate… but give me time, and it’ll come back to me. I took a bad blow to my head when a shell fell too close. Got me home early, so it turned out well for me. It’s just that my memory’s not that good anymore.”
“I totally understand, mate. Look at me; lost a leg during the last few weeks—rotten luck. I was hoping that you’d remember telling me that if I was in the area and needed work, I should look your family up. Last time we met, I was with my mate Steven, and we were talking about wanting to visit this part of Australia someday.”
O’Connor nodded, slowly. “You’re right; I did tell a few blokes to come if they were up this way. And I’m pleased that you’re here because we do need workers at the moment. You’re in luck, my friend. We’re desperate to find men to sort the fruit once it’s been picked. There’s shared accommodation in a staff shed if you need somewhere to stay,” Bob added.
“Is it any better than shearers’ quarters?” Michael asked. “I spent a lot of time in those before the war.”
“Would be pretty much the same, I imagine, mate.”
“I’ll take the job and the accommodation. Thanks, Bob. I can still work hard. If I can sit down for a bit, just every so often, then I should be fine.”
Bob could see that Michael was sensitive about his leg, and he wanted to make sure that his fellow soldier felt that he was doing something worthwhile. He instinctively knew that Michael would not want charity. Being a returned soldier himself, Bob respected the man for wanting to get a job even though he had a handicap. He could see from Michael’s appearance that the young man was not in good shape. He must have had a bad time of it.
“I need someone with a keen eye and knowledge of how important it is to make sure that only the best fruit will be packed,” Bob explained to Michael. “I’m sure you’d realise, Mick, that the reputation of the business is reliant on the quality of the fruit. When the orders are filled, they’re shipped down south. We have to make sure that the maximum profit will carry the farm until the next season.” Looking at the determined man in front of him, Bob somehow had a sense that Mick would always take pride in what he did.
For many weeks after ‘Mick’ started working on the farm, O’Connor tried hard to remember him from Tobruk. But he had met many blokes over there, and now with his impaired memory, they really all looked pretty much the same. Even so, this fellow was certainly a mystery. He was a loner, but he did not seem like the type of guy who should be alone.
Bob soon became aware that Mick liked the bottle, and this further confused him. It was obvious that Mick was an intelligent man, and it did not fit that he was living the life of a drifter. Bob knew that many men had felt displaced once they returned from active duty overseas, but eventually most of them would find their way home. He certainly hoped that Mick would find his way soon. It was obvious that he was not a healthy person, and if h
e did not start to look after himself, he would fall further into a downward spiral of addiction and illness.
The mango farm
Michael felt that he fitted right in on the mango farm. He liked living in the shared quarters as it reminded him of happier days working in the shearing sheds, and he felt comfortable there.
He still operated very much like a loner, but with people around all the time, Michael did not feel so alone. He even let his guard down and allowed his fellow workers to see that he had an artificial leg. It was too damned hot to wear long trousers all the time. Michael didn’t care what these men thought anyway; he was beyond caring about anything. He only wanted to earn money and buy alcohol and then find a way to get more morphine. His supply was quickly dwindling, and he needed more and more. He tried to cut back, but the pain in his leg would not settle. There was a small hospital in the nearby town of Humpty Doo where he was able to fill the prescriptions the doctor in Darwin had given him. He was undergoing check-ups every couple of weeks, but he knew that the medical staff would not continue to give him morphine. They were already warning him that he had to get off the drug because he was addicted to it. As if he did not know that. He would get angry and play the sympathy card, but it was starting to wear thin. Michael was getting desperate.
One evening, after an outdoor meal with the group from the farm, Michael decided to take a short walk. As he made his way between the mango trees, he heard voices coming from a small clearing. He approached and saw that some of the younger workers were gathered in a group, talking and laughing. They turned and called him over to join them. As he got nearer, Michael noticed that a small square of glass had been placed on the upturned drum they were using as a table. On the glass was a white, powdery substance. One young man was holding a straw to his nose and using it to sniff up the powder.
“What you guys up to out here in the dark?” Michael asked.
