Danny looked up at Bullnose and said nothing.
CHAPTER SIX
SAMMY’S YEARS MASSAGING INJURED footballers meant that there wasn’t much he didn’t know about damaged backs and the muscles and tendons that can, with careful work, be built up to support the spine. But he was accustomed to strong, firm young bodies at the peak of health and fitness and not the wasted wreck he now found under his hands. ‘Jeez, Danny, we’ve got a fair bit of work to do. Bloody wonder yer can still walk. Them bastards really give you a proper workin’ over, matey.’
Bullnose Daintree, always present if only for the chat, growled. ‘Bloody mongrels. I see one o’ them chinks in the street, I’m gunna headbutt the bastard all the way back’ta fuckin’ where he come from!’
‘Japanese, mate, they’re not Chinese; different race,’ Danny observed with a grin.
‘Yeah? Yer could’a fooled me. They got slant eyes, ain’t they? Bandy legs? Bastards can’t see in the fuckin’ dark.’
‘You’ve seen too many propaganda posters, Bullnose,’ Danny chuckled. ‘Although, come to think of it, the Japanese officer who did this to me was short, with bandy legs and thick glasses.’
‘Yeah, chinks, Japs, they all look the same,’ Sammy said, in defence of his mate. ‘Swimmin’, Danny, like I said before. It’ll help fix ya. Me hands can only do so much.’
‘I know, Sammy, and I’m grateful. Thank you.’
‘Nah, ain’t nothin’. You done your bit. It’s the least a man can do.’
‘Oath,’ Bullnose added. ‘Sammy’s got magic in them hands. Yer gunna be bran’ new, Danny.’
The long road to recovery had begun and it wasn’t all pain. Helen worked her own magic in the little bedsitter in Glebe Point Road. Danny, despite the dark moods that sometimes overtook him when he knew he had to be on his own, was happier than he had thought possible, but the unrecognised heroism of the little medic, Spike Jones, weighed on his conscience. It was unfinished business, and so he called on Helen, the lieutenant colonel with the contacts, for help.
Helen, in turn, called on one of her fellow wartime colonels, now in the permanent army but then on the general staff, who in turn referred her to Colonel Napier, the senior staff officer in the Australian army in charge of protocol in Canberra, who advised that he wanted a written submission before deciding whether he would grant Mr Dunn an interview.
Danny’s detailed submission had concluded with the story of the hoisting of the Union Jack that Spike Jones had kept, at the risk of his life, for three years, and both Danny and Helen had every confidence they would be granted an interview. But no such thing happened.
‘Listen to this,’ Danny fumed, waving the letter he’d received that morning. ‘“Military procedure requires that an officer must have personally witnessed the behaviour in question. Without such confirmation, no matter how commendable the action, the application for recognition at any level must, unfortunately, be rejected.” Jesus Christ!’
‘Oh, Danny, how unfair!’ Helen cried.
‘The bastards know the prison camps were commanded by the senior NCO, that the Japanese separated the men from the officers.’ Danny’s dismay, not to say disgust, was palpable.
Helen embraced him. ‘Oh, Danny, I’m so sorry.’
Danny felt a black rage rising inside him. ‘“Commendable!” No matter how fucking commendable!’ he roared. Pulling away from her embrace he tore the letter into pieces and stamped on them like a small child. ‘They send us into the jaws of hell, and yet the word of an ordinary serviceman can’t be trusted, and their deeds, no matter how —’ he practically gagged on the word, ‘commendable, are of no worth unless they are pronounced upon by some toff wearing a Sam Browne! One rule for officers and another for their men!’ He flung himself into a chair and winced as his spine jarred against the back.
Helen watched as he struggled to regain his composure. She knew better than to try to comfort him when he was in a rage, but it tore at her heart to see him so distressed about one of his men. Danny, she realised, was a good man, loyal to a fault when it came to his friends, but he was developing, or had already developed, a chip on his shoulder when it came to conventional authority figures. She wondered what their future together might bring. The one thing that was quite clear in her mind was that she loved him and, whatever happened, she wasn’t going to give up on him. But she wasn’t at all sure that Danny felt the same way. She was sure he loved her, but she was beginning to realise that it wasn’t just his mutilated face that troubled him. He feared that the demons within might prove beyond his control, which therefore made him very wary of a permanent attachment. She knew it wasn’t her; he liked being with her, even felt safe with her, and their love-life was nothing short of wonderful, although sometimes he simply couldn’t respond. They both knew it was himself he was going to have to contend with in the future and he feared he might not manage with a partner in tow.
Helen, as usual, had her own practical take on the matter, but Danny was reluctant to discuss anything permanent. ‘Darling, we were warned that there’s a strong likelihood I could be permanently sterile. Those three years of starvation in the camps may have destroyed any chance I had of fathering children. Please think about it. You may never be a mother if you marry me.’
Helen would have none of it. ‘Darling Danny, I love you and hope that I always will, but if our love isn’t strong enough for me to remain happily childless or for us to adopt a couple of kids, then I shall simply divorce you. In the meantime, let’s get on with having you fixed up. Besides, I’ve already done my homework and I’ve heard of two returned prisoners of war with a similar background to your own whose wives are pregnant.’
Helen had insisted that Danny couldn’t possibly go to America for plastic surgery without her to care for him, and, like it or not, they would have to marry; it would be almost unthinkable for an unmarried couple to travel successfully as partners in America. And that was that.
If Helen was determined to marry Danny, she was less concerned about the type of wedding she would have, to the distress and fury of her mother. Barbara Brown was determined to have a big slap-up wedding at St Andrew’s Cathedral in Town Hall Square, where she and Reg had dutifully worshipped all their married lives as insurance for just such an event. The reception afterwards would be at the Australian Golf Club in Rose Bay, where Reg had recently been admitted as a member after the mandatory ten years of reapplying annually while waiting for a vacancy. But Helen was proving maddeningly stubborn. ‘Mum, two days after the wedding Danny and I are leaving for America, where he will be undergoing months of plastic surgery. Save the wedding money and give it to us as a wedding present – we can use it for a deposit on a flat when we return.’ She’d looked pleadingly at her mother. ‘When we get back, Danny will be a law student and I’ll be applying for a tutorship; we’ll be broke and we’ll need all the help we can get. We’re not sure how long we’ll be living in America but all we’ve got to live on is three and a half years of army back pay, which Danny is entitled to as a prisoner of war. It’s not much, Mum.’
‘Can’t you think of someone other than yourself for a change?’ Barbara replied angrily. ‘Your father was looking forward to inviting all our friends to the golf club for the reception – people from Rotary and the Pharmacy Guild, some of his major suppliers, your school friends from PLC, of course. You know we don’t entertain a great deal and this is our chance to say thank you. There are several important people he’s met at his new club, too. It’s simply not fair. The least you could do is consider the family. I know my sister, your Aunty Agatha, would love to come up from Adelaide. With your Uncle Jim recently passed away, it would give her something to really look forward to and make her feel part of our family. I don’t know how I can possibly face Bishop Johns now; he has already agreed to officiate at your wedding.’
‘Mum, I haven’t been inside St Andrew’s since my confirmation!�
�� Helen protested.
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter. We’re Anglican, for heaven’s sake. Your father and I have more than made up for you. Can’t you, for once in your life, consider our feelings? These things are important, and the people of Birchgrove expect nothing less from someone with our standing in the community.’
‘Mum, the people of Birchgrove couldn’t give a hoot about where I’m married. Dad’s their local chemist – he gives them stuff to take when they’ve got a cold, that’s all.’
‘Well! That puts us firmly in our place, doesn’t it!’ Barbara snorted. ‘Your father works very hard for this community, I’ll have you know. He’s been invited to put his name up for possible nomination for the National Council of the Pharmacy Guild. It’s a chance he can’t afford to miss. The wedding, and then the reception at the golf club, would be a major social event. It would be in the Sunday newspapers. It’s a single stroke of luck in this whole unfortunate business and it could make all the difference to his nomination. Can’t you see, Helen. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, even if it does cost an arm and a leg.’
Helen let her mother’s obvious disapproval of her choice of partner pass unremarked, knowing that any comment would only lead to a row. She seldom thought about her looks, but in truth she was a stunner, and knew it. In her mind’s eye she saw herself, the radiant bride in flowing white wedding gown, with Danny at her side, his poor broken face grimacing in a valiant smile. The story had all the essential ingredients – beautiful, intelligent bride with her master’s degree, and war hero with the ruined face. It would mean that not only the social editors but also the regular journalists would have a field day. Helen winced as she imagined the distress it would cause her friend and future mother-in-law when Brenda opened her beloved Women’s Weekly.
‘Mum, if you want us to make it into the social pages, then we can go to something at Dad’s club when we get back from America,’ Helen suggested, ‘that is, if Danny is allowed in . . .’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Barbara asked tartly.
‘I once made enquiries to the Australian Golf Club for an American colonel on MacArthur’s staff who wanted to play golf and who was to be stationed in Sydney for a period of duty. I was told that he could be made a visiting member, providing that he wasn’t a Jew or a Catholic.’
‘Well, of course that doesn’t apply to wedding guests at a reception,’ Barbara snorted.
‘Mum! I’m marrying into a Catholic family! Would you feel comfortable at a club that banned Protestants?’
‘I wish this unfortunate business with that boy had never occurred! It’s . . . it’s impossible!’ Barbara cried out. ‘Why don’t you listen . . . can’t you see what’s going to happen? That face! That terrible face! Yes, they’re Catholics and, if you ask me, bog Irish! The mother runs a public house, for goodness sake! Why couldn’t you find a decent, clean-living boy we could be proud of?’ Barbara Brown, frustrated, was beyond watching her words and was close to tears.
This was the second time her mother had referred to the ‘unfortunate business’ of her choice of life partner and it wasn’t in Helen’s nature to let it pass twice. But she didn’t raise her voice when she spoke; rather, she said, as if to herself, ‘Danny’s “terrible” face was once handsome, Mum. When I first saw him walking towards me on the campus of Sydney University I thought he was the most beautiful creature, male or female, I had ever seen. Before he’d opened his mouth I was head over heels in love with him.’
Barbara tossed her head and gave a disgusted cluck, but Helen went on. ‘Then, standing concealed among the cheering hysterical crowd on the dock at Circular Quay, I watched silently as a tall, stooped, emaciated young man with a missing eye and a mutilated face walked slowly down the gangplank and I knew that I loved him even more.’ Helen looked at her mother. ‘As for decent and clean living, it’s young men like him who were prepared to sacrifice their lives for complacent old women like you, Mother. Never forget that and please don’t ever attempt to separate us! When I look at Danny, all I ever see is the boy who walked towards me that first day on campus.’ Helen paused and looked coldly at her mother. ‘With your prevailing sentiments I would rather die than put Danny through the kind of pretentious and ostentatious wedding you have in mind. Understand quite clearly, the answer is no, Mother. No!’
Helen had always hoped that her mother would have understood that the kind of social wedding she so desired was out of the question. There was simply no possibility of it happening with Danny in his present situation. But, ever since she could remember, whenever Helen had had a firm or committed opinion on any subject, it had clashed with that of her mother.
Besides, there simply wouldn’t have been time to organise a big reception before they left for the States. They were booked to sail two days after the wedding and Helen was going to need all that time, a matter of six weeks, to make the arrangements, even with her formidable organisational skills. She had begun with a letter to her former assistant in intelligence, Jennifer Coombs, now married and living in St Louis with her surgeon husband, Dr John Glicks.
Jennifer had been an enormous help and instrumental in their choice of St Louis and the Barnes Hospital. John Glicks had initially been transferred from Brisbane to Valley Forge General Military Hospital in Pennsylvania because of his success with bad facial wounds sustained by American and Australian troops in the Pacific War. During his medical training, plastic surgery, as it became known, wasn’t recognised as a part of the American Board of Medical Specialities, and was considered simply a part of normal surgery. In 1941, when John was already a military surgeon, it had finally received recognition. Not an area in which most military surgeons felt comfortable, it was nevertheless one to which he felt intensely drawn, and as a result, he’d been given most of the cases coming into Brisbane from the islands. His reputation had reached the States, where there was an enormous need for competent plastic surgeons to treat troops returning from Europe and the Pacific, and he’d been drafted to Valley Forge.
Jennifer had written to say that, despite her husband’s considerable military reputation and senior surgeon status in the army, he’d wanted to learn more and that, in civilian life, this meant working under John Barratt and Vilray P. Blair, known to be among the best plastic surgeons in America. He had accepted a post as a surgeon at the Barnes Hospital, where they both practised as senior plastic surgeons. She had, after consulting with her husband, suggested that Danny come to St Louis, where John Glicks could be his personal surgeon under the supervision of the great Vilray P. Blair, adding that all Danny and Helen would be required to pay would be the hospital costs – her husband would waive his surgeon’s fee. Helen winced when she heard what these additional costs might be. They were considerably more than Danny’s army back pay, which they had hoped would stretch to cover their living expenses over the six months they’d be away. Her plans were almost in tatters before she’d begun.
But Helen wasn’t easily daunted, and when it came to someone or something she cared about, pulling strings she might not strictly speaking be entitled to pull was the least of it. Helen with a cause was a formidable opponent. She called the American embassy, using her obsolete army rank, and asked them to help locate Doctor John P. Mulhall Jnr, another senior army surgeon she’d known in Brisbane. They replied that he was still in the army and based at the Walter Reed Army Medical Centre in Washington, DC. She had written to him, including copies of Danny’s medical history, to see if she could get him admitted to a military hospital as a gesture to the Australians who had fought alongside the Americans in the Pacific. The Americans were known to be generous, but even so it was drawing a long bow. Danny wasn’t happy when he heard the lengths to which Helen was prepared to go for help.
‘Helen, don’t do it. Using your former rank could get you into a lot of trouble. Besides, we don’t have to beg. I’ll go to uni instead and one day we’ll be able to afford it.�
��
A couple of weeks later Dr Mulhall wrote to say it could be arranged but that the waiting list for surgery of the type Danny would need to undergo was two and a half years at the very least. For now at least, that seemed to put the kibosh on the whole idea.
Next, Danny, at Helen’s urging, had turned to Dr Craig Woon and Colonel Rigby, the doctor at Concord Repat. They’d hastily arranged for Danny to go in front of the Disability Allowance Board, which had allocated a disability allowance that covered some of the costs, although it was obvious they were still miles short. But Helen had remained cheerful. ‘At least we’ve got enough to live in the States now. It’s comparatively cheap apparently,’ she volunteered.
‘Yeah, great, but how do we get there in the first place?’ Danny asked. ‘Helen, you always wanted to do your doctorate after your masters. That’s something tangible we can do with this money, and if you get a tutorship in combination it will just about pay for our living expenses while I’m at university. My face may not be very pretty but I don’t think my brain has been damaged.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ Helen said with a smile. ‘But, Danny, that’s way, way into the future. Firstly, I have to apply for the right to prepare a dissertation for my doctorate. Then, I’ll have to go on at least one dig with a British archaeology team to Egypt or Mesopotamia, and then, as you know, I can’t do a doctorate in ancient history in Australia, so I’ll have to apply to the University College, London, to do my dissertation. Then, of course, it has to be marked and accepted. It could take years. Thanks for thinking of me, darling, but for the moment I’m concentrating on getting us to America.’
The Story of Danny Dunn Page 22
