The weather clags in and I am unable to leave and, instead of a friendly visit with old friends, the Viet Cong and the NVA mount a major assault which lasts two days, including them breaching the wire and storming some of our forward weapon pits with bayonets before we can repulse them. Hundreds of them are killed in two days of barbaric fighting, with twelve of our guys also dead. I finally leave on Monday evening on one of the first relief helicopters. I haven’t been injured and I’ve done pretty good with the SLR. Being a good shot has come in real handy, but my nerves are shot. I can’t take much more.
As it turns out, there isn’t a great deal more to take. The Americans are getting out. I now understand the utter futility of Australia’s ten years in Vietnam. It’s not a war I can support any longer. Troops are not being replaced, units are downscaled, equipment begins to be sent home and I’m drinking heavily, trying to avoid feeling anything and to keep my nerves under control.
It’s late 1971 and I fly to Nui Dat on the final day we abandon the Australian base. The main gates are known by all Australian troops as ‘The Pearly Gates’for the obvious reason. Now, stretching from The Pearly Gates for several kilometres down the road to Baria, is every type of vehicle you can imagine, right down to people pushing wheelbarrows. As the last of the Australians fly out from Luscombe Field, I watch while the Vietnamese, like a swarm of locusts, strip Nui Dat down to the last nail and bolt. Thirty years of fighting have taught them how to survive.
Back home I am posted to the officer training unit at Scheyville. It’s a paradox that, now that the bulk of Australia’s forces are out of Vietnam, there’s a huge increase in volunteer recruiting. Why is that? Buggered if I know. But we’re overworked trying to cope, twelve-hour days, seven days a week. I’m sleeping less, drinking more (if that’s possible), and I’m no longer known for my good humour.
Then, at the end of 1972, Gough Whitlam is elected the first Labor prime minister in twenty-three years, conscription is abolished and National Servicemen are sent home. The training centre is closed and we’re all thinking about finding jobs in civilian life as there’s suddenly a surplus of officers in what’s become a shrinking army.
I hang on a bit, I reckon I’m in no shape to take on a new life dressed in civvies. I get posted to Randwick Barracks as the staff officer. This posting is best described as supervising ground maintenance, lawn mowing and soldiers’ recreation. I know for sure that I am dying.
Well, the Sydney Morning Herald once again comes to my rescue. I see an advertisement for a lecturer at the Catholic College of Education. Nancy wouldn’t have approved but I get the job. I resign my commission and join the Army Reserve and start a new life as a civilian. Living alone in a small flat is torture but I keep at it. I’m not worth a pinch of shit as a married man, that much I know for sure, so I stay single and occasionally, when the old fella will respond, I visit the girls at the Cross.
But I’ve already got one pattern I can rely on. I enrol as a part-time student at Sydney University to do my honours and, due to the fact I can also put in an extra working day studying most nights because I can’t sleep, I graduate with first-class honours in 1975 as well as maintaining my position at the Catholic College.
What follows is ten years of hiding in the university and State Libraries. In 1977 I complete an MSc in Environmental Science and I’m now teaching part-time at Macquarie University. The hiding in libraries goes on, in 1978 and 1979, I do another MSc, this time it’s a Master of Science and Society at the School of History and Philosophy of Science at the University of New South Wales, which is a huge joke. I have become the original misfit, a complete bluff merchant, nice guy on the surface, bag of worms underneath. I’m not living life, I’m acting it out day by day, trying to stay alive.
But I’m not through yet. In 1981 I enrol for a PhD as a part-time student and I complete this in 1984. As a parttime student, it is supposed to take six years and I have to receive special permission from the university senate to submit a thesis.
I am beginning to realise that ‘The Wall’ as it’s becoming known among Vietnam vets is very close. I’ve also been putting a lot of time into the Army Reserve, anchoring myself with something I know. Anyway, I’m promoted to lieutenant colonel. I’m just about hanging in, but in a military sense I couldn’t fight myself out of a wet paper bag. I’m popping Valium, slugging scotch, reading books and keeping to myself. The nightmares are sending me slowly crazy, bad dreams, waking up screaming, and flashbacks starting during the day.
In 1986 I apply for and am offered a position as a senior lecturer at the University of New South Wales. My socalled army career and obvious leadership skills count hugely in getting me the job. I can’t really hide in libraries any more and I’m a fairly skilled army instructor, which translates easily enough into being a lecturer and I manage the big bluff fairly well.
Three years pass and then, one day, right in the middle of a lecture on the importance of fire to the Australian environment, I suddenly see the Red Steer rise in front of my eyes. It rises above the eucalyptus trees as I sit on Ann’s little bicycle and I watch as it hits half a mile further on. My mind simply explodes and I walk off the stage, out of the lecture theatre and across the campus and into the office of Mike Proctor where I hand in my resignation. It’s all over, red rover, Mole Maloney has had enough. No more. Finish. Kaput. Over and out.
Dr Mole Maloney was a patient of mine for nearly ten years during which he was accepted as TPI. To a psychiatrist, he presented a great many new problems. His obvious intelligence often made it more difficult rather than easier to work with him. He knew all the answers in theory but none of them in practice.
And there was something else. He is a man of enormous charisma and character, instantly likeable though capable of complete deceit. I don’t mean deceit in a dishonest sense, there was nothing dishonest in him, but in his capacity to completely hide his every emotion. ‘Protect’, rather than ‘hide’ is perhaps a better word. He could protect himself against any reaction, whether good or bad. Mole Maloney was the human equivalent of an armadillo, completely armoured against any true emotional reaction. He would smile, laugh, be hail fellow well met until you learned to look into his eyes.
Quite frankly, my biggest professional task was not to be too fascinated with him. He was damaged and desperately in need of help, and part of it was trying to find him some sort of loving relationship. He writes constantly to his sister, a doctor at last, and also to his brother Michael, a hugely successful and world-famous London clothes designer and couturière. Most people aware of fashion know of him, though I confess, with my raincoat neurosis, I wasn’t one of them. His brother Bozo Maloney is the biggest cartage contractor in Australia and owns the nation’s largest bus line. It is difficult to go any distance on any highway without seeing a truck or a bus with the crow symbol on it.
Dr Maloney also sees his family as including three other people. These are Bozo Maloney’s business partner, an Indian lady by the name of Mrs Rika Ray. She has stood for parliament and has recently won the local National Party seat in the state government. Then there’s Morrie Suckfizzle, a famous gynaecologist, and his wife Sophie, a millionaire many times over. There cannot possibly be a child in Australia who hasn’t at some time or another worn a Suckfizzle garment. These three people are as much a part of his family as his siblings.
By all counts, the Maloney family has made its mark and his extended family are totally supportive. Perhaps the brightest of them all is Mole. So very clever and so very damaged. By using Mole’s family, we begin to work on his love for them and those people who have supported them all in his childhood. I also add Mrs Barrington-Stone and Big Jack Donovan to the mix.
However, the biggest breakthrough comes when one day he mentions the twin aunties, Dot and Gwen, who have languished in a mental institution for nearly fifty years. I suggest that he might like to see them and get to know them a little better. He vi
sits them in Yankalillee and soon afterwards has them brought to an old-age home in Sydney where they all spend a great deal of time together. It is this simple arrangement that starts to turn things around and we begin very slowly to get to the real Mole Maloney, the man who wants to love more than anything else in his life.
In 1997, Mole felt sufficiently confident to take on a teaching job at a prominent private boys’ school. He holds the position of senior Science master to this day and is regarded with great respect by his fellow staff members.
I’m not sure what the future holds for him, PTSD is such a very tricky thing and we still don’t know enough. But this I do know, Mole Maloney has a heart filled to capacity with love. I think it is about to explode and I want to be around when it does. Last night, at an Indonesian restaurant in Newtown, I was sucking on a chilli crab claw when he proposed. I nearly swallowed the claw, we’ve never even slept together.
‘Anna,’ he said quietly, ‘I know I’m not much, but will you marry me?’
I looked at him, beautiful, beautiful Mole. ‘Mole Maloney, I’ve loved you ever since I first saw you fast asleep in Crocodile Brown’s class. But no, I won’t.’ I laugh, trying to cover any embarrassment he might feel. ‘Mole, we haven’t even slept together!’
He grins, ‘Once that would have been a primary consideration, I guess it isn’t any more.’
‘It will be again, but I don’t think either of us is quite ready for a permanent relationship. I’ve already been through one failed marriage and it wasn’t all his fault.’
‘Does that mean you’re turning me down?’
‘No, Mole, it means I love you and I’m prepared to wait.’ He is thoughtful for a while, then looks up at me and smiles. ‘Okay, that’s it then, how long?’
‘We’ll both know when the time comes.’
‘You mean when I’m better? I am going to get better, ain’t I?’
It’s the question I have most feared he’d ask me. ‘I think so, it will take time.’
He nods his head slowly. ‘There’s one other thing.’ ‘What’s that?’ I ask, grateful he isn’t going to make a fuss.
‘Would you consider changing your name?’
‘Mole,’I said, ‘not yet, we’ll need to wait, see how things turn out.’
He laughs, ‘No, Anna, not to Maloney! Change it back to your maiden name.’ ‘Dombrowski? Why?’
‘Why? Because she’s the girl I’ve always loved and always will. That’s why, Anna Dumb-cow-ski.’
FOOTNOTES
* the first-known Maloney word
(continue reading)
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Tommy and his five mates are fictional characters, though many of the Australian soldiers in the book are not. I simply cannot begin to do justice to the tragic story of the POWs in Borneo and in particular to the three Death Marches which took place towards the end of the war. The horror and barbarity perpetrated by the Japanese on Australian soldiers is almost unimaginable.
I urge you to read Sandakan – A Conspiracy of Silence by the noted writer, researcher and historian of the Australian 8th Division Association, Lynette Ramsay Silver. Her historically accurate book reads like fiction, the tragedy is that it is fact so horrific that the Australian government has kept the story of Sandakan secret from the public for more than fifty years. Lynette Ramsay Silver spent five years clawing it out bit by bit from the government archives where it had been carefully and systematically concealed. It is a formidable work of scholarship by a very persistent woman.
When we know our history, we begin to understand who we are as a people. When the past is hidden from us, the future becomes confused. Sandakan – A Conspiracy of Silence ought to be compulsory reading for every Australian.
Two other invaluable books are Sandakan: the last march, by Don Wall, and Borneo: Australia’s proud but tragic heritage, by Kevin Smith.
I would also like to acknowledge Ben Wilson, the likely author of the poem ‘Singapore’, that appears on pages 3–4 and 747 of this book.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Of all the books I have written, none has used up so much of the kindness of friends and strangers. Authors in fact know very little, but if they’re half smart, they know people who know a great deal. Or they know people who know people who are very intelligent. The people whose names follow all gave generously of their time, energy and intellect, and, as a result, your combined efforts will make me appear much smarter than I am.
To my two full-time researchers, Celia Jarvis and Christine Gee, you never faltered, never gave up, I thank you for your persistence and dedication from the bottom of my heart. Four Fires becomes as much your book as it does mine.
To John Arnold, Deputy Director, National Key Centre for Australian Studies, Monash University, for his expertise on Melbourne University and the history of the state of Victoria. To Graham Walker and Dr Barry Wright, both Vietnam veterans, for their counsel, guidance and help. With them were Alec Morris, Barry Rust and Rick Ryan. Lynette Ramsay Silver, official historian to the Australian 8th Division Association, for her time, information, expertise on the Malayan campaign, and insights into Sandakan. You were tough on me but wonderful. Don Wall, AM, MID, and Kevin Smith, for their guidance and help on POWs in Borneo.
Ann and Lindsay Jarvis, who taught me the nature of bushfire from the dry grass up to the blazing canopy. Anna Epstein, curator of ‘Schmatte Business: Jews in the Garment Trade’ at the Jewish Museum of Australia, and to everyone at that wonderful museum. Diana Kahn and Robert Salter, who brought the beginnings of the postwar rag trade to life and made me see Flinders Lane as a place where migrant history was made. Ros Marshall, who allowed me the use of her thesis on the Melbourne rag trade. Rex Tompkins, who told me about the fashion scene in London during the ’50s. Elizabeth Stead, author, who generously allowed me to appropriate her delightful and so very wise ‘spoon in the sink’ homily. Dr Peter M. Snowdon, psychiatrist, and Diana B. Shipman, psychologist, for their insights into Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, and Dr Michael Gliksman, for more of the same, as well as for his general medical information and counsel.
Without your knowledge and intellectual input and energy this book could not have been written. You generously shared with me a lifetime of knowledge.
The people whose names follow all helped substantially to give my book its sense of authenticity. I believe that the history we read should be real, which largely depends not only on historians, but also on the recall and experiences of the people who lived through it and subsequently gave generously of their insight, knowledge and skill. People such as Benita Courtenay, Alan Jacobs of Consensus Research, designer Robbee Spadafora, Prue Acton, Ken Allen, David Austin, Guy Baillieau, Robin Barrett, DVA, Ed Baynes, George Bindley, Cheryl Bockman, Cheryl Bowman, Betty Burgess, Ed Campion, Robert Chalwell, Lorne Clark, the Country Fire Authority of Victoria, the Country Women’s Association of Victoria, Jenny Crameri, Owen Denmeade, Reg Dixon, Peter Doherty, Bob Downey, Jean Downing, Bill Fogarty, Lindsay Fox, Bruce Furnell, Gerry Garreto, Catherine Herrick, DEAT, Alex Hamill, Bill Houston, Barbara Hunt, InfoZone (Museum of Victoria), Tracey Jarvis-Ball, Graham Jordan, Professor Gabriel Kune, Brian Lawrence, Alf Lazer, Dr Irwin Light, Terry Loftus, Rod McCloud, Tim McCombe, Neil McGavock, Michael McGirr, Ian McGuffie, Jack McLean, Lawrence Money, Harold Mundy, John Nicholson, AFSM, Murray Nicoll, Margaret O’Loughlan, Catherine O’Rourke, Aussie Ostara, Julius Patching, Nerida Piggin, Peter Rothwell, ‘Snowy’ Savill, Glenda Sluga, Allen Stephens, David Stevens, Roy Symes, Vietnam Veterans Federation of Australia – Granville Office, Moira Wallace, Vic Watts, Heather Wood, Nev Woodward and Dr Rena Zimmet.
Finally, I need to thank those people who are my mentors and helpers in the publishing and allied industries, who make a book possible in the first place. But first I thank the numerous authors whose work, whether in books or on the internet, has proved invaluable: the Australian Army Trai
ning Team Vietnam Association, The Team in Pictures: a pictorial history of the Australian Army Training Team Vietnam 1962–1972; Tim Bowden, P.O.W. Australians Under Nippon, ABC Radio; Michael J. Clarke, Boxing, 1960–1970; the Country Women’s Association of Victoria, Years of Adventure; Stan Krasnoff, Where to? for valour: a true story of Keith Payne; Ian McNeill, The Team: Australian Army advisers in Vietnam 1962–1972; Aussie Osborn, As I Saw It; Major General A. B. Stretton, On Active Service in Malaya; Joan Webster, The Complete Bushfire Safety Book. Those who go before beat the path for all of us to follow. Feel free to use my book as I have used yours.
Publishing is still one of the few professions that requires skill, love and enthusiasm in equal proportion. I have benefited hugely from all three virtues with the team put at my disposal by Penguin Books. Publishing Director Bob Sessions, Executive Publisher Julie Gibbs and Adult Publisher Clare Forster, the last my personal publisher, you make writing for you a pleasure. I cannot thank you enough for your patience, encouragement and good counsel.
Then there are those who labour unseen to bring a book to the reader. My proofreader and constant companion, Dorothy Gliksman, and at Penguin, Lyn McGaurr, Cathy Larsen, who designed the jacket, Tony Palmer, who designed the text, Carmen De La Rue, Mark Evans, Peter Field, Peter Blake, Gabrielle Coyne,
Elizabeth Hardy, Louise O’Leary, Margaret Thompson, Leonie Stott and Beverley Waldron, all of whom have the consummate skill required to make the difficult task of publishing a novel seem simple.
But in the end, there is your editor, like your mum, she is indispensable. In Kay Ronai I have simply the best, she is my friend, my mentor and the hand I reach out to in the dark. She has never failed me.
I thank you all.
BRYCE COURTENAY
Four Fires Page 91
