A New Place

by Andrew Wareham

  “That’s what the man said, sir. I thought he was second cousin to a bloody fool, meself, but I don’t argue with Regulars who know better than me, sir. He might be right. Pigs might fly as well.”

  “Join the Second Militia Battalion, Lieutenant. They are here at Sogeri and can use another full company. Their colonel will be ordered to use you to train his people up. We are getting hold of more automatic weaponry. When they’ve got a sufficiency, they’ll be marching north. There will be American troops up here within the month.”

  George woke up, thirsty, full of pain and needing to pee. An orderly dealt with his needs – water, morphine and a bottle – quickly and not unkindly.

  “Doctor will be round to you soon, sir. We’re just starting to get a flow of wounded comin’ in, from up the Track, sir. Getting busy. They’ll want to get you out of here as quick as they can, I reckon, sir.”

  George licked his dry lips and said that he would be happy enough to go Down South, if it worked out that way.

  “It will for you, mate. A long time before you’re fit again. They’ll want you back in Australia.”

  “And out of the bloody way, you mean, mate.”

  “Better place for getting fit again. The Papuan Gulf ain’t no place for sick men, sir.”

  “Never has been, mate. She’s a fine country, but not for any bugger who ain’t fit.”

  “Doctor’s coming, sir.”

  The doctor was short, skinny and overworked. Recently qualified, he was determined to save every man he could, was very willing to work more hours than the day possessed, was already close to exhaustion.

  “Hawkins, Captain. Thought you would die, Captain Hawkins. Good thing you’re a strong man. Bullet in the back and cut across towards the shoulder; I’d give you the medical terms, but you wouldn’t understand them, so why bother? The wound was infected and the sulfa powder kept you alive long enough for us to cut it clean. You’ve lost flesh and muscle; your right shoulder, and the arm, will never regain full mobility or strength. You ain’t going back into the bush in this war, Captain.”

  George managed a weak grin.

  “That’ll do me, doc. If they throw me out of the Army, there’s a pair of sugar plantations near Cairns needing some bugger to run ‘em. If they keep me in, I suppose I can work in training or get across to the admin at Konny. End of the war, I’ll go back home to the plantations outside Kokopo.”

  “Good. You’ll be part crippled, but only a small part. Provided you remember that and keep fighting it, you’ll be right. You married?”

  “Yeah, got a sprog as well. Bit more than six months, he’ll be. Ned Lee Hawkins, after my father and me wife’s.”

  “Good. You’ll be going back to him within a few weeks. We’ll get you down to Moresby as soon as you can be shifted. The Yanks have taken over building the road up from Laloki, from the new place they’ve put up at Rouna, which is a mile or two closer. They reckon they’ll have a truck up here before the end of the week. They know how to move, those blokes.”

  “Good thing some bugger does, doc. We’ve wasted enough time so far. What in Hell is that?”

  There had been a sudden explosion of gunfire, light weaponry and heavy machine guns, he thought.

  “Anti-aircraft, Captain Hawkins. They’ve had to surround the hospital with guns, despite the red crosses on the roof, or because of them maybe. The hospital is a major target, it seems. Must be thirty heavy machine guns posted around the place, and more back at a distance. They’re sending more guns up every day, it seems. The Yanks have got them by the hundred – and millions of rounds for them. As soon as the road is usable, they’re going to send up three inchers as well, so they say. Be better when they get fighters in, and that should be soon, with a bit of luck.”

  “Sounds good, doc. Will I be going straight onto a ship or must I hang about in Moresby? Hot and sweaty down on the lower ground.”

  “It ain’t exactly cool up here, Captain Hawkins. No promises. Nothing’s organised yet, but if possible, we’ll get you down to Cairns at soonest.”

  Brigadier Lowry appeared next day, wished George a speedy recovery and promised to do what he could to get him out.

  “Can’t stop to talk. Busy. The Japs are kicking shit out of our people on the Track. Trying to get reinforcements up to them. Going to have to be the Second; at least they have your company with its automatic weaponry. Rifles are bloody hopeless in the bush, it transpires. You, of course, will inform me that you told me so. Luckily for me, I believed you and sent your words on. I have every expectation of making major-general within the week on the back of my wisdom. I shall probably be pulled down to Cairns or Townsville to take over training there. If you are not invalided out, and that’s fifty-fifty at the moment, I shall request your presence at the substantive rank of major. I have made your name known in higher places.”

  “Good of you, sir.”

  “To my advantage, Hawkins. And yours, with a little of good fortune. You should make colonel before the war’s end, and that’s a useful handle to any man’s name in peacetime, especially with a bit of ribbon to show you were up at the sharp end as well. For the moment, just get well and make ready for an interesting ride. You’re likely to be on one of the first trucks going back downhill, Hawkins. I shall wave to you as you pass by.”

  George was not sure that was particularly funny.

  They shifted him onto a stretcher a week later, put him and five others into the back of a small but powerful truck and pointed it downwards.

  Lying on a stretcher, George could see nothing of the trip; he could not make his mind up whether that was a blessing. The hospital had put a pair of orderlies in back with the patients, and George had a close view of their faces; on the frequent occasions they closed their eyes he winced in anticipation. The truck rolled right and left on the hairpin bends and crawled downwards at an apparent forty-five degrees for minutes at a time. He counted off the three major inclines and breathed more easily when the driver accelerated to twenty miles an hour in celebration of negotiating the worst.

  “We’re down, mate.”

  The orderly seemed to regard that as a matter for congratulation.

  “Thank Christ for that. At least I don’t have to go up again. Sooner you than me, driving that one a couple of times every day.”

  “Thank you for that generous thought, sir. At least these American trucks have got some power, sir. Not like the Australian sort.”

  “Fair point, mate. What do we do next?”

  “Pull in at Rouna. Word is that they put you in an ambulance here, to go down to Moresby for nightfall. They’ll stick you on a corvette then and get you down to Cape York as quick as they can and fly you to Cairns from there.”

  “Reverse of the way I came up. The corvette not going all the way to Cairns?”

  “Jap aircraft and submarines both, mate; not so many planes just now. They’re getting more of fighter cover now. More planes coming in every week by the sound of it. They’ve got a first squadron into the strip at Moresby. More following along the coast down as far as Milne Bay over the next few months. What I heard was that they’ll have bombers up here before the year’s out. Get every sort of officer in the hospital with fever and malaria, and they talk to each other – hear everything in this job.”

  “Worth knowing, mate. Thanks.”

  “No worries, mate.”

  The truck bounced along the newly made road along the Laloki valley to Rouna, the site of a village that had been swamped by the Americans, to the great satisfaction of the locals who were eating better and drinking the beer casually passed out by the GIs. Every man had a job, paying small amounts of cash; the children had chewing gum; the women could make a fortune if that way inclined – the Yanks were far preferred to the Diggers they had supplanted. There was a new cargo cult hut outside the village, dedicated to Johnny Yank Man.

  George was lifted off the truck and carried into hospital tents where a pair of American doctors assessed him and g
ave approval for him to be moved South.

  “Wound’s clean. If it ain’t killed you yet, it ain’t likely to, Captain. Boy! You all get your black ass over here! Get this man to the ambulance, boy.”

  Four American black orderlies lifted the stretcher and took George out, efficiently and easily. They lifted him into the back of the ambulance, taking care not to jolt him.

  “Anything you needs, suh?”

  “Water would be welcome, please.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Please. Haven’t had a mug of coffee in weeks.”

  The Americans had milk – not particularly good milk and out of a can, but a rare luxury.

  “Thank you. Almost worth getting shot for, a cup of coffee.”

  They seemed surprised to be thanked, ventured to smile back at him.

  George was almost pleased to discover that the Land of the Free was no better than the Territory for the way it treated its lesser mortals. He was sure that the locals in the Territory would be moving quickly towards freedom, wondered how long it would take the American blacks to get that far.

  They had put tarmac on the road down to Port Moresby, a double carriageway on the assumption that there would be so much traffic as to need it.

  George shared an Australian ambulance with three other men; being the rear echelons of the Australian army, all were officers. No mixing of the privileged and the private soldiers was permitted by those who dwelt away from the firing line.

  His head was raised on a pillow and he was able to see two of the other three.

  One was a fever case, pallid and weak but starting to recover; hopefully out of any infectious stage. The second was laid out flat with a cradle over presumably broken legs.

  The man underneath spoke.

  “Anybody got a cigarette?”

  No response.

  “Just my bloody luck.”

  Nothing else was said for the two hours down to Ela Beach.

  The Navy took over and shifted them aboard a corvette, one of four tied up. Presumably the fear of air raids had lessened.

  George was carried into the wardroom, the other three elsewhere on the lower deck.

  “Why the different places, mate?”

  The medical orderly shook his head, put a finger to his lips.

  “Later, sir.”

  The ship sailed and a Sick Berth Attendant came into the wardroom.

  “They can do with the orderlies down below, sir. Casualties from the fighting travel up here. We’ll put you into a bunk, sir. The road accidents and the malarias can lump it. Bunch of bloody fools what don’t know no better, sir. Driving as if they was in Sydney and not taking their anti-malarials – serves them bloody right, sir!”

  “First-class for bullets only, is it, mate?”

  “Too bloody right it is! Don’t see wasting sympathy on bloody fools, cobber.”

  “Fair enough. I ain’t arguing. What is it, thirty-six hours to a dock?”

  “Yeah, about. Should be a Dakota or a De Havilland waiting on the strip there. Probably a Rapide because there’s only four of you. Might be one of the old bombers they won’t let anywhere near the Japs now – they’ve converted most of them to transports.”

  “Yeah, flown in them before now. Quicker than walking, but. Can’t say much else for ‘em. Not that I’m walking anyplace for a week or two.”

  “Dunno. They’ve sent an envelope with your notes, tied onto the stretcher. Let’s have a look-see while we wait for a couple of hands to shift you into the bunk… Yeah, bullet wound, travelled across the back. Missed the lung, which is why you’re here. With the infection you took, a punctured lung would have killed you most likely. You’ll be out of bed in a fortnight, more or less, provided nothing goes wrong. Discharged from hospital maybe a week after that. Then it’s up to you, mate. Exercise the arm a bit, as much as you can, and you’ll be back in harness in another three months. Provided you’re lucky and nothing goes wrong. You’re to be hospitalised in Cairns, which is less common…”

  “My family lives outside Cairns.”

  “Makes sense. Got enough clout to have you near them, I suppose.”

  George thought about that, decided it might be right; he was a long way from being poor and it seemed that money talked.

  “My father was a big man in the Territory, up near Rabaul. We own plantations up there as well as outside Cairns. I suppose I have a bit of influence going for me. There’s a pair of generals think I’m the best thing since sliced bread; mind you, there’s others who want me head on a plate. Depends who you listen to. No worries, mate. Take it as it comes.”

  “Best way, mate.”

  The hospital in Cairns was half empty; it had been taken over by the military and expanded and was waiting for the influx of casualties from the Territory, had doctors in some quantity and nurses by the score, most of them with time on their hands and little experience of bullet wounds. George was under permanent attention, the younger doctors taking turns with his dressings.

  “Risky stuff, sulphanilamide, Captain Hawkins. I am surprised they used it so liberally on your wound.”

  George raised a grin; the doctor was about his own age and spoke with a city intonation – obviously from well to the south, down in the cooler parts.

  “’Risky’, doc?”

  “It can have severe side-effects, Captain Hawkins. In conjunction with an abdominal wound, the effect might have been fatal.”

  “The gangrene would have killed me without it, doc. A bullet wound used to kill nine times out of ten up in the Territory before sulfa powder came in. Get a scratch in the morning and you’ve got an infection by nightfall and gangrene come the morning. No bull, doc. Born there and stayed except for four years at school. Infections in deep wounds kill almost for sure. This sulfa powder comes with a risk, but it’s a bloody sight lower than not using it. The old way of treating something like the wound I’m carrying was to open it and pour in some sort of carbolic – cream, if you’d got it. That hurt, by the way, and it didn’t always work.”

  “The shock might have been fatal, man!”

  “The gangrene always killed, doc. Give me the sulfa any day.”

  “You may well be right, Captain Hawkins. Can you tell me why we see so many malaria cases brought down here? Are the men not given the anti-malarial tablets?”

  George shook his head.

  “They can turn the skin yellow sometimes, doc. Most of the men believe that the pills take away your manhood, leave you incapable of getting it up. They throw them away if they’re not watched. Some of them stick their fingers down their throats after they’re forced to take the pills.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “Yep. Do something about it, if you can. They know it’s true and can’t be argued out of it.”

  “Mad! They must know that malaria is a killer, and can leave a man weakened for life if it don’t finish him.”

  “I’ve heard men say they’d rather be dead than impotent, doc. Not just other ranks, as well. Like I said, they know it’s true, even if it ain’t.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Me? I take the pills. Have done all me life. I’ve told them that – they reckon I’m one of the lucky ones.”

  “Mad! Anyway, Captain Hawkins, I am to tell you that you will be allowed out of bed today. You are fit enough for visitors now and may inform your family that they can come to see you.”

  The military hospital had found wives and children to be a nuisance, had simply banned them from their wards, taking the simple course of not informing them where their men were to be found. George had it in mind to raise a protest against that policy, but not while he was a patient and vulnerable to the administrators. He was fairly certain that a complaint raised in the newspapers would be effective; he needed to discover a mouthpiece to make the actual contact with the press, and could not protect his anonymity while he was still inside.

  “Can I make a phone call to Tse’s Shipping, doc?”

  “Who
?”

  “Tse Li, my wife’s father, doc. He owns one of the shipyards and several warehouses in Cairns. He will make the arrangements for her to come in. She will be up at the plantations, out of town.”

  The doctor did not approve of Chinese wives. He was impressed by money, however. Plantation owners whose wives came from a moneyed family were by definition good people; that the aforesaid wives were Chinese became no more than a regrettable quirk of character.

  “I can make the call – the hospital does not approve of patients getting on the telephone.”

  “Thanks, doc. What’s the time?”

  “Just before ten o’clock.”

  “Good. I reckon she’ll be through the doors by two.”

  “I don’t think that visiting is permitted before four, Captain Hawkins.”

  “Like to lay a bet on that, doc?”

  “George! Are you well? Should you be out of bed? How long before you can get out of this place? They tried to say I could not come in, but we dealt with that! How long have you been in Cairns? All they told us was in a telegram – ‘severely wounded in action. Evacuated to a military hospital’. They did not say which hospital or when and we have had to wait knowing nothing.”

  “Hello, love. I thought you’d be here quick when you knew. They only told me today that I was permitted a visitor. What’s the date? I’ve been out of it for a good few days.”

  They established that he had been wounded ten days previously, and that the sole communication from the Army had been the one telegram.

  “My father has already made contact with the state government, somehow. I think he has put money into the right hands, knowing him. You wait until he tells his people, George!”

  Queensland political life was renowned for its overt corruption, and for the honesty of its politicians – once bought, they kept their promises, delivered everything that had been paid for.

  George began to laugh, stopped as it hurt his chest.

  “I’ll be out of here within a few days, love. The right arm ain’t going to work too well, so I don’t ever go back to the fighting, Mary. If I stay in the Army – and that’s up to them, whether they discharge me or not – then I’ll be kept well clear of the bullets.”