by Alan Tucker
Sunday, 30 August
The newspaper is reporting a savagely fought Australian victory in New Guinea. Not along the Kokoda Track but at some place we’d never heard of—Milne Bay. Cousin Stanley and I searched the map and found it at the eastern end of the country. The report doesn’t say, for security reasons, which battalions opposed the Japs so we’re not sure if Des or Harold were involved. Australian casualties are high but, if what the papers say is true, Japanese losses are greater.
‘It has become a war of attrition,’ Cousin Stanley said.
‘What d-does that mean?’ I asked.
‘Wearing down the enemy by continual losses in personnel and material,’ he replied. His memory is so good that when he speaks he often sounds like he’s quoting a dictionary or a newspaper report. It’s taken me a long time to realise that that’s why his speaking style is so unusual. ‘The US benefits from a larger population and is blessed with a greater wealth than Japan, therefore, in a war of attrition Japan will run out of men and resources before the US.’
‘But think of how many men will die in the meantime,’ Mum said. ‘Men who have a mother and father, brothers and sisters and …’ She began to sob and went to her bedroom. I got up to follow her.
‘Tell Auntie Thelma I did not mean to upset her,’ Cousin Stanley said.
He looked upset. It was the first time I’d seen him show emotion. Usually he’s very composed. I sat with Mum and comforted her as best as I could.
‘Cousin St-Stanley says he’s sorry he upset you, Mum.’
‘It wasn’t anything he said,’ she replied. ‘It’s me. My emotions seem to grow more fragile the longer this war goes on.’
‘We know Harold’s safe,’ I said trying to sound positive, ‘and I’m sure we’d have heard if D-Des’s l-lot were in any d-d-danger. Who knows, Mum, he may be happily camping in the jungle with his mates. B-b-birds of P-paradise live in the New Guinea mountains. They’re really beautiful.’
She smiled and put her arm around me. ‘I’ve spent a lot of time in recent weeks, Archie, thinking about your brothers— and myself. I feel I’ve neglected you.’
‘I’m fine, Mum.’
‘How’s your sleeping arrangement going, sharing a room with Cousin Stanley? He’s a very nice young man but he’s … different,’ she said picking her words carefully.
‘It’s working out r-really w-well. You d-don’t have t-to worry about me. He’s very p-patient and has spent a lot of t-time helping me understand the war.’
‘You’re too young to worry yourself about this awful conflict,’ she replied.
‘I’m not like you, Mum. I d-d-don’t worry about things—except my st-st-stutter,’ I said sheepishly.
‘Oh, Archie. If I had magic powers, I’d cure you of that instantly. I’m so used to you speaking as you do that I think nothing of it. It’s part of who you are.’
‘I know, M-Mum. And I’m old enough now to c-cope.’
‘You’re still my little baby,’ she said sniffing and hugging me and wiping her eyes all at the same time.
‘I am, b-but I’m not, M-Mum. I’m g-g-growing up fast.’
‘You are dear, you are. And I love you for it.’
Alola, Monday, 31 August 1942
I’m about as miserable as I could be. We were awake for most of last night. We trekked south through torrential rain. We’re dug in in the middle of nowhere. We’re told we’re a mile or so south of Alola. I don’t know how anyone can measure distance here: nothing is flat, everything is up and down. We were ordered to abandon Isurava Rest House because the Japs threatened to outflank us using the high ground to the east. They’re masters of slashing their way through the jungle. They seem to be far more at home in it than we are. The colour of their uniforms and their use of camouflage help them blend into the terrain.
Later
We fell back to Eora Creek then protected the 2/14th as they withdrew. We’re working beautifully as a team. They’re a good mob. I have huge respect for their fighting ability. At one particularly frantic moment during the withdrawal, Harold dropped into a weapons pit next to mine. ‘Looks like you need a hand, little brother,’ he said in his usual casual manner as we opened fire simultaneously on the advancing Japs. Three of the enemy fell dead but a fourth charged at Harold with his bayonet. I turned and shot and he crashed down right on top of Harold. He threw the body forward and continued to fire over the top of it. When the attack ceased Harold slapped me on the back, said it was a pleasure to do business with me, then slid backwards down the ridge to the Track. He rejoined his mates moving south. My lot will move back too, under cover of darkness—unless the Japs overrun us. After four weeks of fighting to hold every inch, we’re now falling back at a brisk pace. Well, as brisk as anyone can along the Track. The plan is to stretch the Japs’ supply line to the maximum in a short period of time. If they run out of supplies, they’ll soon be fighting on an empty stomach and without a ready supply of ammo. I can’t imagine that will stop them attacking us though. I’m sure they’d fight with their bare hands if ordered to do so.
Very late
We’ve stopped and taken a degree of cover from the incessant rain. I’m cold and wet and miserable. I don’t know how the Japs are faring but I do know we’re totally done in. Even the 2/14th don’t look like supermen anymore and they’ve only been fighting on the Track for a few days. It seems so much longer since they appeared, looking marvellously fit and strong. We have many missing men which is not surprising now that we’re falling back so quickly. At this rate, we’ll catch up with the wounded being stretchered down the Track. If we do, I’ll be able to say a proper farewell to Bert and a couple of other mates. Our missing men will have to jungle-bash and live off the land if they want to get back behind our lines. The Track in front of us is overrun with Japs. They pursue and attack us relentlessly.
Monday, 31 August
Beefy caught me alone this afternoon. Uncle Jim couldn’t pick me up so Mr Jensen dropped me off close to home. I was feeling tired but good. My peaceful mood was shattered when a large clod of dirt smashed into my forehead and splattered dirt into my eyes, ears and mouth.
‘You’re not so tough, stutter-boy, without that old bloke fighting your battles for you,’ Beefy sneered.
Without thinking I ran towards him. I stopped a yard or two short. He took a step back when he saw the fury in my eyes.
‘I’ve had enough of your bullying,’ I shouted and stepped towards him.
‘You’re all talk, stutter-boy,’ he said but I could see he was wary of me.
I took advantage of his hesitation and attacked. I threw a flurry of punches. He put his hands up to protect himself and I grabbed an arm. Four months of lifting hundreds of ice blocks had made me a lot stronger than when we last fought. I quickly fixed him in an arm-hold, forced him around and tipped him forward. He was bent double, facing the ground.
‘It hurts,’ he yelled. ‘It hurts a lot. Stop. Please stop.’
‘Stop, who?’ I demanded forcing his arm higher and his head lower.
‘Stop, Archie. Please, Archie. It really hurts.’
‘Say my name again.’
‘Archie. Archie,’ he whimpered then began to sob. ‘Please, Archie. Please stop.’
I released the pressure slightly and asked, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Tony.’
‘T-Tony,’ I repeated. ‘It’s nice to meet you, then, Tony.’
I released the pressure totally. He straightened his back but kept his face down and wiped his face with his sleeve.
‘Leave me alone in future, T-Tony, all right.’
‘Yes, Archie.’
He hurried away. I brushed myself off and slowly walked home. My forehead was sore from where the sod hit me—but I felt great.
Eora Creek, Tuesday, 1 September 1942
Today’s the first day of spring but there’s no new life blooming here. Just more of the same jungle, humidity, heavy rain, mosquitoes—and death. We each do ou
r best to survive and to protect our mates. There’s no other way to stay alive. I caught up with Harold very briefly as his platoon pulled back past our ambush position. All conversations on the Track are short but sweet. He put his nose inches from mine and said, ‘If you ever hear another bloke say you militia boys can’t fight, tell them to come and speak to me. I’ll sort them out.’ He looked around at my mates. ‘You lads are as tough as any AIF unit. If I didn’t believe that I wouldn’t be turning my backs on the Japs and trusting you to protect it.’ He walked off, propping up a wounded mate as he went. No-one spoke. I sensed a fierce pride build within me as I settled over my rifle. I’m sure the others felt it too. I pity the poor Japs who walk into our ambush. We won’t give an inch.
Later
We’ve got a few quiet minutes now before the fun begins again. The engineers have planted explosives under the 3-log bridge spanning the narrow, fast flowing river in front of us. As soon as our rear-guard fighters are safely across, we’ll blow the bridge and get out of here. A long line of Diggers is filing past. Many, like Harold, are assisting their wounded mates. I hope everyone crosses before the Japs arrive. If they don’t they’ll have to take refuge in the jungle and get to Moresby the hard way…. Things are about to hot up. Our rear-guard just crossed the bridge at pace and continued down the Track. Our position, looking across the river, provides us with a clear killing field. We won’t have to wait long for the Japs. They’ll be moving fast. They know we set regular ambushes but they’re prepared to sacrifice a few men to flush us out. As soon as we open fire, our position is pinpointed. Their main force immediately goes to ground and moves left and right into the jungle then targets us with all their firepower. While our heads are down, patrols are sent to outflank and kill us in a crossfire. Survival is a matter of seconds and inches…. I wiped the sweat from my eyes and waited. I thought about what Harold had said. A few weeks ago we were considered an inferior fighting force to the AIF but now we cover their backsides as regularly as they cover ours. Talking of which—the seat of my trousers succumbed to rot this morning and ripped apart. A sight such as my bare bum is the least of our worries at the moment…. Our ambush site is not well positioned for a quick escape. We’re in the bottom of a valley and the only way out is up. I can see the steep line of steps that form this section of the Kokoda Track, disappearing into the cloud line above. One of my mates commented that they look like a stairway to heaven. As I looked up I felt goose bumps run along my spine. I’ve heard that soldiers know when their luck’s run out. I guessed that’s what I was experiencing. As soon as I finish this entry I’ll hand my diary to the corporal. I’ve got a sixth sense that he’s a survivor. I’ll ask him to pass it on to Bert or Harold if he catches up with either of them—just in case something happens to me. If Bert was here he’d snap me out of my negative mood—but he’s not here. And I’m glad he’s not. This is not a good place to be.
Sunday, 6 September
‘What a quaint place,’ Mum’s ‘friend’ said when he arrived for tea on Friday night. ‘I’m so glad you invited me to spend time with you and your good folks.’
‘He more or less invited himself,’ Mum had previously told Auntie Dorothy. ‘He was very pushy … and I felt sorry for him because he’s so far from home … and so I said yes. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not, love. What’s his name?’
Mum smiled. ‘Flight Officer Power-Price Junior. It’s quite a mouthful, isn’t it?’
Flight Officer Power-Price Junior arrived in a jeep, with a driver, and carrying three bunches of flowers, three pairs of silk stockings and three boxes of chocolates. He handed them out to Mum, Auntie Dorothy and Shirley. They were very excited and thanked him prolifically.
‘There’s plenty more where they came from, m’am,’ he said to Auntie Dorothy. ‘Just because there’s a war on doesn’t mean a pretty lady shouldn’t have the best.’
I could tell that Uncle Jim and Cousin Stanley thought he was a bit over-the-top but when he produced a bottle of Kentucky bourbon, ‘the best money can buy’, and gave it to them, their expressions softened.
‘I know you Queensland men prefer to drink local rum but I wanted you to try this little beauty. Once you’ve got a taste for this precious drop, you’ll want more, I guarantee you.’
He was so much louder and more confident than most Australian men, even louder than Harold who can be very boisterous. The men drank a lot of bourbon. Flight Officer Power-Price Junior drank more than the others. And the more he drank, the louder he became. He asked Uncle Jim and Cousin Stanley what they did for work. As soon as Uncle Jim said ‘the council’ the Flight Officer gave a long speech about how inferior our construction equipment was compared to what was available in the US and how lazy Aussie workers were compared to those in the US.
By the end of the night he had everyone’s back up. They looked terribly bored. Mum looked embarrassed. Just before he departed he spoke to me for the first time all night.
‘I haven’t forgotten you, boy. I have a little something for you too.’
He produced an envelope and gave it to me. Inside was a signed photo of a man. I had no idea who it was.
‘You do know who it is, don’t you?’ he asked. ‘That there’s Lyndon B Johnson. He’s a genuine United States of America Congressman. You’re very lucky to have that signed photo, sonny. That man’s going places, you mark my words. Why, he might even make president one day.’
‘Thank you, that’s v-v-very k-k-kind,’ I said.
‘You sure have a troublesome speech impediment there, sonny. When I get you and your sweet mother to the States, I’ll take you to the best practitioner in Kentucky and we’ll heal you so you speak like us normal folk. Won’t that be grand?’
‘Yes, sir. G-grand.’
As he left he kissed each of the women on the hand, leapt into the jeep and saluted as the Jeep drove back towards be the base. Mum broke the silence.
‘I guess we should be grateful for the gifts,’ she said then added, ‘but what a pompous bore. I’m sorry, everyone, that I inflicted him on you.’ She paused then said, ‘He’s not so full of himself on the dance floor.’
‘Then maybe he should let his feet do the talking in future,’ Uncle Jim replied. ‘And he should definitely drink less.’ He turned to me. ‘What did you think of Flight Officer Power-Price Junior, Archie?’
I looked at Mum before replying.
‘He’s rich and c-could g-give Mum lots of nice things,’ I replied nervously.
‘He could—and I suspect he would,’ Mum responded, ‘but I’m very happy with what I’ve got.’ She looked around the room and smiled. ‘I haven’t been this happy since Errol died,’ she said slightly sadly. ‘Thank you everyone for accepting Archie and me so warmly. All I need now to make life perfect is for Harold and Des to return in one piece so that all my family’s together again.’
‘Amen,’ said Auntie Dorothy.
Sunday, 13 September
We got a message late yesterday that a friend of Des’s is in Townsville military hospital and wants to meet us. It’s Bert, Des’s friend who we’ve read about in his letters. He was evacuated from Port Moresby after being wounded on the Kokoda Track.
Uncle Jim drove Mum and me to the hospital this evening. Mum was so nervous about what he might tell us that she held my hand as we walked along the corridor to Bert’s ward. Uncle Jim stayed with the truck. He said he didn’t want to intrude into private family business. A nurse pointed Bert out. He didn’t look well.
‘He’s under-nourished and exhausted and he has a nasty bullet wound to the leg,’ the nurse told us. ‘Don’t stay too long and don’t make him excited. Okay?’
We said we understood and quietly approached Bert. Mum whispered his name and his eyes shot open. He had a frightened look.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mum said, ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
He gazed at her. The scared look slowly left his eyes. ‘You’ve got to be Des’s mother,’
he said with a husky voice. ‘You’re a dead ringer—apart from the lack of a beard.’
That’s the first we knew that Des had grown a beard.
‘I’m Thelma, this is Archie, Des’s younger brother.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about both of you.’
‘Des has written affectionately about you,’ Mum replied gently.
Bert closed his eyes and breathed heavily before speaking again.
‘I’ve got something of Des’s to give to you.’ He nodded his head towards the cabinet beside his bed. ‘There’s a letter too,’ he said. ‘From your other son.’
Mum’s face lit up. She picked up a letter then the little notebook which she opened.
‘It’s Des’s diary,’ she said with surprise.
‘A corporal gave it to me just as the natives were about to carry me back down the last leg of the Track to Owers’ Corner. Harold gave me the letter at the same time.’ He closed his eyes and said nothing for a couple of minutes. He looked exhausted. ‘The corporal said Des passed on his diary because he had a bad feeling about his chances on that day.’ Mum gasped but Bert was so emotional that he didn’t notice. ‘Only a fellow soldier understands that feeling, Mrs McLeod. He didn’t need to tell me to deliver it to you.’
By now Mum was a ghostly shade of pale. I grabbed her in case she fainted and helped her into a chair. Bert looked up when he heard her sob.
‘Pardon me for being so blunt, Mrs McLeod. I didn’t mean to upset you with soldier-talk.’ He began to cry too. ‘I’m dead certain you have nothing to worry about,’ he said with a croaky voice. ‘I’m sure Des is alive and well. I’d know if he wasn’t. We’re close mates.’ He went silent again and took some deep breaths. ‘Sorry, I’m not myself. The Track wears a man down. But your Des is a survivor, he’s a rock. He’s one of the steadiest fellows in the battalion. He’ll come through unscathed, Mrs McLeod.’
