Mum looked at Mrs Purvis and shook her own head in disapproval—at Mrs Purvis, not Bess. I could see she was getting exasperated. It wasn’t a good thing to get my mother exasperated.
‘Mavis Purvis,’ she said, ‘The things you come out with. You amaze me at times. Precisely where did you hear such a malicious and far-fetched story?’
Then Mum saw me paying too much attention to their conversation and I got sent back inside.
Anyway, it definitely was a far-fetched story. It couldn’t possibly be true, because I knew for a fact George T Washington was married, with his wife and children back in America.
The Barge Fire
On Saturday, the day before Christmas, Mum and Dad went to the official opening of the aerodrome. Banjo and I weren’t allowed to go because we’d been in serious trouble again after a campfire we lit had started a bushfire. It wasn’t that big a bushfire, and missing the opening and all the boring speeches wasn’t much of a punishment, but I got a belting from my father, which I did mind, very much. I’d also been banned from everything until I turned twenty-one or died, whichever came first.
Since no-one else was about, I wandered down to the jetty to have a look around and see if anything interesting had been washed up. This was going to be the quietest Christmas we’d had on the island because so many families had left already. The aerodrome was finished and most of the workers had returned to the main-land.
Off in the distance, I saw smoke from the Valkyrie’s stack quickly clear in the breeze blowing up from the south-west. I thought Captain Jansen must’ve been late leaving Fremantle, but then I realised the Valkyrie was still tied up at the jetty. And anyway, the smoke I could see was too far to the left of the ferry lanes, and too dense and black for a ferry’s chimneystack.
‘A boat’s on fire,’ I said aloud. ‘Fire!’ I yelled like an idiot. ‘There’s a boat on fire!’ But there was no-one around to hear me.
I turned and scrambled up the seawall and ran into the settlement. The shop and bakery and everything else was shut. I dashed towards Constable Campbell’s house, jumped over his gate and banged on the door.
‘Constable Campbell!’ I called. No-one answered. I swung the door open but the house was empty. I started back into the settlement but every building was deserted. Not a single soul to be seen. Everyone must have been out at the aerodrome.
Banjo was the only other person who wasn’t allowed to be at the aerodrome. He might be at home. I ran along the rough sand road to his house and saw him sitting on the steps outside reading.
‘Banjo!’ I yelled. ‘There’s a boat on fire. Out in the channel. I can’t find anyone to tell.’
He jumped up. ‘They’re all at the aerodrome, at the ceremony. Waiting for the big wigs to fly over from Perth.’
‘I know, I know.’ The prime minister, Mr Curtin, was coming to the island. It was all anyone had talked about for weeks. Not that I wanted to have to listen to him in person. He was on the wireless too often as it was.
By the time we reached the beach, flames and dense smoke spewed from the distant boat.
‘What’re we going to do?’ I yelled. ‘They’ll be killed.’
‘My dad’s boat—it’s tied up out there.’ Banjo pointed to his dad’s wooden dinghy, bobbing on its buoy about fifty yards offshore.
We stripped off our shirts and rushed into the sea. We swam as fast as champions out to the boat. Tarzan being chased by crocodiles would’ve had trouble keeping up with us.
‘Can you really sail this thing on your own?’ I asked Banjo as we clambered over the stern.
He nodded confidently. ‘Course I can.’ I looked at him doubtfully. ‘Untie the buoy, I’ll hoist the sail,’ he commanded.
Scrambling towards the bow, I slipped over in the pool of water in the bottom of the cockpit. I fumbled with the shackle but finally managed to unhook the anchoring rope from the buoy. The bow immediately swung free and the breeze caught the sail as soon as Banjo began hauling it up the mast. He did seem to know what he was doing.
‘Unfurl the jib,’ he yelled, ‘and pull that sheet in tight.’
I’d been sailing with Banjo and his dad a couple of times and also once with Grandad on Crawley Bay, so I had an idea of what I was supposed to do. I hauled on the jib sheet and looped it round a cleat. Banjo pulled the tiller towards him and strained in the mainsheet, pulling the boom down towards the deck. The dinghy seemed to lift at the bow and at the same time lean over away from the wind, and it quickly gathered speed. Pretty soon we’d cleared Thomson Bay and were crashing through the swirling white horses out into the channel.
Although we were being splashed and spray stung our eyes, the burning boat stood out clearly. It was the army barge that usually called at the island. By now fierce flames were leaping into the air. The steel crane on the stern swung wildly back and forward as the barge rose and fell on the swell. Several men splashed about in the water, yelling and waving. The yelling grew more frantic as we got closer.
‘Let go the jib,’ yelled Banjo. He pushed the tiller away from him and the yacht turned into the wind, its sail suddenly flapping noisily. He picked up a coiled rope from the cockpit and threw it to me.
‘You’ll have to go in. We can’t get too close in this breeze—we’ll catch alight if we do. You’ll have to swim to them, like Little Eric did for us.’
He was right. I didn’t have any choice. I just hoped the shark was nowhere about. Suddenly all I could think about was that enormous, terrifying shark with a huge mouth full of razor-sharp teeth.
The men in the water tried to swim towards us, but they were exhausted and the waves stopped them from getting very far. I tied one end of the rope round my waist, the other to the base of the mast and dived in. The water was dark and deep and I couldn’t see the bottom. I surfaced quickly and frantically looked about.
‘Over by the bow. Help him. Help him. He’s been burned,’ spluttered the first man I swam up to.
I splashed about trying to see where he meant. Seconds later I caught sight of a man in serious trouble. His head kept slipping beneath the water. He’d pop up, gulp some air and sink again. I reached him quickly and grabbed his collar. Luckily he had on a shirt. Several of the others didn’t.
‘Keep still,’ I yelled at the man. ‘Keep still. I’ve got hold of you.’ I sounded more certain than I felt because he was very heavy. As he struggled, I felt myself being pulled under. I gulped in seawater.
‘Keep still, I’ve got you,’ I yelled again between mouthfuls. ‘You’ll drown us both.’
This time he seemed to hear me and let himself go limp. Either that or he’d died, I thought. Using a cross between dog paddle and sidestroke, I tried pulling him back towards the yacht but it was really hard and I didn’t see how I could reach it. Waves kept breaking over us. This wasn’t the way I wanted to die. If I had to die I wanted to be shot down at the controls of a Spitfire having just downed six ME109s. Suddenly I felt the rope round my waist tighten. The others had made it to the dinghy and were pulling us in.
‘They’ve got us,’ I yelled to the man. ‘You’ll be all right now.’
A minute or so later another man jumped back into the water to help me as the others heaved and dragged the burnt man over the stern. Above the wind, the fire on the barge crackled and roared fiercely, spitting out orange sparks and more black smoke.
‘We’ll get you back to the island,’ yelled Banjo. Once again he hauled in the mainsheet, waited for the wind to catch the sail and then pulled on the tiller.
Though now much lower in the water with the four extra men on board, the small boat ploughed easily through the white caps back towards the island. Spray splashed up and hit my face. I wiped it away and looked at the men we’d rescued. The burnt man sat in the cockpit with his shoulders hunched forward, coughing and retching up seawater. Both his hands were red and his sodden shirt was blackened and burnt, but at least he was still alive. None of the others said anything. They just sat in the cockpit and
on the foredeck shivering and gasping for breath. They must have been in the sea for a long time.
As we drew away from the burning barge I could hear the roar of an aircraft engine growing louder, and I looked up to see a khaki-coloured Douglas Dakota DC3 flying directly over us.
‘Banjo, look!’ I yelled.
The plane flew so low that the pilot and co-pilot looked straight at us. The pilot gave the thumbs-up sign and I waved back, also holding up my thumb. The plane banked steeply and headed for the island, its propellers still reverberating noisily as it grew smaller.
‘That’ll be the prime minister’s plane,’ Banjo shouted, ‘heading to the ceremony.’
Tacking back and forward against the sou’-westerly, it took ages to return to Thomson Bay.
Everyone was waiting on the beach for us when we finally ran the dinghy straight up into the shallows next to the jetty. Several men rushed forward to help drag it further up onto the beach.
Not only were Mum and Dad and Banjo’s dad there, but also Mr Palmer and all the army officers. There was also a group of men I hadn’t seen before. Everyone seemed to be dressed in their best clothes and uniforms, like a load of ‘pox doctor’s clerks’, as Dad would’ve said if Mum wasn’t listening.
Dad and Captain Anstey were standing right on the water’s edge. ‘Are you hurt, Jack?’ Dad asked, grabbing me by both shoulders.
‘I’m fine, Dad. That soldier in the cockpit’s though, he’s...’ I stopped as Captain Anstey and some other soldiers hurried to help the men from the boat.
Colonel Hurley stepped forward. ‘Jack? Banjo? Good to see you’re safe. Well done. Well done, indeed.’ He smiled a strange sort of smile. ‘There’s someone here who would like to meet you.’
We stood there on the beach in wet shorts, the skin peeling from our sunburnt shoulders, and with snot and seawater running from our noses, and for the first and only time in our lives, met the prime minister of Australia. I caught sight of Mum searching frantically in her handbag for a comb.
Mr Curtin seemed like a very kind man, but through his glasses his eyes looked tired. With the whole fate of Australia on his shoulders, I suppose he was entitled to feel a little worn-out. He leaned forward and shook us both by the hand.
‘Colonel Hurley tells me that with you two on the island the Japanese wouldn’t dare invade. He says it’d take two whole divisions of Emperor Hirohito’s Imperial Guard to take you on.’
We both just smiled stupidly. What do you say to a prime minister? I was sure he thought we were too dense to say anything.
‘Off to high school next year, eh? And Andrew with a scholarship to Perth Modern School, I hear. Well done, lad. That really is excellent.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Banjo.
Behind him I saw Mr Palmer smile slightly.
‘And you, Jack? What are your plans? For the future?’
‘I want to be Spitfire pilot, sir,’ I answered, truthfully.
He looked back at the dinghy we’d just landed. ‘Not the navy then?’
‘I wouldn’t mind being the captain of a destroyer, or a PT boat,’ I answered, ‘if you could arrange that, sir.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Mr Curtin laughed and said to Commander Grant, who stood close by, ‘Think the US Navy could handle that, commander? Something you can organise with your Admiral Nimitz for me? Prime minister’s special request?’
The commander smiled and replied, ‘Of course, sir. We’d be pleased to have him, very pleased.’ He looked at me. ‘Any particular destroyer you had in mind, Jack?’
‘I think Australia will be in safe hands in the future, don’t you?’ continued the prime minister, smiling widely.
Everyone laughed and then they started clapping. That was strange. It wasn’t that funny a joke, definitely not worth a round of applause. But I suppose if you’re the prime minister, people will laugh at your jokes no matter how funny they are. One of the perks of the job, as Dad would’ve said.
‘We must be going, Prime Minister,’ said another younger man in a pin-striped suit as the clapping died down.
‘That Mr Curtin looks like he could use a Bex and a good lie-down,’ I heard Mrs Purvis whisper loudly to her husband as Mr Curtin and his party walked back up from the beach to the army staff cars.
Christmas
The last few families on the island decided to have Christmas lunch together. In the morning the men set out trestle tables under the peppermint trees near the pub and then went off to see if the beer was cold enough. Everyone was to bring something good to the feast, and Banjo’s dad offered to get a turkey if Mum would cook it. Mum agreed instantly, of course. Turkeys were almost unheard of. Even chickens were hard to come by.
Mr Paterson arrived in the morning carrying the large bird, all plucked and cleaned.
Mum looked at it admiringly as he placed it on our kitchen table. ‘That’s a decent size, Pat,’ she said. ‘Should feed all of us and half the regiment as well.’
‘My pleasure, Nell. I always enjoy a well-cooked bird at Christmas. Reminds me of when my own mother used to do it—you know, stuffing, potatoes, turnips, all the trimmings, swimming in lard. Delicious.’
Mr Paterson was about to leave when Dad and Captain Jansen came in the front door a bit the worse for wear, but, luckily for them, only a bit.
‘Ah, Pat, just in time for a little Christmas nip,’ said Captain Jansen. He held up a bottle of Thor’s Hammer and they all smiled.
‘Young fella,’ Captain Jansen said to me, ‘I’ve got a letter for you. Looks mighty important. It came special delivery.’ He reached into his shirt pocket and handed me an envelope.
‘Who’s it from?’ asked Mum as I tore it open.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. ‘It’s ... it’s from John and Elsie Curtin,’ I read from the card in shock.
‘What? Are you sure?’ said Mum, disbelievingly.
Everyone stopped talking and turned to look at me.
‘It’s a Christmas card from the prime minister. For me.’ I handed it to Mum.
‘“All the best to you and your family at Christmas and God bless you, John and Elsie Curtin,”’ Mum read. She looked at me. I think she was as shocked as I was. ‘Then he’s written by hand, “Jack, that was a fine and brave thing you and Andrew did yesterday in rescuing the barge crew. Well done. Please let me know if I can help you in any way in the future. You will be surprised at what doors can be opened with a recommendation from the PM. JC.”’
Mum kept that Christmas card sitting on the mantelpiece for years and years.
Mrs Purvis dressed up as Mother Christmas for the lunch. She wore a red dress and a red hat with cotton wool stitched to the brim. I’m not sure if she was Mother Christmas because she was the only one with red clothes or because she was the only one fat enough to look real. Still, she seemed pretty pleased, or as pleased as she ever allowed herself to be.
She sat on a stool under the peppermint tree to hand out the presents. Reaching into a pillowcase she pulled out a small parcel. ‘The first present is for...’ the old cow waited, drawing out the tension, pretending she was a magician, ‘...Jack.’ Everyone cheered and I went forward to collect my parcel.
‘Come on, Jack. You have to sit on my knee and give Mother Christmas a big kiss.’ I couldn’t imagine anything worse than having to kiss Mrs Purvis. It was bad enough having to kiss all the aunties whenever we went to the mainland. My present was a Violet Crumble bar. I tried not to look too excited but I was really pleased. Because of the rationing, it’d been years since we’d had any lollies.
Mum caught my eye and glared at me to stop me from wolfing it down there and then.
Dad smiled and winked at me. I’d have to eat it all soon, though, in case Dad wanted to share it.
It was a great day. Everyone was laughing and joking and seemed relaxed. Some of the men seemed extra relaxed, especially once they’d made a couple of visits to the steel ammunition boxes filled with ice and brown bottles of Swan Lager.
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m General Dafty Small,’ he said. ‘Tenth Right Horse Legiment.’
I returned the salute. ‘I’m Major Jones, Light Bike Regiment.’
Mum had made Mr Palmer and Mr Paterson a box of Anzac biscuits each, wrapped up with red ribbon. They both seemed pleased.
‘Don’t anyone think I’ll be sharing these. Especially not with that greedy son of mine,’ laughed Mr Paterson. It was good to see that Banjo was getting on better with his dad. Maybe Mr Paterson had realised he was about to lose Banjo to Perth Mod and wouldn’t be seeing too much of him anymore. Or perhaps the fact that Banjo was now friends with the prime minister had increased his status in his dad’s eyes. Everyone seemed to be treating me better since I met the prime minister.
Banjo gave his father a pirate flag for his dinghy. Mum had given him some blackout material and we’d painted a skull and crossbones on it with whitewash. Mr Paterson started laughing as soon as he opened it and everyone else joined in.
Mrs Purvis called all the other names and handed out presents, and then to my surprise she called my name again. She handed me a small box.
‘I don’t remember this one being in my bag,’ she said, looking slightly puzzled.
Unlike everyone else’s presents, this one hadn’t been wrapped in paper but came in a Cuban cigar box with no markings other than my name. I opened the lid and found a Tommy gun, carved in miniature—the sort of machine gun Al Capone had used.
It was obviously from George Washington. But how had he managed to get it in the present bag? Had he given it to Major Grant to sneak in? I hadn’t seen George Washington again since the day Patricia went missing, and I wondered why he’d gone to all the trouble of making it for me. All I’d done was carry him out a cup of tea. I also wondered what he and the other sailors would be doing this Christmas. Thousands of sailors and soldiers must have been away from their families. Most of them were probably in foxholes in the jungle having cold spam and hardtack biscuits for Christmas dinner while the Nips shot at them and dropped bombs on their heads. We were the lucky ones this year.
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