Gallipoli Street

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

  ‘Do you remember your parents at all?’ he said after a pause.

  Theresa shook her head. ‘No, I was only about two when I arrived in Australia. No one even knew their names or where I had come from, only that my grandmother had died on our passage over from France during the war.’

  ‘Didn’t anyone come to collect you?’

  ‘No. There was no one. No enquiries. Nothing.’ She shrugged nonchalantly but Pete glimpsed an old hurt.

  ‘Difficult to solve mysteries during wars,’ he offered.

  ‘I didn’t even know this much until a few years back,’ she admitted, sharing with him the story of finding out about her possessions and how her fate had unfolded. ‘If it wasn’t for Sister Carmel it’s quite obvious that Father O’Brien would have left me in the dark and there I’d be, in the middle of a jungle in an uncomfortable uniform in the tropical heat…hold on. There’s something rather familiar about that.’ She began to laugh and Pete joined her, coughing a little from the exertion. She immediately handed him a glass of water and he took it, watching her thoughtfully over the rim.

  ‘I suppose there’s no escaping it,’ she sighed as he drank. ‘I’m destined for a life of servitude and penance after all.’

  ‘Why penance?’

  She placed the glass back on the table and, picking up her bishop, pointed it his way. ‘For defying my betters.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ he suggested, following her hand as it placed the bishop on the board. ‘I’d say you bettered yourself through defiance.’

  Theresa laughed again. ‘You really are a lawyer, aren’t you?’

  They played in companionable silence for a while and Pete stroked his chin as she dramatically took his knight.

  ‘Sister Carmel must have been a better teacher than my dad,’ he said.

  ‘Must have been nice though…having that time together, I mean.’

  Pete tilted his head, wondering how to explain things. ‘It was actually. Helped us to get along better.’

  ‘Hadn’t you always?’

  He wondered how much to reveal, but then again she was being so open it seemed right somehow. ‘No…he found it very hard. After the war.’

  Theresa watched him thoughtfully, her brown eyes filled with understanding, and he realised he wanted to tell her everything. A sudden need for confession; a baring of the soul. ‘He drank a lot,’ Pete admitted, ‘and it was a bit rocky between us when I was younger. It changed him when he drank that much. Made him…angry.’

  ‘Ah.’ Theresa nodded. ‘Well, after what I have seen of war I can’t judge anyone too harshly for that. I don’t imagine any of us will be the same after this.’

  ‘All the death…’ he said quietly.

  ‘And the hate too, I think.’ Theresa held the rook, twisting it around in her hand. ‘I’ve had moments here when I hear the priests’ words over and again in my head: turn the other cheek, love one another.’

  Pete nodded. ‘Feels as though we were taught one set of values in church and quite another set out here.’

  ‘Exactly. No one taught us how to achieve that when someone so young is holding your hand and the life is…just…’ She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Just stolen. And I…I hate all the people responsible, you know? And then I hate the Japs, hate them with all my heart, and I think I’m going straight to hell.’ She ran her hand across her eyes, the rook still clenched tightly. ‘Sorry…’

  ‘Don’t be,’ he said.

  She looked at him, a little embarrassed. ‘You must be a good lawyer. You’re extracting all kinds of secrets from me tonight.’

  ‘What you see is what you get.’ He smiled easily, his gaze becoming serious once more as the lamplights flickered. ‘Dad had to figure it all out and Mum helped him of course. She was pretty amazing when I think about it,’ he admitted, missing her in a sudden rush. ‘I guess seeing him do that gave me hope that it doesn’t have to ruin the rest of your life. Plus he told me some good advice and that helps. He said you can’t let it make you feel like that. No matter what happens, no matter what you have to see or what you have to do. All of this death…it’s to stop it from reaching home. That’s war. That’s the job.’

  ‘And the hating?’

  ‘It’s the war you really hate. And God knows the war deserves to be hated. He won’t punish you for that.’

  She stared out at the night. ‘No, it’s not just war…I do hate the Japs. When I hear what they do and see it with my own eyes…’

  ‘No you don’t. Not really.’

  She looked at him quizzically. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘No,’ he said again. ‘I mean sure, the politicians are fools and I hate what they’re doing…and when I’m getting shot, well…there’s no love lost. Could have strangled any one of them when I saw my mates’ faces after…you know…’ He gestured out at the jungle and shook his head, trying to eradicate the images of Sully and Dom and the recent carnage. ‘But after the battles are over and my blood has cooled down a bit that kind of goes away. I’ve seen dead Germans, dead Italians, dead Brits…we all kind of look the same then. A dead Jap is just another soldier who tried to get out and didn’t make it.’ He shrugged. ‘So I figure they are just like us really. Trying to survive, trying not to look at the faces of their mates when they fall. Wanting to go home to their families. Those blighters out there are going through the same thing as us,’ he gestured at the chessboard, ‘just on different bloody sides of the game.’

  She stared at him in amazement. ‘But surely after what you have been through…’

  ‘Same thing they’re going through, isn’t it? Only none of them have an angel sent to save them.’ He smiled at her, feeling his heart contract as he realised how much he actually meant it. To him she was like a pure ray of light that had suddenly appeared at his darkest hour.

  ‘I’m no angel, Pete.’

  ‘Yes you are. Look at your halo,’ he teased, lightly touching her hair.

  ‘I’m a fallen one, if that.’

  ‘What great sins have you committed? Hating the enemy? Hating the war? I’ve told you, God understands.’

  ‘No, it’s not just that.’

  Theresa paused, looking at his easy expression, his open confident gaze. A man who had been given every advantage and made something of each and every one of them. A man so loved throughout his whole life he could even forgive an enemy trying to kill him. How could someone like him ever comprehend what it was like to have no family, no home? To be left to fend for oneself in the clubs of Kings Cross? To fall for the first conman who promised stability and family. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Try me.’

  She frowned, trying to form the right words. ‘You’re not like other people…you’re different…’ she began hesitantly.

  ‘Hey, I’m just a digger, lying in a hospital bed, trying to get to know my beautiful nurse,’ he protested charmingly.

  ‘But you’re not just a digger. You’re the one who is perfect…a golden boy. Lawyer, sportsman, cherished son in a loving family…you have racehorses, for goodness’ sake. You’re…blessed. I’ve never met anyone like you.’

  ‘Just because I’m some kind of…golden digger doesn’t mean I won’t understand you,’ he said, taking her hand.

  She stared at it for a moment before pulling away, moving the chessboard to the table and straightening his sheets. ‘I think it’s time for you to rest.’

  ‘Theresa,’ he began.

  ‘You’re leaving tomorrow,’ she reminded him, stilled by his imploring eyes.

  ‘Then stay this last night near me.’

  There was no point, she knew, no possible future with this perfect man, but she found herself pulling the chair close anyway, matching his gaze until his eyes closed. Wishing for a life by his side where every night the kind eyes of this golden digger were the last things she saw.

  Theresa stood watching with Daphne as they prepared t
o leave, the natives hoisting the four patients being transferred in their makeshift stretchers. This was it, the way it had to be. Instead of some romantic fairy tale that ended in him sweeping her off on his steed through the jungle, Theresa’s fair prince was being carried down a muddy hill and she was going back to blood and pain and death. No happy ending. Not even a farewell kiss.

  ‘Chin up, there’s our girl,’ Daphne whispered to her, offering the party a cheerful wave.

  She pasted a smile on her face and lifted her own hand to Simon and the others, steeling herself to look at Pete one last time. His eyes held everything she was trying to hold back; longing, regret and another emotion, something so intense it lodged in her throat and she ran to him, despite herself. He clasped her hand tight and their lips met briefly with sweet intensity. Then her tears fell as the Fuzzy Wuzzies began to pull him away.

  ‘I will see you again. I will find you,’ he promised as her hand slid from his.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Hey I’m the Golden Digger, remember?’

  And with the sunlight catching his blond hair and his heartbreaking grin illuminating his handsome features, for that moment in time he was more than an injured soldier on a stretcher. He really was the Golden Digger…and she believed him.

  Forty-two

  Early December 1942

  Theresa woke in a sweat, the sheets twisted, and took a moment to register where she was: New Guinea. It was always her first thought, followed closely by a second: Pete. The flow of patients had been constant and heavy since he’d been transferred, which was at least a distraction for her during the day, but the nights were long and lonely, and made so much worse by the humidity. She kicked at the sheets and stared at the mosquito netting above. How she wished for news of him, not that it was likely – and besides all the mail had dried up. Japanese forces were close by and the job of war was on their doorstep, far outweighing mundane matters such as letters from sweethearts being carried up the trail.

  She kicked at the sheet again and decided it was no use, she might as well get up and have a smoke. The night was very clear and the stars blazed in the distinct path of the Milky Way above the trees as she sat on the step and took out a cigarette, listening to the night creatures in song. There was a crack nearby and she wondered what had made the noise. Probably some furry little animal. Or a snake. She wrinkled her nose at the thought, preparing to strike a match, but something made her freeze midway. There was a figure moving along the edge of the trees. A soldier. Her insides clenched in sudden terror. A Japanese soldier. Her heart pumped unbearably in her chest and she watched as he moved towards the supply shed and disappeared inside.

  She took her chances.

  Treading as softly as she could, but imagining every move she made was deafening, she crept across to Dr Kindred’s quarters, feeling her way in the dark. The net around his bed shrouded his face and she wondered how to wake him without him calling out in surprise. To her relief he opened his eyes and gave a start but thankfully, no cry. Theresa placed her finger over her lips then pointed outside, mouthing the word ‘Japanese’. He moved quickly and quietly, waking Two-Bob, and the four of them crept back to the nurses’ hut and peered out the windows that faced the storage shed, one of the Bobs shouldering a rifle he’d pulled out from under the bed. Daphne was keeping vigil at the hospital and Theresa itched to get over there to warn her and to protect the patients.

  They waited in silence and Theresa felt the sweat glide slowly down her back as the agonising seconds ticked by. Finally the soldier emerged, carrying a bag and making his way back along the treeline once more.

  Dr Kindred signalled to Two-Bob and they quickly went out to make sure he was alone and definitely gone. After some time they returned and whispered that they couldn’t find any trace of him and Theresa slumped in relief against the wall. So much for waking in the middle of the night with hopes a cigarette break would send her back to sleep. She doubted now she would ever rest in this jungle again.

  By the time they had all joined Daphne in the hospital the dawn was breaking and with it came the arrival of Australian soldiers, for once not carrying wounded. But they did carry something else: orders for evacuation.

  ‘The Japs are supposed to be retreating but they’re fighting the whole bloody way and moving towards this ridge,’ reported the young lieutenant. ‘You were lucky last night’s visitor was probably just some starving bloke on his own. You’re sitting ducks.’

  Theresa shuddered at the thought.

  ‘Pack your things,’ the lieutenant ordered. ‘We are leaving now.’

  ‘How far will we go?’ Dr Kindred asked.

  ‘How bad are the wounded?’

  ‘They can travel, although two can’t walk.’

  ‘We’ll stretcher them out. I’ve got orders to take you right down to the port. You don’t want to be round here in the next twenty-four hours. Artillery is set to go.’ He walked off issuing orders and Theresa stared at the others.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me twice,’ Daphne declared, running off to pack. The rest did the same but Theresa was momentarily paralysed, not by fear this time. They were going to the port. Port Moresby. To the last place Pete had been. Then she found her feet too. They didn’t have to tell her twice either.

  Forty-three

  Port Moresby

  ‘I think the jungle might kill us before the bloody Japanese,’ Daphne sighed, pushing vines aside to allow Two-Bob to get past with a stretcher.

  ‘Nearly there,’ puffed Dr Kindred.

  ‘Might have to kill him if he keeps ruddy well saying that,’ Daphne muttered under her breath and Theresa grinned. She didn’t care if she turned into a ball of sweat and rolled down the track. She was heading closer to Pete and away from potential midnight raids from the enemy. Let the jungle be as hellish as it liked. She was leaving it.

  Fortunately for Daphne, Dr Kindred proved himself right this time and the path started to widen, the road coming into view. They began to make their way along in the open sunshine and Theresa squinted up at the sky, relishing the wide expanse despite the hot sun. A rumble of jeeps approached and the convoy – Americans – stopped, grinning hordes of marines making room for their party, especially keen to sit near the nurses.

  ‘Would you ladies care to join us tonight for some dancing?’ asked one eager young lad called Jerome.

  ‘Dancing?’ repeated Daphne. ‘Last time I saw the port it was caught in the middle of a war.’

  ‘Still is,’ another announced, tapping his boots in a little jig on the floor of the truck. ‘Doesn’t mean we ain’t got no feet.’

  They all laughed and Theresa figured Port Moresby would probably feel like Paris itself after the backwards life they’d just been living, armies notwithstanding.

  An hour later they stood to watch the view unfold. Paris it wasn’t, but civilisation was certainly abounding. The streets were alive with trucks and soldiers, Americans and Australians shouting out orders or exchanging banter, occasionally drowned out by the low-flying planes guarding the multitude of boats in the harbour. It was alive with humanity in full-blown activity and the movement and colour flooded Theresa with a sense of security. She squeezed Daphne’s shoulder and the latter turned and gave her a look of pure relief from beneath the dirt and sweat that covered her exhausted face.

  ‘Think they have a hairdresser nearby?’ she queried, taking off her cap and shaking out her tangled hair. They both laughed.

  ‘Don’t know about that but I think I’d trade everything I own for a hot shower.’

  They arrived at their quarters in a chorus of cheerful goodbyes and invitations from their rescuers and made straight for the longed-for showers, relishing the incredible luxury of hot water again. Afterwards Theresa slid her feet down inside the clean sheets of her bed and sighed at the delicious feel of it all. She’d never felt so clean and so tired at the same time. They didn’t have to report in until the following afternoon so she was allowing herself a second
indulgence: an afternoon nap, planning her search for Pete on the morrow. Even if she had to scour every hospital bed, ship list and building in Port Moresby, she would find something, of that she was sure.

  Pete woke in a sweat. He’d been dreaming that the jungle was eating him alive, vines twisting at his legs and arms as he tried to get away. He shook his head clear, figuring it was just that the sheets had pinned him in his sleep, and disentangled himself from the damp mess.

  ‘Wakey wakey!’ called out Bluey, his friend from the hospital and now self-appointed social secretary since they’d been moved to rehab. ‘Tucker’s on.’

  ‘What are you all dressed up for?’ Pete asked, rubbing his eyes, noting Bluey’s slicked down red hair and ironed shirt.

  ‘Me mate Jono flogged…I mean found some beer crates. Reckon I’ll go over and join the party. I’d say come too but I figure you’ll want to hobnob with the officers now you’re leaving us and reclaiming your rightful place with the toffs.’

  ‘I doubt there’ll be much beer at the Officers’ Mess tonight by the sounds of things,’ Pete remarked.

  ‘No idea what ya mean there, sir,’ Bluey grinned, ‘but come over and slum it with us tonight. Last hurrah, eh?’

  ‘Think I might just have to do that. Too damn hot in here,’ he muttered, sitting up and pulling off his saturated undershirt.

  ‘That’s what ya get when ya lie about mooning all day.’

  ‘Since when do I ever do that?’ Pete objected. He’d actually been trying to keep himself busy, spending a bit of time doing some legal work for the senior officers, but only a few hours here and there. He’d got tired very quickly, especially in the last day or two. Maybe he’d been overdoing it. Maybe saying he was ready for light duties starting tomorrow was a mistake.

  ‘Every time that schmaltzy “Moonlight Serenade” comes on the radio ya get all mopey–’

  ‘I’m not mopey I’m just…hot,’ Pete objected, but acknowledged to himself that he had been ‘mopey’ since he’d arrived in town, especially compared to his usual cheerful self. It was worse now that Simon had been sent home. They’d said Pete was still too weak to join him at the time and he hadn’t minded another week or two in New Guinea, as illogical as it sounded. Theresa was closer here. But not close enough. Being away from her was torturous, especially when lying in bed took up a good portion of the day.