Nor the Years Condemn

by Justin Sheedy

  At the foot of the right-hand wall, Quinn registered the last name as WYLDE N. ‘Forget it, mate,’ he sided.

  There were no Quinns.

  November

  The Murrumbidgee River was mirror still, its surface sky blue and fluffy white from low cumulus clouds. Their reflection was broken only by the twin slipstreams of the aircraft, Quinn curving between the trees lining either bank, Eastwood narrowly behind.

  Quinn glanced at the Wirraway’s instrument panel clock: 0759 Hours precisely – sixty seconds to Target – as Eastwood’s voice came over the radio…

  ‘Alright, Daniel, they’re round the next bend left. When you see them, straighten, full throttle, do not climb until bomb release. You call guns and bombs gone. I’m dropping back a tad now, the attack is yours. …You won’t prang into the bridge now, will you.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Remember. I’ll be watching you from back here just as they will be from the bank, so make it sweet.’

  ‘Roger.’

  Their tops above Quinn, the riverbank treelines tore past on either side at around 200 miles per hour. Here came the turn.

  Quinn curved it fast – low – accurate.

  Very Nice, Eastwood smiled to himself from a close line astern.

  Ahead of them now was straight stretch of river for about 300 yards, strung across it, a twin cable bridge. There were men on it.

  Full throttle towards them, Quinn could make out their tin helmets, rifles and packs as they scissored hopelessly sideways along the cables. Dead men.

  With the slightest left-right-left action on the rudder pedals to distribute his fire, Quinn called the prescribed radio signal: ‘ Guns - Guns - Guns - Guns - Guns,’ a group of headphoned observers on the riverbank pencilling clipboards as he did. He then lifted the aircraft’s nose minutely and transmitted, ‘ Bombs Gone,’ more pencilling.

  Private George Biddle of the Royal Australian Engineers squeezed his eyes shut, clutching the upper cable for dear life as the two fighters roared not ten feet overhead, even tighter as the pre-set water charges exploded beneath. His ‘ BLOODY Hell! ’ was heard by no one as fifty-foot columns of water drenched him on the way up, and then on the way back down again.

  Quinn instantly lowered the nose, Eastwood in close pursuit, and sped away hugging the river once more, already round the next bend below treetop level.

  Eastwood transmitted neutrally. ‘Righto, Daniel. Let’s keep it low and tight. They’re doing anti-aircraft gunnery exercises in the area…’

  ‘Roger.’

  After a few fast bends, the Exercise Controller crackled over the radio. ‘Red One, this is Emu, are you receiving me? Over.’

  Eastwood replied. ‘Emu, Red One, loud and clear.’

  ‘Red One, Emu… Red Two bomb trajectory Good. Strafing effective. Do you concur?’

  ‘Emu, Red One, I concur, over.’

  ‘Tell your chap well done. Red One, Emu, Out.’

  After a moment or two, Eastwood concluded to Quinn. ‘Well. You heard the man. On Target. Now. Morning off. I’ll follow you.’

  Quinn pulled back on the stick, and up into the cumulus they flew.

  Out above it in no time, Quinn rolled upside down, pulled level out of the climb, rolled upright again, Eastwood right with him and following suit. He formated on Quinn’s wing.

  ‘Nice work.’

  ‘Thanks, Bob.’

  ‘Though mark my words, Daniel. Next stop is your Advanced Flying Unit. There you’ll fly something called a Miles Master, if you’re lucky… Which’ll make what you just did very successfully back down there look like child’s-play.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve heard that.’

  ‘Add at least a hundred miles an hour to your approach speed for a start. And I won’t be there to hold your hand…’

  ‘You’ve been fantastic, Bob. I don’t think I’d have made it this far without you.’

  ‘You had potential, you listened to everything I said and you did what you were told, that’s all.’

  ‘What about you, Bob? Where are you headed now?’

  ‘See you at your Passing Out Parade and then same as you, Daniel. England. Like you, that’s all I know. Christ, here’s hoping we both get sent to Fighters once we’re over there…’

  ‘It’s been good, the Wirra’.’ Quinn looked at the cockpit all around him, then out at the white clouds they were passing through. ‘Wonder how I’d do right now up against a Messerschmitt…’

  Eastwood paused before replying. ‘In one of these? Try sending a teddy-bear up against a viper.’

  ‘But we’ll be evenly matched against them on Hurricanes and Spits, surely…’

  Eastwood hesitated. ‘All I can say is the Wirraway’s a good trainer. A good Wirra’ pilot can fly anything. You’re a good pilot, Daniel. No, a bit better than good… But there’s a young German gentleman somewhere out there who thinks he’s better than you. Before you get within a thousand miles of him, you damn-well make sure he’s wrong… Because he’s hell-bent on trying to kill you. As we speak.’

  *

  After landing, Quinn went, as usual, to Sunday morning Services at the base chapel, only a Nissen hut but there was always a good turn-out for the RAAF Catholic chaplain. Quinn felt soothed by the ritual he’d known at least once a week since a toddler. Kneeling down in his pew after Communion, he clasped his hands firmly together, closed his eyes. It felt like home.

  Christmas Day, 1941

  Quinn compared the dates. It hadn’t been three weeks since Japan had smashed Pearl Harbour to hell in a single morning. Now not only the Japs but the United States were in the war, by some happy accident, their aircraft carriers having been out of the Harbour on the morning in question. Britain and the Empire had a new enemy. At least they wouldn’t be alone against her.

  With three days’ home leave prior to standby for overseas passage, Quinn began each morning with the newspapers: A World turned from Christ was the Pope’s Christmas message, a footnote on a front page reporting little but the war. After a whole year of defeats, there was some actual good news: The Russians were counter-attacking outside Moscow, and Rommel was retreating in North Africa, Australian forces there having performed brilliantly. Yet to Quinn these things seemed cancelled out – as the Japanese cut like a knife directly south towards Australia. Having just landed in the South Philippines, they seemed about to roll up Manila, Malaya, Hong Kong, hell, even Singapore, and that was only page one. Where the war had once seemed distant, now it was on Australia’s ‘back door’, so the government urged. Prime Minister Curtin’s Christmas message was solemn, firstly addressing Australian servicemen overseas – Bob Eastwood had already gone: promoted and whisked away in the middle of the night a week before Quinn’s graduation. Where to? Not nearly as far away, Quinn presumed, as they’d once expected. Quinn read the lead story last – Churchill in Washington. Winston’s pledge, halfway down the column, to do his ‘utmost for the defence of Singapore’, seemed a little hollow.

  Matt wanted to go over everything about the past six months, his brother now an officer in the Royal Australian Air Force, its golden eagle crest on his peaked cap – the Sergeant-Pilots didn’t get that – not to mention the Wings badge on his tunic. Quinn was happy to answer his every question, especially as they wouldn’t be seeing each other again for some time. Conversely, Matt proved something of an authority on the nation’s new ‘war footing’, fielding Quinn’s questions on local air-raid precautions – shelter construction, the nightly black-out, the new ban on weekday sporting events. Indeed, Matt was no less than street monitor for the big aluminium drive: Handed-in pots and pans were being turned into aircraft.

  ‘We’re all immensely proud of you, Danny.’ As a King’s Counsel, Quinn’s father knew how to act a part. Damn it, of course any eldest son of Francis Quinn would vie for the top job – He’d been brought up to. Only in the current crisis, the ‘top job’ meant Fighter Pilot. He secretly hoped to God Danny might yet ‘wash out’ as they
called it – He still could. Most of them did, evidently. Then get himself a good desk job. Francis Quinn never thought he’d see the day he’d curse his own son’s hard-nosed diligence. No, he seemed too young for the uniform that now sat so darkly upon him, his smile at Matthew only making him seem younger. Yet the boy had every reason to smile, hadn’t he: second in his course and winning one of only three officer’s commissions out of the graduating thirty-six. Damn you, Daniel… Pilot Officer Quinn. Instead of Sergeant’s stripes on his tunic forearms, he wore a thin white band on each cuff.

  At least he wasn’t in the Navy, his father reflected… The nation was in veritable shock from the Sydney sinking – Some still denied it. Merv and Ida from across the road were confident their son would be knocking on their front door any day now. But the newspapers, even the Prime Minister now, said it was true: The Royal Australian Navy cruiser had been sunk in action just off the West Australian coast. She’d sunk a German ship called the Kormoran, then had gone down herself. Despite her ‘victory’ against the German, of the Sydney’s crew of 645, none had yet been found. How could it happen so close to home? All hands lost? That was just newspaper-talk, said Merv and Ida, just newspaper-talk. Besides, she was such a good ship: She’d performed splendidly for long months in the Mediterranean… No, Merv and Ida were adamant. Their son would be marching up the street any day now.

  Quinn’s younger sister, Kathleen, had spent all morning helping Mum. Alone with her in the kitchen, the thirteen-year-old knew her mother’s unbreakable smile masked the deepest distress. Handing her a platter of prawns from the icechest, Kathleen spoke to her mother just above a whisper.

  ‘We could move away, Mum… We could. Brigitte from school, her family’s moving to the Blue Mountains. We could go too… Danny could come with us.’

  Kathleen sensed her mother was about to reply, her face having turned quite pale. But no reply came.

  ‘He’d be safe then, Mum. …Mum, look at me.’

  Yet her mother could not, merely passing Kathleen a plate of toasts for the table.

  *

  Christmas lunch was, as usual, magnificent. Quinn always felt truly grateful for the care his mother put into this day, plus for the fact she served things most people had never heard of. This year, though he hadn’t asked for it, she’d made his special favourite: king prawns alongside slices of mango, a dill mayonnaise and a dash of caviar – just for starters. Yet as the afternoon progressed through successive courses and bottles of champagne, for the first time in his life he saw that Therese Quinn was speaking only when spoken to.

  Therese looked at her first-born son. As he grew into a young man, Danny reminded her more and more of her brother, John. The brother she’d last seen in 1915… He’d made it through Gallipoli. Only to be killed in France. His body was never found…

  Across the beautiful table she’d laid, Quinn caught his mother’s usual beaming smile at him. Though her eyes didn’t sit with the rest of her face. They seemed slightly swollen. As if on the verge of tears.

  *

  As customary, Mr Reiser arrived in the mid-afternoon. Their private chats had become something of a tradition for Quinn. He smiled; the old man never changed. White hair, immaculate collar, tie, ancient fob-watch and cardigan despite the hot day. It was cool in the parlour, where they sat together on its comfortable leather lounge. Mr Reiser took a cigarette from the silver box Quinn had moved to within his reach, and lit it. His gentle European voice continued.

  ‘We saw it as it came, you and I. Now it has come. This war. For you to fight. As it is always for young men to finish what old men start. They have made you an officer. This, I expected. As such, Daniel, in time you will lead other young men. By your actions, together you will put an end to this man, Hitler… And now the Japanese one – what is his name – Tojo? It may take years, many years, but in the end they will go. As, in the end, they always do.’

  Quinn saw unease in the old man’s eyes, the smile he was attempting towards the hall archway. Seeing little Angie was peeking around its corner at them, Quinn shooed her away with his hand, stern-faced, though with a parting wink at her. After a pause, Mr Reiser continued.

  ‘Then there will be peace, for a while. But by then the world will be a different place. The world I knew will be gone, and probably for the better…’ He turned to Quinn, placing a hand on his arm, ‘My Prague, Daniel… I wish I could have shown it to you. Its music, its culture. That is my selfish regret. For now I know I never will.’ His gaze rested once again on the brightness of the parlour’s front windows. ‘You have been a good friend to me, Daniel. Just as your father was to me, since back in the early days. You have been kind to me. Not once have you protested when I made my lectures to you, not even when it was the same one time after time,’ he smiled. ‘But now, Daniel, let me give you my blessing. I am but a silly old man. It is all I have.’

  *

  When Christmas pudding was finished, Angie followed her big brother to the kitchen with some plates from the table and he’d told her to be very careful but he smiled at her. Maybe they’d play a game out in the garden now – she loved her turn at cricket – he’d promised her and she’d been good almost all day…

  Entering the kitchen, Angie saw Mum was standing with her back to the sink and just looking at Danny. She had her apron on to do the washing-up but she was just standing still and not saying anything. She almost looked like she was about to cry. But she wasn’t. She was just shaking a little bit instead.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  March 1942

  In the morning, Quinn would be in England. If he lived out the night.

  He now knew he had never before felt true fear. Not this kind he could taste…

  Though at near freezing, both the night and the Atlantic were dead calm, a layer of low stratus cloud, so no moon. At about a thousand feet in front and double that on either side in the darkness, only the dim blue lights were to be seen, one on the stern of every ship. Yet the horizon ahead flared all too often in brilliant orange. Only then could Quinn see the ships in the convoy all around him, those ahead in stark silhouette. They remained visible while the resultant glow grew red, lingered, then finally died. The Panama Canal was way behind them now, the passage through the Sydney Heads a distant memory in the dark.

  Quinn drew lookout duty as did all aircrew en route. Tonight it was with one Sergeant Ken Sutton, air gunner, a farmer’s son from near Bowral. From the bow of the RMS Carpathian, they were to look out for U-boats: You searched for their periscopes by day, as the German submariners stalked the convoy. It was at night that they attacked – on the surface, which Quinn and Sutton now scanned. Tonight, some poor bastards were being torpedoed just over the horizon, the horizon Quinn was headed towards.

  He remembered his first time in the Tiger Moth. The fear that had gripped him let go the moment he had control, his vertigo brushed aside by his hand on the joystick, his feet on the rudder pedals, reacting, correcting, guiding him accurately through the air. Thousands of feet up, despite buffeting cross-winds, galloping thermals, at least up there he could react. Here, he was helpless – just waiting to go down in someone else’s disaster. If death had come in the Wirraway, at least it would have done so at a few hundred miles an hour. Here death dawdled. EIGHT KNOTS – slower than he could run! But not on water, and that was the speed of the ship, a great big, fat, slow target for the torpedo that could strike any second.

  Each and every time he tried not to, his mind replayed the hideous mix of all he’d heard and imagined: thrashing helplessly in the water, legs pumping on nothing, infinite depths below, left behind, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the Atlantic. Then freezing to death, but not before the icy water had sent you into spasms so you couldn’t breathe. Or worse, burning on the ship, then burning in the water, only then freezing to death. Was Sutton thinking the same thoughts? If he was, he wasn’t showing it, so neither would Quinn; he couldn’t.


  And even if they saw a U-boat it’d be too late: One could surface alongside right now, what good could he and Sutton do? If they were close enough to see it, they may as well wave to it. Yes, they could wave to the German captain perched up on his conning tower. Beyond absurd, it was pathetic, the whole wretched bloody business: Quinn had never been to sea before. And here he was, waiting to be torpedoed, his only protection, a great-coat that barely kept him warm.

  Sutton rolled another cigarette. ‘Do ya one, Daniel? They issue ’em; may as well smoke ’em…’

  Quinn had long since said first names would do instead of ‘sir’.

  ‘Shit, why not,’ he returned – at least he might not look so scared stiff to the Sergeant.

  ‘Jesus, there goes another one,’ squinted Sutton.

  The horizon glowed again in front, Sutton’s gaze lingering on it, then returning to his delicate task.

  Unless Quinn’s ears were playing nasty tricks on him, he could have sworn they caught a distant ‘whump’ after several seconds.

  ‘…Here’s y’smoke,’ said Sutton. He passed it to Quinn and lit it for him.

  Together they shielded the flame less against the faint headwind than against the dark: Though smoking was strictly forbidden for the speck of light it might give off to a U-boat, Quinn had said earlier he wouldn’t report Sutton – on the condition that he made damn sure to keep his hand cupped over the glowing red tip. And, though it hurt his chest, Quinn’s first ever cigarette was at least something against the cold.

  ‘Doing us two a favour, really, Daniel…’

  ‘What?’ Quinn coughed.

  ‘Well… if they weren’t torpedoing us like that, I’m buggered if I know how we’d ever see ’em.’

  Then a thought seared through Quinn. The noise he thought he’d heard… If the explosions ahead were becoming audible, they must also be getting closer! Dropping the cigarette to the deck, he stubbed it firmly out under foot, speaking quietly, urgently as he did so. ‘Ken… Put the cigarette out. Now. That’s an order.’ He turned to Sutton – saw he was already doing so – then back to the horizon.