Brother Fish

by Bryce Courtenay

  Vehicles of every description clogged the road. If the calibre of Yank soldiers at the time wasn’t all that impressive their ordnance sure was: they had more firepower mounted on wheels or tracks than I’d ever seen in one long line. After a while it became apparent that the ten of us hitching a ride were too many in one group so we broke up into two threes and a four and I found myself with Johnny Gordon, Rex Wilson and Ernie Stone, all good blokes to have beside you. We walked for a couple of hours, often outpacing the slow-moving convoy. The dust was awful, almost choking us, clogging our mouths and ears and burning our eyes. We finally managed to get a ride in the back of a five-ton truck. We’d been out looking for stragglers the previous day and I guess the emotion of having gone AWL just after midnight plus the three hours on the road meant we were exhausted and soon fell asleep. Next thing the driver was tapping me on the shoulder to say he’d reached his destination.

  ‘We at the front?’ I asked, looking out at a hot dawn sky.

  ‘No, buddy, fifty miles short.’ He paused, ‘What the hell you guys doing here, anyways?’

  ‘Same as you,’ I replied. ‘We’ve come to fight.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘Nah, we were getting impatient waiting behind the lines – thought we’d come forward a bit.’

  ‘You guys AWOL?’ I guessed he meant AWL.

  ‘Well, yeah, sort of.’ It was Rex Wilson who’d just woken and I noted that his face with yesterday’s dust was almost as black as Johnny’s, and mine must have been the same.

  The driver pointed to my slouch hat. ‘Regular cowboys, eh?’ Then, ‘Say, you wouldn’t like to sell that hat?’

  I was embarrassed, he’d given us a lift and seemed a nice enough guy. Then Rex Wilson chirped up, ‘Mate, we’re Australians. I’d gladly sell you my wife but not my slouch hat. A digger can’t do that.’

  ‘Sure. Well, good luck.’ He shook his head, clucking to himself. ‘Crazy. You guys are plumb crazy.’

  We got our gear together and hopped out of the truck and, in turn, shook his hand and thanked him. ‘Wait on,’ he said suddenly, and went to the cabin of the truck to emerge moments later with four cartons of Lucky Strike and handed one to each of us.

  On a sudden impulse I removed the pin and took the sunrise badge from my slouch hat. ‘A keepsake,’ I said, handing it to him.

  ‘Crazy, man,’ he said, pleased with the small gift. Then, not to be outdone, he removed the badge from his cap and handed it to me. ‘Fair exchange – I’ll wear yours with pride, buddy.’

  ‘Me too,’ I replied as we finally took our leave.

  Quite soon after hitting the road we got a lift from another truck that dropped us twenty miles short of the 38th parallel. Here we found ourselves in a bit of a quandary. While there were plenty of trucks going to the brigade headquarters and even one or two going all the way to the forward battalions, reaching either destination and ending in a truck pool where questions would be asked wasn’t all that smart. We were likely to run into an officer or even a senior non-commissioned officer who might not take too kindly to four soldiers appearing in their midst wearing the uniform of a foreign army.

  ‘What you reckon we should do?’ Johnny asked.

  Rex didn’t volunteer an opinion. I turned to Ernie, who merely shrugged his shoulders. ‘Let’s try to get as far up front as possible. They’ll be reluctant to kick us out if we’ve made it all the way.’ Then I added, ‘The sharp end always needs men. We’re four extra rifles, and they can’t say no to that.’

  There was a sudden roaring, clanking and squealing accompanied by a deep rumble that shook the ground under our feet. Moments later a tank hove into sight over a small rise. We nodded to each other, then removing our slouch hats we waved furiously. Like some great behemoth the tank came to a halt several yards ahead of us and turned its engines off. The commander, perched on the turret, grinned and shouted down at us, ‘Last time I saw one o’ them hats was in ’45 in New Guinea. What can I do for you, boys?’

  As all four of us had been in New Guinea we exchanged the usual where, what, how and when, after which we explained our problem. ‘Climb aboard, I’m heading for the US 7th Cavalry Regiment and that’s about as far forward as you can git without being right up a gook’s arsehole.’

  A couple of hours later we rumbled up a steep hill, passing US soldiers digging trenches who looked at us curiously. Some of them waved and shouted out but the tank made too much noise for us to hear what they were saying. The Yank troops were digging what looked like a company defensive position. Finally we rumbled to a halt and the commander indicated that we should stick around. ‘Stay here, I need to find a way to introduce you guys,’ he said, taking his leave.

  A couple of GIs came up, ‘Yo’all from the Texas Rangers?’ one of them asked, pointing at our hats.

  ‘Nah, Australians,’ Johnny volunteered. ‘Ow yer goin’?’

  This started a fairly animated conversation, and others soon came up and joined in the questioning. Next thing the tank commander appeared along with a sergeant.

  ‘Welcome aboard,’ the American sergeant said in a friendly voice.

  ‘Thank you, sergeant,’ the four of us piped in unison. So far so good.

  ‘Australians, eh?’ He pronounced it ‘Or-stralian’. He grinned. ‘We sure as hell can use some replacements.’ He reached out and took my rifle. ‘This thing use our ammo?’

  ‘No, sarge,’ I replied, ‘it takes .303 calibre.’

  He handed back the rifle. ‘We’ll get you issued with M1s.’ He gave me a quizzical look. ‘Like to show us how you can shoot, soldier?’

  ‘Jacko here can shoot the ticks off a bull’s bum at 300 yards,’ Rex chimed in.

  I turned to him and said, ‘Thanks a lot – you’ll get yours, mate!’

  ‘Sniper?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘No, sarge, I only completed the sniper’s course.’ I was more than a bit embarrassed at being singled out and wasn’t sure what to say after Rex had big-noted me. I tapped the side of my rifle. ‘With this or one of yours?’

  He smiled. ‘I guess as you’re seconded to the 1st Cavalry Regiment you might as well use one of ours.’

  ‘Is that fair?’ the tank commander asked.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. In Japan we’d once fired American M1s at rifle practice.

  He grinned. ‘Spoken like a true marksman.’ The sergeant turned to one of the grunts standing near. ‘Soldier, bring your rifle over here.’ The Yank private brought his rifle over and handed it to me.

  ‘Is it calibrated?’ I asked. He nodded. I turned to the sergeant. ‘Can I have three shots to make sure, sarge?’

  ‘Never trust another man’s rifle, eh?’

  My heart was pounding, and I confess I felt a bit of a galah. The sergeant called up a jeep and we drove to the makeshift rifle range, which was just over a small hill. We had to wait about fifteen minutes while a platoon finished using the 500-yard range, and by the time I got down to do the deed the news must have got out and a couple of hundred soldiers had gathered. Someone radioed the butts to put up a target and the sergeant said, ‘In your own time, soldier.’

  As the Yanks say, ‘duck soup’. Given all the time in the world it’s pretty hard to miss the red dot, and I squeezed off a shot and the butts signalled back a bullseye.

  ‘Now three separate targets rapid fire,’ the Yank sergeant suggested, and someone spoke to the butts again. The rifle felt okay and as the life-size targets came up in various parts of the range they lingered a bit so it wasn’t too hard to smack them down.

  The sergeant grinned. ‘Say, not too bad! Not bad at all, soldier.’

  ‘What about my three practice shots, sarge?’ I said cheekily. I was a bit more confident now that I’d succeeded. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a number of American soldiers exchanging dollar notes – they must have been taking bets on me.

  He laughed. ‘Hell, soldier, we just gave you four!’ He turned to my mates an
d said, ‘You three do the same?’

  Ernie laughed. ‘Hell no, sarge. We’re okay, but Jacko’s good.’

  ‘Nice to have you guys aboard,’ the sergeant repeated. He indicated the tank commander and said, ‘Orwell here tells me he saw you guys fighting in New Guinea and that you know your way around a battlefield.’

  It was a nice compliment and besides, we were dead chuffed that he was going to let us stay. ‘Thank you, sergeant, we’ll do our best,’ Rex replied.

  ‘You’ll come in right handy, son,’ the American said.

  He’d set me up, but I guess that’s what sergeants do – otherwise he seemed a nice enough bloke. I thought to myself, This wasn’t exactly the

  Alamo, and four extra rifles weren’t going to make a scrap of difference, but he’d made us feel welcome, which was more than we could have expected if he’d decided to send us back. It was beginning to dawn on me that what we’d done was likely to get us into a lot more strife than a cursory rap on the knuckles. I turned to the tank commander who’d obviously smoothed the way for us. ‘Thank you, sarge.’

  ‘Good luck, boys,’ he replied, smiling. ‘Remember, the first gook you shoot is for Orwell J. Partridge and for the beautiful state of Idaho.’

  We found ourselves adopted by what they referred to as an assault rifle squad, where we were made to dig a foxhole, what we’d call a weapon pit. After that we sat and waited for something to happen. For the next few days we watched the US Air Force putting on the full pyrotechnics as they bombed the hills across the border. One thing you’ve got to say for the Yanks, they don’t do things by halves.

  Then, just when it promised to hot up a bit, we got the bad news that the 27th Commonwealth Infantry Brigade had vacated Plum Pudding Hills and was now at Kimpo Airport near Seoul preparing for a move to the front. What’s more, they were to be under the command of our adopted division. What this meant was that they’d be crossing the border together with the Americans and our silly shenanigans had been pointless. We were undecided about returning. I argued that it would all be over in a matter of days so, if we stuck it out with the Americans who weren’t about to dob us in, by the end of the war, with a bit of luck we may have made enough of an impression for the generous-minded Yanks to put in a good word for us.

  ‘What if we’re killed?’ Ernie asked.

  Johnny grinned. ‘Then we’d be heroes, mate. Crims alive, heroes dead, that’s the army for yer.’

  ‘We’d get a Yank combat medal – they couldn’t exactly drum us out of the Australian Army then, could they?’ Rex suggested.

  ‘Don’t worry, they’d find a way,’ Johnny added ruefully.

  ‘At least it would be another first: “Four dead AIF soldiers given Purple Heart and dishonourable Australian discharge,”’ I quipped.

  But, all jokes aside, we knew we were kidding ourselves. We were between a rock and a hard place and didn’t know what we ought to do next.

  However, the decision was made for us. Rex and Ernie were away drawing rations when they were sprung by an American war correspondent who noted their slouch hats and then checked their shoulder tabs and sleeve insignia. After hearing them out he informed them that what they had just given him was a scoop and in a day or two the story of our desertion to the front would be in newspapers around the world.

  ‘We didn’t tell them about you two or the others,’ Rex said upon their return. ‘Ernie and I reckoned if anyone was going to get into the shit it should be us two for getting sprung.’

  How they expected to keep Johnny and myself and the rest of the deserters out of it I can’t imagine. But, as it turned out, I was grateful for not being mentioned. The news appeared in The Age on the 9th of October, and Gloria duly cut it out for her scrapbook. She’d have had the full heart attack if she’d known her eldest son was included. Gloria liked things to be done properly, especially now that she’d turned Catholic and was accountable to a more particular God. It was bad enough me joining the army, but being a deserter, for whatever purpose, especially false heroics, just wasn’t on.

  Two Australians hiked to war

  Tokyo, Oct. 8.

  A correspondent with the United Nations troops near the 38th parallel says that two grimy, stubble-bearded Australian soldiers dug into a foxhole on Saturday and vowed they would be the first foreign soldiers across the 38th parallel.

  They are Privates Rex T. Wilson, of Adelaide, and Ernest S. Stone, of Melbourne, who arrived in Korea recently with the first detachment of Australian volunteer troops.

  Wilson said: ‘We joined up to fight, but when we arrived we found our unit too far from the front line, so we just took off and headed for the noise of the firing.’

  Wilson and Stone trudged several miles along the dusty road to the north and then got a ride with the leading tank of a northbound convoy.

  Stone said: ‘We wanted to be the first Australians over the parallel. Now it looks as though we might even beat the Americans. Anyway, we are going to try.’

  T he A ge, 9 October 1950

  We had no choice but to return to our battalion before the newspapers appeared with the story and our own mob came looking for us. It was not far to Kimpo and the Americans arranged for us to get a lift and wished us luck. The original sergeant who’d welcomed us, by the way his name was Crosby Jones Ovington Junior, shook our hands. ‘Sorry we couldn’t take you along with us, but it’s real nice to know you’ll be right there at our side. We enjoyed your company, boys.’ He grinned, placing his hand on my shoulder. ‘You’re welcome back any time they let you out of jail.’ He presented us each with a Zippo lighter with the 7th Cavalry emblem embossed on both sides. Johnny then presented him with his sunrise badge.

  The American Army jeep dropped us on the outskirts of the airfield near Kimpo where our battalion was camped. We’d expected to be frog-marched from the guardhouse to the commanding officer but the battalion was preparing to move to Kaesong, a border town at the front. In the confusion we managed to walk in unnoticed until we got to D Company where we stumbled straight into the arms of Lieutenant Hamill, our platoon commander, who didn’t look overpleased to see us.

  ‘Where the bloody hell have you clowns been?’ he roared.

  We jumped to attention. ‘To the front, skipper,’ I said.

  He seemed somewhat taken aback. ‘The front?’

  ‘Yes, skipper!’ we chorused.

  ‘Did I hear you correctly? You said you’ve been to the front?’ he repeated slowly.

  ‘US 7th Cavalry Regiment, sir,’ Johnny volunteered.

  Lieutenant Hamill was silent for a moment, glaring at us. ‘Where’d you lose your cap badge, Private Gordon . . . you too, Private McKenzie, what’s that thing you’re wearing on your hat?’

  ‘Keepsake, skipper,’ I said, my voice only just above a whisper.

  ‘Keepsake! A fucking keepsake!’ That really sent him off, and what followed was a string of epithets any regimental sergeant major would have been proud to own. Finally he said, ‘You’re charged with leaving your post – I hardly need to tell you what that means. In the meantime, pack your gear – we’re pulling out and moving to the . . .’ He paused. ‘But then you know where we’re going, don’t you?’ he said with a sneer. ‘Perhaps you’d like to show us the way, Private McKenzie.’

  Over the next few hours the other six blokes returned, all with much the same story as ourselves. The following day we moved to Kaesong with the rest of the 27th Commonwealth Brigade. We were being referred to as ‘the deserters’, a thoroughly nasty term in army parlance. The seriousness of what we’d done was becoming increasingly apparent. Notwithstanding, it was a great joke among the blokes in our platoon, who even drew straws to see who would be chosen to man the firing squad. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so bloody serious. By now the story had appeared in the morning newspapers around the world. It was a choice little filler – in a war which, up to this point, had been no laughing matter, it was something for people to grin about over their c
ornflakes.

  That same day we were lined up outside company headquarters and had our belts and hats taken from us. Then we were marched in front of the commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Green DSO. We’d just come from a bollocking of the most extreme kind by a combination of the company sergeant major and the regimental sergeant major who, as they say, let their imagination run riot in an effort to find new ways to describe our miserable, worthless lives. In summary, we were a disgrace to our platoon, company, battalion, army and country. Now we stood ready for another verbal onslaught and final sentencing.

  The adjutant read the charges, naming each of us, intoning the dreaded words ‘ . . . that he, whilst on active service on 30th September 1950, did unlawfully leave his post.’

  ‘How do you plead?’ said the old man.

  We all replied, ‘Guilty, sir!’

  I got ready for the tirade I was expecting to follow. But instead, Charlie Green sat quietly looking at us fiddling with his fountain pen. After a few moments it became disquieting – any soldier is accustomed to a fair amount of verbal abuse, especially if you know you’ve got it coming to you. The commanding officer’s silence was unnerving, to say the least. My imagination was taking over. Wish the bugger would say something, anything, I recall thinking. I could see myself standing in front of a firing squad. Worse still, I could visualise Mum cutting my death notice out of the newspaper and pasting it onto the last tear-splashed page of her war journal, the final pathetic chapter in my brilliant army career where I’d managed to get assassinated by my own side without ever pointing a rifle at the enemy.