Women and War

by Janet Tanner

  The humid darkness was heavy and unbroken, the rigorously enforced blackout obliterating any remaining signs of life. But, as a fitful moon emerged for a moment from behind the blanket of cloud, Tara was able to see the stark silhouettes of bombed out buildings, one wall perhaps out of four left standing, and the piles of rubble defining the lips of bomb craters.

  Somewhere in the darkness a dog howled – abandoned by his fleeing owners and as yet defying attempts to round him up and destroy him as hundreds of other pets had been destroyed – he bayed his loneliness, hunger and fright to the uncaring night. The sound made Tara shiver. Then the sound of a truck engine drowned the howling and Tara drew back sharply into a shop doorway, her feet crunching on broken glass.

  A truck might mean sharp-eyed provosts who would at best bully and delay her with their questions and at worst place her under arrest. Stories concerning the behaviour of the provosts were legion for though martial law had not been declared they had taken it upon themselves to act as though it had, rounding up civilians like cattle and forcing them out of town at gunpoint. One man who had come into the hospital to have a nasty flesh wound dressed had claimed that it had been inflicted by a provost for ‘stealing’ – after two days’ travelling without food and with precious little water and unable to join the army however hard he tried, he had eventually succumbed to temptation and eaten a handful of peanuts from an open sack on the railway platform!

  The truck sped by and Tara recognized it as a US Army vehicle. Its headlamps were blazing a bright path in the blackness; beyond them the shattered buildings were dark dancing shadows while ahead the beam revealed an obstruction – barricades of barbed wire placed across the road. As the truck turned off into a side street Tara left the shelter of the doorway and approached the barricade more slowly looking for a way around. She found one – by keeping close to the wall there was room to slip past. The barricades had been erected for the purpose of impeding the progress of invading troops not one lone girl and she had not come into Darwin to be turned back at the first obstacle.

  Tara quickened her step, hurrying past a shattered shop front where a tailor’s dummy lay sticking out of the rubble looking for all the world like a stiffened human body. She did not have much time – an hour at the outside – and she must be back at the agreed place or Maxie would leave without her.

  To her relief the Savalis’ house was still standing. There was a utility truck parked outside the house – no, not so much parked as abandoned, Tara decided. No one parked a ute at that angle. The gate stood open and between a crack in the blackout curtains at the dining room window light showed, golden yellow. Tara followed the path around to the rear of the house where the bittersweet scent of the henna still lingered in the air and the pawpaws hung above the crotons and hibiscus.

  Up the veranda steps she went and opened the door. The kitchen was in semi-darkness. No delicious cooking smells came from the stove, only the stomach-turning odour of something-gone-off. Tara pressed her fingers across her mouth in disgust.

  The sound of men’s voices was coming from the dining room and she followed it. Then, in the doorway, she stopped abruptly. The men, three of them, were sprawled around two tables which they had pushed together within the circle of light thrown by a handful of candles and a once highly polished brass and-glass tilly lamp. The air was thick with cigarette smoke; the remains of a meal lay like garbage amongst a scattering of Dimitri’s precious bottles; one man’s booted feet were propped on the table.

  ‘Well, hello there!’ The man with his feet on the table pushed his chair further up onto its back legs, looking at her down the length of his face through eyes narrowed against the cigarette smoke.

  Tara returned his stare coldly. He was a tramp of a man, unshaven and with shirt-sleeves untidily rolled back to reveal swarthy tattoed forearms.

  ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

  The man laughed unpleasantly.

  ‘We might ask her the same, mightn’t we, lads?’

  ‘We might, but why bother? She’s a sheila, ain’t she? The speaker had a weaselly face across which his hair hung in greasy strands. ‘All we needed to make the party complete was a sheila – what do you say, Rico?’

  ‘Mamma mia! Rico say bellissima!’

  ‘Bellissima!’ they ribbed him, but their teasing did nothing to reduce the atmosphere of threatening tension. It hung in the air with the wreathing cigarette smoke.

  ‘This wine is sure as hell bellissima,’ the man with his feet on the table observed and he wriggled forward, his heels scoring the surface as he reached for another bottle. The sight of it fired Tara’s ready temper.

  ‘Just what do you think you are doing?’ she flared. Another roar of laughter drowned her but she continued angrily: ‘Does Dimitri know you are here? I’ll bet he doesn’t!’

  More laughter. ‘Who’s Dimitri when he’s home?’ one of the men asked.

  ‘Who cares?’ another rejoined. ‘ He ain’t at home, is he?’

  ‘No, he is not, but I am!’ Tara was trembling with indignation. ‘Get out of here, all of you. You have no right …’

  ‘Right?’ The man with his feet on the table lowered himself down so that the front legs of the chair landed on the floor with a crash. ‘Now let me tell you somethin’, lady. There’s a war going on if you hadn’t noticed and when there’s a war on things is different. Finders is keepers, for one thing. There ain’t much food left in Darwin and what’s here they won’t want. They’ve gone, ain’t they? Run like bunnies. And what ain’t eaten will only go off anyways – rot on the tables where they left it and in the fridges for want of power. We’re hungry – we might as well fill our bellies with what we can find. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing I suppose – so long as it’s only food you’re taking.’ Tara wheeled around pointing at the Italian who was holding a porcelain figurine belonging to Tina in his swarthy hands. ‘But you can put back anything else you may have taken a fancy to here and now. That ornament for a start!’

  The rubbery face turned sour and the Italian half-started to his feet.

  ‘Who you talking to – huh?’

  ‘You!’ Tara was beside herself to see Tina’s precious possessions so carelessly mauled and the anger made her oblivious to any fear. ‘Eat if you must but don’t steal things that don’t belong to you. If you do I’ll …’

  ‘Yes, what will you do?’ the monkey man taunted.

  ‘I’ll report you to the police. Or the military.’

  ‘Much good will that do you!’ they jeered. ‘The police have gone, all bar one, and the military are doing their eye good same as the rest of us!’

  The man who had had his feet on the table tipped his chair onto its two back legs again to reach backwards for the door.

  ‘Hey – Wally! Come on down here a minute and see what we’ve got!’ he called, grabbing Tara’s skirt.

  ‘Take your hands off me!’ she flared.

  The Italian moved in, his weaselly face eager, and she lashed out at him. There was a crash and Tina’s porcelain ornament lay in a thousand fragments on the floor.

  ‘What is it, then, my old cobber? What have you got?’ The man called Wally appeared in the doorway. He was wearing an army uniform – was he a deserter Tara wondered? – and in his hands was Tina’s trinket box. The lid was open and cheap bead necklaces dangled carelessly out as if he had been rifling through to find anything of value.

  ‘Well, well, where did you spring from?’ The soldier’s interest in Tina’s trinkets was waning as he eyed Tara. ‘I didn’t think there were any sheilas left in Darwin!’

  Tara tried again to pull away from the man who was holding onto her.

  ‘Let me go, you oaf! Don’t think you’re going to get away with this!’

  ‘And who’s to stop us, eh?’ One hand gripped her thigh, the other caught her arm, pulling her roughly down onto his lap. ‘Who’s first then – me?’

  As his slobbering mouth sought hers she lashed ou
t and her nails drew blood in scarlet bars down his cheek.

  ‘You bitch!’ he roared.

  He grabbed her by the wrists pinning both together with one huge hand and ripped at the neck of her dress. A cheer went up as he tore it open exposing her breasts, then he rucked her skirt thigh high and scrabbled between her flailing legs. Tara fought wildly, biting and kicking, but she had still not recovered completely from giving two units of blood to Alys and her strength was failing. The watching faces were a blur to her and the ugly laughter echoed in her ears. Then, louder than the laughter came a crash and the sound of splintering wood and into the moment’s startled hiatus a voice, unmistakably outback Australian, roared: ‘Which of you bastards pinched my ute?’

  Dev stood framed in the doorway. A week’s growth of beard covered his chin; his shirt, stained with sweat and oil, looked as if it had not been off his back since the raid.

  ‘Come on, which of you was it? I want to know!’ His tone was fiery.

  The soldier, Wally, levered himself away from the wall, throwing down a bottle from which he had been guzzling.

  ‘It ain’t your ute any more. It’s the Army’s.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘I do,’ the soldier swaggered, his words slurring together. ‘ I’ve requisitioned it. It’s mine now!’

  Dev crossed to him, two short steps. ‘Think again, soldier.’ His forefinger stabbed Wally’s chest in time with the words. ‘ It’s my ute. And until your CO tells me different that’s the way it stays. So you can sod off back to your camp and tell him so.’ He swung round to look at Tara, struggling to disentangle herself from her assailant. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked roughly.

  ‘No, I’m not!’ she returned hotly. ‘This filthy beast was about to rape me. You got here just in time.’

  His lip curled with a flash of his old humour.

  ‘The ninth cavalry to the rescue again. Lucky for you these thieving swine left my ute where I couldn’t miss it. Come on – I’ll give you a lift before some other bugger takes a fancy to it.’

  He held out his hand to help her up but as he did so the soldier took a swing at him. Dev must have seen the punch coming for he ducked it, turning sharply and throwing a punch of his own, low and deadly accurate. As the blow caught him hard in the stomach the soldier doubled up, winded, and Dev hit him again. He reeled back across one of the smaller tables, crashing with it to the floor, and Tara’s assailant weighed in. His fist caught Dev square on the chin and as he staggered the man closed in. Tara screamed a warning and Dev hit the wall, rebounded and lashed out, all in one fluid movement. For what seemed to Tara like an age they stumbled around the room trading punches, gouging and kicking and she watched breathlessly, aware of a sneaking edge of excitement and admiration. She had not seen anyone fight like that since she left the back streets of Sydney. Tables and chairs crashed over and the watchers yelled their support. Then there was the sound of breaking glass and the man had a bottle in his hand, the neck sheared off to make a jagged weapon. Tara gasped in horror as he lunged towards Dev, but the man from the outback was too quick for him. He side-stepped, kicking out at the same time. The other man fell heavily and blood spurted scarlet as the glass cut into his own face. From behind Dev hooked him up by his collar, turned him and cracked him under the chin. Then, as he subsided, Dev kicked him again for good measure. He doubled up, beaten, and Dev straightened, breathless yet high on the powerful drug of victory.

  ‘OK – who’s next?’ He advanced on the Italian. ‘Do you want to play this game?’

  ‘No – no …!’ The weaselly face was a picture and he fell over himself in his eagerness to put distance between himself and Dev.

  ‘How about you?’

  The other man turned away with a sickly grin, pretending indifference.

  Dev turned to Tara. ‘Come on then – unless you want to stay here and tend to the wounded.’

  ‘Not likely!’ she was about to follow when she remembered the reason she had come here tonight. ‘Wait just a minute though, would you?’

  She ran up the stairs. Her crucifix was still hanging on the nail over her bed – obviously it had not been flamboyant enough to attract the attention of looters. She unhooked it and ran back downstairs. Dev had the door open and was looking watchfully at the men he had beaten. He thought they had had enough for one night, but that was not something it was wise to take for granted. As she went past him down the veranda steps the night air was warm and damp on her face and bare shoulder and she hitched her dress to cover it.

  Dev crossed to the ute which she had noticed on her way in.

  ‘Nothing’s safe now. But lucky for me the fool was so damned cocky he left the keys in the ignition. Now, can I drop you off somewhere?’

  ‘Yes …’ she glanced at her watch and groaned. ‘Oh Holy Mary, if I haven’t missed my lift! They’ll be gone by now for sure! I’ll be for it!’

  ‘Where are you headed?’ he asked.

  ‘The Army Hospital. I’m nursing there.’

  ‘You? Nursing?’ There was no concealing the amusement in his voice.

  ‘Yes, me, and why not? Didn’t you expect me to take care of that man on the day of the raid? You went off and left me with him then soon enough. What’s so funny about me nursing, anyway?’

  He paused to look at her, ruefully dabbing with a handkerchief the corner of his mouth where one blow had caught him.

  ‘I suppose it would be too much to hope you might nurse me?’

  She lifted her chin, annoyed because she knew he was laughing at her.

  ‘Indeed it would, Sean Devlin.’

  ‘There’s gratitude for you,’ he said ruefully. ‘I save you from a fate worse than death and all you can do is be rude to me. And it’s the second time I’ve saved you too, remember. It’s getting to be quite a habit.’

  ‘A habit I intend to break.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re going to get all the way out to the AGH by yourself, are you?’

  ‘Oh!’ He had started the engine; summoning what dignity she could she swung herself up into the ute. ‘I’ll let you run me home this time seeing as how you’ll want to make sure they’ve done no damage to your ute. But we are moving south tomorrow so no doubt it’s the last you’ll see of me.’

  He let off the handbrake and pulled away from the kerb.

  ‘Is that a threat or a promise?’ he teased and in the darkness she had no way of seeing the look in his eyes as he said it.

  They had already begun moving the hospital out the next day when an ambulance turned into the drive beneath the coconut palms, its wheels churning and spraying out red mud.

  ‘Not more patients, surely!’ Kate Harris groaned. ‘I’d better get over to the MI room. There’s no-one on duty there this morning. We thought we’d done with admissions.’

  ‘Do you want me?’ Tara asked.

  ‘No, you carry on here. We want to be ready to go as soon as we can.’

  Tara watched her go regretfully. Richard Allingham was the doctor on duty – practically the first time their duties had coincided. Such high hopes she had had when he had put himself out to help her get the post – and when he had asked her to call him Richard she had been convinced their relationship was moving in the right direction. But since then she had scarcely laid eyes on him and things had skidded to a depressing halt. Now – she glanced out of the window hoping she might catch a glimpse of him but all she saw was Kate squelching back across the drive.

  ‘Tara!’ she called from the doorway. ‘Can you look out some dressings and pop over with them? Half the stuff in the MI room is packed up ready to go.’

  A smile spread over Tara’s face. Lucky for her she had done a good job packing away the dressings! She selected a pack and crossed to the door. Kate was kicking off her boots and looking uncharacteristically annoyed.

  ‘Take them over, there’s a good girl, and give Captain Allingham a hand. It’s nothing you can’t handle and I have a lot to be getting on with here.’ She strai
ghtened up, brushing a stray end of fair hair off her forehead. ‘Wouldn’t you think we had enough to do with casualties of war without having to pick up the pieces of silly personal grievances!’

  Tara was pulling on her own boots. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘This bloke who’s just come in disrupting everything. He’s been beaten up. I ask you! Some men just seem to like fighting. Hurry up, now, the sooner he’s dealt with the sooner we can get on with things that matter.’

  Surreptitiously Tara tidied her hair and retraced Kate’s steps to the MI room. For all her eagerness to see him, she felt unaccountably nervous at the prospect of having to practise her newfound skills under the watchful eye of Richard Allingham.

  He glanced up as she went in and her knees went weak at the sight of him. Never in all my life have I felt like this about anyone before, Tara thought with a sense of shock. Never before have I looked at someone and wanted them so much I could die for them …

  ‘Ah – Nurse Kelly.’ His voice was pleasant but perfectly normal. How could he look at me and not know what I was feeling? Tara thought, stunned by the strength of her emotions. ‘You have the dressings, I see. Good. Now, I think he has some fractured ribs … amongst other things.’

  ‘What would you like me to do, sir?’ Tara was amazed to discover her own voice sounded just as it always did. Sure, I deserve an Oscar, she thought dryly.

  ‘Just hand me a swab …’ He bent over the patient again and Tara went across to do as he asked. Then she checked, shocked, as she looked at the man on the inspection bed. His face was a bloody mess, lips swollen and split, cheeks grazed, one eye already closed. But beneath it all she could still hardly fail to identify it.

  Her hand flew to her own mouth and she stared down in horror. One of the bruised eyes opened a crack, the swollen lips moved with difficulty. But when he spoke there was still a trace of amusement in the unmistakable drawl.

  ‘The bastards got me in the end, Tara. But you can see what it means, can’t you? You won’t be getting rid of me as easily as you thought!’