The Persimmon Tree

by Bryce Courtenay

  I guess I’d become pretty overwrought by this stage because Lieutenant Commander Rigby raised a hand. ‘That’s enough for the time being, Nick. Although allow me to say that few men would have had the courage to do what you did and the navy thanks you. It was a ghastly business, one of the small and darker moments for mankind, but with your actions, civilised man prevails.’ He sounded a bit like my father.

  Marg stood up. ‘May I be excused, sir? You will recall we have a luncheon meeting with the Americans and I ought to get changed. Where will I meet you?’

  ‘Come back here, Marg. Nick and I will be a while yet, but you have no further need to take notes,’ Rigby said, then added, ‘Oh, when you return, bring in 14 P. We’ll both witness it.’

  Marg left and Lieutenant Commander Rigby asked, ‘Nick, who else knows about the massacre on the beach? Have you told anyone else here in Fremantle?’

  ‘Only Sergeant Hamill, sir. I neglected to give you the boots belonging to one of the Perth sailors and when we got to the police station I handed them to him. You’d mentioned the Perth on the docks and he questioned me further; it seems he had a cousin serving on it.’

  ‘Was there anyone with him, with you, at the time?’

  ‘No, I don’t believe so. The two plain-clothes men were there, but they’d left the room at the time.’

  ‘Did he write it down?’

  ‘No. He made me sign for the boots. It wasn’t, if you know what I mean, an interrogation.’

  Lieutenant Commander Rigby snatched up the phone. ‘Switch, get me Sergeant Hamill at Harbourside Police Station.’ He replaced the receiver and turned to me. ‘Nick, we’re going to have to inform Canberra of the massacre in Java. My gut feeling is that the information will be classified. You know what that means, don’t you?’

  ‘Better let the Americans know, sir. Kevin Judge knows the whole story,’ I replied, anxious to cooperate.

  ‘It could mean it’s given top-secret status, in fact that’s almost certain. I’m afraid you’re going to have to sign a form forbidding you to talk about what you witnessed to anyone. As far as you’re concerned, it never happened.’ He gave me a deadly serious look. ‘I must ask you to cooperate in this, Nick.’

  ‘What about their next of kin, sir?’

  ‘We’re at war, son. We don’t know the casualty figures for the Perth, how many dead, how many captured by the Japanese. We may never know and certainly not before the end of the war. The Japanese are not signatories to the Geneva Convention. As far as Seaman Judge goes, awaiting Canberra’s instructions, we’ve alerted the Americans to take his evidence in camera and I’m meeting my American counterpart at lunch today.’

  He hadn’t answered my question. But then again, the known and awful end of the nine men on the Perth and the unknown outcome for the huge number of other personnel on board wasn’t exactly heartening news. I could understand why a wartime government would want to conceal the facts from the public and, in particular, the next of kin of the nine dead men. What I wasn’t to know at the time was that Rigby had anticipated Canberra’s reaction correctly and the beach massacre in Java would remain buried within the secret files of the government in Canberra for the next fifty years.

  The phone rang and Lieutenant Commander Rigby picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, then said, ‘Put him on.’ Then, ‘Afternoon, Sergeant, Rigby here, have you got a moment? Are you alone? Good. I have young Duncan with me and he’s just told me about the…’ — he paused, not wanting to spell the details out on the telephone — ‘the Java beach incident.’ He listened for a moment. ‘Yes, that’s right, we’ve classified the information awaiting a reply from Canberra.’ Pause. ‘No, of course, but you’ll have to sign a 14 P, a formality,’ he laughed, ‘they’ll have my guts for garters otherwise.’ Pause. ‘Thank you, I appreciate you cooperation; Chief Petty Officer Hamilton will bring it over this afternoon, she can witness it initially. Cheerio and thanks.’ He replaced the receiver. ‘Nice bloke, salt of the earth,’ he said. Lieutenant Commander Rigby was, I decided, a man accustomed to getting his own way. He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands and resting them on his lap. ‘What are your plans, Nick?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, sir, I guess to join up. I turned eighteen last month.’

  ‘Have you considered the navy?’

  ‘No, sir, I just automatically thought it would be the army.’

  ‘Would you consider the navy?’

  I thought for a minute. ‘Right at this moment I’ve had my fill of the sea — a bit of square bashing on solid land seems like a good idea. But first I hope to contact my father. Sergeant Hamill says that some people may have got out of Rabaul and be on their way to Cairns. I’m hoping he’s amongst them.’

  ‘You mentioned that on the wharf. Marg is already onto it; leave it with us and we’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. He’s a stubborn old bugger and speaks Japanese fluently; my fear is that he’ll think it’s his duty to remain with his flock and negotiate on their behalf with the enemy.’ I clicked my tongue and shook my head. ‘He’s just silly enough to think that as a man of God he’ll be respected. The Japanese my father knew in Japan were a highly sophisticated and civilised people, but he hasn’t yet met up with Tojo’s murderous mob.’

  ‘Nick, you left Japan at the age of eleven; that was seven years ago. How is your Japanese? A bit rusty?’

  I smiled. ‘I shouldn’t think so, sir. My father is a classical Japanese scholar and insists we speak Japanese whenever I’m home. He’s a stickler for grammar and correct usage. Japanese is very much a language of intonation — the ear is as important as the mouth. It’s not only what you say, but also how you say it.’

  ‘Oh, so would you say you’ve advanced from, say, the grammar and vocabulary of an eleven-year-old?’

  ‘I would think so, my father is a perfectionist. I know he expects me by now to speak and write at a pretty sophisticated level.’

  ‘Good. That’s good, so you write, read Japanese… excellent.’

  ‘It’s a bit more than that,’ I explained. ‘Your status is decided by the way you use language, a bit like the English upper class and cockney. I guess if they didn’t despise Caucasians as they do, we, certainly my father, would be considered well-educated upper middleclass.’

  ‘Butterflies!’ Rigby said suddenly, changing the subject. ‘Tell me about collecting butterflies.’

  I thought for a moment, not sure how to answer him. ‘There isn’t a lot to tell, sir. People collect things, I collect butterflies. There are about eighteen thousand different species in the world, many of them in New Guinea.’ I shrugged. ‘For a lepidopterist the Pacific is paradise.’

  Lieutenant Commander Rigby smiled. ‘And you’d venture into a war zone to capture just one of them?’

  I looked down at my knees and shook my head, glanced sideways at him and said, ‘Yeah, I know, it must sound pretty bloody naïve.’

  ‘Intrepid,’ he replied. ‘Determined. I guess butterflies aren’t all found around the backyard daisy patch. Do you ever need to venture into really difficult terrain?’

  I smiled, happy not to dwell on the Java incident. ‘That’s a big part of the fascination, going into the unknown, disappearing for a week at a time, sometimes more, determined to find a particular specimen.’

  ‘On your own in the jungle?’

  I laughed. ‘Not too many people care to be rained on twice a day and bitten by every insect known to man and some species not yet identified. But fortunately I don’t mind my own company and have come over the years to feel pretty at home in the jungle. It looks formidable, but really if you know what you’re doing you can avoid dysentery, and citronella keeps the mossies away…’ I trailed off, thinking I was becoming too garrulous and perhaps big-noting myself.

  ‘So you could survive for a week at a time, perhaps more, and live off the land
, so to speak?’

  ‘Well, no, not exactly, a billy, a pound or two of rice, tea, a tin of condensed milk, citronella and salt tablets, that’s about it, the rest is hunter–gatherer stuff. Fruit bats, for instance, are excellent eating, easy to catch in a net and good protein on a spit.’

  He thought for a moment, tapping the edge of the desk with a forefinger. ‘Good!’ He hesitated momentarily. ‘And you’d consider joining the navy, Nick?’

  I grinned, reminding myself that Lieutenant Commander Rigby was a man who liked to get his own way. ‘I didn’t say that, sir. There aren’t a whole heap of butterflies on the ocean, nor for that matter is it covered in jungle.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re a very surprising eighteen-year-old, Nick Duncan.’ I think it was meant as a compliment, because he went on to say, ‘The navy isn’t all about battleships and keeping things shipshape. That’s about enough for today, though. I want you to meet one or two people over the next day or two; maybe we can convince you?’

  Moments later there was a knock on the door and without waiting for a reply Chief Petty Officer Marg Hamilton entered. I must say I was surprised. She wore a Wrans uniform that emphasised her slim figure and long legs. Her rich chestnut hair, formerly in a severe bun, was now loosely tied up. She wore eye make-up that emphasised her green eyes, and a brilliant scarlet lipstick. When I’d first seen her I thought she must be in her thirties, but now I revised her age to somewhere in her twenties. How do women do that? Transform, as if by magic, brush, smear, pat, dab, and a different woman, just like that? Lieutenant Commander Rigby’s assistant was the whole delicious eyeful as well as obviously being nobody’s fool.

  I signed the 14 P form that bound me to the Official Secrets Act and both the Lieutenant Commander and Marg witnessed it. Marg then said, ‘His Grace the Archbishop phoned, and he’d like Nick to come for lunch tomorrow.’ She smiled, looking at Rigby. ‘We’re both included.’ She paused. ‘Rupert Basil Michael Long will be there as well.’ The way she stressed all the names suggested that whoever he was, he was not the kind of man you’d happily invite home for dinner.

  Lieutenant Commander Rigby gave a low whistle, then glanced at me. ‘You command powerful friends, Nick.’

  I blushed, embarrassed by the invitation. Henry Le Fanu was a nice enough old codger and though he was my godfather, I’d met him on only two occasions (except of course at the christening) when he’d visited my father in New Britain. As I recall, he was an expert on Chaucer, as was my dad, and on the two visits they’d spent most of the time in the library arguing and drinking tea in the afternoon and what my father referred to as sharing one or two bottles of excellent libation during and after dinner. These were a self-consumed though generously shared gift from the Archbishop. An Anglican missionary’s salary doesn’t extend to wine or brandy of such excellence and my godfather wasn’t prepared to settle for the excruciating Tolley’s brandy or cheap Portuguese sherry my father served to his more sophisticated guests. Afterwards my father would claim he always won the afternoon debate but, lacking the Archbishop’s tolerance for alcohol, invariably lost the evening one. As for the other bloke with the three Christian names, I’d never heard of him, nor did it seem my place to ask who he might be.

  Marg now turned to Lieutenant Commander Rigby. ‘We really ought to be going, sir. The car will be waiting downstairs.’ She turned to me. ‘Nick, I’ve arranged for you to have lunch at the canteen on the ground floor. It’s not the greatest but the corned beef and the shepherd’s pie are usually excellent.’ She handed me a ticket. ‘Just hand this in to the staff, then tuck in for all you’re worth, there’s no limit on seconds. The bread and butter pudding’s not bad either.’ Then she held out a folded sheet of paper. ‘It’s a map showing you how to get back to your boarding house in case you get lost.’ She reached out and tucked it into the top pocket of my khaki shirt. It seemed the kind of thing a mother might do to her small boy charged with delivering a note to his teacher, although, I must say, I liked the sense of familiarity.

  I collected my passport and papers, Anna’s handkerchief and refolded the Magpie Crow back into its triangular envelope and then the oilskin wallet. Again Marg Hamilton anticipated me and promptly produced a large brown manila envelope. On the way out they directed me to the canteen. Lieutenant Commander Rigby shook my hand and thanked me for my cooperation. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Nick,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Marg smiled. ‘Nick, we’ll pick you up outside your boarding house at eleven tomorrow for the ride to Perth. Oh, and Peter Keeble from our signals department will call around about nine, he’s roughly your size and fancies himself as a bit of a natty dresser. He’s volunteered to lend you the clothes you’ll need for the lunch. I don’t suppose you’d wear a bow tie? Peter is particularly fond of bow ties.’ I grimaced and she laughed. ‘I’ll tell him a normal tie. What size shoe do you take?’

  ‘Eleven, broad fitting,’ I replied.

  ‘You’ll have to settle for navy officer issue. I’ll see a pair is sent around. Cheerio, Nick.’

  Gosh she was pretty.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. She’d solved a problem that was already secretly concerning me, but one I hadn’t the courage to bring up. Lunch with the Archbishop in khaki shirt and shorts wearing cacky brown sandshoes without socks seemed a tad underdressed. There was also something else I wanted to say so I took the plunge. ‘Miss Hamilton, Lieutenant Commander Rigby, sir,’ I said, addressing them both, ‘concerning your lunch with… er, the Americans? You said it was with your intelligence counterparts. If you get the chance, will you ask them to take good care of Seaman Judge? Kevin has been through a fair bit; I’m fairly sure he was concussed for the first week or so we were at sea and has a nasty head wound that’s not entirely healed. If you get the opportunity, can you tell them he conducted himself with exceptional courage and I couldn’t have completed the voyage without him.’ I smiled, inwardly hearing the little bloke’s voice clearly in my head: ‘Lissen, I want ya ter unnerstan, I ain’t no fuckin’ hero!’

  Commander Long, the fourth guest at lunch, which was a cold collation served in a gazebo in the Archbishop’s glorious garden, turned out to be the head of Australian Naval Intelligence who was on a visit to the west from Melbourne. He didn’t say much, and on the way Lieutenant Commander Rigby described him as having a steel-trap mind. The two Intelligence officers were clearly a bit nervous and I’m not sure they were all that keen about attending the lunch. As an eighteen-year-old surrounded by these bigwigs, I felt decidedly out of place and wasn’t about to add my twopence-worth to the general conversation.

  I was nervous and afraid I’d be out of my depth. Lunch with Henry Le Fanu alone would have been a difficult and awkward process without having to cope with other influential guests. I consoled myself with the thought that I’d keep my mouth tightly shut, mind my manners, speak only when spoken to and that at least I looked okay. Peter Keeble had proved to be almost exactly my size and his clobber — light-grey flannels and a brown sports coat, grey socks, white shirt and scarlet woollen tie — and from Marg a pair of navy officer’s dress uniform shoes that pinched a bit but would wear in nicely, gave me a sense of being presentable and at the same time commonplace enough to be almost invisible. That is, if a six feet three inch, fourteen stone, clumsy-looking eighteen-year-old can ever look like he isn’t present. Size among small and powerful men is always a problem and the more you hunch your shoulders the bigger you seem.

  Oh, I forgot to say that the folded note Marg Hamilton had tucked into my shirt pocket intended supposedly to give me directions back to the boarding house contained a ten-shilling note and the words: Dinner money and perhaps a haircut? I wondered if the incomparable Marg ever missed anything. So there I was in the Archbishop’s garden politely sipping a beer, with short back and sides, tie knot correct, neat as can be. The barber, a Greek or Italian, had run his fingers through my hair. ‘Where you been, mister?
You gonna be shipwreck maybe?’ he’d asked. Afterwards I’d felt obliged to give him a sixpenny tip for the extra work involved.

  There was some small talk about the speed of the Japanese Pacific invasion and the somewhat hasty capitulation of the Netherlands East Indies on the 8th of March. Apparently rather more had been expected from the Dutch forces in the Pacific. Though I wouldn’t have dreamed of venturing an opinion in such company, I had seen nothing in Batavia that suggested they would offer any real resistance to the Japanese. The white Dutch officers who had come into De Kost Kamer had all been pretty pessimistic and, as I’ve mentioned previously, the native troops were at best ambivalent and most were secretly happy to welcome the Japs as liberators who were more or less of the same colour and, like them, Asians. Dying for the Dutch wasn’t an option. Three hundred years of Dutch colonial rule had failed to impress the locals.

  What came as a surprise was the antipathy during the pre-lunch conversation towards Winston Churchill, who, it appeared, had attempted to dismiss us as a bunch of redneck colonials and to ride roughshod over Australia’s desire to bring our troops home from the Middle East, insisting we send them to Burma. It seems our new prime minister, Mr Curtin, had told him to go to buggery, or used the diplomatic words to that effect. This, taken along with the inept and disgraceful capitulation by the English in Singapore, where a further sixteen thousand well-drilled and combat-hardened Australian troops had been taken out of play, left Australia totally disenchanted, unprotected and somewhat gobsmacked at Churchill’s blatant disregard for our welfare. With Churchill deciding Australia, along with the remainder of the western Pacific, was expendable, we were now looking to General MacArthur and the Americans as our logical partners in the war that was taking place in our own backyard.