The Persimmon Tree

by Bryce Courtenay

  Nurse Parkes laughed, withdrawing her hand and shaking her wrist. ‘Lieutenant, I think you’ve broken every bone in my hand.’

  ‘Nick,’ I protested. ‘We’ve been holding hands in front of a general, we’re practically intimate.’

  ‘Is that intimate or invalid?’ she asked, rubbing her hand.

  I apologised and then added, ‘I’m sure I’m not the first guy to get a medal presented to me by a general when not wearing any trousers, but it felt pretty strange.’

  ‘Caught with your pants down!’ she laughed.

  The box in which the medal resided had been left on my bed, together with the citation that was very short on detail: ‘For valour when facing the enemy’. In truth, I wasn’t at all sure why I was being honoured with the DSC (Distinguished Service Cross), the medal they usually gave to coastwatchers. It was the ‘bit of something going to happen in Australia’ Colonel Woon had mentioned. I could only surmise it might have to do with the commendation for the non-eventful capture of Gojo Mura. But two weeks later the quite separate commendation from the marines came through.

  I don’t want to belittle the honour, because a lot of brave and good men earned this particular medal the hard way — coastwatchers who had risked their lives almost daily and put in the thankless, grinding years alone in the jungles with sickness and hardship and very little backup. It was just that I felt I didn’t deserve it.

  I was about to learn that what I grew to think of as my ‘goanna medal’ had very little, if anything, to do with me. The very next day I was to begin to get an insight into the nature of war and of politics.

  The following morning both the Argus and the Melbourne Herald ran a photo of General MacArthur presenting me with the medal and under it a story of my ‘conspicuous bravery’ while serving as an adviser with the American marines in the Pacific. Both papers, but for a few pars, carried much the same story. They mentioned Bloody Ridge, the Navy Cross, and how later I’d taken out a sniper in the jungle at great personal risk. Added to this was my single-handed capture of a vital and heavily defended radio post set three hundred feet up a cliff face that had been alerting the enemy to the movement of American aircraft in the Pacific.

  It was a story, vague in actual details, but at the same time vastly exaggerated, suggesting great courage by a local boy who made good in the field of battle. There was no mention of malaria, and the caption to the picture in the Argus of Nurse Parkes and me read ‘Lieutenant Duncan, repatriated to Australia, requires a nurse constantly at his bedside’. That gave the strong impression that I’d been severely wounded. There was also a nice sentimental bit that told how, unable to rise from my bed, I had nevertheless insisted on wearing my naval uniform for the medal ceremony.

  Finally, having been honoured by the Americans with the Navy Cross, I was being awarded the DSC by my own people in recognition of the contribution our own brave sons were making in the Pacific War. It ended with a bit about allies working together in the spirit of mutual cooperation, hands across the sea, blah, blah, blah. If not exactly a beat-up, the heavy hand of a government propaganda machinist wasn’t hard to spot and I couldn’t help thinking how many of the really brave bastards at Milne Bay and Kokoda had gone largely unrecognised.

  Nurse Parkes was delighted to be in the papers and I must say, despite her hangover, it was a very nice picture of her. Later that day she came over to my bed, very excited, to say that a lady reporter named Esmé Fenton from the Women’s Weekly wanted to do a story on her and did I mind?

  Over the Christmas period I was informed by a letter from Naval Intelligence that, despite my secondment to the SRD (Services Reconnaissance Department), naval officers would come to the hospital to conduct a formal debriefing covering my time with the 1st Division marines on Guadalcanal. The first session would take place at 1000 hours on the 2nd of January. The debriefing was to begin with an unexpected visit.

  After all the brouhaha of the general’s visit, where every visitor entering the ward seemed to come over to congratulate me, I had been moved to an alcove that contained a single bed; it was a space usually reserved for officers above the rank of major. Nurse Parkes henceforth referred to it as ‘Naval Headquarters’. A heavy curtain separated me from the remainder of the ward and a large bay window looked out onto the hospital garden. After the endless coconut palms and the damp, fetid jungle, the well-tended garden was reassuringly normal with its mowed lawn and a box hedge, clipped to within an inch of its life, surrounding a circular bed of roses.

  You may imagine my surprise when, at exactly ten in the morning of my debriefing, a nurse parted the curtain to the alcove and announced, ‘You have a visitor, Lieutenant,’ whereupon Commander Rob Rich entered the alcove.

  I guess he saw my surprise, followed almost immediately by my acute embarrassment as I proceeded to blush violently — crimson blush against a yellow skin is not a good look. He brought his hand up as if to prevent me from talking. ‘Nick, let me speak first,’ he said, not smiling. I nodded my head, quite incapable of saying anything.

  ‘May I sit down?’ he asked, indicating the chair beside my bed. I nodded again. I knew I should have been more in possession of my wits, but I simply wasn’t. I mean, what the hell do you do when your superior officer is about to inform you he’s taken your girlfriend for himself and intends to marry her? Especially when you know you really love her.

  ‘Nick, Marg has told me everything. When she informed me she’d written to you in Guadalcanal, she burst into tears. I know how tough it must seem, how unfair — you copping all the shit in the islands and me back here with a cushy desk job in Intelligence. I respect and honour you and only hope I can prove myself a worthy contender.’

  I was beginning to regain a bit of composure. ‘Thank you, sir. It… it came as a bit of a surprise, that’s all,’ I stammered, uttering one of the great understatements of my life. I continued, ‘I had no right to expect —’

  Rob Rich cut me short. ‘No, no, Nick, you had every right to assume you and she were together. Marg explained that to me very carefully. As you know, she does things on her own terms.’

  ‘You too,’ I said, trying to cheer up a bit.

  ‘You’d better believe it!’ he grinned and extended his hand. For a split second I thought about not accepting it. He may have been my superior officer but, in this instance, I felt I had the right to refuse. But that would mean I was spitting the dummy and I guess I was too proud to let him see me sulking like a child. ‘It’s okay, sir.’ I know I should have gone on to congratulate him, but there are limits. We shook hands.

  Commander Rich then got down to business. ‘Nick, Commander Long, in fact all of us, are tremendously pleased at the way you’ve conducted yourself with the Americans, the marines. Not an easy call.’

  ‘No, sir, that’s not correct. In fact the 1st Marine Division was very generous and my job under Colonel Woon, as Japanese translator in their radio unit, was not dangerous. It’s not as though I’ve been a coastwatcher and doing the hard yakka.’

  ‘Well, I’m not so sure about that. Mather put in a very good report on your work in the field, as did Colonel Woon, and there was another very complimentary one, at a very high level, from Marine Headquarters concerning your bravery at Bloody Ridge. Congratulations on the Navy Cross — it’s not a medal the Americans hand out gratuitously. Our division has benefited from all this. Recruiting you in Perth is being seen as a masterstroke by the old man.’

  I thought maybe he was laying it on a bit thick because of Marg. I guess we should all learn the difficult art of accepting compliments, but I felt compelled to add, ‘Thank you, sir, but all I did was what I was trained to do here in Melbourne and by Sergeant Major Wainwright of Z Force on Fraser Island.’

  Commander Rich ignored this further protest. ‘Let me explain something to you, Nick. The war in the Pacific is in its second phase and, whether we like it or not, the Americans ar
e in charge. MacArthur and his people call the shots, every single one of them. The more we can involve ourselves with the Americans, the more indirect influence we will have with them. It doesn’t have to be at the top-brass level for it to work. Your contribution is a perfect example.’

  ‘A-ha! That accounts for my goanna medal.’

  ‘Goanna medal?’

  I explained the general’s presentation methodology and the subsequent simile. He laughed. ‘I guess you’re pretty close to the mark, but the DSC is no cheap brass badge with a ribbon. Wear it with pride, son. Even if it was an opportunity for a spot of good public relations with the Yanks, that doesn’t demean it. You’ve earned it fair and square.’

  ‘Sir, what they said in the newspapers was a load of bulldust!’

  ‘Nick, it was very likely based on a PR release prepared by SDR and followed the protocol of the three reports received. You can’t stop the newspapers adding their own spin. The Argus, in particular, is always going to beat it up. Commander Long, and those above him who are responsible for policy, are already looking ahead to when the Japs are finally defeated. If the Pacific War has shown us anything, it is that we can’t rely on the Brits to come to our aid in a crisis. After Singapore, Churchill decided to abandon Australia. He had his hands full in Europe and the Mediterranean and decided we were expendable. As Pacific nations, America and Australia are far more logical allies.’

  I was growing up fast. Being described in impersonal terms as an asset, a tiny cog in the machinery of diplomacy, made me realise that whatever happened to the Nick Duncans of this world, the Commander Longs would still be spinning their webs and using whatever they could find to feed the system. I accepted this, realising that with the advent of the Japanese entering the war, as a nation we were fighting for our very lives. Whatever the machinations, Commander Rupert Basil Michael Long was, in a sense, responsible to the nation first and foremost; my own life came far down in his charter — if it appeared in the small print at all.

  ‘Over the next few days various members of Intelligence will arrive to debrief you, Nick,’ Commander Rich instructed. ‘There’ll be a navy stenographer accompanying them. We’ll return the transcripts for you to read so we get it exactly right. We are going to need a fair bit of privacy, hence your move into this alcove. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘No, sir, I’m grateful for the peace and quiet. The stenographer? It won’t be Petty Officer Hamilton?’ I said, grinning, but my heart was suddenly ka-pounding.

  ‘No, she’ll be made a lieutenant in two weeks.’ He paused and seemed to be thinking. ‘Nick, Marg’s asked if she can come in.’ Then he added quickly, ‘She’ll understand if you’d rather not. But she’d really like to see you.’

  ‘May I think about it, sir?’ I didn’t know if I was sufficiently grown-up to cope with a visit from Marg.

  ‘Of course.’

  Changing the subject, which was still a pretty tender part of my consciousness, I asked, ‘Where will I be going after I leave hospital, sir?’

  ‘Nick, you’re entitled to leave and we want you to take it; get a good rest. Then there are several options. But if you stay with the SRD, or whatever they’re calling themselves this week, they’ve already indicated they want you back with the Americans. It’s an easy match.’

  ‘The marines?’

  ‘Yes, they’ve already told us they’d like you back when you’ve recovered. Like I said before, we’re in no position to argue. Of course, you can always choose to go into the regular navy; that would get you off the hook.’

  Over the following two and a half days the debriefing took place. Every tiny detail of my time with the marines was teased out and the notes returned to me to sign as accurate. On the second day I was questioned about the Mount Austen Operation, the sniper and the capture of Gojo Mura and the code books, which I related in exactly the way they’d occurred.

  Early next morning a motorcycle dispatch rider delivered an envelope stamped ‘Top Secret’ for which I had to sign. Opening it I saw it was the transcript of the stuff we’d discussed the previous day. Underlined in red ink was the sniper and radio operator incident with margin notes that read: ‘Due modesty and the attempt at humour has no place in this report. This version contradicts all the official reports we have received. PLEASE RECTIFY.’ It was initialled ‘RBML’. I was learning that the propaganda machine takes precedence over accuracy. Shortly after the delivery a navy stenographer arrived and, despite the request to rectify by Rupert Basil Michael Long, I dictated a note saying I regretted I couldn’t, in all conscience, alter the document; the facts were given as I had understood them. I apologised in effect for not lying. I was unlikely to get a further promotion in the navy anyway, but this response would certainly put the kybosh on any chance I might have had.

  That afternoon I received yet another visitor — this one less contentious. It was the lovely redhead, Petty Officer Mary Kelly, who, while being insistent that the sheets in her glory box would keep their cellophane wrapping until her marriage night, had rewarded me with a wonderful session of mouth-to-south resuscitation on the last night of my so-called departure to Britain.

  She parted the curtains and entered, her red head aflame and her eyes sparkling. ‘Hello, Nick. My gawd, ya look ten years older! ’Owyagoin’, mate? Jesus, what have they done to you?’ Mary, while being a good Catholic, mentioned the Son of God frequently in her conversation.

  I was grinning like an ape. ‘Nice to see you, Mary. How’d you know I was here?’

  ‘Talk about a mug lair! You’re all over the papers like a rash. Mum says I’ve got to ditch the Yank and get back with a real hero!’ She laughed. ‘But I can’t, Nick, he’s lovely. He comes from Brooklyn, “Eye-talian”.’ She extended her right hand to show me an engagement ring.

  I covered my eyes. ‘I’m blinded!’ I cried, not meaning to be sarcastic.

  ‘Bastard!’

  ‘No, really, it’s lovely. Congratulations, Mary. His name doesn’t happen to be Belgiovani, does it?’

  ‘No? Fiorelli. Why?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You didn’t go to England? You knew all the time, didn’t you?’ she accused, smiling. ‘That’s why I couldn’t go to the ship to say goodbye. My dad had even organised a place by a crane for me to sit. I waited for a letter from England but you were off bashing around in the jungle somewhere.’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you, Mary. I was seconded to the Americans.’

  ‘Me too!’ she said happily, glancing at her engagement ring.

  I laughed. Mary Kelly hadn’t lost any of her wit. ‘It was all rather hush-hush, Mary — you know, confiden—’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what my dad said when we saw you in the Herald. We all thought you were a bit of a Proddy bastard. You know, not writing and all, like I’d been clean forgotten. But when we saw your picture in the paper and General MacArthur giving you a medal, well, then my dad said, “See, I told ya. Nick was fair dinkum all the time. He’s in the bloody secret service, no bloody wonder.” And mum said, “I always liked that boy, nice manners and always real polite.”’

  ‘Mary, I couldn’t write, you know, tell you where I was. I apologise for deceiving you. Being a Proddy, a Protestant, had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Course yer couldn’t, Nick. Secret service! All is forgiven.’ She cocked her head and smiled. ‘Sorry about Fiorelli, Nick.’

  I grinned. ‘Story of my life.’

  She leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. ‘You’ve taken a right hiding, haven’t ya, mate?’

  ‘Nah, just a spot of malaria, soon be right as rain,’ I protested and then, in an attempt to get the subject away from me, I asked, ‘Sheets still in the glory box?’

  Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Of course!’ She laughed, recalling. ‘You know how you use’ta complain, I mean going back to HMAS Cerberus,’ she grimaced, ‘feeling, like, real
sore?’

  ‘Yeah — lover’s balls,’ I grinned.

  She giggled. ‘Well, Fiorelli said that when he went back to camp the other night his, you know, what you’ve just mentioned, were hanging so low that he tripped over them by mistake!’

  ‘Ouch!’ I laughed. ‘Don’t you ever show any mercy, Mary?’

  ‘I told ya, Nick, that sort of malarky is for between the marriage sheets and they’re still folded in their cellophane paper.’

  I must have been feeling a lot better because there was a severe stirring under my own sheet. We were silent for a moment, probably because I was distracted. ‘Mary, I’m so glad for you. After the war will you live in America?’

  ‘Oh yes, Fiorelli’s father is in the trucking business; he seems to be a bigwig in the Eye-talian community and also in their union. It’s called the Teamsters.’

  ‘I feel sure you’ll be well protected, Mary,’ I said, not explaining that I’d heard the Teamsters was a notoriously violent and corrupt union organisation with links to the Mafia.

  ‘Fiorelli says Eye-talians look after their women,’ Mary said. ‘Not like here.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘I wish you luck, Mary.’

  She looked serious for a moment. ‘I came to say goodbye, Nick. I’m proud you’re a hero. I thought you might need a little hero worship.’ She grinned and slipped her hand under the sheet, finding what she was looking for with ease. ‘My, my, it’s nice to know something hasn’t changed.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ I said, closing my eyes and throwing my head back into the pillow.

  ‘Anyone likely to come in?’ she asked.

  ‘Only the tea trolley in half an hour,’ I gasped.

  ‘Good. You’re still getting bugger all from my chin down, Nick Duncan.’ She grinned. ‘I’ve promised Fiorelli he can sleep with the Virgin Mary on his wedding night.’ She knelt beside the bed and pulled the top sheet aside. The rest, as they say in the classics, took place mellifluously, deliciously and wonderfully. I will not soon forget the loveliness of Mary Kelly.