Love in the Years of Lunacy

by Mandy Sayer

  Then the real sirens sounded, a high, ominous howl echoing through the valley. The band stopped playing. The soldiers jumped to their feet and began to run. Suddenly, the whine of a Japanese Zero could be heard in the distance. Charlie dashed towards the trench at the edge of the clearing with his cornet still in his hand, followed by Marks and Farthing, who carried the portable organ. Pearl jumped off the wooden reel but found it difficult to run in her tight dress and she stumbled over in the mud. The roar of approaching aircraft made her ears throb. She was struggling to her feet when Wanipe swept her into his arms. Looking up, she could see the scarlet balls of the fuselage of a plane and the silver underside of its wings, and then the first bomb was released, whistling loudly as it fell. Wanipe dropped her into a trench and dived in after her. The bomb hit the top of the airstrip, just missing an Allied Boston Havoc, and the valley shuddered, showering the clearing with dirt and rocks. Inching her head above the lip of the trench, Pearl glimpsed two gunners leaping onto anti-aircraft mounts.

  And then another Zero appeared in the sky, casting a shadow across the hills. The plane roared closer and the ack-ack men began firing at the sky. Pearl could hear the short, sharp barks of the guns and then the plane, which was about half a mile away, exploded into a fireball.

  It was only then that Blue came running out of the bush, pulling up his zipper. He was making a beeline towards the trench when he glanced over and saw his trombone lying on its case, where he’d left it, about fifty yards away. He changed direction and bolted towards it, his shirttail fluttering behind him like a waving hand. The burning plane was losing altitude as it dropped towards the camp.

  ‘Blue!’ cried Pearl. ‘Come back!’ Charlie shouted at him to leave the damn trombone but Blue either didn’t hear them or didn’t care.

  The plane was almost overhead now, falling faster. From the ground it looked like a huge, flaming comet. Just as the gunners abandoned their mounts and ran for the trenches Blue grabbed his trombone. And then the inferno of burning metal and oil ignited the sky, leaving a thick black trail of smoke as it hurtled towards the camp.

  17

  The plane burned and smouldered throughout the night. The stench of smoke, charred rubber, and wood filled Pearl’s mouth. For a long time she merely sat in the trench, huddled against Charlie, trying to comfort him. Farthing, the organist, had gone berserk after the crash and had begun screaming at the American gunners who’d shot the plane down, threatening to shoot every one of them. The drummer, Marks, had had to wrestle the rifle away from him, and then a fuming sergeant handcuffed Farthing’s wrists and marched him away.

  Through it all, Pearl was vaguely aware of the rest of the soldiers carrying buckets of water from the river and pouring it onto and around the crash site to contain the fire. Not only did it threaten to burn down what was left of the camp, the flames provided a target for the enemy. Later, Pearl kissed Charlie on the forehead, picked herself up, and joined the men ferrying water. Hour after hour, she performed the back-breaking routine in a shocked kind of sleepwalk, hardly believing what she’d just witnessed, the ease with which Blue had lost his life.

  The fire burned itself out by sunrise and left in its wake a wide hearth of grey ash and blackened metal. The plane had crashed onto the very spot where the band had been performing. Amid the rubble Marks found the distorted metal rings that had once been the shells of his drums. The wire reel on which Pearl had sung had been reduced to a charred stump. Beneath the cylinder of a fuselage Pearl found two mangled bayonets and a trombone mute.

  It wasn’t until she and Marks pulled back the remains of a wing that they discovered what was left of Blue: two black clumps that were once his army boots, dog tags dull and tarnished in the early light. The rest of him was unrecognisable, so ravaged and burnt there was only the uneven shape of what had once been his body, covered in a caul of blood, ash and bits of melted brass, relics of the trombone for which he’d risked—and lost—his life. Charlie, devastated, fell to his knees and just stared for a long time. Then he took the mound of charred flesh that had probably once been Blue’s hand and held it.

  For hours, he sat by what was left of the corpse, touching it occasionally. Every now and then Pearl or Marks would approach Charlie with a cigarette or a flask of whisky, which he accepted wordlessly, as if his vigil could, like a movie running in reverse, raise the plane back into the sky and resurrect his lover. Whenever anyone approached him with a stretcher or a body bag he spat at them to go away and threw handfuls of dirt.

  The band was supposed to be in Nadzab by mid-morning to perform another concert, but since Blue’s death had been reported back to Rudolph in Lae, along with the news of Farthing’s attack on the Americans and his subsequent detainment, Rudolph postponed the Nadzab concert until the following afternoon.

  Around midday, Charlie finally allowed Wanipe and Pearl to lay the remains inside a body bag. They also inserted Blue’s tortoiseshell comb and what was left of his trombone. Late that afternoon, Farthing was released from custody and the band surrounded the bag and held a ceremony for their fallen mate. Charlie performed a wavering solo on ‘My Baby’s Wild About My Ol’ Trombone’. Farthing told a story about the first time he’d met Blue, at a gig at the Albert Palais. Blue had come careening into the ballroom—dressed in a tuxedo, carrying his trombone—on a pair of rollerskates. He’d skated the four miles from his home in Chinatown because it was cheaper and faster than taking the bus. Marks told a tale about Blue once turning up to a show at Roosevelt’s impeccably dressed and groomed, but wearing only one shoe. When the bandleader confronted him about it, Blue explained that on his way to the gig he’d sat in the back of the tram playing two-up with a handicapped man. ‘So?’ said the bandleader. ‘That’s no excuse!’ ‘The guy only had one foot,’ explained Blue. ‘And I lost.’

  At dusk the bag was carried to the airstrip and loaded onto a plane with six other body bags to be flown back to Finschhafen and then on to Sydney, where Blue would receive a proper Catholic funeral and be buried in Rookwood, only a mile from where his mother now lived. The band watched the plane taxi, then put their arms around one another as it lifted above the frill of trees around the camp, the foothills, and on, until it became as small as a sparrow and vanished into the clouds.

  The jeep rumbled along the narrow road towards Nadzab. It was a clear, warm day. The CO of the artillery unit had ordered a military escort for the band, as enemy soldiers were still scattered through the area, and the danger would increase the further north the musicians travelled.

  Gunfire continued to stutter in the hills. Charlie sat in the back seat with Pearl, his hands folded on his lap. He’d been silent all morning, automatically going through the motions of changing his clothes and packing his gear with an air of quiet resignation. At one moment, Pearl had caught him pressing Blue’s spare shirt to his face, inhaling deeply the lingering odour of his lover.

  After driving for ten or so minutes, they passed a body lying face down in the mud on the side of the road. The driver hit the brakes and Pearl jumped out of the jeep. They turned the body over. The man, a Japanese, still had his eyes open, and in his hand he was holding something. Pearl peeled back his fingers: it was a photograph of a pretty Japanese woman, dressed in a skirt and long-sleeved blouse, glittering combs in her hair, sitting on a bench by a stream. She was holding a flower, perhaps a chrysanthemum, and smiled shyly at the eye of the camera. Gazing at it, Pearl was both disturbed and profoundly moved, and she found herself blinking back tears. The face of the woman he loved would have been the last thing the man saw before he died. The Japanese soldier must have loved the woman in the photo as much as Charlie loved Blue, as much as she loved James, and for a moment all that they were fighting for seemed a waste of time and life, so futile.

  Pearl suggested to the driver that they load the corpse onto the jeep and transport it to the next camp, where his identity could be registered and he could receive a proper burial, but the driver grimaced and shook h
is head. ‘Leave the bastard to rot,’ he said. ‘That’s what they do to us.’

  Not knowing what else to do, Pearl slipped the photograph back into the man’s hand, folding his stiff fingers around it.

  The camp finally appeared in the distance, a ramshackle collection of shelled huts and sagging tents built against the slope of a valley. Pearl could see the outlines of snipers balanced on the tops of coconut palms, rifle barrels poised. Carriers moved back and forth, ferrying supplies further into the hills. As they drove into the camp they passed a few shirtless black Americans, covered in dust, digging split trenches near some artillery positions. Pearl tried to see if any of them were James, but most had their backs turned, and they all went by in a blur.

  The troubadours pulled up in front of the head office, a squat square hut made from palms and sheet metal. Marks and Farthing were joking back and forth, trying to enliven the atmosphere, to cheer up Charlie. The CO appeared, a fat, red-faced sergeant with acne scars and bulbous blue eyes that made him look like a toad.

  He glanced at their instruments in the back of the jeep. ‘Jesus!’ he cried in a hard American accent. ‘We need reinforcements, not musicians!’

  ‘The drum is mightier than the sword, sir,’ cracked Marks.

  The CO scowled. ‘Name’s Thomas. Sergeant Thomas.’ He shot Marks a withering look. ‘I never saw a Jap die from a jazz riff, soldier.’

  ‘You’ve never heard Marks do a solo, sir,’ said Farthing.

  ‘Yesterday we had another air raid,’ snapped the commander. ‘Thirteen dead. And those fucking idiots in Lae send me a bunch of Aussie jesters!’

  Pearl decided this wasn’t the right time to ask him about James. Instead, she leaped out of the jeep and surveyed the camp. There was a team of black men unloading supplies from a truck parked next to the post exchange. She squinted in the sunlight. He was somewhere close by, she was sure; somewhere in the camp, or in the surrounding area. Maybe he’d already noticed the band from a distance, had seen her, not knowing who she really was or what she was doing there.

  The captain spat on the ground. ‘You guys have got it easy. Carousing around, blowing your trumpets.’

  ‘We’ve been fully trained in combat, sir,’ said Farthing.

  ‘Great. You can stand guard duty tonight. Replace the guards I lost yesterday.’

  The band was directed to two tents near the post exchange, where they could clean up and prepare for the concert. While the others unpacked, Pearl slipped away and circled the camp, eyeing the face of each black man she encountered, her heart pounding. She glanced over the GIs unloading supplies, the others digging trenches. She checked the mess tent, the latrines. There was a small group bathing over near a swampy pond, filling their helmets with water and pouring it over their heads, down their backs. She hurried towards them, but his was not among the wet and glistening faces which looked up at her.

  Finally, she walked into the PX and ordered a Coke. There was a tiny fawn puppy asleep in one corner of the hut. Two Australian men came in and bought a can of baked beans. After they left, she sat on a stool and rolled a cigarette and offered the packet of tobacco to the attendant. The white man behind the counter had hooded eyes and a grim, downturned mouth. He shook his head.

  Pearl drained her Coke and looked squarely at the man. ‘I’m looking for a Private James Washington,’ she said. ‘A Negro. Ever heard of him?’

  The attendant looked as if he’d been startled by a sudden noise. ‘Who hasn’t?’

  ‘He’s not dead is he?’

  The man shrugged.

  Pearl followed the attendant along the counter. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  He popped the metal top off a bottle and beer frothed over the rim. ‘Hey, Billows!’ he cried. ‘The Aussie here wants to know what happened to the Great Black Hope!’

  The man called Billows rolled his eyes. The puppy stirred and stretched. ‘Hell, that’s one crazy motherfucker.’

  Farthing burst into the store, panting, ‘Willis! Hurry up. We’re supposed to be on at one!’

  Pearl grabbed the attendant by the sleeve and asked him again about Washington.

  The man jerked his arm away. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘We’re already late,’ said Farthing. ‘They’re all waiting.’

  ‘He’s a friend of mine,’ said Pearl.

  ‘Willis . . .’ pleaded Farthing.

  The man called Billows smirked. ‘Are you some kinda nigger lover?’

  Pearl swung around. ‘Yes, I’m some kind of fucking nigger lover!’ She advanced upon him, fists balled. In her anger, her voice rose into its old feminine tones. ‘Now where the fuck is he?’

  ‘Bit of a pansy man?’ said Billows, and the attendant laughed.

  Pearl lunged at him, but Farthing leaped forward and grabbed hold of her arms.

  ‘Christ, Willis! C’mon, the captain’s gunna kill us.’ And he wrestled her out the door.

  There were probably about forty or so whites in the audience—both Australian and American—and half as many blacks. She learned later that some had walked as much as twenty miles through the ranges just to hear some music from home. They sat patiently in the mud, waiting for the show to begin. She saw the grimacing CO leaning against a gun mount. The two men from the PX appeared and stood in the doorway of the hut.

  Marks’s drum kit had been destroyed when the plane had crashed and he had to improvise on a set of tin oil drums. They replaced Blue’s novelty number with an act in which Marks inflated surgical gloves and twisted them into the shapes of various animals. Pearl wondered where Blue was now. In a morgue in Finschhafen? Packed in ice on a hospital ship? Or on a plane back to Sydney? And where was James? Was he alive or dead? Was he perhaps so close he’d soon hear her playing ‘Opus One’, would recognise the way she imitated his own distinctive triple-tonguing technique?

  All through the overture she scoured the faces of the audience, their gestures, the way they swayed and tapped their feet, trying to reconcile them with the man that she remembered. It was like trying to recall a forgotten part of a dream, the missing fragment that would allow all the other parts to make sense. At the same time, she was aware that she had to play the best she could, for if he were out there she wanted to impress him, not only with the journey she’d taken to find him but also with the journey she’d taken with the music he’d taught her.

  When the show was over, the soldiers lined up to have their helmets signed, but not one of the dozens of men who shook her hand was James. She didn’t bother changing out of her red dress and blonde wig before striding back to the main office. She found the sergeant with his feet resting on a box of whisky and reading a yellowing newspaper.

  ‘That was a big goddamn distraction,’ he said, not looking up. ‘And you might as well know now, Private, you’re in my territory now, so I’ll be requesting you clowns return to Lae.’

  She tried to protest but the sergeant cut her off, explaining that it was too dangerous to travel any further, that the Japanese still had control of the hills. ‘What you gonna do when they catch one of you?’ he sneered. ‘Hit him with your handbag?’

  Pearl reminded him again that all the musicians had had combat training.

  ‘I’ve been in the army for twenty-five years, Private, and I won’t be told what to do by some runty little Aussie in a red dress and wig. Tonight you’re on guard duty and then you’re goin’ straight back to where you come from.’

  Pearl knew it was pointless to argue, so instead asked him if he knew a Private James Washington.

  The CO put down his paper and fixed his bug eyes upon her.

  ‘What do you want with him?’

  Pearl shrugged.

  ‘Wanna turn your concert into a little coon show, do you?’

  ‘I heard that Washington was in the transport company in Nadzab.’

  ‘And when did you hear this, Private?’

  ‘Six days ago.’

  The CO swung his feet off the box. ‘We
ll, about six days ago your dear friend was here under my command. In fact, if you’d arrived yesterday, when you were scheduled to, you and your buddy would’ve been able to sit down at the PX and have a beer together.’

  ‘Well what’s happened?’ asked Pearl, exasperated. ‘Where is he? Is he wounded?’

  The CO stood up and leaned across his desk. ‘Yesterday afternoon, your friend Private Washington deserted the US Army. An act of treason, as far as I’m concerned. What do you think of your nigger now?’

  18

  The glass she drank beer from had been made from a bottle, the neck of which had been sliced off with hot wire. The rim was rough against her lips, and the beer was warm, yet she continued to drink with morose determination. She didn’t care if she got stinking drunk and let her guard down, even if her disguise were discovered. She was still wearing her red dress and wig, sitting on a stool in the oppressive gloom of the PX. She sweated through her make-up and the mosquito cream mixed with rice powder ran down her face in milky rivulets. She drummed the primitive glass against the bar twice and the attendant served her another beer. The little puppy wandered into the PX and found its way to the same corner of the hut. It lay down on its belly, resting its head between its front paws, and stared at Pearl as if awaiting instructions. It was no bigger than a dinner roll, with floppy ears and light brown fur soiled with mud.

  Pearl rested her chin in one hand and fixed her eyes on the bar mutilated with carved initials and names. There was no point now in going on with the band, she realised, in keeping up the pretense. For the last couple of months, everything in her life—every choice she’d made, all the risks she’d taken, the music she’d played, each step through the swamps and rainforests—had been straining towards Nadzab, towards him. It was like running a marathon for weeks on end and finding when it was nearly over that the finish line has been erased.

  The attendant’s shift in the PX was over and he hung up his apron. Another man took his place, a private with blue-black skin and small, birdlike hands. He began wiping down the counter, as if he were trying to erase every chip and crack in the wood. Pearl crossed her legs glumly, not caring if she seemed too feminine, if her identity were discovered. To be found out would be a relief, a kind of gift amid all this disappointment. The more she drank, the more she considered the idea. There’d be interrogations and inquiries—maybe she’d do some time in the brig—but after all that there’d be a free trip home to Sydney, back to the comfort of her own bed. She even fancied it would be possible to get her old job at the Trocadero back. Of course, the controversy would get into the papers and cause a stir. And then there was her mother. And Hector. And they’d probably try to have her hospitalised, even committed to an institution. Though after what she’d endured recently, even the thought of a permanent bed in a psychiatric unit was appealing: free drugs, free food, a manicured garden, fingerpainting. No shells to dodge, no deaths to witness, no breasts to hide, no friends to grieve. Everything would be as quiet and calm as a church. It was better than ending up beneath a crashed plane, like Blue, better than pining for a man she knew she’d never find. James was right: even in the event that she did manage to find him and they returned to Australia, they’d probably never be able to live as a couple. It’d be too hard on them both.