by Peter Corris
I lit a cigarette and leaned back against a tree trunk which I'd checked carefully for resident snakes.
'Didn't see any logs lying around waiting to be made into a raft by any chance, did you, Dick?'
A plane went over, fairly low, but it was too dark to see its markings. I fancied that the numbers of planes had increased, but I was losing interest in them.
'No,' I said. 'The blacks used to get big sheets of bark off the trees and tie the ends to make canoes.'
'Yeah? How'd they stop the water getting in?'
I tried to remember from the school excursion where I'd picked up this bit of information. We'd gone up the Hawkesbury River a distance and seen the scars on the tree trunks. It seemed so long ago, in another lifetime. Browning Minor of the Lower Fourth. God.
'I think they caulked them with mud.'
'Great. How'd they get the bark off the trees?'
'Stone axes?'
'Got one handy?'
I didn't answer. I finished the cigarette and prepared to sleep.
'We're dead men if we don't get help in a couple of days. How're your feet?'
I'd taken my boots off and washed my feet in the river. Blisters had broken, reformed and broken again. I'd tried not to notice the redness around the affected spots. We'd exhausted the ointments. 'Bad,' I said.
'Likewise. I got infected cuts and bites all over me. I think a coupla my teeth are loose. My gums are mushy. You know what that means?'
'Scurvy.'
'Right. Lousy diet, lousy hygiene. Have you looked at yourself the last few days?'
'No.'
'You look like shit.'
I rubbed my face. Although I'd brought shaving tackle I hadn't used it. What was the point? Now I had a beard that was thick, dirty and no doubt partly grey. I've always had fast-growing hair. It was curling over my ears and the grey would be growing through the dye. I'd done no more than splash my face with rainwater for a week. My hands and clothes were filthy. Suddenly, my face felt alive with dirty hair—growing from my nostrils into the shaggy beard, sprouting from my ears. I realised that I must look like a Darlinghurst wino. Darlinghurst, Sydney. Why did I think of that?
'You don't exactly look like Crown Prince Akihito yourself.'
Harry spat into the fire. 'Don't talk to me about those bastards.'
'How d'you feel about Hitler?'
'If I had him here I'd hold him under in the fuckin' river until he stopped kicking. Mind you, I'd do the same with Churchill.'
'Right,' I said. 'Maybe we should rest up here for a few days. Try to catch fish. Give our feet a chance to heal. Look for food.'
'Pity we don't have any of those black guys you spoke of around. What happened to them?'
'A lot got wiped out.'
'Same in Japan. They rubbed out the Ainu, people who owned the fuckin' country in the first place. Come to think of it, isn't it kinda strange we haven't come across any people? I mean, the islands I was on were full of niggers.'
'I guess it is strange,' I said drowsily.
'We got a river here. Pretty good country. Rain, good soil. Where're the villages? Where're the plantations? Feels like we're on the fuckin' moon.'
'There's the planes. Got to be people around here somewhere. Just be glad we haven't run into cannibals.'
'There's no meat on me,' Harry said.
I looked down at my own flat belly. Just the thing for beside the pool in Beverly Hills, but worrying out here. I was gripped by a fierce hunger. 'We'll make it,' I said.
Harry snored.
I lay awake for hours, worrying about everything. I decided I could hear crocodiles grunting in the river. I threw more wood on the fire and held a leafy branch ready to use as a fire stick. But the hard push we'd made to the river caught up with me. I stopped hearing things and fell into a deep sleep.
The boot thudded into my ribs in the same spot Harry had hit nearly two weeks before. It was still sore there and I yelped with pain as I came awake out of a dream about tea and scones. The sun was well up and shining directly into my eyes, blinding me.
'Harry,' I said. 'What the hell . . .'
'Get up, Yank,' a drawling Australian voice said. 'And explain your bloody self.'
'I'm not a Yank.'
'Sound like one to me.'
I got to my feet stiffly, with my ribs protesting. The man holding the Lee Enfield a few inches from my chest wore an Australian army uniform with corporals' stripes. He was about my size, but his youth, erect carriage and slouch hat made him seem a lot bigger. I tried to straighten up and my bones cracked. I shot a look to my left. Harry was stretched out on the ground. There was blood on his face. Two privates stood over him with their rifles at the ready.
'Put up a bit of a fight, that Jap,' the corporal said. 'Game little bugger. You slept right through it.'
'We've been walking for a fortnight, Corporal. I was tired.'
I'd been sleeping with my jacket lapels turned up around my ears. As I smoothed them down the badges came into view and the corporal's eyes widened. 'Jesus Christ,' he said. For a second I thought he was going to salute, but the rest of my appearance convinced him not to. 'Who the hell are you?'
'Richard Browning,' I said instinctively. 'That is, Dick Kelly. I mean . . .'
He tucked the rifle muzzle up under my ear and grabbed my dog tags. 'Kelly, R,' he read. 'United States army. What're you doing in an Australian officer's uniform?'
'I can explain.'
'You better.' He retreated a step and the .303 was pointed at my chest again. 'I'm taking you prisoner. Private Clancy!'
'Corporal?'
'Get divvy HQ to send a truck. We've got a couple of prisoners to bring in.'
The private slung his rifle and went across to where a field radio was placed under a tree. I heard him crank the handle and begin putting out a call sign. Harry didn't move. The other private stared at him as if he had three legs.
'What's your name?' I said.
'Corporal Colin Clark. Australian Militia, North Queensland second unit.'
'Militia! Queensland! You mean we're in Australia?'
'Of course we're in bloody Australia.'
'Where are we?'
'About a hundred miles from Cooktown.'
I moved forward to embrace him. He stepped back, brought his rifle butt up sharply and cracked me on the temple. I felt the ground slip away from under me and I thought I heard the call of a kookaburra, but I might have already been unconscious.
I came to my senses in the back of a covered truck jolting along a bush track barely wide enough to take it. The back flap was open, and I could see the tree branches springing back after the truck had flicked them aside. I sat up and my head screamed at me to lie down again. I did and found Harry beside me, still and pale. His sparse beard sprouted in patches and the blood had dried around his right eye, giving him the look of a battered doll. Our packs were on a bench beside Corporal Clark, who had his trusty .303 at the ready.
'Is he dead?' I said.
'Your Jap mate? No, I don't think so. He is your mate, isn't he?'
'In a way.' I slapped my pockets, then remembered that I'd run out of cigarettes the day before. 'Have you got a smoke, Corporal?'
He took out a pouch, rolled a cigarette and lit it with a match. He flicked the match out over the tray and I waited for him to pass the cigarette to me. He continued to draw on it luxuriously. 'Not for Jap lovers, I don't,' he said.
I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of lying down. I struggled up and took a good look as we bowled through a gate into the militia base. Like all such places, it was a cross between a playground and a prison. It was dusty, laid out in a series of grids, and there wasn't a tree within the perimeter. A high wire fence surrounded it and the Australian flag hung limply on a pole in the exact centre of the camp. The pole cast a long, late afternoon shadow. The grey-green bush grew right up to the fence and poked through and over it in some places. You had to wonder what the fence was for. It wouldn't ha
ve kept a reasonably agile grandmother in or out.
The truck threw up dust as it came to a skidding stop outside a Nissen hut. The corporal jumped down and began shouting orders. Men arrived at the double and carried Harry into the hut.
'Down, you,' Clark said.
'I'm injured. I need help.'
'I'll help you with my boots.'
Much as I hate to say it, what I did next came straight from Enrol Flynn. He had a way of smiling as he spoke and biting the words off to get them across with perfect clarity. I tried it now, although the beard obscured some of the effect. 'You are showing excessive zeal, Corporal Clark. Believe me, you will come to regret it. Now, if that is the sick bay then you've shown good judgment in bringing us here, but I require assistance to reach it. Do you understand?'
Brutes like Clark are all toadies at heart. A touch of their own medicine, dressed up a little, will usually bring them to heel. Clark could feel that he might be heading for trouble here. His instinct was to use the rifle butt and boot but just occasionally his brain came into play. He shouted something incomprehensible and two black men dressed in singlets and shorts came running. They climbed up and favoured me with wide white grins.
'Help this man into the sick bay, you two. And don't drop him. He might break.'
If Clark thought I'd feel demeaned by being handled by black men he was wrong. I'd got used to them in America, and I'd heard Armstrong play and seen Louis fight too often to think they were inferior.
'I've got crook feet,' I said. 'Also feel a bit dizzy. D'you mind giving me a hand?'
'You'll be right, boss.' One of the Aborigines bent and picked me up as if I was a baby.
'Jesus Christ,' I said. 'I know I've lost weight but I must be still around eleven stone. What d'you do for a living?'
'Cut railway sleepers, boss. I can carry one on each shoulder. Charlie, get those packs, and keep your bloody thievin' hands out of them.'
Of course I could have walked, but I was determined to play the injured mystery man part for all it was worth. I was carried into the Nissen hut, which was partitioned into about a dozen open-ended compartments, and placed on a canvas army cot. Harry was lying on a cot in the next stall, still not moving. Charlie put our packs beside me. 'Thanks,' I said. 'Buy you a drink later.'
'Get moving!' Clark was standing in the doorway. 'And get that bloody latrine dug deeper.'
The man who'd carried me shot me a wink before he left the hut. Clark's boots rang on the cement slab floor.
'Those are natives, in case you didn't notice. They are not permitted to consume alcohol.'
'Clark, you're a pain in the bum. Where's the bloody MO?'
Knowing the lingo, and being a military malingerer from way back, helped. Clark still looked as if he'd prefer to boot me in the head a few times rather than answer my questions, but caution was getting the better of him. 'Be along shortly,' he muttered.
Across the aisle from me a few other beds were occupied. The men lay alarmingly still under mosquito nets.
'What's the matter with them?' I asked.
'Combination of fever, booze and bludging.'
I was looking forward to dealing with a higher, and hopefully more sympathetic, power than Corporal Clark. It was very hot in the tent and I was sweating freely. My head ached and my feet were sore. Lying on a clean army blanket brought home to me how dirty I was. Suddenly, I itched everywhere. 'I need a bath.'
'That's probably the first true thing you've said.' Clark chuckled at what he evidently thought was a cutting witticism. Then his metal-tipped boots were clanging on the concrete again and he was snapping a salute.
'At ease, Corporal. You'll damage your spine banging your feet down like that.'
A tall, thin man sauntered into the hut. He wore a khaki shirt with badges of rank, moleskin trousers and a red tie. His officer's cap was worn on the back of his head with the peak well off-centre. He carried a stethoscope in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. He crossed straight to Harry's cot and I lost sight of him.
'He's a Japanese prisoner of war,' I said loudly. 'My prisoner, actually. He is exhausted, has scurvy and infected wounds and he's been bashed by Corporal Clark and his bully boys, who will be sorry they did so.'
'Shut up!'
I lay back on my cot and did as I was told. I heard vaguely recognisable sounds—clothes being stripped away, boots being removed, Harry's harsh wheezy breath, the click of a cigarette lighter. I drifted into sleep despite my aches and pains. I woke up to the feel of a cool hand on my forehead.
'How's Harry?' I said.
'Your Nipponese companion I take it? Commendable concern for the enemy. He'll be all right. He needs rest and vitamin C. Neither is a priority of the military authorities, however.'
'Who're you?'
'You're sadly out of touch. I'm the conchie doctor. Lieutenant Barrymore Crawford, at your service.'
I closed my eyes. 'No-one in Australia's called Barrymore. Can't happen.'
'Wrong, but that's by the by. Let's take a look at you. Hmm, nasty crack on the head. Clark's work unless I miss my guess. Willy Johnson says he carried you in on account of sore feet. D'you think you could take your boots off? I must say, old chap, you're rather gamey.'
'So would you be, if you'd been out in the bush for two weeks.' I forced myself to sit up and unlace my boots. I kicked them off and let Dr Crawford remove the socks. The process took some skin with it and I groaned.
'Courage, courage. Very nasty. You're going to lose a couple of nails at the very least. No actual toes, I'd say, given a bit of luck.'
'Terrific. Have you got drugs, you know, sulphur powder, whatever?'
'It's easy to see you've been exposed to Americans. We do our best, Australian style.'
'Jesus,' I said. 'I remember Australian style. A few of my aunts and uncles died from it.'
'We've moved on,' Crawford said. 'A little. I think I hear the approach of our leader. Which hand do you salute with, the left or the right? I can never recall.'
'The right,' I said.
Crawford butted his cigarette on the concrete.
'Conformity never interested me.' He stood as an officer entered the hut, and saluted smartly with his left hand. He held the stethoscope in it. The instrument dangled in front of his face.
6
The officer was middle-aged, red-faced and wearing a major's pips. 'You're a fool, Crawford.'
'Yes, sir. Very good, sir.'
'If you weren't a good doctor I'd have you digging latrines with the coons.'
'With the who, sir?'
The major turned purple; he raised his swagger stick as if to hit the doctor, but managed to restrain himself. 'The coons, the darkies, the niggers,' he shouted.
'Ah, yes. The native assistants. I remind you, Major Gordon, that I have agreed to perform only medical duties. I regard any other tasks I may perform as optional. I would prefer not to shovel shit, although I suppose such an activity could be construed as medically related if . . .'
Major Gordon ignored the doctor and beckoned to Clark, who was standing stiffly by the door. 'Corporal, who are these men?'
Clark rattled off a few sentences about 'apprehended in an armed condition' and 'belligerent intent' as if he was quoting from some manual. He finished with, 'Seems confused as to his identity and nationality, sir.'
'Both men are suffering from exhaustion and infected lesions,' Crawford said. 'They are therefore—'
He was interrupted by one of the patients on the other side of the hut throwing a fit. He shouted and heaved, tearing down the net and upsetting his cot. Crawford rushed across to restrain him. Clark moved to help him but the major gestured with his stick.
'Stand your ground, Corporal. I'm sure the doctor can cope and, if not, he can summon a couple of his Abopals. Did you say these men were armed?'
'Yes, sir. The Jap carried a revolver and the other one had a Colt .45 automatic. Both fully loaded.'
'Not quite,' I said. 'One round from
the revolver was used to kill a snake. The Jap, as the Corporal calls him, saved my life.'
Gordon's colour had returned to normal, which was several shades lighter than a plum. He looked down at me; from my angle he appeared to have two faces—the original one, small-chinned and piggy-eyed, was encased in a thick layer of fat. He smiled, showing bad teeth. I'll swear I could smell his breath. 'Really?' he said. 'How comradely. I thought a soldier's purpose was to kill the enemy. I have to conclude, from this talk of pistols and snakes, that you and the Jap did not consider yourselves enemies.'
I shook my head. 'We were trying to survive. We called a truce.'
'How interesting. You called the war off while you played games in the bush, did you?'
Clark coughed. 'He was wearing US military identification, sir, and parts of an Australian officer's uniform.'
'Brigadier general, actually,' I said, trying for the Flynn effect again.
It didn't cut any ice with Gordon. Being one, he knew that no officer would let himself deteriorate into my condition. 'Inquiry at 2100 hours,' he snapped. 'Cooler for now.'
Crawford had re-joined us. 'I must protest. These men are ill.'
'Patch 'em up then, and do it quickly. But if you think I'm going to leave an enemy alien and a suspected spy to loll about in this hotel suite of yours, doctor, you've got another think coming. One hour. See to it, Corporal.'
'Sir!'
Crawford winced as Clark turned and slammed his boots down before making his exit. 'Sorry, old chap. The major is a complete idiot, of course. Voice of a lion, heart of a mouse, that sort of thing. Now, let's see what we can do for you two.'
He busied himself, with the help of an Aboriginal orderly, cleaning and dressing our wounds, sponging us down and getting us both shaved. Harry was still groggy but he managed a few feeble grins when I told him where we were.
'Banzai,' he said.
Clark arrived on the hour to the second.
'Prisoners to be conveyed to detention, sir.'
'Very good, Clark. Where are the stretchers?'
'Stretchers, sir?'
'Stretchers. These men cannot walk. Did I or did I not treat you for tinea some weeks back? And did you not take several days sick leave? These men have not had the benefit of showers and clean socks, unlike yourself. If you managed to get putrid rot between your toes, how d'you think they've got on?'
