Browning Battles On

by Peter Corris

  Willy constructed a stretcher out of two groundsheets and some tree branches. We set off back to the helicopter, taking turns to carry the stretcher. I was so tired after the digging I could barely move, but I stumbled along and did my share. No-one spoke on the return trip. Les Desmond's dirty face was streaked by his tears. I noticed that Rutherford had souvenired Okano's knife. I don't know what happened to the sword.

  When we reached the creek Jerry James was standing guard by the helicopter with an Ml carbine in his hands. He lowered it as we approached.

  'Say, that's too bad. What happened?'

  'He died in action,' Les said.

  We loaded Jacko into the helicopter and scrambled up ourselves. Willy had covered him with some calico he had found in Okano's tent. One muddy boot stuck out; the body looked even smaller in death than it had in life. A fly settled on the cloth and Les flicked at it angrily.

  'Let's fuckin' go!' he said.

  Harry stared at me. 'All dead?'

  'Every last one. Mostly suicides. A couple might've starved to death or died of fevers. Okano ripped his belly open.'

  'Mad bastard. He's no loss, but there were some good guys in that outfit.'

  'Jacko was a good guy, too. Okano rigged up a booby-trap that blew him apart. You're not going to be too popular around here, Harry.'

  Harry shrugged. 'What's new? I won too much money today to be popular. Doesn't matter. I hear they're shipping me south in the morning. This fuckin' war, I'm glad to be out of it.'

  We shook hands and I promised I'd write to him in the POW camp. He also gave me some names and addresses in Honolulu to write to.

  'What's next up for you, Dick?'

  'You mean in the long term or tonight?'

  'Long term.'

  'I don't know.'

  'Tonight, then?'

  'I'm going to get drunk.'

  12

  The room was nothing much; it had a rather low ceiling with plain cornices and a small ceiling rose. It had no bathroom, that was at the end of the hall. Nothing special, but it was important to me because it was in the Metropole Hotel in Sydney and it was the same room I'd occupied in 1916 when I'd met Les Darcy and was about to get my start in the picture business. I'd done a flit after starting a fire in the bathroom and then served a sentence in Long Bay gaol,15 but that was all a long time ago. I'd paid my debt to society in that particular instance. No-one would remember me and, anyway, I was registered under a different name.

  The army had flown me down to Sydney almost immediately after the burial service for Jacko Waters. I'd barely had time to say goodbye to Les, Willy and Harry. I got the distinct impression that the army found me an embarrassment and was happy to be rid of me. No objections from yours truly. I'd been transported to the hotel and told my account would be 'taken care of'. Still OK by me. I was told to expect a phone call.

  I cleaned up—no signs of a fire in the bathroom: it had only been a few sheets of newspaper and a towel or two after all—opened the bottle of whisky Barry Crawford had slipped me and waited. Two drinks and a couple of cigarettes later the call came. The uniformed flunkey on the reception desk, who'd raised an eyebrow at my dishevelled, semi-military garb and army issue kit bag—informed me that a gentleman was waiting for me in the bar.

  'Has the gentleman got a name by any chance?' I asked.

  'He simply requested that you come to the bar where he will join you.'

  'More know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows, eh?'

  'Precisely, sir.'

  I took a look out the window before going down. It doesn't do to jump through hoops for people you don't know. Sydney had changed enormously in the past quarter century. For one thing it was full of motor cars. Stupidly, I'd always thought of it as a horse-drawn town the way it had been when I knew it well. And then there was the bridge. I couldn't see it from the hotel, but I had seen it on the way in and it had made a big impression. I hadn't realised that Australians were capable of such a feat of engineering. The sight of it took away any feelings I might have had about being back among the rubes.

  I straightened my clothes and brushed my hair. Too long and too much grey showing, have to do something about that, I thought. I pocketed the packet of Senior Service, also a gift from Crawford, and went down to the bar. I admit that I was feeling cautious, if not downright apprehensive. Here I was, without possessions, cash, a passport or any credentials, living in a hotel on army tick that might cut out at any moment. Not for the first time, I cursed the fact that I'd got too drunk and was too hungover to ask for the American documents Lindsay Talbot had found in my bag. All you can do is play the cards you've got, but it's a bit hard when you don't know what they are.

  I marched into the bar, head high, shoulders back, and looked around. It was late afternoon, too late for the lunch crowd, too early for the after-work drinkers, and the place was almost empty. A man sitting at the bar must have seen my reflection in the mirror he was facing. He got up and moved towards me with his hand outstretched. He was a military type, medium tall and sparely built, but not in uniform. His hair was brushed flat to his skull and he wore a clipped moustache. His shoes were highly polished and he sported a fob watch, which was a style that had almost gone out of fashion. He looked to be about my own age, perhaps a fraction older. There was something vaguely familiar about him or perhaps about his tie . . .

  'Mr Kelly, I presume?'

  'That's right.'

  We shook hands. His grip was firm.

  'And you are . . .?'

  'Forgive me.' His hand shot out and he produced a card like a conjurer. 'Oliver Featherstonhaugh. I know it's been a long, long time, but I recognised you instantly.'

  I looked at the card. On it was printed Oliver Featherstonhaugh, MBE, and some letters which meant nothing to me.

  'I'm sorry. I have a feeling we've met but I'm afraid I don't . . .'

  He smiled, showing expensive-looking false teeth, slightly stained by tobacco. His hand moved up to his neck. 'Surely you recognise the old tie.'

  'Jesus Christ,' I said. 'Dudleigh Grammar.'

  'Your speech is American, Dick. Understandably. Given that, perhaps I should say something like, "Class of 1912"?'

  His American accent was atrocious but it didn't reduce the cold chill that shot through my heart. I remembered him now. 'Oily Feathers' we used to call him, on account of the hair that stuck up on the crown of his head despite his attempts to plaster it down with various kinds of goo. Well, there was still something oily about him, but only in his manner. In appearance he was sleek and self-satisfied. He reminded me a little of George Raft, who was a guy I always tried to stay on the right side of. Make an enemy of Georgie, and you could bet that something unpleasant would happen to you sooner or later.16

  I grabbed his hand again and wrung it. 'Oliver! How good to see you after all these years. My word, you do look well.'

  A slightly pained look crossed his disciplined face. There was something very alarming about his level gaze and the set of his thin mouth. 'You look rather the worse for wear, Dick,' he said. 'But pretty good, considering.'

  Considering what? 'Let's have a drink.' I moved towards the bar. 'What're you having?'

  'Scotch and soda.'

  'Make it two,' I told the barman. 'Doubles.'

  The drinks came quickly. 'That'll be five and sixpence, thank you, sir.'

  I reached for my wallet, then remembered. 'Er, ah, I understand my bill is being paid by . . .'

  The barman cleaned an ashtray with a practised flick and set it in front of Featherstonhaugh. 'Not the bar bill, I'm afraid, sir.'

  'Awkward,' I said. 'You see, Oliver, the fact is I . . .'

  Featherstonhaugh detached a pound note from his wallet. 'We'll knock that down, I shouldn't wonder. Keep an eye out.'

  'Yes, sir.' The barman laid the note on the till and slid the drinks across.

  'Let's take a table, Dick, and have a jolly good chinwag.'

  He picked his dark Homburg up off the bar a
nd we moved through the bar to a table near the window. I carried the drinks and, although I resented it, I couldn't help admiring the way Featherstonhaugh had put me in the subservient role. When we were seated he took a sip of his drink without offering a salutation.

  'Great days at Dudleigh, weren't they?' he said.

  In fact they'd been hellish. Every subject except languages, at which I had a bit of a flair, bored the life out of me, and the rugby hearties and fast bowlers always seemed bent on committing at least one manslaughter before their schooldays were over.

  I lifted my glass. 'Great days. You were a prefect as I recall.'

  'I was, and you were expelled.'

  'Well, you know, there was a misunderstanding, and people were rather straitlaced back then.'

  'You cheated at cricket. Bet on the other side and contrived to lose a match.'

  Bugger this. I thought. It was a long time ago and the world has torn itself apart twice since. Besides, what was bodyline all about if not cheating?17 'I was learning to live by my wits, Ollie,' I said, 'and I've done pretty well at it since. Chummed up with Errol Flynn and so on.'

  'Have you, indeed? Well, according to my information, you've scraped along in the film business, more or less on your uppers. Various problems with the FBI and the immigration authorities and a spell or two in gaol.'

  That was true enough, I reflected, as I drank my whisky. Of course, there are two sides to every story, and he hadn't mentioned my military service in Mexico or my stints in the Canadian Mounties and armed forces. Still, perhaps that was for the best. I've never fitted well into large organisations. I flicked my Zippo and lit a Senior Service without offering him one—two could play at this fuck-you-Jack game.

  'We can't all lead sheltered lives,' I said. 'You weren't exactly born with a silver spoon in your mouth, Ollie. Scholarship boy if memory serves. How have you been getting along?'

  He took out a silver cigarette case, selected one from the upper layer, which appeared to contain a different variety from the lower, and lit it with a monogrammed gold lighter. 'I had a good war,' he said. 'North Africa, picked up a DSO, got on the Staff and toddled along from there.'

  I puffed smoke. 'Good for you.'

  'Weren't in that show, were you . . . Kelly?'

  Easy does it, Dick, I thought, don't let him needle you. 'I was in it,' I said. 'I was at Passchendaele, which was a hell of a lot hotter a spot than North Africa, I can tell you.'

  He flicked ash onto the floor. He'd hardly touched his drink but I'd almost finished mine. 'I dare say. That's where we encounter what you might call a gap in the records. No sign of your military service in the first show.'

  'My parents were opposed. I used another name.'

  'Which was?'

  I'd had enough of this. I stubbed out my cigarette, lit another and waved to the barman. 'I'd rather not say. What's your game, Oily?'

  It just slipped out but the change that came across his face was remarkable. The too-straight teeth were clenched; the bristly moustache twitched violently and a nerve in the right side of his face began to jump. After all these years, he hadn't lived the nickname down. 'The boy is the father of the man', as the saying goes.18 His knuckles whitened as he clenched the glass. He leaned closer to me and I could smell his hair oil. 'It may interest you to know I hold the rank of colonel in Military Intelligence,' he hissed. 'And believe me, Mr Kelly, you are in big trouble.'

  It was hard to take him seriously because, suddenly, he was the butt of schoolboy jokes again—old Oily Feathers, the rumpled, plumpish scholarship boy who sucked up to the teachers. The barman brought the drinks and I forced myself to relax as I took a judicious pull on mine.

  'I hardly think so, Oliver. I think if you consult with the Americans, you'll find that I'm in good standing with them and with their opposite numbers here.'

  'That was true, but since your untimely death, I'm afraid all those bets are off.'

  'Death? What d'you mean, death? I'm sitting here, aren't I? Drinking at your expense.'

  'For the time being. The problem is, you are now an embarrassment. I need hardly say that the ridiculous idea of the film has been scrapped.'

  'Why?'

  'Have you been following the war news?'

  'I've been lost in the bloody jungle. How could I follow the war news?'

  'Yes, well, we'll get on to that. Walls have ears and so on, but you don't need to be a military genius to see that it's only a matter of time.'

  'For what?'

  Featherstonhaugh glanced around before he spoke. The nearest person was twenty feet away. He put his hand up to his face just in case the guy was a lip-reader. 'For MacArthur to fulfil his promise. "I will return." D'you follow me?'

  I did. If MacArthur was about to land in the Philippines, the diversionary film was a dead duck. As an old Hollywood hand, used to movie ideas falling over like ninepins, this was only a temporary setback. Image was everything and surely I had the cards to play. I sipped my drink and stroked my moustache, a much more impressive growth than Featherstonhaugh's effort. 'I'm sure I can find something, Oliver. After all, I survived a plane crash, brought out a Japanese prisoner, returned to the scene, saw a brave man die right beside me, that sort of thing.'

  'None of that's going to get out.'

  'Don't you believe it. A word to one of the scribes in Sydney and

  He smiled. 'Have you ever heard of a 'D notice'?'

  'No. What's that?'

  'It's an informal agreement between the newspaper editors and the authorities that certain matters, not in the national interest, shouldn't be made public. You don't imagine we want Australians to hear about a company of Japanese soldiers running around loose in Queensland do you?'

  'It was hardly a company. More like a platoon, and the poor buggers starved to death and shot themselves.'

  'Still, bad for morale. You can't hope for any kudos from your part in that business, Dick. Sorry.'

  'What the hell am I going to do?'

  I got the distinct impression that this was the moment he had been waiting for. He treated himself to another gasper and took another pull on his drink. 'Bit tricky, isn't it? No passport, no papers, citizenship very much in doubt.'

  'I'm an Australian.'

  'Really? Well then, no problem. You simply produce a birth certificate—Richard Kelly, born blah blah, eighteen ninety whatever it was, and we'll take it from there.'

  'You know very well my name's not Kelly. I can get a birth certificate as Richard Kelly Browning easily enough.'

  'Good, and a discharge from the 1st AIF?'

  'I told you about that.'

  'So you did. What about a tax clearance?'

  'I haven't earned any money in this country for twenty-five years.'

  'It's not as simple as that, old boy. The government wants a cut of whatever you earned anywhere, especially since you've been such a big star in Hollywood.'

  All very distressing. I gulped my drink down and looked around for a refill, but Featherstonhaugh was showing signs of getting ready to leave. 'What do you really want of me?' I asked.

  'Revenge, I suppose,' he said casually. 'When your picture came to us via the Americans, I recognised you immediately and volunteered to meet you.'

  'Revenge?'

  'You and your kind made my life a misery at school.'

  'It was a long time ago.'

  'It was yesterday!'

  'You've done well since.'

  'Have I? I've got a boring office job. I live in Ashfield with a dull wife and five brats while you've been charging around the world having fun for thirty years.'

  'It hasn't all been fun.'

  'No? How many women have you slept with?'

  I cast my eyes up to the roof at the pathetic question but he misinterpreted the action.

  'See? You can't even count them. My score is one. Now d'you see why I hate you?'

  Mad as a snake and dangerous with it. I couldn't think of anything useful to say. 'What about another d
rink?'

  'No. You've done all the drinking at the public expense you're going to do. I'll strike a bargain with you. Clarify the matter of your military service and I'll see about getting you a passport and a tax clearance.'

  I couldn't do it. As Hughes, I'd deserted the army and had probably killed a man. I shook my head. 'I'd have to think about that. How long have I got here on the slate?'

  He shrugged. 'A day or two, I imagine. I'll give you the same. You've got my card. Give me a ring when you're ready. Meantime, I'll do a bit of checking. I'm intrigued.'

  All bad news. He'd recovered his aplomb but that gave me room to play on his vanity. 'Er, Ollie,' I slapped my pockets for emphasis, 'you wouldn't be able to lend me a tenner, would you?'

  He produced his pigskin wallet again and took out a five pound note. He dropped it on the table, picked up his hat and left without saying another word.

  13

  Not an enviable situation. I wandered back to my room in a state of considerable distress, racking my brains to think of someone in Sydney I could turn to for help. There was no-one. I'd never kept in touch with my family and the only news I'd had of them was via solicitors, forwarding documents for signature and advising me of minor legacies or outstanding debts. These letters had gone in the waste paper bin or the fire and I couldn't remember the names of any of the lawyers. My ex-wife lived 500 miles away in Melbourne, and even that was a shade too close.

  Featherstonhaugh was wrong when he said I didn't have any papers. True, I had no passport. The Americans had said that could be fixed when I got to Australia. I did, however, have my discharge papers from the Canadian army and a letter from my agent, Bobby Silkstein. I'd got the letter just before leaving Burbank and had shoved it in my bag without reading it. I seldom read Bobby's letters because they were usually about what a great agent he was and what a lousy actor I was. It's a measure of how desperate I was for human contact that I uncrumpled the letter and spread it out on the bedside table. It was getting dark and the room was dim. I turned on a lamp and read:

  Dear Dick

  I know you won't read this until you're in Australia, you lazy bum, you. But I just wanted you to know that here at the agency we're all real proud of what you are doing. Also, when you get back, you can name your part—Charisse's legs, Russell's tits, Grable's ass. Hah, hah.