Browning Battles On

by Peter Corris

  A tall bottle-blonde in a tight red dress grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the wall. His slack, self-pitying expression changed to one of ardent interest as he picked up the beat and slipped into an easy foxtrot. There never was a man like Peter Finch for doing what was expected of him.

  I danced a decorous rhumba to Guy Lombardo with Muriel, and just as well it was sedate because my ribs were still sore from the beating. Then I went out onto the balcony for a smoke. Strange how we go out into the fresh air to pollute ourselves. There were a few people standing around, leaning against the rails and getting their second wind. I lit up, tossed the match out into the void and stared towards the water. Suddenly, I heard Harry's chuckle. He'd come out onto the balcony with a short, fat man who was having trouble keeping upright. Harry steered him to a beer keg that was a casualty of the festivities. If I hadn't known better I'd have thought Harry had sexual designs on his companion. He kept his arm around his shoulder longer than was necessary and bent over solicitously so as not to miss a word he said.

  I strolled over. 'Having a good time, Chow?'

  'I'll say I am.' Harry straightened up and winked at me. 'I want you to meet someone, Dick. This is Harvey Beaumont. He's a doctor, aren't you, Harv?'

  It was the doctor I'd met earlier. 'Specialist,' he said. 'Ear, nose 'n' . . .'

  'Throat,' I said.

  'Right. Throat.'

  Harry held a white business card in his hand. 'Harv is thinking of making a trip,' he said.

  I nodded. 'Always a nice thing to do.'

  'Harvey owns a yacht,' Harry said. He jerked his head, indicating that I was to leave. I muttered something about getting another drink and sloped off. Harry kept working, staying in close, filling Dr Beaumont's glass with champagne. He laughed, talked earnestly, then scribbled something on the back of the card. Inside, the party was livening up. There were more dancers and some of them were shouting the words of the songs. Another beer keg had been tapped and the glasses were being filled and emptied rapidly. I couldn't see Finch, but the blue jacket he'd been wearing was still draped over the back of a chair.

  'Looking for Finch?' Ron Randell's hair had fallen out of its customary backsweep and was lying tangled down across the top half of his face. He was very drunk.

  'Not really,' I said.

  Randell pointed to a door. 'In there. Two women. D'you really think I was good?'

  No matter how much I drank I couldn't seem to find the mood. By midnight I was ready to leave and I went looking for Harry. I found him helping the fat doctor down the stairs. Eric Porter was holding the door open.

  'Give me a hand, Dick. Taxi's coming.'

  We bundled Beaumont into the cab and said our goodbyes and thanks to Porter. Harry whistled as we walked towards the ferry. He took the card from his pocket and examined it.

  'The Macquarie Belle, thirty-footer. How's that sound?'

  'Small.'

  'That fat quack's our ticket outa here,' Harry said.

  We talked about it on the ride back to the Quay and Harry convinced me that it was feasible to leave Australia on the yacht in wartime. I forget his arguments; I was too drunk to follow them. Harry's head was crystal clear. He hailed a cab and shoved me in.

  'You go to the flop and pack our stuff. The boat's moored at Rushcutters Bay. I'm goin' to take a look at it. With a bit of luck we can get aboard tonight.'

  Drunk or sober, I was all for getting out of Dowling House. I gave Harry some money and got out of the cab in the Cross. The streets were busy. Well-dressed, well-heeled Americans were swarming in and out of the nightspots and women clung to their arms, enjoying their easy charm and generosity. Bitter-faced Australian soldiers in their heavy, graceless uniforms glared as the Yanks swanned past them. A signals sergeant spat into the gutter as a black GI walked by, high, wide and handsome, with a freckle-faced redhead on his arm. Two of his mates forcibly restrained the sergeant from making a more violent protest.

  I turned into the street and approached Dowling House, thinking of other times I'd used boats to get out of tight spots—the Sternwood to leave Australia in 1919, the Darwin to escape from the LA rum-runners a few years later.37 Two figures, one short, one tall, blocked my way.

  'Hello, Dick,' Robin Barwick said. 'We've been waiting for you.'

  24

  There was nothing to do but go along quietly. I thought longingly of the .45 under the mattress, but who takes a gun to a wrap party? They bundled me into the back of a big Dodge. Henderson did the driving. Barwick did the quiet, menacing part. The only thing to do was pretend enthusiasm. I lit a cigarette and puffed on it aggressively.

  'So, when do we go?'

  'Tomorrow,' Barwick grunted.

  'I hope the uniform fits right.'

  'Shut up.'

  So much for chumminess. We drove west for an hour. Barwick let me smoke one cigarette. When I attempted to light another he took it from my mouth and threw it out the window. It was an uncomfortable drive. The suburbs fell behind and we were in open country. My knowledge of the geography west of Sydney was virtually nil. We were somewhere between the Blue Mountains and the sea. The lights of a small town were visible and I caught sight of a river as we turned off the road onto a dirt track. Henderson put the Dodge's powerful lights on high beam and maintained a steady pace. A kangaroo bounded across the road and there were several thumps as we hit other small, live things.

  A few more turns, with the tracks getting rougher, and we approached a high gate. The Dodge stopped. Barwick got out and opened the gate. We went through into a large open area with sheds arranged around two sides. I saw the words 'Apples and Pears' on the side of one of the sheds as we drove past it. We stopped in front of a low building in which a dim light was shining. Off to the right, looming up in the dark against the moonlit sky, were the massive shapes of ten trucks.

  I was sober now, very sober, also scared. It's amazing how young you can feel when you're having fun and how old when you're not. My bones cracked and my muscles creaked as I climbed out of the Dodge. 'Where are we?'

  'Near Richmond,' Henderson said. He jerked his thumb in the direction we'd come from. 'Base's that way.'

  I rubbed my hands, feigning enthusiasm. 'Jolly good. Well, what have we here?'

  For an answer Barwick shoved me hard in the middle of the back, not far from where he'd recently planted his boot. 'Cut the bullshit. Get in here. We've got some talking to do.'

  I took a step towards the lighted shed. My brain felt as if it was revolving inside my skull and I tried to calculate the angles. I could see figures moving around near the trucks. Ten trucks, at least the same number of men, a space like this—the investment in the job had to be large. And who was the lynchpin? No-one else but yours truly. I judged my distance, swivelled, kept my balance and swung a hard right into Robin Barwick's stomach. Maybe the punch landed a bit lower. The breath left him in a rush and his knees buckled. I shifted stance and hooked at his jaw with a left. I missed, but got him a good clip on the ear. Henderson stood rooted to the spot. I blew on my knuckles as Barwick hunched over, trying to stay on his feet and covering up against another punch.

  'We'll talk,' I said. 'But you bastards need me and you'd better be nice.'

  I strode towards the shed. Henderson trotted after me.

  'You shouldn't have done that. Robin's a good hater.'

  I thought of Errol Flynn. 'So am I.'

  The fibro shed had some decrepit furniture, a fly-spotted light bulb and a number of fruit cases stacked against the walls. I sat down on the solidest chair and lit a cigarette. 'I want some coffee.'

  Henderson gaped. 'We haven't got any.'

  'Get some!'

  'That might take a while, Dick.'

  'Get on to Erskine. He's got clout, you said. He should be able to fix it.'

  Barwick staggered through the door with a pistol in his hand. His normally high-coloured face was chalk white. 'I'll kill you, cunt.'

  'Bang goes your petrol if you do.'
>
  He sagged against the wall and cocked the pistol.

  'He's right, Robin,' Henderson said.

  'He's a piece of shit.'

  'Six foot two and a half, moustache and the voice of a gentleman, guttersnipe,' I said. 'Trot out the uniform and let's hear the plan. No, on second thoughts, I need a sleep. Where're my quarters?'

  Henderson reached out and lowered Barwick's gun with the flat of his hand. 'Take it easy, Robin. There's too much at stake. Maybe I should ring Doug.'

  'No,' Barwick snapped. 'We'll handle it.' He advanced on me and put his pistol in his waistband. 'You can have a sleep, Browning. We'll fix you a shakedown in one of the trucks. You'll be real comfortable, and in the morning you can tell us all about your Chink mate.'

  I tried a masterly sneer, but I fancy it didn't quite come off.

  'Don't get things wrong,' Barwick said. 'We can call this thing off if we have to. And if that happens, your miserable life isn't worth a cat turd.'

  Nice turn of phrase he had, Barwick. I was genuinely exhausted and opted for a dignified silence. They wrangled for a while as I smoked my last cigarette. Then Henderson escorted me out into the dark. I took a long piss into the grass, had a swig from a water canteen and climbed up into the back of one of the trucks. A private soldier holding a flashlight handed me a blanket and a rolled up greatcoat. He pointed the light at a folded tarpaulin lying on the floor. 'You can doss down there, mate.'

  I put the greatcoat down as a pillow, took off my jacket and shoes and rolled myself up in the blanket. The night was warm but I wanted the comfort of the rough wool. I lay there listening to the noises of the night—rustling in the grass, men coughing and grunting, the barking of dogs. I couldn't sleep and crawled to the tray, thinking that I might drop down and make a run for it. A soldier with a blanket over his shoulders was sitting against the rear wheel of the nearest truck. He saw me and raised his rifle in a silent salute. I slunk back to the makeshift bed and tossed and turned until I eventually fell asleep. When I woke up the sun was high in the sky and the back of the truck was like a sauna. I was drenched in sweat and itchy from whatever had been biting me for most of the night. I swore and scrambled down.

  'Gidday,' the flashlight-holder from the night before said. 'Fancy a cuppa?'

  'Coffee,' I said.

  He shook his head. 'Don't know about that, mate.'

  Barwick and Henderson were standing beside the shed. In the daylight the original function of the place was obvious—it had been a collection, storage and loading point for fruit. There was even a fruity smell in the air which I hadn't noticed at night. I hitched up my trousers, worked my shoulders and strolled across towards my 'partners'.

  'Gentlemen,' I said.

  Henderson offered me a cigarette, which I accepted. 'We've got you some coffee, Dick.'

  'Good. I'll need a wash next.'

  'No problem. We've got everything laid on.'

  Barwick spat into the dust and walked away.

  Over the next few hours I drank coffee, got cleaned up and was briefed on the plan. All this was courtesy of Henderson who, I assumed, was acting on instructions from Erskine. Barwick kept out of my way. He was dressed in his army uniform and spent most of the time being unpleasant about the appearance and condition of the trucks. The sky was cloudless and there was no wind. The yard began to smell more and more of rotting fruit and the flies were ferocious. There were plenty of reasons for tempers to fray and Barwick appeared to be taking advantage of all of them.

  The scheme was pretty simple. I, as Lieutenant Colonel Ian Marshall, was to head up the truck convoy due to arrive at the Richmond army base at 1830 hours. My orders were to carry away 10,000 gallons of petrol and Quartermaster Sergeant Barwick was to OK the transhipment.

  'I know Barwick likes to think he's the top dog,' I said, 'but there must be officers in the place he should refer to.'

  Henderson shook his head. 'Matter of timing. The CO won't be there; the 2IC will be off screwing some woman in Richmond and the other officer will do whatever Barwick tells him.'

  We went over it until I had all the moves off pat and was absolutely clear on the timing. Barwick turned up around midday looking hot under the collar and nervous. He was carrying a pressed uniform—shirt, jacket trousers, shoes, the lot. He put them on a chair after brushing away the dust.

  'Thanks a lot, Robin,' I said. 'Looks good.'

  Barwick bustled forward like an angry bull. I gave way until he had me backed up against a wall. He needed a shave, his eyes were red and his breath was foul. 'I don't like you, Browning. I don't like anything about you. I was all for calling this off and getting someone else, but I've been overruled. So you're right, we need you for the operation. But maybe you've already blown it.'

  'What d'you mean? I haven't—'

  'One question. Did you tell that bloody Chink anything about this job?'

  'No,' I said. 'Not a word.' An absolute lie, of course, but I couldn't have survived all the vicissitudes I had so far if I hadn't been able to lie convincingly. And it wasn't as if a light of hope would spring into my eyes at the mention of Harry's name. I hadn't known the location of the army base when I'd told him about the heist, and he had no way of finding me or of doing anything to help.

  Barwick glared up into my eyes. Lucky I had a big height advantage on him. If I'd been any closer to that stinking breath I might have passed out. 'OK,' he said. 'But remember this, if you put a foot wrong I'll cut you down.'

  He meant it and I could see how it would work.

  'Hey, there!' Barwick shouts as I attempt to wriggle out of the business. He shoots me and the trucks get clean away in the confusion. Brave Sergeant Barwick gets a medal for foiling a dastardly robbery. Ne'er-do-well actor Dick Browning lies dead in the dirt clutching a batch of forged army papers.

  'I'll play it straight,' I said.

  Barwick eased himself away. 'You better. Now let's go over it all again. I have to get back to camp.'

  At 1600 hours I was sitting in the cab of the front truck. I was sporting my colonel's uniform and was all spit and polish. The orders were in a briefcase on my lap. My mouth was dry from nervous smoking all day and my nerves were stretched tight. I needed a drink badly but Henderson had forbidden alcohol for all hands until the job was over.

  'Then you can get as pissed as you like. You'll be able to drink that French stuff. Don something.'

  'Dom Perignon,' I said.

  'That's right.'

  That sounded fine but I had grave doubts about my ability to drink anything once we'd got away. Dead men don't drink. These morbid thoughts filled my mind as the truck bounced along the track. The driver was a thin-faced corporal who'd suffered badly from acne not many years before. I tried to engage him in conversation to take my mind off my uneasy bowels, but he responded only in grunts. The convoy and its team looked utterly convincing to me. The trucks were dusty; the soldiers had that blend of slackness and efficiency the army induces. They were a mixture of old and young, unremarkable. Men doing a job. My uniform fitted perfectly and sheer terror had caused me to get my lines off by heart. Perhaps the thing was going to work.

  I fingered my Sam Browne belt and felt the weight of the side-arm, a BSA .45 revolver, unloaded, and about as much use as a breadstick. It was like one of those nightmares—when you're placed in front of an orchestra with a baton and can't read a note of music, or when you're back at school, sitting for a maths examination, and you have trouble with the four-times table. I sweated into the collar and armpits of the starched shirt. I felt like an imitation man, as if my moustache was stuck on and my teeth were false and my swagger stick was really a knitting needle.

  'Gates,' the driver said. 'Got your pass?'

  Suddenly I was calm and controlled in the head, although my guts were rumbling. I felt fatalistic, resigned. I could do it all, and maybe everything would be all right. Maybe the terrible trio would pay up and Harry and I could sail into the sunset on the Macquarie Belle with Dr Harvey Beaumo
nt. Hold that thought.

  The soldier at the gate snapped to attention when he saw me. I handed him one of the papers from the briefcase and he told the driver where to take the truck. We rolled through the gate. I glanced back and saw the other trucks following without hindrance.

  'So far, so good,' I said.

  The driver ignored me. He swung the wheel and brought the truck to a stop in front of what looked like an aircraft hangar. I looked around and noticed that the army base had an aviation feel. Away to the distance, in the fading light, I could see a windsock hanging limply from a high pole. The air was hot and heavy and I sweated harder as we lost the breeze created by the moving truck. I climbed down and looked around, feigning boredom the way officers do. Officers, unlike other ranks, get a lot of help in doing their job. The trick is to expect it and exploit it. The hangar was actually a huge Nissen hut. As I stood there, slapping the soft briefcase against my leg, a small door opened in the front of the building and Robin Barwick stepped out. I could hear the other trucks pulling up behind me and I took a few casual steps towards the sergeant, who hurried across the space between us.

  He snapped a salute. 'Good evening, sir.'

  I returned the salute languidly. 'Evening, Sergeant. Colonel Marshall, Brigade HQ, Nowra. Orders to collect some fuel.' I took my time unzipping the briefcase and extracting the papers. I passed them to him with a slightly shaking hand but managed to avoid dropping my swagger stick.

  Barwick examined the papers. 'Yessir. I'll get a detail to load the drums, sir.'

  I turned away. 'Do that, Sergeant. Hot, isn't it? Any chance of a cup of tea?'

  This was a code to establish that the coast was clear.

  Barwick responded as anticipated. 'I'll see what I can do, sir.'

  He turned away and began bellowing orders to the men who had followed him out of the hangar. A large door rolled up and several fuel drums were rolled out. My driver dropped the tray of the truck and slid down a loading ramp. Barwick and I watched while the first drum was rolled up into the truck.

  I heard a footfall and a metallic click close behind me. I spun around to stare into the barrel of a Thompson sub-machine gun.