The Persimmon Tree (84 page)

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 are 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.

Seeing Mary seemed to somewhat ameliorate the hurt of Marg. They were not to be compared and I don’t mean that in a derogatory way. They were simply different women. Marg Hamilton turned me into a man, first gently, then wonderfully and stridently, demanding as much as she gave. The Virgin Mary was full of the contradictions of her working-class background and her Catholic faith, giving selflessly as much as she could without tearing the cellophane from the sheets in her glory box.

In fact I had lost both of them, one to my superior officer and the other to the Mafia. There wasn’t a whole heap of my immediate past left, come to think of it; not much of my distant past was there either. But, as always happens, no sooner do you think the past is gone forever when it returns to bite you in the bum.

The note delivered to the hospital by a military dispatch rider, who didn’t leave his name, simply read:

Hiya, Hero! Call me urgent! Bris. 9287. Ask for Petty Officer Kevin Judge.
If yer cain’t call, write to Navy Procurement Office, Turbot St, Brisbane.

Your best buddy,

Kevin

P.S. Brisbane is in Queensland but I ain’t seen the fuckin’ queen yet.

Making a phone call from the hospital wasn’t easy. The phones, only two of them, were in the corridors, there was always a queue of patients lined up and you had to have the exact amount of money to put in the slot. Frankly, it was a pain in the arse. I figured the little bloke, whose petty officer title seemed to me about as jumped up as my promotion to lieutenant had been, probably worked in a warehouse at the US procurement depot. They’d have to find him and then I’d run out of change and there’d be the usual tongue clucking and ‘Shake a leg, mate’ going on, with the queue growing longer by the minute. So I decided to write. The big mystery was how Kevin’s note to me came to be delivered in Melbourne by a military dispatch motorcyclist, whereas mine would probably be opened by the censor and take ten days to arrive. That’s the strange thing about wartime. In the attempt to speed everything up, everything slows down.

In the ten days that passed before I heard from the little bloke again I received a note from Marg Hamilton asking if she could visit. I’d recovered a little emotionally and didn’t want to appear churlish, so I swallowed hard and wrote back to say I’d be glad to see her. I told myself once again that I had absolutely no right to feel aggrieved. Marg had handled everything, as usual, with complete decorum. I was the sulky bugger with the chip on my shoulder.

Nurse Parkes had arranged for two lounge chairs (heaven knows where she found them) to be brought into the alcove and I sat in pyjamas and dressing-gown, reading. There wasn’t a great deal of choice in the hospital library, which consisted largely of books left behind by previous patients. I’d selected a Raymond Chandler novel. I forget its title, but I recall I’d just read a sentence that brought me back to reality in the context of Marg’s visit: ‘Dead men are heavier than broken
hearts.’
I was still alive and kicking, my heart was still pumping and I was about to turn nineteen. I guess my life wasn’t entirely over.
For Christ’s sake, pull yourself together, Nick
,
I silently urged.