The Story of Danny Dunn (10 page)

Danny found that he enjoyed the company of his father and was constantly surprised at Half Dunn's grasp of the war and the significance of news from the front. He persuaded his old man to take some exercise, and while this amounted to no more than a morning walk to the newsagent a third of a mile up Darling Street to fetch the
Sydney Morning Herald
, it represented a major effort on his part. Moreover, the swap from the
Daily Mirror
to the more serious broadsheet was yet another manifestation of Half Dunn's more earnest demeanour. Danny, who'd always taken his cue from his mother, was discovering that there was more to his father than he'd previously imagined. Perhaps, he concluded, his father's ability to construct constant, amusing and inventive bullshit had had the effect of actually sharpening his mind.

The late news on the evening following Billy's visit was particularly woeful, the ABC newsreader impassively reciting a litany of disasters in France and elsewhere. Danny, who had grown increasingly sombre as the day progressed, finally said, ‘Dad, how can I possibly sit on my arse with this going on? I feel like I'm cheating.'

‘Yeah, mate, that's perfectly understandable, but you're not cheating. Like I said this afternoon, it's not so long to go.'

‘That's bullshit, Dad. It could be almost a year! It's a Five Letters call
and I'm not there for my mates. I'm going to join up now . . . tomorrow!'

‘It's Sunday,' Half Dunn reminded him.

‘Yeah, right, Monday then. I've had a gutful.'

‘Danny, I heard what Sky Scraper said to you downstairs. He was pissed – don't take no notice.'

Danny suddenly turned on his father and shouted, ‘Pissed or not, he was fucking right!'

‘Danny! Danny, calm down, mate. You'll bring your mother running,' Half Dunn said in an urgent undertone.

‘Well, why not? Sort it out right here and now.'

‘Yeah? Like the last time?'

Danny sighed. ‘I'm sick of the way people look at me in the street. Last Wednesday I bought a pie and a cup of tea in a cafe on Parramatta Road opposite the uni and this old woman brings it and there's a white chook feather sticking out the top of the pie. “Ma'am, I ordered a meat pie, not a chicken,” I joke.

‘“That's a meat pie, son,” she says.

‘“What's the feather for then?” I ask.

‘“Ask your father,” she says, mouth like a duck's bum. I should have laughed, but I didn't. I lost it . . . I completely lost it! I picked up the pie and hurled it against the wall and then I poured the cup of tea on the floor and walked out. “Don't ever come back, yer bloody coward!” she shouted after me.'

Half Dunn looked down at his hands, then sighed deeply and looked up at Danny. ‘Mate, what can I say? I've always felt like a weak bastard because I didn't join up in the last stoush against the Jerries. They said I was too fat to fight.'

‘Dad, that's a medical reason. I'm not too fat.' He nodded in the direction of Brenda's bedroom down the hallway. ‘She's the only reason I'm not in uniform.'

Half Dunn sighed again. ‘Son, your mother's never going to give her permission. You'll just have to wait until your birthday next year, then you can do what you bloody well want!'

‘No, Dad. I don't want to join up because I hate Mum! Because I don't – I love her. I want to join up now
right
now
, because it's the right thing to do. Last time, when I agreed to finish university, everyone said the war would be over in a matter of months and that we were bound to win. But that hasn't happened, and Britain, we, the allies, we're taking a hiding. There's talk of the Japs joining the war. If they do, we're in deep shit. You know that, you said so yourself. This time it's different. This time Doc Evatt could talk until he was blue in the face and it wouldn't make any difference.'

Half Dunn didn't speak for some time, but when he did it was prefaced by a growl, or perhaps it was a groan. ‘Go down to the post office Monday morning – not the one in Darling Street, or Balmain East, they might tell your mum – go over to Birchgrove, get the parents' permission form and I'll sign it.'

‘Jesus, Dad, she'll kill you!'

‘Yeah, well, maybe. I'm still your father. I might not have been much of a one, but it's time your mother realised it too.'

On Monday morning Danny woke early, though not early enough to beat his mother, who he could hear talking to the early cleaning lady from her office downstairs where she did the accounts first thing, wrote the orders for the day and completed her other office duties. He dressed quickly then walked quietly along the polished wooden corridor towards her bedroom. It was next to Half Dunn's, and he paused to look in through his father's half-open door. Half Dunn lay on his side like a great beached whale in grey striped winter pyjamas. As Danny watched, a small bubble formed at the left corner of his mouth then immediately popped with his next breath. Danny noted that the pillow directly below his cheek was wet with spittle that shone against the side of his cherubic chin.

Danny smiled; his fat slob of a father, now fifty-odd pounds lighter, had come good in the end. He didn't envy him the day that lay ahead, in fact it was going to be pretty trying for them both, but he'd soon be gone and Half Dunn would have to continue to live with Brenda.

Danny moved to his mother's bedroom next door. The bedhead was positioned against the wall between two standard windows, so when she lay in bed Brenda looked directly out of the bedroom door into the hallway, giving her a sense of supervising the affairs of the pub, of being in charge, even while she slept. Set into the wall above the pink silk-shantung padded headboard was a small wall safe. It was where she kept the previous day's takings, and she was probably downstairs stuffing them into a canvas bank bag at that very moment. Brenda trusted no one but herself with the banking.

The safe contained a long thin black box that held his parents' marriage certificate, the contracts for the sale of the pub in Wagga and also for the purchase of the Hero of Mafeking. He picked up a single folded sheet of paper, browning with age, and casually unfolded it to see it was Brenda's final school report card. It showed she'd received a distinction in every subject. At the bottom of the page in fading copperplate script was a handwritten notation:
The best student I've ever had the privilege to teach. It would be a great shame if Brenda were not allowed to continue her schooling.
Linley Horrocks, Teacher.
The final document in the tin proved to be what he was looking for – his birth certificate.

Danny pocketed the certificate and returned the box to the safe, closing it and thumbing the combination to a random set of numbers. As he passed Half Dunn's door his father sighed in his sleep, then with a great creaking of bedsprings, turned onto his back, gave a snort and began to snore.

Shortly afterwards Danny emerged via the back stairs and the beer garden into Darling Street just in time to see the rattler approaching, coming back up from the ferry terminal. He sprinted to the tram stop and hopped aboard, leaving it again at the closest stop to the post office. He walked the remainder of the way, arriving moments after it opened.

He was back at the pub just before opening time and was fortunate enough to catch Half Dunn alone, polishing the wooden surface of the main bar. Brenda was out the back supervising the unloading of a beer delivery.

‘You'll need your birth certificate,' he said to Danny.

‘Yeah, thanks, Dad. I've got it.'

‘Haven't changed your mind?'

‘No, of course not!' Danny put his hand on his father's shoulder. ‘Thanks, Dad. This isn't going to be easy for you, mate.'

Half Dunn smiled sadly. ‘Never has been, never will be. Your mother isn't an easy woman, son.' He sighed. ‘But there you go, it's done now.'

Danny arrived at the army recruiting centre at one o'clock, a wooden hut in Martin Place directly over the underground toilets, hence the immortal expression, ‘Mate, I'm in Shit Street.' Inside the hut, around a dozen young blokes were waiting.

At last it was Danny's turn to stand in front of the recruiting sergeant's desk. The heavy-set military man looked up as he handed Danny a form. ‘Well, well, first gollywog all day. When'd you last have a haircut, son?'

Danny grinned. ‘Never known a barber's clippers, sir.'

‘Not sir! Sergeant! Well, take my word for it, son, you won't be fighting in this army with that haircut.'

‘Cutting it is fine by me, sergeant,' Danny replied, grinning. ‘But I'm afraid you'll have to ask my mum's permission.'

The recruiting sergeant didn't react, though the slight smile indicated he bought the joke. ‘Army's about the only place where your mum's permission isn't needed, except if you're not yet twenty-one, of course.'

‘I'm not, but I have my dad's permission, sergeant.' He handed over the permission form along with his birth certificate.

The recruiting sergeant glanced at both, noting that Danny was about a year shy of his majority. He looked up in some surprise. ‘Couldn't wait any longer, eh? Well, your timing's perfect. We're raising a new division – the Eighth.. You can get in on the ground floor.' He pointed to a row of desks. ‘Fill in the form and bring it back here.'

Danny, having completed the form, once again stood in front of the recruiting sergeant. ‘At university, eh?' He looked up. ‘Two further choices. You can defer or apply for officer training.'

‘Neither, sergeant, I just want to get on with it.'

‘Good on ya, son – it's your call. Come back at two o'clock for your medical. Shouldn't be a problem – you look pretty fit.'

By late afternoon Danny had completed the paperwork and had been to Victoria Barracks for his medical examination. He was instructed to return to the Barracks the following day to be sworn in before being transported to the military training camp at Wallgrove, an hour's journey to the west of Sydney.

On his way home to Balmain he detoured to Birchgrove, to Helen's house. She was at home alone when he arrived and they went into the garden. She sat on the swing hanging from the branch of a gum tree that stretched high over the back fence. The birds had begun their evensong and the winter afternoon was drawing to a close.

Danny broke the news to Helen, not quite knowing what to expect. They'd only been together a couple of months and there was a whole heap of stuff he still didn't know about this tall pretty blonde wasting a first-rate brain on Egyptian hieroglyphs. For instance, to his utter bemusement, she was excited about doing her doctorate on mummy bandages.

Helen kicked the swing into motion but said nothing. ‘Well?' Danny asked after a few moments. The swing made a creaking sound as it moved back and forth, the rope having burnt a polished groove into the branch from years of friction. Helen placed her feet on the ground, skidding to a dusty halt. She squinted up at him. ‘Just as well I know now, or I could have ended up marrying a bloody fool.' She released a hand from the swing rope and waved it dismissively at Danny. ‘Go on, piss off, Danny Dunn!'

‘Hey, wait on!' Danny protested. He'd never heard Helen swear or use such a common expression. No bird had ever treated him like this. She didn't even seem unduly upset at losing him. ‘It's my duty to my country,' he added self-righteously, unaware of how pompous this must sound to her.

Helen sighed and rose from the swing. ‘For God's sake, spare me the scene from a bad melodrama, Danny. You're the little boy marching down the garden path with his popgun over his shoulder. There's the postie. Bang! Bang! Bang! The postman's dead! Don't expect me to play that silly game, to think of you as a hero, doing your bit for king and country! The ever-faithful sweetheart, waiting at her candlelit bedroom window for her soldier boy to return. Because I won't be! What you're doing is woefully stubborn and stupid!' She walked up to him and took him by the hand. ‘Come!' she demanded.

‘What now?' Danny asked, confused, holding back. ‘You just told me to piss off.'

‘You might as well know what you're going to miss before you go,' she said archly, pulling at his arm.

‘But . . . but . . . ah, aren't you . . . you know, a . . . ?'

‘Virgin? Don't be such an arrogant prick!'

TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY
men – mostly but not exclusively Australian prisoners of war – had gathered at the camp gate, not knowing what to expect, or for that manner what to do if it were suddenly flung open and they were free to leave. Did they march to Bangkok, leaving behind those mates too sick or fearful to fend for themselves? Or did they sit tight and wait? Freedom, coming so unexpectedly, had completely flummoxed them.

That morning, when they'd received double rations for breakfast, they immediately thought that the Japs wanted something they couldn't beat out of them, but what that might be was pure speculation. The prisoners had become accustomed to the irrational behaviour of the enemy and had long since given up trying to guess their motives for doing just about anything. They had simply reached the conclusion that the oriental and occidental minds work very differently. But the double rations had heralded the appearance of the Japanese commandant, Colonel Mori, at
tenko
or rollcall, a highly unusual occurrence. Without any fanfare or fuss and with not the least show of emotion he'd simply announced, ‘War over! Japan
suwenda
! All men now
flends
! All men go home!' Then he snapped a salute and returned to his office. It was as if everything was perfectly normal, and it was this sense of the ordinary that confused the prisoners – nothing and everything had suddenly changed.

Soon after the announcement, Lieutenant Hiro, who had been in charge of the airport work gangs, walked up to Danny. As his right hand automatically rose to his forehead, Danny realised that he need no longer salute the Japanese soldier. At the same moment, he understood that the announcement of peace must have had a similarly profound effect on the Japs, who, with the exception of two guards who remained at the gate, had abandoned their normal duties and passively returned to their barracks to wait their turn to be incarcerated. They were no longer members of a master race with the power to inflict random and cruel punishments on those they regarded as their inferiors. The sudden loss of authority must have caused them to feel as strangely dispossessed and ambivalent as the Australian prisoners of war now felt with their newfound liberty and power.

Lieutenant Hiro unsmilingly addressed Danny in Japanese. One of the main reasons Danny had been a successful negotiator was because he'd taken the trouble to learn the enemy's language, down to the argot the guards used. As far as it was possible for an Occidental, he understood their peculiar way of thinking, which had often saved the men under his command from needless punishment and bloodshed. ‘
Watashitachi wa kore kara tomodachi ni nareru yo
[We can be friends now],' Lieutenant Hiro said, and offered his hand to Danny.

‘Sore wa zettai ni muri da yo
[That will never be possible],
Hiro-san
,' Danny replied, ignoring his hand.

The officer, showing not the slightest reaction, announced in Japanese, ‘No more work. All Japanese go to barracks.' He proffered a small bunch of keys. ‘Rice store house . . . also
Led Closs
.'

‘Red Cross?' In the time they'd been in captivity they'd received just one Red Cross handout, each box to be shared between four men. Danny knew that as prisoners of war they were entitled to receive one Red Cross parcel per man per month. Initially there had been six hundred prisoners in the camp . . . He did a rough calculation, using forty months of captivity instead of forty-two, that was 24 000 Red Cross food parcels, less the 150 they'd distributed. The bastards had stolen well over 23 000 parcels.

‘
Led Closs
box,' Lieutenant Hiro explained.

‘How many?'

‘Many. Maybe four hundred, maybe more.'

‘Jesus!'

Danny knew it was pointless asking him what had happened to the remainder. Hiro snapped to attention and bowed, then turned and marched briskly towards headquarters. Danny pocketed the keys, deciding that rather than distribute the Red Cross parcels, he'd tell the head cook, Corporal Alan Phillips, about them and instruct him to include the food content in the men's daily rations. The other items, such as writing paper and pencils, sewing kits and cigarettes, would be issued to the men as they left the mess hut, each with a dixie can containing something more than just boiled rice, edible weeds and a tiny scrap (if they were lucky) of gristly meat.

Alan had been a chef in a Brisbane private school for boys, and ran the prison kitchen staff and the cooks under him with crisp efficiency. He was trusted to dole out precise rice rations to each man, regardless of rank – there could be no exceptions; equal quantities of food were not only a matter of fairness, but also a matter of life and death. Perhaps the most rigid rule of them all was that there could never be any favouritism, and in this, Danny trusted Phillips completely. He also supervised the roster system which ensured that every man in the camp got his turn for an occasional extra helping from the meagre dollops of rice left in the pots after everyone had received his ration.

Danny moved towards the area of the camp gates where the new masters of the universe, the survivors of three and a half years of imprisonment, were milling around entirely unprepared for the mantle of authority. Most of them were wordless, sunk into themselves, almost uncomprehending; too bewildered to cheer. They were as powerless as ever, unable to decide what to do next.

Starving men who are constantly beaten and mistreated find a space in their heads to which they retreat to lick their wounds. There they repair to summon the mental energy to survive. All of them had learnt to treat every unanticipated event with passive, incurious resignation: a severe beating inflicted on a mate working beside you, a sudden incomprehensible outburst of spit-flecked rage directed at you by a camp guard, or a day's ration withdrawn for some unexplained misdemeanour – all were accepted without comment and with a stoic mindset. All the individual quirks of character had long since been beaten out of them – compassion or any sense of injustice had been buried very deep – and they were, for the most part, hollow men who simply obeyed instructions.

But there are always a few men who manage somehow to keep their heads and not succumb entirely to despair; men who, when called upon, will still reach out to a severely beaten friend and help him to his feet in front of his smirking tormentor, knowing that it could well cost them their own lives. In such circumstances their actions are downright foolish, but for some unknown reason many earn the grudging respect of the enemy and manage to stay alive against all odds.

Among the mob during that first hour of liberation was a prisoner named Paul Jones, known to most of the onlookers as a competent medic in the camp hospital. He now walked towards the flagpole at the entrance to the camp carrying a small rice bag. Jones – nicknamed ‘Spike' after the American bandleader Spike Jones, famous for his demented percussion and crazy satires –
 
was a tiny man further diminished by four years of starvation. Some wag had given him the nickname instead of the ubiquitous ‘Taffy' because in civilian life he'd been a kettle drummer in his colliery brass band. Spike Jones wasn't in any sense made of the stuff of heroes; a quiet, reserved type, you'd have thought he wouldn't have said boo to a mouse. Reaching the flagpole, he placed the bag at his feet, then brazenly began to haul down the Japanese flag, the despised fried-egg symbol that had fluttered so menacingly above their heads during their captivity. When the Japanese flag was finally within his grasp he untied it and dropped it in a heap at his feet.

As the senior NCO and therefore the highest ranking Allied prisoner in the camp, Danny hadn't thought to lower the flag, and felt obscurely ashamed. ‘Well done, Spike!' he called, loping towards the flagpole with several others who had suddenly become aware of what was going on. ‘You've shamed me, mate. Should have been the first thing
I did.' Stooping, he picked up the Japanese flag and handed it to the little Welshman. ‘Make a great keepsake. Pity we don't have one of our own to replace it.'

‘Oh, but that we do, Sergeant Major,' Jones replied, removing a Union Jack from the bag. ‘It's not the Welsh dragon, mind —'

‘Jesus, Spike, where'd you get that? It could've cost you your life!'

‘Two years ago Micky Sopworth, a Geordie lad – miner like meself – gave it to me in the hospital. He was dying of dengue fever. “Fly it when we beat the boogers,” he begged me. I made a false bottom on the bandage bin; with the flag folded flat you couldn't hardly tell the difference.'

‘Go ahead then.' Danny pointed to the Union Jack. ‘Let's get the true colours flying.'

Spike Jones started to tie the flag to the halyard, but he'd been so anxious to unknot the Japanese flag that he hadn't noticed how it was attached. Danny, watching, said, ‘Here, let me. At home we always flew the flag above the pub. I've done it a million times.' Danny swiftly tied the flag that signalled their liberation to the halyard. ‘Okay, haul her up, Spike – No, wait! What the hell am I thinking?' He turned to the men who had gathered around. ‘Sergeant Catterns and Corporal Osmonde, get the men on parade for a flag-raising ceremony, here in front of the flagpole, at the double!'

‘Yes, Sergeant Major!'

Some five minutes later, galvanised into action by the two NCOs, fifty men stood at ease in five rows. Danny barked, ‘Attention!' The men responded as a well-trained group, but most of them were barefoot or wearing sandals made from old rubber tyres, so the coming to attention lacked the percussive effect of hobnailed boots crashing into the dirt. However, it was notable for the earnest expressions on the men's faces. The hated flag had been toppled and now one of their own was about to be raised. This was something tangible they could grasp.

‘I have called you to attention. Next I will call you to the salute. Then Private Jones will raise the Union Jack and we will all sing the national anthem at the salute!' he commanded. ‘Company! Salute!'

Danny snapped a salute and, standing at rigid attention, started to sing.

God save our gracious King,

Long live our noble King,

God save the King.

The men followed, the anthem growing louder as they watched the flag moving up the flagpole, their discordant voices rising to the familiar words so long absent from their lips. It was as if a dark spell had been broken and they began to understand for the first time that they could, on this day and from this hour, once again act as free men.

Send him victorious,

Happy and glorious,

Long to reign over us:

God save the King!

‘Parade! At ease!' Danny addressed the men. ‘The Jack may not be exactly the right flag for most of us, but it sits in the left-hand corner of my own flag and that's good enough for me. I don't know about you blokes, but who'd have thought that after breakfast on what seemed like just another day of moving rocks and sand, we'd be free men? But we are, and now I want us to observe one minute's silence for those of our mates who didn't make it.'

Danny waited until a minute's silence had passed. ‘Right then,
I don't know quite what happens next in terms of our liberation but I'm still responsible for you until then, so I guess it's time for a new set of standing orders. The Japs may have surrendered, but our mob here in the camp are still armed, so do not attempt any retribution. They could as easily kill us all before nightfall if we give them any aggro.' He paused. ‘There will be no trouble. We're going home, so let's not fuck it up now!' Danny waited a moment to let the message sink in. ‘Dismiss!' he called, whereupon some of the men let go a ragged cheer as they broke away, while others simply stood and wept, and some few dropped to their knees and silently prayed.

Danny turned away, smiling and offering his hand to Spike Jones. ‘Thank you, Private Jones,' he said formally. ‘I salute your courage. You're a bloody brave man. I shall see to it this doesn't go unmentioned.'

Jones shrugged. ‘It was a promise to me mate, wasn't it then, Sergeant Major.'

The little medic had broken the evil shackles that had so thoroughly controlled their minds, and Danny now realised that no one, including himself, had yet summoned the courage to walk through the camp gate – a gesture that would symbolise their freedom more powerfully than anything else. The camp gate was an unprepossessing and primitive structure of barbed wire and bamboo, lacking any of the normal fortifications an entrance to a prison compound might have been expected to exhibit. As the senior NCO it was Danny's duty to be the first man out, if only to stroll a few yards down the road and back. He clapped Spike on the shoulder and pointed at the gate, beyond which the two Jap guards stood. ‘Come on, mate, you and me are going to walk through that bloody gate,' he said.

As the two of them walked towards the entrance to the camp, they suddenly became aware of the sound of a motorbike approaching. Danny stopped and turned to the little medic. ‘Wait on; could be the first of the cavalry arriving!' He glanced around and realised that most of the men had spontaneously fallen into formation behind them. They all watched as a military motorcycle with sidecar roared towards the gate and skidded to a halt only a yard or so from where the two Japanese sentries, having laid their rifles hastily at their feet, now stood rigidly to attention saluting.