Everyone’s on leave today. Nobody asked me my thoughts on the matter, but if they had, I’d have told the brass they’d be mad to give the Americans and the Australian servicemen leave at the same time. They wouldn’t have listened to a small town copper, anyway. Military brass knows it all. Full of piss and vinegar, as far as I can tell.
Nothing bloody changes. Bunch of dills.
My boys and I are prepared. The only saving grace is that the black servicemen won’t be having their leave in Wangamba. It seems that the Americans don’t want their white boys mixing with them, so they’re taking them to a nearby town called Charlie’s Creek instead. Charlie’s Creek is a desert. It makes Wangamba seem like Sydney.
The first men to hit town are the ground crew and pilots from the RAAF: I count at least fifty of them, looking for trouble. The pubs are opening as they drive down the street. Right on time. Thirsty soldiers mean a lot of money in the till. The publicans have shipped in more grog and they’ve employed more staff, but I wonder if they’ve factored in any damage.
Our boys are off the trucks and into the public bar like a mob of eager cattle dogs. Before long, glasses in hand, they’re spilling out onto the footpath. They’re loud, and I’d sooner they kept their drinking inside the pub, but Dora Green’s out from behind the bar and collecting the glasses as soon as they empty, so I cut them some slack.
Soon enough, they move along to the next pub, and we head that way too, just as a bunch of well-fed Australian MPs pull up beside us, ready to grind their axe in public. I’ve got their measure: you can see the pleasure they feel, shoving around the real soldiers. It’s written in bold on each of their faces. Not one of them has seen a moment of combat, yet they’ll all be the ones big-noting themselves after this war’s over to anyone who’ll listen.
I ask myself if we’re the same, the police and the MPs. There’s a big difference between what we do and what they do: we’re all about upholding the law and they’re all about bullying.
I watch their chests swell as they eye off the fliers, and I can see them thinking that the job that they do is somehow more important than that of our pilots. It brings to mind the night that some of the Diggers on the ship home from France grew so sick of the MPs, that they threw two of them overboard in the middle of the Indian Ocean, never to be seen again.
Perhaps I should tell them the story as a warning.
I’m still mulling that one over, when one of them opens the passenger door and hops out, glaring at me and stroking his truncheon. I find it disturbing.
He smirks as he says, ‘There won’t be any trouble around here today, so you might as well have the day off, Sarge.’
I turn my death stare on him. ‘Is that so, Corporal? Well, here’s hoping you’re right.’
His mate pops out beside him, just for good measure.
‘We’ll be taking care of everything around here,’ he snarls.
‘Who? You?’ I put my hands on my hips. ‘Well, the Yanks might have a bit to say about that. Didn’t anyone brief you? The Yanks are running the show now. Looks like you’ll be answering to them.’
The corporal’s taken aback. I’ve put a pin to his balloon.
Bugger him.
‘And just a reminder, Corporal,’ I continue, ‘I am still the law in Wangamba, and you’ll address me as Sergeant Furey. Do I make myself clear?’
He laughs.
Smug bastard, this one is. I slide myself forward, until we’re nearly nose to nose. ‘I would have liked us to cooperate with each other, but apparently you have a problem with that. Just so you know, if you lay a finger on a single civilian, you’ll wish you’d never put on that uniform, son.’ I turn to his mate. ‘And that goes for you, too. Good day.’
I continue my patrol along the street. There are only a few locals doing their shopping; most of them must have stayed home, but there’s a steady stream of excited girls, dressed to the nines, all heading my way. As I stroll past the Swing Time Dancehall with its new sign (American Personnel Only), three jeeps with American MPs on board speed down the street and pull up. The girls stop dead and watch.
Two staff cars stop in front of the Jeeps, and their doors fly open. Reynolds gets out first.
He notices me and signals. ‘We’re about to open the Swing Time, Jack!’ he yells. ‘Come in for a visit once it’s set up. There’s a great band, plenty to eat and drink.’
He spots my confusion.
‘As my guest,’ he continues, ‘you’ll be an honorary American, Jack.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t, Colonel!’ I yell back. ‘I’ve got to keep an eye on the town.’
‘It’s going to be fine, Jack!’
I wave. ‘Maybe later!’
Just then, a convoy of American trucks full of servicemen rattle down the street. Half of them are leaning out and they’re all calling out to the girls and wolf whistling. Some of the girls call back, while others just stand there and giggle. One’s already flashing them a glimpse of her thigh, and I can see trouble ahead.
The trucks come to a stop in front of the dance-hall door, and about a hundred blokes pile out. They’re as excited as sheep let out of the yard, but the MPs push them back into line, snapping at their heels like kelpies. They build a human wall between the men and the girls while I stand around like a stale bottle of piss.
This doesn’t feel like my town anymore.
The band strikes up in the dance hall and the music spills out onto the street. It’s not my cup of tea. A few of our boys poke their heads out of the pub to take a look at the commotion. I watch the American MPs eyeing them off, and say a silent prayer, but it seems that our boys are content for the time being just to get some grog under their belts.
As I head back to the station, I stumble over Snowy parading around in his air raid uniform and his helmet like the boss cocky. He’s appointed himself the town’s Winston Churchill.
‘Expecting any bombs, tonight?’ I ask him. ‘Have you spotted any Jap planes on the horizon?’
‘It’s not a joke, Sergeant Furey,’ he snaps at me. ‘It could happen at any time. We have to be ready.’
Without a wife, he has nothing better to occupy his hours. I’m thinking that perhaps I should introduce him to Vera Anderson.
I ask, ‘No correction to do today then, Snowy?’
He puts on his best schoolmaster frown. He’s recently cultivated a BBC accent, and it’s always good for a laugh. ‘The children can afford to wait for me to mark their homework. Unlike others, I prefer to take my civic duties seriously,’ he chimes, ‘and keep my eyes on the skies.’
‘Well, can you let me know when they’re coming?’
He huffs. ‘I have no time for such frivolity, Sergeant. We’re at war, you know.’
Now he’s got my goat. Unlike Snowy, war and I have had intimate relations. ‘I know what war looks, sounds, smells and tastes like, Snowy, even though you don’t. I had nearly four years of it. You really don’t have to remind me.’
He turns and marches away.
Back at my desk, I shuffle some paperwork as I have a cup of tea and think about the pointlessness of my job. I felt a little jealous of the MPs today, I’ll admit it. There’s something about the camaraderie of warriors that I miss. The MPs had it all in hand, and I have to concede, with no leads on the foundling case and the servicemen behaving themselves so far, there isn’t much for me to do here. So I imagine myself back in the army. I know that Gracie wouldn’t like it, but at my age I wouldn’t be sent into combat. I’d probably get in as an instructor in a training camp down south.
I’m not too old to join up again, am I?
I’m stuck on that thought when Mahoney bursts through the front door like a scrubber bull charging out of the bush.
‘The Australian trucks are on their way. I could see them from the top of the street,’ he pants.
I stand up and grab my cap and we head out. By the time Mahoney and I reach the dance hall, Higgins is already there. The windows are covered so we can’t see in. The girls have disappeared from the street, and I assume they’ve joined the American servicemen inside.
The trucks crawl past the dance hall, and the Diggers spot it and start shouting and whooping. They’re still dressed in their desert kit; they’re lean and tanned from the unrelenting North African sun. The battle’s still written all over their faces. And judging from their faces, it was bloody hard.
The trucks pass the Swing Time and drop the men at the other end of the street.
Bloody fools. That’s not going to stop them heading up this way.
Out front, the American MPs have also noticed them. They suddenly look agitated. One of them takes out his pistol from his hip holster and checks the action. Another one taps his palm with his truncheon.
I turn to face them. ‘I’d put the guns away if I were you, boys. This isn’t the Wild West.’
One of the MPs sniggers and it riles me. He’s a Southerner.
‘We don’t want no trouble neither, Sergeant,’ he drawls.
‘Then let me talk to them when they get here,’ I suggest. ‘They might listen to me.’
‘This is our dance hall,’ he continues. ‘We know how to handle ourselves against this bunch of hounds.’
I’m shaking my head. ‘In case you didn’t know, this bunch of hounds—as you call them—have just defeated the Afrika Korps at El Alamein. They’re seasoned fighters and they’re on home soil. Don’t believe for a minute that they’re going to be afraid of you blokes. Unless you want this place destroyed, I suggest you let them in.’
The first MP whispers to another, and then disappears inside. Moments later, Reynolds wanders out.
‘Everything in order?’ he asks one of the MPs.
‘The Australians have arrived, sir!’ he replies.
‘Well, you know what to do,’ Reynolds says. ‘This is our dance hall and you’re here to uphold military law. This dance hall is American territory. Defend it.’
‘Colonel Reynolds,’ I butt in. ‘May I have a private word?’ I draw him aside. ‘We’re both straight-talkers, Colonel, and you know I have everyone’s best interests at heart.’ I pause and he looks bored. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid, let our boys in, Colonel. They won’t cause any trouble. Treat them with respect and I promise they’ll behave themselves.’
I watch him grow crimson. ‘This is not your call, Furey. Stay out of it, or the next call I make will be to your superior. You appear to have forgotten the chain of command. I’m the officer. I’m in charge of this situation.’
I’m struck dumb for a second. You’re pulling rank? It irks me but I don’t bat an eyelid. ‘Then you’ll be cleaning up the bloody mess. And if any civilians are hurt, you can bet I’ll be the one making the enquiries.’
He steps away. ‘Good day, Sergeant Furey,’ he growls.
I shake my head and walk off, gesturing at Mahoney and Higgins to follow. The bugger’s been trying to butter me up from the moment we met. Since I haven’t wasted any emotion on him, it doesn’t matter the least what he thinks of me. I always suspected there was no sincerity behind Reynolds’s flattery.
I spot dozens upon dozens of Australian soldiers coming up from the other end of the street. The fliers are still working their way down the hill, one pub at a time, and they cheer as the Diggers pass by. I can tell from their war-weary faces that they have their blood up.
The Diggers and the Scots. The angriest soldiers I’ve ever known.
I can just tell by the way they look and the purpose in their stride, that the Diggers already know about the dance hall restrictions. They’re primed and ready to go. Someone’s worded them up. The Australian MPs limp along beside them, clueless, and they’re about as useless as eunuchs in a brothel.
I signal my constables to stop, and we try to make a barrier between the Diggers and the dance hall. Leading the approaching contingent are two sergeants. They’re not interested in curbing the behaviour of the other Diggers.
I step forward. ‘I’m Sergeant Furey!’ I shout. The stone buildings either side of me catch my voice and I’m bloody loud. ‘I’m ex-AIF. I served in France in the last war. Where are your officers?’ I ask.
‘Where do you reckon they are? In the bloody officers’ mess, having a good time,’ one of the sergeants replies, his lip curling. He’s a big muscular man, over six feet. I’m giving away inches in both height and reach. I wouldn’t want to tangle with him in a fight.
‘Those bludgers are having a good time and we’ve been told the Yanks think they run this town.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it.’ I try to reason with him, ‘There are other places you can go to for a good time. You fellas should try the cinema or one of the pubs. They’ll look after you.’
‘Fuck that. We want to go into the dance hall and meet some sheilas!’ he yells back at me. ‘You might be happy the Yanks have taken over, but we’re not going to bloody stand for it, all right? This is our bloody country, and we’re going to do something about it.’
All around him, the Diggers wave their fists and cheer. They push past us. Now they’ve turned into an unruly mob. The Australian MPs have finally realised that they need to do something quick, so they take out their truncheons, stand shoulder to shoulder and try to block their progress. A couple of locals dive in to help them.
‘Halt! You are not to continue any further! If you do, you’ll be disobeying a military direction!’ one of them bellows.
The sergeant bristles. ‘You can stick your military direction, bludger. Where were you bastards when we were at El Alamein? You can go to buggery, you bludging bastard!’ He drops the MP onto the footpath with a single punch to the jaw. The other MPs break rank and start swinging their truncheons, but within a few seconds, they’re all laid out like skittles.
The Diggers push on towards the Swing Time, while the boys and I follow in their wake. I keep trying to talk the sergeant down, but the crowd drowns me out.
They’re nearly at the door of the dance hall.
‘Come on, men,’ I hear myself say, ‘this isn’t the way to solve it.’
The sergeant snaps, ‘This is the only way we know. Go home, Sergeant Furey. We’ll sort this out.’
‘Don’t disgrace the reputation we’ve built!’
He spins around and I’m expecting a punch. Instead, he says, ‘My dad was in the last war. I know what you blokes did. You weren’t angels: you never let the bloody poms push you around.’
‘But it will go on your record, son. I’m directing you to stop, or I’ll have to arrest you.’
‘Bugger off and stick to handing out fines for littering.’ The sergeant laughs as he pushes me away, and I stumble backwards.
Higgins props me up. ‘Mahoney,’ I say, ‘get back to the station and get on the blower. Call the base. Tell them to send their officers and reinforcements, immediately.’
Mahoney runs down the street as fast as he can.
I right myself. ‘Clear the street of any civilians, Higgins!’
He also takes off, blowing his whistle as he runs, flapping his arms and ordering the locals off the street. Further along, Snowy grasps the wrong end again, and I hear his whistle screech as he directs servicemen and civilians alike into the bomb shelter.
It’s not an air raid, you bloody fool!
I trail along to the dance hall, even though I don’t have the faintest idea what I’m going to do once I get there. The Yanks have put up a wooden barricade near the entry and their MPs are now lined up behind it, pistols drawn. I recognise Corporal Hoffman instantly.
The sergeant’s so angry that the veins in his neck stick out. ‘Let us in, you Yankee bastards,’ he roars, ‘or cop a fucking flogging.’
‘This is American territory. You are not American servicemen. You are not permitted in here,’ Hoffman replies. He lifts his pistol above his head and fires a shot.
You’re trying to douse a fire with petrol, you idiot!
The Australians aren’t armed, yet not one of them retreats. A few of them pull their belts off and wrap the heavy webbing tight around their hands, and point the hard brass buckles forward. Others hold them like slingshots.
I know what’s coming, and I also know the best I can do right now is duck down behind a car. If I retreat, I might cop a bullet. They’re all beyond reason. I watch the Diggers run at the barricade and I hear the ping of bullets aimed lower.
‘Halt or I’ll fire straight at you!’ Hoffman’s voice is breaking. All of the MPs have their pistols aimed square at the Diggers. I look for Reynolds, but he’s AWOL, tucked up safely inside with the others, no doubt. Meanwhile, there’s a war happening right here.
The music has stopped, and the dance hall’s door is ajar. Some of the servicemen and a handful of girls press forward. They seem to think it’s a show, giggling until one of the Diggers picks up a rubbish bin and another pulls a street sign out of the footpath and holds it up like a spear. The MPs are wide-eyed—both theirs and ours. They know they’re heavily outnumbered. The Diggers are going to tear them apart like a pack of wild dogs when they get their hands on them.
The rubbish bin flies straight at the MPs, as the bloke with the sign swings it at them. They knock down three Yanks. A second bin crashes through the window and glass scatters everywhere.
After that, it’s chaos. The girls scream, jostling to get back inside as the shooting starts. Bam, bam, bam: three shots fired in rapid succession, and I throw myself on the ground. There’s lot of yelling, more screams, men crying out in pain, others swearing, the thump of boots running, crunching glass. I peer over the car’s bonnet. Two of the Diggers are down: one’s wounded in the leg and the other’s hit in the arm. They’re awake and an army medic is already tending to them. I hear someone groaning behind me. I turn my head and spot Snowy writhing and yelping.
‘Help me!’ he whimpers through his tears. ‘Sergeant!’
I crawl over and check him. There’s a trickle of blood past his left eye. It’s decent enough, I suppose, to the uninitiated.
Snowy’s hysterical. ‘I’m almost blind! Everything’s turning black!’ He places his hand on my arm. ‘I never thought it would end this way!’
I pull out my hanky and throw it to him. ‘Here, wipe your face with this and pull yourself together!’
He coughs. ‘Am I dying?’
I want to laugh. ‘For Christ sakes, it’s only a shrapnel wound, barely an inch long. Stop moaning like a bloody girl.’
I leave him in the throes of death and go over to help the medic, sniggering at the thought of the tale Snowy will spin in an effort to get a war pension and a campaign medal out of it. Meanwhile, the medic’s arm is up and he’s yelling for an ambulance.
Higgins is sprinting back towards me. ‘Ring for an ambulance!’ I shout.
The Yanks are in retreat, holed up in the dance hall. The Diggers have moved back too, although the sergeant’s still trying to fire them up.
‘Let’s break in, boys,’ he shouts, ‘and do them over!’
Enough is enough.
I walk up to him.
‘Piss off, copper bastard,’ he says as he tries to push me away.
I’m not going anywhere.
‘You are a disgrace to the Australian uniform, lad.’ As the ruckus settles, my voice booms. ‘Even worse than that, you’ve messed up my town and scared the locals. You are a dead set, bloody drongo. It’s just a bloody dance hall. Who bloody cares about a dance hall? Look around at what’s happened: good men are wounded. You’re wasting all this effort fighting an ally, and meanwhile the enemy’s laughing as he walks right in and rapes your mothers and sisters. All while you’re busy arguing amongst yourselves.’
He’s shaking his head. ‘I haven’t spotted any Japs, Huns or Eyeties around here, only Yanks, as far as I can see. Maybe they’re the ones doing the raping. Maybe you want to turn a blind eye to them an’ maybe you even make money off of them. But I don’t.’
I can feel my jaw tighten. ‘You,’ I growl, ‘will all move away from the area, immediately!’
He lifts his chin. He’s still posturing for a fight.
I suck in some air and breathe it out. ‘Really,’ I say. He’s too dumb for words. ‘Well then, cop this!’ I drop him with a sharp upper cut to the chin. He falls like a bag of cement and lies on the footpath, unconscious. Most of the others look uncertain but, just in case, I whip my truncheon out.
‘Move away, I said or I’ll be knocking some more heads in!’ I shout.
While they mull it over, Mahoney arrives with his truncheon out, and they start to dawdle away from the dance hall. In the distance, some more Australian MPs arrive.
Where were you lazy bastards when this was happening? Thank God for country coppers. We’ve got it all under control.
I can still hear Snowy moaning in the background.
‘Shut the whingeing, Snowy or I’ll give you a dose of this.’ I show him my truncheon. ‘After the day I’ve had so far, I tell you what, I’ll be happy to get rid of your pain.’
Mahoney is toeing the sergeant with his boot. ‘What happened to him?’
‘He fell over, clumsy bugger,’ I reply.
He smiles. ‘Well, I suppose he’ll just have to be more careful in future, Sergeant Furey.’