Wangamba, 1942
I reckon the whole town of Wangamba has turned out to see the Yanks arrive. I got the call. They’re coming today in a convoy from Townsville, and it was all supposed to be hush-hush. All around me, people are hopping from foot to foot.
So much for secrecy.
Just two days ago, the police commissioner down in Brisbane gave me and my two constables the order to direct them through the town. Not much time to get ready, but then I guess they didn’t want word of it getting back to the Japs.
‘Now,’ said the commissioner, ‘we don’t want our American allies getting lost in the scrub and dying of thirst, do we, Jack?’
As if he needed to tell me that.
So here I am, standing in the middle of the intersection of Jennings Street—the main street—and Queen Street, on a sweltering hot day, waiting for the Americans to arrive. Crowds have built up all along the route, three deep in some places. There hasn’t been a gathering like this since the victory parade after the Great War. I think the attendance was probably bigger in 1919, but that’s likely because more people lived in the town back then. Since then, people have been trickling out of Wangamba like piss out of an old man’s prostate. We have more feral goats than people living here these days.
I’ve been trying to work out how the locals found out about their arrival. It’s not as if someone placed an advertisement in The North Star. I was instructed to tell Mayor Jessop, but no one else, and I never told another soul, not even my Gracie. Even my constables never knew until this morning. Old ‘Flapping Gums’ Jessop would have to be the source of the leak. He wouldn’t have been able to help himself. It’d be just like him to tell anyone who’d listen, big-noting himself, like he’s got the inside-running and everyone else is on the outer. Thinks himself a bloody toff. He has big tickets on himself, that bloke.
There are only around a thousand people in Wangamba, including the Aborigines, and every one of them’s here: man, woman, child and stray dog. But not the goats. The goats aren’t hanging around the streets today. I reckon it must be too noisy for them. And they’re too smart to line up just to watch the Americans drive past.
The local Abos are standing in a group by themselves, not far from where I am now. They don’t like mixing much with the whites, and vice versa. Nobody seems bothered. It’s sort of the natural order of things, I suppose.
Even old Harry Jacka’s turned up. He usually lives in a hut in the scrub and has nothing to do with people. Still, here he is, wearing his best gladrags, waiting for the Yanks to file past. No one is standing too close to him, though. I don’t think Harry has had a bath since his mother stopped giving him one. He’s a hundred yards away from me, and he’s still on the nose. I’ve smelled some pretty bad things in my time—trench foot and mustard gas—yet the slightest whiff of Harry Jacka can really turn a stomach. Right now, it’s nearly as bad as being downwind of a bloated cow lying dead in a dam.
At the top of the road, the mayor and his mob of dignitaries stand on a stage bedecked with Australian and American flags and a banner with Welcome to Our Town written on it. They’re all dressed up like pox doctor’s clerks and standing around like shags on a rock. Below them our local brass band’s ready to blow out a tune. They usually sound like howling dogs. They begin warming up, and today, for a change, it sounds a lot like someone’s strangling a cat.
Out the front of the hospital, they’ve wheeled some of the patients just so they can get a bit of a view. Some of them don’t look long for the world, but they all want to see the Yanks before they kick the bucket. Can’t understand the attraction, to be honest with you. I figure they’ll be pretty much like any other bloke in uniform, but it seems to me the town’s expecting Clark Gable and Fred Astaire to stroll past. I reckon that they think it’ll be like Hollywood’s coming to town. Wangamba’s taken the Yanks so far up the mountain, it’s going to be one hell of a long way for them to fall.
Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like it’s all bad news. Everyone’s ecstatic that the Yanks have joined the war. The Old Country retreated back to Europe after the fall of Singapore, and all our best troops are caught up in the Middle East. For a while now, we’ve been on our own, and it’s been a bit of a bloody worry. There are only seven million of us. We need the Yanks like sheep need water from a dam on a hot day. We might be the best soldiers in the world but we’d be buggered without them, I’ll give you that one for free.
I’ve heard a rumour that we’ll be building a secret airfield and barracks out by the river, on the other side of town. Once we’ve done our bit, the Americans will set up the airfield there, and supply the base. Amazing what you learn when you’re in my job. From what I recall, soldiers just love to spend their pay, so their presence should bring in a few quid. In fact, it could be the biggest boom around here since the gold rush. Yep, since the gold ran out, it’s been pretty slim pickings. The only things that have stopped Wangamba turning into a ghost town are the cattle stations.
So, here I am, wearing my best uniform today, and Gracie’s polished my boots and even the brass on my buttons and on my buckle. She’s a good woman, my missus. She insisted I wear my medals, even though I wasn’t keen. It’s a bit much, don’t you think? I feel like a bit of a lair really. I’m not one for showing off.
‘You’re a fair dinkum war hero, Jack Furey,’ she said, ‘so don’t you hide it. You wear your medals with pride.’
I’ve learned over the years that when your wife insists you do something, well, you’re better off just going along with her: nod your head, hang on and say nothing.
My medals are shining so bright in the sun, that they’re just about blinding me.
It seems like there’s thunder over the horizon, so loud it makes me look up at the sky. There’s not a cloud in sight. I listen for a while, but the noise doesn’t go away. I figure it’s got to be the rumble of the convoy. It must have reached the outskirts of town. By the sound of it, there are a lot of vehicles headed this way, and I can feel the vibration all the way up my legs. I’m eager to get it all over and done with, go back to the station and have a nice cup of tea. Then a thought forces itself into my mind: what if it’s not the Americans at all? I say a silent prayer that it’s not the Japs. Just in case.
Whoever it is, it’s time to look sharp, Jack Furey.
I adjust my uniform and give my hat a tug, and then I make a hand signal to the constable a hundred yards away. All down the street, the crowd’s already cheering. Some of the bystanders push forward, a few even stepping onto the roadway, but I yell at them to get back onto the footpath, quick-smart. People in this town always listen to what a copper tells them. Not too many ratbags or hooligans. Most of them are law-abiding citizens, and the ones who aren’t get a swift police escort out of town.
The convoy’s getting nearer. The sound is deafening; like a freight train at close quarters. Everyone’s heads are turned in the same direction, but all I can see is a huge swirl of bulldust in the distance. It’s far bigger than a willy-willy. Hope the Yanks weren’t expecting a bitumen highway with roadside stops, or they’ll be sorely disappointed. The McEwan Pothole-Way is nothing more than a glorified goat track. No bitumen on any of the roads around here, I’m afraid. I bet the poor buggers are wondering why they’re even in this God-forsaken joint.
Just ahead of the rolling cloud is a speeding Willy’s Jeep, going hell-for-leather. It’s exceeding the speed limit, by a long way.
Not starting with a good impression, you blokes.
Sitting in the Jeep are two men in dusty khakis, helmets tight on their heads. I can only just make out the initials, MP, on their shirtsleeves, once they get closer. It looks like they’re the forward scouts, coming to check out the locals and make sure we’re not hostile. The buggers better slow down right now. But my immediate concern isn’t their speed, it’s that they’re driving on the wrong side of the road.
We drive on the left here, boys. On the bloody left.
Luckily there aren’t a lot of cars driving around right at the moment. In fact, there aren’t any. First thing I’m going to have to do, is explain the road rules to them. Didn’t anyone tell these Yanks anything? It all falls to me, I suppose. So muggins me walks to the middle of the road, holds up my hand and signals for them to stop. Meanwhile, the Jeep keeps screaming towards me, and I can’t see them slowing down. They’re still hurtling along, and they’re still on the wrong side of the road. They’re getting closer: too close. I’m staring them down, waiting for one of us to draw back.
Just as I’m starting to worry that they might actually drive right over the top of me, the driver slams on the brakes and stops. Dust kicks up into my face. The Jeep stops so close, I could drop my hand and just about touch the bonnet. For a moment, I have the urge to arrest them both, but I suppose that wouldn’t go down too well with the commissioner. Or the military brass.
‘Welcome to Wangamba, I’m Sergeant Furey of the Queensland Police,’ I say instead, as politely as I can muster. ‘As you can see, all the townsfolk have turned out to welcome you into town.’
One of the MPs sniffs.
‘So, this is Wrong-jamba, huh? Gee, that’s really swell. We made it at last. For a moment I thought we’d driven clean past your state and into the desert.’
The driver’s grinning as he looks into the crowd. They’re all cheering at the two Americans, while the photographer from The North Star’s snapping pictures.
‘Wow,’ says the passenger. ‘We didn’t expect a welcoming parade.’
Their faces are caked in dust, and the passenger starts to cough like he’s just swallowed the entire Simpson Desert, and then he spits. They both look worn out. From where I’m standing, I glimpse their belts and notice that they’re both wearing side-arms.
I put my hands on my hips. ‘Well, we’re a friendly mob here in Wan-gam-ba,’ I reply, making a point of it. ‘You’ll learn how to say it. One day…’
The driver ignores me. ‘I tell you what,’ he continues to nobody in particular, ‘that trip was a real sonofabitch. Must be the worst road I’ve ever been on.’ He claps eyes on me at last. ‘You the sheriff around here, bud?’
‘Well, I’m Sergeant Furey of the Queensland Police,’ I repeat. ‘I’m the senior law officer in the town.’
‘Corporal Bishop,’ he mutters, ‘and my buddy here is Corporal Hoffman. Do I salute you?’
‘No, mate, you don’t have to do that,’ I reply, and then I immediately regret it.
‘Great, so we’ll just continue on through the town. In that…’ The driver’s distracted by a pretty girl by the side of the road. ‘You’ll give us directions?’
I want to warn them against fraternisation, but I suspect they’ve already been told. I doubt that me saying it again will make the slightest difference. ‘My constables will direct you through town to your camp site,’ is my only response.
‘Thanks, Sarge. You’ve been a great help,’ says Hoffman, but I don’t think he means it.
The rest of the convoy is bearing down on us, so I don’t want to hold them up too long. They have to set up their base before nightfall.
In front of the town hall, the brass band’s warming up again. I hear the strains of ‘The Star Spangled Banner’. Or ‘The Stars and Stripes Forever’. Or a combination of the two. The din is drowning the MPs out. And just as well, before they cause an international incident.
Bishop puts the Jeep in gear and gets ready to speed off again, but I can’t let them drive down the main street on the wrong side of the road. The law is the law.
‘Before you head off,’ I begin, ‘you’re going to have to drive on the left side of the road. It’s how we drive here.’
‘But we drove all the way from Townsville on this side of the road. We didn’t have any trouble,’ Bishop argues.
For a while, their arrogance floors me.
Hoffman looks amused. ‘Buddy,’ he says to Bishop, ‘I guess we didn’t pass any vehicles.’ He turns to me, ‘Although we did see some cows and a few kangaroos, and they didn’t say anything.’
‘Consider yourselves lucky,’ I reply, trying to look like my word’s the law around here, and wishing I’d made them salute me after all. ‘You only got away with it because there isn’t a lot of traffic on the road. If you want to avoid accidents in the future, Corporal, you’ll have to stick to the rules. We drive on the left in this country.’
Bishop continues, ‘Well, we’re Americans, and we drive on the right. That’s our law. We don’t have to listen to some hayseed telling us what to do. You should be lucky we’re here to help you guys at all.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘In this country, we all drive on the left-hand side of the road. No exceptions,’ I emphasise, ‘not even for Americans.’
I haven’t shifted an inch from where I started.
Bishop revs the engine once, but I don’t move. He then starts swearing and revving the Jeep continuously. I can hear him cursing above the noise of the engine. He edges closer until the bumper bar touches my knee.
Forget it, Yank, I’m still not budging.
The rest of the convoy has just about caught up and is now approaching us. The first vehicle to pull up behind the Jeep is a staff officer’s car. It’s so thick with grey silt that its colour’s a mystery. The rest of the convoy lumbers to a stop behind that. I estimate there must be thirty to forty troop carriers lined up, loaded to the gunnels with thirsty men and all of their equipment. Apparently, this is just the advance party. The rest of it—the tractors, graders, building supplies and the remainder—will be coming by Queensland Rail from Townsville.
Both of the MPs leap out of the Jeep like cattle dogs. Bishop stands to attention next to the Jeep and Hoffman rushes over to open the rear door of the staff car, his right arm stiff in salute. The bloke inside must be pretty important, I’m thinking. I notice the driver before I notice him. And who wouldn’t? She’s nothing like my Gracie. She’s a bit of a sort. She’s wearing a cap, but even through the dirty windscreen I can see her permed blonde hair poking out underneath it, and her rouged lips. I’m thinking she looks a lot like Carole Landis.
An airforce officer steps out. He’s immaculate: clean-cut, sweatless and untouched by the trip. His tunic fits like a glove. It looks tailor-made. In fact, from cap to boot, he looks tailor-made. He takes off his sunglasses and salutes Hoffman back. It’s like he just stepped off a movie set. You know, like one of those war movies they make these days in Hollywood. He’s the hero, and the hero never dies.
The officer rolls over to me. He’s covered in as many medals as Douglas MacArthur and walks like he has six shooters on each hip. I hide a chuckle in the palm of my hand, and wonder whether to greet him or line up for a shoot-out. Bishop follows him like a pup.
‘Is there a problem here, Corporal Bishop?’ he drawls.
Sounds to me like he’s from one of the confederate states. I remember the way they draw out their vowels, like what they have to say is somehow more important than anything anyone else has to say. I haven’t heard that accent in twenty-four years but I haven’t forgotten it, and it’s just as hard to understand now as it was then. Yep, I met a few of them on leave, back in 1918. Not bad blokes, really. To be honest, they were a bit better behaved than us Diggers. I reckon we had tickets on ourselves back then, because we were a volunteer army and they weren’t.
I’m guessing the officer could be above a captain, although I don’t know their rank system very well. He seems pretty high up, by the way the MPs are fawning over him.
‘The police sergeant, here,’ Bishop says as he points at me like I’m a naughty child, ‘says we’re driving on the wrong side of the road, Colonel. He says from now on we have to drive on the right side of the road, and that the right side is the left side, sir.’
‘That’s how we do things here, Colonel,’ I interrupt. ‘I’m Sergeant Jack Furey of the Queensland Police. We drive on the left in Australia. It’s plain and simple.’
Bishop grows crimson with rage, but I don’t give a toss about that.
Let him blow his fufu valve.
The officer looks me up and down, sizing me up. He’s an imposing man, standing about six foot with broad shoulders. I stand five-eight. He takes particular interest in my medals.
‘Colonel Reynolds, United States Air Force,’ he belts out. ‘It’s an honour, Sergeant Furey.’
He shakes my hand vigorously as Bishop stares at him, confused.
‘An honour, Colonel?’ I question.
‘That’s a Military Medal you have there.’
‘Yes, Colonel. I got it at the Battle of Hamel in 1918.’
He looks pleased, and that just makes Bishop look displeased.
‘I was there too,’ he says. ‘A hell of a battle. Glad we got it over quickly.’
‘Yep,’ I reply, remembering the sound of exploding shells and the crack of the trees falling all around us. ‘Lost a few mates that day.’
‘Me too, Sergeant. Me too.’ Colonel Reynolds looks sad, and that just makes Bishop look dismal. ‘So we’re partners, huh? You must come over for a drink when we get the base set up, Sergeant.’
‘Yes,’ I reply. I can’t tell if he means it. ‘I’ll look forward to it. You better continue on. I think the band’s played “Stars and Stripes” for the third time. They’ll probably run out of puff soon.’
‘Is that what that was?’ He looks around. ‘And what’s with the welcoming committee? We’re here on military business. This was supposed to be on the quiet.’
I’m already shaking my head. ‘Yes, sir, I know. I had orders to tell the mayor and, well…’ I can see he understands. ‘Well, he’s that sort of bloke. Perhaps, you’d better take it up with him.’
Reynolds takes his cap off, scratches his head and puts his cap and his sunglasses back on. ‘I bet the sonofabitch hasn’t done a day’s service. There won’t be any parties and celebrations today, or any other day. We have a war to win. Thank you, Sergeant.’
He throws me a salute and I return it. I haven’t done that for a while.
‘And about the left side of the road?’ I ask quietly.
‘Of course, Sergeant. We’re here to work together. We’re allies and we’re mates, as you Aussies say.’
‘Thank you, Colonel. And welcome again to Wangamba.’
Reynolds spins on his heel and walks back to the staff car. He calls Bishop aside. I pretend not to hear him tell Bishop that he doesn’t want to see him or Hoffman obstructing the local police again. ‘If Sergeant Furey gives you or your MPs a damn direction, you darn well obey it!’ he barks. ‘Understood?’
‘Yes, Colonel, sir!’ Bishop stammers.
‘And make sure you take a good look at the Sergeant. That’s what a genuine war hero looks like. Something I suspect you’ll never be.’
‘Yes, sir, Colonel!’
‘Now open my goddamned door. We’ve wasted enough time.’
I reckon I’ll be able to work with him just fine. He’s direct. I like the way he does things. There are no flies on the colonel. I look around, but I can’t spot Gracie or our son, so I don’t think they’ll get to see the colonel today. She’d have been chuffed to have seen him talking to me.
The convoy heads off as ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ starts up. Above the roar of the vehicles, the crowd’s cheering so loud that you’d be excused for thinking that the local team’s playing in the Grand Final. I watch them rumble down the street, drowning out the tortured tones of the brass band. As the colonel’s car climbs the hill, slowing down a little to pass the mayor and councillors, I have a chuckle to myself. Even from down here, I can see their mouths drop open and their stunned resignation as the car just keeps going.
I wonder what Mayor Jessop will make of that.