I heard that the Americans built their base in eight days—in just eight days—so I reckon Colonel Reynolds must be cracking the whip. Once the machinery arrived on the train, it was on for young and old, and our civil engineers pulled out all the stops to finish the airfield in a matter of weeks after that.
After it was done, the colonel rang me up and asked me over to have a drink at their canteen and a chin-wag. I’m up for it. I need to get away from the trucks and the dust and the silliness. I’ve been working more hours than I should, and I haven’t seen much of Gracie or the boy lately. A boy needs his father, but I’ve been running around like a blue-arsed fly, trying to make sure that things run smoothly in Wangamba for everyone: the locals as well as the Americans.
I’m only going to have one or two beers. No harm in that, is there?
So I’m off to visit the Americans.
I arrive at the airfield, not really knowing what to expect. A couple of Douglas DC-3s flew in here yesterday and Snowy McIntyre, silly old bugger, thought they were Japs. He jumped the gun and rang the siren and it was all on for young and old. What idiot thought he’d be a good choice for air warden?
The planes passed low over the town, and I could see a star insignia on the fuselage, so I assumed they were American. The boys and I were eventually able to reassure most of the locals that they weren’t Japs after all, though some of those who went in the shelter didn’t want to come out.
If you see a big, bloody red dot on a plane, then you worry, but as for the rest of them… Well, they’re friends, I reckon.
Anyway, I had a quiet word to Snowy after the incident and told him to pull his head in. Obviously he hasn’t got his copy of the aircraft recognition book from the government yet. I’ll make sure he does, otherwise we’ll have pandemonium every time an aircraft flies in.
The DC-3s are parked on the airstrip to my right, and I’ve got to say that they’re impressive looking aircraft up close. I’d love to have taken Gracie and the boy for a trip in one of them, back when they were flying between Australia and the continent, before the war. I suppose that’ll have to wait for better days.
There are trucks dotted all around the airstrip and a couple of men up in the control tower, watching the sky with their binoculars. The base looks pretty lively: men and vehicles constantly on the move.
Gracie’s disappointed that she hasn’t clapped eyes on the colonel yet, and she doesn’t believe me when I say that he looks like Gary Cooper. To be honest, no one’s seen him around town since the parade, and now I know why. Most of the igloo huts are built now, so there are only a few of the pitched tents here and there to house the infantrymen. I bet they’re happy about that. This spot’s always been thick with snakes. I’d bet a pound to a penny that they’d have met a few of them by now, which probably accounts for the swiftness of the build.
I heard that the colonel’s commandeered the top rooms at the Royal Hotel for himself and his subordinate officers, and that his driver is on the same floor, but I can’t confirm it. I guess she needs to be close by in case he wants to go somewhere fast. The accommodation arrangements haven’t gone unnoticed. Got some tongues wagging, I’ll tell you.
I take some time to survey the landscape. The camp has everything that opens and shuts: mess hall, first aid, canteen, maintenance sheds and toilet blocks. None of those outdoor dunnies out here, like the ones we have to put up with. Yep, they’ve got all the modern conveniences. You’ve got to hand it to Colonel Reynolds, he really knows how to get things done.
I look around for any other luncheon guests, but it’s only me so far, which is good.
The colonel meets me at the front of the administration office. I notice that Carole Landis isn’t with him. I’d ask where she is, but he might think that was a bit rude. He’s decked out immaculately. As usual.
‘Sergeant Furey.’ He smiles widely as he shakes my hand. ‘Glad you could make it at such short notice.’ He seems pretty happy to see me.
‘Thanks for the invite. Call me Jack. I’m not much for formalities,’ I explain, although I get the feeling that he probably is.
‘And neither am I.’ He laughs, but he never requests that I call him Frank. His eyes are focused on something way over my head, in the distance. ‘I couldn’t mention it when I called, but today’s a red-letter day,’ he continues. ‘The first of the aircraft will be flying in from Brisbane. They should be here within the hour.’ He checks his watch.
‘Not expecting anyone else, Colonel?’ I comment. ‘I thought Mayor Jessop…’
He’s shaking his head. ‘Naturally, I will, in due course.’ He slaps my shoulder lightly and leads me away. ‘We’ll need to iron a few things out, build a good relationship first, you and I. No reason to bring in the politicians yet, is there? You have an important job to do, and I want to make sure our boys know who you are, and that they respect your position. I don’t want them running amok like they own the place. I know how country folk can be.’
I say, ‘Well, boys will be boys, but I’m optimistic…’
The Yanks haven’t had any leave yet so it’s been pretty quiet in town so far, but I reckon they’re going to want to tear one on, when they do. Once they hit town, I reckon the local businesses will be doing all right out of this friendly invasion, especially the five pubs, four cafes and the cinema. Although I don’t know if the Yanks will fare quite as well with the beer, the plain food and the three-year-old movie pictures.
He’s distracted again.
‘…that everyone will behave themselves, Colonel.’
There are three necessities, in my experience, for keeping a serviceman happy: keep them fed, keep them watered and keep them entertained. Same as in Roman times.
‘We’re both men of the world. All I can say, as far as the horizontal refreshment goes, is that the boys better keep their urges under control when it comes to our girls, you know what I mean. I don’t want Wangamba to get a reputation for being free-and-easy. Brisbane can have that one.’
‘We both run a tight ship. We’re on the same page,’ he replies, ‘and that’s a good thing.’
I suppose I have to be realistic. Like any other place, we have our fair share of loose women. Town bikes, we call them here, and we all know who they are. I blame their poor upbringing and bad parents for that. The thing is, there aren’t enough town bikes to keep all of the Yanks happy—as far as I know—and I certainly don’t want any of our decent girls chasing after them.
‘This is a respectable, church-going town, not Sodom and Gomorrah,’ I continue.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he replies.
I’m thinking that the boys had better get used to the deep affections of Mrs Palmer and Her Five Daughters. I’m not stupid, but I expect that the servicemen will behave better here than the Diggers did during the Great War, tossing prozzies off balconies, and burning down the Cairo brothel district, over a syphilitic whore.
I don’t care who you are or where you came from, I’ll be still planting my number ten boot right up your arse and giving you a whack on your thick noggin with my night stick. So don’t step out of line.
His eyes return to me. ‘Feel like something to eat, Jack? We have time before the aircraft land.’
We head towards the mess hall. I can smell steaks cooking and my stomach gurgles. ‘Right now, I could eat a horse and chase the rider.’
He smiles again, although I’m not certain he really understands what I’m on about.
There are already several officers in the mess hall. They’re standing at the bar, and opposite them are four black stewards, wiping counters and filling orders. They all stand to attention when Colonel Reynolds and I enter.
He puffs himself up another few inches. ‘Gentlemen, at ease,’ he announces. ‘Allow me to introduce you to my special guest, Sergeant Jack Furey. Sergeant Furey is an officer of the Queensland Police Force. He is responsible for keeping law and order in Wangamba, and he’s also a war hero, so I suggest you try to stay on his good side.’
The men titter, and my collar starts to feel tight.
‘It happens that he and I served together in France during World War One, although we were both ignorant of the fact until the other day. I say he’s a war hero, since Sergeant Furey is the recipient of the Military Medal, one of the highest bravery awards in the British Army. Gentlemen, I urge you to obey his lawful orders, and not to underestimate his resolve. I know from personal experience that Australians are tough fighters. We should all be glad they’re on our side. Please welcome him to the mess.’
The officers’ claps sound like rain on an iron roof. I feel embarrassed.
‘Carry on, men,’ he continues.
I’m glad he doesn’t expect a speech.
He turns to me again. ‘What will you have to drink, Jack? Bourbon, beer or whisky? It’s American beer, I’m afraid. We haven’t quite adapted to your beer, yet.’
There’s plenty of grog and food out here. ‘A beer would be nice,’ I reply.
I look at the officers’ fresh faces and realise how young they are, and that they’re going to be fighting—and some of them are going to be dying—soon. So let them have their enjoyment, I say.
‘I feel a bit out of place here, Colonel, a bit of a blow-in. I’ve never been in an officers’ mess. I was only ever a sergeant…’
Reynolds smiles. His arm’s on my shoulder. ‘You’re my guest and that’s the highest rank on my base.’ He calls over a steward who is gathering empty glasses from the officers. ‘You’re always welcome here, Jack.’
For a moment I feel like I’m in one of those posh hotels in Sydney or Melbourne: the places where silvertails stay. I’d like to be able bring Gracie here for a slap-up meal. She’d be thrilled to have a reason to dress up to the nines.
‘Hey, boy,’ he calls out, ‘a whisky! Make it the way I like it, and bring over a Budweiser for the sergeant. And for Chrissakes, this time, make sure the beer is cold.’
‘Yessir,’ the steward replies softly, scurrying away to the bar.
‘The last beer he served was warm as piss,’ he observes. He doesn’t seem to notice that the boy never looked at him. ‘You undoubtedly noticed the Negro labour squad rolled in the other day, to speed up the construction,’ he goes on.
‘I saw them come on a mob of trucks late in the afternoon. They drove down the main street heading out to the airfield. Funny, there was no mayoral welcome and no brass band for them,’ I reply, and the colonel’s eyes cloud over, even as I speak. ‘Some of the locals in the street stared at them, but that was about it. Those boys looked pretty miserable. They probably hadn’t even heard of Australia before they got here.’
‘And why should they? They have enough trouble beating the three Rs into them back home, without needing to teach them geography besides.’
I heard tell that the blacks have been segregated into their own camp, but I don’t tell Colonel Reynolds that. Whites and blacks don’t mix much in civilian life back in America, so I guess that they’ve just carried that over into the military. It’s not that different here, I suppose, although when I served with Aboriginal servicemen in the Great War, they were billeted just the same as we were. I look at the stewards again, and they don’t seem bothered by the difference in their station, so why should I be? At least they’re getting regular meals, good pay and a warm bed, and that’s probably a damn sight better than the way they’re treated back home.
Maybe it won’t be too bad for them out here.
‘You know,’ he starts up again, ‘blacks will never be more than stewards and labourers in this war and, in my experience, that’s all they’re capable of being.’ He looks smug. ‘If you give them guns, chances are, they’ll turn them on us. Or at best, they’ll shoot themselves by mistake. I’m damn proud that my family has owned the biggest plantation in Virginia for hundreds of years, and why shouldn’t I be? We knew how to treat our niggers. Everyone had their place until the damned Yankees destroyed our way of life. Those sons of bitches really ruined the South.’
I’m wondering if I should take as an example of their way of life, all of those white blokes running around dressed in bed sheets with pointy caps over their heads, holding torches and burning crosses. I don’t understand any of it. It all sounds nasty and childish to me. I stopped pulling the sheets over my head and frightening people when I was a little tacker, and I never once thought about hanging anybody from a tree, black or white.
He eyes me off. ‘What do you think, Jack, of niggers in the military?’
‘I’m surprised that you’re fighting for the Yanks,’ I chuckle, avoiding his question, and hoping he doesn’t notice.
‘I’m fighting for my country, which just happens to be the United States of America. I’d prefer it was the Confederacy, but the reality is that those yellow-bellied Yankees wouldn’t be able win an arm-wrestling competition without us doing all their heavy fighting.’
My beer arrives and I take a long sip. ‘Not bad. Better than ours. Ours tastes like cat piss.’
The ice in his whisky clinks. ‘So, what do you think of niggers in the military?’ he repeats.
‘Don’t know much about your history, I’m afraid,’ I lie. ‘There were some Aborigines in our battalion in France and they fought bloody hard. At first I thought they might run away but they didn’t. I don’t mind them in the military, although I wouldn’t want one of them marrying a daughter of mine, if you know what I mean.’
‘Well, you must have yours better trained,’ he laughs before sipping his whisky. ‘They have to know their place in the natural order of the races. Gorillas don’t mix with wart hogs, do they?’
Just then, the chief steward announces that lunch is ready.
‘Time to eat, Jack,’ Reynolds proclaims, slapping me on the back.
We sit down at the head table. After a blessing, the food comes out on large trays. I can’t believe the amount of food they’ve dished up. You could have fed the whole town. I don’t complain when they plonk the biggest steak I’ve ever seen onto my plate, along with a mountain of cooked vegetables, some of which I don’t recognise.
‘I didn’t ask how you wanted your steak done, Jack,’ he says, cutting into his.
I slice into it and notice it’s medium. I’d have preferred well-done, but I’m not bloody complaining. ‘It’s fine, as long as I can’t see the whip marks.’
Reynolds laughs.
I point my knife at a heap of shiny orange discs too big to be carrots. ‘I’m not sure what these are,’ I say quietly.
Reynolds looks at my plate. ‘That vegetable is candied yam. It’s popular in the South. We wanted to bring a bit of the South here, so we wouldn’t get too homesick. Just like me, many of my men are from there.’
‘I’ll give them a go,’ I reply as I tuck in. They’re sweet and heavy with cinnamon, like someone’s mixed dessert up with my main meal. I’m thinking that they would probably be all right if my steak wasn’t bleeding into them. ‘Not bad. I’ll have to tell the missus about it.’
We eat for a bit before I speak again. ‘So, you were in the army during World War One. Is that why you changed over to the air force?’ I ask.
‘That war was hell on earth. I never wanted to see a war like that again,’ he replies. There’s sadness in his delivery.
‘It was a bastard, all right. How I got through it still amazes me. Many of my mates didn’t. Poor buggers. Still have bloody nightmares about being there,’ I admit.
He raises his glass. ‘To mates!’
‘To mateship,’ I respond.
We polish off our glasses, and a steward quickly replenishes them.
‘I come from a military family and we have proudly served our country since the War of Independence,’ Reynolds continues. ‘But after the war, I thought I could best serve my country by being part of the air force. Here’s something for nothing: the sky is the future of war. A strong air force could save thousands of lives.’
‘I tell you what, it seems pretty glamorous from down here. There’s a look to the planes and those uniforms. I reckon I’d give it a go if were a bit younger,’ I reply. ‘Dropping bombs on those bastards has got to be better than having to kill them up close; you get to stay clean, eat a decent meal and sleep in a bed at the end of the day.’
‘When we get settled in, Jack, I’ll take you up for a joy flight in one of our B-25s. How’d that be?’
‘That would be great. I’ll look forward to it.’ I take another bite and push some of the yams under a pile of limp boiled greens. ‘B-25? Which bomber is that?’
‘The Mitchell. The ones they used in the Doolittle Raid. The ones that dropped bombs on those yellow bastards in Tokyo.’
I know he’s right about the air force being the way of the future. ‘I reckon that this war and every one after it will be decided by who has the greatest air power.’
He lifts up his empty glass and jiggles it. ‘I never again want to see trench warfare and good men drowning in mud, just to gain a few yards of ground.’
‘I hope this war is over soon, Colonel,’ I reply before finishing off my steak. ‘Makes me mad to read the paper nowadays, what with news of the Japanese bombing Batavia and Burma, and wondering if we’ll be next. Every so often I wish I was back in the army, just so if they do get here, I could run a few of them through with a bayonet. You just never know what they’re thinking behind those eyes. No emotion, you see. Everyone thinks the Germans are cruel, but I reckon the Japs are worse than the Huns.’
‘Well, you won’t have to worry about them arriving on Australian shores, at least, not anymore. We’ve got it all in hand.’
As I accept another beer, he takes a sip out of his third whisky soda, but who’s counting. I’m as full as a house and ease my belt a notch, when he tells me that there’s dessert. Bloody hell! I nearly say it aloud, when I spot the stewards bringing it out. Apple pie and ice cream. And not a small dish of it, either.
‘Now, I don’t want you getting the wrong idea,’ he chuckles, as the steward puts the bowl down in front of me. ‘We don’t get this every day out here.’
Thank God, I’ve found enough space for it. I start on it slowly, pacing myself for the finish. By the end of the meal I’m chockers, as full as a poisoned pup. I feel like crawling under a tree and having a camp.
I suspect that Reynolds feels it too. He tilts his chair back a bit. ‘And Corporals Bishop and Hoffman have been behaving themselves?’
‘No complaints so far,’ I reply. ‘All you see these days are trucks going everywhere around town, from early morning until dark. My wife Gracie was complaining about how the trucks were making the house dusty, until the council finally pulled their lazy fingers out and started watering down the roads. At least the dust’s settled for a while.’
He pulls out a wooden pick and prods at his tooth, but doesn’t respond.
‘Sometimes the trucks speed like billy-o, but at least they’re travelling on the left. Along with my blokes, the military police do a pretty good job directing the traffic. We keep them in close check. I’ve heard stories of a few of the Townsville locals getting run over. So far I’ve heard that there have been three fatalities. Bloody awful.’
‘Hmm,’ he says carelessly. ‘Casualties of war.’
I feel my eyebrows rise. ‘Something else has been worrying me a bit lately. See, the thing is, we have enough of our own blackfellas around here to sort out and I don’t know how it’s going to go having more of them.’
Most of the time ours are quiet, but they can get drunk and disorderly sometimes, and they can have the odd fight. Some of them are decent, hospitable blokes, but they’re not settled, like us. I can’t understand why they want to live the way they do.
‘You concerned that you’ll have problems with the Negroes?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know too much about their nature. Everyone knows that Aborigines can’t handle the grog, but the pubs sell it to them anyway on the sly, just so they can make a few more quid. I don’t want that happening with yours, too.’
God help those publicans, if I catch up with them.
I have a strong suspicion that Harry Barlow at The Sovereign is one of them, but I can’t quite pin it on him yet. He’ll be well and truly in the gun when I nab him.
I tell Reynolds that what I’m most worried about is that some of the black Americans might want to get in amongst our women. I say, ‘I heard that they’re uncontrollable in that way. I know they like to dance, laugh, sing and carry on, and I don’t think their music helps them much. I don’t think that way of living is very moral and it won’t be happening on my watch.’
‘Well,’ he replies, ‘the MPs know that they’ll have to keep them in check. All that wild jazz music would send anyone a little funny in the head. I don’t want to go into it too much, but their animal urges can get the better of them. I don’t want you to worry about it, Jack. We’ve got them in hand, too.’
I’m still pushing away my dessert bowl when an officer walks briskly into the mess and whispers into the colonel’s ear.
‘They’re approaching,’ Reynolds mutters, wipes his lips with the napkin and stands up.
The officers watch like eagles as he pulls back his chair and jumps to his feet.
‘Gentlemen,’ he declares, ‘our boys are on the approach. We have work to do.’ He taps me on the arm. ‘You too, Jack. The bombers are coming.’
I’m on my feet and raring to go. I’m as keen as mustard to see them.
I follow the colonel out of the mess, only barely aware that it’s emptied behind us and that everyone’s assembling at the base of the control tower. Among the steely clouds, I can just make out a group of planes coming in from the west. They hadn’t followed the coast. I can’t yet work out what they are or how many, but they seem to stretch out a long way. I can faintly hear the hum of their motors.
‘The inland route’s the quickest. No surprise there,’ I mumble.
A junior officer hands Reynolds a pair of binoculars. ‘Great!’ He counts off twelve.
‘They’re going into their final approach, sir,’ the officer comments.
‘It’s good to see them again,’ he says jubilantly.
The planes tip their wings and wheel towards the airfield one by one, and it reminds me of a Busby Berkeley dance routine.
‘Here, take a look, Jack.’ Reynolds hands me his binoculars.
As the clouds part, the sun makes the newly dried concrete sparkle. I adjust my focus. ‘They’re huge!’ I can’t believe how big the buggers are. Then again, the only aircraft we see around here are Flying Doctors’ planes and the occasional Tiger Moth. The bombers are streamlined and sleek with their combat colours: a big white star stamped on the fuselage. I spot the machine guns sticking out of them. It’s overwhelming and I feel myself oddly tearing up. I hand the binoculars back to him.
One after another they touch down on the tarmac, as lightly as ducks on a pond. Whenever the tyres of the Mitchell aircraft screech, the men whistle and cheer.
‘See,’ says Reynolds, his eyes gleaming, ‘I told you that the Japs don’t stand a chance now that we’re here.’
One by one, eleven planes land without incident and taxi to their allocated spots, as men peel off from the crowd to assist the ground crews and to welcome them, until there’s just one left to land. He’s lagging behind. I’m no expert on planes, but he looks to be in a bit of trouble. I strain my eyes.
Someone in the control tower hangs half his body out of a window and yells, ‘Colonel, sir, there’s smoke coming from the starboard engine!’
‘I see it…I see it…Goddamn it,’ he mutters. He shouts back, ‘Bring this baby home. I’m counting on you, son.’
The pilot makes an approach but then suddenly pulls the plane up again. I glimpse its nose art as it flies past me. It has Missouri Mama painted on the side in leery colours. I can see one of the pilot’s heads.
The Mitchell rounds the airfield again.
‘Ease her down!’ Reynolds bellows. ‘Come on, son, you can do it!’ His eyes follow the plane as it circles overhead.
I hear someone cry, ‘The engine’s on fire!’
Reynolds shudders. ‘So, what are you waiting for? Get the crash truck and the ambulance on the runway now!’
A few of the men scramble off and, soon after, both vehicles speed onto the tarmac.
‘She’s coming in again. If you’re a praying man, Jack, this would be the time…’
The Mitchell makes another approach and it’s trailing thick, black smoke. The fire in the engine has really taken hold. I can see flames running along the wing. My heart is in my mouth.
Dear Lord in heaven…
Reynolds says, ‘The approach is better. They’re good pilots, Gentry and Morrissey. If they can’t bring her in on one engine, no one can.’
The plane comes down so slowly that I find myself looking for the string tying it to the sky. The right propeller isn’t spinning: the engine’s swallowed up by flames. It only has a few hundred feet to go, but the fire’s creeping towards the fuselage. The Mitchell shakes a little, the burning wing has dipped and the plane’s flying on an angle.
‘It’s going to be a rough landing,’ someone says.
The Mitchell doesn’t touch down, it skips. The fire doesn’t look quite as ferocious as it eases down the tarmac. I hold my breath as it takes the entire length of the airstrip to slow down, hoping it won’t end up in the bush.
The Mitchell eventually comes to a dead stop at the far end of the tarmac and the crash truck sprays a stream of foam over the wing and the engine. Reynolds sprints towards the plane like a young man, ignoring shouted warnings that the plane might explode, and I find myself, and half of the men around me, doing the same. Even before the fire’s out, men are climbing up the other side to open the canopy and help the crew out. By the time the rest of us get close, almost half of the plane’s covered in foam and Reynolds is smiling and slapping backs. The pilot is crouched down, hugging his knees, surrounded by his crew. I can see the strain on their baby faces.
I’m amazed none of them is injured.
Reynolds sucks his cheeks. ‘One out of action, and we haven’t even started fighting the Japs yet,’ he says to me.
‘There are always going to be accidents, Colonel,’ I reply.
Bloody hell, I didn’t realise how bloody dangerous it could be. I take my hat off to them.
‘As long as we don’t have too many. So, how do you feel about going up in one now?’ he asks.
‘I’ll let you know,’ I reply hesitantly.