Pip braced herself as she pushed open the door of the nursing home and walked inside. She was half expecting to see a photo of herself on the wall with ‘Do not let this woman in!’ written across the bottom. However, no alarms went off and no one appeared to frog march her back outside, so she kept her head down and made for the hallway that led to Bert’s room.
She knocked on the open door and stepped inside. Bert was resting—no doubt there was little else for him to do. His pasty skin almost blended in with the white of the bed sheets, leaving him looking frail and sunken. It was hard to recognise the man in the bed as the younger version of himself from the photos in the album. Again, Pip fought back a wave of sympathy. No one deserved to see out the last years of their life trapped inside a body that couldn’t move.
When she pulled the seat closer and sat down, Bert opened his eyes and she dragged up a smile. ‘Hello, Bert. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve come back for a visit.’
Slowly the man blinked twice.
‘I’ve been looking through your photo albums,’ she said, taking out the wedding photo. ‘Would you like me to leave this one here where you can see it?’ His gaze was locked on the photo as she propped it up on the table beside his bed. ‘Molly was very beautiful,’ she said quietly. ‘You weren’t too bad yourself, Bert,’ she added, but he didn’t smile.
‘I looked up your army records,’ she ventured. ‘I saw that you were in New Guinea for a while.’ He didn’t give any kind of reaction, so she forged on mostly just to make conversation. ‘I spent some time there myself. I did a story on civilians who were living there just prior to the Japanese invasion on Rabaul.’
She saw a faint flutter of his eyelid at the mention of the last town he’d been stationed at.
‘I was really sorry to hear about what you went through during that time, Bert. I know a little bit about Lark Force and what happened to your battalion after the invasion.’ She let out a slow breath. ‘I just can’t imagine how difficult that must have been to deal with.’
She wished Bert could talk—could tell her about his experiences. Not that he probably would; it was often hard to get men of this era to relive their war days. She understood why they’d rather not, and yet there was so much history entwined around this man and his life. As someone who found the war years fascinating, she would have loved to interview him.
But this wasn’t about his war years—not entirely. It was what happened after he returned home. It was about Molly.
‘Bert, I’m curious why people around here are still so certain you were responsible for Molly and Vernon’s death when you had an alibi.’
He was still looking at the photo, but she thought maybe his eyes seemed to lose their faraway look briefly, and she continued.
‘The thing is, I’m struggling to work out why a town as close-knit as this one would be out to crucify one of their own, who was not only a war hero but had also been a POW. In my experience, men like you were respected when they came home. It just isn’t adding up.’
Pip considered Bert thoughtfully. ‘I saw in the court transcripts there’d been mention of a few incidents—fights after you returned from the war. But there wasn’t anything about you and Vernon mentioned.’ There was, however, mention of the Maguires. Pip hesitated before bringing it up, but she was curious. ‘Bert, did you have some kind of quarrel with the Maguires?’
She waited for him to blink, but he simply continued to stare at the wedding photo.
‘Remember, blink once for yes. Twice for no,’ she prompted when he didn’t react.
When there was still no response, Pip frowned. Was this a deliberate silence he was giving her?
‘The inquest tried to make something of the fact that you had a temper.’ As she heard the words come out of her mouth, she could all too easily see why the police would have seen big red flags waving. A man with a temper. Drinking and getting into fights. His wife cheating on him while he was imprisoned in a POW camp. It wasn’t difficult to see why Bert was a prime suspect in a murder—possibly two. And yet, she still couldn’t shake this thing that was telling her to keep an open mind. Keep on digging. But digging where? So far she hadn’t managed to turn up anything useful.
It was hard to believe that this man was the same one from the photos and letters she’d been reading—the man who had been so vital and full of life before the war.
‘Were the Maguires connected to Vernon’s murder in some way?’ she prodded. ‘Is that why there was a feud back then?’ Or still to this day? she added silently.
Slowly, Bert blinked twice.
So no, he didn’t think the Maguires had anything to do with Vernon’s murder. But that didn’t answer any other questions about why there was clearly something behind the whole thing. Pete’s words came back to her about the Maguires’ somewhat distasteful dealings, cashing in on local land. But that wasn’t related to the deaths of Vernon and Molly. Once again, Pip had reached a dead end.
She followed Bert’s gaze to the photo of the beautiful woman gazing up into her handsome husband’s eyes, so full of trust and love. She saw a tear slide from the corner of his eye. Was it grief or guilt? She studied the man in the bed before her. It didn’t feel like guilt.
The shock of seeing Molly’s photo after all this time was clearly significant, and Pip realised it was unlikely he’d be able to focus on communicating while he was so distracted. With a disheartened sigh, she stood up and left the old man to lose himself once more in his memories.
Rabaul, 27 April 1941
Dear Moll,
We’ve arrived in New Britain and been sent to Rabaul to form a garrison.
It kind of reminds me of being in Queensland—the houses and buildings all look much the same, built up high with big verandahs to catch any breeze.
You’d love the frangipani trees—they’re planted all over the island here in all kinds of colours—and gardens are full of hibiscus and bougainvillea. There are Australians everywhere, just like at home, businessmen and families and people who work on the plantations. It’s been a nice change to see something almost familiar compared to some of the other places we’ve been in lately. So close to home, and yet still so far away. I miss you, Moll. You have no idea how much.
It’s the little things I miss the most, like the smell of your hair after it dries, and how your head fits just right in the spot between my neck and my shoulder when we lie in bed at night. I miss hearing your laugh. I even miss hearing you get cranky at me for forgetting to take my boots off at the back door—who’d ever think a bloke could miss that!
As you’ve been seeing in the papers back home, the Japs have been ramping up their efforts in these parts. They’re not down this far yet and I’m sure we’ll manage to hold them off, but things have got a lot busier around the place lately.
Thank you for sending over the socks and biscuits. The humidity here is something terrible—your boots and socks practically rot off on your feet. And the local newspapers have been a nice distraction to stay up to date with what’s been going on back home. I’ve been sharing them with Frank and Bill, although Frank seems to always know the latest news before any of us—must be nice to have a family connection to someone in parliament!
Speaking of which, I see the Maguires have bought out another two local farms. I know I’ve always sworn I’d only ever sell Rosevale to a Maguire over my dead body, but, well, I’ve been thinking. If that happens, I want you to do what’s right for you, Moll. If selling up and moving away is what you want to do, then you have my blessing. Of course, I’d rather come home, but I’ve been in this war long enough to realise you never know when your time’s up. Lost a lot of mates who weren’t ready to go. Truth be told, I’ve no idea why I’ve managed to stay alive this long when so many haven’t.
I’m sorry, love, I know you’re probably going to be reading this and getting yourself all worked up with worry, that wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to let you know that if the worst was to happen, I’d want you to do whatever you felt was best for you and not hang on to Rosevale just because you think that’s what I’d want you do.
But you won’t have to worry about any of that, because I’m coming home to you, Moll. I promised you when I left I would—and you know that I always keep my promises.
Your ever-loving husband,
Bert
Pip kept track of the timeline through the dates on the letters and realised it was creeping closer to the time when Bert was taken prisoner. It was a very strange feeling, reading these letters and seeing a moment in history unfold before her eyes but with the advantage of already knowing what that future held. Dread gnawed inside her as the pile of letters left to read grew smaller. She knew what fate awaited Bert—and, ultimately, Molly.
Each letter from now on was the countdown until Molly would stop hearing from her husband. He would be reported as missing, and she wouldn’t find out until almost a year later that he had been located in a prisoner-of-war camp.
The next few letters after Bert’s arrival in New Guinea spoke about the growing unease within the camp. Supplies were getting low, and malaria was rampant along with infections caused by the tropical conditions getting into even the smallest scratches; left untreated, these could turn into ulcers and eventually blood poisoning. However, Bert always managed to brush over the discomforts of his predicament by regaling Molly with tales of daily camp life and his mates. The stories he told usually included Bill, Smithy and Frank, Pip noticed.
Rabaul, 8 June 1941
… The volcano I told you about before, Tavurvur, has been rumbling a bit lately. Then a few days ago, just after reveille, we experienced several earthquakes. I don’t mind telling you, Moll, it was a little bit unnerving. The very air around us seemed to quiver, and then with an almighty bang, we stood there and watched it explode. Rocks flew into the air and ash began raining down. It was a sight, to be sure! Bill and Smithy even began reciting prayers, even though neither of them had seen the inside of a church since they were knee high to a grasshopper.
Once the initial shock wore off, we realised we needed to clear out of camp and head to safer ground, but we were told that there was no immediate threat, despite the fact it continues to send thick clouds of foul-smelling gas into the air and roars like a train running straight above us. It’s even louder than Frank’s snoring, and that’s saying a lot! At night it gets so loud the whole camp is up. But it’s the earthquakes that are more of an annoyance than anything else. If you try to stand up when they’re happening, you feel like you’re walking home with more than a few beers under your belt from a big night out at the pub. And the smell! Apparently it’s the sulphur—stinks like rotten eggs. We’re constantly kept busy cleaning weapons because of the ash that’s started corroding everything, even our uniforms and tents.
We’ve been given orders to move the garrison to a safer spot, which has delighted the boys no end as you can imagine!
Bert went on to ask about the farm and caution Molly not to overexert herself, as he usually did in his letters. Pip couldn’t help but smile; even during the horrors of war, Bert was always concerned about Molly’s comfort.
Rabaul, 12 June 1941
Dear Moll,
Frank and I got into the market today—what an eye-opening experience that was! It’s a big change from Midgiburra, that’s for sure. They call the market a bung and its full of every kind of tropical food or fruit you can imagine. There’s pineapples and coconuts and fresh seafood—so much seafood, stacked up in enormous piles. And the noise! Dogs barking and running around, kids playing, chooks running loose about the place and stallholders calling out and trying to get you to buy their wares. And the colours—Moll, you’ve never seen anything like it. They wear these bright coloured material skirts called lap-laps—even the men!—and go bare-chested about the place. And they’re big men too; I certainly wouldn’t like to pick a fight with any of them. They seem friendly enough, though. Mostly I think they like Australians, though I’m not too sure how they feel about so many of us over here. Still, we’re probably much more preferred than the Japs, I guess.
Rabaul, 5 October 1941
My dearest Moll,
Sometimes it’s strange here. It feels almost like we’re posted somewhere back home. There’s a movie theatre, and Frank and a few of the boys and I sometimes head into Rabaul to watch something if we’ve got any coin left, but more often than not, I choose to stay in camp. There’s plenty to do here, plus there’s beer in the canteen—usually not cold, but beggars can’t be choosers as the saying goes. There’s often a game of two-up to be had, and the Midgiburra boys are always keen to get involved in the cricket. They keep us pretty busy with the sports—mostly to try to keep us out of trouble, I suspect!
But I do miss your cooking something fierce, Moll. It’s hard to raise much enthusiasm for the stuff they try to pass off as tucker here. As I force it down, I try to imagine it’s one of your baked dinners with that gravy you make. I swear no one cooks like you, Moll.
Pip imagined Bert’s letters home to Molly were more of a way to distract himself from his surroundings, perhaps picturing himself sitting right here in the kitchen as he wrote. Across from his beloved Moll, telling her about his day. Only it was war, and unlike anything either of them could have imagined.
For the next few months, the letters, while still regular, were briefer and contained a lot of questions for Molly to answer. The stories about camp life had stopped. There was a subtle difference in the tone of his letters as well: less humour and fewer curious observations about his new environment. And then there was the final letter.
Pip hesitated before picking it up. She glanced at the date and saw it was written in late December, just weeks before the January attack on Rabaul and the Japanese invasion.
Rabaul, 22 December 1941
Dear Moll,
This might be the last chance I get to send out a letter for a while.
By the time you get this, Christmas will have been and gone. I know it won’t feel much like Christmas back home this year, but I hope you’ll still try to get involved with the festivities around town. I hear there’s a dance on at the hall and I know you’ve been involved with the comforts fund and doing what you can to help. It helps me to know you’ve got people around you. I’ve had a letter or two from Ida next door, and she assures me they’ve been calling in on you often. They’ve always been good people.
I’ll be thinking of you Christmas morning and wishing I was there beside you. So sing and be merry and have a cold one for me. Next Christmas we’ll look back and think of how lucky we are to be together, and all this will finally be in the past. How I wish we were there already.
It looks like we’ll be seeing some action around the place shortly. The Japs are on the move. As a precaution, they’ve evacuated women and children from here. I don’t want you to worry if you don’t hear from me for a while. I have a feeling the mail will be pretty hit and miss for the next little bit.
I have to get this off before I miss the last call for mail. Wishing you a merry Christmas, my love.
Your loving husband,
Bert
Pip knew that the battle was the start of years of cruelty and imprisonment for Bert and his fellow diggers. They hadn’t stood a chance against the onslaught of the Japanese invasion, with no reinforcements and no hope of victory.
For most Australians, the battle of Kokoda had become iconic, but Pip was aware of the horrendous losses suffered by the Anzac troops and Australian civilians when Rabaul and the outer islands were attacked, culminating in one of the largest defeats of World War Two.
The 1400-strong Australian garrison at Rabaul where Bert had been stationed was overrun by the Japanese, and many diggers were massacred. Accounts of the enemy using captured soldiers as bayonet practice for young Japanese troops would send a surge of horror and anger through Australians back home. The attack brought home the chilling realisation that Australia itself was under direct threat, and invasion was a very real possibility.
Pip stared numbly at the letter in her hand. How many times would Molly have read and reread this in the absence of any further correspondence from her husband? Inside the box beside Pip were faded newspaper clippings, reports of atrocities only made known months later when survivors began to resurface. The few who had managed to escape and flee the island for safety recounted the horrific executions of the Australian men and nurses who’d been captured after the invasion—the fate of hundreds of others would remain unknown for years until the end of the war when POW camps were liberated and the prisoners returned home. Home, Pip thought sadly. Where Bert had longed to be and where he and Molly had planned to pick up where they’d left off. The place to start their life over again.