Over the next month, more and more emaciated corpses were seen lying outside huts in the early morning after doctors had made their inspections. Farrow caught malaria and began to waste away. One day, at a camp they’d just moved to called Lower Nieke, a doctor, Frank Cahill, shook Farrow hard, but he did not respond. Bolt was lying a few feet away. Cahill slapped Farrow hard on both cheeks. Farrow stirred, opened his eyes and said, ‘Morning, Doc, Dan. Sorry, fellas, not this morning. Perhaps another time.’
Cahill walked outside with Bolt. They’d known each other from university days.
‘Terrible business, these inspections,’ Cahill said, ‘they always know what I’m doing. So many blokes have malaria.’ He pointed to three bodies outside a hut 40 yards away. ‘I hate this part of the job. We can’t do anything. Those men are an awful sight; bones protruding; eyes open and staring. I never know sometimes if they are gone or not. Most, like Farrow, are just a heartbeat away from their maker.’
They watched as orderlies placed the three bodies on stretchers made of bamboo poles pushed through a sack. The corpses’ heads, legs and arms hung loosely and swung to the movement of the carriers as they took the bodies to the cemetery.
‘Not the crematorium for those blokes?’ Bolt asked as he felt Red Lead brushing against his legs.
‘We only burn the most dangerous ones, like those with cholera,’ the doctor said matter-of-factly. ‘The Poms pour formaldehyde on them. Doesn’t quite do the trick. The disease remains. We put them on a funeral pyre.’
‘You reckon we’ll get cholera here?’
‘Inevitable. The coolies—Javanese, Tamils, Chinese, Burmese and Thais—are living in absolute filth and squalor at this camp. Your huts have no covering.’
‘I know cats can’t get it,’ Bolt said, cuddling Red Lead.
‘No. Apart from the nine lives nonsense, these wonderful creatures are very disease resistant, usually.’ He paused to pat Red Lead. ‘I heard what this little blighter did to a king cobra. Amazing!’
‘Don’t forget the tiger.’
‘Oh yeah! That story gets bigger every day. Bet you’re happy to be clear of that country. There are no tigers around these parts.’
The doctor was about to move on, when he stopped.
‘Dan,’ he said, dropping his voice, ‘we know there are a couple of cholera cases among the coolies a few miles from here. We’re trying to contain it with extreme hygiene methods. But it’s only a matter of time. I’m in charge until Doctor Bruce Hunt arrives. I won’t let our blokes work until the camps are cleaned up. Hunt has a reputation that rhymes with his name. He’s brutal in keeping people alive. Different from Dunlop but just as gutsy and effective.’
‘I see you’ve had slit trenches built for toilets,’ Bolt said. ‘Thanks for that and the water points.’
‘That’s okay. Tell your men to make sure they understand one is for washing after working. The other, with boiling water, is for them to drink.’
‘They are already well aware.’
‘Good. We can beat it, or at least contain it with serious health standards.’ He added as an afterthought, ‘I know you like to go swimming in the rivers. Don’t!’
The men were put to work on bridge and road construction. First, tracks had to be cleared using limited billhooks, axes, saws and rope. It took Bolt and his group, minus the ill Farrow and Wallis with his broken forearm, and fourteen others a full day to remove a big clump of bamboo.
Word soon swept through the camps that cholera had struck. There was panic among the Japanese, as one of their own, Sergeant Hoto, had caught it. He was transferred to a special set of tents on a small mound, which was soon known as Cholera Hill. Within 48 hours there were twelve cases, including six diggers. Doctor Bruce Hunt, a former artillery officer under General Monash in World War I, arrived to take charge. He had all the camps scrubbed but he could not keep pace with the pestilence. It hit 35 Australians early one morning. They lost half their bodyweight within twelve hours and many were dead by nightfall. The medical staff was too small to supply adequate nursing to these men. The evening after the disease struck, Hunt and Cahill met the Australians, including Bolt and his group, who had been working for fourteen hours in the monsoon rains knee-deep in mud. Hunt explained the situation. He wanted volunteers to nurse the sick.
‘The mortality rate for cholera is fifty per cent,’ he said. ‘Every second patient you nurse will die.’ He paused in front of the men, walked a few paces closer to them and added: ‘I want you now—right now! Straightaway! Hands up those who’ll do it. We need seventy-five men.’
Bolt felt that his vet background obligated him to volunteer. He raised his hand and looked around. There were about 100 hands up. Others followed. Hunt and Cahill began counting. They stopped at 120. Hunt was overwhelmed. He turned to Cahill, and, dropping his voice, said with emotion, ‘This response makes me very proud to be an Australian.’