Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 17 April 1942
General MacArthur Arrives to Take Command!
Heroic American General Douglas MacArthur has taken control as Supreme Commander of Allied forces west of Singapore. ‘All Australia welcomes the hero of the Philippines,’ said Councillor Bullant at last night’s Council meeting …
ST ELRIC’S SCHOOL, SYDNEY, NEW SOUTH WALES, AUSTRALIA, 31 MAY 1942
MICHAEL
The classroom smelt of old wooden desks and chalk, long-boiled school lunches and the indefinable scent of caged teenage boys. Mrs Glokerman tapped on the door during maths. ‘Headmaster would like to see Andrew Taylor in his office, please.’
Michael glanced at Taylor. A year ago a summons to the headmaster’s office might mean you’d been caught smoking behind the tennis courts. Now Taylor’s two soldier brothers were somewhere in the Middle East. His father was in Malaya. A summons might mean many things; nearly all of them were bad.
Michael gave Taylor a sympathetic nod as he passed.
He tried to focus on the textbook in front of him, while Mr Fothergill dozed at his desk. Old Fothergill had been retired for nearly a decade, but the shortage of teachers since so many had enlisted meant he had come back. He wasn’t a bad teacher, when he was awake.
A shadow behind him: Taylor returning. Mr Fothergill gave a grunt and opened his eyes. His smile showed long yellow teeth, like a walrus’s. ‘Taylor. Good news?’
If it had been bad news, Taylor would not have returned to class; would have been allowed to join his family, his mother might already have been waiting in the headmaster’s office.
Taylor nodded. ‘Good news, sir. A phone call from my mother. My father’s made it back.’
‘Jolly good show,’ said Mr Fothergill. ‘I think a prayer of thanksgiving is in order, don’t you, boys?’ He put his hands together and shut his eyes. ‘Oh, heavenly Father, we thank you in our hour of need for protecting Captain Taylor. We thank you for …’
Michael looked at Taylor through his half-shut eyes as the prayer rumbled on. Taylor’s hands trembled. Suddenly he put his head on his desk, sobs erupting even though he tried to choke them off.
‘Amen,’ said Mr Fothergill, opening his eyes. He looked at Taylor, his head still buried in his arms, his shoulders heaving with the effort of suppressing his sobs. ‘I think you boys could all do with a bit of exercise. Twice around the oval. Chop, chop. Taylor, you will stay behind.’
Michael ventured a pat on Taylor’s back as he passed him. But Taylor did not respond.
The wind from the south was cold as they jogged around the oval, compulsory gas masks flapping at their belts — even if you got up to the toilet in the middle of the night, you had to take your gas mask — avoiding the air-raid trenches at the edges of the oval, the walls of sandbags the boys had filled last month. A small plane circled them briefly, then vanished towards the sea. The bell had gone by the time they’d finished. Michael trotted back to the dorm to change. Cricket practice, then dinner — stew tonight and frog’s eggs, tapioca — then prep.
The sirens came just as prep was over, the sound shuddering between the buildings. For a moment Michael thought it was another drill, then realised that no one had warned of air-raid practice today.
This was real.
‘To the shelters,’ said Mr Fothergill, who had been supervising prep that evening and was suddenly very awake. ‘You two, Taylor and Thompson, go and fill the baths.’ Sydney residents had been instructed to do this at the first sign of a raid, in case the pipes were bombed and broken and Sydney’s water supply disrupted. Michael wondered how long six bathtubs of water would last twenty boys … ‘No running!’ Mr Fothergill shouted. ‘Brisk walk. Now!’
‘Sir, should we take our prep with us?’
‘Sir, can I get my …’
‘Go!’ shouted Mr Fothergill.
Michael and Taylor broke into a run as soon as they were out of sight, over to the boarding house and into the bathrooms, hopping from foot to foot as they filled. Thunder boomed, over towards the harbour …
Not thunder. He looked at Taylor.
Taylor’s face was white. ‘Bombs,’ he said.
Michael nodded. No time to run for the shelters now. Visions of the dust and shreds of blitzed London flashed before him. Would that be Sydney tomorrow morning? He could hear the sound of an aircraft’s engine. Ours or the enemy’s?
‘Under the stairs,’ he said. They dived for the space and sat together as an explosion, louder now, shook the timbers above them. He tried to listen for more aircraft engines, but all he could hear was Taylor’s breathing and his own.
It was stuffy under the stairs. Stuffy and quiet. No point keeping his eyes open in the dark …
‘Thompson?’
Michael opened his eyes. Mr Fothergill’s teeth loomed above him. It was daylight. He had fallen asleep, leaning against the wall. It was now early morning. Taylor yawned behind him. ‘Sorry, Mr Fothergill. Didn’t hear the all-clear.’
‘There wasn’t one. Bad show all round.’
‘How much damage, sir?’
‘Don’t know yet. Wireless reports say that a ship’s been sunk in the harbour. By Japanese submarines.’
‘Submarines? Here?’
‘Apparently.’ Mr Fothergill’s mouth tightened. ‘Chapel in twenty minutes. Better get yourselves tidied up.’
‘Chapel,’ said Taylor disgustedly, as Mr Fothergill hurried away. ‘You’d think they’d give us the morning off after this.’
Michael said nothing. The war is here, he thought. Enemy submarines in our harbour …
Was Sydney about to fall to the Japanese too? Impossible … but that was what they had been told about Singapore, until the very end.
He followed Taylor to the showers, felt the cold water sting his body. Stupid, to be here at school, when all he loved was being threatened. But what could he do at sixteen? Enlist in the navy, but not without his parents’ permission, and he knew they’d not give that. Nor would he be allowed to go on overseas duty until he was twenty-one and in the regular forces, or eighteen if he joined the militia.
Two years, he thought, till I can do anything worthwhile. Two years of parading with cadets, learning semaphore, bayoneting dummies slung between the gum trees. At least at home he’d be able to train with the Volunteer Defence Corps, though he suspected that he’d be doing much the same as they did at school cadets. He could already march, and a fat lot of good that would be against the enemy. Could already pot a rabbit in the dusk so quietly it never knew he was there; clean a rifle or a shotgun; even make his own ammunition, though he doubted the army would require him to do that. What more did he need? Would the ability to shave every day instead of twice a week make him a better soldier?
English boys could join the merchant marines at fourteen, would face the enemy at sea as they brought desperately needed supplies through the U-boat blockades. Now that Australia was under direct attack, would they change the age limit here?
He grabbed a towel and began to dry himself. Chapel, he thought, to pray for victory. That was all he could do now.