CHAPTER 12

The Dug-Out

One night, Roma called by our place after work and she was really excited. She had gone to the Temple Hotel for a drink and some Americans had been there. ‘They’re beautiful,’ she said. She told Mum there was now a place in the city for servicemen’s recreation called the Dug-Out and Roma knew a girl who had been there and said there were Yanks everywhere.

The Dug-Out was the brainwave of the Myer emporium owner, Norman Myer, who was struck by the number of servicemen wandering aimlessly through his store. He saw the need for a servicemen’s centre. It would be a place where they could eat, be entertained, get a haircut and have their laundry done.

Roma said it was beneath the Capitol Theatre in Swanston Street where Mr Myer had joined two cafes together. There was music and dancing, and, most importantly, YANKS! It was open from morning to 11 p.m. and packed every day. Even though it was staffed by 150 volunteers from Myer, it lost money consistently. Myer was a conscientious philanthropist and was pleased to contribute.

It was quickly decided that Roma and Mum were going to the Dug-Out. Roma would tell Nana and Grandpa she was staying overnight with Mum and me. Pearl from next door also wanted to come. She would tell her parents she’d get dressed and leave from our place because Mum was just hemming her new dress.

The Dug-Out, The Dug-Out, The Dug-Out. It was all they could talk about for days. Yes, at the Dug-Out they expected to meet Americans, Yanks. Mythical creatures with beautiful teeth, lovely manners and plenty of money. The girls had seen them in the movies. They were from another world. A world where women were wooed with gifts and expensive dinners. Where there were flowers and stockings and music and dancing and even compliments. And what’s more, the Yanks were men in a man-starved land where all the local lads were away fighting in Europe and the Middle East.

My job was to get wood for the chip heater so the ‘girls’ could have a hot bath before their big night out. It sounds easy, but we didn’t have a woodpile. Wood was a luxury item at our dump. We near froze through those wartime winters with the temperature below freezing overnight.

As the man of the house – Mum used to call me that when something dirty had to be done like taking out the garbage or catching a spider – my task was to find wood for the bath. We used to run the bath every Sunday night, so I was no stranger to the wood problem. Fortunately, the fences around our homes in West Brunswick were made of five-foot high wooden palings. They were decades old and tinder dry and relatively easy even for a little kid to chop up. I’d taken so many off our own backyard fence we were expecting trouble from our landlord and we couldn’t steal them from our neighbours, the Thompsons or my mate Laurie.

However, there was a cranky old man in the next street who made a good target. I could get to his back fence through the vacant lots along the creek. It was like a commando raid done in absolute silence with no lights and no identifiable clothing. Stealth combined with absolute surprise and a speedy getaway were my skills.

I required a fence paling that could be wrenched off in one decisive action. It wouldn’t do to get caught. We all knew what the dirty Japs did to prisoners, and old man Bradley had a reputation for having a filthy temper. If he caught me, he would surely kill me. And, if I failed to get firewood, Mum would kill me. She was always threatening to.

There was no way I could quietly sneak a paling off a fence because the noise would be sure to get the neighbourhood dogs barking. I had been on too many paling raids not to know what had to be done. Carefully and quietly select your target while making sure not to disturb his blue heeler cattle dog. Then, with the paling carefully chosen, rip it off and run like bloody hell. Bradley would run to the back fence from his house with his bloody dog barking its damn head off. Luckily, he couldn’t let the dog out. It was a known vicious brute and the authorities had already threatened to destroy it. ‘I’ll give it to you, you little bastard!’ old Bradley would yell. ‘Just wait ‘til I get my hands on you.’

By the time Bradley reached the back fence, I’d be at least 50 yards away. There I’d hide commando style – face down in the long grass, not moving a muscle. I’d wait for him to calm down and go back inside before I dashed across the street (I called that no-man’s land). Then, into the reserve behind our place and duck through the hole in our back fence.

I’d be panting, and scared stiff, close to tears. But I wouldn’t cry now that I was safely home. You had to realise there was a war on and as man of the house I had a duty to look after my family.

Pearl was standing on the kitchen table when I went into the house with my paling. Mum had a mouthful of pins, Roma was sipping a glass of dry sherry and wishing it was a cold beer. ‘Turn around, Pearl. Slowly.’ Mum talked funny with pins in her mouth. She was always so impatient. ‘Stand up straight for God’s sake. We’ll be here all night.’

Mum just had to fix the hem on Pearl’s new dress and it would be finished. Pearl was wearing high heels and I could see her panties under the new red dress. The wireless was playing ‘Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me … ‘til I come marching home’.

The sherry was doing its mellow work. ‘Are you going to make that bath or do I have to take the back of my hand to you?’ Mum said, and I ran into the bathroom. The chip heater was a wondrous invention. It roared like a furnace and would produce hot water forever with little wood.

I was the acknowledged master of the chip heater. Because it needed constant supervision or it might overheat and explode, or annoyingly the fire might go out, I was not to take my eye off it. I sat on the edge of the bath with my hatchet cutting up my stolen paling and adjusting the water. The little bathroom was hot and steamy and I enjoyed the warmth. Even better when Pearl came in and asked if it was ready because they had to go soon. The water was too hot for her so I adjusted the cold and soon she was lying full length with soapy water swirling between her breasts. Occasionally she’d lift her hips to distribute the incoming hot water with me staring at the black, bushy hair between her legs. Even as a little boy I recognised that Pearl was a mighty girl.

That was a good bath. A bad bath was when Mum decided to cut my toenails. Our nail scissors were very small and very pointy. The rivet that held the two blades together was worn and when Mum started cutting, the nail bent over and it hurt. She got angry when I complained and stabbed me in the foot with the scissors. As she stood beside the bath holding my foot in the air, my head went under the soapy water. I thought I would drown and realised, there and then, my mother seriously considered killing me. She’d often made the threat and I must admit, I used to believe she could really do it.

Such were the war years. War and death were never far apart. We were fighting for our lives.