Brother Fish (57 page)

By the time we got home I felt like an ageing labrador at the end of a duck shoot. My leg hurt like hell – and the grog mixed with the antibiotics we were still taking wasn't doing my head a favour, either. We'd been up around twenty-three hours, but I don't think I've been happier in my life – happy for myself and happy for my mate, whom the island had well and truly taken to their hearts. Sue wanted to cook us breakfast but Jimmy and I were too buggered to stay up any longer, and we staggered to the back of the house where I'd built the indoor shower and extension bedroom when I came back from New Guinea.

As he pulled off his boots, Jimmy said to me, ‘Brother Fish, yoh got good folks and lotsa fine love, an' yoh done share dem both with me. I thank yoh from da bottom of mah heart.' To my astonishment he turned away quickly, though not before I saw the tears well up in his eyes. Like me he was pretty pissed, but I knew he meant it. I guess Jimmy's life had been way short on love, and it was a safe bet he'd never been presented with a bunch of pink and orange gladioli before.

‘G'night, mate. We'll go out tomorrow with Cory and Steve and get us some crays for . . .' but I don't remember completing the sentence before I was asleep.

The following morning Sue demanded our clothes for laundering, and a few minutes later returned with the crumpled envelope Busta Gut had given me at the welcome-home party. ‘It's a telegram. You haven't opened it yet!' she said accusingly. I explained how Busta Gut had handed it to me as we were about to depart. ‘Probably been in his bag for days,' Sue said. ‘Open it – it could be important,' she demanded. Telegrams were not often received in our family and when we did get one, it was never good news. I could see the anxious look on Sue's face. ‘At least it can't be about you being dead or wounded like the last one we got that said you were missing in action,' she said. I smoothed out the window envelope, removed the telegram and quickly read it, then began to laugh. ‘What's so funny?' Sue asked, relieved.

‘It arrived three days ago!' I began to read it to her.

CANBERRA ACT
PRIVATE J. McKENZIE
4 december 1953

DESIRE TO CONVEY CONGRAT ULATI ONS THAT YOUR SERVICE HAS BEN RECOGNISED BY BEING DECORATE D WITH THE MILITAR Y MEDAL SIGNED JOSHUA FISHER MINISTER FOR THE ARMY.

As I said to Sue, the date the telegram had been sent was three days prior. Obviously Ma Gutherie hadn't thought it worth a gee-up for Busta Gut, whereas the news of my arrival home on the boat had got urgent priority. In fact, the telegram from Canberra must have arrived at least a day before the one I'd sent to Gloria. Nothing much had changed on the island.

Jimmy was a big hit and we had cousins and distant relations turning up at all hours to visit, bringing eggs or a couple of bottles of beer to show they hadn't come empty-handed. I reckon every single sheila on the island dropped by in the first week, ostensibly to welcome me back. I'd been at school with several of them. They all left having given Jimmy their address and extracted a firm promise from him to call by soon.

Clothes – well, trousers anyway – were a big problem for Jimmy, and in the end Gloria cut a pattern and made two pairs of long pants from some good blue cotton she'd ordered from McKinlay's in Launceston. They also sent some grey flannel, sufficient for a couple of pairs of good trousers, and Gloria wasn't game to just run them up like the blue cotton ones so she unpicked a pair from his dress uniform, cut a pattern from them and then sewed them back together again. Then she made the two flannel pairs, all on her trusty table-model Singer sewing machine. Jimmy was still skinny from the POW camp, so shirts were no problem, and nobody wore a jacket on the island in summer anyway.

Christmas came and Jimmy flew Gloria and Sue over to Launceston to stock up on supplies, and paid for all the goodies we'd never before had at Christmas-day lunch – including the first turkey the family, excluding myself, had ever tasted. He also paid for all the grog. This was no mean gesture, as just about every rello on the island turned up after lunch, ostensibly to wish us Merry Christmas, but really so that the various Kelly and McKenzie single girls could have another go at persuading Jimmy to call around some time.

The first month back home went by quickly and the time came for us to have our plaster removed, so we took the Douglas DC3 over to Launceston with Sue accompanying us. At Launceston General Hospital they got rid of the plasters and X-rayed our legs, and the young quack showed us how the bones that had been rebroken and properly pinned when we'd come out of the POW camp had this time grown straight. He said they'd done a good job. I then asked him about the limp both Jimmy and I had been left with after the Chinese had removed our plaster the first time. He said that provided we walked up to our waists in the surf every morning for an hour for the next month to strengthen our leg muscles, he saw no reason why the limp would return. Afterwards, Sue and Jimmy went to the museum while I visited Mr Walsh at the chemist shop.

I was in a bit of a quandary as I couldn't tell Bluey Walsh's old man that the last words his son had muttered before he died were ‘Oh shit!', but I couldn't think of any words he might have said that would comfort his old man. If I told him Bluey had said nothing he'd be disappointed, because as a soldier you're always supposed to have last words when you're about to die. I couldn't just say Bluey had died in my arms saying, ‘Mum, Dad, I love you,' because he may have sisters and brothers and he wouldn't have left them out, would he? Besides, if he'd said those words as he died I should have told his Dad when we'd first met despite my hurry at the time to catch the bus.

Jimmy and I had once had a conversation about last words. According to Jimmy, most American soldiers cried out for their mother. I guess ours did as well, although I hadn't witnessed this. Ted Shearer, for instance, had died in the weapon pit in the Battle of Kapyong without me even knowing, and Johnny Gordon, in the village where we'd been ambushed, hadn't uttered a word. If Ted had had any last words I wouldn't have heard them in the clatter of machine guns, mortars landing and rifle fire. When Jimmy told me about blokes calling out for their mum he'd speculated, not knowing his mother, that he wouldn't know what to say when he bit the dust. He'd laughed. ‘Hey, maybe I gonna say, “So long, Gobblin' Spider!” because it don't sound right foh me to say, “I love you, Frau Kraus!”'

As for me, I guess I'd have to send my love to the whole family, not just Gloria. If I didn't she'd maybe add me to the disgrace ban for not including Sue, Cory and Steve in my last thoughts. Anyway, it seemed only natural that you'd include the whole family if you had enough breath left.

I arrived at the chemist shop still not sure what my words of comfort and Bluey Walsh's last words should be. Mr Walsh recognised me immediately. ‘No more crutches, hey! That's good, son.'

I grinned. ‘G'day, Mr Walsh, it feels strange walking more or less normally again.' I noticed for the first time that he had hair the same colour as my own but turning sort of salt-and-cayenne-peppery, which accounted for Bluey. I'm normally pretty observant, but I'd been that anxious to get the condoms in a hurry last time that I hadn't noticed very much about him.

‘Come in for more supplies, have you?' he asked.

‘No, sir, I came in to see you – as I promised.'

He looked relieved. ‘I was hoping you wouldn't forget – the family is very excited.'

Shit, I didn't even phone ahead to say I was coming. He's obviously told his family about my last visit and how I rushed out, and here it is a month later! What if I'd chickened out?
‘I'm sorry I didn't come in sooner, Mr Walsh.' I wanted to make some plausible excuse but couldn't think of one – you can't exactly say you were too busy to see a bloke about his son's death.

‘Would you mind if we nipped home?' he asked. ‘My wife would like to be with us, and Harry's brother and sister could be there in a few minutes as well. Is that okay?'

I felt the familiar panic rise within me – they'd want more than a couple of words I might invent as Bluey's – Harry's – last words. On my first visit to the chemist I'd been in such a rush I'd barely glanced at the shop assistant, but now I could see she was an absolute stunner. She gave me a big smile and then said to Mr Walsh, ‘You've got Mrs Dougherty's medicine to get ready – she'll be here in ten minutes. She's always on the dot, and she'll be furious if you're not here.'

Mr Walsh gave an impatient jerk of his head and clucked his tongue in annoyance, then looked at me. ‘Would you mind, Mr McKenzie?'

I then realised that we hadn't been formally introduced and looked at him, surprised. ‘You know my name?'

‘On the radio. It was on the local radio when you won the Military Medal. We were all proud of you.'

‘I apologise, sir. I should have introduced myself before.'

He grinned. ‘I think you had other things on your mind at the time.'

He turned to the shop assistant. ‘And this is Wendy,' he said, smiling again.

‘G'day, Wendy,' I said, sticking out my hand, then unnecessarily saying, ‘Jacko McKenzie, Queen Island.'

‘The war hero?' she asked right off.

I blushed. ‘Nah, lucky – they must've tossed a coin. There were heaps more deserved a medal before me.'

‘And modest, too!' she exclaimed.

‘You're Wendy, er . . .'

‘Kalbfell,' she said.

Wendy Kalbfell wasn't any taller than me – in fact, she was maybe an inch or so shorter. She had brown hair, mousey-brown I suppose, but she had these green eyes you couldn't believe and was
really
pretty, with a knockout smile. She was wearing a chemist smock like Mr Walsh, so I asked, ‘Are you a chemist?' In those days they weren't known as pharmacists.

She laughed, shaking her head. ‘No. Mr Walsh insists it looks professional.'

‘It does,' I said. ‘Very.'

‘That's good,' she said.

The conversation wasn't exactly progressing, then she said, ‘You knew Bluey Walsh, didn't you?'

‘Yeah, great bloke. He died in my arms.' Suddenly, I saw Bluey Walsh in flames falling at my feet with me uselessly emptying my water bottle over him and him looking up at me in surprise and saying, ‘Oh shit!', then dying right in front of my eyes. In my nervous state I started to talk, telling Wendy Kalbfell about the two American planes and the yellow smoke flare the spotter plane had dropped and then our astonishment and horror as the first plane had come in low dropping napalm. I told her about pouring my water bottle over Bluey and trying to beat out the flames. ‘Then he looked at me, and said, “Bloody good life, Jacko, but I'm gunna miss my wonderful family.”' It was a lie, but it had come out that way without me even thinking about it. Then I realised that Mr Walsh was standing next to me and had heard the whole or part of it.

Wendy was crying, and I could see Mr Walsh was pretty choked. ‘Could you tell it again when we get home, Jacko, the way you just did?'

I nodded dumbly.
I'd fucked up again!
I'd been trying to impress Wendy Kalbfell and it had all come out in a rush with a lie at the end. There are things soldiers see they shouldn't talk about to civilians, and I'd just broken the cardinal rule. The sheer horror of warfare is something you don't talk about with anyone, especially women. I realised that the napalm incident and Bluey's death were all there under the surface, waiting to come out without me knowing. So when it was triggered it just spurted out like vomit. At least I'd managed to say something in the end that wasn't true but would be of some comfort to them. Later I told myself that it was exactly what I would have said with my last breath, which was probably crap.

Just then Mrs Dougherty came in, all fuss and bother like a broody pouter pigeon entering the pigeon loft. ‘How are you today, Mrs Dougherty?' Mr Walsh asked.

‘Don't ask! Worst day of my life!' she said, then walked right past us with her huge bosom sticking out and halted at the dispensary at the back of the shop, waiting for Mr Walsh to follow.

‘Your medicine isn't doing a thing!' she said accusingly, as Mr Walsh reached onto the dispensary counter and handed her a paper bag. ‘Might as well take a Bex for all the good it's doing me.'

‘Have you seen Dr Kalbfell lately? Maybe he needs to prescribe something else?' Mr Walsh offered.

The pouter pigeon turned slightly to look at Wendy, then turned back and let out a ‘Hmmph!'

Wendy sniffed back her tears and tried to smile. ‘Silly old cow!' she whispered. ‘She says exactly the same thing every week: “Don't ask! Worst day of my life!”'

‘I wouldn't take too many Bex if I were you,' I heard Mr Walsh caution the pouter pigeon.

‘Hmmph!' Mrs Dougherty replied again, clearly indicating that she wasn't interested in his advice. She turned and looked over at Wendy. ‘On my account, girl – and why are you sniffing? Have you got a cold? If you have you shouldn't be here spreading it – kindly don't come near me!'

‘Certainly, Mrs Dougherty,' Wendy replied sweetly, as the old bag – breast thrust out like the prow of a sailing ship, nose in the air – left the chemist shop without waiting for Wendy to explain her sniffs.