The Godson (34 page)

‘Holy bloody shit!' said Norton, and sat down on the bed. ‘This is that bloody colonel.'

The
Playboy
interview was headed:
Daniel J. Harcourt, America's most decorated war hero tells why he quit the military and became a peacenik in New South Wales
. At the bottom of the page were three head shots of an average-looking, fair-haired man in his forties or fifties. Full-faced and expressive but with a noticeable twinkle of humour in his eyes. The sort of easygoing face you would see in TV commercials having a drink with the boys or driving a Holden utility.

Bugger the cleaning, thought Les. He closed the wall panel and pushed the bed back up against it, then went upstairs to read the two interviews over a cup of coffee.

The
Playboy
interview was laid-back and chatty but Norton could hardly believe some of the things he was reading about Harcourt. He'd been awarded 110 medals. Personally killed almost 10,000 men. One battalion he commanded in Vietnam killed 2,600 Vietcong and suffered only twenty-five losses. In one particular action in Korea, although shot in the head, Harcourt refused to leave the battlefield, charged five machine gun nests, killed 100 Chinese single-handed, rallied his troops and turned probable defeat into victory. He led his men into
battle on crutches or with his arm in plaster or his leg wired up. He was totally devoted to his men; soldiers fought to be under his command, knowing their chances of survival with Harcourt were eminently better than under any West Point career officer who went by the book. He adopted guerrilla tactics and took on the VC at their own game. He wrote manuals on guerrilla warfare, designed weapons and equipment. He was the complete patriot, swearing allegiance to his country right or wrong. Then the same man did an about face in the middle of the Vietnam War, went public on TV and said the US military was run by a bunch of martini-drinking morons and the CIA was no more than an organisation of crooks out to subvert the world. He told Westmoreland and Haig to stick their war in their arse and their best officer resigned his commission.

The US military tried unsuccessfully to disgrace him, but when he got wind of a CIA plot for him to have an ‘accident' or be ‘terminated with extreme prejudice' he migrated to Australia in the early seventies. There was much more to the article than that. Talks of megaton overkill. How the character Kurtz in
Apocalypse Now
was based on him to a certain extent. His reference to war as ‘an insane garbage disposal unit that churns out little white crosses'. Norton didn't stop till he came to the end then made a second cup of coffee and turned to the next article.

The other interview was a lot tighter. Harcourt had flown back to America and it was between himself, a small TV station in Montana and the editor of a US survivalist magazine called
Civilian Commando
. Harcourt was asked about his experiences in Korea and Vietnam and various questions on post nuclear survival and guerrilla tactics. But the interview boiled down to Harcourt saying he was convinced an atomic war was inevitable and he had found the safest place on earth somewhere in Australia. ‘I have constructed a fully self-sufficient stockade in a valley,' he is quoted as saying. ‘It is impregnable from the rear and sides. The only open space is to the west. But I have a defence perimeter and fields of fire from the house to the road. I will shoot them as they come down the road or try to cross my creek. I cannot be taken there. I will survive.'

‘Well, I'll be fucked.' Norton took a sip of coffee and found that it was now cold. Then as he put the cup down the whole thing started to come together. Cedar Glen wasn't just a duck farm and a country house. It was a modern day survivalist fortress. You could tell from the way it was built, sunk into
the ground almost like a bunker. The solid wooden foundations, the huge logs for beams and supports, the extra thick walls. The odd windows. The vegetable and fruit patches. Even the way the little billabong at the front was concreted so you could run a generator off it. And the view across the paddocks. Fields of fire. Defence perimeters. That pit down by the far billabong: pig's arse it was for tigers. That was a bloody mantrap. The strange circle of wooden beams up from the duck sheds, was a machine gun post or an artillery bunker. Harcourt was convinced there was going to be a nuclear holocaust and he was probably seeing people in black pyjamas carrying AK-47s in his sleep. And if an atomic war did break out it would be survival of the fittest. There'd be a complete breakdown of law and order. And what did Harcourt say? ‘They will not take me here. I will survive.' Colonel Daniel J. Harcourt was the supreme survivalist.

Norton looked at the expressive face smiling at him from the bottom of
the Playboy
interview. Harcourt, he mused, you're either as nutty as a fruitcake, or one of the smartest men who ever walked on this earth. He drummed his fingers on the table and looked around at the solidly built interior of the house. I'd say it would have to be the latter.

Peregrine was laying back in his banana-chair on the little island in the billabong with his shirt off engrossed in his book about Peter Sellers when he heard Les approaching.

‘Hello, old sausage,' he said, as Norton splashed across to him. ‘How goes it?'

‘Good, mate. Got all the housework done.' Norton opened his banana-chair and spread a towel over it. ‘Jesus, it's nice here, isn't it.'

‘Absolutely beautiful.'

When he was settled, Les handed Peregrine the two articles from his overnight bag. ‘Have a look at these. This is the bloke who built this joint.'

Peregrine looked at the photocopies. ‘Where did you get these?' he asked.

‘In an old cupboard in my room.'

‘I say.'

‘It makes interesting reading, I can tell you.'

‘I'm sure it would. So this is the American fellow who built the property?'

Norton nodded. ‘I also found a painting and some medals as well.'

‘A painting?' said Peregrine absently.

‘Yeah —
Portrait of a Chinaman
, by Eric Norman Toejam.'

‘Who?'

‘Dunno really,' chuckled Les. ‘But those were the initials in the corner.'

‘Mmhh.' Peregrine continued to study the photocopies. ‘I might read these now.'

‘Go for your life. I'll get into a bit more of this Bukowski bfoke.'

Peregrine put his book away and began flicking avidly through the pages. Norton was well into tales of sex, drugs and degradation in Los Angeles and laughing away when Peregrine spoke again.

‘Well, I'll be blowed,' he heard the Englishman say.

‘What was that?'

‘This Colonel Harcourt. He's the most amazing fellow.'

‘He was certainly different all right,' agreed Norton.

‘He was absolutely convinced there was going to be an atomic war.'

‘Yep. And this was the place he was going to fall back to.'

‘Absolutely astonishing.'

‘It all makes sense now, doesn't it? The way the place is built, those holes in the ground and that.'

‘In a macabre sense — yes.'

‘And what about his war record?'

‘A hundred and ten medals. Almost unbelievable.'

‘So just think, Pezz. If war breaks out in Europe while you're away, you're sweet here.'

‘Oh my God! Don't even mention it. Imagine being stuck out here with you for the rest of my life!'

‘Yeah. And nothing to drink either. We're both barred from the local pub.'

Peregrine flicked through the pages again. ‘I wonder what on earth happened to him?'

‘Dunno,' shrugged Les. ‘The CIA might've got him.'

‘That's a distinct possibility.' Peregrine returned the papers to Norton's bag. ‘I might read that again tonight.'

Absolutely delightful would be as good a way as any to describe the afternoon at the little billabong. The August sun beat down, the water running around the tiny island rippled and sang and the sounds of the birds calling to each other rang across the still green water and echoed off the riverbanks. Before they knew it, it was almost three and both Les and Peregrine were starting to get a bit hungry. It was Peregrine who suggested, they go back and see about getting the barbecue
together. They packed up and began marching across the field past the duck slaughterhouse; as they approached the homestead a movement amongst the rockeries caught their eye.

‘Hello,' said Peregrine. ‘Baldric's here.'

Down on his haunches and deeply involved in his work, the little caretaker didn't notice them approaching.

‘Hello, Ronnie,' said Les. ‘At it again, mate?'

‘Huh?' Madden spun around. Again he was covered in sweat and the customary half-inch of dead roll-your-own was dangling from the corner of his mouth! ‘Ohh, hello fellahs,' he said, without getting up. ‘Yeah, I couldn't get out here yesterday. And I got held up this morning. I wanted to make sure this fertilizer isn't too strong for these creepers I put in.'

Norton nodded. ‘How long you been here?'

‘About two hours.'

‘We're just about to start lunch,' said Peregrine. ‘Would you care to join us?'

‘Well, I'm a bit strapped for time …'

‘There's a drink there,' said Norton, winking at Peregrine.

‘Well… I suppose. You got enough food?'

‘Heaps. See you in about an hour.'

‘Okay, Les. Thanks.'

Ronnie continued working. Les and Peregrine walked to the house.

‘You want to have a look at that painting?'

‘I'll get changed first then I'll come down.'

‘Righto.'

Norton was in the en suite having a shave when Peregrine tapped lightly and walked into his room about thirty minutes later.

‘I feel good after a shower,' he said. ‘Quite hungry though.'

‘Yeah, me too. I'm dyin' for a beer.'

‘So where's this masterpiece you've unearthed?'

‘On the bed.'

Les was engrossed in the final strokes of his shave when he heard Peregrine cry out.

‘My God!'

‘What was that?'

‘My God!' repeated Peregrine. ‘This painting. Where did you say you got it?'

‘I found it in a cupboard. Along with those papers I showed you and those medals sitting on the bed.' Les splashed some water on himself and walked out wiping his face with a towel. ‘Why?'

Peregrine was holding the painting out in front of him and his eyes were bulging. ‘This is unbelievable.' He ran his hands over the frame and turned it over. ‘There's another painting on the other side.'

‘Yeah. By a bloke named Reid.'

‘Reid?'

‘Yeah.' Les took the painting and showed Peregrine the name on the back. Then he turned it over and pointed out to him the initials ENT. ‘See, the famous Australian artist — Eric Norman Toejam.'

Peregrine continued to stare at the painting shaking his head as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. ‘This is absolutely incredible. I don't believe it.'

‘Don't believe what, Peregrine?' queried Norton. His eyes narrowed slightly and a look of suspicion crossed his face. ‘What's so different about this painting, Peregrine?'

‘Huh? Oh … oh, it's nothing really.' replied the Englishman dryly. ‘It's just that ah… I… ah, I have a Chinese family who do some gardening for me on my estate at West Sussex. And the resemblance to the grandfather is absolutely uncanny.' Peregrine looked at the painting and shook his head. ‘Yes, that's old … Joe Wong all right. Right down to the wispy grey beard. By golly. Unbelievable.'

‘Yeah?' shrugged Norton, climbing into his tracksuit. ‘Hard to tell one from the other. Especially when they get old.'

‘Were there any papers or anything with it when you found it?'

Les opened up the smaller Manilla envelope. ‘Here you are. One receipt. Thirty dollars.'

Peregrine looked at the receipt then sat down on the bed and started to laugh. ‘Thirty dollars. My God! I don't believe it.'

‘No, neither do I,' said Les. ‘I wouldn't give you thirty bob for the fuckin' thing.'

‘So, what do you intend to do with it?'

Norton shrugged. ‘I don't know. I don't want it.'

‘All right if I keep it in my room?'

‘Do what you like with it.'

‘I wouldn't mind taking it back to England with me. I'd like to show it to old Joe. He'd be astounded.'

‘Go for your life.'

‘Thank you… Les.' Peregrine took the painting and the receipt and went to his room. When he came back down Les was in the barbecue area breaking up pieces of wood.

‘Well,' he beamed. ‘I think I might have a glass of champagne.'

‘Yeah. I just opened a can of beer myself.'

Peregrine took a bottle of Great Western from the fridge and poured himself an overflowing glass. He grinned at Norton and winked. ‘Cheers, Les.'

‘Yeah. Cheers, mate,' replied Les, taking a mouthful of beer. ‘I'm going up to get the rice and salad.'

‘Would you like a hand?'

‘No. She'll be right.'

When Les returned about twenty minutes later Peregrine had finished the bottle. Ronnie was sitting next to him smoking a roll-your-own. His tongue looked like it was about to ignite and his eyes kept darting towards the fridge as if he'd just sat through six screenings of Lawrence of Arabia.

‘How you feeling, Ron?' asked Les, smiling to himself.

‘Ohh, not too bad, mate,' replied the caretaker.

‘Get all your gardening done?'

‘Ahh … yeah.'

‘S'pose you're a bit hungry?'

‘A … bit.'

‘It's been warm today all right.'

‘It has, yeah.'

Christ! Why be a sadist? thought Les. ‘You feel like a beer?' Madden nodded quickly. ‘Help yourself.'