Valley of Lagoons

by Patricia Shaw

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

One man's search for the quickest road to wealth... Patricia Shaw's Valley of Lagoons is a gripping saga of the pioneering men and women who pushed back the frontiers of Australia. The perfect read for fans of Tamara McKinley and Tricia McGill. 'Like Storm Bay, Valley of Lagoons is well-researched and compulsive reading' - Launceston Examiner In 1825 the square-rigger Emma Jane sets sail from England, carrying on board convicts bound for the penal colonies and a handful of paying passengers determined to brave the perilous journey to a new land of opportunity - Australia. The settlers discover that the quickest road to wealth lies in laying claim to vast tracts of cattle-grazing land - though this soon brings them into conflict with fierce Aborigine tribes. Aristocratic Jasin Heselwood, forced to flee England to avoid gambling debts, will stop at nothing to join the elite ranks of cattle kings. Double-crossing friend and foe alike, he starts a feud with the Irish squatter Pace MacNamara that has tragic consequences for both their families. But it is the women who are the true pioneers: Jasin's spoilt wife, Georgina, who refuses to be crushed by his ruthlessness or by his infidelities; and the convict girl Dolour, who is to be his Nemesis... What readers are saying about Valley of Lagoons : ' Fascinating - a real page-turner ' ' Wonderful story... landmarks were vivid and made one feel you were there with them ' ' Grabbed me right from the start '

Release date: December 6, 2012

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 544

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

A black limousine glided through the VIP entrance to La Guardia airport and was waved on by the guards at the second checkpoint. Eduardo Rivadavia leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.

‘Do you know where to go?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the chauffeur assured him. ‘We’re right on time.’

Eduardo shook his head and settled back. Airports this size were still a maze to him, and now, driving between rows of private planes, their noses stuck in the air, he wondered how the owners ever located their crafts.

He lit a cigar and leant further back, out of sight of the passers-by. He hated this car; it made him feel like a gangster, and he supposed his fat cigar wasn’t helping. But, as Argentinian Ambassador to the United Nations, he had to submit to being chauffeured around New York in this long ugly ominous-looking limousine.

Had it not been for the misty rain he might have taken the opportunity to examine some of these small planes. His sister, Maria, was at him all the time to buy one. She had married a Texan and lived in Dallas. With the rest of the family remaining firmly in Argentina, Maria fretted that Eduardo in New York might be lonely.

He sighed. Now that his only child was to be married he expected Maria would become even more insistent on the need for that plane. He could not convince her that such extravagance would create problems. With the depression in Argentina, news of one of their diplomats swanning around in a private plane would only invite scrutiny and inevitable criticism. She could not understand that an ambassador is not Caesar’s wife. The Rivadavia companies would purchase this plane, she argued, it would not cost the government a cent. He could not make her see that the public would not want to know the truth. The Opposition would see to it that rumours of corruption reached out to him; it was hard enough to keep clear of their smear tactics without handing them the ammunition. Anyway, he rather liked the big commercial aircraft and the busy efficiency of airports.

Maria had always been the same, whatever she had, she wanted the others to have too; her surges of enthusiasm for new toys, as Eduardo called them, had become a family joke. And since her husband, Hank Wedderburn, had a private plane, then the Rivadavia family would be nagged until something else took her fancy.

It was still raining, that flat grey subdued rain which seemed almost apologetic, as if hoping that the bombastic New Yorkers would not notice. He put out his cigar and closed the window, feeling isolated and depressed.

I should be happy, he told himself, my daughter’s wedding day. I hope the rain stops in time. They say it will. She’s marrying a fine young man who cares for her; a sensible sort of fellow, with a background not unlike our own, but from so far away! Who would have dreamed she would marry an Australian?

Elena had laughed at him. ‘Daddy! Why do you keep saying “so far away”. Argentina is a long way from everything too, so what’s the difference? And we’re going to live on a ranch. I’m the one in the odd spot. I leave the ranch to come to NewYork, and end up living on another ranch.’

Another ranch, she had said, as if it were just down the highway. Young people! They have no idea what they are getting into half the time. What sort of a ranch he had not yet discovered, except that they ran cattle too. He hadn’t liked to quiz her fiancé too much, and so far had only worked out that it was unmarked on any map and far from a township.

Luke MacNamara had told him the house was very comfortable, that Elena would live well, but standards differ. What did he mean by well? His daughter Elena Maria Rivadavia de Figueroa was accustomed to a high standard of living, as the Rivadavias had been for generations; but this pair, so excited with their marriage plans, would not take his questions seriously. He wished his wife were still alive, he needed her now; she would have been more forceful, more forthright.

Normally he would have spoken to the young man’s parents before giving his permission, but Luke’s father was dead and his mother was due in from Australia this morning, so there had been no opportunity to enquire further, apart from his own embassy’s discreet check.

Ah well. Let them be happy. Let them all be happy today! Eduardo preferred to feel depressed. Hank and Maria were as excited about the wedding as if she were their own daughter. He estimated that he had only a few minutes of peace left in his day.

Last Easter they had taken Luke home to meet the family and Luis, Eduardo’s brother, had been impressed with his knowledge of cattle. This had given Eduardo heart. ‘Offer him a job!’

‘I did,’ Luis had told him, ‘but he wants to go home.’

‘What in damnation is he doing in North America then?’

‘Things are not so different in his family,’ Luis said gently. ‘Like you, he wanted to go out into the world, but now he realises that his heart is in the land. We don’t all have the talent that you have, to take so easily to the world of commerce. He is more like me, more suited to country life. We are all so very proud of you, Eduardo; you are a man of great distinction and that young man respects you, but let him go home. Let them go. I don’t think you need worry about Elena. If he has to stay on working in NewYork to marry Elena, he’ll be miserable. Could you imagine me working in New York?’

‘Why not? You could handle the sort of job he has in the Trade Commission, dealing with primary producers and outlets.’

Luis laughed. ‘But I’d have to live there – that’s the problem. They want to live on a ranch. I don’t blame them. You can keep New York.’

The chauffeur brought him back to the present. ‘There’s the plane, sir. They’re coming in now.’

Eduardo watched as the small plane swept neatly down to the runway and rolled to a stop. Hank and Maria came down the steps and dashed across to the car in a flurry of umbrellas.

Maria threw her arms around him. ‘Eduardo! It is so good of you to come to meet us. You shouldn’t have! You must have so much to do today.’

‘Not me, I was in the way. It was my escape to take a drive.’

Hank leaned over to pump his hand. ‘We still appreciate it, Eduardo. And what about little Elena getting married? We haven’t bought her a present yet. We thought we’d wait and see what they wanted. Maria thinks a cheque might be bad manners. Different people, different customs. And she’s marrying an Aussie? How about that?’

Eduardo produced a thin smile. He was fond of Hank but the Texan’s exuberance always left him at a loss for words.

‘Hank’s got a soft spot for Australians,’ Maria said.

‘Oh yes,’ Eduardo replied. ‘Why?’

Maria blinked in surprise. ‘Why? I don’t know. Why, Hank?’

Hank shrugged and his wife, taking that to mean it was of no consequence, hurried on, ‘Aunt Cecilia tells me she is sure that there was a branch of the Rivadavia family in Australia a long time ago. Last century, she thinks.’

Her brother smiled at her, patronising. ‘I never heard that one before. Aunt Cecilia finds branches of the family everywhere, when it is convenient.’

‘She could be right. You never know. But tell me, what’s happening with the wedding? Is everything organised? I wish I could have been here to help Elena. Now who is coming?’

‘The usual people. Family. Friends. His and hers. Luis and Isobel and their children are staying at the Waldorf, making a holiday of it. The aunts are with friends in Connecticut. The Garcias and others from Buenos Aires have taken apartments somewhere and Grandpapa Batiste is staying with Uncle Julio on Long Island . . .’

‘But,’ Maria interrupted, ‘not our family, Eduardo, the other side! I heard there’s a Lord and Lady coming!’

‘Yes, Lord and Lady Heselwood.’

‘I didn’t know Australians went in for lords,’ Hank said.

‘They’re not Australian, they’re English. Friends of the MacNamaras. Luke’s family.’ Eduardo spoke as if he had already gone through this explanation too many times.

‘Luke must be well connected, to have friends in the peerage,’ Maria said, sensing that Eduardo wasn’t overjoyed at the prospect of this marriage. She looked out of the window. ‘I love New York, it’s such a stolid place isn’t it? Everyone putting one foot after the other with such intensity.’

Hank laughed. ‘Eduardo, this sister of yours has the strangest reactions. Most people say New York is exciting.’

‘Oh bosh,’ she cried. ‘It is too predictable to be exciting. Everyone who comes here knows exactly what to expect. Australia is exciting. I’d love to go to Australia. Pioneer country . . . it must be like North America was in the movies of the Wild West; all that space.’

‘And no water,’ Hank said. ‘That’s the difference. Our pioneers were fortunate they found well-irrigated country. The further west you go in Australia the drier it gets; a lot of their rivers flow inland and just run into the sand.’

‘Rivers can’t flow inland, Hank,’ his wife said.

‘They can, can’t they, Eduardo?’

Rivadavia was curious. ‘Have you been to Australia, Hank?’

‘Yes, during the war.’

‘Have you ever been to this country, this part that Luke comes from, Queensland? I’ve never heard of it before.’

‘Eduardo, for once I’m way in front of you,’ Hank said. ‘Sure I’ve been there, but it’s no big deal. I reckon more than two hundred thousand GI’s and fly-boys know that part of the world. There were enormous US bases in Australia, but the biggest concentration of fighting men was based in Townsville, on the coast, a jumping-off spot for the Pacific war. I often wonder if any of them went back; there were big opportunities in that country in those days, still are for that matter.’

Eduardo was at last finding the conversation more interesting. ‘What sort of prospects?’

‘Plenty of them, in all directions. Fantastic, endless grazing country – they’ve got cattle stations there, ranches, as big as Texas.’

His brother-in-law was stunned. He had been taught to believe that everything in Texas was the biggest. ‘You are joking with me?’

‘No I’m not. What size is this station, the ranch your future son-in-law has?’

‘I didn’t like to ask.’

‘You should have. Aussies don’t mind. They’d tell you if their grandpappy was Jesse James. Half of them are descended from convicts – they don’t care. In fact, they’re proud of it.’

‘Oh, my God!’

Even Maria was aghast. ‘I’m sure Luke MacNamara isn’t descended from a convict.’

‘How do you know?’ Hank was enjoying himself, teasing them. He loved them all dearly; they had taken him to their hearts and given him a sense of belonging, something he had not experienced before, but the Rivadavias took their family line so seriously they were vulnerable to a little gentle needling.

Hank still recalled with rage his homecoming from the war after months of hospitalisation. He had called his parents from San Francisco to tell them what bus he would be on; he had travelled across country for two days, too excited to read the magazines he had bought to fill in the time, and had stepped out at the old bus station, home at last after two years. There was no one to meet him so he had walked right across the town, experiencing a sense of surprise that it seemed so much smaller than he remembered. The front door was locked but the key was in the same place so he let himself in the back door and found a note on the kitchen table, anchored by the sugar pot, where his mother always left her notes. It said his parents had gone to the movies.

He had wanted to leave right then, but his need to be home, among family, was too great. He desperately needed to tell them what had happened to him, to be rid of it. But when he spoke of the war and they saw him begin to shake, his father told him, ‘The war’s over, boy. Put it behind you.’

Eduardo cut into his painful memories. ‘If you have been to Townsville, have you been to Luke’s home town, this Valley of Lagoons?’

‘Valley of Lagoons,’ Maria repeated, ‘it’s such a romantic name. I adore it.’

Hank shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think it’s a town. I looked it up on a map but I couldn’t find it.’

‘Neither could I,’ Eduardo groaned. ‘Luke circled it with a finger for me, but one can only guess. It looks to be hundreds of miles inland from Townsville, which is on the coast.’

‘Not so different then from Argentina or Texas is it?’ Hank laughed.

Eduardo scowled and changed the topic. ‘Here we are. Look at all the cars in the street. The residence is a madhouse today, photographers, dressers, hairdressers, squealing women. Why don’t we keep going and lunch somewhere quiet?’

‘No,’ Maria cried, almost leaping from her seat. ‘I must go and help Elena. There must be a million things I can do.’ She was climbing out even as the limousine glided to a stop at the front portico.

Maria and Hank took the same car to the church just minutes ahead of the bridal party. Hank was irritated; he hated to be late at any time.

‘There’s no hurry,’ Maria said; ‘they can’t start without the bride.’

‘That’s not the point,’ he complained. ‘I like to get places early so I can see who’s who. Now look, they’ve all gone inside. We’ll only see backs on the way in.’

The usher took them down the long aisle while Maria admired the flowers and Hank looked around for familiar faces.

‘There’s the groom’s mother,’ Maria said as they sat down, and Hank glanced over at an attractive woman with a slightly suntanned face and blond hair rolled gently under a pillbox hat. He noticed her strong competent hands as she placed her gloves and prayerbook on the narrow ledge in front of her and saw the contrast in his wife’s olive-skinned elegantly manicured hands. ‘Where’s her husband?’ he whispered to Maria.

‘Sssh. He’s dead! Killed in the war. Luke is such a nice young man isn’t he?’ She was looking towards the bridegroom and, even though they could only see his back, Hank nodded approval. In the way of all tall men, he appreciated that this lad was a good six foot, wide shouldered, but still lean and lanky, needing more years to fill out. He smiled. The groom was obviously uncomfortable in his formal clothing, jerking at his coat and straightening the tie. He looked again at young MacNamara, trying to see his face; there was something familiar about him, about his stance. What was it? Hank searched his brain. The way the shoulders moved? The slight lean, a cowboy lean. Maybe it reminded him of some of the boys back home. He felt a strange nervous roll in his stomach and perspiration stood out on his florid face. Looking down he saw that his hands were shaking.

Maria, who missed nothing (he always said), took his arm. ‘What’s the matter, Hank? Are you all right?’

‘Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just a bit hot in here.’

She looked at him sharply as he took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his face and neck.

Getting old, that’s my trouble, he told himself. He stood as the first chords of the wedding march peeled triumphantly through the church. There was Elena standing with her father at the top of the aisle, framed in light.

Hank’s troubling thoughts were forgotten as he turned and was briefly lost in the beauty of this woman he had watched grow from a child. Her lovely face was misty under the veil that fell in a cloud of tulle from the same mantilla Maria had worn on their wedding day.

‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ Maria was ecstatic, clutching at Hank.

‘She sure is,’ he said, turning to catch the bridegroom’s reaction.

Luke MacNamara had turned, as all bridegrooms do, to steal that first glimpse of his bride. His nervousness left him and his face broke into a wide grin, then he remembered to turn back to the altar.

He saw the tall man standing in the front row and guessed it must be Hank Wedderburn, Elena’s favourite uncle, so he acknowledged Hank with a conspiratorial wink before resuming his correct stance with the groomsmen, facing the priest.

Hank staggered as if struck. His knees buckled and he clutched at the pew for support. His eyes clouded. The bride went past with Eduardo and the organ music seemed to rise to a roar.

‘What is it?’ Maria’s voice was fearful. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m not too well. I think I’ll just get outside for a minute.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No, you stay here.’ He stepped from the pew into the side aisle, trying to look as if there were some rational purpose to his exit. Heads turned, curious, as he disappeared through a side door.

Outside he braced himself and walked away to stand under a tree, fumbling for a cigarette. Instead, the pack fell to the grass from his trembling hands. In the privacy of the deserted courtyard, Hank Wedderburn gave way to tears.

By the time the others emerged from the church he had washed his face at the drinking fountain and forced his cheerful self to return, but Maria noticed the redness of his eyes. His sudden ‘turn’ had given her a fright. He had to promise to see a doctor as soon as possible because he could give no explanation for the lapse.

CHAPTER TWO

During the reception Hank made up his mind to act on something he had let lie dormant for fourteen years.

But it wasn’t until he was back in the privacy of his Dallas office some weeks later that he picked up the phone and called a firm of private investigators.

That afternoon, Thomas J. Clelland travelled up in the lift of the prestigious Wedderburn Building to see Hank Wedderburn himself, wondering what this assignment might be. Checking up on a business associate? Hardly. Wedderburn could do that better through his own contacts. Wife trouble? Unlikely. Those sort of arrangements were made well away from the office. Smart wives were friendly with secretaries.

Wedderburn was polite. He wanted quiet enquiries made on a matter of minor interest. Curiosity. He had heard that Clelland had been with Army Intelligence during the war.

‘I wouldn’t make much of that, Mr Wedderburn. It sounds impressive, but I was based in New Zealand. Didn’t have much to do except move files around and enjoy the lifestyle. At the time I resented being stuck there, but now that I look back I was lucky.’

‘Did you get to Australia?’

‘No. Missed out on that too.’

‘My enquiries would take you to Australia. Would you be free to go? All expenses paid.’

Clelland kept the excitement out of his voice. ‘Yes, sir. If I can be of assistance to you there.’

‘You can. I want information on an Australian soldier.’

Clelland knew it had been too good to be true. He couldn’t jeopardise the firm’s first contact with Wedderburn by wasting his time and money. ‘I hate to knock back a trip to Australia, Mr Wedderburn, but if that’s all you need we could get that information from here.’

‘That’s just what I don’t want. It’s a personal matter. I don’t want to offend anyone. I can’t have someone lead-footing it around the Army records. This family has got its own contacts in the Australian Embassy here. I don’t want anyone to pick up that there’s a “need to know” going through on one of their people. The man is dead and he was not a criminal, it’s nothing like that. I just want you to trot quietly along and bring me back his case history. Nice and neat. I don’t want the family to hear of it.’

‘Army files are a bit hard to get into without family approval.’

‘You’ll find a way. Bribe somebody if you have to. You needn’t scrimp. But I do want discretion.’

He handed Clelland one sheet of paper on which was printed . . . JOHN PACE MACNAMARA. VALLEY OF LAGOONS. QUEENSLAND. AUSTRALIA . . . and he apologised, ‘It’s not much to go on. He was “killed in the war” as people say. He could have been run over by a jeep in Perth for all I know.’

‘Sure. I know one guy who came home with a Purple Heart. He was gored by a bull taking a short cut through a farm outside Auckland.’ He looked at the page. ‘Where is this Valley of Lagoons?’

‘That’s a good question in itself. I’m not exactly sure, but it’s inland from Townsville, which is a town on the north coast of the eastern state of Queensland.’

‘Oh yeah. I know where Townsville is. Big US wartime base wasn’t it?’

‘That’s it. I don’t really think you’re going to have much trouble finding out about this guy. If you subtracted all those troops from that little town, I think it would have just gone quietly back to sleep.’

He escorted Clelland to the door and then, suddenly, he felt the need to say more. ‘Listen, I don’t want you to be flying blind on this. I stumbled on this guy’s name recently. Out of the blue. I think he was a guy I met during the war. That guy, that Aussie . . .’

Clelland stared, embarrassed.

Wedderburn had tears in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve never been able to talk about it.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I think he saved my life.’

That damn war, Clelland thought. So many men came home with terrible memories buried deep inside them. He checked his impulse to say, ‘That’s okay, pal. I know how it is.’ He did not know. It was an easy thing to say, a cliché. He waited for Wedderburn to speak.

Hank appreciated his silence. ‘Thanks. You see, now this has confronted me I have to know. I don’t want to discuss it with his family. If I’m wrong, I’d make a goddam fool of myself. If I’m right, it could be worse. Why resurrect all the pain again? Put his wife through it a second time. This is a private matter, between me and a guy who has been dead for fourteen years. It’s not just that I owe him – and I like to pay my debts – it’s not knowing who that digger was that has been bugging me all these years.’

‘I hope I can help, Mr Wedderburn. Do I need your service record to tie up this enquiry?’

‘No. You bring me home all you can on the late John Pace MacNamara and I’ll know.’

Clelland retraced his steps through the Wedderburn offices with a heavy heart. The trip to Australia was a bonus, but he felt sorry for Wedderburn. Guys like that carried guilt around with them like lead weights. The real guilt was that their buddies had died and they had lived. He was surprised that a positive guy like Wedderburn couldn’t see that these things happened all the time in battle. It was the name of the game. He walked across the foyer, glancing at the list of Wedderburn companies displayed on the wall, and pushed out into the heat of the day.

When he returned from Australia, Clelland delivered his report to Wedderburn’s office. Weeks passed, and though the account was paid in full without a query, he heard nothing. Then Wedderburn called, ‘Can you meet me for a drink?’

‘On one condition,’ Clelland said. ‘You tell me whether we hit the right button or not.’

‘I’ll tell you. I feel like some of God’s fresh air. What about Lindy’s there, by the park? We can sit outside.’

Hank was seated at a table under the trees when Clelland arrived. Hank already had a drink so Clelland bought himself a bourbon and carried it down with him. ‘I’ve come armed,’ he said, waving his drink. ‘I’m sorry that report only had one blurred photo, lifted from a battalion magazine. All the guys in that photo look alike to me and I didn’t want to go to the family.’

‘That’s okay, Tom. I didn’t need a photo. It was the timing that was important. You ever heard of the Kokoda Trail before this?’

‘Oh Jesus, yes – the arse end of the war.’

‘Sure was. It was a hot steaming hell on those New Guinea mountain trails, nothing but jungle, and Japs behind every bush.’

‘Yeah, I remember. They were always screaming for supplies from up there but it was hard to get to them. A drop would end up down some ravine or in a Jap camp. But I thought it was only Aussies in that fight.’

‘There weren’t too many Yanks around; it was just our bad luck to draw the short straw. God knows how we got into it, we were raw GI’s straight from the good old USA into Port Moresby and on to Kokoda. I can still see those big tough-looking Aussies tramping past us. They looked older than us, or something; I couldn’t figure it out at the time. They had those sweaty slouch hats pulled down over their faces, granite faces, and their sleeves rolled up, looking like battalions of lumberjacks. It threw us. They looked so bloody sure of themselves. The jungle was alive with Japs and there were no real battle lines; you fought where you stumbled into them, with bayonets, and, oh Jesus, it was a bloody business.’

‘Now I’ve learned something. I had no idea any of our guys were on the Kokoda Trail,’ Clelland commented.

‘By Christ they were, and died there too. But your report taught me something about that campaign I never knew before. Now I realise why I felt so inadequate beside those Aussies; a lot of them had been fighting for years. They just brought them back from Tobruk and pointed them at the Japs. They were the famous Rats of Tobruk, and I never knew. They were battle-hardened men, no wonder they looked older. Anyway, our officers were raw too; they’d had no combat experience and we got into a hell of a mess, lost too many guys, so we were pulled out and sent around to a place on the coast not far from Buna, and went inland from there.’

‘That wouldn’t have been much better would it?’

‘We still had the stinking jungle and plenty of Japs, but more chance to get our act together. We could use the rivers, move faster, and see what we were about. Kokoda was no place for raw recruits. Anyway, we seemed to be going well after that, until one day I was with a patrol near the Adai River and the Japs jumped us. Two of my buddies bought it right then and they caught another of our guys. I could hear him screaming all night. I took off into the undergrowth; I didn’t care where I was going. In the morning I could hear the Japs beating the jungle looking for me.’ He finished his drink and signalled the waiter. ‘Same again. To cut a long story short they caught me, stuffed a pack of leaves in my mouth, trussed me up and marched me into a clearing where they had three Aussies tied up. They were gagged too so we couldn’t communicate, but I felt better for their company. I didn’t want to die alone. They left us there all day, no food, no water, and that night the Japs got stuck into the booze and the prisoner nearest them got roughed up a bit. And then two Jap officers started leaping around, showing off with the swords. It looked like some sort of play acting.

‘The next thing they came sauntering over, crocked to the eyeballs, rocking on their heels and lurching all over the place. They stood us up, pulled out the gags, but left our hands tied behind us, and started to walk us along a trail from the clearing. One of the Aussies must have known what they were talking about. All of a sudden he lashed out with his boot at the nearest Jap, screaming at us to run. I can still hear him. “Get the hell out of here. We’re for the chop, the fuckin’ bastards.”

‘We didn’t need any more telling. We split! I went head first back into that undergrowth crawling for my life and I could hear them all shouting and yelling behind me. The Japs were so drunk it took them by surprise.

‘So there I was back in the jungle again, handicapped. My hands were still tied behind me, but I was luckier this time. I fell down a hollow. It was full of ferns so I moved along an inch at a time, keeping my head down. I thought I was going great, getting further away from them, but I must have gone around in an arc. They had caught the Aussies again. I didn’t have to look up to see that; I could hear them swearing, abusing the shit out of the Japs, and it frightened me. I was so close to them, but I was too scared to move. I could hear the Japs beating them to get them to shut up. Finally there was quiet, and I couldn’t stand it, so I lifted up my head just enough to see what was going on.

‘The Aussies were lined up again, ankles hobbled and their wrists tied together in front of them, and one of the Aussies started this crazy row. “Give us back our hats, you bastards. We have to die in uniform.” It was all crazy, but one of the Japs must have understood and, this sounds insane, but they were big on protocol or whatever they call it, and he sent his men scurrying around for the hats – they found those goddam slouch hats.’

He stopped and drank his whisky in a gulp. ‘I’ve never told anyone this before.’

‘You’ll get through,’ Clelland said, ‘even if I have to buy you another ten drinks. You’re not leaving me halfway through this story.’

‘Yeah . . . well they gave them their hats and the diggers were laughing and exchanging hats, and the most insulting remarks they could think of about the Japs, who were standing right in front of them, rifles and bayonets to all sides. And I’m staring and thinking they were all mad when one of these Aussies turned, pretending to be straightening his hat. And for a second he looked right at me. He winked and said “Lower, mate” and went right on with a string of cuss words that would make your hair curl, and his mates joined in and the Japs started belting them again while I took off again, going backwards, getting further away into the jungle.’

‘Do you think that hat business was just a decoy?’

‘I’m s