Chapter 4 Death gave me this; Skipper; Snow; Green Tomatoes......

YET DEATH GAVE ME THIS

CLOSED the door softly behind me, and walked out into the gathering dusk. The water was very beautiful with the last rays of light striking the surface beyond the island. The little edges of foam receding from me seemed to take something of my weariness with them, and drown it in the multitude of waters that claimed them.

I sank into the soft white sand, and waited for the darkness to envelop me. I wanted to bury my face in that cool white sand, and feel myself utterly alone with the smooth swish of the sea, alone, and far away from civilization, with its power to hurt and break the beauty we struggled so hard to build.

I had known him but a few short months, and we had not spoken very often in the brief moments when we had met; each seemed to know the other so well. But I remembered how very precious life had been to him on that winter evening as we stood together for the last time watching the rays of the sinking sun touch the tree-tops with their cold lonely fingers. I had known that each such moment of beauty was remembered and stored somewhere in his mind. He must have known what was to come, and he loved life so much.

There had been weeks of waiting for mail, then letters full of the stories of his friend's humour, scribbled notes on stray scraps of paper, but never one word of complaint, always that carefree, warm friendliness.

I would see his men come back through the hospital, with their serious drawn faces, afraid to talk too much, afraid to reveal the longings they felt. The longing for their homes, the sound of children's laughter, and the quiet of Sunday in a garden, and in moments of greater understanding I began to read between the lines of his letters.

But soon the letters stopped coming. I asked every man who might know him, and there were many from his unit coming in each week. It was always a different answer - they didn't know, or they hadn't been with the unit for some time, or they thought he was all right - perhaps they were afraid of the fear they saw in my eyes as I questioned them.

The ward was almost empty the night they told us the convoy was coming in, and I had time to stand outside in the darkness, and watch the long line of ambulances wind slowly through the gates. I watched the stooping figures alight as they pulled up, saw the occasional flash of a torch, or caught a glimpse of a figure on a stretcher. Then it was our turn to receive the new-comers. Slowly they filed in with their heavy packs, their green uniforms accentuating their pale faces under the dull lights. They thanked me shyly as I showed them their beds; I was probably the first white woman they had spoken to after months in the jungle. Then they brought in the stretcher cases, but I was so busy seeing that every man had his share of the steaming dixies of coffee, that I didn't take very much notice as they were placed in their respective beds.

The lights were dim in the long canvas wards, and it wasn't until I put my hand under the pillow to raise his head and persuade him to drink, that I realized who he was.

"John," I said quietly, but my voice was shaking and I must have said it very quietly for he didn't answer. Then as he turned his head to push away the cup I was holding, he looked up. There was a moment's hesitation, then so softly it was almost a whisper, he said, "Ann, it's so good to be home."

Then came the days of uncertainty, the strain of watching, and keeping the fact that I knew him completely to myself. There was always the impersonal atmosphere of the hospital around us when I was near him, and perhaps in a way it helped us both, but Fate knows just how much we can stand, and seldom asks for more, so when the breaking point came I was ready.

It seemed that I had no feelings as I saw him die. I had stood there because it was my duty. I was part of the routine of the hospital. My presence had no more significance than the white pillow under his head, but now it was all over, I had dropped the impersonal cloak of duty on my way out of those dim wards. My own personality taking its place brought with it the realization of what had happened, the finality of his death, and the fact that a life so full of promise had been taken from me for ever.

As the darkness closed in on me, I began to think more clearly, and there came over me a realization of the portent of the sadness I felt. I knew now that I was stronger than ever before; his death had given me some power to fight with. There was something very precious about the loneliness I felt, like the triumphant sensation of solitude and power that comes to us on top of a high mountain with the beauty of the earth spread out beneath.

The war would go on for months, perhaps years, but, as I walked back across the sand towards the lights of the hospital, I knew that I was in possession of something I had never known before. I could look life in the face.

"QFX53583"

SKIPPER

HE was a true Australian, born within sight of Central Mount Stuart. The blacks brought him and a couple of his sisters to Ti Tree Wells station the day our convoy arrived there on the first stage of our journey north. The troops greatly admired the dingo puppies, and at Barrow Creek next morning it was discovered that one, our hero, had come along on the trucks. The Company Commander decided that since the pup had come so far he could finish the journey.

By one-ton truck to Larrimah and thence on the trundling "Spirit of Protest" the dingo puppy went along with the troops. He was kept alive by a liberal ration of tinned milk. Even then he showed a streak of mischief, and at night roamed through the cattle-truck, crawling over the sleeping troops and biting the ears of all and sundry. The troops took all this in good part, and he arrived safely with them at their new camp twenty-eight miles from Darwin.

One day when the lads who looked after him were on duty, he crawled out into the sun and, almost dead, was picked up by the Company Commander, who took him to his Orderly Room and revived him. He stayed there and soon got the name of "Skipper".

As he grew he began to wander but he never deserted the Company Commander. He spent the hot hours of the day with the signal platoon who had a large water bag hanging about a foot from the ground. Under it, on the damp earth, with the drop from the bag running down his flanks, Skipper would rest until the cool of the afternoon. From then until ten o'clock next day he was full of fife and energy. He eagerly sought socks and wandered far afield for these wonderful playthings. Only the championship of the signallers, a sturdy lot, saved him from the anger of irate troops who found themselves sockless in the morning.

Skipper always attended the evening meal with the men and when the bugle blew he always howled lustily. Band practice also gave him an opportunity to exercise his vocal chords, and as a result he was not popular with the band.

Things went along normally until a pet kangaroo arrived mysteriously and became the property of the band. ne two young Australians played happily together and many snaps were taken to prove the peculiar friendship of the pair. One morning, however, the kangaroo was missing, and a search at last revealed half of him lying by the side of his former friend under the shadow of the water bag. Hell broke loose as the bandsmen sought vengeance but the Sigs beat them off with only minor damage to themselves.

At the time of this incident Skipper's owner had been transferred to another company twenty miles away. He received a frantic message from the Sigs to come for Skipper as they had to keep a continual guard on him. The bandsmen had sworn to have his blood. A truck conveyed Skipper to the new camp where he eagerly greeted his old master, and was treacherously rewarded by being chained up for the first time in his life. While in Darwin one of the troops had won a raffle for a good dog on a chain. He was given the chain and told that the dog had escaped. He gave the chain to the Company Commander. Skipper deeply resented being chained, and swore for all the world like an angry Chinaman, far into the night. He never ceased and finally was left loose.

The camp dogs never took kindly to Skipper -who was now half-grown. Day after day they attacked him. He evaded action if possible when cornered went down fighting. Ht never murmured no matter how badly he was mauled. He never turned his back on anyone or anything. Skipper always faced both friend and foe. When in disgrace with his master and faced with a beating he never turned and ran. To escape he danced sideways with his head always towards the danger.

As he grew bigger his skill at arms increased. When he bit, his teeth always met. They soon gave him a wide berth but he never attempted to attack. He completely disregarded them and as far as possible kept near his master.

He got into the habit of drinking beer at night and it became almost an obsession with him.

One of the sergeants fed him on sweets but soon regretted the action, because Skipper could climb like a cat, and no matter where sweets were hidden he found and ate them. He ate two pounds of chewing gum one morning but it had not the slightest effect on him.

He loved shooting trips, and always went out with the Company Commander. He slipped in and out among the timber like a ghost. He was rarely seen but did not lose touch with his owner. If a 'roo were shot he seemed to appear magically and would, be on it before it had hit the ground. He would swim far out into the lagoons to retrieve dead geese. However, as soon as he reached shallow water, he would proceed to eat the bird he had brought. No one dared take game from him except his master. If he snarled then he was made to regret it immediately. He never attempted to bite him even when held and soundly cuffed, but he always gave up fresh meat unwillingly.

Skipper learned to ride in trucks and this practice brought about his downfall. He went in a truck which was going to another unit. The men in it were greatly taken with him and asked could he stay a few days so they could take some snaps of him. The same night they received embarkation orders and while going to the wharf dropped Skipper at B.H.Q.

Skipper made a tour of the old camp and during his inspection entered the C.O.'s tent.

The C.O. was absent so he playfully pulled the blanket from the table which was loaded with charge-sheets and ink.

He then snapped the tassels off the C.O.'s dressing-gown and was vigorously chewing a slipper when the C.O. returned. The C.O. took one look at the shambles, seized the other slipper and threw it at the intruder. Skipper, facing trouble as usual, caught the slipper and set out for his old friends, the Sigs.

Under the C.O.'s orders, however, he was rounded up and put in the boot of the staff car, and conveyed by the C.O. to an unknown destination in the bush, When the boot was opened and the freedom of the wild conferred on Skipper, it was discovered that he had chewed all the leather-work, woodwork and ignition wire. He had the last laugh and was never seen again.

We often talk of Skipper and think of the shock some lone prospector will get some day when he finds his last bottle of beer snatched from his hands by a gaunt dingo. That would be Skipper for he never missed an opportunity in his life.

"NX12610"

"SNOW"

The pips of a newly commissioned lieutenant were still heavy on my shoulders when Snow came up with a batch of reinforcements after the Syrian campaign. I had told the platoon sergeant to find me a batman. A couple of mornings later a grizzled head poked through the flaps of my tent.

"Brought you a cup of tea," Snow announced.

He sat on a box and began to scrape the mud off my boots. I don't know how it started but before long we were talking of horses and cattle. Snow had knocked around the North droving and horse-breaking. I was glad to hear a stockman talking again; somehow the plains and stock-routes didn't seem so far away. Snow would talk horses to anyone who would listen to him. And later he often squatted on his heels bush-fashion, rolled a cigarette and yarned away. Most of his yams began, "So I runs old Tiger up to the yard and slams a saddle on him," or "We was coming down to Stewart's with a mob of fats. Real old pikers they was."

He took off his boots and showed me where a toe had been amputated. "I was shoeing a jet black gelding when he catches me, see, and smashes all the bones. Three weeks in hospital I was with that. They tells me I'll be no good in the infantry but I can take it."

I found that Snow was an incurable gambler, particularly when we were on the troopship coming back to Australia or in a standing camp. Still he used his head and I was often called out of my tent late at night. His hand would be shaking with excitement as he shoved over a greasy bundle of notes. "Hang on to these for me, sir. I've headed them eight times."

Next morning he'd collect his cash and bank it. On some paydays he'd be broke by teatime. The pennies were mostly the cause of his bad luck. "Them was tails pennies. Yous won't catch me playing with them again." Later in the week he would anxiously watch me rolling a smoke, shifting about uneasily until I woke up and asked him if he were out of tobacco. Then I'd sling him a couple of bob to go down to the canteen. Once he started running a game on his own account and for the next few weeks I only got rare glimpses of him as he hurriedly smeared a bit of polish on my boots or cleaned up the tent by throwing everything under the bed. If I tried to rouse him he'd disappear quickly murmuring: "I'll get you a cup of tea."

He always kept in good with the cooks and if he missed out on the tea at one kitchen he'd get it at the next. A drink of tea was his remedy for all complaints, from fatigue to alcoholic remorse. And being a bushman too, I drank the tea.

When he wasn't gambling Snow was a fair enough batman. He was always at war with the Quartermaster because of his scrounging activities - he was pretty good at "shaking" boxes and timber to make furniture for my tent. Washing and ironing was one of his strong points - he could do up slacks and shirts as well as any woman. Once he borrowed a petrol iron and made some sort of a contract with the other officers' batmen to do their ironing for them. The iron broke down, and I spent a couple of uncomfortable nights on a lumpy bed before I discovered a pile of shirts under my valise, I was supposed to press them as I slept.

As the months passed I realized that Snow was very loyal.

When the battalion moved up the Kokoda track I sneaked away and left him at Rear Details. I reckoned his old legs would never carry him up those never-ending steps and ridges. Weeks later I staggered back with a dose of scrub typhus. I met Snow struggling up Imita Ridge to join me - as he hoped. He had cleared out from base to "get up with the boys". He went on up to the battalion, only to be sent back by the Colonel who fined him a fiver for going A.W.L. from base.

I don't think Snow ever really forgave me for leaving him behind that time.

Last year, before we went up to the Markham and Lae, he hardly let me out of his sight in case he was left behind again.

During training before we went up he had insisted on coming out with the Company on all marches and exercises so that I could have no excuse for leaving him.

I was Company Commander now and he reckoned his job as the "Skipper's" batman gave him some authority in the company. He was pretty handy in the jungle, and he often acted as a guide to the company when I wanted it led into a position.

He wasn't really satisfied until he sat beside me in the transport plane as we took off for Nadzab. And when we were in the air he wasn't too happy either-his stomach wasn't much good at sea or in a plane.

We had a bit of a clash with a Jap rearguard on the Markham Valley road soon after we landed. There was a fair bit of firing and quite a few stray bullets were whistling around. Some of the lads ducked hurriedly-it was the first time most of them had been un der fire. But Snow stood up in the open, grinning. "I've always wondered how I'd go when the shoot was on," he confided. "But it doesn't seem to worry me a bit so I reckon I'll be all night."

After Lae we had some tough going up the Markham and in the Ramu and the Finisterres. Snow grunted and sweated along the track, but although he was pretty well knocked up at times he'd bustle round rigging a shelter and getting a fire going while I sorted out the company positions for the night, or went to get orders from the Colonel. He'd do his best to slap up some sort of a feed even if it were only bully beef heated in a tin with holes punched in it to let the fat run out.

If thinas were a bit touchy because we were in close contact with the Jap I'd be busy sorting out the forward positions and wouldn't have much time to eat. But Snow reckoned it was his job to get me fed somehow, and sometimes he'd catch up with me near a forward section, carrying with him some bully and a billy of tea. "For Pete's sake, Skipper, sit down for a minute and have your blanky tucker," he'd plead.

The rations weren't too bad and we often got a bit of rice or oatmeal to help fill us. Snow used to look after our rations and when we could get a bit of extra rice he'd shove it in the rice bag (an old shirt-sleeve) in my pack. I reckoned he always used our issue rice but later on I found that this wasn't so.

"Have to get some more rice, tomorrow, Skipper," he announced one night. "Maybe we'll strike another Jap dump soon."

"Lay off that blanky Jap nice," I told him. "I don't want to eat their filthy stuff."

Snow sat back grinning. "Well, where the hell do you think I got the rice we've been eating all this week? There's been none in our rations."

As the weeks passed the company strength dwindled. Malaria and typhus were taking toll as well as battle casualties. Snow still battled on though I could see that the strain and his age-he was nearly forty-were beginning to tell. He wasn't so bad on the level going of the Valley but the hills were tough for him. Sometimes he'd have to take a long spell, then come on to catch up with us later.

I'd try to kid him along as we struggled up the track. "How's it going, Snow?" I'd ask. "I'm knocked, Skipper," he'd grunt. "But I'll get there."

We were holding a position in the foothills below Shaggy Ridge when I noticed that he couldn't raise his usual grin one morning. He sat around holding his head in his hands. He reckoned he'd be all right but I made him go down to the R.A.P. The M.O. sent him out straight away.

A few weeks later he came back to the battalion but the fever had got him down; it wasn't long before he had a relapse and was sent out again.

When the battalion was withdrawn to base at last, he had just come out of hospital. He came up, "just to see the boys again, Skipper," as he put it, "but I'm done now. I get the shakes pretty badly so they boards me and

tells me I'm to get a discharge. The old quack asks me was I a stockman before the war and when I tells him I was, he says, 'Well you don't want to go getting on any rough colts or you'll be finished properly.'"

I had a look at his board report. It said something about "neurosis, age and impaired constitution".

Later coming back on leave, I stayed a night at the staging camp where he was held while his papers were fixed up. He soon spotted me and that night I found him squatting by my bunk. "Brought you a cup of tea, Skipper," he said.

"QX2034"