5 minute read
And besides, the way the world is lately… the tensions – it’s enough to make cracks appear in anyone
Ved Jithoo, Year 12
Sweat. It streams from my hairline down my temples. It drips slowly into my eyes. It gradually soaks my uniform and pools in my boots. The strap of my Owen gun digs into my neck, chafing more skin with every aching footfall. The heat of the jungle is incredible. The humidity worse than the St Kilda bathhouses on a January day. I crane my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the Bougainville sky, but there’s just more green. It’s bombs, not light that penetrate this dense canopy. The column trudges along the rough path, no-one speaking. Until Johnson up the front mutters a quiet expletive. A sound. ‘Pfhht’, like a kid shooting a spitball. Johnson looks down at the rapidly growing stain on his shirt and grunts, surprised. He takes two more steps then crumples like tinfoil.
Suddenly the jungle is filled with screaming from all sides. Our boys shout to take cover. The Japs come pouring out of the bushes, swords flashing, rifles aflame, screaming their damned war cries. Someone, somewhere is crying out in pain. I try to lift my gun but it weighs a tonne in my hands. I try to run but my feet are rooted to the spot. I open my mouth to scream but the sweat fills it. I am drowning.
Someone is shaking my shoulder. I spring upright, flailing and gasping, my mouth opening and closing like a fish on the pier moments before its brains are dashed out. I open my eyes and the jungle melts away into the walls of Rowena Parade. Francis is sitting on the edge of the bed like Dad used to whenever one of us had a nightmare. In fact, he’s wearing one of Dad’s suits too, plenty of space for his shoulders to slouch inside the ill-fitting shirt.
‘You alright, Kip? Looked like you were having a nightmare.’
That’s Francis for you. No prizes for stating the obvious, mate. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m alright, I’m alright,’ I try to let my breath out slowly, my heart is beating faster than Pharlap’s after the Melbourne Cup. ‘It’s just like I was back there y’know? Some godforsaken jungle, bullets whizzing around.’
Francis opens his mouth, but for once is silent.
He’s got no idea what to say, I realise, it’s not as if he was over there.
Eventually he clears his throat and speaks, ‘Well I was about to head down to the baker’s, then off to work.’
I tell him I’ll be a bit longer before I look for jobs at the RSL. The door slams shut behind Francis as I look around our room. It seems exactly as I left it, down to the last speck of dust. My army bag sits in the corner, like a huge khaki grub spilling its guts out onto the floor. It’s when I look over at Ma’s bed that I realise everything has changed. I’ve changed. The war did that, probably. One too many buddies blown to pieces and you just can’t see the world as sunshine and daisies anymore. The old Kip would’ve cracked a joke to lighten the mood; but I left him behind on some jungle path in Borneo.
I peek into her room as I head down the hall. Bad move Kip. If life was a chess game this’d be checkmate for you. I’m half expecting to see her lying there: hair in a cloud on the pillow, sleeping blissfully, like an angel. Instead it’s like I’m in the back alley and Mac’s just landed a good one in my guts. I sink to the floor, my hand on the doorframe sending slivers of peeling paint fluttering to the ground. They coat the floor like ash. I rock forwards, forehead touching the floor, the grit sharp against it. An unfamiliar wetness tickles my face. I had tried to forget, tried to get lost in the war. All that brought me was more pain. Now I’m back and the hole in my heart is still here waiting to swallow me whole – my escape attempt in vain.
‘Connie,’ I whisper, ‘Connie, come back please.’
The sound of Francis coming up the stairs startles me.
Click, click, creak, click.
‘Kip? Not still in bed, are we?’
I scramble up from the floor; no use him seeing me like this.
‘Nah I’m just in here,’ But the catch in my voice gives it away. I try to brush it off, smooth as a gravel road, ‘Gee Francis, you never fixed that up.’ I point to a crack in the wall.
‘Yeah well, there’s been a lot to do the last two years, ‘specially after you ran away to the army when Ma died.’
The silence is as lethal as a Japanese bayonet. The venom in his voice surprises me.
‘What did you just say?’
Regret flashes across Francis’ face and he stammers something. But the gloves are off now; it’s out in the open where it belongs and we will settle this like men.
‘Ran away? You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve no idea what I’ve seen, what I’ve lost, what they made us do.’
Francis swallows and straightens up; he’s not going to back down. Well bravo, Sir Francis. Finally grown a bloody backbone, have we?
‘Yeah, I’ve been here alone, picking up the pieces. You were of no use in the inquest, when half of Melbourne was running Connie’s name through the dirt. You barely lifted a finger to help Ma and the moment she died you buggered off for the great big adventure. You never could handle any responsibility and it’s been up to me for two years to rebuild everything.’
He stands there, breathing hard.
‘Francis,’ I say in that low, deadly tone the old Kip never had, ‘You’d best take that back if you know what’s good for you.’
We’re almost nose to nose now, rage making us quiver like street dogs in the wintertime. Then I see the paint on the ground, the ashes. Shame tempers anger and suddenly it hits me like a ruckman when the whistle goes. I look into my brother’s eyes. He’s all I have left. He sees it too.
‘Francis… I-’
‘Shut up Kip.’ He says as he pulls me into an embrace.
Dad, Ma, Connie, they’re never coming back. It’s just the two of us now. Neither of us says anything, the silence broken only by a distant tram’s bell.
We stay like that for a while.
Dante Siccita - Year 9
Sam Chin - Year 9
