Томас Кенэлли - The Widow and Her Hero

By the end of August they had boarded the sub, Orca , going north and largely living, officers and men, in the torpedo room. How does one exist on a submarine so severely overcrowded? How does a person sleep and keep one’s energy in the cramped, hot, dim daytimes of a submarine? Tom Lydon gives a brief and superficial picture of their two-week journey to the island named NE1, Serapem. In the first days, within reach of Australian aircraft, they were permitted on deck at night for a quarter-hour of callisthenics while the bosun and messmen were preparing the evening meal. Apart from that, it was the torpedo compartment, where they hunched, did exercises in batches, slept in batches, and ate communally of the normal submarine diet of tinned herring, canned bacon and tomato, powdered eggs and haricots musicales , as the sailors called baked beans. The edgy commander, Captain Moxham, had explained to Doucette that as much as he would have liked to entertain the other officers to his table, he could fit only Doucette himself at the wardroom table. Doucette decided, with appropriate thanks, it would be better to have meals with his own officers and men. That was, he said, the way it would be during the real part of the operation.

When the submarine got them to NE1, Serapem, east of Singapore, Rufus and a sailor went ashore at night in a dinghy and stayed there throughout the next day. Orca had gone off into deeper water, but now returned in the dark to signal to the shore by lamp and so to pick Rufus and his crewman up. Paddling aboard, Rufus declared NE1 was perfect – a good landing beach to the east, a hill for watching and a swamp for concealment, and deserted except for a few structures on the west side. During the rest of the night the Memerang group and the sailors of the watch transferred loads of supplies up through the forward hatches to the deck and onto a large inflatable raft which the Memerang men then rowed ashore. Well before dawn, canisters of food and equipment were safely concealed on the flanks of the island’s hill and, as he always planned, Doucette left one officer at NE1, Serapem, to dig in the supplies and await the return of the raiding party for Singapore. The officer he had chosen was my cousin Captain Melbourne Duckworth, son of a devout admirer of that southern city.

Everyone else boarded Orca again and went hunting for a suitable junk. On the coast of Borneo, Moxham sighted a junk named Nanjang , and invited Doucette and Rufus to inspect it through the periscope. They both declared it perfect for their needs. When Orca surfaced, the Malay crew of the 40-ton junk thought them a Japanese submarine and so merely prepared for inspection. The junk was boarded and the fairly amiable crew were transferred to the submarine and made secure, taking the place of the Memerang men who were getting ready to board the Nanjang , with its rather spectacular feature of a Japanese flag painted across its stern. Over a frantic night, as a nervous Moxham fretted on his conning tower, all that was needed to raid Singapore with Silver Bullets and perform great warrior endeavours was loaded on the junk. The Nanjang crew would be delivered back to Western Australia and interned. Orca would then return to collect Doucette and his men.

At dawn, the submarine departed and submerged, leaving over twenty men on the junk, whose marine master was lantern-jawed Rufus Mortmain. The junk was turned for Singapore and the trades filled its lateen sails.

Throughout the rest of the winter of 1944, Dotty and I were still working and living in the communal flat. We had the comfort of knowing that Foxhill would tell us what was happening if he learned anything, since he’d done that in the case of Leo’s father. I found it hard to discipline myself – not to call him every day, to check, especially since at the end of August Creed had whispered to Dotty in the office, Your husband’s on his way.

We both had a date in mind as the longest we’d have to wait. It was December 6th. Independently of each other, Rufus and Leo had told Dotty and me that by then at the latest they’d be back.

It was a rainy Melbourne winter and at night Dotty and I soothed ourselves with gin because it was hard to sleep. Dotty was writing a lot but was secretive about it all. I wrote a fair amount myself, but it was sporadic, it took many stages of concentration for me to get started. And often I’d be just started when Dotty would insist, as if our sanity depended on it and in a way it was hard to refuse, that we had to go out to the Albert Palais or one of the canteens to dance with soldiers. I thought she would be very selective about rank, being British, but while I sat on the balcony drinking a shandy, she proved that sergeants and corporals were not unworthy of her company. I could not have a good time on a dance floor, I decided. It was as if all my sensuality was bundled up with Leo, and was suspended pending his return. (Sometimes these days I fear it’s been bundled up all my life. I hope my second husband got a return on his desire and devotion.)

Anyhow, we didn’t analyse those things then – we acted them out, and as it was obvious that I was a sort of icy widow-for-the-duration on the balcony, it was obvious too that Dotty was available for comforting. Again, I didn’t blame her. I envied her the distraction.

Every day I went off to the military transport office job I had, and deadened myself with routine work and small office filing confusions. The Melbourne football Grand Final came and went as a marker between seasons, and Foxhill could tell us nothing. We found this a bad sign because we believed that however confident he insisted on sounding, there was an edge of bemusement to him too. The weather turned warm, but it was an empty, anxious warmth to Dotty and me. Captain Foxhill organised for us to attend the Members Enclosure for that year’s Melbourne Cup, and gin and expectation gave us a few hours’ respite until a horse named Sirius galloped over the line and we tore our betting tickets up and the vacuum returned.

I remembered that Jesse Creed, the American, had been involved in some way too. But Dotty assured me she had heard nothing from him. Sometimes, she said, I get the impression they’re all keeping some big secret. And I suppose the bastards are. But I think Jesse would tell me if he knew anything.

December arrived. When I felt hope it was feverish. Plain, flat, humid days set in, carrying no omens and dry of promise. Thunderstorms and dust swept down from the north onto the city. Foxhill and his wife visited us for a drink on December 2nd. I tried to gauge whether he knew anything he wasn’t telling us, but he seemed just as uncertain as us. He did not promise us quick news or mention dates. But he did say, When we hear, it will be sudden. Like a thunderclap.

Four days later, on the proposed date of their return, he was back with the news that they were missing. He stood bald-headed and genuinely saddened under the tatty, crepe Christmas streamers and Christmas bells we had hung in the flat. They’re all military personnel, he assured us, so if captured they’d be POWs, every chance of survival.

At what point of things did they go missing? I asked.

I can’t say, Foxhill claimed. I don’t know myself.

But radio messages? asked Dotty. They would have sent a radio message if they were in trouble.

No, Foxhill insisted. They haven’t. Look, for all we know they might have taken some native vessel and be on the way home as we speak.

Don’t play us for fools, Dotty warned him, her eyes blazing.

But I was rather taken with Foxhill’s scenario.

Of course, he said, he would tell us as soon as he got any more definite news. He invited us both to his place for a lunch, and I said how kind that was and that we would see if we were free, but when he left Dotty told me, with tears in her eyes, Bugger playing happy families! Did you sense this would happen? I could sense it. Bloody Rufus! I knew it!