Enemy Camp (8 page)

I kept still.

‘Has there been any trouble?' my mother asked.

‘Nothing definite. The civvie ones are OK, but the military lot — a bunch of them were wrestling last night while the others watched. When the guards said it was time to go to their huts, they took no notice. Then this officer — Ito, the one who speaks good English — came strolling along. The corporal told him to move his men back to their huts, and Ito just looked at him and said “We will move when
we
are ready.”'

Feet moved in the kitchen. I didn't want to be caught listening, so I moved, too.

WEDNESDAY, 16 DECEMBER We're going away on Sunday and coming back Tuesday night. I can't wait!

Break-up and concert tomorrow. All the kids are in a good mood about school finishing. When I met Barry, this morning, he and I started singing the song we always sing when the summer holidays start:

No more spelling, no more sums;
No more teachers to whack our bums.

Clarry got grumpy. ‘It's alright for you jokers. Doing lessons at home is boring.' As we left, he yelled after us. ‘I'm coming back to school next year! I am!'

Mr White told us about the Christmases he had had in France during the Great War. They sat in their trenches eating Christmas pudding out of tins, with bullets whizzing overhead. But one year there was hardly any shooting, and they could hear the Germans singing carols. So the New Zealand soldiers sang, too, really loudly, and when they finished the Germans clapped. Next morning, they were shooting at one another again. Snobby Susan says the Japs don't celebrate Christmas much, so I wonder what the prisoners out at the camp will do next Friday?

We had an extra half-hour for lunch, and we blokes played bull-rush. In the afternoon, we had a Room Six
Quiz, boys versus girls. We won! Barry was able to name nearly every country in the British Empire, although he forgot Rhodesia.

Then Mr White read us
A Christmas Carol
. Some of the girls cried when they thought the kid called Tiny Tim was going to die; then they cried again when he
didn't
die. It was a long story, but I liked it. I wonder if I could be a writer some day? I suppose I am already, with this journal.

‘We'll look forward to tomorrow's performance,' Mr White said, as we lined up beside our desks at bell-time. ‘No need for trepidation.' I looked up
trepidation
in the class dictionary. It means ‘nervousness or anxiety'. Mr White saw me checking and went ‘Good lad, Ewen.'

THURSDAY, 17 DECEMBER My last day in Standard Five. Hurray!

I'm really looking forward to the holidays, and especially to Castlepoint. I wonder who my teacher will be next year. Wonder if I can sit next to Barry again. I'm going to work hard next year; I'm going to make Mum and Dad proud of me.

Clarry says he is going to boo really loudly at the concert. He walked along to our place to give me cheek, and as Barry and I headed for school I saw him starting back home, one hand on the fence for balance, swinging
along in his braces. If his parents find out he's been walking with them off, they'll probably go crook. He could break a leg if he falls, with his weak bones.

We spent most of the morning tidying our classroom. We cleaned out ink wells, washed the blackboard, took down the V
EGETABLES
F
OR
V
ICTORY
posters.

We played cricket at lunchtime. Even some of the girls joined in. Mr White had a turn batting: he hit Anzac for two sixes — and Anzac is a really fast bowler.

After lunch, we got our report cards to take home. I have an A for Spelling, A for Composition (story-writing), B for Arithmetic and Social Studies and PT, and C-minus for Handwriting. Barry got two As and three Bs, too, and C-minus for
his
Handwriting. It's only girls who worry about writing neatly.

We ate tea early. Then the Morrises and my parents and I set off for the school. Barry and I carried our army uniforms; Mr Morris towed Clarry.

It felt strange, arriving at school as the sun was setting. The hall and the office block had lights on. Heaps of people stood around talking on the warm asphalt. Over to one side were a group in uniform. Yanks!

We changed into our costumes. The hall was packed; people clapped as we came in, and the little primer kids started waving to their parents. Clarry saw Barry and me, put his hands to his mouth in a silent (I hope) boo, then clapped, too.

The concert went really well. A lot of the audience joined in with the Christmas carols. Miss Mutter banged away on the piano. After we sang ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy', the Americans stood up and cheered.

Everyone
cheered when we marched past Britannia. Anzac threw an American-style salute to Susan Proctor in her white frock and Union Jack.

The mayor made a speech, saying how he hoped the year ahead would bring peace. Then we had supper. Barry and I ate about ten pikelets each, and some of the Yanks passed out lollies and chewing gum to the kids. One was a Negro, so dark that his skin seemed to gleam. He handed Barry and me a packet of chewing gum each. He turned to Clarry, went ‘Here y'are, li'l buddy', and gave him
three
packets!

We walked home through the soft, warm dark, saying ‘Happy Christmas … Have a good holiday … No more spelling; no more sums' to different people. Barry told Clarry the charge for towing him was a packet of chewing gum. Clarry told Barry to get lost.

FRIDAY, 18 DECEMBER First day of the holidays. I'm going to keep this journal going. I like the idea of being an author. I'm going to read lots, go for rides with Barry and Clarry, help Mum and Dad — and try to think of a Christmas present!

I finished the library book about Deerfoot the American Indian. He escapes from his enemies by floating down a river underwater, breathing through a hollow reed above the surface. Maybe I can try that in the Tauherenikau River sometime? Except it's so shallow in summer, I probably couldn't
fit
under the water!

Over at the Morrises', Clarry was in a bad mood.

‘We were nearly home last n-night when someone went “There's that cr-crippled k-kid,”' Barry told me. ‘And Clarry yelled “I'm not cr-cr-crippled!”'

‘How about we all bike out to the camp this afternoon?' I said. Barry nodded. When he heard, Clarry nodded and grinned.

We went after lunch. Mrs Morris made Clarry take his sunhat, with its big flap down the back. The moment we turned the first corner, Clarry whipped it off.

Nobody was working in the camp gardens. No wrestling or anything interesting. A few blue uniforms moved between their huts, and bowed to a stocky bloke walking up and down. Must be another officer.

One thing we did notice in the civilian area — a big Maori guard inside the barbed wire was standing, rifle and bayonet in hand, talking to one of the prisoners. The Nip was even smaller than the one who did the fish carving; he hardly came up to the Maori guard's chest. They were both laughing, like … well, like friends.

We'd almost reached the barrier before the main
gates when we heard the yelling. We looked to where the guards were pointing, and I heard Barry gasp.

A dusty blue car had stopped on the road, and a grey-haired man stood beside it. In one hand he carried a length of wood. Then I gasped, too: it was a rifle.

He started heading towards the barrier. His eyes stared and his mouth hung slightly open. The rifle looked old, like him, but it was a real one alright, barrel blue-grey and gleaming.

‘Halt!' The guards at the gate and the one at the barrier were all shouting: ‘Halt! Stay where you are!'

Prisoners and the other guards behind the barbed wire looked on. The man kept moving, rifle by his side. ‘Halt!' the barrier guard yelled again. His own rifle was gripped tight, pointing towards the advancing figure.

The man stopped, just a few yards from the barrier. The whole camp was hushed.

‘I'm going to shoot the little yellow sods!' His voice sounded cracked and harsh. ‘They tortured my son. I heard about it. They captured him and they tortured him. I don't know if he's alive or dead. I'm going to shoot them!' He swung his rifle up, and, even though we were off to one side, we kids all ducked.

The man held the gun to his shoulder, and aimed it towards the wire and the prisoners behind. His voice rose. ‘I mean it! I'll kill you! Murdering bloody Nips!'

Some prisoners had thrown themselves on the
ground. But others stayed standing. We kids twitched as a couple of them started yelling back. One with a bandaged head shook his fist at the man. Another ripped his shirt open suddenly, showing his bare chest. What were they doing? Didn't they realise—?

‘I'll do it!' The old bloke shook and sobbed. ‘My son! I'll shoot you!'

More Japs shouted, jabbed a finger at their chests. The man lifted his rifle once more.

Two new voices spoke from inside the compound. The officer who'd been walking up and down, and Ito, who'd appeared from nowhere. Just a few words, but the Japs stopped yelling straightaway. They bowed, turned, moved away. Ito and the other officer watched the man with the rifle. ‘Run away, you yellow cowards!' The old man was shaking worse than ever. ‘I'll bloody shoot you!' The two enemy officers stood unmoving.

‘Please put your rifle down, sir.' A different voice. A figure with crowns and other badges on the shoulders of his khaki uniform was striding towards the barrier from the main gates. The guards stood to attention as he approached.

The bloke with the rifle stared at him. He seemed lost, as if he hardly knew what he was doing. ‘They captured my boy,' he mumbled. ‘They tortured him.'

The officer nodded. He was quite old, too: tall, with a moustache. ‘I am Camp Commandant Colonel Wallace.
May I have your rifle? Then let's go to my office and talk, shall we?'

For a minute, the man didn't move. The guards stood tense, their weapons half-raised. Then the old bloke's head drooped, his shoulders slumped, and he gave a long, shaky sigh. He lowered the gun until it hung again by his side.

‘May I?' Colonel Wallace reached out slowly, took the rifle, and passed it to a guard. ‘Shall we go to my office, sir? You look like you could use a cup of tea.'

Slowly, the two of them headed towards the main gates. Behind the wire, the Jap officers had gone. After a bit, we kids went, too.

SATURDAY, 19 DECEMBER Getting ready for Castlepoint. I still can hardly believe we're going.

Dad was at the camp all yesterday and this morning. So I dug carrots and spuds, and picked beans and peas. We've got a whole sackful of food to take with us. Our blankets and stuff will have to wait until we get up tomorrow morning. It's seventy miles from Featherston to Castlepoint, and Dad says it'll take all morning to get there.

I went over to the Morrises' this afternoon. ‘Wish I c-could c-come,' Barry said, and I felt a bit ashamed.
Mr and Mrs Morris deserve a holiday, too, but they don't want to be too far from a doctor in case Clarry gets crook again.

I've got a new book from the library. It's
The Swiss Family Robinson
, about some kids and their parents shipwrecked on an island, but I was feeling too excited to read it.

I haven't said anything about that bloke at the camp yesterday, have I? I told Dad, of course, as soon as he got home. He already knew. ‘Poor sod. There's a lot like him — half out of their minds with worry.'

‘What happened to him?' I asked.

‘They let him go, but they kept the rifle. Colonel Wallace did a good job.'

I told Dad about the prisoners who had started yelling back and baring their chests. He grunted. ‘They were telling him to shoot them. It's more honourable than being captured. Stupid clowns.' He lit a cigarette. ‘A couple of them in hospital tried to rip off their bandages, or throw themselves out of bed.'

‘There was another officer,' I went.

Dad sipped his tea. ‘A lieutenant: doesn't speak English. Captain Ashton is trying to sort out with him and Ito what work the new lot of Nips are willing to do.' He grinned suddenly. ‘Ito's a cunning blighter. He's got them playing this board-game they have back home. It's called Go, and they go, alright! They're too keen on
beating one another to cause much trouble just now.'

We listened to the nine o'clock BBC News on the wireless. The Yanks and the Solomon Islanders are in a big battle against the Japs in the Pacific. The Russians have cut off a whole Nazi army near a city called Stalingrad, and the Germans are starving. Mum went out of the room when she heard that.

No more news until we come back from Castlepoint. Except for news from me. I'm going to write all about it in this journal.

SUNDAY, 20 DECEMBER Nothing.

MONDAY, 21 DECEMBER Nothing.

TUESDAY, 22 DECEMBER Nothing.

WEDNESDAY, 23 DECEMBER I forgot to take my journal. I felt so wild!

We got back last night. The road between Castlepoint
and Masterton is hilly and winding. Most of it's shingle, but some is mainly dirt, so we had to help push the truck over a couple of slippery parts. Mum and Dad and I walked up the steep hills to lighten the load, and, even then, the truck was hardly moving any faster than us.

We had an amazing time. We swam. We walked out to the lighthouse, and watched the waves come swinging in, ‘all the way from South America' Mum said. I climbed the huge Castle Rock hill. Dad caught three fish; I caught two lots of seaweed, one old coat, and another fishing line. We lit the kerosene lamp in the evenings, and read. I finished
The Swiss Family Robinson
, and I'm halfway through another story called
The Sword in the Stone
, about King Arthur and how he got his magic sword.

I nipped over to the Morrises' as soon as we had unpacked today. Their front door was open, to make a breeze. Clarry was standing in the hallway, staring at the wall. What—

Then I realised he was gazing into the mirror hanging there. Just standing with the big metal braces on his legs, and the crutches under his arms (he must have been feeling tired), and looking at himself.