Maralinga (34 page)

‘So does Mum,' he said with a meaningful nod.

Elizabeth looked at Prudence standing beside him. She had finally allowed herself to let go and the tears cascaded unchecked down her face.

‘A good choice, Billy,' Elizabeth said.

A good decision too, she thought. She would leave the family to grieve in their own way, but she would discover the truth, if only for herself. And discover it she would, no matter how long it took.

Following the completion of the Buffalo series of tests, the township of Maralinga underwent a radical change. Virtually overnight, a residency of several thousand was reduced to just several hundred, and life took on a more relaxed style. Army disciplines, although still observed, became less rigorous, and duties, which now revolved principally around maintenance, less arduous. Leave was granted more readily, and those lucky enough to score a week of freedom headed straight to Adelaide and the pubs, clubs and bars of Hindley Street, leaving their mates to loll enviously in the pool. As November crept into December, the heat continued to spiral.

The ‘accident' was no longer discussed and hadn't been for some time – more out of respect for Daniel Gardiner and his family than in observance of any official oath of silence, although the army had indeed sworn the men to secrecy. At the start, despite orders, there'd been a great deal of talk amongst the men; in fact, they'd talked of little else, the news of Daniel's
suicide had so shocked them. Those who knew him were aware he'd been severely affected by Pete Mitchell's death – it had been common knowledge, they told the military police – but they'd not realised the degree of his devastation. Gideon Melbray, however, the last person to see Daniel alive, and on the very night of his death, had found him in a terrible state. ‘I've never seen him so drunk,' Gideon told the MPs.

When Daniel hadn't turned up in the officers' mess that evening, Gideon had called around to his barracks to confirm the train delivery arrangements for the following morning. ‘Dan wasn't a big drinker as a rule,' he said, ‘but he was crying drunk that night. He went on and on about Pete's death – seemed obsessed that there'd been some sort of plot to kill the fellow. He wasn't making any sense at all, so I told him to go to bed and sleep it off. Never thought it'd come to this.'

Harold Dartleigh, although extremely surprised that young Dan should take such desperate action, was in agreement that the lad had appeared somewhat obsessed with the murder of Pete Mitchell.

‘Don't know why he had suspicions,' Harold said. ‘I'd have thought it was a pretty simple case myself. Chappie has an affair and ends up getting shot by the woman's husband – classic crime of passion, what? But young Gardiner was desperate for positive proof that the fettler had actually done it. I even agreed to have enquiries made for him – just to help put his mind at rest, poor boy.'

Harold hadn't felt it necessary to tell the MPs that not only had he had enquiries made, thereby encroaching upon their territory, but that he had achieved a
breakthrough just the previous day, the very afternoon of Daniel's death. In response to a healthy bribe, Tommo the ganger had admitted to seeing everything from start to finish, and with the promise of further money had agreed to come forward as a witness – but only when Harry Lampton was safely in custody. ‘You won't get a word out of me while Harry's on the loose,' Tommo had said, ‘and you won't get a peep out of the others neither.'

Harold Dartleigh, having honoured his promise, was disappointed that young Dan would never know the trouble he'd gone to on his behalf. But then, he had to admit, his motives hadn't been altogether altruistic. There'd been a degree of personal satisfaction in discovering that the army hadn't killed off Pete Mitchell as Dan had clearly suspected. That was one bonus to come out of this whole sad business, Harold supposed. It was a relief to know that the army hadn't been keeping him in the dark.

These days, Daniel's death was rarely mentioned, and on the odd occasion when it was, it was always referred to as ‘the accident'. The men used the term not only because they'd been ordered to do so for the sake of the family – a kindness with which they entirely concurred – but because they wished to believe it
had
been an accident. They needed absolution. Even those who'd barely known Daniel felt guilty to have been so unaware of a fellow soldier's distress.

Although life on the range was more relaxed and the troops less hard-worked, the scientists of Maralinga were as busy as ever. Nuclear experimentation did not cease at the end of a major test series and, following the general exodus, the hardcore team of
boffins remaining in residence devoted themselves wholeheartedly to the minor test trials.

The minor trials had been allocated the colourfully eccentric codenames of Kittens and Rats and Tims, with further tests planned for introduction that were to be known as Vixens. Their purposes were quite specific. Kittens examined various forms of triggers or initiators required to start the nuclear chain reaction in an atomic weapon; Rats and Tims measured the compressibility of materials used in the make-up of a nuclear device; and the planned Vixens were intended to investigate the effects of accidents that might befall a nuclear weapon, such as a fire in a weapons store or the crash of a plane carrying a nuclear device.

While less spectacular than the major detonations, the minor tests offered limitless opportunities, for they could be conducted in far greater secrecy with less accountability and therefore more freedom.

‘It seems you blokes are out of a job these days,' Nick said at his meeting in Adelaide with the principal directors of AWTSC. ‘I hope we're not being kept in the dark.'

The remark was made in a jocular fashion so as not to offend, and Leslie Martin, the Australian, smiled obligingly, but Ernest Titterton and Alan Butement were not amused. In their opinion the colonel was out of line. It was his job to liaise not comment.

‘I hardly think so, Colonel Stratton,' Titterton replied dryly. ‘Approval from members of the safety committee is not necessary for these individual firings. The British are simply required to issue a safety statement to the Australian authorities in advance of the
test. This is the agreement that has been reached between the two governments.'

‘Yes, I'm aware of that, Professor Titterton –'

‘I have here a report from the British trials superintendent, which covers the recent firings.' Titterton placed a manila folder on the table in front of him. ‘You may wish to take it to Canberra for your meeting with the minister next week, although I'm sure it won't be necessary. And should a press conference be called, you'll find any general statement you want in there. Everything is very straightforward.'

‘Thank you.' Shoving the folder under his arm, Nick stood abruptly. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,' he said, and left the meeting.

Ernest Titterton was plainly telling him that his job was that of a public relations officer only, and that he should stick to it. Nick could find no grounds for disagreement – in principle the man was right – but it was not pleasant to be reminded of the fact and with such deliberation. Yet again, Titterton had managed to annoy him intensely.

 

Dr Melvyn Crowley and his team of pathologists and biochemists had never been busier. Dead animals were being discovered on a daily basis – rabbits, kangaroos, emus and even wild camels – all forming an excellent source of random survey. Then there was the additional workload the team had inherited due to Dr Hedley Marston's ‘present state of health'.

Melvyn Crowley was aware that Hedley Marston's ‘present state of health' was a euphemism and that Sir William Penney wanted the independently contracted CSIRO scientist out of the picture.
Marston was deemed a security risk, and his work was to be reallocated to those in-house scientists who could be trusted. The decision meant that a number of biochemists upon whom Melvyn had relied for assistance were now required to travel far afield collecting and analysing data that had previously been Dr Marston's realm. In the true spirit of scientific research, however, Melvyn had raised no objections. He preferred to work on his own as much as possible anyway, with assistants who would unquestioningly accept his leadership, rather than colleagues who might challenge it. A man as dedicated as he was needed full autonomy.

Melvyn considered himself a pioneer and Maralinga his personal gateway to untold discoveries in the effects of nuclear warfare. Here, away from the limited perspective of society, actual experimentation on humans could bypass in one fell swoop years of tedious laboratory work. A number of tests involving troops' exposure to minor levels of radiation had already been carried out, but Melvyn longed to take bolder strides. He'd secretly hoped for a mishap during one of the detonations – nothing shockingly catastrophic, but something that might have resulted in a death or two. To Melvyn Crowley, the most valuable research commodity possible was a human cadaver that had been exposed to the full effects of radiation. The loss, just six weeks previously, of such material had been his greatest disappointment.

‘It's such a terrible waste, Harold,' he'd said at the time. ‘There must be something you can do, surely?'

He had contacted Harold Dartleigh urgently the moment the body had been delivered to the DC/RB
area. Dog-tag identification had proved it to be that of a young lieutenant by the name of Daniel Gardiner.

‘I'm told they're not going to release the corpse to me,' Melvyn had complained to Harold as they sat in the offices adjoining his laboratory. Young Trafford, his laboratory assistant, was filing documents in the corner cabinet. ‘Apparently I'm not going to be allowed to examine it –'

‘By
examine
, I presume you mean
dissect
,' Harold had interrupted, and Melvyn had seen his lip curl in distaste.

‘Well, I am a pathologist, after all,' Melvyn replied, his voice displaying as much disdain as he dared allow show to a peer of the realm.

‘For God's sake, man, Lieutenant Gardiner was your fellow countryman.'

‘The corpse can provide us with invaluable information,' Melvyn had continued, ignoring the interruption. ‘The army should recognise the need for –'

‘The army recognises the need for its officers to be buried with full military honours and, whenever possible,
intact
!'

‘We are men of science, Lord Dartleigh.' Melvyn had made the bold leap from mild disdain to blatant superiority. ‘We do not over-sentimentalise. Our purpose is the advancement of knowledge that will serve mankind.'

He realised too late that his tone had been a mistake – the sort of mistake that under normal circumstances might have left him with cause for regret. But Harold Dartleigh was off to England the following day and, luckily for Melvyn, couldn't be bothered pursuing the issue. Instead, he'd simply refused to help.

‘I'm afraid I can't intervene for you on this score,' he'd said. ‘The army will not release the body to you and, in the interests of self-preservation, I strongly suggest you do not attempt to pursue the matter. Men do not take kindly to those who wish to dissect their friends, whether for the advancement of science or not.'

Harold had stood and turned to young Trafford, giving him a jovial beam. ‘You, young man, had best take great care. God forbid where you might end up should you meet with an accident.'

Melvyn had walked Harold to the door, fuming inside but unable to risk offending the man further.

‘Keep up the good work, Melvyn,' Harold had said. ‘I shall expect to receive ongoing reports from you in London. In the meantime, you have my full support in all areas, as you well know. Bar the dismemberment of our fellow countrymen,' he'd added with a laugh.

‘Yes, of course, Harold, of course,' Melvyn had responded deferentially, but once Harold had left he had reverted to his usual autocratic manner.

‘So that's it,' he'd said to Trafford in annoyance. ‘If Dartleigh can't get the body released to us, then no-one can. The army's certainly not going to sign it over. Just as well they turn a blind eye to the blacks is all I can say.'

Now, six weeks later, Melvyn remained determined in his quest to acquire a human cadaver. His latest target was the child of the woman who had suffered irradiation after the One Tree test. He had expected her to give birth prematurely to a still-born and had been most eager to gain possession of the corpse. Surprisingly, the woman had carried her child full
term, but had given birth in secret, after which there had been no evidence of the baby. The search for where she might have buried it had so far proved fruitless. But Melvyn had not given up hope.

‘Did you make further enquiries at Yalata?'

He asked the same question every few days upon arrival at his office and the answer was inevitably the same. ‘Yes,' Trevor would say, ‘still no sign of the body.'

Today, however, the answer was different.

‘Yes, I called them again,' Trevor said without looking up from the reports he was working on. ‘They've made a thorough search of the entire area surrounding the mission and there's nothing to be found.'

‘Tell them to keep looking,' Melvyn barked.

‘They say there's no point. She could have buried the baby anywhere.'

‘You mean they're giving up?'

‘Yes.'

‘Damn. Another wasted opportunity.' Melvyn stormed off to the laboratory, frustrated and ill-tempered.

Trafford Whitely continued working on his reports, displaying no remorse at all about lying to Dr Crowley. He'd made no further enquiries at Yalata; even if he had, he knew they would have led nowhere. The woman's stillborn child would never be found.

Trafford was thankful for the fact. He'd found the notion of stealing the corpse repellent. The autopsies conducted on the Aboriginal family who'd died after camping in the Marcoo crater had been a different matter altogether. Indeed, the dismemberment and
thorough examination of the corpses had, to his mind, been essential. But to secretly dig up a baby's body, and without the family's permission, seemed both a macabre act and a terrible invasion.

Melvyn Crowley's further orders to those of his team working out in the field had appeared equally ruthless to Trafford.