Pennies For Hitler (29 page)

They began to run. Sally stumbled. Georg hauled the child up and found that Mud had her other arm. Together they half dragged her through the gate in the paling fence between the school building and the paddock.

‘Down,’ ordered Mud. The child covered her head with her arms. The others were all lying down now, a line of bodies, their heads to the wall, their faces down. Elizabeth wouldn’t have saved the little kids. The thought came from nowhere. Elizabeth needed a governess to look after her. But Mud took charge.

Mud pointed upwards. The plane was almost on them now, its engine like a monster’s purr.

‘It’s coming here,’ she whispered to Georg. ‘For Bellagong.’

He nodded. One small town in a wilderness of bush and paddocks. The pilot was aiming for them.

He knew from the air raids in London that planes strafed, sending bullets from the sky, as well as bombs. Would whoever was up there shoot them all?

One bomb had brought down a three-storey block of flats. One bomb could destroy this small school and half the town too.

The plane was above them now. He peered up, trying to see the pilot’s face through the cockpit. But the sunlight behind was too bright, gleaming off the glass.

Jap, thought Georg. Dirty rotten Jap.

‘If it fires bullets at us we have to run,’ he gasped.

Mud moved to cover Sally protectively. ‘Try to make it to the trees?’

Georg nodded.

He waited for the bomb to fall, for the school to shatter just as the buildings had shattered back in London. The plane’s shadow passed over them, a blackness on the ground.

Was the pilot saving his bombs for Bellagong? But as he watched the plane passed the town too, so low it almost brushed the treetops, then rose higher, and higher still.

He waited for it to turn back, to bomb or strafe them on the next go round. But it headed back into the blue towards the sea.
Its engine sounded like a washing machine now, not a roar, and then just a faint stutter in the distance again.

Mrs Rose stood up. She and Mud helped the smallest children to their feet, brushing off the grass. Georg stood too. He felt empty, as though his body might float away.

The enemy was here.

‘It was a Jap spotter plane, not a bomber,’ said Mr Peaslake wearily, as Georg sat eating after-school bread and jam in the kitchen. ‘I went down to the phone box and called the coast watch, but they already knew. They said not to talk about it.’

‘But everyone saw it.’

‘Only in Bellagong.’ He shrugged. ‘Government doesn’t want people to panic, I suppose. Doesn’t want everyone knowing there are Jap planes about.’

‘But where did the plane come from?’ Planes needed fuel. New Guinea was too far away for a plane to fly in one hop. And that one had looked so small.

Mr Peaslake hesitated. Mrs Peaslake turned from the stove where she was stirring apple sauce for bottling. ‘He’s seen worse in the Blitz,’ she said softly.

‘Rumour has it that there are Jap subs all along the coast. Big ones. Big enough to send out aircraft to scout the area.’

Georg sat still. ‘The Japanese are going to invade here?’

He waited for Mr Peaslake to say, ‘Of course not.’ But all he said was, ‘Probably not. Any invasion will come from the north. The Japs need supply lines to keep their army in food and fuel if they are to get here. MacArthur’s Yanks are between us and them now. I reckon the Japs are looking for targets. Ships, factories to
bomb or torpedo before they try to invade.’ He gave Georg a half-smile. ‘There are none of those in Bellagong, at any rate.’

‘Thank you,’ said Georg. He meant, ‘Thank you for telling me the truth.’

The enemy was in their sea, that happy sea where he had learned to swim. It was in the sky, where they had flown their kites.

Nowhere is safe, thought Georg. The enemy can be anywhere.

Chapter 36

April 1942

Dear Mum and Dad and George,

It’s a sunny Sunday morn here. I’ve got Mum’s socks on my feet and her fruitcake in me too and just smelled the gumleaf George sent me so I almost feel like I’m with all of you.

We had some good laughs at the concert last night. The VAD girls put on a turn with their blue frocks on back to front and gas masks back to front too. They did a burlesque of ‘The Way the Army Does It’, marching backwards then bending down and touching their toes, showing six inches of white skin between their stocking top and undies so we howled for more. (Maybe you’d better skip that bit, Mum. Oops, you’ve already read it.)

Rumour has it that there might be some Cairo leave (and Captain Censor, leave that bit in, won’t you? The enemy has to know we’re somewhere in this neighbourhood) coming on, so watch out, Cairo. Should be able to pick up something for you all. How about a mummy for Mummy? Maybe I’ll send a camel back to see if the cousins can shear one of them as good as a sheep.

Well, I’d better go in case the war grinds to a halt without me. Give my love next door and my special love to all of you, and a hug for the dogs too, but only if they’ve had a bath. We’re a fussy lot in the AIF.

Alan

The very young and the old men left in Bellagong, including Mr Peaslake, dug the school air-raid shelter later that afternoon. It was just a narrow trench, about two yards deep, behind the school fence, with steps cut into the soil to get down into it, and logs propped across it to keep off the worst of the debris if a plane came again and this time bombed the school.

The children watched. Little Sally sucked her thumb. Big Billy ate Georg’s leftover sandwiches. Mrs Peaslake always gave him too many. Maybe she guessed that he shared them with Big Billy.

‘Needs corrugated iron on top,’ said Mud. ‘That’s what they have on top of Anderson shelters in England.’

‘Got some left over from the old chook house —’ began one of the men.

‘No,’ said Georg quickly.

Everyone stared at him.

‘I … I saw a shelter once that was bombed. The corrugated iron collapsed. It hurt one of the people …’ He didn’t want to say more. It wasn’t needed anyway.

‘No corrugated iron then,’ boomed Mr Peaslake.

Mud looked at the work as though she wanted to help. ‘I’m going to become a plane spotter,’ she said abruptly to Georg.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s in the paper. I cut it out to show you.’ She fumbled in her pocket. ‘They say children can do it — you don’t have to be grown up. We have to have a local spotting station — that can be the school — and we can spend the lunch hour searching for planes. If you see one you have to write down if it’s an Oxford or Anson — you can tell by the wing shape — or what sort of enemy plane it is.’

‘Mr Peaslake says the coast watch looks for planes.’ And anyway, he thought, the whole district would look outside if they heard a plane now. ‘There’s the top paddock fence to mend,’ he added instead tactfully. ‘We were going to do that this Saturday. But we can look for planes as well.’

‘I suppose,’ said Mud. She gave him a swift, sudden smile. ‘Thanks,’ she added.

‘What for?’

‘Just thanks,’ she said.

Georg trudged home with Mr Peaslake in the gathering darkness. No one stayed out after dark these days, unless there was a full moon, in case the enemy saw the torchlight.

It would be a half-moon tonight. Would that be enough to show the enemy planes where the town was? Georg looked at the pale dusty road. He thought it would.

He wondered what was for dinner. Shepherd’s pie, maybe, made from chopped-up, leftover roast mutton with crispy potato on top. Maybe apricot pie from bottled apricots too, and custard.

Everyone would be getting their ration books soon, with coupons that you had to tear out when you bought rationed goods. Georg supposed rationing would be pretty much like it
had been in England. Except that over there people really were hungry, and here there was still all the food you wanted. The only thing in short supply was tea.

Now Japan had occupied Malaya and other countries that grew tea there was hardly ever any in the shop. No one knew exactly what foods would be rationed, but Mr Peaslake said they would probably be the same ones as in England — sugar, butter, meat — the foods that were essential to send to troops overseas, and to England too. You couldn’t fight if you couldn’t eat. The only thing they’d really miss at Bellagong, though, was sugar, but Mrs Peaslake said she could make cakes and puddings sweet with fruit instead.

Mr Peaslake returned the shovel to the shed. Georg followed him as he opened the kitchen door and stared.

‘Mother? What’s wrong?’

Georg stared too. The house was silent. Even the clock tick seemed to have vanished. Mrs Peaslake sat at the kitchen table, not even knitting. Stranger still, Samson and Delilah lay with their heads down by the stove, not leaping and barking a welcome.

‘No bad news?’ asked Mr Peaslake sharply. Georg didn’t know how there could have been any news they hadn’t heard. Mud checked the casualty lists posted up by the shop every morning, in case one of the men from the neighbourhood had been hurt, and it wasn’t time to listen to the news yet, and the whole town knew as soon as the telegram boy bicycled through the main street.

‘What?’ Mrs Peaslake seemed to finally see them. She stood up wearily, and that was strange too. ‘No, I just feel out of sorts. Sit down; I’ll put the dinner out. George, set the table after you’ve washed your hands: there’s a dear.’ She slipped on her oven gloves and pulled out the buttered baking tin. It
was
shepherd’s pie.

‘You sure you’re all right, Mother?’ boomed Mr Peaslake.

Delilah whined.

‘Of course I am. Just … just thinking about Alan, that’s all.’

‘Now don’t you worry about Alan. We got a letter just this morning, didn’t we? Right as rain.’

Or was when he sent the letter, thought Georg.

‘I’ll get you a nice cuppa,’ boomed Mr Peaslake soothingly, reaching for the teacup. Mrs Peaslake kept the breakfast tea leaves in the pot on the side of the wood stove these days, letting them stew all day, and adding more water every time she poured a cup, instead of making a fresh pot. But it was unthinkable to end any meal or even have a conversation without a cup of tea, even if it was weak or bitter with so much stewing.

It was a strange meal. Georg described the plane again and Mr Peaslake talked about the new air-raid shelter. At last his voice died away.

Georg glanced at the dogs. Why weren’t they sitting on their haunches drooling, or pushing their noses into his lap to persuade him to slip them some potato?

He washed up the dishes while Mr Peaslake dried and put away; and Mrs Peaslake packaged up the fruitcakes she’d made to take to the CWA ‘comfort package’ meeting in the church hall tomorrow.

She seemed more herself now, looking at the pile of cakes with satisfaction. ‘Them Nazi nasties want to starve out England,’ she said. ‘We’ll show them, won’t we, George?’

The parcels went to soldiers, to refugees, to bombed-out families in England. Every fortnight she sent a fruitcake to Alan too, as well as a new pair of socks and another pair to give to a mate.

The packages to England contained canned fruit and tins of dripping and home-made sweets: luxuries for anyone in England in these years of war.

Georg wondered if England was trying to starve Germany too, as well as sending bombers across its skies.

Mutti, bombed. Mutti, starved. But he said nothing.

The dogs lay silent by the stove.

Chapter 37

MAY 1942

The Schools at War

A Message from the Prime Minister

You, the children of today, are passing through a terrible period in the world’s history. I want you to do your bit for the safety of this wonderful country in which we live. As you know, we cannot waste food or clothing or boots, paper or ink or other school material. In fact, we cannot afford to waste anything.

Farther than that, we must salvage all the worn-out materials that can be again used in the war effort — such things as aluminium, rubber and paper. Each school, with your loyal help, can be made a salvage depot for freedom.

In addition, you can share in the sacrifice your country is making. By purchasing war savings stamps with your own few pence of pocket money, you, too, can make a real sacrifice for Australia.

With faith and trust in God, a spirit of service to your country, and obedience and cheerfulness in your homes, you can each help in the war effort and bring the days of peace much closer to us all.

John Curtin

Samson didn’t eat his dinner, though Delilah did at last. He wouldn’t eat at breakfast either.

‘Poor old boy. Sickening for something,’ said Mr Peaslake, patting the dog’s ears.

Samson whined. Mrs Peaslake said nothing as she picked up their egg-stained breakfast plates.

‘Maybe he found a dead cow in the paddocks,’ offered Georg. ‘I could pick him some grass.’ He’d read that dogs ate grass if they’d eaten something bad and needed to be sick to bring it back up again.

‘Could be. Alan’s had that dog since he was a pup. Found him abandoned down at the dump. Couldn’t bear to have to tell Alan if anything happened to him.’ Mr Peaslake rubbed Samson’s ears again.

Samson whined again. He didn’t lift his head. Mr Peaslake stood up. ‘If he hasn’t picked up this afternoon I’ll borrow the cart and we can take him to the vet’s. Can’t carry you all the way there, can I, boy? You’re too big.’

Mrs Peaslake handed Georg his lunchbox and Thermos, and an empty jar as it was jar collection day. He shoved them in his satchel, and kissed her cheek. It felt cool, not warm from the stove as it usually did.

Neither dog tried to follow him out the door, to sit at the gate and watch him walk down to school.