The Winning Side Read online

  In the ring, Brusso tried to shout out the details of the contest but the crowd noise drowned him out. He held up ten fingers, then one finger, mimed writing and rapped himself on the chest. The crowd got the message and a long, resounding boo showed that they were in the mood. Green climbed into the ring and let the top strand snap back; Thomas was ready for the trick, he caught the rope, lifted it high and Parker climbed through. The Australians roared.

  The canvas of the ring in Murphy’s gym was stained by water, sweat and blood; the support posts were rickety and the ropes were blackened by handling. There was no resin box but there were stools in the corners. Brusso tossed a set of gloves to Thomas who taped-up Parker’s hands and slipped them into the gloves. When the glove tapes were tied, Brusso called them to the centre: Albie Murphy banged furiously on the bell until the noise dipped enough for Brusso to be heard.

  ‘… and keep your heads still in close; break when I tell you; clean fight, okay? Shake, come out fighting!’

  ‘Feel him out, mate’, Thomas said.

  Parker came out purposefully in an upright stance without frills. He led a left, highly conventional, and zipped over a right that took the negro high on the right side of the head. Encouraged, Parker moved up, tried a hook, and was sent reeling beck by a lightning series of jabs.

  ‘Oh, Christ’, Thomas said.

  Parker recovered his balance and boxed cautiously, moving well and keeping his guard up. Towards the end of the three minutes he landed a long right and a light left rip, but for aggression and the successful combinations in the early exchanges it was the American’s round.

  ‘He’s bloody good, Charlie.’ Parker swilled water.

  ‘Yeah. Those jabs hurt?’

  ‘Stung more, but I’d like to know about that weakness.’

  ‘Not sure about it now.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  The next few rounds were uneventful, with the American scoring more freely but taking some hard, shrewd punches in return.

  ‘Can you last the distance, Blue?’ Thomas asked after the fifth.

  ‘Yeah, easy; me legs’re all right and he doesn’t hit that hard. But I can’t seem to do anything with him. He’s that fast; if I go in, I’m scared he’ll nail me.’

  ‘Try this—lead your left and let your guard down a bit; I think he’ll hook at your chin. He sort of sets himself for the hook. If he does, move your head back and uppercut him. You’ll have to be sharp, but he definitely hesitates before the hook; should give you time.’

  Parker went out, boxed quietly for a minute and then led the left. Green’s attempted hook and the uppercut followed. Parker was accurate with the punch and Green sagged back. The Australian was confused as Green covered up and clinched. The American took a rest in the clinch and boxed the round out.

  ‘It worked’, Parker said in the break.

  ‘Yeah, you mug, but you let him off—whack him when he goes back.’

  Parker repeated the manoeuvre, and this time put his weight behind the punch. Green sat abruptly on the canvas and took a six count. Near the end of the round, Parker did it again, with the same result.

  ‘Yanks score big for knockdowns, Blue’, Thomas said. ‘Do it a few more times and stay out of trouble yourself and you’ve got it won.’

  Parker knocked Green down twice in the eighth, and once in the ninth. The negro recovered but he had slowed down; the two slugged at the end of the round, with Parker landing his punches more cleanly and heavily.

  ‘I reckon you’re there, Blue’, Thomas said. ‘Oh, Christ!’ An Australian major and an American colonel appeared at ringside, and beckoned to Brusso. The referee went over and the noise which had been high and steady dropped as the referee bent down to listen to the officers.

  ‘They’re going to stop it’, Parker said. ‘It’d be my way, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Thomas looked across and saw the colonel running a finger along his eyebrow. ‘They’re worried about your cut eye.’ Parker had a deep, one inch gash over the right eye, which Thomas had been mopping and closing with Collodion. ‘Might stop it.’

  ‘No!’ Parker roared. He stood up, but the bell rang and Brusso waved the fighters in, brought their gloves together in the token touch and stepped back. Science went out the window; both men flailed and swung. Parker reeled back to the ropes and the American pummelled his ribs. Thomas gripped the ringpost and shouted; Abraham, his cool manners forgotten, shook with tension and ducked and weaved dementedly.

  Arm and leg weary, the two men met at centre ring. They swung, blocked and countered mechanically. Murphy hit the bell. The crowd rose to its feet and roared as Brusso parted the two and lifted both right hands in the air.

  ‘Draw’, Thomas gasped.

  The crowd subsided and Parker and Green stood in the ring with their arms around each other. Thomas shook hands with Abraham. ‘Great fight’, they said simultaneously.

  Back in the dressing room both fighters showered, and afterwards Parker smoked a cigarette.

  ‘A beer’ll be good, Charlie’, he said.

  Albie Murphy whispered in Thomas’s ear and Thomas nodded. The old trainer produced a needle, gut, alcohol and cotton wool, and with his horny hands neatly stitched Parker’s eye.

  Paul Brusso came in, smoking a cigar. He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and tore it into small pieces over a rubbish bin in the corner. He let the pieces fall.

  ‘Say, Paul’, Abraham said. ‘What did the brass want after the ninth. What the hell did they say?’

  Brusso dusted his hands disgustedly. ‘What they said was, quote—‘Lieutenant, this fight is a draw.’

  3

  ‘JESUS, Charlie, I can feel it coming on again.’

  Sergeant Charlie Thomas of the 7th Infantry Brigade looked down at the big man stretched out on the grass beside him.

  ‘Been taking the stuff, Blue?’

  ‘Yeah, course.’ Parker’s teeth chattered violently. ‘Christ, there it goes. Yeah, course I’ve been taking it. Hasn’t made a fuckin’ bit of difference. You said it was the grog, I haven’t had a drink in weeks.’

  ‘I might have been wrong about that.’

  ‘Wrong? Shit, a man dies of thirst and you say you might be wrong!’

  ‘This shithouse food’s probably got something to do with it. Look, we won’t be moving again today. I’ll blanket you up and you can sweat it out.’

  ‘Blokes die that way’, Parker complained.

  ‘You’ll die all right if you can’t move out with us.’

  Thomas rolled a cigarette and lit it; when he lifted his head he blew smoke in the direction of the blue and green mountains to the south. The New Guinea sky seemed to press down towards the hot, wet earth. He didn’t like New Guinea, hadn’t liked it for almost a year.

  Parker’s teeth clattered again and his eyes closed.

  ‘Take it easy, Blue. I’ll get the blankets.’

  Parker nodded, with his eyes still shut. He could feel the sweat jumping out on his skin. It wasn’t like the sweat they’d lived in every day since coming across the mountains; but more like the sudden sweat of fear. Funny, he thought, bloody German and Jap bullets hadn’t touched him, but the dysentery and now malaria had flattened him. He’d seen men so weak with the malaria that they’d stuck their heads up at the wrong time. Not me, he thought.

  Thomas checked with the lieutenant before bringing the blankets back for Parker. He’d been right, they’d rest for the night before pressing on against the Japanese who were retreating in front of them. Thomas had a grudging respect for the Japanese; they were losing and they knew it, but they were still fighting. A retreating party could turn suddenly and hit back furiously, or lie in wait and make a suicidal stand. It was nervy work following them.

  When Thomas returned with a groundsheet and three blankets the sun had gone and the short twilight was beginning. Parker was asleep; he spread the groundsheet and rolled the big man on to it, then he put the blankets over him and tucked them
in at the side leaving one arm free. He shook Parker awake.

  ‘Have a drink, Blue, and try to relax.’

  Parker hoisted himself up on the free allow and drank deeply from the tin cup. ‘Thanks, Charlie; you’re a mate. When do we move?’

  ‘Sun-up. You’ll be right. Get to sleep.’

  Thomas sipped water and smoked; the day’s sweat was drying on his shirt, making it stiff and itchy. He scratched, and the shoulder penetrated by the shell fragment in Greece, ached. Sometimes it got stiff and he had to rub and manipulate it; if he slept on it the wrong way it could be agony in the morning. An orderly came around with a billy of hot tea and Thomas dipped in. He opened a tin of beans and ate them with a hard, dry biscuit. The tea was hot and strong, but they’d had very little hot food for three weeks. Supply lines were stretched thin, and fuel and time were always short. He lay back, smoking and thinking of hot dinners. Beside him Parker groaned and thrashed. Thomas repacked the blankets and wiped the sweat from Parker’s face.

  From old habit, Thomas rolled out of his blankets at first light. He stretched, coughed and spat; and rolled a cigarette which he smoked while scratching himself. The horizon told him that Parker had about forty-five minutes before he’d have to be on his feet and moving. He was still sleeping, peacefully now; he was pale and his hair was stiff with dried sweat. Thomas touched his forehead and found it cool. He shook Parker’s shoulder gently.

  ‘Blue, Blue.’

  Parker sat up. ‘Christ, me jaw aches. Hullo, Charlie, are we dead or alive?’

  ‘Alive for now’, Thomas grinned. ‘Your fever broke in the night. How do you feel?’

  Parker wobbled his chin. ‘Okay, except for this bloody jaw.’

  ‘Must’ve clenched it when the fever had you. I’ll look up the medical term for it for you in Lae.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’ Parker pushed back the blankets, stood and fell straight down. ‘Christ, I’m weak as water. Give us a hand.’

  Thomas supported him while he took a few tentative steps.

  ‘I’ll be right, when do you reckon we’ll get to Lae?’

  ‘Two more days of this’, Thomas said grimly. ‘After that.’

  ‘The tea came around, and Parker poured an inch of sugar into his and drank it scalding. They ate the usual biscuit and tinned meat. The carriers hawked, spat, grumbled and lifted their loads. The air was warming up fast after the cool night and Thomas’ shoulder was stiff. He swung his arms over before shrugging on his pack. Parker watched him. Thomas was five foot ten, thin and hollow-cheeked. He’d weigh about nine and a half stone, Parker judged.

  ‘You going back into the fight game, Charlie, when this is over?’

  ‘Christ, no!’

  ‘What, then?’

  Thomas thought of his diary, and the pleasure he got from trying to set the words down right to get the feeling and meaning he intended. But he knew that explanation would embarrass Parker; he didn’t fully understand the experience himself.

  ‘I dunno’, he said. ‘Job on the wharf, maybe.’

  Parker nodded. ‘That’ll do me. I’ll be in that.’

  Thomas wondered whether Parker would be so happy about having an Abo for a mate back in Australia. There were a lot of things in the future to wonder about. He wondered about going on the land in Queensland and about going south to Tasmania to get pale in the southern latitudes, and be a white man.

  ‘We’ve got these bloody Japs to worry about, first’, he said.

  Captain Beverage, a veteran of Europe and the Solomons, explained to the platoon sergeants that the objective was a ridge about half a day’s march away. It was expected to be strongly defended by the retreating Japanese.

  ‘It’s a long, wavy, bloody ridge’, Beverage said. ‘Any number of machine gun possies, and we’ll have to thin out to cover it. We’ve been given the eastern slope; it’s not the hardest, but it’s not the best. When we get there, I don’t want any bloody heroes. We’ll put heavy fire into it, advance a bit and pour it on again. They might pull back.’

  ‘What if they don’t?’ a sergeant asked.

  ‘We sneak up, spot where they are, and hit them.’

  ‘Any air support?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that’, Thomas said, and they all laughed.

  Parker stood up well to the morning’s march, but they were all sweating and leg-weary by mid-morning when the clouds boiled up above, gathering for the regular rain. They stopped, covered the food, equip and weapons with groundsheets, stripped and sluiced themselves in the heavy, warm rain.

  ‘I’d hate to go to heaven with a dirty neck’, Parker said.

  After the break, as the rain faded away to the east, they checked and oiled their weapons, and pressed on. The jungle paths were narrow, muddy and root-strewn, but not too steep. Beverage, out in front, made a west-turning motion and the carriers cut a path through the pulpy bush. This took them to the base of the ridge, forward from where the track ran. Beverage summoned the platoon leaders, and they grouped under damp foliage where the ground began to rise.

  ‘The movement starts at 1300 hours’, Beverage said. ‘We break up into fives and use brens and rifles in the first hit. We’ll move a hundred yards up the slope from here. Let ’er rip at 1300, and for Christ ssake try to spot where any return fire comes from.’

  ‘How long does the shooting last?’ one of the sergeants asked.

  ‘Six minutes. Then move up another two hundred feet. Fire at 1320, and concentrate it where you saw return fire. The word’ll come up to move in and take the ridge. Questions?’

  ‘What’s the terrain like at the top?’ Thomas asked.

  Beverage studied his survey map. ‘Nasty. Gullies, light timber. They could be dug in like rabbits.’

  ‘Terrific. Do we get mortars?’

  ‘Short supply. Light use just before the last move.’

  Thomas moved back to where his men were sitting on their groundsheets. Parker was chewing a stick, which meant that he wanted to smoke. He filled them in on the plans; and they watched the signals men checking their gear, and the black carriers falling back along the track they’d cut with their knives.

  There was no response from the ridge to the first attack, and only sporadic return fire after 1320. Thomas waited edgily under cover, with Parker beside him. Parker made sure, yet again, that his bayonet came easily away from his rifle. Thomas carried an Owen gun and had a bayonet in a sheath at his belt.

  ‘Those fuckin’ things jam, Charlie’, Parker said.

  ‘Not this one.’

  A message came down the line that there would be mortar fire and they were to move up on to the ridge after it stopped.

  ‘I hope they’ve all pissed off’, Parker said.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. There’ll be a few there at least. Look out for the machine gun posts, you know how they like shooting machine guns.’

  The thunk, thunk of the mortars started, and stopped almost immediately.

  ‘Wouldn’t have got a snake’, Parker said.

  The ground ahead of Thomas sloped gently and was covered ankle deep in creeper vine; there were irregular solid trees and saplings, and then a thinning out towards a flatter section where the vegetation stopped. Away to the right of the bare ground was a patch of dark shadow. Thomas pointed it out to his group.

  ‘Gully’, he said. ‘Let’s take this one thing at a time. We’ll go up using the cover, and split to check the gully from both sides. Could be a gun there. If you’re shooting go down into the gully, not across it. Blue, Horrie.’

  The party split and they sprinted and ducked and zigzagged up the slope. They heard heavy rifle and machine gun fire below and to the right of them.

  Thomas’s party circled wide to the left and came in towards the gully about fifty yards up from its mouth. Nothing moved. They bent low and advanced to the edge; about twenty feet further back before the gully twisted right there was a machine gun with its muzzle pointing down into the mud. A paper cig
arette packet lay beside it. Parker peered at the gully bed.

  ‘Shot through’, he said.

  ‘What’s that?’ Horrie Andersen pointed.

  ‘Badge.’

  ‘There’a another one.’ Two of the men jumped down and were immediately jerked off their feet and tossed about crazily as the bullets ripped into them.

  ‘Trap’, Thomas yelled and threw himself down. Bullets whistled down the gully and hummed along the tops of its banks on both sides. One of the Australians shouted, and collapsed with the top half of his body hanging into the gully. A bullet hit him in the head and he hung there, suddenly still.

  Thomas sprinted for the trees, bent over the weaving. Parker pumped shots fast and methodically up the gully. Thomas worked his way through the trees back to where the fire had come from. When he judged that he’d reached that point he slipped the safety catch off the Owen gun and charged the gully. A small Japanese man stood on the edge, and turned towards Thomas as he broke cover; Thomas sprayed him with a short burst and he toppled back out of sight. A head poked up and Thomas shot at it and saw dirt and blood fly. He dropped into the gully, twenty feet behind the two soldiers who tried to swing the machine gun around. Thomas fired the rest of the clip on the Owen into the face of one of the Japanese. He reached for his bayonet: Parker jumped down and drove his bayonet through the back of the Japanese, spitting him. He wore no shirt and Thomas saw the metal come through the thin, stretched chest. He vomited as the Japanese fell towards him.

  4

  IN Lae, Parker went down with a shattering attack of malaria that left him weak and uncertain for days. Thomas judged that Blue had had enough war. He knew he had himself.

  When he recovered, Parker went on the booze. Queensland beer flowed in the canteen and the Americans had unlimited supplies of spirits. Parker mixed them, and was often carried back to his tent at night.

  ‘You’ve got to ease up, Blue’, Thomas told him, ‘specially in this bloody climate. You’ll do your liver in.’

  Parker looked at him slyly; it was early evening, but he was half-drunk already from an afternoon session with some Americans.