again.
You won’t get a chance to, Ken said. He shook his head. Bloody hell.
Mike tried grinning at him, but Ken didn’t grin back. He sat in silence, and we sat down next to him, as long shadows put their fingers across the valley, and the sun left the red roof of the house and the white road between the poplars. Far off, we could hear the voices of pickers among the hops, and the barking of John Langford’s collie dog, Angus. When Ken spoke again, he seemed to be talking to himself, looking out over the valley.
You pick up a rifle and it gives you big ideas, he said. You think it makes a man of you, holding a gun. That’s all bullshit, boys. You don’t feel quite so good after you’ve used it on someone. Only mad bastards find that enjoyable.
Tell us how it was in New Guinea, Ken, Mike said. He was always trying to get Ken to talk about the action he’d seen, but Ken never would.
Not now, Chick, Ken said. But suddenly he looked at us, and said: You want to know how I killed my first Japanese? All right, I’ll tell you.
I glanced at Mike. His expression was utterly intent; he’d waited years for this.
It was just after I got to New Guinea, Ken said. I was twenty-one; I’d never seen action. The blokes up the trail ahead of us had knocked out a Japanese machine-gun post, and we were told not to take prisoners. We couldn’t; we were outnumbered. There was one Jap still alive, with a bullet in his guts, and our sergeant told me to kill him. “Shoot him, Ken.” That’s what he said to me.
He shook his head, and let out a quick breath through his nose that might have denoted amusement, but didn’t. “Shoot him, Ken.” He repeated the words wonderingly, as though they contained the key to something: a puzzle he’d been trying to solve for a long time. So I picked up my .303, and put a bullet through him, he said. He was the first man I’d ever shot. Then I went behind a tree and threw up.
He thought for a moment, while we kept absolutely quiet, waiting.
He was just lying there, looking at me, this Jap, he said. He was quite a young bloke. Sometimes I still see him looking at me before I go to sleep. I killed a lot of other Japanese in the fighting after that, and it got easier. But he was different. He was in cold blood. I don’t reckon that bloody sergeant should have made me do it. No, I don’t reckon he should have.
He glanced at us; but the glance told us nothing. Then his face softened a little, and became almost friendly; he seemed to be coming back to us. So don’t you young blokes think it’s fun, killing people, he said. It’s no bloody fun at all.
He stood up, holding the guns. I’ll keep these for now, he said.
He turned and walked off down the hill, erect as though marching, pulling the battered Digger hat low over his eyes, not looking back.
Mike blew his candle out, and I did the same.
Sometimes Ken has bad dreams, Mike told me. I’ve heard him sing out, at night. He still thinks about the War, now and then. And he lost his girlfriend Peggy by going to the War. He was engaged to her, and she broke it off, while he was up in New Guinea. Married someone else.
Why would she do that? I asked. Any girl’d want Ken.
Selfish, Mum reckons. All those Stantons are selfish.
There was silence for a while; then his voice came softer, out of the dark. Hey: you got a girl yet?
No, I said, I hadn’t got a girl. Had he?
Yeah, I’ve got a girl, he said. Don’t tell anyone this, Ray. It’s one of the pickers.
I laughed. I know, I said. That red-haired girl.
Don’t laugh, Ray, he said. I’m in love with her. His voice was low and fervent: he was clearly serious, and although he was only fifteen, he had the dignity of youthful maturity. Her name’s Maureen Maguire, he said; and he divulged it like a deadly secret.
We’d reached the age where the hop fields and the hills and the whole flowering land were filled with a buzz and murmur of desire. But this was still the era of
You won’t get a chance to, Ken said. He shook his head. Bloody hell.
Mike tried grinning at him, but Ken didn’t grin back. He sat in silence, and we sat down next to him, as long shadows put their fingers across the valley, and the sun left the red roof of the house and the white road between the poplars. Far off, we could hear the voices of pickers among the hops, and the barking of John Langford’s collie dog, Angus. When Ken spoke again, he seemed to be talking to himself, looking out over the valley.
You pick up a rifle and it gives you big ideas, he said. You think it makes a man of you, holding a gun. That’s all bullshit, boys. You don’t feel quite so good after you’ve used it on someone. Only mad bastards find that enjoyable.
Tell us how it was in New Guinea, Ken, Mike said. He was always trying to get Ken to talk about the action he’d seen, but Ken never would.
Not now, Chick, Ken said. But suddenly he looked at us, and said: You want to know how I killed my first Japanese? All right, I’ll tell you.
I glanced at Mike. His expression was utterly intent; he’d waited years for this.
It was just after I got to New Guinea, Ken said. I was twenty-one; I’d never seen action. The blokes up the trail ahead of us had knocked out a Japanese machine-gun post, and we were told not to take prisoners. We couldn’t; we were outnumbered. There was one Jap still alive, with a bullet in his guts, and our sergeant told me to kill him. “Shoot him, Ken.” That’s what he said to me.
He shook his head, and let out a quick breath through his nose that might have denoted amusement, but didn’t. “Shoot him, Ken.” He repeated the words wonderingly, as though they contained the key to something: a puzzle he’d been trying to solve for a long time. So I picked up my .303, and put a bullet through him, he said. He was the first man I’d ever shot. Then I went behind a tree and threw up.
He thought for a moment, while we kept absolutely quiet, waiting.
He was just lying there, looking at me, this Jap, he said. He was quite a young bloke. Sometimes I still see him looking at me before I go to sleep. I killed a lot of other Japanese in the fighting after that, and it got easier. But he was different. He was in cold blood. I don’t reckon that bloody sergeant should have made me do it. No, I don’t reckon he should have.
He glanced at us; but the glance told us nothing. Then his face softened a little, and became almost friendly; he seemed to be coming back to us. So don’t you young blokes think it’s fun, killing people, he said. It’s no bloody fun at all.
He stood up, holding the guns. I’ll keep these for now, he said.
He turned and walked off down the hill, erect as though marching, pulling the battered Digger hat low over his eyes, not looking back.
Mike blew his candle out, and I did the same.
Sometimes Ken has bad dreams, Mike told me. I’ve heard him sing out, at night. He still thinks about the War, now and then. And he lost his girlfriend Peggy by going to the War. He was engaged to her, and she broke it off, while he was up in New Guinea. Married someone else.
Why would she do that? I asked. Any girl’d want Ken.
Selfish, Mum reckons. All those Stantons are selfish.
There was silence for a while; then his voice came softer, out of the dark. Hey: you got a girl yet?
No, I said, I hadn’t got a girl. Had he?
Yeah, I’ve got a girl, he said. Don’t tell anyone this, Ray. It’s one of the pickers.
I laughed. I know, I said. That red-haired girl.
Don’t laugh, Ray, he said. I’m in love with her. His voice was low and fervent: he was clearly serious, and although he was only fifteen, he had the dignity of youthful maturity. Her name’s Maureen Maguire, he said; and he divulged it like a deadly secret.
We’d reached the age where the hop fields and the hills and the whole flowering land were filled with a buzz and murmur of desire. But this was still the era of
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