Reviews for Garrick Jones

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Tides in Darwin were monumental, sometimes more than twenty feet rise and fall twice a day. The harbour was still dotted with wrecks, the Indonesian bosun of the launch from the Pamanoekan taking us to the makeshift long jetty that jutted out into the sea from Mindil Beach happily pointed out the ships and the numbers killed on each vessel. The American destroyer USS Peary had the highest death toll: over eighty-eight killed during the raid and only fifty-three survivors. I had no idea; we hadn’t got that news, just that ships had been sunk and the town bombed twice. As we negotiated towards the beach, I saw two officials waiting at the end of the jetty. There were only six of us disembarking in Darwin, but there seemed to be a small crowd on the beach itself—probably about twenty men in all. I couldn’t imagine they were a welcoming committee; they were most likely blokes who’d decided to quit the town and sail on the Pamanoekan to either Broome or Perth to start new lives.

“Take care, Mr. Bacon,” the bosun said to me. “Darwin’s a hard drinking town, rough and violent. Too many blokes, barely any women. Watch yourself, especially in the pubs, most men in this hole like to speak with their fists.”

“Sounds like what I’m used to, mate. Don’t worry about me.”

“Got your military permit to go ashore?”

I patted the breast pocket of my jacket. Everyone had to have a reason to go to Darwin; in 1947, you still couldn’t just turn up there out of the blue. I’d applied for my permit with a covering letter from Sandy’s parents, asking me to take a photo of his grave. Reluctantly, it had been granted after I’d showed my service record to the dick at the permit office in Sydney. He was all of sixteen by the look of him. I’d slapped it on the counter and growled. His eyes had bulged a little, but he’d stamped it and called out “next!” over my shoulder.

I had six weeks in Darwin to get warm, find what I was looking for, and shake off some of my demons. The first two I was sure I could do; the last remained to be seen.

“Taxi, sir?” a thick-set man asked as I stepped onto the beach after being processed.

“Nah, I’ll walk,” I replied.

“Where you going?”

“Stokes Hill.”

“In this heat?” he asked with a smile, showing a mouth full of gold teeth. “That’s nearly an hour on foot, mate. Do yourself a favour and get in my cab.”

“Call this hot? I served in Ceylon, India, and Malaya, and finished my war in Burma and Siam, my friend. An hour stroll in the sun will do me good.”

“Suit yourself,” he said. When I asked which way I should go, he pointed in the direction of Stokes Hill then turned his back on me to ask a man and his wife who were standing not far away, looking stunned at their surroundings, whether they needed a taxi. Two years after the war, there were still bomb craters and uncleared tangles of broken palms on either side of the road that led to the jetty.

I walked down the beach for a bit then changed into my shorts and a singlet, threw my army duffel bag over my shoulder, and lit a fag. “Hello, Darwin,” I said to nowhere in particular.

I could have sworn it told me to fuck off and go back home.