Billy Mack's War

James Roy
was born in western New South Wales and spent much of his early life as a missionary child in Papua New Guinea and Fiji. It was here that his love of stories and books began to flourish. His second novel,
Full Moon Racing
was a Children's Book Council of Australia Notable Book, received a commendation for the IBBY Ena Noel Award, and was also shortlisted for the Royal Blind Society Talking Book of the Year Awards.
Captain Mack
won Honour Book in the 2000 CBCA Book of the Year Awards, and
A Boat for Bridget,
met with critical acclaim and was a CBCA Notable Book. James lives with his family in the Blue Mountains, and enjoys sailing, bushwalking and performing with his band Cranky Franky.
Billy Mack's War
is his seventh book for young people.

Also by James Roy

Young Adult Fiction

Almost Wednesday
Full Moon Racing

Younger Readers

Captain Mack
A Boat for Bridget

Steampunk Series

Ichabod Hart and the Lighthouse Mystery

For my father, Don

CONTENTS

Cover Page

Author Bio

Also by James Roy

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1 – Danny

Chapter 2 – Danny

Chapter 3 – Danny

Chapter 4 – Danny

Chapter 5 – Billy

Chapter 6 – Danny

Chapter 7 – Billy

Chapter 8 – Danny

Chapter 9 – Billy

Chapter 10 – Billy

Chapter 11 – Danny

Chapter 12 – Billy

Chapter 13 – Danny

Chapter 14 – Danny

Chapter 15 – Billy

Chapter 16 – Danny

Chapter 17 – Billy

Chapter 18 – Billy

Chapter 19 – Billy

Chapter 20 – Danny

Chapter 21 – Billy

Chapter 22 – Danny

Chapter 23 – Danny

Acknowledgements

Imprint Page

Chapter 1 Danny

Danny slipped one hand into the pocket of his trousers and felt the cold smoothness of the medal resting there, heavy against his thigh. He wanted to take it out and have another look at it, one last look, but he remembered what Dad had said. A hundred thousand dollars, perhaps more, he'd said. So much money for such a little medal. So for the moment it was staying right there in his pocket, safely out of sight.

It's so typical, Danny thought, as the train ran by a big white house with a tennis court and a swimming pool. How typical that all anyone cares about is how much
money
this thing is worth. Sure, for an ugly little bronze cross on a blood-red ribbon a hundred thousand dollars did seem pretty extreme. But money was all anyone seemed to think about when they saw it. Except Mr Cullen, of course. At least
he'd
asked what Captain Mack had done to earn a Victoria Cross in the first place, but no one else seemed too concerned. To Dad it was a hundred thousand dollars, to Ellie it was a family heirloom, to Caleb it was ‘some dumb medal', and to Shaun Gilmore it was something he thought he could just take from a boy smaller than himself. Something that was worth getting expelled for, Danny thought with a faint smile of triumph.

And to William McAuliffe, Captain Mack's son, it was just ‘the medal'. He didn't seem to care one bit that his own father had personally given it to Danny as a reward for an act of bravery. He hadn't seemed to hear when Captain Mack said that he knew what he was doing, that the medal was his to give away, and that he wanted Danny to keep it. To William McAuliffe it was something that belonged in the family, end of story. And of all the things the Victoria Cross was,
that
was what now seemed most important to everyone. Dad said it had to go back, Ellie had said that the ‘right' thing to do was to return it, even Mr Cullen had reluctantly agreed — in his usual thoughtful way — that the medal probably belonged in the McAuliffe family.

Danny didn't like this conclusion, not one bit. But he'd accepted it, and now he was off to return the Cross. He rehearsed his little speech again. ‘Mr McAuliffe, I'm returning the medal that your father gave me. Dad says that it's very valuable and belongs in your family, and I know he's right. I'm sorry about helping Captain Mack escape from the nursing home. Even though I was only trying to help him, I can see now that it was a stupid thing to do. I hope I haven't made too much trouble for you.' And then he would hand over the medal, turn around and walk away. He wasn't going to ask where Captain Mack was living now, he wasn't going to ask if he could see him, he wasn't going to impose at all. ‘I think they'd be glad to just leave the whole affair right there,' Dad had said. ‘Just say what you've gone there to say, and leave in a dignified manner.'

Dignified. Danny sniffed. He hadn't felt very dignified when he'd fought Shaun for the medal in the middle of the schoolyard. He hadn't felt especially dignified when he was lying face-down on the footpath with Shaun's foot on the back of his neck. He certainly hadn't felt dignified when Ellie had helped him up with blood streaming from his broken nose. And he knew he wasn't going to feel at all dignified when he handed the Cross over to William McAuliffe and turned to walk away. But that was how it had to be. That was how it was going to be. Dad had been very clear.

The train began to slow, and Danny looked down at the approaching station. It was his stop, and he grabbed his bag and hurried down the steps to the door. As he stepped out onto the platform and into the heat of the sun, Danny unzipped his bag and took out Dad's street directory. He'd marked the page with a bookmark, on which he'd written William McAuliffe's address. It hadn't been all that hard to find — he'd found the right number with his third call — but he was still secretly hoping that the person who answered the door would be someone
other
than Captain Mack's son. A different William McAuliffe. Then he'd get to keep the medal a little longer, even if it was only for a couple of days, and he wouldn't have to recite his prepared statement just yet.

He checked the map once more before slipping the book away in his bag. Then he felt in his pocket again, just to be totally sure that the medal was still there. It was only then that he hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and started up the steps to the street.

The house Danny was heading for was only a couple of quiet streets up a slight hill from the station. He looked at the cars parked beneath the wide branches of the oak trees, which over the years had pushed their way through the pavement. There were a few of what Danny considered to be normal cars. Some of them looked like they'd been parked there for some time, with white streaks on their windscreens and dead leaves collected along their wipers. But then there were the other cars: the Jeeps and the BMWs and the Peugeots. Danny slowed a little as he passed a silver Audi convertible. He'd have to speak sternly with Dad about getting one of those, certainly by the time he was old enough to get his learner's permit.

On the street corner was a small shop and a cafe. A thin young man with spiky hair and a long black apron was wiping down tables. There were no customers.

Danny checked the street-sign and took a deep breath. Number eighteen. He looked for the house numbers. Odds on this side, so he crossed the street to the high side. A dark green four-wheel-drive cruised slowly past just after he'd crossed. The medal was getting heavier in his pocket, the sun hotter on his neck. Danny wiped his palms on his jeans as he passed number eight, number ten, number twelve. He coughed nervously. He checked his watch. Right on time, exactly when Mr McAuliffe had said he'd be home. A lawnmower droned somewhere. A cat jumped down from a tall brick gatepost and disappeared under a hedge. No people anywhere.

Number eighteen wasn't the largest house in the street, but it was still a fair size, brick with bay windows, nice garden, with a white Commodore parked in the steep driveway.

A short flight of stone steps led up to the landing at the front door. Danny walked to the door, took one more deep breath and pressed the doorbell. From somewhere far away inside the house came the sound of electronic chimes. Danny waited. He waited some more. He was just thinking about pressing the button again when he heard footsteps. Through the leadlight panel in the door he saw a tall shadow, and he swallowed hard as the latch rattled.

The door swung open. William McAuliffe was taller than he'd remembered, and older. He frowned down at Danny. ‘Daniel, is it? Or should I say, Private Snell?'

Danny said nothing.

‘So, you've got something for me?' Mr McAuliffe's face was expressionless as he held out his hand, and Danny let go of any hopes that he might be invited inside.

‘Mr McAuliffe,' Danny began, but his voice cracked and came out sounding like a girl's. He cleared his throat, pushed his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose and started again. ‘Mr McAuliffe, I've got something for you.'

Mr McAuliffe blinked twice, like he'd just met a complete idiot and was humouring him. He said nothing.

‘Um, I'll just get it for you, then.' Danny slipped his bag from his shoulder and sat it by his feet. Then he plunged his right hand deep into his pocket for the medal. He winced as part of the clasp on the ribbon drove straight under his fingernail, but he wasn't going to make any kind of sound. Not now, not in front of this tall frowning man filling the doorway. ‘It's just here in my pocket.'

‘The VC isin your
pocket,'
Mr McAuliffe repeated. He wasn't telling Danny where it was, he wasn't even asking. He was simply
saying
it, as if he couldn't actually believe that someone would just walk around with a hundred-thousand-dollar medal in their pocket.

‘I thought it was safer there,' Danny mumbled. ‘Nice and close.' He handed the Cross to Mr McAuliffe, who turned it over in his hand a couple of times, making sure it was in one piece.

‘Good. Well, then, no harm done.'

Someone called from within the house, and Mr McAuliffe held up one hand to Danny. ‘I'll be there in just a minute, love,' he called. His attention returned to Danny, but all he was doing was looking at him blankly. ‘That's that then. Goodbye,' he said at last, and he began to close the door.

‘I'm really sorry,' Danny blurted out.

The door stopped closing. Mr McAuliffe regarded Danny thoughtfully. ‘All right,' he said at last. ‘Thank you.'

‘I didn't mean to cause any trouble.'

‘I know.' Maybe Mr McAuliffe's face had softened a tiny bit — it was hard to tell. ‘Thanks for bringing it back. Excuse me, my wife needs me … She's got a … Goodbye.' He began to close the door again.

‘Where is he now?'

The door stopped, then opened once more. Mr McAuliffe seemed even taller this time, and he took a step out onto the landing. Danny tried to swallow, but there was no spit in his throat, just an awful, rasping dryness.

‘You've got some nerve, you know, youngster.' Mr McAuliffe smiled and shook his head. It wasn't a friendly smile, quite the opposite. ‘You've got some nerve asking where my father is now, after … after all that escape nonsense. Did you really think I'd tell you?'

‘No, I guess not,' Danny said quietly, all the while cursing himself for even asking. ‘I'm sorry. I'll go.'

‘After everything that happened you want me to tell you where he is? After I had to move him
again
because …' He stopped, shook his head. ‘He's being cared for, properly this time, and that's all you need to know.'

‘Okay. That's good,' Danny replied. ‘Um, could you say hi to him from me?'

‘I'll let him know you called. Goodbye.'

‘Bye,' Danny said, turning and hurrying down the steps to the driveway. Slow down, be more dignified, he reminded himself crossly. Don't scurry away like a scolded dog.

‘You might want your bag.' Danny turned. Mr McAuliffe was standing at the top of the steps holding the school bag out like a dirty nappy, and Danny knew he was going to have to go back up there and get it.

As he reached out for the bag Mr McAuliffe withdrew it, just slightly. ‘I'll ask you just once more to stay away from my father. He's very old and rather frail, and he's had enough adventures in his life.
More
than enough. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, sir,' Danny replied, dropping his eyes. ‘I understand.'

‘Thank you.' Finally the bag was handed over. ‘Take care,' Mr McAuliffe said, before turning and going inside, closing the door with a solid click. And then, just like that, Danny was alone again, looking across the quiet leafy street, across the red tiled roofs, across the oak trees to the harbour and the city beyond.