Maralinga (24 page)

Two days after the Marcoo test, patrol officers made a grisly discovery.

‘Stop the truck, Charlie. I just saw something.'

Private Charlie Waite did as he was told, although he was surprised Sam had been keeping a lookout at all. They were only five miles south-east of the bomb site, halfway between ground zero and Roadside. There'd be no Aborigines in this area.

He brought the truck to a halt and took the field glasses Sam handed him.

‘Over there, in the shade.' Corporal Sam Farrington pointed to a grove of mulga trees. ‘Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I'm seeing things.'

Charlie peered through the field glasses. ‘Oh, no,' he said in his thick Yorkshire brogue, and from the way he said it, Sam knew that he hadn't been seeing things.

They drove over to where the woman sat holding her two dead children to her chest. Propped up against a
tree trunk as she was, she could have appeared alive, if it weren't for the flies and the ants that had gathered. The man was curled up on the ground beside them, and all four were covered in red blotches where they'd scratched away their own skin.

‘They've been contaminated,' Sam said. ‘Better not touch them.'

Charlie was thankful for the suggestion. He hadn't relished the prospect of loading the bodies into the truck.

‘Poor bastards,' he said.

‘Yeah.' Sam contemplated the bodies thoughtfully. ‘They don't look as if they've been dead for very long, do they?'

‘No, they don't. Poor bastards.'

They gazed for a moment or so longer, and then Sam contacted headquarters on the truck radio.

‘A special team's being sent,' he told Charlie. ‘We're to stay here and accompany them back to the DC/RB area.'

‘Right.'

Charlie averted his eyes from the bodies, he found them disturbing. The little girl was only around five or six, not much younger than his own baby sister. Charlie loved kids – he was eighteen years old and the eldest of five siblings.

Sam radioed through to Pete Mitchell's patrol truck. The news was greeted with a deathly silence at first. Then Pete's voice returned, briskly demanding their location. He arrived on the scene a half an hour later, only minutes before the decontamination team, although he'd travelled a far greater distance.

Sergeant Benjamin Roscoe, the young patrol officer
with him, climbed out of the truck's cabin thankful they'd arrived in one piece. Pete had driven like a man possessed. He seemed calm enough though, Benjamin thought. In fact, given the circumstances, Pete Mitchell's calmness was just a little alarming.

‘Well, this hardly comes as a surprise, does it?'

Pete acknowledged Charlie and Sam with a brief nod, and the three young soldiers stood respectfully to one side as he knelt before the bodies. He found the sight sickening, but he didn't allow it to show.

‘Poor bastards,' Charlie muttered. He seemed incapable of saying anything else.

Poor bastards indeed, Pete thought.

‘They must have walked right through the contaminated area,' Sam said. ‘Why would they do that? Where were they heading?'

‘They were heading for Ooldea and water,' Pete replied brusquely.

The signs of dehydration were obvious as he studied the caked mouths and cracked lips, but he was mystified nonetheless. Desert people rarely died of thirst. Desert people knew the secret water sources and could survive where all others would perish. Was thirst another symptom of irradiation, or had they simply lost the ability to think rationally, he wondered. Whichever was the case, judging by the self-inflicted wounds, there had been torment before death.

To Pete, the position of the bodies told a poignant story. Regardless of their torment, the man and the woman had clearly accepted the inevitability of death. It was obvious the children had died first, as would be expected. The woman had then cradled
them in her arms. The man had curled up on the ground beside her. And together they had waited.

He stood as, behind them, a Bedford truck from the DC/RB area pulled up and four officers of the indoctrination force alighted. They were dressed in protective clothing.

‘Keep clear, please, sir,' one of them said. His tone was not overly officious – he knew who Pete was – but it was, nevertheless, an order. Pete backed away – a couple of paces only, but it seemed to suffice.

Two of the officers started lifting lead-lined boxes from the back of the truck, while the other two took Geiger counter readings of the bodies. The radiation levels, as expected, were extraordinarily high.

‘Looks to me as if they've been in the crater,' one of the officers said to Pete. ‘There's bomb glaze residue on their skin.'

Of course, Pete thought. The Marcoo device had been detonated at ground-level and had produced a large crater, which must have attracted the family. Why shouldn't it? A big, warm hole in the ground was a perfect camp site on a chilly desert night.

He watched as the bodies of the man and the woman were loaded into two separate lead-lined boxes. The boxes were suspiciously coffin-like in appearance, he thought, as though they had been designed for this very purpose. The children shared a box between them.

The orders were for all to report to the DC/RB area, where there would be a briefing, and the three trucks set off in a convoy, the Bedford in the lead.

Like a funeral procession, Pete thought, his eyes on the coffins in the back of the Bedford. He felt hollow,
devoid of emotion. He had known this would happen, it had been just a matter of time. His mixture of helplessness and guilt was overridden by a sense of utter defeat.

 

Nick Stratton left headquarters not at all relishing the prospect of carrying out his British commanding officer's orders. But orders were orders, and, distasteful though the task might be, the decision was the right one. There really was no alternative course of action to be taken, he thought as he climbed into the Land Rover and started up the engine. He just wished he wasn't the one who had to spell it out to the men.

 

The lead-lined boxes were taken directly to one of the principal laboratories in the DC/RB area, where the chief liaison officer, Colonel Nick Stratton, was already waiting. Upon their arrival, the four officers of the indoctrination force were ordered to report to the nearby decontamination unit where they would be divested of their protective clothing, Colonel Stratton instructing them to say nothing of the incident during the procedure. Pete Mitchell and the three general servicemen were to remain in the laboratory until the officers' return, after which the briefing would commence.

Charlie, Sam and Benjamin looked about the laboratory with great interest. They'd never even been through the gates of the DC/RB area, let alone inside a laboratory. So this was where it all happened, each was thinking. This was what Maralinga was all about. Was this where they made the bombs?

Pete wasn't interested in the laboratory. He was too busy staring at the lead-lined coffins. What are they going to do with you, he wondered. Shove you into a pit along with the other radioactive materials? Probably. Sorry, but there's not much I can do about that. Christ, he was fed up with the whole thing – he wanted to just turn his back and walk away. But somehow he couldn't. He remained staring mindlessly at the coffins. Charlie's right, he thought.
You poor bastards.
There was nothing more one could say, really, was there? You poor bastards – you didn't ask for any of this.

He snapped out of his reverie as the officers returned and Nick Stratton took the floor.

The seven soldiers were instructed to stand at ease, and did so in military fashion, legs astride, hands clasped behind backs, which made Pete all the more conspicuous as he perched a buttock on the granite-topped bench in the corner. He intended no personal disrespect to Nick Stratton, who was only doing his job and carrying out orders, but Pete had a distinct feeling he knew which way the briefing would go. The army's bound to want to cover this up, he thought. There'll be a whole heap of bullshit, and then we'll be reminded about the oath of bloody silence, I'll bet.

‘This tragic incident is deeply regretted by both the British and Australian armies and all those involved with the Maralinga project,' Nick said.

Yeah, yeah, get on with it, Pete thought.

Nick did. ‘However,' he continued, ‘I must remind you of the oath of silence you have all sworn.'

Well, he hadn't beaten about the bush. Pithy and to the point, you had to give the bloke that much. It was
typical of Nick Stratton, Pete thought with begrudging respect.

‘You are bound, every one of you,' Nick's eyes swept the room, making contact with each man in turn, ‘to abide by the Official Secrets Act at all times.' His eyes met Pete's, retaining contact for a second or so longer, as if saying,
That means you too, Pete.
Then he continued. ‘You men are, therefore, ordered to maintain silence on all you have witnessed with regard to the Aboriginal deaths, regrettable though they are.'

There was a slight snort of derision from the granite-topped bench in the corner, which Nick ignored.

‘And it is my duty to warn you,' he said sternly, ‘that any man who disobeys this order will be instantly court-martialled.'

The announcement surprised even Pete. Pretty radical, he thought.

‘The violation of the Official Secrets Act is a treasonable offence, as I'm sure you're all aware,' Nick continued. ‘Just as I am sure you are also aware that those found guilty of treason can face thirty years' imprisonment or the firing squad.'

Pete glanced at the soldiers for their reaction. They were stunned, all seven of them. The four officers remained eyes front, but he could see they were shocked. Young Charlie, Sam and Benjamin were openly exchanging gawks of amazement.

Nick had expected such a reaction. ‘Put the fear of God in them,' the brigadier had instructed. ‘If the press gets wind of this, we're in serious trouble.' Irksome though Nick found the task, he couldn't argue with
the reasoning. They could not afford a public outcry, and fear was certainly a way to keep men in line. He'd wondered whether he should sweeten the pill and give reasons for so dire a threat, but he had decided against it. An order was an order, after all.

‘Under no circumstances must the Maralinga project be threatened,' he concluded. That would have to do, he thought. ‘Thank you for your attention, gentlemen.'

The briefing at an end, he opened the door. ‘You can have your laboratory back now, Dr Crowley,' he said to the white-coated scientist who stepped inside. ‘Thank you for your patience.'

‘My pleasure, Colonel.'

Nick stood beside the door as the men filed out.

Pete remained where he was. Crowley, he thought. He remembered the man. He'd met him a week or so ago, when he'd been called into the DC/RB area to communicate with the Aboriginal family who'd undergone decontamination treatment. Dr Melvyn Crowley – that was his name. He was the chief pathologist.

‘You too, Pete,' Nick said. The last of the men was leaving the room, but Pete Mitchell hadn't moved a muscle.

Melvyn Crowley would be responsible for dissecting the animals exposed to radiation, Pete thought, and he looked around the laboratory, taking in the scene for the first time. This was a pathology unit. The very granite-topped bench he was perched on was designed for the specific purpose of dissecting corpses.

He stood, but made no move for the door. There were only three of them left in the room now. He
looked at Melvyn Crowley, but Crowley didn't look back. Crowley had eyes for nothing but the coffins. And he was positively drooling.

‘After you, Pete,' Nick said firmly.

‘Shit!'

The expletive was enough to distract Melvyn Crowley's attention from the coffins, and, as he looked at Pete, the excitement in his eyes was readable.

You perverted little creep, Pete thought, you just can't wait to get started, can you.

‘I said time to go.' Nick's patience was running out. This was an order now.

Pete looked from one to the other. Melvyn Crowley, his glasses steaming up in ghoulish anticipation, and Nick Stratton, so steeped in military protocol his vision was blinkered.

‘You can get fucked, the lot of you,' he snarled, and he stormed from the laboratory.

 

That night in the officers' mess, Pete Mitchell was noticeably drunk. It was quite early in the evening, but he'd downed several hefty whiskies back at the donga and was now pouring beer on top. Daniel, sensing something was wrong, tried to join him, but Pete waved his cigarette in a gesture of dismissal – he wasn't interested in the company of others. Others weren't interested in the company of Pete either – he could be a morose bastard when he was on the drink, it was agreed, so they left him alone at his table in the corner.

Nick Stratton felt sorry for the man as he watched from across the other side of the mess. Pete Mitchell was taking the deaths of the Aboriginal family
very much to heart. It was understandable – he no doubt held himself responsible in some way, but he shouldn't. There was nothing he could have done. In any event, drinking himself into oblivion wasn't going to solve the problem. Nick downed his beer and crossed to the table. Pete glared as he sat, but he didn't wave Nick away as he had Daniel.

‘Why don't you take yourself off to bed, Pete,' Nick said quietly. ‘There's no point in agonising over something beyond your control.' Pete dragged heavily on his cigarette and continued his baleful glare. ‘It was an accident that shouldn't have happened, but you couldn't have prevented it. It's not your fault.'

‘You're just like all the rest, aren't you, Nick? You think because they're black, they're expendable.'

Damn, Nick thought, he shouldn't have come over to the table. He should have stayed where he was and kept his mouth shut.