Moonlight Plains (5 page)

Moonlight Plains, 1942

Kitty had just lugged the late-afternoon milk pail up the stairs and into the kitchen when she heard the low drone of aeroplanes.

She was used to the sound of Allied planes flying high up, but these were coming her way, and they were so low and menacing she was sure they
had
to be Japs. She froze, her heart thrashing like the pistons on a locomotive. The war wasn’t supposed to reach her all the way out here.

For six weeks now, she’d been at Moonlight Plains, her recently widowed great-uncle’s property west of Charters Towers. She’d been keeping his house, cooking his meals, weeding his vegetables and milking his two dairy cows, such very different work from her old job on the haberdashery counter at Carroll’s in Townsville.

Her grandfather had supposedly sent her here to keep her out of harm’s way, but they both knew it was her punishment. Admittedly her ruddy-faced, stout and elderly great-uncle needed Kitty’s help. He’d let everything go since his wife died last year.

Aunt Lil’s beautiful garden had quickly deteriorated over the long hot summer and the lovely old house had all but disappeared beneath layers of dust. The only thing her great-uncle seemed to care about was his cattle. But although there was plenty to keep Kitty busy, and she knew Uncle Jim valued her help, she still felt like a prisoner, banished into the never-never.

If she was still in Townsville, she could be helping the war effort. Women were needed for all sorts of work, now that the men were away.

She threw a frantic glance to the timber-framed casement windows, but they were covered in brown paper, her great-uncle’s version of blackout curtains, so she couldn’t see a thing outside – not a hint of sky, or gum trees, or paddocks.

Shaking, she put the milk pail down. It spilled, but that hardly mattered if these were Jap planes and she was about to die.

A loud snarl of engines almost overhead sent her diving beneath the kitchen table. She was sure her world was going to end. The very last sound she would hear was the deafening explosion of a Japanese bomb as it plunged through the homestead’s iron roof.

She tried to pray.
Our Father, who art in heaven . . . Gentle Jesus . . . Thy rod and staff shall comfort me . . .

It was no good; her mind kept slipping from the task. Despite her grandfather’s best efforts, she’d never been very good at prayers and now she was going to die like all those poor people in Darwin. At least those people had been together.

Kitty felt very alone as she cowered beneath the table. Uncle Jim had left two days earlier, after an official order came through to de-stock. For once, he’d agreed with the government. He’d be damned if he’d let the Japs get their stinking hands on his prime Hereford beef, so he was driving his cattle to the saleyards.

Now the noisy thumping of Kitty’s heart was almost as loud as the roar of the aircraft. She cringed, tense as a shotgun trigger, chin tucked, eyes closed, arms tightly locked around her knees.

The lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures . . .

Above her, a droning engine hiccupped, and she heard a sickening whine. A hair-raising screech of ripping metal. And –

Crrrump!

The shocking, thudding crash was so close that the homestead’s walls and windows rattled.

Hands clamped over her ears, Kitty braced for the final explosion. The end of her world.

She tried to remember the rest of the psalm.
He leadeth me beside the still waters.

Not daring to breathe, she waited.

And waited.

Eventually she had to breathe and when she took her hands from her ears, she heard . . . 
nothing
 . . .

Not a sound. Not even a distant thrum of additional planes. The bush had returned to its everyday, comforting silence.

Cautiously incredulous, Kitty uncurled. She’d been in a tight ball for so long that her stomach muscles and her knees complained as she eased out from beneath the table and tiptoed to the window, pushing it open to peer into the purple-grey dusk.

She half-expected to see flames, but the paddocks and the bush looked much as they always had. She pushed the casement as wide open as she could and leaned out. A fine mist of rain drizzled onto her face. It had been raining on and off for days and she smelled wet earth, wet grass, wet eucalyptus leaves. She smelled the sweet scent of the mock orange bushes growing in tubs on either side of the stairs and the lilies that had grown from bulbs sent out from Scotland by Aunty Lil’s family. Right until she’d died, Aunty Lil had kept them alive with water from the washing copper.

There was no sign of a plane. But Kitty knew that a plane had crashed out there, somewhere on Moonlight Plains land . . . which meant . . .

Oh, help
. It meant the enemy was out there. A pilot, at least, and probably crew. Japanese airmen, who might be dead, or injured, or worse –
alive
.

Enemy invaders, living and breathing or mildly injured, could, at this very moment, be creeping towards the homestead.

Night was closing in.

And Kitty was alone.

At the thought of those menacing, evil shadows creeping towards her, she threw a hasty glance at her great-uncle’s shotgun hanging on the wall. Her stomach lurched at the thought of using it, but she might not have a choice.

Then, with something of a shock, a new thought struck.
Could they be our planes?

Could an Australian pilot have crashed?

It was such a comforting idea that she felt a burst of courage and she pictured herself rushing out into the rainy evening and rescuing brave Australian airmen.

But her bravado vanished almost as quickly as it flared. It was much more likely that the airmen were Japs, and she’d heard shocking, terrifying stories about what they did, especially to women.

Now, fear – real, scalding fear – exploded in her chest. A moan burst from her, and she gulped it down as she struggled with her conscience.

The appalling thing was, she had no choice but to go out there. She would never forgive herself if good Aussie men died, or lay in the rain in agony, simply because she was a coward. If there was a tiny chance that the airmen were Australian, she really should go.

Oh, help
. She wasn’t brave enough, was she? Her instinct was to dive back under the table and stay there. But cowering in the house and letting the Japs find her was possibly even more dangerous. She would have a better chance of hiding in the bush.

With that thought, Kitty felt a new sense of purpose, a realisation that this was her chance to show her mettle, to prove to herself and to her grandfather that she wasn’t the weak, spineless girl he believed her to be. After all, there was no hiding from this war, and when the time came, everyone had to be brave. Now it was her turn. She had to find out who she was dealing with, and if it was Japs she’d have to head for the bush and just keep going, even if it took days. That was what her great-uncle would do.

She would take a lantern, but she wouldn’t light it yet. She didn’t want to give herself away.

I’ll have to take the shotgun, too.

Nervously, she lifted the weapon from the wall. Just the feel of the gun’s smooth timber stock and cold metal barrel brought back the fiasco of two weeks ago, when Uncle Jim had insisted on showing her how to shoot.

‘There’ll be times when you’re here on your own,’ he’d said. ‘And you might find a brown snake in the dairy, or a damned dingo sneaking after the chooks. You can’t just throw a stick at them, lass. You have to know how to shoot.’

But Kitty had been a terrible shot and the horrible bruising recoil and deafening noise had terrified her. She’d been in tears afterwards.

There was no time for tears now, though, as she took cartridges from a drawer in the kitchen dresser, then opened the breach and loaded the gun.

That done, she pulled a heavy, brown potato sack from a hook near the door and slipped one corner over her head to make a rain hood. It was scratchy and damp and smelled musty, but beggars couldn’t be choosers and it would keep most of the rain off.

Carrying the shotgun and unlit lantern, she opened the back door and went cautiously down the wooden steps, glad there was still enough light for her to see her way.

At a guess, the plane was somewhere just beyond the home paddock. Diagonal streaks of rain slanted through the slim white trunks of gum trees, and their drooping leaves were silhouetted against a gun-metal sky. This paddock hadn’t been grazed for weeks and the sodden, knee-high grass dragged at her trousers as she followed a barbwire fence till she came to the gate leading to the next paddock.

Heart thumping, she stopped, and with the shotgun under her arm, fumbled with the gate’s wire fastening. A shout sounded close by and her heart leapt so high she almost dropped the gun.

Should she answer? Or should she hide?

There was no time to waste and she tried to think calmly. Would a stalking enemy call out?

Surely not. Gripping the shotgun more resolutely, she pushed the gate open. The hinges creaked alarmingly and her heart threatened to burst clear through her ribcage.

Carefully, fearfully, she crept forward. It was almost dark now, but ahead loomed the unmistakable shape of a silver-grey plane at an awkward angle. It didn’t look too badly damaged, but its nose had ploughed into the earth and its tail was in the air.

Kitty prayed. She prayed especially that it wasn’t a Jap plane. She’d seen photos of their fighter planes in the newspapers and she knew they had the red circle of the rising sun on their sides. This plane had a clear white star.

Not Japanese.

Thank you, God.

Almost giddy with relief, Kitty hurried forward. ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Is anyone there?’

A dark figure emerged from the grove of trees behind the plane, and a deep voice answered in an accent Kitty recognised from countless movies.

‘Quick, over here. I need some help, buddy.’

An American.

Oh, my goodness.

Now that she knew she was safe, Kitty quickly lit the lantern and lifted it high. The man was tall and dressed in a dark leather flying jacket. A flying helmet and goggles dangled from his left hand and he was loosening the knot of a white silk scarf at his neck.

She had never actually met an American before and she could feel her mouth gaping.

She caught the keen glance in his dark eyes and the silky gleam of his jet-black hair, not yet flattened by the drizzling rain. He didn’t merely sound like a hero in an American movie, he had the handsome looks of a film star too. He was, as her girlfriends would say,
a real dish
.

But this was no time for girlish flutters. It wasn’t even a time for introductions.

‘I’m glad you’ve brought a lantern,’ he said in a brisk, no-nonsense voice. ‘I’ve been trying to find my buddy. He ditched close by here.’

‘I heard a crash.’

‘Yeah. He could be injured.’

Without another word, the American dived back into the trees and Kitty plunged after him, doing her best to dodge saplings while she held the lantern high.

‘He’s over this way somewhere,’ the American said. ‘He didn’t make it to the open field, and I think his wing might have clipped a tree. We were losing daylight fast. Lift that light a little higher, will you?’

This man was clearly used to giving orders and being instantly obeyed. Lifting the lantern as instructed, Kitty pushed the potato sack back from her face so she could see better.

The airman stopped in his tracks, staring at her, his gaze taking in her trousers, her gun. His dark eyes widened with surprise and then dismay.

‘What’s the matter?’ Kitty asked.

‘You’re a girl?’

He seemed so stunned she almost giggled. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I am.’

To his credit, he recovered quickly. ‘Forgive me, madam. I thought you were a boy. No offence.’

‘None taken.’

He slanted an approving smile her way and as his gaze rested on her for a moment longer, she had the distinct impression that under other circumstances he might have said something charming, even flirtatious.

Instead he said, ‘Where are your menfolk?’

‘I – er – they’re away.’

Kitty wondered what her grandfather would think if he could see her now. After her reckless behaviour with Andy Mathieson she’d been banished from Townsville to be kept clear of American servicemen.

Now, despite her grandfather’s efforts, the Americans had arrived on her doorstep. Seemed there was no avoiding them.

The pilot held out his hand. ‘The name’s Ed Langley. United States Army Air Force.’

His hand was warm and strong as he gripped Kitty’s.

‘Pleased to meet you, Captain Langley.’

‘Please, call me Ed.’

‘All right. I’m Kitty Martin.’

‘I’m in your debt, Miss Martin.’

It was her turn to smile. ‘Please . . . call me Kitty.’

Momentary warmth glowed in his dark-brown eyes before he remembered his mission and hurried forward again.

‘Are we anywhere near Townsville?’ Ed shot the question over his shoulder.

‘Not really. You’re about eighty miles to the west.’

He made a low sound that might have been a curse. Just then, in the darkness ahead of them, Kitty’s lantern caught another gleam of metal.

The second plane was spreadeagled on its stomach in the middle of a small clearing. It had lost a wing and it looked defeated, like a slain silvery monster.

The sight of it made her throat sore.

‘Keep the lantern back, well out of the way,’ Ed warned.’

Kitty smelled the pungent odour of petrol, and she set the lantern down, but followed at a careful distance as Ed continued forward.

In no time, he was wrestling with the metal door above the gaping hole where the wing had been.

‘Is there any way I can help?’

‘This goddamned cockpit hatch is stuck. Bobby should have ejected it,’ he grunted. ‘I’ll need something to lever it open.’

‘A piece of timber? Like a tree branch?’