Pacific Read online

  Critical acclaim for Pacific:

  ‘A blockbuster in every sense of the word’

  Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘A fabulous read’

  Woman’s Day

  ‘Pacific is a perfect book for readers who like a well-written, historically interesting blockbuster’

  Australian Bookseller & Publisher

  ‘One of Nunn’s best’

  Newcastle Herald

  ‘A rattling good yarn of secrets and passions’

  Australian Women’s Weekly

  ‘An enjoyable big read’

  Pittwater Life

  ‘Pacific is sure to satisfy Nunn’s big readership’

  West Australian

  ‘This thoroughly enjoyable novel moves effortlessly between past and present, building layer upon layer of characterisation and plot’

  Good Reading

  ‘A big, compelling read’

  Sunday Times (Perth)

  ‘A well-researched and heartwarming novel’

  The Advocate

  ‘A masterful interweaving of the lives of two passionate women and two worlds … Epic’

  Border Mail

  ‘A powerful novel of love and revenge set in a Pacific paradise’

  Illawarra Mercury

  From stage actor and international television star to blockbuster best-selling author, Judy Nunn’s career has been meteoric.

  Her first forays into adult fiction resulted in what she describes as her ‘entertainment set’. The Glitter Game, Centre Stage and Araluen, three novels set in the worlds of television, theatre and film respectively, each became instant bestsellers.

  Next came her ‘city set’: Kal, a fiercely passionate novel about men and mining set in Kalgoorlie; Beneath the Southern Cross, a mammoth achievement chronicling the story of Sydney since first European settlement; and Territory, a tale of love, family and retribution set in Darwin.

  Territory, together with Judy’s next novel, Pacific, a dual story set principally in Vanuatu, placed her firmly in Australia’s top-ten bestseller list. Her following works, Heritage, set in the Snowies during the 1950s, Floodtide, based in her home state of Western Australia, and Maralinga, have consolidated her position as one of the country’s leading fiction writers. Her eagerly awaited new novel, Tiger Men, will publish in November 2011.

  Judy Nunn’s fame as a novelist is spreading rapidly. Her books are now published throughout Europe in English, German, French, Dutch and Czech.

  Judy lives with her husband, actor-author Bruce Venables, on the Central Coast of New South Wales.

  By the same author

  The Glitter Game

  Centre Stage

  Araluen

  Kal

  Territory

  Beneath the Southern Cross

  Heritage

  Floodtide

  Maralinga

  Tiger Men

  Children’s fiction

  Eye in the Storm

  Eye in the City

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Pacific

  9781864714951

  An Arrow book

  Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060

  www.randomhouse.com.au

  First published by Random House Australia 2004

  This Arrow edition published 2005, 2007, 2011

  Copyright © Judy Nunn 2004

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.

  Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at

  www.randomhouse.com.au/offices

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

  Nunn, Judy.

  Pacific/Judy Nunn.

  ISBN 978 1 86471 252 0 (pbk.)

  Motion picture actors and actresses – Fiction.

  World War, 1939–1945 – Campaigns – Pacific Area – Fiction.

  Nurses – Fiction.

  A823.3

  To the next generation,

  Brett and Nathan,

  Sam and Cory.

  Love to you and your families … and

  to those who will follow.

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise

  By the same author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Imprint Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Book One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Book Two

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Book Three

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Book Four

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Bonus Chapter Sampler

  Random House

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My thanks, first and foremost, to my husband Bruce Venables. Brucie, you are a true gem.

  Thank you also to the pals and workmates: my agent James Laurie; my publisher Jane Palfreyman; my editor Kim Swivel; all at Random House Australia; and as always, Robyn Gurney, Colin Julin and Dr Grahame Hookway.

  For the provision of ‘author’s retreats’, many thanks Suzie and Grahame for ‘the writer’s room’, and Rob and Dee for ‘the cabana’.

  And for assistance in the research of this book my sincerest thanks to the following:

  In Fareham: Maralyn of the Tourist Information Centre at Westbury Manor Museum, all those at Bembridge House, Ferneham Hall.

  In Vanuatu: Roz Rose, Tony Young, Gerry and Jan Smelik of Tamanu Beach Resort, Matthew Erceg of Sea Air Limited, Paul and Helene Gibson, Pat Bochenska and Gillian Mitride.

  In Sydney: Suzie Clark of Fox Studios, Gillian Simpson of the Australian National Maritime Museum, and Nick Truswell and his helpful staff at the Quay Grand Hotel.

  Amongst my many research sources, I would like particularly to recognise the following: Reece Discombe, historical papers, Vanuatu Library, Port Vila, 1979.

  Lt Colonel Ritchie Garrison, USA (Ret), Task Force 9156 and III Island Command, 1983.

  Irving and Electra Johnson, ‘Yankee Roams the Orient’, National Geographic (March 1951).

  Richard Shears, The Coconut War, Cassell Australia Limited, 1980.

  Colonial History of Vanuatu, www.vanuatutourism.com.

 
PROLOGUE

  The elements were peaceful. A cloudless sky, a gentle breeze, an unruffled sea. It should have been a perfect summer morning. And the beach should have been inviting. Terrace houses, some five storeys high, fronted onto the broad expanse of sand, a pretty setting, echoing past holiday-makers’ delight. But it was no holiday haven today.

  Today black smoke dimmed the sun, and the sea and sky merged to a murky grey as layer upon layer of German aircraft swooped from high to unleash their 1,000-pound bombs on the English destroyers. The elements were peaceful, but mankind was bent on death and destruction.

  Martin Thackeray lay on the deck, clinging to the gunwales of the small wooden fishing boat as the Stukas roared overhead. The boat had pulled out to sea and was in the midst of the havoc being wreaked upon the British warships. He looked back at the shore barely a mile away, at the beach and the houses. He thought of Margate where his family used to holiday annually when he was a child and he tried to blot out the smoke and the exploding shells and the bodies bobbing about in the oil-blackened sea. He concentrated on the beach and the houses. It could have been Margate, he thought. And the long V-formation of soldiers marching down to the shore could have been holiday-makers. He clung to the thought as rigidly as he clung to the gunwales, fearful of losing consciousness, for the loss of consciousness meant the loss of his life. Why did death frighten him so? he wondered. He’d seen many men die. Now it was his time. He must accept it. But somehow he couldn’t. Guilt mingled with his pain. Had he lost his faith? Why was he so fearful of meeting his Maker? He chastised himself, urged himself to make his peace with God, accept his fate, but even as he did so he couldn’t resist the need to fight back. The pain once again engulfed him and, desperately, he thought of Margate and his childhood. Stay alive, his mind urged, stay alive.

  Despite the chaos which reigned, there was little panic amongst the troops. Thousands waited patiently on the beach for their turn to march crocodile-style into the sea. Like well-behaved schoolchildren they waded, some up to their necks, rifles held high above their heads, to the flotilla of craft waiting to take them home. In the skies overhead dogfights raged as RAF fighters engaged the Luftwaffe, but still the soldiers kept their orderly files until, one by one, two by two, they were hauled aboard vessels where they collapsed, exhausted, on the deck.

  Martin had been unable to wade beyond waist-deep. He would not have been able to make it that far had it not been for the man who had saved him.

  The humiliation of the British Expeditionary Force had been total, and the troops had retreated as far as they could when orders had been received to assemble on the beach. Few believed the rumours of a rescue mission. They’d be stranded if they went to the beach, they thought. Slaughtered or taken prisoner. But orders were orders and thousands upon thousands of soldiers scrambled through the bombed-out villages to head for the open and vulnerable shoreline.

  Martin Thackeray and twenty others of his unit had been trapped in a ruined church as the enemy advance troops entered the deserted village. They’d left it too late to make their escape. They opened fire. The enemy took cover and skirmishing had continued throughout the entire day and into the night as the Germans tried to ascertain the Allied numbers remaining in the village. Fresh enemy troops arrived and dug in for the morning when they’d storm the church and surrounding buildings.

  It was just before dawn when the men had made their escape bid, but they were lambs to the slaughter, mercilessly mown down by the surrounding forces which awaited them. Only Martin and young Tom Putney had emerged unscathed, eventually making it to the coastline a full day later.

  ‘Christ almighty!’ Tom had muttered in his thick Cockney accent as they’d ducked through a narrow street which led to the sea. ‘Jus’ look at that!’

  ‘Don’t blaspheme.’ Martin’s reply had been automatic. Tom’s blaspheming and his own remonstration had been a running joke between them for months, but he too had stood dumbfounded at the sight of the myriad vessels churning through the water. There must be hundreds, he’d thought. Too many to count, and of every description. There were troopships and mine sweepers, cruisers and yachts, pleasure craft and fishing boats, and others, little more than dinghies. And on the beach sat thousands of men, patiently waiting their turn for deliverance. Some had been waiting for days.

  ‘I wasn’t blasphemin’, Marty,’ Tom had said, ‘I was givin’ thanks.’ Even in the direst of circumstances Tom was always good for a joke, but this time he wasn’t joking at all. ‘It’s a bleedin’ miracle, it is. A bleedin’ –’

  He’d stopped mid-sentence as the building beside them erupted. A shell had found its mark. But they were out of the battle zone, Martin had thought vaguely as the force of the blast lifted him bodily into the air.

  When he had come to his senses, seconds or hours later, he couldn’t tell, he had realised that the shell had not been fired from the battle zone. The Stukas overhead were determined to halt the escape mission.

  Yet more troops were pouring down the narrow street making for the shore, climbing over the rubble of the building, tripping over the body of Tom buried waist-deep in debris.

  ‘Tom!’ Martin had dragged himself over to his friend, a searing pain in his left leg and chest. There was a ringing in his ears and his vision was blurred, but he knew Tom was dead. Tom Putney had been barely twenty, ten years younger than Martin. Too young to die.

  ‘Our Father,’ Martin had begun as he crossed Tom’s hands over his chest, ‘who art …’ Then suddenly he was grabbed by the wrist and hauled to his knees, the pain screaming through his body.

  ‘Don’t waste your breath, boyo.’

  ‘Our Father who art in heaven …’ Martin had protested, as much for himself as for Tom.

  ‘Come on!’ Emlyn Gruffudd had urged. Jesus Christ! He was as religious as the next man, but what was the point in saying prayers for a bloke who had half his head blown off! And at a time like this! ‘Come on,’ he’d repeated, hoisting Martin to his feet. ‘You can make it.’

  Martin had found himself half carried, half dragged to the beach. He had no idea who the man was but, as his sight cleared, he knew that he was not from his unit. He had tried to thank the man but waves of pain had engulfed him and the words wouldn’t come out.

  ‘Don’t you worry, boyo,’ Emlyn had muttered, ‘you’ll make it.’

  The ringing in Martin’s ears blocked out any sound. Once again he’d tried to voice his thanks and his lips formed the words, but nothing came out, not even a whisper.

  The wounded were the first to be shepherded into the queue making its way to the water and Emlyn Gruffudd thanked his lucky stars that he’d rescued the Englishman. He might have been waiting his turn with the others for days if he hadn’t. It had not been his intention to jump the queue, but when the opportunity had offered itself he didn’t say no. He hoisted Martin higher up on to his hip, ignoring the groans of agony. Perhaps the poor lad was already dying, he’d thought, as he started to wade.

  Only minutes later they were picked up by one of the lighter craft which had negotiated its way into shallower water.

  ‘Ten’s the limit, room for two more,’ the skipper of the small fishing boat had said and he and his young crewman, a lad barely out of his teens, had helped them aboard. There was no disorderliness from the other troops in the water. The men simply waded out further or waited their turn in the shallows, aiding the wounded.

  ‘That’s it, Billy-boy,’ the skipper had said to the lad, ‘we’ve got our load of pongos, we’re off.’

  So Martin clung to the gunwales and, whilst the boat chugged out into the channel, he watched the beach of Dunkirk and thought of Margate as he fought to retain his consciousness. But once they were out in the boisterous sea, the motion of the boat sent such pain through his shattered leg and his chest that unconsciousness seemed a blessing. If this was death, he thought, so be it. The pain had become unendurable and he prayed to God as he slipped into the merciful blackness.


  ‘Portsmouth’s chaos. So’s Southampton. The big boats are all makin’ for the docks there.’ The voice was authoritative, an older man with a thick Hampshire accent. ‘We’re headin’ for Fareham.’

  The ringing in his ears had lessened and, as he came to, Martin heard the words clearly. So he was still alive. He didn’t know whether he was thankful or not. He steeled himself to the pain which once again galloped through him like an angry stallion, every part of his body now screaming in agony.

  ‘Where’s Fareham?’ he heard a Welsh voice query. ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Roughly ’alfway ’tween Portsmouth and Southampton,’ the skipper said. ‘About four mile upriver. Home eh, Billy-boy?’ The skipper smiled through his grey beard at his young crewman. ‘We’re headin’ home.’

  ‘Aye, Skip,’ the lad grinned back.

  Martin once again felt the blackness slide over him. But this time he didn’t think of God and he didn’t think of death. He no longer cared, he simply wished to escape the pain.

  He awoke once again to the sound of voices. Many of them this time. Voices of command. ‘Easy does it. Gently now.’ Others scrambled from the boat, willing hands helping the wounded, and he heard the Welshman say, ‘You can make it, boyo,’ as he felt himself lifted onto the jetty. He gritted his teeth to prevent himself crying out. They laid him on a canvas stretcher and carried him to a waiting vehicle, one of many in the quayside dockyard. Army ambulances, private cars, even several horses and drays: the place was a hive of activity.

  Martin was delirious, his brain in turmoil. Where was he? The voices were English, all of them. He wanted to ask, ‘Am I home?’ but he didn’t dare try to speak. Then a hand was holding his. A soft hand, but its grip was firm and reassuring.