Maralinga Read online

  Young John Gillespie Magee’s poem, written during the Battle of Britain, had become an anthem to air force pilots, and Maurie and Len knew every word.

  Len got the joke, and yelled back.

  ‘Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

  Of sun-split clouds …’

  Looking through the windscreen at the inky blackness surrounding them, they laughed, before yelling in one accord:

  ‘and done a hundred things

  You have not dreamed of.’

  We’re one up on you, John, Maurie thought. John Gillespie Magee sure as hell hadn’t flown through the mushroom cloud of a nuclear explosion.

  Test results revealed that the radioactive cloud from One Tree reached a height of 37,500 feet, exceeding the predicted 27,900 feet, and radioactivity was detected as far afield as the Northern Territory, New South Wales and Queensland. The bomb’s energy yield of fifteen kilotons was the equivalent of exploding 15,000 tons of TNT, and the same yield as Little Boy, the bomb that had obliterated Hiroshima ten years earlier, claiming in excess of 100,000 human lives.

  They have been walking for days now, Yunamingu, his two wives, his three children and two dogs. Their progress has been slow for the older of the wives is heavy with child. Djunga has presented her husband with all three of his children. A healthy, fertile woman, she could have produced many more over the years, but Yunamingu is careful to observe the tribal law of desert men. He avoids siring more offspring than he can support, particularly during the lean drought years when hunting is poor and food supplies scant.

  At thirty, Djunga is no longer young, which is why Yunamingu has recently acquired his second wife. But Djunga remains his favourite. Djunga is a quiet woman who talks only when there is a need to talk. Mundapa annoys Yunamingu. Mundapa is little more than a girl, and she talks far too much.

  The family is heading south to the soak at Ooldea, where, in the coming weeks, they will await the birth of Djunga’s baby. As they walk, Mundapa chatters incessantly, but no-one is listening. Yunamingu has dropped back into the scrub behind them in search of goanna, and even the children pay Mundapa no heed. Djunga feels sorry for her husband’s new wife, knowing that Mundapa is lonely. The girl is missing the boisterousness of her clan — she is not accustomed to travelling in a small family group. But Djunga, too, has become tired of the sound of Mundapa’s voice and she no longer pretends to pay attention. Instead, she watches the dogs sniffing amongst the grasses and allows herself to daydream. Djunga has always been a great daydreamer. In her mind, she is once more a child. The dogs are her father’s dogs, and she and her extended family are visiting Ooldea during the days of the white grandmother.

  Kabbarli was the first white person Djunga had ever seen, but she had not been frightened. Djunga had found Kabbarli a source of great interest — all the children had. Kabbarli had allowed them to lift her strange garments to see what lay beneath, and they had discovered to their amazement that under yet more layers of cloth, Kabbarli’s legs were as white as her face. How they had giggled. Kabbarli had also allowed them to peer — very, very carefully — through the metal circles she called ‘spectacles’. The smaller of the children had been frightened at the way the world had become hazy through the spectacles, but Kabbarli had comforted them in their own tongue. Kabbarli spoke in the tongues of many people, even those who had travelled great distances to gather at Ooldea.

  The children had all come to love Kabbarli. So had the mothers and the aunties of the families who had regularly flocked to her camp. Even the men had held Kabbarli in high regard.

  These days when Djunga travels to Ooldea with her husband and family, her thoughts are always of Kabbarli. She wishes her own children could meet the white grandmother, for her children have had little contact with the white men and she does not wish them to grow up in fear. But Kabbarli has long since departed, and Djunga wonders whether perhaps the white grandmother has gone to meet her ancestors. Her own ancestors would surely welcome Kabbarli, who has been a true friend to so many, and Djunga likes to think that one day they may meet again in the spirit world.

  Djunga’s thoughts are shattered by Mundapa’s piercing scream, which is quickly joined by the screams of the children, and then Yunamingu is by her side, his spear at the ready. He barks at them to be quiet, and stands motionless, the whites of his eyes revealing his terror. He whirls on the spot and stands motionless again. They are all motionless now, all deathly silent, frozen in horror as yet more demons appear from out of the scrub.

  Yunamingu and his family are surrounded by devil spirits — strange, formless mamu with ugly long noses. Even the dogs cower at the sight, without so much as a whimper between them.

  Then one of the mamu speaks and, although Yunamingu does not understand the words, he realises that these are not spirit beings. These are white men disguised as mamu. But there are too many for him to fight, even if he could summon the courage.

  Yunamingu is forced to submit to the will of the white men for fear they may harm his family, and, as a truck is driven up, he obeys the instruction to climb into the back. His wives and children obediently follow his example, although the younger children are crying now. Djunga, with her swollen belly, requires help, and she offers no resistance as two of the white men hoist her aboard the truck. Like Yunamingu, Djunga is fearful for the safety of her children.

  Never before have they travelled in a vehicle of any kind and the experience is frightening. Mundapa wails as she clings to the side of the truck’s open tray, and her wails merge with the children’s screams to form a chorus of terror.

  Yunamingu and Djunga make no sound at all, but they too are consumed by fear, and, as two shots ring out behind them like the brittle cracks of thunder, they do not think of the dogs.

  The ordeal of the truck is nothing compared to that which follows.

  They are in a white prison, and here even Djunga cannot maintain her silence. She whimpers as the mamu run their sticks over her belly. For she is now convinced that these are mamu in the guise of white men, not the other way round as her husband believes. She hears the click-click-click of the mamu sticks. They are casting a spell on her and her unborn child.

  Then her naked body is hit with fierce jets of water. The naked bodies of her children suffer the same torment, even the youngest of them, and they begin screaming and writhing, and now Djunga lends her voice to theirs. Water blasts its way into ears and up nostrils, they cannot escape it. Then fresh torture as hands and feet are scrubbed red raw with brushes that feel like spinifex thorns.

  Again, the evil sticks are run over their bodies, and again, to Djunga’s horror, she hears the click-click-click of the mamu’s spell.

  Once more the relentless water and the scrubbing, and once more the click-click of the sticks. Then again and again, a third and a fourth time, until finally it is over and they are being dressed in harsh, cloth garments.

  When eventually they are bundled back into the truck, Djunga has lost all sense of time. Is it the next day? It seems to be morning. Has she slept? She cannot remember. Have the children eaten? She cannot recall feeding them. The youngest one is vomiting, and she herself does not feel well.

  Without their disguises, the mamu now appear as white men. One of them pretends to be kind. He speaks their language and tells them not to fear. Yunamingu responds to the kindness and answers the man’s questions, but Djunga recognises this as a trick and further evidence of the mamu’s cunning. The white man who pretends to be kind is just like the others. He is mamu. They are all mamu. Djunga knows this. Just as she knows a spell has been cast upon her and her unborn child.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The One Tree test had been an unmitigated success. Operation Buffalo was off to an excellent start.

  In the beer garden and canteen at Maralinga, those fortunate enough to have witnessed the event were the envy of others.

  ‘You could actually feel it! The heat! Incredible!’

  ‘And the shock
waves! Like a bloody great punch in the back!’

  ‘Yeah, you wouldn’t believe it, would you? Nearly knocked me off my feet.’

  Men could talk of nothing else, and the luckless ones who’d been far from the action were already volunteering for duties that would get them as near as was humanly possible to the front-line of the next firing.

  There were to be three more detonations over the ensuing month, and, weather conditions permitting, the next test, codenamed Marcoo, was barely one week away. Life had taken on a new meaning for the men of Maralinga. Boredom had become a thing of the past.

  In the main conference room of the Australian Government Information Office (AGIO), situated on the second floor of an attractive Georgian building in Rundle Street, Adelaide, Nick Stratton was happy with the way things were going. It was two days after the firing, and this was the first of the open press conferences that would follow the four tests that constituted the Buffalo series. AGIO would play host to the conferences and Nick would be the principal spokesperson at each, with perhaps an occasional representation from AWTSC, or even an appearance from Sir William Penney himself, should it be deemed necessary. At the moment, however, all was going smoothly.

  Nick was acquainted with most of the Australian press in attendance, and he’d met the five British journalists who were covering the series two days previously, at the One Tree firing. It had been instantly evident to him that all five were the variety of press he referred to as ‘tame’ – clearly the British had vetted their own with great care. He had expected as much, but was thankful nonetheless. Nick himself had selected the Australian journalists who’d been invited to observe the detonation, and he’d been most stringent in his choice. The rules had been made abundantly clear to all. Ego-driven, investigative reporters who liked to cause trouble and those with a tendency towards sensationalism would not be tolerated. Any newspaper journalist privileged to witness a test firing did so with the joint per mission of the British and Australian governments and, as a specially invited guest, was expected to toe the line.

  He was relieved now to discover that at this first major conference, the press at large appeared willing to behave responsibly and observe the rules. He’d anticipated some possibly tricky questions, but his answers to even those queries that could have become issues had been met with a ready acceptance. He presumed, and correctly so, that this was because each of the journalists was hoping to be on his next invitation list.

  ‘Has there been any radioactivity detected outside the restricted area of Maralinga, Colonel?’

  Nick recognised the journalist – Bob Swindon of The Sydney Morning Herald – not one of those invited to observe the test firing, and not one of those likely to be. Bob was a good journo whose work Nick respected under normal circumstances – but these were not normal circumstances.

  He responded in the respectful fashion he’d always found to be effective. ‘As you know, Mr Swindon, I’m not at liberty to release the specifics of any scientific data, but I can most definitely assure you that there has been no threat whatsoever to surrounding areas.’

  The answer came smoothly – he was, after all, speaking the truth. The reports he’d received had stated categorically that the levels of radioactivity, which had been detected over vast distances, were minimal and presented no particular threat. Nick firmly agreed that any overreaction would be pointless scaremongering.

  ‘Stringent safety measures were maintained at all times, and we can rest assured that these safety measures will continue to be maintained throughout the series,’ he said.

  He wasn’t one hundred per cent sure on that particular score, but that’s what he’d been told, and he could only hope like hell it was true.

  Maurie and Len weren’t at all sure about the safety measures. In fact, Maurie, for all of his former braggadocio, had been severely shaken by the events that had ensued upon their return to base.

  As ordered, they’d landed the Canberra at the south end of the runway, where the air-sample canisters attached to its wings were to be released for examination. Guided by ground crew, Maurie had taxied the aircraft into position, but several minutes later, when he and Len had opened the hatch, they’d found themselves confronted by men in goon suits and gas masks.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Maurie had muttered.

  ‘Remain in the aircraft,’ one of the goon suits had ordered, and the two of them had closed the hatch and stayed rigid in their seats, not daring to move a muscle.

  The following sequence of events had taken on a surreal quality, like watching a B-grade science fiction film, Maurie had thought. Or, worse still, like observing something you suspect is about to become your own personal nightmare. Tractor-like machines with electronic arms had approached the aircraft from either side, men in goon suits operating the machines with deft precision. The electronic arms had carefully detached the air-sample canisters from the Canberra’s wings and deposited them in open lead-lined boxes. The boxes had then been closed and locked by further men in goon suits, and loaded aboard a truck to be taken away for radiochemical analysis, after which the washing-down process of the aircraft had begun.

  It had been around this time that the science fiction film had taken its nightmarish turn, raising a series of questions in Maurie’s mind.

  Why aren’t we in goon suits, he’d wondered, looking at his and Len’s khaki combination overalls – we’re the ones who were up there. The plane’s not airtight – hell, it’s not even pressurised. And then he’d noticed that the regular servicemen hosing down the aircraft were in shorts and shirts, and that jets of water were bouncing right back at them. Why aren’t they in goon suits? There’s something they’re not telling us, he’d thought with a quick glance at Len, who, wide-eyed beside him, was plainly thinking the same thing.

  ‘Step down from the aircraft,’ the chief goon suit had ordered, and Maurie and Len had climbed out of the cockpit.

  As they’d jumped to the ground, Maurie had noticed the channel of black sludge making its way to the nearby soak-away ditch, but he’d become quickly distracted by the Geiger counter that had been held up to him and the fact that the needle was going off the dial. The Geiger counter being run over Len was doing the same thing. And then the nightmare had become a reality for them both as they’d been put through the showers. Again and again they’d been ordered to scrub themselves, harder and more vigorously each time. Over and over, their skin turning a raw pink, until finally their body readings had been reduced to a level of ‘reasonable acceptance’.

  To the scientists conducting the examination, the level of ‘reasonable acceptance’ plainly meant that the safety measures had been observed. But Maurie and Len had been left with the distinct impression that there was a discrepancy between the safety measures in place for the scientists and those in place for the average serviceman at Maralinga.

  Following the discovery of an Aboriginal family who’d wandered through the blast area two days after the firing, a spotter with field glasses was placed a mile or so from ground zero to keep watch. His job was to radio a warning to the patrol team should anyone, white or black, unwittingly approach the contaminated site.

  Holy Mother of God, young Paddy thought as he gazed through his field glasses. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  Eighteen-year-old Private Paddy O’Hare of the Royal Engineers had laboured on the construction of the tower. He hadn’t been fortunate enough to score a front seat at Roadside and therefore witness the firing, but he’d seen the site in all its glory prior to the test. The ninety-foot aluminium tower had been a splendid sight in Paddy’s eyes. There it had stood, a giant modern marvel in primitive scrubland, a testament to man’s invention. Paddy had been proud that he’d played a part in it, minor though that part may have been.

  But where was the tower now? Indeed, where was the scrubland? Every scrap of vegetation had been annihilated and in its place was a shiny, black-green surface, like glass. Paddy recalled the talk in the beer garden
. One of the Australians who’d been at Emu Field had told them about ‘bomb glaze’. So this was it, he thought. But surely there’d be a bit of the tower left, wouldn’t there? Just a bit. He scanned the area with his field glasses. Perhaps he was looking in slightly the wrong direction, or perhaps he wasn’t looking closely enough. But try as he might, Paddy could find no shred of evidence that the tower had ever existed. The ninety-foot aluminium edifice from which the bomb had been suspended had been fused into nothing.

  Holy Mother, he thought, so this was what the black family with their little kiddies had walked through, barefoot and barely clad. No wonder the boffins had decided to set up a watch.

  ‘Do you have any idea what that would have done to them psychologically? A primitive people like that? They’d never even been in a truck before, let alone been showered and scrubbed! The woman was pregnant, for Christ’s sake!’

  Daniel and Pete were sitting outside the barracks in their canvas chairs with the mugs of tea Daniel had brought back from the mess. It was lunchtime, and Pete, who had just returned from the DC/RB area, clearly needed to get things off his chest. Daniel said nothing, just let him rave on.

  ‘The woman was terrified out of her wits. By the time they called me in there, she was virtually catatonic – I couldn’t get through to her at all. They’ve piled the whole family into a truck now, and they’re driving them to the mission at Yalata. They’re Yankuntjatjara people who were heading for the soak at Ooldea – Yalata’s hundreds of miles from their own lands. They shouldn’t have been put through this ordeal. It’s wrong! It’s so bloody wrong!’

  Daniel was wondering what possible alternatives the military or the scientists could have come up with. The family would have had to go through the decontamination process, no matter how terrifying – they’d been exposed to radiation. To return them to their own lands would have been physically impossible, and Ooldea, commandeered by the army as a water source, was closed off to all. Yalata, a hundred miles to the south, was the nearest mission, and surely the only option, particularly for the pregnant woman. Pete was being unrealistic, Daniel thought, and the reason was patently obvious.