Louis Munkara was approaching 40 years of age when he should have become a war hero. His story might have made the national press, but this was an era before the Sydney Morning Herald or the Age considered the indigenous population worthy of their ink and paper.
At the time, the Tiwi still hunted with their traditional tools. When they were growing up, Louis and his brother Asman had been the most accurate spear-throwers on the island, with no fish, mammal or reptile safe from their deadly aims. Teenagers still considered Louis amongst the best, but Asman had fallen in love with the drink and accordingly could never be found on a hunt. The island was meant to be dry, but ever since a trip to Darwin in 1931 Asman had enjoyed a beer. And the beer liked him too.
Meanwhile Louis was held up as a paragon by the Tiwi. Though far from a scholar, he was well-versed from the books held by the small Church, having learnt to read from the scriptures when he was in his 20s. Wise enough to respect the kin, he supported Asman whenever possible, not by preaching- for he was not a man of the cloth- but virtuously trying to steer his younger brother to a path where his health could not fade rapidly and where he was minimal harm to his four children.
For most of the islanders, the world was simple: Bathurst Island was the core of their construal of Earth. Neighbouring Melville Island was like a brother across the Apsley Straight, but beyond was the rest of Australia- even Darwin was like a stolen cousin, recognisable on the horizon but essentially a stranger to them all- and then a vague notion of the rest of the world. For all the Munkara brothers knew, Berlin was somewhere the other side of Canberra and Japan was on the moon.
Such is the perception of clans who had been self-sufficient for thousands of years and then, within half a century, whose world had begun to change: the white man visited and bought with him alcohol, non-indigenous tools and modern methods of communication.
Louis was squatting on a small knoll, showing his son Marcus how to skin a goanna when he saw the strangers walking up the track from the beach; three men, dressed identically, wheeled a box behind them, their tan shirts dark under the armpits. Curious, Louis watched them march up the road towards the church, where Father McGrath met them on the doorstep with a handshake, ushering them inside.
“Who they be?” asked Marcus innocently.
“They be trouble son,” replied his father “but no trouble for you. Here, use the knife here see, slide it under his skin.”
The blood gushing from the goanna’s split belly drew Marcus’s attention away from the white men, but Louis couldn’t help but look concerned towards the church. One thing he was sure of was that white men on the island meant some kind of trouble for someone.
That evening, mass was held in the circular, open-sided church concurrent to a typically spectacular sunset. Afterwards, Father McGrath nervously asked a few men to stop behind and he escorted Louis, David Rioli, Solomon Mungarawara and Billy Tudawali into his sleeping quarters, where he pointed at the box that Louis had seen earlier. In his crisp colonial dialect, he explained his unease.
“Gentlemen, you will know from my earlier masses that there is a war going on. Australia are fighting with our British brothers against a horrid, evil dictatorship. Japan is one of the enemy countries, and the fighting has spread through Asia and across the oceans. Three men visited me earlier today from the Australian Army. They consider that Japan may attack the country from the air, maybe sending planes to bomb Darwin Harbour.” The elderly missionary glanced at the four men, noticing their perplexed faces.
“They want us to be able to defend ourselves if necessary.”
A smile immediately made its way across Louis’s dark face, baring his yellowing teeth. “Father, if an enemy comes near me, I’ll raise my spear. If I can kill wallaby, I can kill man.”
The others laughed, but Father McGrath shook his head.
“Mr Munkara, I appreciate your humour. But I fear that not even the most accurate spear-thrower such as you would be able to defend against men with guns and grenades, let alone aeroplanes. With respect, the Lord says that ‘Thou Shall Not Kill’ and I uphold His word. However, the Army have provided us with another means to protect ourselves.”
He slowly leant down to the box, his knee clicking as the joint bent. With a grimace, his weathered fingers unclasped its lid, and the priest opened it up. Four pairs of eyes peered inside and gleamed as they saw the rifle.
***
In the weeks following the army’s brief visit, little changed in Nguiu; the seasonal deluges of the wet season continued, accompanied by tremendously violent thunderstorms. One morning Louis went to visit Asman on his way back from a morning’s fishing, with the intention of giving him some fresh snapper to cook for lunch. As he approached, he registered the sound of a toddler wailing; panicked, he broke into a sprint, jumped up the steps leading to the porch and burst through the door with a shout to his brother. But Asman was in no position to hear, sprawled on his back across the floor naked apart from a pair of shorts and with a large egg forming on the side of his head. Empty bottles were scattered around the room, and Louis’s stomach rolled when he noticed the lingering urine smell and dark stains around Asman’s crotch. Brotherly concern replacing his initial disgust, he leant in and brushed his cheek with the palm of his hand, feeling the scars and stubble, grateful to feel the slight gust of exhaled air and witness the simultaneous undulation of his chest. Hopping up, he moved out towards the back of the home following the sound of the child, calling softly to his nephew Pindari.
The four-year old was cowering underneath the large wooden table, but he emerged running into Louis’s leg upon seeing his uncle. Louis easily lifted the boy’s small thin frame from the dirty dusty floor and cradled him in his rippling arms.
“Easy now child, no need to cry dear Pindari, Louis is here now.”
He gave his nephew a mug of water and stroked his curly hair whilst pondering what he should do with his brother. Clearly he was drunk out of his mind, and in no state to care for Pindari. Luckily his other three sons were all old enough to look after themselves.
He run the tap to fill a second mug and walked purposely over to this brother. The effect of the water on his forehead was immediate; Asman jolted upright, shocked and disoriented, before falling back down, his head crashing into the pillow of floorboard.
“You bastard,” whispered Louis, before aiming a firm boot to his brother’s side. “Asman! Get up.”
This time Asman’s eyes stayed open, and an angry look of pain crossed his face. Although he moved his lips, words were evidently a long way off still. Lifting Asman’s head with his palm, Louis offered the cup of water, letting a slight amount trickle over the rim and onto his crisp lips. Something almost imperceptible in his face suggested an acknowledgement of gratitude and thankfulness, but Louis cared little.
“Right then Asman. You listen in to your brother now, and take a look at young Pindari here,” he said, urgently. “He’s coming with me, I will look after him for now. If you want to see him, you let me know. But only if you be sober. If you drunk man, you don’t see your son.”
He stared at his brother, saddened that he had to take such a step, but deep inside knowing that this was necessary, as much for Asman’s sake as for Pindari’s. Asman merely glazed back at him, his body and mind still finely balanced on the cusp of being drunk and being hungover.
***
As February progressed, the islanders began to notice the Japanese aeroplanes flying over their heads more regularly, often low and fast on their way to Darwin. The whirring buzz of the Nakajima bombers would start the local dogs barking, frighten off the birdlife and, if at night, awake the whole population. Then one night early in March 1942, Louis was awoken from his deep sleep. Sitting up on his mattress, be blinked for a moment to gather his senses, and realised the noise of the plane was getting louder. Somewhere close by, a disturbed dingo howled and a baby cried. And then the noise fell away into a momentary silence, followed by a devastating boom and quieter splash. Despite his sudden awakening, it was obvious to Louis that the plane had crashed into the sea, close to the village.
By the time the sun had begun its ascent and the night sky was beginning to turn to shades of indigo and blue, many of the villagers had walked excitedly to the beach, eager to ascertain what had happened. Jutting out of the water about fifty metres offshore, still gloomy in the dawn light, was the wing of the plane, like an over-sized shark fin. The wreck was ominously silent, apart from the gentle waves of the sea lapping against the metal aerofoil. Its crew were nowhere to be seen. Meanwhile, three of the island’s teenagers were energetically preparing to swim out to the plane for a closer inspection; this was a different form of fun for them that they did not want to forego. Racing down to the waterline, their bare feet skimming over the sand, their joyful boyish laughs made the soundless craft in the sea seem somewhat alien.
“Stop!” David Rioli’s powerful tenor bellowed across the beach, causing the three teens to skid to a halt and their heads to turn simultaneously in his direction.
“Don’t even think about going in the water,” he said, jogging over to them. “And you know why.”
The boys still laughed. “We be okay Sir,” said one of them smugly. “No trouble.”
“No, you listen. Box jellyfish is one thing, that’s your risk. But we don’t know nothing about the plane. It be dangerous, and you boys stay clear, you here. You not going near it on my watch, right?” He pointed a finger at each of them in turn, but could not help but smile.
“But once we know it’s safe, you can be first out there. But not before, right?” his smiled broadened. “But if jellyfish sting you, it your fault boys!”
The boys nodded appreciatively, but their slumped shoulders showed their dejection.
“I tell you what,” said David. “I’ll take this mob back to Nguiu, and you three stay here keeping watch right. Just no go in the water.”
With that, he clapped his hands, and began ordering the remainder of the gathered crowd back towards the village.
Louis had already gone back to Father McGrath’s house to talk about the crash, and found the priest sitting in his kitchen, trying to contact the authorities in Darwin.
“Blasted telephone!” exclaimed McGrath. “Oh, sorry!” he apologised when he realised Louis was standing patiently in the doorway, trying to get his attention.
“Morning Sir. An eventful night! And I daresay an eventful day is ahead of us too,” said the Priest, tapping the receiver. “Hello? Hello?”
“You having trouble there?” asked Louis.
“These darn telephones never seem to work. I tell you, I can’t see them ever catching on if they’re as unreliable as this.”
Louis nodded in agreement with the Priest, both of them stalling for time. Both were aware of the importance of the crash, but neither wanted to have the responsibility of instigating anything about it. But the men’s chat was interrupted by a burst of commotion outside, bringing them back to the doorway.
“Come quick Mr Munkara!” cried a boy of about 12, wearing nothing but a small pair of shorts, his dark body already beginning to develop the muscles of a man.
“What happening boy?” asked Louis, striding down the steps that led to the front lawn.
“There be strange men in the bush Sir! Me and Eddie here seen them, they’re not like us, and not white man neither!”
The priest and Louis exchanged worried glances knowingly. “One moment, hold on there,” he said.
Searching through the army box that still lay in the house, Louis found the gun, first aid kits and other ancillary items, but something puzzled him, “Father, where are the bullets?” he asked.
“Oh, there’s only one bullet Mr Munkara; the Captain said that they couldn’t afford to spare any more for us,” replied McGrath in an embarrassed tone.
Louis emerged back outside, the morning sun now high enough to cast shortening shadows. He instructed the boys to quickly find Mr Rioli, Mr Mungarawara and Mr Tudawali and to bring them back to this point immediately, whilst Louis jogged down the track to his own house. His son was on the small patch of grass that passed for a garden, kicking a football with Pindari. At the site of his father running down the track, Marcus smiled and punted a high kick spinning rapidly on its pinpoint trajectory. Without breaking stride Louis caught the ball at head-height and bounced it twice, before punching it back to his son.
“And that’s a great handball to Munkara, who finds himself in the pocket. He’s got a chance at goal, five points down and twenty seconds to go in the Grand Final!”
Maurice carefully held the ball, and feigned a movement to his right.
“But Munkara is under pressure here, he sees Pindari in space to his left…” Louis’s voice quickened and rose in volume, whilst Maurice fisted the ball over to his cousin. The small boy, barely older than a toddler managed to grab hold of the ball despite it being the length of his chest; he dropped it onto his right foot, and sent it arcing towards the side gate.
“That’s a great kick from Pindari, it’s looking good! It is is good! Pindari scores and he wins the Grand Final with the last kick of the match!”
The boys skipped into the air delighted as Louis ran and grabbed them both into the air, laughing and smiling. “Great kick boy!”
Placing the kids back on the ground, Louis bent down and looked intently at them both.
“Boys, I’ve got to go out in the bush- got some serious business to do. You going to be alright here?”
Maurice nodded and smiled, but Pindari meekly said nothing. “And if you need anything you go find Father McGrath yes?” Louis added, kissing them in turn on the crests of their heads.
***
The party stealthily walked through the bush, using their skills that had been passed down over hundreds of generations. The two boys who had first located the strangers led the way, bounding forwards eager to show their find to the elders; David, Solomon and Billy followed with their spears by their sides, and Louis brandishing the rifle in his hands. Despite the bogginess of the land from the daily thunderstorms, they progressed swiftly; the dense scrub caused no obstacle for these men of the land. Three miles out from the village, the boys paused.
“Over here,” they beckoned, leading them down a slope towards a small billabong. Almost hidden amongst the eucalyptus trees were the men, wearing identical uniforms. Three were standing together, talking quietly, and a fourth was squatting down. As Louis and his team approached, they noticed a fifth, lying on the ground, partially covered by the undergrowth. Large pieces of circular cloth appeared to be haphazardly discarded around them, one dangling from the branches of a tree.
Without much of a plan apart from their natural hunting instinct, the Tiwi boys charged towards the soldiers, startling the men who upon seeing their bare, black, almost purple torsos, shrunk backwards. Their fright increased as they saw the taller men emerge in front of them, three five-foot long barbed spears pointing directly towards them. Their hands shot upwards in surrender.
“Should we bring them back to Nguiu?” asked Billy.
David shook his head. “The white man gave us the gun to defend the country. I guess we must use it.”
“But shouldn’t we keep them alive? You know, as our prisoners?”
“Prisoners?” said Solomon. “Didn’t you hear Father McGrath? We are at war, whether we like it or not!”
“I have nothing against these men,” explained Louis. “But also I have no reason to befriend them. If it is Father McGrath’s wish…”
He grabbed the arm of the nearest airman, and pushed him up against a tree, ignoring his shouts.
“You stand there!” he called, gesticulating with the gun. He then manoeuvred the other three to the tree as well, lining them up in a row. “Stand there like that.”
The fifth airman was still lying on the ground, groaning as his green shirt slowly turned claret. His leg was angled obtusely.
“Hey Billy, lift this dapper here, move him along.”
Ignoring the wail of pain, Billy picked the man up like he was a branch, and positioned him between two of the others, propped up on his one good leg.
“Where you mob from?” asked Louis, but they stared blankly at him, petrified by this beast of a man and unable to understand the mix of Tiwi tongue and accented English.
“Why you come to Nguiu?” demanded David. “What you doing here?”
The airmen still could not understand, but noticed the anger and frustration in David’s voice. Louis inspected the gun, caressing it in his hand. He’d seen one many years ago, but this was one different, larger. Still, he assumed that it would work in the same manner. The airmen stood in a row, the injured man whimpering with pain. Five pairs of eyes were flitting between the gun and the spears, fearful of what these strange beasts of men would do, yet still defiant that the Japanese were superior to these savages.
With the heads of the airmen lined up in a row, Louis placed the barrel of the rifle against the temple of the closest airman, who started to shake and cry. Praying silently, Louis braced himself, and glanced at his friends. Was this right? Was this the behaviour of a man of God? Could five men be killed with a solitary shot? One bullet to end the lives of these soldiers; just strangers from an unknown place far away from the Tiwi Islands?
***
That night, after he had kissed his son goodnight and cocooned his nephew in a blanket, Louis went to visit his brother. The front door of Asman’s house was open, as was the mesh panel that usually covered the doorway. Calling out, Louis entered, but the house was empty. In the back room that in another dwelling would pass for a lounge there was the mouldy chair and an empty bottle on the floor. Sighing, Louis kicked the bottle into the corner, and spun around, out of the house.
It had been a long day, and he still wanted to go to church to pray, particularly after the incident with the airmen in the bush. But he had to find his drunken brother.
