The Long Green Shore by John Hepworth Read Free Book Online

dead,’ says Deacon. ‘Don’t you know the dead have to get more respect than the living?’
    â€˜Respect this bloke, then,’ says Pez. ‘He’s through living.’ Pez had been scraping the sand smooth underneath his bed and uncovered a thin-boned skull and a few frail ribs.
    He tosses the skull into the middle of the tent and Fluffy grabs it and checks the teeth: ‘No gold. The Yanks have cleaned him out before.’ It was the first time Fluffy had ever handled a human skull. ‘I’ll take it home for me kid sister,’ he says. He handles it gently as he passes it on.
    Janos examines the rib bones: ‘They’re so thin.’
    The Laird grunts: ‘There’s not much to a man when you get down to the bone.’ Deacon made to pass him the skull. ‘Don’t give me that,’ the Laird rumbles. ‘I’ve seen too many.’
    Deacon balances the skull delicately on his extended palm and addresses it with wry heroics: ‘Alas, poor Yorick…’
    â€˜A swim! A swim!’ the cry goes up. Clothes are flung off hurriedly and there is a dash for the tent flap.
    Pez gathers the skull from Deacon’s hand as he goes and tucks it under his arm. Fluffy tackles him as they race across the sand and Pez, as he falls, tosses the skull to Janos with a smooth rugby pass.
    The bunch of lean, naked figures race, shouting, over the black sand to the surf. The bleached skull passes among them, tossed like a football.
    Janos, on the fringe of the scrum as they near the water, misses a pass and the skull curves out in a slow arc—hits and rolls slowly until it fetches up against the shell-shredded stump of a coconut palm.
    They leave it there and race on—poise for a moment on the firm, sea-washed sand of the beach—then rush down the shallow, shelving water of the ebbing wave and hurl themselves, yelling, over the white foaming wall of the incoming breaker into the deep, cool silk of ocean banked behind it.
    Back in the tent Deacon drags out his airmail pad, sharpens a stump of pencil by slitting the wood away from the lead with a long thumbnail, lays tobacco, papers and matches handy, and disposes himself to write his letters.
    â€˜Come on down the Yank camp,’ the Laird urges.
    â€˜I’ve got to write a letter,’ objects Deacon.
    â€˜Hell, you can write any time,’ the Laird argues. ‘But if we don’t scrounge through the Yanks early, all the best munga’ll be gone.’
    â€˜I’ve got to write a letter,’ insists Deacon. ‘I’ve been trying to write it for a week.’
    â€˜Another day won’t matter then,’ reasons the Laird.
    â€˜But it’s to my Queensland heeler—my Sheila—my best sort.’
    â€˜Then she’s probably out with a Yank,’ the Laird argues conclusively. ‘Another two days won’t matter.’
    Deacon tosses the pad on his bed as he rises to go out.
    â€˜Beloved Margaret,’ it opens with a little flourish.
    The rest is blank.
    It is a time of waiting and speculation, rumours and legends, old tales told of old campaigns, endless poker games with greasy, dog-eared packs of cards.
    Discipline—the petty, stupid discipline of a base camp—largely disappears. The officers are not so insistent on being saluted at every turn—not that they got saluted at every turn when they did insist on it.
    But still the daily bumble of routine orders harasses us.
    For three days blankets must be folded in two to the centre and packs placed directly behind them on our beds. Then, for four days, webbing equipment must be laid out on the blankets with the bayonet pointing down. For six days after that the order is changed and bayonets must be laid diagonally across the webbing. Then the order is changed again: webbing equipment is moved down in front of the blanket and the pack must be placed in the centre of the blanket.
    These ridiculous