Drowning in Her Eyes

By Patrick Ford

Jack is a young Australian, Susan an American girl. For them, it was love at first sight.

But, when she becomes pregnant, her family takes Susan back to America, and it seems Jack will never see her again. However, Jack is not so easily dismissed. In the green hell of Vietnam, he finds the clue that will re-unite them.

A story of love, war, and the strength of the human spirit. From Australia to Boston, Sydney to Saigon, Jack and Susan’s story will tug at your heartstrings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Torrid Books
• Release date: Oct 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781682992005

Patrick Ford

Patrick has had an interesting life – student, soldier, farmer, accountant, teacher. He is widely travelled and loves history. His wide experiences have given him deep well of knowledge from which to draw inspiration for his stories. He writes from his home in rural Queensland and produces what Aussies call “a bloody good yarn”.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Beginnings

New York City, New York, USA—1945

James Baker stood at his station on the forecastle of the destroyer USS Warren B. Henderson and watched the crowds thronging the pier. There was an air of expectation, tinged with war weariness and relief. After a war that had taken the lives of more than fifty million and had left Europe in ruins, he was thankful to have survived to come home at last. He had had a fortuitous war, he reflected. Not that it had been comfortable or without danger, but the Henderson had been a lucky ship. Her worst casualty had been a drunken liberty man who had tripped on the gangplank and broken a leg on the iron-hard timbers of the Liverpool docks. She had sailed back and forth across the Atlantic for three years on convoy escort duty, had attacked without success several U-Boats, and had fished a few hundred survivors from that cruel sea. However, enemy bombs or torpedoes never came close to her—a lucky ship indeed.

Certainly, the war had changed his life for the better. He had come from a small ranch in Montana, too small to provide him with any kind of future. The Navy had hardened, trained, and nurtured him. Today he stood as a fit and confident Petty Officer, Second Class, and a fully trained electrician. In a few short days, he would be a free man about to marry his sweetheart and tackle the world head on. As Henderson entered the great harbour, heading for the Brooklyn Navy Yard, she passed the famous landmarks of the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and Staten Island. Jimmy Baker felt a little surge of patriotism; he was not a demonstrative man, but took a fierce pride in his nation and its achievements.

His thoughts turned to his girl. They had met in a drugstore of all places, on his last leave. She wasn’t a classic beauty, but he found himself admiring her trim figure and dark hair. Her skin had a light milk coffee tone, suggestive of a Latino background. In fact, an ancestor had been a Spanish adventurer who had left a young English woman a widow when his ship disappeared off Cape Hatteras in 1740. He was never to see his baby daughter, but his genes had persisted through many generations.

Her eyes were her most startling feature. They were dark brown and there was a slightly Oriental look about them. Up close, they were deep pools lit from below with a tawny light—one look into those depths and Jimmy Baker was lost.

Marci had been working as a typist for the U.S. Army for the last couple of years. Soon, her work would no longer be required. They had decided to settle in Worcester, west of Boston. Jimmy had a tentative position offered by a colleague of Marci’s father, a manufacturer of wireless equipment who had prospered from a couple of Air Corps contracts. He was pleased to welcome home a trained man to his factory; the war had decimated his skilled workforce. Right now Marci would be preparing to meet his train at Boston.

The Henderson slipped into her berth. Amongst the barking of orders, the anchor descended into the murky harbour with a great screeching and rattling, releasing a cloud of rust. Jimmy jerked from his reverie, suddenly hearing for the first time the hubbub around him. His shipmates were arranging their shore leave. They were making important decisions about bars, nightclubs and women, but today he had little interest in such entertainment. His friends were gathering around, exhorting him to join in the revelry.

Come on, Jimmy, said his best friend, Gino Vaselli, This is my town. I can sure show you a good time.

‘Sorry, buddy, I have to catch the Boston train.

When? demanded another.

Oh, in about two hours, said Jimmy.

Great, said Gino let’s go find the bar at Penn Station and give you a good send-off.

Jimmy spent an hour drinking beer and recalling the war with his shipmates. They departed, voicing promises of reunions and letters. The last sight he had had of his pals was as the train drew out of the station. They were headed back to the bar.

Goondiwindi, Queensland, Australia—1946

Patrick Michael Riordan sat in his favourite chair on the homestead veranda, cold beer in hand, and reviewed his life with a certain degree of satisfaction. It had begun in the cold New England tablelands of New South Wales, where his parents cobbled together a meagre living, his father using his bullock team and wagon to carry wool and timber and all the essential goods required by the local farmers. In 1909, as a babe in arms, he became part of the cargo, as his family moved west and north to the border town of Goondiwindi.

Over the years, his parents worked hard as did his six siblings. They had set up a portable sawmill and milled the local timber, cypress pine; much sought after as an essential material for the expanding cattle and sheep business. Used to build accommodation for workers and homesteaders alike, Cypress was popular because it was a soft wood and therefore easy to work with hand tools, and…it had a great bonus. The voracious termites of the Australian bush would not eat it.

By 1936, the family had amassed enough capital to purchase a tract of land, about 5,000 acres, on which to graze Merino sheep to provide fine wool for the world’s garment factories. Paddy Riordan’s father delegated him to clean up the land, install watering points, and erect buildings in order to turn the land into a profitable sheep station. This was no easy task. He shared a tent with his one employee and began to build a small cabin. When that was completed, he started on a homestead, for he was about to be married. There followed a small workshop, stockyards, and the large ‘wool shed’ where the sheep would have their wool removed at shearing time.

The land he worked had a thick covering of a cactus called ‘Prickly Pear’, so named for its dangerous thorns and its pear shaped leaves. Thriving in the leaf litter below the ‘Pear’ were snakes and other dangerous creatures. The worst was the Australian Death Adder, a well-camouflaged and aggressive species. Life was hard in the wake of the depression, money and materials were hard to find. However, science was about to intervene on Paddy’s behalf in the form of a small moth and its larvae, Cactoblastis cactorum. The larva of this little creature, imported from South America, began to invade and eat the cactus. In a couple of years, it destroyed most of the cactus, revealing fertile soils and grasses. The sheep prospered, and so did Paddy. By the beginning of World War II, Ballinrobe, as the station was called, was the envy of many.

There was, however, a major disappointment. Their marriage remained childless. Paddy yearned for a son to carry on his work, and a daughter to spoil, as most fathers are wont to do. Then the war intervened and he saw his brothers leave to fight the Nazi threat. In 1943, his brother Jack, piloting a Lancaster bomber, failed to return from a mission to Dusseldorf, in the German industrial heartland. Posted as missing, believed killed, his body never found. The end of the war brought joy. First a daughter, and, a year later, a son named Jack in memory of his lost brother. Paddy could hear him now, murmuring in his cradle. He felt a flush of pride; after many years and much hard work, he had a prosperous sheep station, a complete family, and a world—at least for the time being—at peace. He smiled into the soft summer night and hugged his wife, Helen.

We’re bloody lucky, love, he said, to have all this. And now, with the little bloke, the future looks good.

Helen looked at her big strong husband, remembering the blood, sweat, and tears he had invested over the last ten years. Not that lucky, Paddy, you’ve worked so hard. You deserve it all and more.

In his cradle, young Jack slumbered on. He had no idea his life would lead him on an incredible journey and to an unbreakable link with a family now living on the other side of the world.

Meanwhile, not far to the north, in a small French Indochinese colony, rebel forces had commenced advancing on the French stronghold of Dien Bien Phu. Newspapers reported that the French stronghold would never fall to an undisciplined, rag-tag army of native irregulars. Australians who noted the report shrugged. What did it have to do with them? The bloody Frogs couldn’t fight anyway; surely we aren’t going to bail them out again?

Worcester, Massachusetts, USA—1955

Worcester Massachusetts had prospered during the war, and the Baker family was living the American dream. They now owned a neat bungalow, and Marci had proved to be a good wife, providing three beautiful children. In 1946, their daughter Susan was born. She was the image of her mother, and as Jimmy Baker looked into those beautiful brown eyes, he fell in love all over again. Sarah followed a year later and James Junior rounded out the family. Sarah was a fairer version of Susan, with Jimmy’s blue eyes. James Junior favoured his father but had those lovely brown eyes, and long dark lashes. He’ll break a few hearts before he’s done, Jimmy said.

One day, just before Christmas, Jimmy received a summons to the manager’s office. He was puzzled at the summons, but reasoned that his work had been good and the manager just wanted to talk to him about production targets for next year. He was not concerned for his job, but some sixth sense, some primal instinct, was telling him this was not going to be any ordinary meeting.

Okay, Mr. Baker, you can go in now. The manager’s secretary smiled sweetly.

Jimmy had an overwhelming urge to ask her what it was all about; instead, he nodded his thanks and pushed open the door. To his surprise, a group of four men confronted him. The manager he knew, but he had not met any of the others. A large grey-haired man he did know by sight and reputation. He was Bob Phillips, President of Worcester Electronic Inc.

Come in, Jimmy, said his manager. Meet the President, Bob Phillips, Art Cohen, chief accountant, and Chris Bauer, chief design engineer.

Jimmy shook their proffered hands. He could not fathom why they were all there. Anxiety gnawed at his stomach. Maybe he was in trouble after all. Coffee, Jimmy, or something stronger? asked Bob Phillips.

No, thanks, I’ll be fine. Jimmy rarely touched alcohol apart from an occasional beer.

Come on, son, this is a special occasion. I have some good Bourbon here.

Well, maybe a small one, he said, mainly to be polite. What in hell is going on here?

Let’s all sit down, said the manager. Bob here has some important news for us.

Once they were comfortable, Jimmy, clutching his untouched drink, looked at the President who had remained standing. He reminded Jimmy of his old Captain addressing the crew of the Henderson. Gentleman, he said, I have some great news for you. Worcester Electronic has secured a very large contract from Defense for wireless equipment for the Air Force’s new bombers. What with the recent war in Korea and the standoff between us and our Russian friends, it seems we will be doing this for some time to come. He paused for effect.

As a result, we are going into an expansion phase with a new factory now under construction for this contract. This facility will need skilled and trusted people and that is the purpose of this meeting, Jimmy. You are the best man this factory has seen in a long time. Thanks to Uncle Sam, you are a great electrician and a well-organised one at that. We want you to identify some twenty good men to staff the new factory and we want you to head up the management, reporting directly to me. Art and Chris will make sure you have the best administration people you can get. Of course, it will mean a substantial raise for you and a company car. What do you think?

Jimmy was dumbfounded. He knew they respected his skill, but had no idea he was under consideration for such an important job. That sounds just swell, Mr. Phillips, he said, I’m sure Marci and the kids will be very happy. Just where will this new factory be?

Bob Phillips paused again, and then dropped his bombshell. Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Ballinrobe, Goondiwindi—1955

Young Jack Riordan was nine years old. He loved the life on Ballinrobe. There were so many things to do and he had almost free rein to do them. He was already a competent horseman and was making good progress learning to drive the old, second-hand Land Rover. He loved exploring the various buildings around the homestead. There was a large workshop filled with interesting tools and the pungent smell of engine oil. There was a large barn housing farm machinery and a high stack of hay bales. There was a small set of stables, with four horse stalls and the sweet smell of horse dung, horse sweat, saddle leather and Lucerne (Alfalfa) hay.

However, Jack’s favorite was the ‘woolshed’. This was a large building raised about four feet above the ground so that sheep could be penned underneath during shearing time. Upstairs, the building consisted of two sections. One third contained more sheep pens to hold sheep ready for the shearers. The other two thirds contained bins for shorn wool, a huge press to compact wool into jute bales, and a storage area for the pressed bales. A huge beam of Oregon pine placed on heavy posts supported the shearing machinery that was belt driven by an asthmatic water-cooled engine.

Shearing was a fabulous time for a young boy. The whirring of the shearing gear, the barking of the dogs penning up the sheep, the rattle of the ratchet on the wool press, the thump of a fresh bale rolling from the press and the calls of the shed hands all combined in an exciting symphony for Jack. And the smell was unique, a combination of newly shorn wool, hot sweet tea spilled on the jute bales, hot oil, and the ammonia rich sheep dung.

When the shed was not in use, Jack liked to sit on one of the windowsills. From this vantage point, he could see all the way across the front paddock to a sandy ridge, where he had newly learned to shoot rabbits with an old Winchester .22 rifle. It was peaceful here. He took his favorite sheep dog with him into the shed and had long conversations with him, as children do. As an adult, he would later come here to reflect and to work out his problems.

* * * *

It was raining again. Dark lowering clouds raced across the sky; rain sheeted down. Paddy Riordan had never seen such rain. From the homestead veranda, he could see the watercourse rising across the paddocks. Already, it had filled his earth tanks and was rushing to its meeting with the creek, a mile or so away. The humid air wrapped itself around everyone like a shroud and the temperature—already eighty degrees Fahrenheit at nine in the morning—promised another uncomfortable day. Paddy went out in the downpour to check the creek behind the house. The stick he had planted at the high water mark was already half submerged. The waterway had risen more than a foot during the night and was still rising.

He repositioned his marker and went back to the veranda; it was time to make some decisions. They gathered on the veranda, Paddy and Helen, the stockmen Ollie and Mick, and, listening from the fringes, the children, Denni and Jack. Their main concerns were the safety of the sheep and the situation as regards food and stores; it would be a while before they could get to town. Three flooded creeks lay across their path.

Sheep can be contrary animals, almost suicidal at times. Wool will absorb large quantities of water and wet sheep with long wool can be so heavy they usually drown. Fortunately, Paddy’s sheep, shorn of their wool some weeks before, were in little danger from the water; Most had moved to higher ground before the rain. Now they had only to round up the stragglers. Righto, Ollie, you and I will go for the stragglers. Mick you had better give Helen a hand to check the supply situation, said Paddy.

Daddy? This was Denni. Can I come with you, please? Denni loved horses and did not want to be denied any excuse for a ride.

All right, but be careful. Do you want to come, Jack?

Jack was not a keen horseman, but he was not going to be embarrassed by his sister. I’ll come, he said. In minutes, the men brought up the saddled horses and the little party was on its way. The stragglers stubbornly refused to cross the many small streams and a leader had to be dragged across before the rest would follow, chivvied by the relentless dogs.

It was after dark by the time they returned to the homestead—wet, mud-splattered, and weary. While Paddy and the men downed large glasses of beer, Helen hustled off Denni and Jack to bathe and change. Later that night, Jack confided in his sister. I like living here, he began, but I don’t think I want to run the station. What I would really like to do is become a soldier.

Don’t be a dill, said Denni. Dad won’t let that happen. You’re destined to come home here, and don’t forget it.

What about you? You’re the eldest.

Running the station is a man’s job. I am going to marry a rich man and live in the city. You can come to visit if you like.

When you are ten years old, you don’t have much say in anything. Jack kept his own counsel, but his ambition still smouldered away inside.

* * * *

Australia is a land of wildly variable climate. As one of her famous poets described it: ‘a sunburnt country…a land of droughts and flooding rains.’ Old hands say all floods end with the beginning of a drought. Ballinrobe had benefitted from the good season, but wool prices—driven to record heights by the demand for warm clothing during the Korean War—had ebbed away. Paddy had been looking for a long time for another enterprise to increase profit and spread risk. He had noticed that wheat prices were strong, and with the world demand for food increasing as Europe and Japan rose, Phoenix-like from the ashes of the war, they looked set to be high for some considerable time.

Helen, he said one night, I think we should be clearing some of our better land and turning it over to wheat growing.

Helen had discussed this with him before. A naturally cautious woman, still mindful of the Great Depression through which her family had struggled, she had an aversion to risk and especially to borrowing money. How will you do this, Paddy? I hope we won’t have to borrow too much money. It will cost a lot to buy tractors and things, and won’t you have to employ more men?

I think we can handle it with Mick and Ollie. Anyway it won’t be all that long until Jack is home earning his keep. Helen said nothing. She had ambitions for Jack, including a University education. That would add a further three or four years to his absence. She knew her son, as mothers do, and she was not at all certain he would be coming home to take over the management of Ballinrobe.

Chapter 2

Far Horizons

Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA—1957

Albuquerque, New Mexico is about two thousand miles from Boston. The Baker family rode the rails. There would be a new Chevrolet waiting for them there. It was an exciting time for them all, to see so much of their country. The train passed through the northeast, down through New York and Baltimore to Washington, DC, then across to Chicago and south through the Mid-west to Albuquerque. The journey was broken several times to visit cities and landmarks alike.

Take your time, Jimmy, said Bob Phillips. You have a big job waiting for you, and you need a vacation. Give the family a good look at our great country, and, remember, Worcester Electronic is picking up the check.

It had been quite a journey, starting with the family meeting when Jimmy reached home and delivered his news. It was not greeted with overwhelming joy. Marci was concerned for her family, particularly her aging mother. She had other siblings to look after her, but Marci was closer to her mother than the others were. Susan was happy to move, despite leaving her friends behind. At eleven, on the cusp of puberty, she had demonstrated a remarkable serenity when confronting problems in her life. Wherever her father went, she was happy to go. She was looking forward to meeting new people and having new adventures. Secretly, she believed she had outgrown Worcester.

Sarah was the least inclined to move. She did not want to lose her friends, including a new boyfriend. James Junior wanted to go. He got out the encyclopedia and checked out New Mexico. Do they really have cowboys and Indians out there, Dad?

"They sure do, Jimbo, real cowboys and Indians. It’s a lot warmer than it is in Worcester, too."