FROM UNDER A KURRAJONG TREE

By Michael John

Follow the life of Jack Jeffery from his birth under a Kurrajong tree in country Victoria, to the hell of fighting the Japanese on the deadly Kokoda Track.
On his life journey Jack finds love, becomes a shearer and a promising tent boxer.
Through the ups and downs of life Jack learns quickly there is nothing more important than sticking up for a mate when he is in a jam.
In the hell that was the Kokoda Track in WW 2, all his life’s lessons will be tested when he is faced by wave after wave of battle-hardened Japanese soldiers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Mar 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9780648538127

Michael John

Michael John is a retired Master Mariner. In a full career at sea he commanded a wide range of ships across the world. Isabella is his second novel of three published books. Much of the historical background has been drawn from family records. Michael John has a daughter, twin sons and seven grandchildren He sails his own traditional boat and lives on the river Tamar.

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CHAPTER ONE

A TOUGH START TO LIFE

"One last push Anna, c’mon girl just one more, a chubby midwife with bright pink, plump cheeks urged from between the bent knees of Anna Jeffery. I’ve almost got th’ little bugger, she added, manoeuvring for a better grip on the slippery new born protruding from within its mother. Come on girl, one more push," she urged.

It was a cold winter’s day in 1924; Anna Jeffery lay on her back on a sturdy wooden table, in the kitchen of her modest home near Beechworth, in North Eastern Victoria.

From between her blood-splattered thighs the tiny pink head and shoulders of her new born child bulged. A white bed sheet splattered with bright red blood and soaked in glistening amniotic fluid covered the table.

Strands of Anna’s long dark hair, soaked with perspiration from hours of torturous labour stuck to her pale stressed face.

Inside the small burner of a wrought iron wood burning stove, kindling wood burned furiously, heating the kitchen and boiling a pot of water on a hot plate. Grey smoke, belching from a blackened chimney high above the roof, curled into the clear afternoon sky.

The small whitewashed farmhouse stood under a huge Kurrajong tree, at the eastern corner of a modest farm a few miles out of the town of Beechworth. Although the house was bathed in unseasonal bright afternoon sunlight, the mercury was still below 50 degrees Fahrenheit.

With the last of her stamina, Anna Jeffery breathed deeply, squeezed her abdomen as hard as she could and grunted loudly with the effort. Her lower back pushed down on the solid table top. Her fingernails dug into the under edge of the table for leverage.

That’s a girl, Anna, the midwife called, smiling at her from between her knees, and then turned her attention back to the tiny new born as it slithered with a wet slosh from within its mother.

With the experience of many similar births, the midwife caught the child like a slips fielder in a game of cricket. She held it in her bloodied hands as it began to screech.

Anna’s pain subsided with the last gushing movement between her thighs. A weak smile curled the corner of her dry lips when she heard the squeal of her new born child.

A few moments later the door to the kitchen flew open and crashed into the stove. A gust of icy air blew into the room. Anna’s husband, Joe Jeffery, burst through the door to see his beautiful wife smiling weakly up at him from the blood-spattered table.

Joe stood over six feet tall with a thick curly black beard that grew down to his broad chest. His weather hardened face smiled down at his beautiful wife.

Good on ya love, he whispered in genuine gratitude, and then turned to the midwife who had cut the umbilical cord and was wiping the tiny infant down with soft, clean towels.

Well; what is it, Mrs Baxter? Joe asked roughly as he stepped up to view the new arrival.

By the look of this little thing between his legs, I’d say you have another son, Joe, she informed him as he leaned forwards for a closer look.

Joe’s harsh exterior seemed to melt at the vision of his new son cradled in Mrs Baxter’s arms. His smile was so wide his cheeks began to ache. He reached down lifting the tiny squealing baby, now bundled in a soft white blanket, from Mrs Baxter. Slowly he turned and carried the baby past Anna and out the kitchen door.

"Be careful with him, you great oaf! Mrs Baxter called as she stepped up to the table to tend to Anna. You would think he would show you your son before he presents him to that mob outside," the midwife whispered angrily, and Anna smiled up at her.

In good time, Mrs Baxter. Joe will get around to it in good time, Anna murmured weakly. Joe has a funny way of doing things, she added and her weak smile fell away.

Stepping through the open front door Joe crossed a wide veranda, which ran along the front of his cottage. He descended three timber steps to a narrow pathway of crushed quartz, which led to the front gate.

A small group of friends had gathered at the front of the cottage when word had got about that Anna Jeffery had finally gone into labour, almost two weeks late.

With his other son Ben, who had just turned three, hugging his left leg, Joe paused in front of his friends. He hoisted the tiny bundle toward the dense foliage of the towering Kurrajong tree which had stood there long before Joe built the cottage when he married Anna.

An icy breeze blew down off the snow-caps of Mount Buffalo, far off in the hazy distance, as he announced to the world. "I have a fine new son. Jack is his name, Jack Jeffery."

Three cheers for young Jack, a voice called from the small crowd of well-wishers and everyone joined in sincere cheers, raising the glasses they had been drinking beer from to toast the new arrival. The group then crowded around Joe for a closer look at baby Jack Jeffery.

After numerous failed attempts by Mrs Baxter to retrieve the baby, Joe finally went back inside to return the infant to Anna’s side.

She was now resting in their large four poster bed. Joe bent down kissing her pale cheek softly then gently laid the tiny bundle beside her.

He returned to the group of well-wishers outside with two fresh bottles of beer. His smile lasted the rest of the day, as his friends congratulated him and went into the main bedroom, one at a time, to pass on their best wishes to Anna; and to sneak another peak at baby Jack now sleeping contentedly in his mother’s arms.

It was late afternoon when Joe went out of his way, while getting another bottle of beer from the pantry, to pop in to see how Anna and his new son were doing.

Thanks love, he’s a little ripper, he whispered to Anna as he bent down kissing her pale cheek again. She had remained in bed all the afternoon, weakened by her labour of love.

Baby Jack, cradled in her arms, stirred and began to squeal with hunger.

Please don’t drink too much, Joe, Anna whispered as she put the baby to her left breast. You know how you get when you are on the grog.

I’m only being hospitable to me mates outside, love, Joe answered with a slur and left her to feed their new son.

Much later as the sun began to set and the temperature chilled towards freezing Joe swilled the last drop of beer from his last bottle. He had enjoyed the day with his friends from around the district and had polished off ten bottles of beer himself.

There were only two friends left as the first day of young Jack Jeffery’s life closed to dusk.

Joe, a heavy drinker with a violent temper, had been arguing with the last two guests for almost half an hour. In a fit of rage, he threw the empty beer bottle he held in his right hand into the girthy trunk of the Kurrajong tree. It shattered with a loud popping explosion, spraying the ground with slithers of amber glass.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his left wrist he turned back to face his two friends. His eyes were dark with anger. The three men had gone from friendly banter throughout the day, to a wild argument about the merits of Australian troops going to fight in the First World War, far away from Australian shores, for a king, Joe thought did not care for Colonials.

The two men he argued with had served with the First Australian Imperial Force and returned home after the First World War ended in 1920. Both had endured months of suffering. Some of their time spent in the filthy trenches of Gallipoli.

One of them Albert Thompson or Tommo as he was known around town, was the publican of the Commercial Hotel in Beechworth. A well-built man with a big heart to match, he had lived in the area for most of his life and known Joe for many years.

Tommo had lost his father and two of his four brothers in different campaigns during the First World War. He had held his youngest brother in his arms as he bled to death in a sun baked, disease ridden trench on the Gallipoli peninsula.

You bastards went off to fight a war, for a bloody king who didn’t give a shit for us, in a place none of you even knew existed until you set foot there, Joe bellowed, poking Tommo in the chest with the index finger of his right hand. "You have no bloody idea how hard it was to stay ‘ere and work the land while you blokes were off havin’ the time of your life in some exotic land. He waved his hands about wildly, stumbling with the effects of the alcohol and his rage. And for what? he yelled, almost falling over. So that you bludgers could come home to pats on th’ back, an’ parades an’ good on ya mate, you did us proud. What a lot of bloody rubbish."

The two men he yelled at stood shaking their heads in disbelief.

You’re a bloody fool, Joe Jeffery, Tommo finally broke in on Joe’s slurred ramblings. In your worst nightmares you could not imagine the hell we all went through.

Gallipoli was no bloody picnic mate, Tommo’s companion announced as they turned their backs on Joe to leave in disgust.

Joe laughed sarcastically and lunged forward grabbing Tommo’s left shoulder. Are ya runnin’ away again, Tommo? he yelled. Th’ bloody Turk’s gave you a hiding at Gallipoli an’ you all ran away with your bloody tails between your legs, Joe continued as he pulled to turn Tommo back to face him once again.

You stupid bastard! Tommo snarled, turning quicker than Joe had anticipated with his right fist clenched tightly. He punched Joe hard in his mouth.

The blow flattened Joe, as Anna hobbled gingerly down the steps and moved quickly to her husband’s side.

He laid motionless on his back as she knelt to him.

I’m sorry, Anna, Tommo apologized. But he shouldn’t be saying that rubbish he comes out with about the war.

I know, Albert. But you know what he’s like on the grog, Anna answered. She was one of very few people who called Tommo by his Christian name.

Will you be alright, Anna? Tommo asked, as he knelt to her side. Joe’s eyes were rolling about in a dazed stare. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

Can you two please help me get him inside? she asked.

Almost unconscious from Tommo’s blow and from the beer he had consumed, Joe’s feet dragged behind as his two friends dragged him, shoulder to shoulder, up to the porch and into a hallway that ran from the front door of the cottage through to the back door.

Anna led the way off to the right and into their bedroom.

Lay him on the bed thank you, she directed, pulling back thick bed covers.

Baby Jack was in a small wooden cot in a corner of the bedroom, sleeping contently. Young Ben appeared at the bedroom door and stood watching as the two men lifted his father into bed.

As Joe’s head touched the pillow, he became more lucid announcing that he didn’t need the help of cowards, striking out at the two men who had helped him inside. Get out of my house, you bastards, he bellowed, scaring young Ben who now stood crying at the end of the bed. Ben screamed and tears squirted from his eyes.

Get out! Joe bellowed again and Anna ushered them all from the room.

Thank you both, she said as they walked through the front door to the sound of Joe’s hysterical abuse of his two friends.

Are you sure you’ll be alright, Anna? Tommo asked again, worried that Joe may beat her, as he had done many times before. He held her hands in his; they were as cold as ice.

Tommo had loved Anna for many years. On many occasions he had asked her to leave Joe and bring young Ben to live with him at the hotel in town. Anna always declined his offer; she loved Joe and always stood by him.

I’ll be fine; it’s only the grog. He is a good man, Albert; you know he is, Anna assured him with a thin smile on her lips and Ben hugging her knees sobbing hysterically. It’s only the grog; he’ll be fine in the morning, she added.

An icy wind blew down the hallway as she closed the door. She lifted Ben into her arms and carried him to his bed.

Stop crying now, Ben. Everything will be fine in the morning, she comforted him, and within a few minutes he had cried himself to sleep. Anna tucked him in tightly and returned to Joe who was now sitting quietly on the edge of their bed with his head hung low, cradled in his huge hands.

In the cot, Joe had built for Ben when he was born, baby Jack had slept through the commotion.

Have those mongrels gone? Joe snarled through bloodied teeth and a cut lip.

Why do you act like this, Joe? They are our friends, Anna answered.

They aren’t my bloody friends Joe yelled. "Tommo only hangs around here so he can have his way with you," he pointed his right clenched fist at her angrily.

"That’s nonsense and you know it. I love you Joe Jeffery," Anna whispered.

"That little bastard is probably his," Joe growled pointing at Jack’s cot as rage again took control of his mind. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, stumbled over to the cot and lifted the sleeping baby up and held him out to Anna.

Jack woke and began squealing.

Is he Tommo’s little bastard? Joe yelled.

For God’s sake, leave the baby alone, Joe, Anna pleaded rushing to snatch the infant from her husband. "He is your son, Joe Jeffery, Anna announced seizing the tiny bundle from his rough, callused hands. You are a demon when you get on the grog," she added cradling the screaming baby in her arms.

Joe’s eyes opened wide with a raging anger and he lifted his right hand back over his left shoulder and whipped it down into Anna’s pretty face.

She cried out as she and the baby flew across the room. Her back crashed heavily into the wall by the bedroom door. Joe stepped up to strike her again as she slid to the floor crying, trying to protect her child from this monster that towered above her with his huge right fist raised high.

She looked up at him as he pointed his fist down at her, all his rage channelled into the menacing fist. Her right cheek, pink from the first blow, was glazed with tears.

Why, Joe? she asked looking up at the horror that was life with Joe Jeffery.

At that point, with his beautiful wife staring up at him, the strength and anger sapped from Joe, as if someone had turned on a tap. He crumpled in tears to the floor hugging her and the baby.

They sat there for an hour or more in the cold night air, with Joe constantly apologising until he finally fell asleep. Anna wriggled herself and the baby from his embrace, stood and moved over to the bed. She pulled a blanket from the bed and threw it over Joe where he lay snoring.

Anna sat on the edge of the bed suckling baby Jack to her breast, and then rocked him gently back to sleep. For the rest of the night Anna sat cradling Jack and staring down at Joe who lay in the blue moonlight, which glowed through the only window in the room. Outside a cold winter wind blew, swirling and howling through the branches of the Kurrajong tree.

With the first rays of a new day bursting into the bedroom, Joe woke with a hangover that thumped inside his head. He was stiff from his night snoring on the cold bare timber floor.

Good morning, Joe, Anna whispered still sitting on the edge of the bed with Jack in her arms, the right side of her face now bruised grey and swollen.

Oh Jesus, I’m sorry love. You know I love ya, Joe said, climbing unsteadily to his feet and moving over to sit next to her and his new son.

Ben entered the room as Joe sat down on the edge of the bed and slipped his left arm around Anna.

Hello boy, Joe greeted Ben as he stood wide-eyed frozen with fear at the sight of his father sitting on the bed next to his weary battered mother. Let’s go and make mum a nice cuppa tea ‘eh, Joe added, kissing Anna’s swollen cheek. Sorry love, ya know I love ya, he assured her again.

As they left the room Anna slipped out a breast to give her baby another feed. During the night she felt her love for Joe evaporate like her tears had done as they rolled down her swollen cheek. For the sake of her children she could not leave Joe, but in the future, she would work out some way of enjoying the affections of Albert Thompson.

CHAPTER TWO

YOUNG JACK JEFFERY

Life in the Jeffery household over the years that followed Jack’s birth were tough. Joe tried to cut down on his drinking but once every few months he would have a buster and binge drink to excess, usually after some crisis on the farm.

Joe and Anna struggled to make ends meet. The pressure of a worldwide depression that gripped the country in the early 1930s had hit everyone hard and depreciated the price of what they could produce on the farm. They had battled with debt even before the boys were born.

Joe had tried most things the other farmers in the area had succeeded with but for many reasons he seemed to struggle to make a living off the farm. It seemed to Joe that the whole world, including God was against him. With a young family to feed, he found it increasingly difficult to make enough money to put food on the table.

******

Jack Jeffery walked onto the porch of his family house and yawned. His arms stretched up towards the thick, dark-green foliage of the Kurrajong tree that still towered high above the house he grew up in. It had been seventeen years since the day Joe had hoisted him high into the air and announced to his friends that he had a new son.

He remembered Joe’s binge drinking sessions would end up with beatings for him, his brother and sometimes his mother, who would always try to step in to protect her sons. And the next morning, Joe would apologize and beg forgiveness promising never to drink again.

With the bruises from Joe’s beatings showing on their faces and bodies, Anna and the boys would look at each other and hope this time he meant what he said but knew it would only be a matter of time before they would feel the back of Joe’s broad hand or the cutting leather of his belt again.

After each of Joe’s drinking binges life was good for a while; these were the happy times Jack remembered. As he stood and stared up into the foliage of the Kurrajong, he recalled the days after the drinking and beatings were full of fun and good times.

It was as though his father had released a pressure valve. Joe would pick wildflowers for his young wife and take the boys hunting for rabbits or fishing. Life without the grog was good in the Jeffery household. The house would be full of laughter and the smell of Anna’s cooking. They were the happiest times of Jack’s young life.

Jack stepped down off the last of the steps from the front porch of the house, now a crumbling wreck after years of neglect.

The huge Kurrajong cast long dark shadows as the sun rose slowly over the distant mountainous horizon. High above, puffy white clouds glowed bright orange at their edges.

Jack stood a few inches short of six feet tall with piercing, jade green eyes which seemed to glow from his young tanned face. He was lean; some thought he was skinny.

He had inherited the beauty of Anna and the strength of Joe. His sandy blond hair, shaved short back and sides, shifted as the breeze freshened.

He walked slowly to the immense trunk of the tree that had towered over his life at home. He remembered the happy times spent high amongst its branches, in a crude tree house he and his brother Ben had built, when Jack was about eight.

They built the tree house from a collection of flotsam and jetsam they gathered one afternoon from around the farm. The boys hauled the crude building materials high into the branches of the Kurrajong, on a ladder of short timber treads, nailed to its stout bark.

Long after the last small set of feet had negotiated the daunting climb, rusting nails of all sizes still held most of the ladder rungs in place.

The tree house made of old timber palings and scrap pieces of corrugated iron, had only been large enough for two or three children. In a long-forgotten summer storm the tree house had come crashing down.

Jack grasped the end of the lowest timber rung still firmly nailed to the trunk; bark had begun to grow around it. As he held the rotting piece of timber, he remembered it was Ben, then about eleven years old, who had driven the first nail home, and then handed Joe’s heavy blacksmiths hammer to Jack.

Here you have a go, Jack, he offered, and Jack remembered he felt privileged to think his brother would trust him with such an important task.

Jack rubbed the thumbnail of his left hand remembering the pain that had raced through every nerve ending of his body as the oversized hammer missed its target after the first few tentative taps and crashed into his thumb. His brother had laughed loudly at first, and then comforted him as he cradled his throbbing hand.

They went on to finish the tree house that day. That night both received a hell of a belting from Joe, who had been drinking in town all day, for wasting valuable farm supplies and time on such a foolish thing as a tree house.

After the vicious hiding Jack received, he remembered the gentle but strong touch of his father’s huge hands as he drilled a tiny hole through Jack’s blackened thumbnail. The tip of a heated darning needle melted through his tiny nail with ease, to relieve the throbbing pain of a blood blister that had built up pressure under the nail after the hammer’s blow.

The chilly breeze strengthened; Jack slipped his hand into the deep pockets of his trousers. The thin cream pinstripe of his heavy brown woollen trousers had faded and almost vanished under the grime of years spent travelling the Australian outback from town to town.

As the breeze rustled the Kurrajong’s foliage, his hard-brown nipples became erect and scratched against the harsh surface of a grubby white singlet that stretched over his strong, lean torso. He turned and raced back up the steps and into the dark hallway of the house.

He stepped into the bedroom he had once shared with Ben, and slipped on a grubby, once white, long sleeve shirt, the only one he owned, and buttoned it to its frayed collar. He tucked the shirt into his trousers and pulled on a pair of braces, which dangled down the sides of his thighs. He picked up a suit coat that matched his faded pinstripe trousers and pulled it on then slipped into an old trench coat.

He stepped back out into the dim hallway and glanced down to a small dust covered table, adorned with a few old framed black and white photos. He picked up a photo of his mother on her wedding day, remembering how beautiful she had been. But in the photo, he saw the sadness in her eyes that matched the grim look on her face. The camera had caught her looking so sad on a day that should have been her happiest.

As Jack wiped years of dust from the glass of the photo frame with a filthy tattered cloth he used as a handkerchief, he remembered the days his mother would take his tiny hand and walk him into town. She would go into town to shop while Joe worked on the farm and Ben was at school.

They would call into the Commercial Hotel in Beechworth for an hour or so. Mr Thompson would pour Jack a small glass of raspberry lemonade, then lift him onto a bar stool.

Once Jack was happy, he would take Anna’s hand and lead her away. Jack would sit and watch men drink and play billiards on a large, green, felt topped table.

When his mother returned her cheeks were rosy pink and there was a spring in her step and a gleaming white smile on her beautiful face. After her time away with Mr Thompson, they would finish the shopping and walk home.

Jack remembered how much happier his mother seemed on the way home. Her shopping trips continued once or twice a week, long after Jack had started school.

Jack had just turned ten the day a constable from town, sitting astride a huge chestnut mare, rode into his school yard, just before the final bell for the day.

A few minutes later the school principal, Mr Smith, entered Jack’s classroom. He whispered something into Jack’s teacher’s ear, then escorted Jack to the front of the school where the constable waited. He was dressed in an immaculate dark blue uniform with gleaming polished silver buttons and wearing a hard, blue cap. Ben was sitting on the horse behind the constable.

There has been an accident in town, boys, he informed them as he lifted Jack onto the back of his mount, behind Ben. There was a terrible fire at the Commercial Hotel today, he added as they rode slowly out of the small schoolyard.

Ben’s arms were around the constable’s waist, Jack’s arms were around Ben.

Your dear mother has been killed boys, the constable informed them in a very solemn voice, but with little thought for the boys’ feelings. I’m very sorry, boys, he added. The O’Brien’s are waiting for you at home, he concluded.

Jack felt Ben shudder, then cry out with grief; his arms squeezed tighter around the constable. Jack hugged Ben tightly as though his life depended on it. All the way home Jack held his brother and they both wept in silence.

When the constable pulled his mount up at the front of the Jeffery house, Mrs O’Brien, quite a chubby woman with a crop of curly red hair tied tightly into a bun at the back of her head, came waddling down the front steps of Jack’s home.

She lived with her husband and their daughter Mary, on an adjacent farm. They had purchased the small piece of land from Joe Jeffery before Jack was born.

She hugged them both to her abundant bosom, as they demounted.

Where’s our dad? Jack’s cry was muffled by her impetuous hug.

We have him at the lock up, boys, the constable answered from high above, still mounted on the mare.

Jack tried to break away from Mrs O’Brien’s bear hug. He has to answer some questions before we can send him home, the constable added.

He’ll be home soon enough, boys, Mrs O’Brien assured them in a heavy Irish accent, then led the boys towards the house.

What sort of questions? Jack asked, turning back to the constable.

We want to know if he had anything to do with the fire, young Jack, the constable answered.

Come along now, Jack. Be a good boy and come inside, Mrs O’Brien insisted, gently guiding him towards the steps as the constable turned his mount and