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Authors: Leslie Thomas
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thirty miles long. What the hell is the sense?' He paused and became quickly upright and formal. 'I want to hear all this officially before I listen to you for another instant,' he said.
Conway shrugged. 'Sir William, I bear full authority from the Australian Government. My credentials, my letters, are all intact, and here for you to inspect. You will be get-
ting further correspondence, more information. But I'm here to get this thing rolling, and that's what I'm going to do.'
He handed a fold of letters across to the Governor, taking them from his plastic briefcase, about which he no longer felt ashamed. Sir William unwillingly took the papers and went towards the window where he stood stooped against the final light of the day. Conway could see the 'Bread' neon sign regularly hitting the water of the lagoon. There seemed to be a small wind loping through the garden. Sir William was several minutes. He returned to Conway and handed the letters to him.
Sir William said: 'The games we play in this life. I don't know who thinks up such twaddle.' His voice was quiet, without his previous anger. He looked at Conway. 'They'll die,' he said. 'They'll most surely die. Then where will your precious stunt be?' Putting the papers back untidily into the briefcase Conway looked at the Governor. 'Stunt, I admit, sir, is the word,' he said. 'But because it's a stunt, a public relations campaign if you like, there is a good chance ‑ more than that, a very good chance ‑ that the St Paul's boys will never get any further than dear old Aussie. It will be a free trip for them, just a chance to look around...'
'Australia,' said Sir William gloomily, 'would probably frighten them a good deal more than Vietnam.'
Conway swallowed. 'Well, anyway, we're going to do it. Some way or another. If we can get about a dozen or so of them to Sydney, doll them up in uniforms, and say they are going to join the Australian forces in Vietnam, that's probably as far as we'll want to go. I'm not certain, but it's my guess.'
'What,' asked Sir William, 'is the object of the whole business? If they are not going to the war, why take them at all?'
'Promotion, public relations, the image, all that sort of dazzle,' said Conway. Then he added: 'But this is between you and me, Sir William. Outside this room the St Paul's natives are being recruited as trackers for Vietnam.' He got up and walked a few paces on the brown carpet. 'People these days, need something new, something to stimulate them.'
'Not the St Paul's people,' said Sir William.
Conway stopped and looked up sharply. 'Not them,' he said. 'The Australians I'm thinking about. Even sending soldiers to war has to be dressed up in a package these days. People don't like it. We like to let people know ‑ everybody, all the people in the world ‑ the contribution we, the Australians, are making in Vietnam. Too often we get overshadowed, forgotten, because we only have a small force out there. This will give us some good exposure.'
'Package! Exposure! Your picture in the papers! Just for this you would injure or destroy a primitive people?' Sir William walked towards the door, dejectedly, slowly.
'No one is going to be injured or destroyed,' said Conway.
'Have you been to Vietnam, Mr Conway?'
'Yes. I was invalided home. They gave me a job in Military Public Relations.'
'Thinking up nightmares.'
Conway did not answer. Sir William was waiting for him to go. He walked from the big room. A servant went like a shadow through the entrance hall, but no one else was about. Sir William said: 'I shall be in touch with your government and attempt to stop this nonsense.'
Conway said: 'In the meantime I ought to make some sort of reconnoitre trip over to St Paul's. Goodnight, Sir William.'
'Goodnight,' said Sir William. 'I hope they eat you.'
Five
The Assembly Building of the Apostle Islands, the official meeting place of both the Anglo‑French Condominium and the local
Conway shrugged. 'Sir William, I bear full authority from the Australian Government. My credentials, my letters, are all intact, and here for you to inspect. You will be get-
ting further correspondence, more information. But I'm here to get this thing rolling, and that's what I'm going to do.'
He handed a fold of letters across to the Governor, taking them from his plastic briefcase, about which he no longer felt ashamed. Sir William unwillingly took the papers and went towards the window where he stood stooped against the final light of the day. Conway could see the 'Bread' neon sign regularly hitting the water of the lagoon. There seemed to be a small wind loping through the garden. Sir William was several minutes. He returned to Conway and handed the letters to him.
Sir William said: 'The games we play in this life. I don't know who thinks up such twaddle.' His voice was quiet, without his previous anger. He looked at Conway. 'They'll die,' he said. 'They'll most surely die. Then where will your precious stunt be?' Putting the papers back untidily into the briefcase Conway looked at the Governor. 'Stunt, I admit, sir, is the word,' he said. 'But because it's a stunt, a public relations campaign if you like, there is a good chance ‑ more than that, a very good chance ‑ that the St Paul's boys will never get any further than dear old Aussie. It will be a free trip for them, just a chance to look around...'
'Australia,' said Sir William gloomily, 'would probably frighten them a good deal more than Vietnam.'
Conway swallowed. 'Well, anyway, we're going to do it. Some way or another. If we can get about a dozen or so of them to Sydney, doll them up in uniforms, and say they are going to join the Australian forces in Vietnam, that's probably as far as we'll want to go. I'm not certain, but it's my guess.'
'What,' asked Sir William, 'is the object of the whole business? If they are not going to the war, why take them at all?'
'Promotion, public relations, the image, all that sort of dazzle,' said Conway. Then he added: 'But this is between you and me, Sir William. Outside this room the St Paul's natives are being recruited as trackers for Vietnam.' He got up and walked a few paces on the brown carpet. 'People these days, need something new, something to stimulate them.'
'Not the St Paul's people,' said Sir William.
Conway stopped and looked up sharply. 'Not them,' he said. 'The Australians I'm thinking about. Even sending soldiers to war has to be dressed up in a package these days. People don't like it. We like to let people know ‑ everybody, all the people in the world ‑ the contribution we, the Australians, are making in Vietnam. Too often we get overshadowed, forgotten, because we only have a small force out there. This will give us some good exposure.'
'Package! Exposure! Your picture in the papers! Just for this you would injure or destroy a primitive people?' Sir William walked towards the door, dejectedly, slowly.
'No one is going to be injured or destroyed,' said Conway.
'Have you been to Vietnam, Mr Conway?'
'Yes. I was invalided home. They gave me a job in Military Public Relations.'
'Thinking up nightmares.'
Conway did not answer. Sir William was waiting for him to go. He walked from the big room. A servant went like a shadow through the entrance hall, but no one else was about. Sir William said: 'I shall be in touch with your government and attempt to stop this nonsense.'
Conway said: 'In the meantime I ought to make some sort of reconnoitre trip over to St Paul's. Goodnight, Sir William.'
'Goodnight,' said Sir William. 'I hope they eat you.'
Five
The Assembly Building of the Apostle Islands, the official meeting place of both the Anglo‑French Condominium and the local
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