© Josephine Pennicott
We are mad, not only individually, but nationally.We check manslaughter and isolated murders, but what of war and the much vaunted crimes of slaughtering whole peoples?
{Seneca:Ad
Lucilium XCV}
But the old
men know when an old man dies
{Ogden Nash:Old
Men}
Extract from the personal war memoirs of Milly Levell
Scott. Sumatra, 1945.
It was the heat that killed her.She
had a heart condition and was already ill.Some
of the more outspoken Sisters complained, trying to tell the guards about
her medical history, but they refused to listen. We wore no hats and the
sun's heat soaked us with rivulets of perspiration. Streams ran down our
necks and legs. Occasionally the guards would come by and
slap our faces or prod us with their machine guns.
Some of the nurses sobbed quietly as they stood under that cruel sun, but
most were silent, eyes wary, as we waited in fearful expectation of those
guns to open fire. Sister Raymont was
having a tough time. She almost stumbled a few times,
causing the guards to pounce on her, shouting incoherently.
Dear God, please
give Raymont your strength to endure this punishment. Please keep us safe
and our chins up.Protect our boys
who are fighting, and bring an end to this war.
It was the
heat that killed her.We had no hats
and sunscreen was unheard of back then. We stood there for hours. Some
of the nurses claimed it was seven hours, others said no, it was only three.To
me it felt like we stood in that courtyard for seven years. All the time
my eyes stayed fixed upon the red cross embroidered upon Sister Raymond's
sleeve, that
symbol that we drew upon so often for our strength.Two
guards walked past us, inspecting us closely.They
stopped before me, and I smelt their fetid breath.They
looked me up and down and said something in Japanese to each other, and
laughed.Fear tiptoed in frantic
waves through every cell of my body.I
guessed they were assessing my potential as a prostitute
for their officers.I
looked them steadily in the eye. I remembered the words of a young Australian
soldier. Never turn your back on 'em or show fear if you're captured.Always
look the buggers in the eye. They don't like to shoot you in cold blood
if you're looking them in the eye.The
guards moved on and I breathed out again.Safe
for now.As I stood under that biting,
burning sun I composed letters to my family.I
am well and in reasonably good spirits, so please don't worry!One
of the few advantages of being a prisoner of war is that I have lost so
much weight!You would no doubt
be shocked if you saw
your porky little Millicent now.I
weigh only six stone.Some of the
nurses are down to five.Keep smiling,
I long to see you.I also composed
letters to my friend Betty Clancy, with whom I had trained with in Melbourne;
she had also been shipped to Singapore.Dear
Clancy, I hope you are safe. I am praying for you, with any luck you're
back in Australia.Why did we
ever enlist for this damned war?Remember
how we laughed about our sense of duty? But Clancy, how could we have forseen
that things would get this revolting, this miserable? Nurses are dropping
like flies here of malaria, TB and
beriberi.Remember
Sister James?She said the only heavy
work we have to do here is digging graves.The
other day a group of us were so famished that we cooked and ate our supply
glue.Rats are providing the bulk
of our protein
at the moment, but are proving difficult to catch.Don't
you just long for a lamb roast?Even
a nice cold water would be heaven.I
pray you are safe.Your Scottie.PS
The administration of the camp has changed from civilian to military.Captain
Saki is the new commanding officer.He
gave us a welcoming speech where he said he had the power if he so desired
to
condemn us to death for breach of discipline.That's
why we're out under this blazing sun today, because one of the Sisters
forgot to bow to a guard.Chin up,
keep smiling.
It was the
heat that killed her.Others died
of bombs, machine guns and bayonets, tropical diseases and inadequate diets.In
Sister Raymond's case, it was the sun.We
were all shattered by her death, which was officially 'malaria'.But
those of us who stood next to her, perspiring and enduring together, knew
the truth.It was the sun that killed
her.
Sydney, 2000.
"Well. I never...
Kathleen."Milly spoke aloud, although
the only occupants of her courtyard garden were a couple of doves and the
neighbours' overweight ginger cat.Blinking
hard as she adjusted her spectacles, Milly scanned
the lurid tabloid article again.
GRANNY RIPPER
KILLS AGAIN!The serial killer who
has been preying on the inner city's elderly claimed his third victim yesterday
evening. Mrs Kathleen Groves, 83, of St Augustines Terrace, was brutally
murdered
in her unit at approximately 11pm...Police
are appealing to the public for any information. Dubbed the Granny Ripper,
the killer has created fear and panic amongst the elderly across inner
city suburbs... "We're too frightened to sleep at night," sobbed Alice
Green, 73, Mrs Groves' next door neighbour. "What sort of coward preys
on the elderly? What's the world come to?"
Milly opened
her pocketbook with lined hands that shookslightly,
and took out a miniature black-bound diary. She wrote in a flowing, copperplate
script: Kathleen Groves, 83, St Augustine's Terrace.Above
that addition were two other name:Geoffrey
Denton, 74, Wattle Drive, Inglewood and Ruth Brown, 92, Princess Street,
Surrey Park.After a pause, she added
in brackets after Kathleen's name - friend.Milly
meditated on the names.Three virtually
identical killings, all without signs of forced entry or robbery. Each
one involved mutilation of body parts, and in each case the victim's hands
were tied behind their backs, execution style.The
slayings always occurred late at night, and neighbours never noticed suspicious
noises or activity. Milly frowned, clicking her tongue against the roof
of her mouth. There had to be a connection somewhere.
It was with
sadness that Milly selected her grey David Jones suit to wear to her friend's
service. Only last week she had joked with Kathleen about their lack of
black
funeral attire.Poor Kathleen.She
had possessed one of the biggest
hearts that Milly knew, until the Granny Ripper had elected to still it
forever.There were rows and rows
of outfits in
Milly's wardrobe.They
hung on hand made frilly coat hangers, collected at fetes. She had tied
lavender sachets to each coat hanger.Some
outfits sported matching belts and scarves.Milly
was always promising herself that she
would cull her wardrobe, but every outfit had its
own poem, spoke its own memory. So they remained, hanging in the wardrobe
in plastic coverings, a silent living gallery of Milly's seven decades.The
suit smelt sharply of mothballs.
Milly hung it out to air.
The rain drizzled
all through Kathleen's service.Milly
recognized familiar faces from
the Golden Olden Boot Team.Each
lined face wore the same shock and disbelief that death brings when it
claims someone close to you as its own.It
could have been me.The soft patter
of water drops fell in light waves on the roof above.Trying
to stop herself crying,
Milly studied the prominent river of blue veins that
contorted in her arthritic hands.How
difficult was it to silence a beating heart?
He was watching
her.No, Milly reassured herself,
it was her imagination.She was just
highly strung from Kathleen's service. She hated cremation, it seemed so
final.Why didn't they bury them
like seeds, so they at least had the chance to sprout and flower?
St Augustines
railway station was crowded. The man watching her was young, with greasy
black hair hanging to his shoulders.Prey,
she was prey. He lit a cigarette.Milly
was painfully aware of how she would appear to him.Frail,
pathetic, easily overpowered, and looking as if she had money somewhere
in her David Jones suit or her smart crocodile-skin bag.
Infirm, easily broken.
A sea of people
moved around her as a train pulled into the station and people disembarked.Now
he was moving towards her.Milly
fought back her panic.She was in
broad daylight, secure in the belly of a crowd.
She would be safe.He
was level with her.Now he would
walk past her.Then he lunged at
her, grabbing her handbag.Confused
commuters looked around as Milly screamed.The
scene was like a nightmare in slow motion. Milly
refused to let go of the bag, and felt herself wrenched
bodily along with him. A woman screamed.People
stood back, horrified but motionless.The
man kicked at Milly, winding her in the stomach.She
lay, crouched in pain, her
stockings laddered, a rip in her David Jones suit.
"Cop a load
of Super Gran." Constable Richard Moss, on duty at St Augustines Police
Station, nodded towards the slight elderly woman seated with quiet dignity
in the waiting area.
The young policewoman,
Debbie King, rose to Milly's defence. "Don't be horrible," she said, "Poor
old thing.Imagine if she was your
mum."
"My mum wouldn't
be stupid enough to try to fight back," Richard retorted. "Old people give
me the creeps anyway, they're so slow."
"Don't be a
bastard.You'll be old one day."
"Maybe, but
I'd shoot myself if I thought I would end up like her." He nodded towards
Milly, who sat staring ahead vacantly, mourning the loss of her bag. "We
ought to put Super Gran onto the Granny Ripper.She
just might sort him out."
Then, with
an exaggerated show of politeness he approached Milly."Mrs
Scott, we've finished with you now. I'll run you back to your home if you
wish."His voice, raised inassumption
of Milly's deafness, ricocheted around the station. She sighed and got
to her feet. Her cards, library tickets, photographs, diary, address book,
few cosmetics, twenty dollars, bus
ticket, Medicare, health care - Milly's mind continued
to tick them off in a list.Gone,
all gone.
Connections,
there must be connections.Milly
stared at her new list. Kathleen Groves, Geoffrey Denton, Ruth Brown.All
elderly and living in neighbouring suburbs. All using the same public transport.They
shared strands of the same web. My web.Milly
suddenly felt old and drained, and so very vulnerable.Tomorrow
she would have to get her locks changed.
I'm easy prey.
Sleep refused
to visit her that night.Instead
she sat up, heart beating almost in alignment with the hall clock, eyes
fastened onthe doors of her unit.If
she fell into a light doze, the image of the young man with the greasy
hair would soon terrify her into wakefulness. She could picture her lock
turning and the man entering her home,hate
consuming his eyes. Earlier in the day the police had seemed to make light
of her fears. She wasn't badly hurt, and besides, it was no secret that
St Augustines
was full of junkies and street kids. Come on old thing,
Milly told herself, chin up. She clutched her old blanket tightly around
her shoulders, and tried to forget the fears that plagued her present.
Inevitably, her mind began to turn to the fears of the past.
Extract from
the war memoirs of Milly Levell Scott.
"Excuse me,
Nurse.I'm sorry to trouble you,
but have you got a light?" I
turned to the wounded soldier in the bed.Was
he seventeen?No, more like
fifteen, another one who had lied about his age in search of adventure.
His arms had been blown off, but there were many on the ward with limbs
missing.Hands, arms, legs.Some
men had even lost their faces,
but they never complained, even with the inadequate
pain relief that we had to give them.Their
courage despite their great suffering gave me strength. All the nurses
of our unit dreaded being sent home to Australia.How
could we leave
our men to fend for themselves?It
was unthinkable.And so we moved
in a world of constant operating, a universe of shrapnel wounds and hideous
burns. But it was a world that
we voluntarily elected to be a part of, to defend
our country and to give support to our heroic boys.
He was looking
up at me, lines of pain and fatigue on his face. He had accepted the loss
of his limbs with the same stoicism that they all displayed, and if they
did sob silently to themselves late at night as I often
did, well, I never heard them.I
glanced around the ward. It was a busy night.900
patients, and only three nurses.Betty
was bent over one of the beds giving pain relief to a wounded soldier.A
lock of blonde hair had escaped from her veil.Her
face was intent on the man she was
nursing.I sighed,
the others would have to wait.He
needed his cigarette.I lit it a
Camel and, perching on his camp bed, I placed it between his lips.
"Thanks, Nurse,"he
exhaled gratefully. "You're an angel. Where would we be without you girls?"He
winced as a ripple of pain ran through his body.I
patted his head, thinking of his mother back in Australia, longing for
news of her son.
"Do you have
a fellow back home, Nurse? You're pretty enough."
I smiled. "His
name is David.He's an officer.The
last I heard he was at Tobruk."
There was a
silence.Overhead the spine chilling
sounds of guns in the air like thunder.How
I hated and feared that sound. I knew the waste of life
and the damage to flesh that it always brought.I
yawned with exhaustion - there were hours left of this shift.I
longed for dawn, so Betty and I could make our way back to the tent that
we shared.As if sensing me thinking
of her, she looked over and smiled briefly before moving onto her next
patient.
"What's your
name, Nurse?"
"Millicent.
Milly."
"Millicent.That's
a pretty name.I'm Steven, from Hobart."
Now the patient had a name and a home town."How
are the prisoners behaving, Millicent?"
"Oh, they're
nothing to worry about, they've been model patients, very grateful and
cooperative."
He was taking
the last drags on his cigarette when it happened. All hell
erupted.The doors of the hospital
blew open and the glass shattered in the windows, showering the ward.I'll
never forget the stunned look on Steven's face as he sat upright, killed
instantly in a deadly spray of shrapnel and glass. Steven from Hobart,
who had lost his hands, who had just
smoked his last cigarette.
The Golden
Olden Boot team were meeting at Mermaid Cove this week.The
plan was a gentle half hour stroll along the cliff-face.A
walking track had been assembled two years ago by the local council, and
it was a comfortable
outing for the less mobile members of the group.They
would eat their sandwiches at the lookout which rewarded them with a glorious
view of the heads.After lunch they
would attend the local cinema; it was cut-price day.
Milly always
looked forward to the cinema, anything to escape from the fear and the
sleeplessness, and her desire to work out the identity of the Granny Ripper. It
was becoming painfully obvious that she was no Jane Marple.In
Miss Marple's world, St Marys Mead was a microcosm of the world - now,
what would she make of the Golden Olden Boot team?Milly
slitted her eyes, appraising the Goldies.They
really were a depressing lot when seen from afar.Still
mourning the death of Kathleen, still withdrawn. Not all members were present
today, some being too afraid to leave their homes. Eight elderly, frail
people who had known depression and war, and then the dizzying changes
of a half-century of technological and social
revolution. The great majority of them lived alone,
life partners taken away by cancer or heart disease. Their bodies were
wearing out quickly; nature was merciless, life
so heartbreakingly short.They supported
each other as they
walked the gentle incline of the path.Milly
became aware that John was talking to her. He
was the self elected leader of the Golden Oldies.With
his wife Helen, John emigrated from London twelve years ago in search of
the
sunshine.Two
years ago, Helen had died of a brain tumour.
"Heard about
your bag being snatched.Hard luck,
old cheese. Heard you fought him off like a tiger, though."
Milly smiled.
"Hardly a tiger, I'm afraid. And did you know I earned the wrath of the
St Augustines Police?Apparently,
every schoolchild knows you're meant to let thugs take whatever they want
from you. They thought I was a fool -'your
money's not worth your life', the young constable told me!"She
mimicked the disapproving tone of Constable Moss, who had
driven her home and lectured her the whole way.
"Quite right
he was, too,"John agreed.His
next words shocked her. "It's funny, you know, but poor Kathleen's bag
was snatched only a month before her tragedy. Well, here we are at the
lookout. Isn't that view grand?"
Milly
surveyed the panoramic scene, thinking deeply. Connections.There
were always connections.
"I'm not sure
I can help you."
The young nurse
was suspicious. She looked Milly up and down. "Are you a relative?"
"A close friend,"
Milly lied.
"Well, Mr Denton
was mainly self-caring, you see.He
was no trouble. The only one who might know something is Joan.They
were as thick as two thieves.She's
in the unit next to him.Number
32.Just don't go upsetting her!"She
yelled after Milly's departing back.
"Poor Geoffrey,"Joan
dabbed at her eyes again."Such a
lovely caring man, it's awful he had to have such a terrible end to his
days!He served in Turkey, you know.What
a lot of wickedness there is in the world!"
"Indeed." Milly
replied, her eyes roamed the cheerful unit, which was filled with treasures
and mementos from Joan's long life.
"Do you happen
to know if he had any trouble with bag snatchers or muggers?Anything
at all of that nature?"
As Joan blew
her nose, a beautiful Persian pushed against her legs, impatiently mewing
to be picked up.
"Well, no,
not recently," she said. "But he was mugged at St Augustines Plaza about
a year ago.Geoffrey tried to fight
back, but he had a weak heart, you know."Tears
welled in her eyes again. Milly blinked. This was getting interesting.
"Did he ever
describe his assailant?"
Joan considered
whilst she stroked the cat."Long
hair, scruffy.I think he was a drug
addict. They all are, these days, aren't they?"
Milly's return
visit to St Augustines Police Station wasn't very successful. The officers
were polite, but sceptical, and she could tell they would rather do without
her help.
"I tell you,
all the murderer's victims had their bags snatched beforehand," Milly persisted.
"It's a connection. This bag snatcher had all their vital information.
He could easily have tracked them down."
"Look, thanks
for coming to us with this information, Mrs Scott, but let me assure you
that all possible leads have been examined by our expert teams. Including
that one."
She stared
at Constable Moss stonily, and he looked down. "Still, we appreciate any
information from the general public, so let us know if there's anything
else."
Even if it
is total hogwash. Milly could almost see the policeman's unspoken words
hanging in the air.She sighed, and
turned to leave.
"Will you at
least make sure that my information is recorded?"
"Yes, ma'am,"
Richard said, but Milly was already at the door.
"What's she
on about?" asked Debbie from the enquiry counter.
Richard shrugged.
"Oh, she's bored and wants to play detective. Pathetic, really.Now
I have to type up her ravings."
Hours later,
Milly's statement lay forgotten under a pile of notes and clutter on his
desk.
He
watched her as she left the station.She
walked slowly down Applebee street towards her home.He
knew every step her arthritic body would take. Over the last few days,
he had noted every detail of her little journey. Past the Lebanese fruit
shop, the button shop, the 7-11.Once
she glanced around, and he flattened himself against a wall, back turned
to her,
lighting a cigarette.Most
of the wrinklies were senile, but in this line of work he had learnt never
to underestimate anybody.This week
he had carried out Phase Three, and had visited her in her own home.He
had worn a light disguise, but there had been no recognition on her part.She
had not let him in, of course.The
wrinklies were less trusting now the Granny
Ripper was in their midst.She
had even refused to donate to the charity he was collecting for, and slammed
the door in his face before he finished his spiel. It didn't matter, of
course. There had been plenty of time to ascertain that
she didn't own a dog, and that her lock was a standard
type, easily picked.
He continued
to shadow her, sniffing the air. He flattered himself that he could detect
a faint, musty smell of decay draped delicately over her aged body.The
pain in her hip when she limped down the street fascinated him. The fear
he sensed radiating from her as she glanced warily up and down the street
was exciting.She was so vulnerable
and exposed. It was
arousing to think how easy it would be to release
her from that ugly old body. Soon Millicent, he promised her.Soon
I will release you, and you will be free. He loved this power, loved being
on the hunt.He followed his prey.
Extract from the war memoirs of Milly Levell Scott.
When the war
ended I returned to Australia, sick and weary of heart. But I no longer
felt part of the world I had wanted to serve-
it appeared to be completely changed.All
my thoughts and dreams were of the destruction I had witnessed.The
waste of life.The futility of it
all and the agony. I no longer wanted to nurse.I
had seen enough blood to last me for
a hundred
lifetimes.
I married David,
but he had returned from his years of service a different man.Now
he drank heavily, and there were many nights when he used his fists, his
belt and the fire poker on me.Neither
of us ever spoke about our wartime experiences. I doubt the words had been
invented that could describe them.
Shortly after
returning, I had the first of several breakdowns. My hands were always
red raw with eczema.I read that
Saki was tried for war crimes and sentenced to fifteen years.Betty
never returned from foreign soil.Money
was always tight, and I took a job selling stockings from door to door.There
was very little work I could cope with.I
was too proud and
ashamed to apply for welfare.David
would disappear for nights at a time.I had
long ceased caring where he was disappearing to.One
night he never returned.I began
selling cleaning fluids.
He waited,
smoking cigarettes in the street until her lights went out. Then he waited
some more, reciting a favourite prayer.I'm
coming for you, Millicent.
Finally, hours
after her light had been extinguished, he crept towards the door.Softly,
at one with the night, he picked her lock.Too
easy.He waited, closing the door
softly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Something
moved, what was it?He strained to
see.A strobe light went on, and
a sudden burst of loud music made him jump. He threw his hands
up to protect his ears. The light dazed him and the
music, garish and orchestral, pounded his eardrums.Behind
him, clothed in a black robe, was Millicent. A knife fell in an arc, shaking
in her unsteady grip, and pierced his back. Blood spurted, and red hot
pain screamed through historso.He
fell to the floor, fainting, dying, in grotesque accompaniment to Puccini's
Milly was sitting in the hallway, still guarding his body, when the police arrived. Nobody spoke, although some of them seemed taken aback by the amount of blood splashed across the walls and carpet. Milly was wrapped in a lavender shawl, and her hands shook as she lifted a cup of Bushells to her lips. Her eyes were trancelike. It hardly seemed possible that one so
Extract from
the war memoirs of Milly Levell Scott
I can too easily
imagine Betty standing in a group of twenty-one women on the beach at Banka
Island.Their arms would be linked
as they