Jack's Island by Norman Jorgensen

He only ever smoked rollies. But he shook his head. ‘Not just at the moment, thanks.’ I think he was still too stunned. I bet he regretted turning down a real Virginia cigarette later.
    â€˜Mr Jones, we are in the process of building a Catalina base,’ said the commander.
    â€˜Catalina?’ said Dad.
    â€˜A Catalina is a flying boat. Long-range reconnaissance and bomber. Check with Jack,’ the commander said. ‘I’m sure he knows.’ He wasn’t wrong there. ‘The Catalina base will be at Crawley Bay, on the Swan River.’
    Dad nodded in recognition. We used to live near there.
    â€˜The reason I’m here, Mr Jones,’ continued the commander, ‘is because none of our Seabees—our workmen—are experienced with the new mechanised bitumen sprayer we need for the roads. We’ve been in contact with your Main Roads Board and they tell us you were the first man to drive one of these new sprayers here in Perth. Is that right?’
    â€˜Well, yes. I did drive the first one. We were working on Greenmount Hill Road in the Hills. We had a lot of problems, though, what with the steep gradient and getting the mix right for the spray vents. Oh, and the temperature is critical.’
    â€˜But you worked it out eventually?’
    â€˜Eventually.’
    I wondered if Dad was going to mention how the bitumen sprayer once came within seconds of exploding and killing everyone within a hundred yards. But then he’d never told Mum that story either.
    Mum was smiling in a funny sort of way. When Dad was working on the new sprayer at Greenmount he usually came home with more bitumen on himself than the road. He often appeared at the front door after work looking blacker than George T Washington, and he developed the biggest boils that you have ever seen. Ones Mum had to dig out with a needle. And the mess! Pus and blood burst everywhere. And boy, did Dad yell.
    The commander took another sip of his tea and leaned forward. ‘We’d like you to come and work at the new base. Just until we’re up and running. You can show the Seabees and the road gang how the sprayer works and get the machine adjusted properly.’ He rubbed his palms together like he’d just finished cleaning them. ‘We’ve cleared it with the Roads Board and the Australian Army. It’ll be for a few weeks, a couple of months at the most.’
    I knew Commander Grant was asking just to be polite, and that Dad really didn’t have any choice. After all, he was Reserved Occupation, manpowered by the government, and had to go where they sent him. I remembered how devastated he’d been when he’d joined the army at the very start of the war and then been sent home a few weeks later. Someone in the government had decided Australia needed road builders more than extra soldiers. Dad gave back his uniform and rifle and came home. He moped about the house like a bear with a sore head, as Mum said, for weeks and weeks, but boy, was she pleased. I’d never seen a person more pleased about anything. Or anyone more disappointed than Dad.
    Commander Grant rose to his feet, his business at an end. ‘Mrs Jones, I am sure delighted to have made your acquaintance, ma’am. You have a charming home here and that sponge cake...’ He smiled broadly and kissed the end of his fingers. I’d never seen so many straight, white teeth.
    Mum beamed back at him, delighted to have made his acquaintance as well. I knew she couldn’t wait to tell the other women at the Red Cross Volunteers. Mrs Carter was going to be spitting chips with jealousy.
    The commander put out his hand to shake Dad’s. ‘We’ll have the paperwork to you in the next couple of days and then we’ll be seeing you at Crawley Bay.’ He gave a sort of half-salute, probably from habit, and was outside and into the jeep before Dad had a chance to say anything, not even, ‘I’d like