Holland's Nadir

Men around a submarine moored in Sydney Harbour close to the end of wartime showed us below, down into their oily, mesh-lit gangway of bunks atop machines. In from the country, we weren't to know our shillings bought them cigars and thread for what remained of Holland's Glory: uniforms, odd, rescued aircraft, and a clutch of undersea boats patrolling from Fremantle. The men's country was still captive, their great Indies had seen them ousted, their slaves from centuries back were still black, and their queen was in English exile. The only ripostes still open to them were torpedoes and their throaty half- American-sounding language. Speaking a luckier one we set off home then. Home and all that word would mean in the age of rebirthing nations which would be my time.