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TOM RANDALL UNDERCOVER AGENT 



tom randall undercover agent

World War I veteran Tom Randall is doing it tough in 1942.

 He’s told he’s too old for the army but he is just the man the Army Special Intelligence Branch needs to go undercover.

 Can Tommo stop the cocaine trade in Townsville?

 How can he find a student that has been working on high-level flight?

 The kidnapping of a British Navy lieutenant takes him across the rugged Kimberley wilderness and the theft of a rocket guidance device will take him to Adelaide.

In Store Price: $31.95 
Online Price:   $30.95

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EBOOKS
Ebook version - $AUD9.00 upload.

ISBN: 978-1-920699-12-3
Format: Paperback
Number of pages: 415
Genre: Fiction

Cover: Clive Dalkins

Also by Roger Wood... 

The George Overton Series 

George Overton (Retired) (Zeus, 2009)

Detective George Overton (Zeus, 2010)

George Overton’s Casebook (Zeus, 2011)

George Overton Investigates (Zeus, 2012)

Send for George Overton (Zeus, 2013)

George Overton’s Justice (Zeus 2015)

George Overton Intervenes (Zeus, 2017)

George Overton Wins Through (Zeus, 2018)

 

Historical Stories 

The MacArthur Diversion (Zeus, 2014)

My Name is Patrick Hagen (Zeus, 2016)

© Cover Design—Zeus Publications 2019


 


Author
-
Roger Wood

Publisher: Zeus Publications
Date Published:  2019
Language: English


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      Read a sample:

 

CHAPTER ONE  

 

It was the autumn of nineteen forty-two; Australia was a country besieged. 

The bombing of Pearl Harbour followed by the fall of Singapore seemed to most Australians to leave them open to Japanese invasion and a mild panic was spreading across the country.

America was stunned by the surprise attack on their naval base and England’s promise of naval protection had been an empty one.

The Australian people couldn’t be blamed for their concern when the government was talking about a scorched earth policy in the north which involved the burning of crops and the slaughtering of farm animals that couldn’t be driven to safety.

In the major cities people were preparing for invasion from the air and A.R.P. wardens implemented ‘brownouts’ in towns on the coast. At night the public tried not to show any lights that would help Japanese bombers, if they came, to find their way in the dark.

The rationing of some things had started and many families were sending their children to inland boarding schools in case a disaster happened on the coast. Cheap rail fares were offered to women and children if they wanted to evacuate inland but many in the community disapproved of this and labelled any that went as ‘Bomb Dodgers’.

After the successful battles of the Coral Sea and Midway Island things relaxed somewhat, but the large contingents of Japanese soldiers that were reported to be landing on the north coast of New Guinea was a huge concern to the Allied Command, and the mobilisation of troops to the north of Australia had already begun.

It was this mixture of troops that filled the trains that sped towards the towns in northern Queensland; there were Americans that had started to appear after the arrival of General MacArthur and Dutch airmen that had found refuge in Australia after the fall of their colonies in the Pacific.

With Australia’s standing army mostly on duty overseas it fell to the militia companies to take a stand. These were conscripts and military groups formed in small towns across Australia with the idea of protecting the country in the event of invasion.

Under Australian law they couldn’t be sent overseas but the steamy jungles and rugged mountains of New Guinea were an Australian protectorate, so they could be sent there.

Army Intelligence had a problem; information regarding these troop movements was getting out and fifth columnists, paid by the Japanese, were causing more trouble than usual.

General MacArthur demanded the Australian High Command put a stop to these disruptions and the job was given to Major Cameron of the Special Intelligence Branch. 

 

CHAPTER TWO 

Brisbane, Queensland, 1942 

 

Thomas (Tommo) Randall awoke with a start. He had fallen asleep in his armchair, and for a moment in the dark he wondered where he was. The fire in the small grate had gone out and it was cold in the draughty rented room in Little Roma Street.

He rubbed his chin that had a ten-day growth of beard on it and coughed a rasping smoker’s cough as he reached out in the darkness for the bottle of cheap port on the small table.

It was empty so he threw it into the corner of the room where it clinked against one of the many other empty bottles.

Tommo coughed again and spat into the fireplace. Rising from the chair, he stumbled over to the iron-framed single bed and dropped on to the hard flock mattress. He struck a match and looked at his watch; it had stopped, but time didn’t matter much to this sad character as he lay back on the bed and pulled the thin grey blanket over his wiry body. 

When he finally awoke it was light. It was still cold but a weak morning sun was shining through the gap in the threadbare curtains. Tommo pulled them open and looked out on to the noisy railway yards at Roma Street station, flatbed trucks clanked as the engines shunted them into position. There were people about; men were on their way to various places of work, and the day was coming to life. He opened his battered Champion Ruby tobacco tin and rolled a thin cigarette before he pulled on his thick workman’s jacket. The cigarette tasted good but it made him cough so he stubbed it out and spat into an empty bottle.

He looked in the dirty mirror on the back of the door, rubbed his chin and ran his fingers through his hair. The brown hairs were rapidly losing the battle with the grey ones, but he just shrugged. It couldn’t be helped, he thought as he pulled on his old First World War army officer’s cap; the metal badge had long since been sold for enough pennies to buy a drink.

Tommo went down the stairs into the street. The café in Turbot Street was just opening so he ordered a mug of black tea and picked up a newspaper from a shelf that carried old newspapers and some books with missing covers and turned-up corners.

He sat at a table in the window and opened the newspaper. The date didn’t matter to Tommo, he felt as if by reading some news he was still part of the human race.

It said ‘John Curtin has made a passionate appeal to the nation for an all-out war effort.’

Not another ‘tighten your belts’ speech, thought Tommo. What did Prime Minister Curtin call it? ‘A long struggle of attrition’.

His tea arrived.

‘Sugar?’ he asked the girl in the faded apron.

She just said, ‘Rationed,’ and went back to the kitchen.

Tommo turned the page. ‘The Allies have halted the Japanese advance in a major air and naval engagement in the Coral Sea’ he read.

‘We’ve actually won something,’ he said out loud but the other diners ignored him.

We need to win a battle on land, he thought, but all the time Blamey keeps sending under-trained conscripts to New Guinea we’ll never get anywhere.

He threw the paper back on to the shelf with a grunt and rolled another cigarette to have with his mug of tea.

The war was a sore point with Tommo. At the outset he’d tried to enlist in his old regiment but had been told he was too old at fifty, which is not a thing anyone likes to hear.

Not much of a breakfast, he needed a drink, he thought as he shuffled along Roma Street and across the Grey Street Bridge. It was too early for the pubs to be open but he knew one with back-door service. They’ll sell you anything over here in South Brisbane, he thought, they even serve blacks and Yanks.

After a visit to the back door of the run-down pub he shambled away with a bottle wrapped in newspaper. He’d feel better when he’d had a drink but he would have to wait until he got back to his room. The police were always on the lookout over here for people drinking in the street, with all the American soldiers around there were often fights between the larrikins and the Americans.

When Tommo reached his street door he was accosted by a boy who was sitting on the pavement, leaning against the brick wall. He was the sort of urchin that could be found in most parts of the city. He was wearing patched shorts held up by braces and an army shirt that was several sizes too big for him.

‘You Randall?’ the boy asked without moving.

‘What’s it to yer?’ said Tommo, putting his key in the lock.

‘There was a bloke here looking for you,’ the boy said, getting to his feet.

‘What sort of bloke?’

‘Just ordinary, he gave me a message for you.’

‘Well, tell us what it is then.’

‘He gave me sixpence,’ said the wily youth.

‘I’m not giving you anything, piss off.’

Tommo opened the door and pushed his way inside, closing it behind him but not before the boy shouted, ‘He’s got a job for you!’

Tommo opened the door again and said, ‘What?’

‘He said if you went to the Grand Central Hotel in Queen Street at five o’clock there would be a job.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Ask for Bruce Dalby.’

‘Is that this bloke’s name?’

‘Dunno,’ said the boy. ‘Can I have a zack?’

‘No.’ Tommo slammed the door and climbed the stairs to his room where he opened the bottle of port and poured himself a glass.

A job, he thought. He could do with one. The boy hadn’t said what the job was but he didn’t suppose he could be too fussy. He poured another drink and lay down on the bed.

 

 

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