Quest for the truth
On a balmy Townsville night in 1944, a young serviceman, Warwick Meale, was brutally murdered. His killer was never identified, and nearly 80 years on, Warwick’s descendant Jonathan Butler dusts off the case in his new book The Boy in the Dress. In the fo
My first encounter with Warwick was in the form of a photograph, taken in 1928, which I adored as a child. It was enclosed in a wooden frame decorated with pressed flowers, and it hung next to my parents’ bed.
In the photo, two smiling children stand on a patch of grass playing dress-ups, Warwick in a dress and Winifred in a suit.
But unlike my grandmother, the little boy never grew old.
Haunted by this unsolved, unfathomable crime, my mum and I started our own cold-case investigation in 2008, when I was just 16 years old.
My investigation over the next 10 years took me on an unexpected journey through a time and place that certainly wasn’t covered in my high school syllabus.
Delving deep into the archives, I was able to piece together a picture of Warwick’s brief life, the night of the attack, and a darker side of Australia’s past.
It all started on August 15, 1944 at Camp Julago on the outskirts of Townsville.
As the sun dipped closer to the horizon, Warwick Meale and his best mate Tom Ambler started to get ready for the dance.
Dances presented a great opportunity to escape the watchful eyes of the commanding officers and their stifling constraints, at least for a night.
Leaving the campsite required full dress uniform and impeccable presentation.
Tom and Warwick shaved and washed in the camp’s open showers, which were little more than a cold-water hose behind a corrugated-iron fence.
The enforced intimacy of the army had made them indifferent to nudity long ago.
They dressed in their uniforms, pulled the strings of their slouch hats tight under their chins and strapped white gaiters over their boots.
It would get cold later, so they also wore their green jumpers.
Warwick and Tom had formed a close bond working shoulder to shoulder in New Guinea, far from Warwick’s home in Sydney and Tom’s in Melbourne, trekking the muddy slopes of the Papuan jungle to lay telephone cable.
As best mates, some thought these two were an odd pair.
Warwick seemed too well behaved to associate with the more roguish Tom.
Unlike his rowdy mate, Warwick hadn’t once been disciplined, and he did well on all his tests. But something just clicked between them.
At 4.50pm, Tom and Warwick wove their way through the camouflaged sheds and piles of military equipment towards the Camp Julago train station where Clyde Neumann, their new friend and fellow signalman was waiting.
It was a young crowd on the platform: only a handful would have been older than 25.
They were all shouting over the noise of the train’s engine and the smell of burning coal filled the air.
Tom, Warwick and Clyde clambered up the wooden stepladders and into the train, ready to depart.
The atmosphere was electric with the promise of a fun night.
Shortly after five o’clock, the train stopped at Oonoonba, about 6km outside the centre of Townsville.
With their local leave passes secure in their pockets, the three men alighted and walked
Warwick and his friends drained their first round of beers and followed up with a second. Then a third. Then a fourth. They were merry, and just getting started.
towards the Fairfield Hotel, a popular watering hole for both locals and troops.
Warwick and the others each ordered an ale. Headlines in the Townsville Daily Bulletin that morning had made it clear that the war effort was succeeding.
Australia’s enemies were on the defensive: ‘Nazi 7th Army Faces Annihilation’ and ‘Heavy Jap Losses’. Some articles had even started reporting the ways in which Japan might surrender.
The Allied armed forces had been in Townsville for two years by the time Warwick and his mates got together that night.
The once-sleepy port of Townsville had become a hive of activity after Japan entered World War II.
Thanks to its relative proximity to New Guinea, its big harbour and its quality airstrip, it was a perfect support base and Allied forces arrived in droves.
While the increase in military muscle had at first been appreciated by the locals, who feared an enemy invasion, it wasn’t long before cracks started to appear in the Townsville community.
Families were kicked out of their homes to make way for military hospitals, accommodation or offices.
Hundreds of noisy trucks rolled through the small town’s narrow streets day and night, sending the rate of road accidents skyrocketing.
And hordes of hedonistic servicefolk roamed the streets after nightfall.
Warwick and his friends drained their first round of beers and followed up with a second. Then a third. Then a fourth. They were merry, and just getting started.
Around 6.30pm, the boys left the pub. Meandering up the main road towards a local meatworks, they waved down an air-force truck to hitch a lift into town.
For the most part, the different branches of the military kept to themselves, which inevitably led to friendly rivalry. But nights out were an opportunity for soldiers, sailors and airmen to mix.
The four young soldiers scrambled onto the back of the trailer and held on tight for the 10minute journey.
Reaching Ross Creek and the Victoria
Bridge, which marked their entry into town, the truck turned into Flinders St, where most of the crowds had congregated.
Uniformed military personnel were everywhere: thousands of Americans and Australians, and even some British.
They were mostly drunk and mostly male. The truck trundled past a Chinese fish-andchip shop, a chemist, a few cafes, and restaurants with rusty awnings wedged next to stately sandstone buildings.
A median strip almost as wide as the street itself was filled with neat rows of orange-andred–hued canna lilies beneath palm fronds that bobbed lazily in the breeze.
Around 7pm Warwick and the others jumped off the back of the truck. They walked to a wet canteen, a van that served food and alcohol, on Blackwood St.
On the way they bumped into two Military Police who told them not to bother because the canteen was already closed. They tried another: also closed.
Warwick, Tom and Clyde decided they would grab something to eat later at the Toc H, which was on the second floor of the Heatley & Sons department store on Flinders St in the centre of town and the location of the dance.
It was a multipurpose community hall for the Australian armed forces, which was accessed via Sturt St and a favourite among many of the troops stationed in Townsville.
But first they turned their attention back to alcohol.
The Palace Hotel was just what they needed. The pub took up an entire corner on Flinders St, its vast second storey decorated with iron lace.
The trio went inside and bought a bottle of wine for 12 shillings and sixpence (about $45 in today’s money).
Drinking in public was an offence in the army, so Tom concealed the bottle somewhere in his uniform before they set off again into the night.
The group walked along Hanran St in search of a secluded spot to drink their wine.
About 300 metres away from the Toc H, just before Victoria Bridge, there was a vacant lot beside two small air-raid shelters.
The shelters were rectangular pillbox-style structures that looked like public toilet blocks from the outside.
Four white picket fences were designed to guide traffic into one of the entrances and limit chaos in the event of an air raid.
They trod the brittle grass to the first shelter and sat down against the white fence.
It was the perfect hide-out: the crowds on nearby Flinders St couldn’t see them and Ross Creek protected them from the rear.
Victoria Bridge overhead added even more protection.
Light from the dim crescent moon barely reached them.
Enshrouded by the night, the trio followed the sound of each other’s voices to pass the bottle around.
After hopping between a couple of buzzing venues, Clyde checked his watch and suggested that they return to the Toc H, with Tom ready to follow.
But to Tom’s surprise, his good mate Jazzer (Warwick’s nickname) was hanging back.
‘You boys go ahead. I’ll wait here,’ said Warwick.
Tom thought this was a little out of character. The main purpose of their leave pass was to go to the dance. And Jazzer loved to dance.
There was no obvious reason why Warwick didn’t want to join them.
Warwick had seemed to be having a great time until this point, so it wasn’t his mood that was getting in the way.
The effects of the beer and wine had certainly sunk in, but Warwick was still compos mentis.
‘A bit shy of the dance floor, are you, mate?’ said Clyde.
‘No way, he puts our whole unit to shame,’ said Tom. ‘What’s going on, Jazzer? Come show Clyde how you got your name.’
‘Don’t keep your girl waiting. Go!’ said Warwick.
Atthe hall, Clyde and Tom only stayed for half an hour, just enough time for two dances.
With Clyde’s friend yet to show up, they returned to Warwick, who had found a seat on the running board of a parked car.
When he saw them, he got to his feet and they headed off down Stanley St. Warwick seemed content and ready for the next adventure.
Back on the street, Jazzer was looking a bit nauseous, though he insisted that everything was okay.
It seemed pretty clear now that he had gone too hard out of the gates after a sober two weeks at home and was now suffering the consequences.
Tom and Clyde decided to take their friend back to their spot near Victoria Bridge so he could sit down and they could finish off their wine.
Along the way, they struck up a conversation with a lone American sailor.
He was wearing the standard uniform of flared trousers, black satin neckerchief and white Dixie cup hat.
He introduced himself as ‘Roy’. Or at least, that’s what the Australians heard through the accent. The sailor’s name was actually Reuwer.
The novelty of the Americans had definitely worn off, but the Australian trio had no complaints about Reuwer tagging along.
They led their new companion to the air-raid shelter where they had been drinking earlier.
Sprawled near the white fence, they shared the dregs of their wine with Reuwer and asked him questions about his life back in San Francisco.
As they chatted, Tom saw that Warwick was refusing his share of wine as it was passed around. He didn’t say why, and his friends didn’t ask.
Clyde drained the last drops and carelessly threw the empty bottle away into the darkness.
With that, he announced that he wanted to give the dance hall another shot. Reuwer liked the idea of a dance too.
Tom wavered as the pair stood up to leave. He could see Warwick wasn’t budging. Again, Jazzer was insisting that the others go on without him.
‘I just need a quick nap and then I’ll be all right,’ Warwick told his mates.
‘I’ll be here by the fence. Here, look after my hat, will you?’
Warwick pulled off his slouch hat and handed it to Clyde, who cupped it into his own and placed both back on his head for safekeeping.
With the American alongside them, Tom and Clyde started back along Hanran St towards the Toc H.
As they went, Tom turned to see the faint silhouette of his friend.
Warwick was lying on the grass, his head towards the river, near the corner of the white fence.
It was the last time Warwick was ever seen conscious.