And Fire Falls

by Peter Watt

  The staff car had trouble manoeuvring between the numerous bodies of civilians lying in the street and rubble from shops and houses brought down by bombs and shells. The city was in its death throes and General Percival had recognised the plight of the civilian population with his surrender.

  The staff car arrived at the docks where a motor launch was waiting to take them out to the seaplane. Both Captain Lydell and Major Ulverstone showed their passes to a British military policeman who waved them onboard along with a group of civilians. Ulverstone noted with disdain that one of the other passengers was a Chinese woman holding a baby, and a grizzled older man whose accent marked him as a Canadian. The Canadian held the hand of a frightened young boy Ulverstone guessed to be around five years old.

  Overhead, high-flying Japanese bombers droned, while lower flying fighter escorts strafed the docks. Each and every person on the motor boat zigzagging amongst the wrecks of shipping in the harbour held their breath – even Major Ulverstone. Thankfully, the reassuring fuselage of the big four-engine seaplane came into view, and a crewman hauled the passengers through a side door as the aircraft rocked on the waves caused by bombs exploding in the sea around it.

  Ulverstone noticed that the Canadian was greeted by the pilot as an old friend. ‘Cyril, you old bastard,’ the man said in a New Zealand accent. ‘Where the hell is Diane?’

  Ulverstone was hauled aboard and did not hear the Canadian’s reply. He and Captain Lydell found a seat, and when he looked around he saw civilians whose faces were pale with fear. Only the children made a noise, whimpering as the sound of the dying city reached them from across the bay.

  The pilot made his way forward to the cockpit and the engines that had been at idle commenced to shudder the aircraft as they powered up for takeoff. Then the big seaplane moved forward, the waves pounding the hull as the aircraft gathered speed.

  *

  Cyril occupied the copilot’s seat as his long experience as an aircraft engineer had taught him the rudiments of flying such a large aircraft.

  He and Tyrone stared tensely through the perspex of the cockpit at the course ahead, ever alert to floating objects that could rip the belly out of the tough seaplane.

  ‘I think we’ve left it too late,’ Tyrone said. ‘The bloody sky is full of Jap fighters.’

  Cyril did not reply, but he agreed with his old friend.

  A motor launch scuttled out of the way as the big aeroplane roared towards it, and suddenly they were airborne in a sky full of enemy aircraft. Already a Japanese Zero fighter had peeled away from his comrades to shoot down the seaplane rising from the sea.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Cyril gasped. ‘The bastard can’t miss us!’

  Tyrone swung on the controls of the big aircraft to tip it to one side in an attempt to slip out of range of the oncoming plane, and both men braced for the impact of bullets and cannon through the cockpit. They had seconds to live.

  Cyril felt more anger than fear. They were going to die when they were so close to freedom. He had promised Diane he would keep her son safe, and now he had failed her. Then there was no more time to think of anything as the silhouette of the sleek fighter plane filled his vision.

  Then suddenly, as if by some miracle, the fighter plane swerved away at the last moment without firing its deadly nose cannon and wing-mounted machine guns. It almost clipped the upper deck of the seaplane as it passed overhead and momentarily disappeared from sight.

  ‘What in hell is going on?’ Tyrone shouted through the headphones as he watched the Japanese fighter plane suddenly reappear on the port side flying straight and level with his own aircraft. He could have sworn that the enemy pilot was actually escorting him out of the danger zone. The only explanation he could give was that the Japanese pilot was a humane man who must have realised his target was in fact a civilian aeroplane carrying refugees from the war zone. After some time, when it was at the range of its fuel tanks, the fighter dropped away, leaving them alone in a sky empty of threat.

  Amazed at their extraordinary fortune, Tyrone checked his bearings and continued his flight south towards the Australian mainland. Behind him he left the once impregnable fortress of the old British Empire in the hands of its conquerors – the new Imperial Japanese Empire.

  *

  Major Ulverstone watched the enemy aircraft through one of the porthole windows in the fuselage. Only he knew the real reason why the seaplane had not been shot out of the sky, and he leaned back in his seat with a sigh of relief. Already, siding with the Japanese had proven a wise decision. He intended to stick with the victors and ensure he made it safely through the war. When they eventually reached Australia, he would be reposted – probably to intelligence – and he hoped that it would be in Sydney. He had an old friend living there known within the secret circle of Nazi sympathisers as a friend of the cause, and as a highly respected member of society, he was a man above suspicion. He would be a good friend to have on his side at the other end of the Indian Ocean far from his family estates in England.

  6

  Jessie wondered if she could keep going. Day in and day out she, Bruce King and the two Tolai policemen hacked their way through dense jungle, always alert to possible Japanese patrols, towards the evacuation point on the coast.

  At nights when they settled to sleep in whatever shelter they could find, she prayed that God would guide their footsteps towards safety. At times she included the famed Darambal warrior, Wallarie, in her pantheon of saints. Her father had told her his spirit had been with him in the trenches of the Western Front and had protected him. Jessie found herself calling on Wallarie to keep them safe and wondered what Sister Michael would have thought of her, a mere nun, canonising an Aboriginal man as a Christian saint!

  Jessie had almost lost count of the days they had struggled through the jungle, and she felt they were all on the verge of collapse. Her clothing was torn and she had tropical sores breaking out all over her body.

  Sergeant Bruce King was in even worse a condition and the two Tolai escorts had huddled together the night before, muttering to themselves in what Jessie thought was a conversation about deserting them. The food had almost run out and surrender to the Japanese looked preferential to dying of illness and starvation in the jungle.

  However, Jessie’s prayers were answered the next morning when they stumbled on a Tolai man out hunting. He informed them that he had heard there were white people gathered in the Vitu Islands.

  ‘Is that far away?’ Jessie asked Bruce.

  ‘Not far from the coast, but we would have to cross open waters, and I don’t like our chances of not coming to the attention of the bloody Nips,’ he answered, and called over one of the Tolai policemen.

  ‘You have a good grasp of the local lingo,’ Bruce said to Jessie. ‘Maybe he knows how we can get to the Vitu Islands.’

  Jessie spoke to the policeman and he said he came from this region, and with the help of the Tolai hunter they might get some food and directions to the coast.

  The hunter looked apprehensive when spoken to by the policeman but suddenly broke into a broad grin.

  ‘He is a cousin of mine,’ the policeman beamed. ‘He will help us with food and directions.’

  ‘Thank you, Wallarie,’ Jessie muttered under her breath.

  Within half a day they had reached a small group of Tolai hunters gathered around a cassowary they had killed. Already the large, flightless bird was being butchered and a small fire lit to cook the dark meat.

  When the bird was ready, Jessie and Bruce ate the meat with thanks to their Tolai saviours. Strengthened by the protein, Jessie’s thoughts of surrender dissipated, and she felt sure that Wallarie’s spirit would guide them to safety.

  *

  The thirty-six foot launch glided on the tropical waters under a star-filled sky. No lights showed and Jack Kelly sat at the bow armed with a .303 Bren magazine fed machine gun.
The machine gun was across his legs as he scanned the ocean around them for any sign of enemy activity. Not that the Bren would be much use against a Japanese destroyer or sub, as Jack well knew.

  He was joined by the skipper of the launch, a grizzled, sun-bleached man in his fifties who had known Jack when they were in competition for trading contracts in the islands around Papua and New Guinea.

  He passed Jack a steaming mug of tea and sat down beside him.

  ‘It’s the Vitu Islands,’ he said. ‘Should be there before sunset tomorrow. I got a radio message that there’s a mixed bag of plantation owners camped down the coast around forty miles west of Talasea.’

  ‘We’ll be exposed when the sun comes up,’ Jack said. ‘Any intelligence on Japanese forces in the area?’

  The skipper took a sip from his mug. ‘Just a threat from Jap naval aircraft,’ he replied, staring into the beauty of the star-filled night. ‘Hope you’re a good shot with the Bren.’

  ‘Would have preferred a forty mil Bofors,’ Jack grinned. ‘I heard that the boys on the Induna Star shot down four Nip aircraft near Kavieng a few weeks back. They only had a Bren.’

  ‘She was a good schooner,’ the skipped reflected. ‘You probably know the Nips captured her afterwards. Poor blighters are prisoners of war now.’

  Both men fell silent, conscious of how vulnerable they were. They were not alone, however, as many other commandeered small boats were crossing the dangerous waters to rescue the survivors of the gallant 2/2 battalion. Like the evacuation of Dunkirk by the British in 1940, this was a fleet of mostly civilians risking their lives to save their countrymen from the clutches of the enemy.

  ‘Thought you might like to know that Lae has fallen,’ the skipper said quietly. ‘When we have picked up our passengers we will make a run for a port in northern Australia. Maybe Cairns. Just as quick as trying for Port Moresby, and it might keep us out of Nip-patrolled areas.’

  From his sea experience Jack agreed that this was their best option. The Japanese encirclement of Australia was slowly extending, as major towns in New Guinea fell to the enemy.

  *

  Although Diane was technically a prisoner of war, she and Dr Williams were allowed to continue caring for the babies and children. However, they had been warned by the Japanese that they could not remain in the mental hospital and the children needed to be returned to their families, if possible, or to Chinese families who were prepared to adopt a child. Dr Williams was now running an adoption agency, and many families that had lost children in the bombardments were pleased to take a baby or child.

  The children who had no one to claim them were moved to another hospital and, despite Japanese orders not to remove anything, Dr Williams managed to smuggle out bandages, cotton wool, medical instruments and a few vital medicines.

  After a week a Japanese officer informed Diane and Dr Williams that they were to gather whatever belongings they had and be prepared to enter imprisonment as enemy aliens.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Diane asked the officer, who spoke rudimentary English.

  ‘You go Changi,’ he answered. ‘You interned there.’

  Diane knew the prison had served to house criminals before the invasion. She shuddered. It was not a place for civilian prisoners of war.

  *

  Jack Kelly had come off his watch and was below decks. The thump, thump of the schooner’s engine helped lull him to sleep. He was startled from his dreams by an urgent shaking of his shoulder.

  ‘Jap destroyer off the starboard bow,’ the skipper said quietly.

  Jack came awake almost immediately. He followed the skipper up the stairs and emerged into the moonless, inky blackness to see the silhouette of the enemy ship about a thousand yards away and running parallel with their own course. He noted that the skipper had cut the engines, leaving them to drift on the calm tropical waters.

  Jack could make out the Papuan crew crouched on the deck and he guessed they were experiencing the same stomach-churning fear he was. So far there was no sign of the beams from powerful searchlights on the destroyer heading their way. Handing over the helm the skipper made his way to Jack’s side.

  ‘I don’t think she has seen us . . . yet,’ he whispered. ‘No chance of outrunning her if we’re spotted.’

  Both men fixed their gaze on the Japanese warship gliding beside them. The silence was broken only by the distant sound of the destroyer’s engines. Time lost all meaning. All aboard the Australian schooner knew that even with the thousand-yard distance the enemy could blast them out of the water, and in three hours the sun would rise and make them clearly visible. After an eternity the destroyer, outlined against the star-filled night, disappeared into the distance.

  The skipper returned to his helm and the engine was kicked over as the captain of the schooner changed course to pass behind the Japanese ship on his course to the Vitu Islands. According to calculations they would arrive around midday the next day as the presence of the Japanese warship had disrupted their ETA.

  Jack remained on deck for a short time before returning to snatch a couple of hours sleep. When the sun rose they would not only be at risk from any other Japanese ships in the area, but also from enemy aircraft. Jack lay down on the bunk, despite his fear and worry, and dozed off.

  *

  Jessica Duffy sat under a palm tree at the edge of the sea on the west coast of the island. She gazed out across a shimmering expanse of water, knowing that possible escape was only prevented by their inability to reach the Vitu Islands. Her scalp itched; she removed her floppy hat and scratched at the short hairs on her head. The growth reminded her that in her own mind she was no longer a nun, but she still felt a deep sense of guilt for what she felt was betrayal of her vocation. Her religion was deeply rooted in her Catholic past, but now she felt that she had been wrong; not that she no longer believed in God, but she doubted that He had called her to be a nun. There was something deeper in her soul, and her Aboriginal ancestry seemed to rise up and colour her view of the world.

  ‘The native boys are going to try and rustle up a canoe for us to get to the Vitus,’ Bruce King said behind her.

  Jessica replaced her hat and rose to her feet. ‘Any idea when that might happen?’

  ‘They think we might set off tonight to take advantage of the moonless night,’ Bruce replied. ‘I promised them that if they got us to the Vitus there would be a good reward from the administration there.’

  ‘I saw a ship off the coast a short time ago,’ Jessica said. ‘It looked like a warship.’

  ‘It could only be a Jap ship,’ Bruce frowned. ‘They’re the only ones out here, and we have to cover around fifty miles of open water to reach the rendezvous. No doubt the Nips will be patrolling the seas. Maybe God will listen to a prayer or two from a nun.’

  Jessica made no comment on her status as a nun. That had been left behind at the missionary station where she had once worn a long white dress. Now she wore man’s garb and could barely remember the last time she had prayed.

  *

  What Jessie did not know was that a militia unit known as the New Guinea Volunteer Rifles, composed of older men and under the leadership of the remarkable Lieutenant Colonel Keith McCarthy, had the situation in hand. McCarthy’s men consisted of former gold prospectors who had given away the drive to find the precious metal in favour of fighting a guerrilla action against the Japanese invaders. They were the only force holding the Japanese at bay until troops from Australia could be sent to defend Port Moresby.

  Amongst their ranks was Sergeant Jack Kelly, a tough former gold prospector turned Pacific merchant, who currently stood in an office in Lae, impatiently awaiting his orders to sail for New Britain.

  A fan slowly turned overhead and through the windows Jack could feel the warmth of the tropical sun on his bare arms and legs; before him sat a smart looking Australian officer in his late thi
rties. The man had a small, well-clipped moustache and Jack felt a little guilty that his hair was just a bit thick and curly for military regulations. But he had been in the bush hunting Japanese soldiers, and had had little opportunity to avail himself of the comforts of civilisation.

  ‘I suppose it helps that you have German blood, Sergeant Kelly,’ Major Jenyns said. The major had been appointed as the officer in charge of all matters concerning the administration and defence of the New Guinea mainland after Sir Walter McNicoll had been evacuated for medical reasons to Australia. ‘We have most of the German Lutheran missionaries on our side, and I suppose that you can relate to them better.’

  ‘The German missionaries have mostly been interned as enemy aliens,’ Jack corrected. ‘We replaced them with Lutheran missionaries from my old home state of South Aussie, with Lutheran missionaries of German descent. We also called on a few Yank Lutheran pastors to take up the missionary posts.’

  ‘Yes, you are right, sergeant,’ the major agreed. ‘Pastor Freund as a member of the NGVR has proved a loyal and invaluable asset as a coastwatcher.’

  ‘I believe we also had the other Lutheran missionaries join the NGVR to a man,’ Jack said, emphasising the loyalty of the German-descended religious men. ‘Sir, what boat do I join, and when do we sail?’

  ‘We expect the Nips to land and capture Lae, so you will join the small boats at Umboi Island. Good luck, Sergeant Kelly,’ the major said and Jack snapped a smart salute from under his battered slouch hat, turned on his heel and stepped out of the office. He was aware that if they were to evacuate New Britain they would be in a deadly sea that now belonged to the Japanese navy and its aircraft.

  *

  Jack Kelly had his Bren gun stripped down on the bow for maintenance. Flying fish skipped the waves beside the schooner, which was now under full sail, and the world seemed at peace. It was like the days before the war when he skippered his own schooner with his American wife, Victoria, before she was killed when a Japanese submarine sank their boat. The pain of Victoria’s loss was always with him, but now he was hitting back at the enemy who had taken her life.