by Peter Watt
Lukas gazed around at the dark sea. To his starboard he could just make out the silhouette of the New Guinean coast. They were dead in the water in an area patrolled by Japanese submarines and soon the sun would be rising. Lukas uttered a curse.
‘Masta Lukas!’ one of the New Guinean crew gasped, stretching out his arm towards their port side.
Lukas looked in the direction he pointed and caught the shimmering phosphorous wake of what had to be a submarine’s periscope. It was as though thinking about the enemy threat had conjured it.
‘Man the guns!’ he commanded quietly, knowing full well that they had little or no chance against an enemy sub. He doubted that the Japanese commander would use a precious torpedo on them; he would probably prefer to surface a safe distance away and use his deck gun.
Mel immediately uncovered their radio to send off a signal reporting the encounter. Lukas swung the heavy machine gun in the direction of the periscope and calculated that it was a good four hundred yards away. He pulled back the cocking handle to chamber a round and slid his hand down the belt to ensure that it was not entangled. Meanwhile, Jones turned knobs and spoke urgently into the radio mike, identifying the call sign of the Riverside.
Lukas could see the submarine surfacing nose on, to provide a smaller target for his own guns. He glanced around at the rest of his crew and was grimly satisfied to see they were in position. For a brief moment Lukas thought of Megan and wanted to cry. Not for his own death but for the fact that he would never see her beautiful face again, or experience the warmth of her arms around him.
‘Wait until the Japs are on deck before you fire,’ Lukas called to his men. He doubted that he would be able to sweep the decks clear. The gun on the Jap sub had the power to turn his little craft into splinters, whereas his could only put a few holes in the enemy vessel.
The dark shape of the underwater craft finally surfaced and Lukas swung his sights to where he calculated the gun crew would emerge.
‘Get ready!’ he called, and for a moment sent out a prayer that Megan Cain would never forget him.
*
Karl Mann had spent the night in the bar of the officers’ mess, sitting alone drinking in a comfortable cane chair, once the property of the Chinese government before being looted as a prize of war during the Boxer Rebellion. He had not invited company but had brooded in silence, growing steadily drunker, although no amount of alcohol could ease the pain of losing Marie.
This morning, feeling the worse for wear, Karl had skipped breakfast and instead found a seat in the corner of the mess to read the newspaper. At 0800 hours he found himself reporting to an orderly who directed him to an office further down the corridor. The door was simply stencilled Operations Room and Karl knocked.
‘Come in,’ a familiar voice commanded.
Karl stepped into the operations room, with its walls covered in maps, and a table laid out with black and white aerial photos. He smiled grimly when the uniformed British naval officer stepped forward to extend his hand.
‘Congratulations on your promotion, Major Mann,’ Captain Featherstone said, shaking Karl’s hand. ‘I see that you got that gong you so deserved for your work with us in Palestine.’
Karl smiled grimly; it was ironic that the same operation had also brought Marie into his life and his consolation prize was the medal for conspicuous service. Karl had been a platoon commander serving against the Vichy French in Syria when he had been summoned to Jerusalem. It had been the Englishman, Featherstone, working for the SOE who had gone through the files and nominated Karl for an undercover mission in an attempt to root out a German spy ring operating in the Middle East. Posing as a downed German airman, Karl had infiltrated the enemy spy ring and, in the process, met Marie. He was struck by her exotic and beautiful Eurasian charms, and despite the fact she was working for the Germans he fell in love with her. Marie switched sides for the sake of her attraction to Karl, and he was able to make a deal with Featherstone to bring her back to Australia. She set up a profitable perfume business in a world starved of the luxuries desired by women. For a time she had expressed love for the tough soldier. But that was only for a time.
‘I see that you have gone up in the ranks, too, sir,’ Karl said, observing that the tall but slightly built man was now the naval equivalent of a full army colonel.
‘Ah, yes, we both seem to have benefited from the Palestine operation,’ Captain Featherstone replied.
Featherstone reminded Karl of the English actor Leslie Howard. He had the manners of a British aristocrat, which was exactly what he was. Karl knew he had been educated at Eton and Oxford, then had volunteered to serve his country and had proved himself during the evacuation of British and French forces from Dunkirk in 1940. Karl was also aware that this almost effeminate man was as dangerous as any enemy Karl had faced on the battlefield. Featherstone belonged to the shadowy world of the British Special Operations Executive and much of his work was shrouded in secrecy.
‘No doubt you are curious as to why you have been transferred from active service back to Sydney,’ Featherstone said, taking a cigarette from a gold case and placing it in a slender holder. ‘Fag, old chap?’ the British officer asked politely, holding open the case.
‘No, thank you, sir,’ Karl answered.
Featherstone closed the case and slipped it into his trouser pocket.
Karl sensed that the man was slightly uneasy.
‘I’ve been keeping an eye on your career, Major Mann, and have decided that you’re the ideal man for a vital operation we have in mind . . . Take a seat and make yourself comfortable.’ Featherstone sat down on a chair at the edge of the photo-strewn table.
Karl took this as an ominous sign – the British officer obviously wanted him relaxed. He would have to be on his guard, he thought as he took a seat opposite.
‘The British government feels strongly that we will win the war against Hitler before Christmas, and that Japan will capitulate when it loses its main ally,’ Featherstone said. ‘That will leave a vacuum in this part of the world – even now we are facing home-grown independence movements springing up in the face of Japanese occupation, which could cause major problems when we return to Burma, Malaya and Singapore. At the moment the communists are doing a good job harrying the Japs in Malaya, but we also know that they march to the drum of Uncle Joe Stalin, who Winnie feels is just as much a threat to world balance as Herr Hitler. Unfortunately, Churchill is unable to convince the Yanks that this war is only a curtain-raiser to the next if the communists take advantage of the Jap capitulation in Asia and seize power.
‘And that brings us to the matter of why you are here,’ Featherstone said. ‘You may be aware that you Aussies have an organisation based in Melbourne called the Inter Allied Services Department.’
‘I know about it,’ Karl replied. ‘As you know, I have been working with our Z Special Unit.’
‘Of course,’ Featherstone said. ‘Well, the IASD has been working with the British to insert teams into Malaya to work with the communist guerrillas.’
‘So you want me to be inserted into Malaya, sir?’ Karl said.
‘Not exactly,’ Featherstone said, clearing his throat and stubbing out the cigarette in an ashtray. ‘I want you to volunteer for a very special and very secret mission even further north. You will have only one man to assist you on this operation, a chap we have borrowed from our Free French allies.’
Karl frowned. This had the whiff of an extremely dangerous mission.
Featherstone stood up and pointed to a large map of the Asian theatre of operations. ‘We want you to go to Saigon in Indochina,’ he said, pointing with his slender cigarette holder to a place on the southern end of the former French colony, now under Japanese control. ‘We need you to make contact with a German citizen living there who our Free French allies have identified as having information vital to our cause.’
Karl raised his eyebrows at the task. He would be a long way from any home bases in the former French
colony.
‘Off the record, Major Mann, I did not agree with the plan proposed by de Gaulle for the former French colonies, but Winnie has backed the arrogant bastard for some years now, despite the fact Roosevelt despises de Gaulle. Like us, the French are planning to get their old colonies back after the war. But that’s all politics, of no consequence to men like you and me. Your job will be to assume the guise of a German national, and make contact with our person of interest in Saigon and ensure that she gets out of Indochina.’ Featherstone obviously noticed the look of surprise on Karl’s face. ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you that our contact in Saigon is a rather beautiful German fräulein, Herlinde Kroth.’ He walked back to the desk and picked up a large photograph, which he passed to Karl. ‘Her father is a high-ranking officer in German intelligence. He was fortunate to escape Hitler’s purge of those he saw as conspiring against him after the July bomb blast.’
Karl looked into the large, luminous eyes of a truly beautiful woman in her mid-twenties. ‘Why can’t the French resistance get her out of the country?’ he asked.
‘Because we cannot afford to have her fall into the hands of our Yankee cousins in the OSS, and they have a strong influence with the French resistance. I know that they are our brothers in arms but this is a very sensitive matter they would not fully understand. If she became their property they would make a dog’s dinner of her.’
Karl glanced up at Featherstone. ‘What is the contingency if it appears she will be captured by the Japs during the escape attempt?’
‘In that eventuality you kill her, and I would strongly suggest you keep the second bullet for yourself. You do not want to be taken alive by the Japanese secret police. You will be given a detailed briefing when you are joined by your French colleague,’ Featherstone said, taking the photo from Karl and locking it in a drawer. ‘Morning tea should be served in the mess very soon, and I, like you, missed breakfast this morning. I suggest we adjourn to the mess and forget that this meeting ever happened.’
*
Ilsa Stahl could turn the head of any red-blooded male, whether dressed in her army dungarees while covering the landings at Normandy or walking into her newspaper’s New York office, wearing a tight skirt, high heels and nylon stockings. Ilsa had received recognition for her work as a war correspondent on two fronts and being recalled to New York felt like an attack on her professionalism. For a moment she reflected on whether her recall had been the work of American intelligence services. Did they doubt her patriotism? Surely not.
At least her position on the staff of the paper had its benefits. The lists of killed, wounded and MIA were channelled through her paper for public release. Amongst the announcements on last night’s wire, Lieutenant Clark Nixon had been reported as being found. Ilsa could hardly believe it, even now. Her return to America had been a grim one; she had felt utterly alone in the world – her parents dead, Clark almost certainly dead; who was to care whether she herself lived or died? She had tried to hold her grief inside, but it had come flooding out when she’d read the wire. She’d been deliriously happy, which was why she hadn’t been able to understand why she’d started crying so hard. Later, when she’d calmed down, she’d realised how much emotion she’d been suppressing, not only about Clark but also about all the terrible things she had witnessed in Europe.
Now Ilsa barely knocked on her editor’s door before pushing her way in to confront the bespectacled middle-aged man behind his desk.
‘Don’t tell me, let me guess,’ Aaron Weisenberg said, hardly glancing up. ‘You want a transfer to the Pacific to cover the war.’
Ilsa was taken aback by his response. That was exactly what she wanted. ‘You know about Clark being found?’
‘I saw it on the news wire last night,’ he replied, looking up. ‘You must be thrilled.’
‘To put it mildly,’ Ilsa replied.
Weisenberg leaned back in his chair. ‘You’ll have to temper some of your reports,’ he said. ‘Getting a couple of my old army pals in Washington to accredit you will not be easy after that report you filed on General Patton.’
‘The man is a bloody glory-seeker who—’
Weisenberg held up his hand to still his angry reporter. ‘I have relatives in Europe and every day Patton advances means a day closer to their liberation. You may not agree with the way he puts his task before lives, but that is the nature of war.’
Ilsa felt a twinge of guilt. She might not like the way Patton operated, but she couldn’t deny he was getting results. ‘If you let me cover the war in the Pacific, I’ll even promise to tone down my reports on MacArthur.’
Weisenberg smiled at her. ‘I doubt that. You’ve got too good a nose for conflict and scandal. Get your kit together and, with any luck and a couple of bottles of good rye, I should have you cleared within forty-eight hours.’
Ilsa loved this man. He had been tough but fair with her in a world dominated by men. She stepped forward to shake his hand, although she would have preferred to kiss him. Aaron accepted the gesture with a sigh.
‘Now get out. I have a lot of work to do,’ he said gruffly.
Jubilant, Ilsa left the room before he could change his mind.
THREE
Sergeant Jack Kelly’s patrol had not suffered any casualties but the young American gunner had a severe case of malaria. Jack had dosed him as best as he could with anti-malarial tablets but during the night the young American flyer died, calling for his mother.
Lieutenant Clark Nixon and Jack kneeled over his wasted body under a canopy of tropical rainforest giants. Jack was acutely aware that they were still deep in enemy territory with their own lines a good ten miles away, beyond a ridge and a swiftly flowing creek.
‘We should bury him,’ Lieutenant Nixon said quietly. ‘He was one of my crew.’
‘No time for that,’ Jack replied, scanning the dim forest undergrowth. ‘Corporal Gari says he can smell the Japs around here, and I trust his nose.’
‘Sergeant, if we do not bury him, then we carry his body out,’ the American said. ‘We do not leave our fallen behind.’
Jack pulled a pained face. ‘With all due respect, Lieutenant,’ he said, ‘this is my command and what I decide goes.’
‘With respect, Sergeant,’ the American officer replied icily, ‘I am an officer in the American Army Air Force and I outrank you under the laws and regulations of our two allied forces. That means I have the last say in any decisions to be made.’
Jack understood the protocols of authority and knew that, strictly speaking, the Yank was right, but Jack was a practical man who also understood his mission, which was to keep all of them alive. The American was allowing emotion to guide his decisions. ‘Tell you what, Lieutenant Nixon, we’ll record the location of his body, and when it’s safe to transmit I’ll send details of the location and your blokes can come and get him later.’
Nixon seemed to accept the compromise and nodded. Jack immediately ordered two of his men to mark trees around the body for future reference, then the patrol resumed their march east to link up with the PIB HQ along the track.
They had not gone far when all hell broke loose.
*
Lukas Kelly levelled his heavy machine gun on the conning tower and thought bitterly that they would go down fighting. Before he could fire, a distant American voice called from the sub, ‘Are you the Riverside?’
Lukas could hardly believe his ears. He felt as though they had just been given a reprieve from the firing squad.
‘We’re the Riverside, all right,’ Lukas shouted back.
‘We intercepted a message from your coastwatcher that you had been ambushed by the Japs,’ the voice replied. ‘We were in the area and thought we might look for your wreckage.’
‘Hard to sink this old tub,’ Lukas replied with a broad smile. ‘But we could do with a bit of help. Our engine is out of action – do you have an engineer who could help out?’
There was a pause and finally the voice shouted, ‘We’ll
send our engineer to see what he can do, but we can’t hang around for long.’
‘Thanks, cobber,’ Lukas called back and soon a dinghy with two sailors aboard splashed alongside. One was a senior noncommissioned officer Mel Jones recognised from his days with the American navy.
‘You old son of a bitch,’ Mel said, slapping his former colleague on the shoulder as he hoisted him over the side. ‘I thought you would be home on retirement, you dumb Polak.’
‘I could say the same about you, Taffy,’ the grizzled sailor said, taking Mel’s hand in a strong grip of friendship.
Melvin Jones might be a second-generation American, but Lukas knew he would never forget his Welsh roots.
‘This is Chief Petty Officer Polaski,’ Mel said, turning to introduce his former shipmate to Lukas. ‘I taught him everything he knows when we shipped together on the China station.’
‘So how come you need my help with your engine, you overfed, underworked Welshman?’ Polaski asked with a wry smile and both men launched into a diagnosis of what had gone wrong with the marine engine, disappearing into the cramped engine room as they talked.
The second sailor to come aboard introduced himself to Lukas as Ensign Jack Mitchell. From him Lukas was able to ascertain that the coastwatcher had been forced to retreat from the rendezvous point because a Jap patrol had stumbled into the area, seen the Riverside approaching and, in their haste to get into position, opened up too soon with their mortar and small arms. However, the coastwatcher was able to get off a message to Allied HQ, giving the route the supply boat had taken and requesting that its welfare be ascertained.
After an hour and a trip back to the American sub to find a replacement part, the engine was repaired. The rumbling cough of the boat coming back to life was one of the sweetest sounds Lukas had ever heard. The ensign and the engineer departed to the sub and were clambering aboard when Lukas’s relieved smile disappeared.