by Peter Watt
‘What do you intend to do when the war is over?’ Sarah asked.
‘Return to my home in Papua and my old job as a patrol officer,’ Karl answered and didn’t miss the look of disappointment on her face at his response.
‘Surely you’re sick of jungles and savages by now,’ she said, taking a puff on her cigarette. ‘I would think that you might seek a less dangerous profession.’
Karl fell into silence. ‘Maybe you are right,’ he said finally. ‘What are your plans for the end of the war?’
‘Oh, to go to a lot more parties and spend the family fortune as quickly as I can,’ she sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll do the right thing by the family and meet an acceptable man, and look after the house and children while he goes off to work.’
‘You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who would settle for domestic bliss,’ Karl said, taking a sip of his beer.
‘How do you know?’ Sarah retorted. ‘You’ve only known me for a few minutes.’
‘I would like to get to know you better,’ Karl said quietly, and then cursed himself for being so blunt.
‘Believe it or not, Karl,’ Sarah said, ‘the feeling is mutual. I have a flat not far from here. In fact, five minutes’ walk away. Let’s go there.’
Karl made his apologies to Charles for having to leave before the new year was ushered in and then slipped away to meet Sarah outside. She was standing under a dimmed streetlight and for a moment he thought about the popular German song ‘Lili Marleen’, and the soldier’s girl waiting under the lamplight outside the barracks.
Sarah slipped her arm through Karl’s and together they walked along the streets filled with people preparing to welcome in a new year they prayed would finally bring the end of the war. At least in Europe the Allies had regained the momentum towards victory. Only in the Pacific did the war drag on with no clear end in sight.
Once inside the flat, Sarah leaned up and kissed Karl passionately on the lips. Taking his hand she led him to the bedroom, unbuttoning her evening dress on the way.
They made love as if nothing else mattered in the world, the sounds of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ drifting to them from nearby parties as the year ticked over into 1945.
As the sun rose on the new year, Karl lay awake knowing that within hours he would be on a plane flying north to the Queensland township of Cairns. Beside him Sarah lay naked under a sheet, her head on his broad chest. She murmured when he moved, and he remained still so as not to disturb her. He wished this moment would never end. He didn’t know whether it was love but it was something precious snatched in a time when life was so precarious.
Karl glanced at the luminous dial of his watch and realised he would have to leave now to be on time for his flight. Very gently, he eased Sarah’s head from his chest and slipped out of bed. He gathered up his uniform and quickly dressed. He rubbed his chin, knowing that he should shave as regulations dictated. This was one rule he would have to break today, he thought.
When he was dressed, Karl left the flat, quietly closing the door behind him, and stepped into the street. He only had to walk a short distance before he flagged down a passing taxi. Three hours later he was sitting inside a transport aircraft taking off from Sydney going north to the tropics. As he sat with his back to the fuselage he kept thinking about the hours since Charles’s party. Karl had not said goodbye to Sarah but that was the way of war. Saying goodbye was too much of a reminder that it could be goodbye forever. Without knowing it, Sarah had helped ease the pain of his loss and prepare him to face an uncertain future.
SIX
That the pilot hardly looked old enough to shave, let alone command the Douglas transport, did not surprise Ilsa – servicemen seemed to be getting younger and younger as the war dragged on. He stood beside his aircraft, chewing gum and grinning broadly. He looked as though he had stepped off a tractor in Idaho to be given a pair of dark sunglasses and his very own aeroplane and he still couldn’t quite believe his luck.
Ilsa had finally had her journalist credentials restored. She had not waited for the clearance, as seats on transport aircraft were hard to come by. Ilsa had counted on luck to stay alive and the desire to be reunited with her fiancé and find her father again overrode her willingness to remain in the States.
Ed had organised a flight out of Hawaii heading to Port Moresby, where Clark, it seemed, was still based.
‘Welcome aboard, ma’am,’ the young pilot said from behind his sunglasses. ‘I‘m a big fan of your work.’
Ilsa returned his smile and wondered if he had read her columns in between reading comic books. ‘Thanks, Lieutenant,’ she said as he indicated for her to clamber aboard with her kit. She found a canvas seat between wooden crates of medical supplies and buckled herself in.
With the roar of its two powerful engines, the Douglas taxied out and sped down the concrete strip to rise into the tropical sky over the waters of the Hawaiian Islands. Ilsa had been briefed that their first stop would be Fiji, where she would be able to avail herself of a comfortable bed, hot shower and good meal before the transport aircraft continued its next leg to a strip in New Britain. Although still active further north, enemy aircraft no longer posed a threat to Allied aircraft in this part of the Pacific, so the flight should be relatively uneventful.
Ilsa settled into her seat, stared at the brown wax paper bag near her hand and hoped that she would not have to use it. Flying was not something she liked much and she forced herself to take her mind off the stuffiness of the aircraft’s interior and the bumpy flight with thoughts of her reunion with Clark and meeting up once again with Jack Kelly. At least she could thank him for saving Clark and that would be a start.
*
Major Karl Mann crouched behind a large tropical tree and covered his ears with his hands. The roar of the nearby explosion swept over him with a concussive wave of heat.
‘Very good, sir,’ an English voice said, and Karl turned to look up at his assessor, Sergeant Major Robbins, a British warrant officer with a stiff moustache and swagger stick under his arm. Karl was amused to see that the normally immaculately turned-out Robbins was spattered in mud. Karl had handled demolition charges hundreds of times and had deliberately set his charge to produce this effect – it was childish perhaps, but he was finding the retraining very boring. Still, at least it gave him a chance to assess the Free French officer beside him. He and Karl had been introduced to each other in the secret training camp near Cairns, and had been singled out from the other trainees there to carry out special training on their own.
‘Your turn, sir,’ said Robbins, attempting to ignore the mud dripping from his face.
Karl watched as Captain Hung van Pham opened the canvas bag containing the plasticine-like explosive and placed it on a rainforest log. Karl prided himself on being able to get on with most men but he had found the Eurasian aloof to the point of rudeness. Perhaps the French officer did not like people of German origin, not that Karl like the French much himself. The Australian Army had fought the French Foreign Legion in Syria and had beaten them too.
Pham had only seemed animated when briefing Karl on his country, people and culture.
‘Indochina is composed of three main regions,’ he had told him, standing before a large map drawn by French surveyors before the war. ‘Tonkin in the north – with its capital of Hanoi; Annam in the middle – the capital being Hue; and, finally, Cochin China in the south – with Saigon as the main centre. We refer to ourselves as Vietnamese and I have been told that we are the result of a mix of those from the south in the islands of Dutch East Indies and the Chinese from the north, who are also our traditional enemies. Many people have tried to invade and occupy us over the years but we have resisted. Even the great Mongol armies fought us in our jungles and were defeated. Only the French have been successful and it is to them that we owe much. Our style of writing script is European, and my people have acquired a taste for bread. My land is a country of rice paddies, jungles, wild mountains and monsoon rain
s. It is beautiful beyond your imagining, but the peasants need the stability of government that the French have imposed on us. Do you have any questions?’
Karl stared at the slim and neatly dressed young officer. ‘Are you French or Vietnamese?’ he asked bluntly.
‘I am French,’ Pham answered without hesitation. ‘I am accepted by the French as one of them.’
Karl did not comment; he suspected that the French were as racist as the Germans, and that Pham was living in a bubble.
However, during the weeks of retraining in special warfare tactics, Karl had to concede that the French officer knew his stuff. Even now he moved with the litheness of a hunting cat as they retreated to their protected position. The explosion went off as planned, shattering the rainforest log, and this time Robbins retreated several yards to avoid being splattered again.
Karl stood and stretched. His uniform was wet with sweat and stiff with mud. He noticed a movement in the trees and caught sight of a familiar face.
‘Why does it not surprise me to see you here, sir?’ he said to Captain Featherstone.
‘Ah, Major Mann, it is good to see that the Zed people have not killed you off yet.’ Featherstone said.
‘How are you, Pham?’ the British officer asked.
‘I am well, sir,’ Pham answered in French.
‘You are to report to the orderly room for your movement papers,’ Featherstone continued in French. ‘Tomorrow, be prepared to fly out. Your transport will be provided courtesy of the American navy.’
Karl noticed Pham glance at him and then turn on his heel to walk away.
‘What’s happening?’ Karl asked.
‘Pham is being deployed tomorrow,’ Featherstone replied. ‘You will be following soon enough. We just have to ensure that if anything goes wrong, then we lose only one man on the insertion. I would rather that not be you, Karl.’
‘I am touched,’ Karl smiled. ‘I didn’t think you had any human feelings.’
‘You would be surprised,’ Featherstone said dryly. ‘You are to report to HQ at 1900 hours to receive your briefing,’ he said. ‘I can tell you that you will be first going to join one of our teams on the Malay Peninsula, before entering Indochina. Pham should be in position by the time you arrive and have made contact with the resistance people in Saigon. But first you will stay over at Moresby.’
Inwardly Karl groaned. He felt as if he were a pawn in a game he didn’t really understand. ‘When the mission is complete and I return,’ Karl said, ‘I want a guarantee that I will be reassigned to an infantry battalion as a company commander. I want to see out this war fighting alongside my fellow Australians, not be sent out to die in some bloody forgotten part of the planet.’
Featherstone looked Karl directly in the eyes. ‘I promise that if you return, you will be given this guarantee.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Karl replied dutifully, although he hadn’t missed the fact that Featherstone had said ‘if’ not ‘when’.
‘If Sergeant Major Robbins has finished with you today, then I’m sure you would appreciate a drink in the mess, old boy.’ Featherstone turned to the British warrant officer discreetly hovering out of hearing. ‘Sergeant Major, permission to dismiss Major Mann from his training for the day?’ he said loudly.
Robbins came to attention.
‘Yes, sir,’ he snapped. ‘Major Mann has finished his training on the range.’
Karl picked up his pack and rifle, and walked with Featherstone away from the demolitions range.
‘I may as well tell you now, old chap, that this mission was not my idea,’ Featherstone said. ‘But it is vital that when the war is won, the French return to Indochina and take possession before Ho Chi Minh seizes control. We know even now that the native peoples of Asia are stirring for freedom from their old colonial masters, and that includes our Chinese communist allies in Malaya.’
Featherstone stopped suddenly and turned to Karl with an anxious expression. ‘I would caution you to keep an eye on Pham at all times. Try to stay out of his dealings with his fellow countrymen. Your task is to get Herlinde Kroth to safety so that we can debrief her.’
‘I thought that we were helping her because of her father,’ Karl said.
‘Ah, yes, that is correct,’ Featherstone answered uneasily as the two men walked into an open area of tents and Nissan huts around a small gravel parade ground. He stopped at the edge of the clearing. ‘Miss Kroth is the mistress of a high-ranking Vichy official collaborating with the Japanese. She is in a position to reach members of the Japanese imperial staff in Saigon. After all, the Japanese and Germans are on the same side.’
The British officer wished that he could describe the bigger picture to his courageous and loyal agent, but the military protocols were strict in these matters. Karl was a mere, and expendable, pawn in an international game of deadly chess where the pieces would be moved around the board with one of the players blindfolded. In this case it was Major Mann. Featherstone’s superiors continually and erratically changed their priorities in the strategic game of politics. The Allies were sure of victory and were even now plotting a new world order when the guns fell silent across the globe. One Australian Army major was of little or no consequence to their devious end game and Featherstone often found it hard to sleep when he knew that he had to lie to those who trusted him.
‘What will my cover be in Saigon?’ Karl asked.
‘Your papers will say that you are a German civil engineer sent out by Albert Speer – the Nazi minister for industry and armaments – to liaise with Jap equivalents there. The role should get you close to Miss Kroth. Needless to say, we have prepared all the documents you will need to carry the whole thing off. You did this in Palestine and I know you can do it again.’
Karl was not reassured – he had barely made it out of Palestine alive. Featherstone was right about one thing, though, he could do with a drink. He was going to drink a heck of a lot this evening, and put it all on the SOE officer’s chit. It was the least Featherstone could do for him.
*
The flight from Hawaii was a series of island-hopping exercises south and then west from New Britain to Port Moresby. Despite his youth, the pilot was skilful enough to land on islands in the vast expanse of the Pacific, delivering supplies and picking up mail. They were flying in the backwater of the war, but the islands fought over by the US marines and army still bore the fresh scars of battle: shattered coconut trees, shell craters full of stagnant water, and the lingering stench of decomposing flesh.
During the landing stops, Ilsa availed herself of any opportunity to bathe and freshen up at the rear echelon rest areas, where gaunt-faced young boys stared at her with the eyes of old men. She knew that these old eyes in young, emaciated bodies wracked by dysentery and tropical disease had seen too much of the inhumanity of man. She also knew that their bodies might recover but didn’t think their souls ever would.
At the appointed time Ilsa returned to the airstrip, stepping carefully over great land crabs scavenging for the scraps of human flesh still fertilising the tropical earth. Her aeroplane was loaded and the young pilot beckoned cheerfully to her from the window of his flight cabin. Ilsa was helped aboard by a smartly dressed US Army colonel wearing his full uniform. He helped her to her canvas seat against the wall.
‘You heading for Moresby?’ he asked as Ilsa buckled herself in.
‘Yes, Colonel,’ she replied as the side door was slammed shut. ‘You too?’
‘Got a conference there,’ he answered, strapping in beside Ilsa and being cast envious looks from two young soldiers opposite. Rank had its privileges. ‘What’s a pretty young thing like you doing in a war zone?’ he asked condescendingly.
Ilsa took an immediate dislike to this middle-aged officer who was most probably in some staff appointment, safely tucked away from the fighting.
‘I’m a correspondent for a New York newspaper and have just completed a posting with General Patton’s armoured advance through France,’
she replied and noticed the pompous colonel’s expression change. The Allied press had given much coverage to the colourful American’s victories in Europe and it was known that he led his men into the worst of the fighting.
The roar and shake of the aircraft throttling up for a take-off dampened any further conversation and Ilsa was glad. She tucked behind her head a dappled poncho rolled into a ball and dozed off as the plane ascended into the azure sky. She did not know how long she had been asleep when she was jolted awake by the aircraft being flung about.
Ilsa strained her neck to look out a porthole and was alarmed by what she saw. It was obvious that they had flown into a fierce tropical storm and all the pilot could do was fight to keep his aeroplane in the air. When she turned to glance at the colonel, she could see he was ashen with fear. ‘These are tough birds,’ she shouted over the crack of lightning outside. ‘I am sure we’ll be out of this soon.’
The colonel bent forward, reached for a brown wax paper bag and was instantly sick. Now the stench of vomit mixed with the smell of aviation fuel inside the stifling interior. The two young soldiers opposite attempted to look brave but Ilsa guessed they were as frightened as she was.
Suddenly the twin-engine aircraft dropped, causing the unseated loadmaster checking the strapping on the supplies to be flung upwards; he crashed back down onto the metal floor and did not move. Ilsa saw the pool of blood oozing from his head and knew that he was either dead or gravely injured. She unbuckled her restraint and went down on her knees to crawl towards him, and was joined by one of the young soldiers.
Ilsa could see from the expression on the loadmaster’s face that he was dead. His eyes were open and staring up without seeing. She felt for a pulse and could not find one.
‘Is he okay?’ the young soldier asked over her shoulder and she shook her head. He gaped at the airman’s dead body and Ilsa sensed that this young man had never seen death before.