by Peter Watt
‘I am to translate,’ he said without any greeting. ‘When you are in the lieutenant’s presence, you must bow and not make eye contact,’ he instructed. ‘Do not ask questions and you will not be badly treated. Do you understand?’
An order was barked and the guard prodded Ilsa with the butt of his rifle to climb the steps to the office. She did so with Fuji close behind.
There was no door and Ilsa could see Lieutenant Yoshi sitting behind a desk made of oil drums and a flat piece of timber. She stopped just beyond the doorway and bowed from the waist. Ilsa could almost feel the cold cruelty of the immaculately dressed Japanese officer fill the small room, and she remained bowed until Fuji told her otherwise.
‘You may straighten up but keep your gaze away from our commander’s face,’ he said quietly.
Ilsa obeyed and stared down at the woven-reed floor.
‘Our commander wishes to know if you are being treated well,’ Fuji translated.
‘Tell him that I do not complain about the circumstances of my imprisonment,’ Ilsa said. She was terrified but was determined not to show it. Instead, she adopted the demeanour of a subservient woman, as she had read Japanese women were expected to do in the company of men.
‘The commander wishes to know why you are so important to the German allies,’ Fuji continued.
To this question Ilsa did not have any real answer – except that she was the daughter of a German intelligence officer who had defected to America before the war. She had been too young at the time to be told anything about her father’s work, and when she was old enough, that part of his life had seemed so distant and unreal she had never asked him any questions, and he had never raised the subject himself. Ilsa tried to give a truthful answer, explaining that she, too, was mystified.
As her answer was being weighed up by Lieutenant Yoshi, Ilsa could feel the sweat trickling down her spine. Outside she could hear the grunt of pigs rooting for scraps under the stilted huts and the laughter of children playing games.
After a long silence Fuji again translated. ‘Our commander says that soon you will be gone from us and you will no longer be of any importance to him. He says that you will continue to receive the best of treatment whilst in his care.’
Ilsa bowed in acknowledgement of this statement.
She was marched out and returned to her cage. There she slumped to the ground and buried her head against her knees. Time had begun to lose all meaning and she wondered if she would still be alive when the Germans came for her. This hell came with a steaming green prison deep in a place so far from help that only despair could find its way here. She feared there was no hope for her but she was determined to stay alive as long as she could.
She started to shiver; she had never felt so cold, despite the stifling heat of the day, yet her skin was hot to the touch. She recognised the signs with dread. Malaria might yet claim her life before the interventions of men could.
*
Sergeant Jack Kelly climbed out of the Douglas transport and stretched his legs. He was relieved to be on land after the bumpy, gut-wrenching flight across the towering mountain range of the Owen Stanleys, where updrafts had bounced the twin-engined transport around as if it were no more than a toy.
The steaming heat of the valley filled with long kunai grass wrapped him in an instant sweat. He hoisted his kitbag over his shoulder and went in search of the detachment of PIB soldiers he knew were camped a short distance away. He was fortunate to be able to hitch a lift on an American jeep driven by a PIB clerk. He was dropped off at the edge of the encampment and met by a smartly uniformed Papuan soldier standing sentry. The man grinned at him broadly.
‘Masta Jack!’ he exclaimed. ‘You come back to us.’
‘Hello, Private Ramos, you been well?’ Jack was pleased to see him. Ramos had accompanied him on many patrols and was a good soldier, with a liking for detaching Japanese heads with a machete.
‘Been well, Sergeant,’ he replied. ‘Captain Vincent is in HQ.’
Jack thanked the sentry and made his way to the centre of the encampment. He passed soldiers cleaning weapons and lying around tents; some of them recognised him and greeted him warmly. He could see from their appearance that these men had returned from an arduous patrol, and in the distance Jack could hear the drone of aircraft taking off and landing at the nearby airstrip laid down in the valley.
‘Sergeant Kelly, I see you have returned to us,’ a voice boomed and Jack saw the solidly built PIB captain striding towards him. Captain George Vincent was a big man with a ruddy face. Before the war he had been manager of a copra plantation near Lae and, like Jack, he had served his term with the PNGVR. ‘Travers was a bit vague on why you’ve been posted back to us, but if I know you, Jack, you’ll be up to some kind of mischief.’
Jack pulled the face of a man hurt by such an insinuation, then thrust out his hand. ‘How are you, George?’ he asked and the big man grinned as he took Jack’s hand. The formality of rank had little place amongst men who had worked beside each other before the war and shared the dangers of the early days, standing alone to defend their country before the Australian government had been able to rush reinforcements onto the Kokoda track.
‘Okay, Jack, why have you come back when you had a cushy job down in Moresby, sorting papers under a cool fan and with unlimited access to cold beer?’ Vincent asked. ‘All I got in the signal was that you were going to put together a small mission in our area of operations.’
‘I need your help to put together a task force to rescue some prisoners the Japs have captive west of here, about a couple of weeks’ march,’ Jack told him.
‘You mean the ones a patrol spotted a few weeks back?’ Vincent asked. ‘We’re a bit short on personnel for those kinds of ops, and from what Corporal Gari reported, he thought the Nips were at least a platoon strength of Special Landing Force troops. God knows why the Nips would have men like that up the coast, where they can do no one any harm. I suspect the Japs are under the impression they’ll be back in force any day now and then their boys will be able to act as a forward base. They must be dreaming.’
‘I’ll need to borrow a few of the boys to assist me and at the moment my son has his boat anchored north of us, putting ashore supplies. I’m sure that you can clear it with Moresby to allow him to transport us up the coast to save time.’
The captain rubbed his face with the palm of his hand, as if attempting to wipe away the dilemma of going through the paperwork of bureaucratic clearances. ‘Okay, I’ll get clearance and I can give you a section of nine men for one week. But you must know the statistics as well as I do – you need at least a three-to-one ratio to attack an entrenched force.’
‘Do I get Corporal Gari?’ Jack asked. ‘He’s worth at least ten men.’
‘You get Joseph,’ George sighed. ‘But you also submit a plan for your mission and don’t hold back on what your objectives are. I want to know why this mission is so important to you.’
‘One of the prisoners is my daughter,’ Jack said softly.
‘Bloody hell, Jack!’ he snorted. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Pretty well sure,’ Jack answered.
‘I didn’t know you had a daughter,’ Vincent said sympathetically.
‘One of those unexpected things from my past,’ Jack answered vaguely.
The captain didn’t ask any questions. ‘Well, get yourself to the lines then. I’ll leave it to your discretion as to how you organise your show. You have my authority to draw weapons, rations, radios and Corporal Gari with eight men of your choosing. I’ll have call signs allocated by 0600 tomorrow when you brief me on your mission in full. Any questions?’
‘She’s pretty jake,’ Jack answered. ‘And my thanks for everything. We’ll see if we can bag a few Japs along the way, and I promise to get all the boys back safe and well in your tender care.’
‘See that you do, Sergeant Kelly.’
Jack did not waste time. Every hour counted and he barely threw his kitbag on a field stretche
r before going in search of Corporal Gari. The mission had the green light and Jack – not a religious man – said a silent prayer that he would not be too late to save his daughter.
*
Ilsa felt a raging thirst and when she opened her eyes, she realised vaguely that she was no longer in the cage but lay on a woven-straw mat inside a hut.
‘You have a bad fever,’ Fuji’s voice said. ‘Lieutenant Yoshi had you brought here until the fever goes away.’
Ilsa attempted to sit up but felt too weak to do so. ‘Water,’ she croaked, and Fuji held a canteen of warm, brackish water to her lips.
‘You probably have malaria,’ he said in a matter-of-fact way. ‘It is killing more of our troops in this campaign than your army’s bullets.’
Ilsa let the water run into her mouth and wished she had something for the pain that seemed to be splitting open her head. At least the hut was out of the sun, she thought, and then she became aware that it was raining outside and was doubly grateful to be out of the wet. ‘Is your commander going to allow me to stay here?’ she asked.
‘I think so,’ Fuji replied. ‘There is nowhere you can escape to, anyway.’
Ilsa nodded. Escape was the last thing on her mind right now as she fought the debilitating fever. She had been briefed that Papua New Guinea harboured every kind of tropical disease known, from dengue fever to scrub typhus. Disease was causing more casualties amongst troops on both sides than actual combat.
Fuji exited the hut and Ilsa was left alone throughout the day, coming in and out of fever. She woke near evening to a guard bringing her a bowl of food. With effort she sat up and slowly ate the food, knowing that even this meagre nourishment would help her regain her strength. In the gloom of the native hut she could see that the flesh had wasted from her body. What skin she had on her bones was marked by sores and insect bites. She wondered what Clark would think of her if he could see her now, and the tears flowed down her sunken cheeks as she remembered how it had been before this terrible time. Her mind wandered through flower-soaked fields in Montana, where Clark had taken her to meet his family when they had fallen in love and the war was something on the other side of the world.
Gradually, as she drifted back from the past into the present, Ilsa became aware that someone was watching her from a dark corner and she started to feel afraid. She peered hard into the gloom and realised with a flood of relief that it was a little girl. She must have crawled in through a gap in the floor.
‘Hello,’ Ilsa said with a weak smile. The little girl stared back at her with big brown eyes. Ilsa guessed she was probably around four or five years of age. ‘What are you doing here?’
The little girl was naked and sat with her thumb in her mouth, observing Ilsa with a serious expression.
‘Come here,’ Ilsa said gently, gesturing with her hand, but the girl remained in the dark corner, afraid to approach. ‘I will not hurt you.’
Eventually Ilsa was able to coax her across and the little girl reached out to touch Ilsa’s matted hair. Then she sat down beside her and continued to suck her thumb. Ilsa felt a burst of warmth in the presence of another human who did not threaten her with harm. Although she knew the child did not understand her, she continued to talk softly to her until the girl stood up and left.
Ilsa sighed. At least there was one person amongst the villagers who was not afraid to make contact with her.
TEN
The next morning the same little girl returned and walked cautiously through the front entrance with a handful of wild flowers for Ilsa, who was deeply touched by the gesture. She was reaching out to take the gift when a shadow fell over the doorway.
Ilsa looked up to see one of the men she recognised as a friend of her interpreter, Fuji. She had heard Fuji call him by name – Oshiro. He had a broad, friendly face and the few times he had brought her the daily ration he had been kind and gentle. When he saw the little girl standing beside Ilsa, he broke into a wide smile and said something Ilsa guessed to be a friendly greeting. He even bowed at the waist to the startled child, who watched him with an expression of fear, as she was clearly in a place she had been told by the adults of her village never to go.
Ilsa glanced at Oshiro and smiled, sharing the gentleness of the moment.
The Japanese man kneeled down and offered a stick of beef jerky to the girl. She took it hesitantly, and he indicated for her to bite on the dried meat.
Just then there was a noise in the doorway. Ilsa’s heart almost stopped beating – the Japanese commander stood blocking the entrance, his face a mask of rage.
Oshiro came to his feet and saluted smartly.
Lieutenant Yoshi looked past his subordinate to the child, now backing away fearfully towards the rear wall. The Japanese officer dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. Oshiro cried out urgently. Ilsa did not understand Japanese but she could tell from the enraged voice of the commander and the pleading voice of his subordinate that a heated discussion was going on. Ilsa wondered at Oshiro’s bravery, then noticed that his hand was covering the hilt of his commander’s sword, as if trying to restrain him.
A shouted command from Lieutenant Yoshi brought two Japanese soldiers scrabbling to his assistance. They seized Oshiro, who did not attempt to resist. Without another word Lieutenant Yoshi stormed out of the hut, the other three following him.
Ilsa hardly dared breathe again. Thankfully the little girl had slipped away during the confrontation. Ilsa guessed that in the brief but terrifying time the incident took to happen, Oshiro had saved the little girl’s life.
Within minutes she could hear the sound of soldiers being called to assembly and she struggled to her feet to peek through a gap in the thatched wall. The Japanese soldiers were being addressed by Lieutenant Yoshi, who was standing on a wooden crate in front of them. Ilsa could see that Oshiro was now stripped down to a loincloth and was being spread-eagled on the hot earth, his arms and legs tied to wooden pegs in the ground. He lay face up and the soldiers stepped back, leaving him to bake under the tropical sun.
Fuji was called out and stood beside the officer to address the villagers, who had also been forced to attend the field punishment. Ilsa did not understand what he was saying but she could hear a tremor in his voice.
Lieutenant Yoshi dismissed the parade and then stepped off the box; within minutes Oshiro was alone in the clearing.
That evening Fuji brought Ilsa her food ration.
‘Is your friend being punished?’ she asked as he placed the bowl on the floor in front of her.
‘Yes,’ Fuji replied. ‘He has been sentenced to three days and nights without food or water for daring to interfere with the actions of a superior officer and for assaulting him.’
‘Your friend did not assault anyone,’ Ilsa retorted. ‘He was begging your Lieutenant Yoshi not to harm an innocent child.’
‘That does not matter,’ Fuji said bitterly. ‘Oshiro knows better than to interfere with the wishes of a superior officer. His punishment could have been worse.’
‘Worse than what he is suffering now!’ Ilsa exclaimed. ‘In this heat he will be lucky to survive two days without water.’
Fuji turned his back and shrugged. ‘Oshiro knows our military law and is an Okinawan. They are a tough people. He will live.’
Ilsa was not so sure, and when the second night arrived she could hear the weak calls of a man beginning to suffer delirium. She found herself praying for rain that night and then wondered that she should care for the fate of an enemy soldier, one of her captors. Her prayers were answered anyway because a few hours later there was a short but heavy downpour.
Ilsa hoped that Oshiro was able to drink some of the rain and survive just one more day and one more night.
*
Fuji was summoned to his commander’s office in the early evening. He saluted smartly, standing rigidly to attention.
‘Petty Officer Fuji,’ Lieutenant Yoshi said, seated at his makeshift desk. ‘I remember you when you were rescue
d in the company of a native girl I saw it as my duty to execute.’
Fuji felt his face redden at the memory of the ‘rescue’. He had been on a mission to his home district around Port Moresby, to make contact with an influential traitor to the Australian government. He was supposed to be extracted by a Japanese submarine but when that didn’t happen, Fuji and his lover, Keela, attempted to reach friendly territory in a native canoe. They wound up on an island patrolled by the Japanese Navy, and a marine team led by Yoshi found them in a sad state. Without heeding the explanation from Fuji, whom he suspected of being a deserter, the Japanese officer personally beheaded Keela on the white sands of the island beach.
Fuji felt both rising rage and a sick fear. Fuji had wondered whether the navy officer would remember his face. Now he knew.
The officer rose menacingly from behind his desk and walked to within inches of Fuji, staring into his face. ‘You are a warrior of the Emperor, and even if you were not born in Japan, you wear the Emperor’s uniform. Who do you swear your loyalty to – the Emperor or a dead barbarian girl?’
Fuji could see the menace in his officer’s eyes but he knew his duty. ‘My oath is to our Emperor,’ he said tightly.
The officer stared at Fuji as if contemplating something. ‘I can see that you would like to kill me, Petty Officer,’ Lieutenant Yoshi said. ‘But we are at war and your personal desires are of no consequence. You will die for the Emperor if I command it.’ He raised his hand to dismiss him, and Fuji saluted, bowed and retreated for the doorway.
Outside, he found himself reeling from the encounter. Once again he was confused by his thoughts. On the one hand he was a warrior of the Emperor, sworn to obey and die. On the other hand, Yoshi was responsible for the brutal and unnecessary death of the one person who had brought gentleness and love into Fuji’s life. Love was not an emotion easily dismissed.
In the gathering darkness, Fuji was aware that Oshiro was still pegged out in the clearing, moaning weakly, and for a fleeting moment Fuji considered overpowering the guard and cutting his friend loose. They could flee into the jungle to wait out the war. But the thought was merely an impulsive dream, he knew that.