by Bruce Gamble
AT PONDO, KEITH MCCARTHY LEARNED THAT MORE AUSTRALIANS WERE IN hiding than he’d originally thought. In addition to the men still holding out on the north shore, there were hundreds of Lark Force soldiers scattered among several plantations on the south coast. Eager to rescue as many as possible, he approached Frank Holland, a local timber merchant, and asked him to hike across the island to Wide Bay. He was to contact any soldiers he could find there, then guide them back to Pondo. A superbly fit individual of many talents, Holland immediately accepted the challenge.
With six armed police boys and several native carriers, Holland started out from Open Bay on February 20. If it seemed a large party for such a short journey—it was only twenty miles to Wide Bay on the opposite coast—there was good reason. The mountainous terrain was the domain of the Mokolkol tribe, a mysterious band of warriors feared for their exceptional ferocity and stealth. The precautions were justified. On the third day out, Holland’s party was attacked by axe-wielding warriors, and one of the police boys was badly cut on the arm. The warriors struck again the next day, but two of them were killed and three others wounded. The Mokolkols attempted no more attacks during the rest of the journey.
Just north of Wide Bay, near the Mavelo River, Holland came upon Alf Robinson, still scrounging on his own while waiting for his mangled hands to heal. Holland learned that Lieutenant Colonel Carr and Police Commissioner Ball were camped only six miles down the trail at Ril plantation, so he pressed ahead with two of the police boys and left the others to care for Robinson. During the next several days, Holland tried to catch Carr’s party but was unable to gain ground. The soldiers kept moving south, always staying a day or two ahead. Holland sent a runner with a message, but the attempt failed because the recipients thought the native was trying to deceive them. To Holland, it began to appear as though his trek across the island had been in vain.
IRONICALLY, CARR’S GROUP HAD PICKED UP THEIR PACE SHORTLY BEFORE Holland approached the south coast. Previously, they had moved down the island with slow deliberation. As Peter Figgis later put it, “We weren’t racing down the coast like the rest of them, who were unfortunately in a bit of a panic.” Indeed, they spent a whole week at Riat before an advance party consisting of Figgis, Bill Harry, and Ivan Smith departed for Lemingi. Arriving on the morning of January 31, they found Father Meierhofer caring for a few men in bad health; otherwise, dozens of soldiers had already passed through the mission and were gone. The remainder of Carr’s party reached Lemingi a day later, and once they discovered the luxuries of hot food and solid roofs over their heads, they decided to linger for several more days. Figgis and Hugh Mackenzie moved on, anxious to find the two-way radio that was allegedly at Tol plantation.
Accompanied by Rifleman K. C. J. “Ken” Stone, a former AWA telegraph operator who had enlisted in the NGVR and was later seconded to naval intelligence, they reached Tol on February 14. There was no radio, of course. Instead, they found only the terrible detritus of the slaughter that had occurred ten days earlier. As they searched through the plantation they uncovered more grisly evidence of the atrocities, and Figgis found Norm Walkley. Remarkably, the twenty-two-year-old private was still alive but in dreadful shape, his wounds having become infected. The newcomers thought he was the only survivor, and were dismayed that he was beyond saving.
By this time, the conditions among the coconut groves at Tol and Waitavalo were appalling. The bodies strewn on the ground had been decomposing for ten days in the tropical heat, and though they still held a human shape, they were too bloated and blackened for identification. Handling the corpses for burial was out of the question. Whatever was left after being scavenged by birds, insects, and small animals was swarming with maggots; and if such corruption wasn’t repugnant enough by itself, the very atmosphere was polluted with the stench of hydrogen sulfide and methane gases. “It wasn’t very nice,” admitted Figgis with typical understatement. He, Mackenzie, and Stone collected several “meat tickets,” as they called the metal identification tags, but there was nothing else the living could do for the dead. Within a few weeks, nature would reduce the corpses to clean skeletons.
Next, while searching the buildings at Waitavalo, Mackenzie and Figgis made another gruesome discovery: inside one charred structure was the body of a soldier, and the evidence clearly showed that he had been alive when the building was torched. “We lifted out several sheets of iron and found a corpse that had been burned,” Mackenzie told an investigating committee later. “The corpse was within a few feet of the back entrance of the house and was on its hands and knees with one arm flung around a watering can. The attitude was that of a man attempting to crawl out of the house. There was a smell as if there was another corpse in the house but I did not see it.”
The search party was unaware that several Australians had survived the massacres. In due time, the full extent of the Japanese atrocities would be revealed to the world.
HIGH IN THE MOUNTAINS, MEANWHILE, THERE HAD BEEN A CHANGE OF leadership among the Australians at Lemingi. Howard Carr, officially the ranking officer, gradually assumed a secondary position. “The Bodger” had already lost the respect of his men before the war started, then behaved irrationally during the invasion. In the jungle, he was just another lost soldier on the run. Fortunately for the rest of the party, a few capable individuals were prepared to step forward when their talents were needed.
One notable example was Chief Yeoman Stephen Lamont. Born near Belfast in 1898 and said to be “as Irish as Paddy’s pig,” he was a veteran of the Royal Navy during World War I. Later he became a coastwatcher in the mandated territory, and by coincidence had retired from that duty only a few days before Rabaul fell. He was awaiting transportation to Australia when the Japanese spoiled his plans.
Bruce Ball, the police commissioner, had served in the British Army during World War I, and was likewise more than competent in the jungle. And there was Richard E. P. “Larry” Dwyer, a rifleman in the NGVR who had worked in the New Guinea Department of Agriculture before the war. The others relied on his expertise regarding “all matters edible.”
Between them, the three men had accumulated dozens of years of practical experience in the islands. They were familiar with the local customs and, most importantly, could converse with the natives in Pidgin English. Over the past twenty years, missionaries and territorial administrators had promoted its use to the point that Pidgin English bridged many of the innumerable dialects spoken by different tribes. The sing-song language had a surprisingly large vocabulary, and the soldiers of Lark Force benefited from learning basic words for day-to-day survival. Kaikai (food), wara (water), haus (hut), and balus (airplane) were among the most vital.
Ball, a no-nonsense character and tough policeman, gradually became the leader of the Australians at Lemingi. They remained with Father Alfons Meierhofer until February 7, then walked to Adler Bay. By that time only one small party remained nearby at Sum Sum plantation, and Bill Harry hiked there with Ivan Smith on February 12. They found Colin N. M. Stirling, a lieutenant from R Company, living with several other soldiers in relative comfort. They had plenty of rice and livestock available, and therefore declined Smith’s offer to join the southbound group. Stirling and his party would later regret their decision.
Smith and Harry rejoined Ball’s party, which resumed the journey south. A day or two later, Harry was scouting ahead with Larry Dwyer when they came upon a quiet freshwater stream. After washing the remnants of their uniforms, they bathed in the cool water while their clothing dried in the sun. Howard Carr suddenly appeared at the edge of the stream, and without preamble inquired, “Well, Larry, have you found any kaikai around?”
Momentarily befuddled by Carr’s abrupt question, Dwyer recovered quickly. He rose slowly until he stood naked in the stream, then extended his arm and pointed at the canopy of a massive tree high above. “There is a fungus up there,” he said deadpan, “which the natives sometimes eat. Good food, too—chock full of carbohydrates and pr
otein.” Carr simply ambled off without saying another word.
Back on the move again, Ball’s group was just north of Tol plantation on February 14 when they met Scanlan’s party walking in the opposite direction. The colonel was sullen and withdrawn, so John Mollard did most of the talking. After first explaining that their party was headed back to Rabaul to surrender, he tried to persuade Ball’s group to join them. “Mollard stressed that there was no hope of evacuation from the island,” recalled Harry, “and by surrendering to the Japanese there was a chance they would live.” No one from either party changed their minds, and the groups went their separate ways.
Next, Ball’s party stopped at Ril plantation, halfway between Tol and Kalai. They found the emaciated Alf Robinson, who declined an invitation to join their group. Until the telltale wounds on his wrists healed, he was fearful of leaving the relative safety of the plantation.
While the party rested at Ril, one of the young naval ratings died from malaria. The death of Signalman Arthur E. Francis on February 24 seemed to echo Mollard’s warning. As a result, the men decided to continue southward at a faster pace than before, unaware that Holland was trying to catch up with them. Near Kalai, they came upon six warrant officers living in an old copra shed. All were former policemen from Ball’s jurisdiction in the New Guinea constabulary. Although they knew each other well and were invited to join Ball’s party, they preferred to remain at Kalai for the time being rather than head south.
Moving on without delay, Ball’s group arrived at the village of Milim, approximately fifteen miles south of Kalai, on February 26. The villagers had fled after a gang of laborers from a nearby plantation took over their huts. Such changes were not unusual after the invasion, as most white plantation owners had abandoned their properties, leaving the native workers with no supervision. Islanders from the Admiralties and other “outside” areas frequently formed into gangs, some of which were influenced by Japanese bribes and rewards. In exchange, the gangs reported on local activities and pressured other natives into turning pro-Japanese.
The unruly gang at Milim, mostly natives from Manus Island, immediately showed their resentment of the Australians. Purely by coincidence, Frank Holland’s messenger arrived at this precise moment and handed Ball a note. It simply stated that the party was to return to Kalai, which made the Australians suspicious. After questioning the runner, Ball decided the message was a ruse and called for the Manus gang’s leader.
The situation quickly turned ugly. The boss-boy, full of defiance, threatened to “send talk” to the Japanese. Ball silenced him with sharp words, but the native began backing slowly toward a jungle trail. Suddenly he turned and ran. Ball drew his revolver and fired, badly wounding the native. The fight went out of his “sulky cohorts,” who picked up their leader and carried him into the jungle.
The Australians moved on to the small village of Setwi on the afternoon of February 28. Another runner appeared with a message, and this time Ball recognized the scrawl of Arthur S. “Sandy” Sinclair, one of the warrant officers back at Kalai. His note read: “Advise return immediately. New plan.”
The group conferred briefly and decided the message was too cryptic to act upon in blind faith. Dysentery and malaria were beginning to weaken some members of the party, and more information was needed before everyone would commit to going all the way back to Kalai. It made more sense for one individual to attempt a fast trip to the warrant officers’ camp and get the complete story.
The obvious choice was Bill Harry. Still in good health, he had demonstrated his cross-country abilities on numerous occasions. The total journey was estimated to be forty miles, virtually all of it over rough terrain, and no extra rations could be spared. Harry would have to scrounge for native foods along the way. Could he do it in four days? If he failed to return by then, the group would continue south. Harry did not pause to think about it. Arming himself with a handgun, he started immediately on the path to Kalai. Only a few hours of daylight remained, and he wanted to make the most of it.
Darkness was falling by the time he approached Milim, where the “dust-up” had taken place two days earlier. Concerned that the Manus natives would seek retribution against the next white man they saw, Harry approached the village cautiously. On the path he met an islander who identified himself as the tultul, advisor to the luluai, the local headman. He gave Harry the good news that Milim was back in the hands of the villagers. The Manus ringleader was still alive, but remained hidden in the jungle with his gang.
The change in fortune was a boon to Harry. He promptly arranged for several natives to paddle him across Wide Bay in an outrigger canoe, thereby reducing the length of the trip by several hours. Arriving at Kalai before dawn, he walked into Sinclair’s camp just as the constables were beginning to stir. None had expected such a fast response to the note, and they were duly impressed when Harry announced: “Good morning, I’m from Ball’s party.”
Sinclair asked where the rest of the men were.
“Still a couple of days down the coast,” answered Harry. He explained that Ball had sent him “to get the story.”
“Hell,” Sinclair grumbled, “What’s the use of that? This really puts the lid on it—we haven’t a hope of holding Holland any longer.”
“But who is Holland,” Harry asked. “What is on, and where does he fit into it?”
Sinclair outlined the rescue attempt. Frank Holland was waiting near Ril to guide them all across the island to Pondo, where an evacuation was being organized. He was also caring for two survivors of the recent massacre, Alf Robinson and Bill Collins, and was impatient to get going. More importantly, Sinclair added, the Japanese occupied Gasmata, cutting off the escape route to the south. “We will do our best to hold Holland,” he promised, “but there must be a limit.”
After a breakfast of boiled kau-kau served on a leaf, Harry got back on the path. The natives who had brought him by canoe were gone, so he took the long way around the coast, walking nonstop throughout the day. Once again he reached Milim just before dark, and again the native advisor met him. This time, he took Harry aside and begged him to finish off the wounded gang leader, claiming the Manus natives had “whiskey galore from the plantation house, and large quantities of rice and tinned meat.”
Harry wisely refused to get involved. After noting the location of the supplies, he arranged for another canoe to speed him on his way. At about 2200 on March 1, he walked into Ball’s camp, having completed the round trip in just thirty hours.
The camp was abuzz. During Harry’s absence, Peter Figgis, Hugh Mackenzie, and Ken Stone had rejoined the group. The entire party now commenced a late-night planning session. Figgis reported that there was an opportunity to evacuate even more Australians: his small party had found approximately two hundred members of Lark Force encamped in the vicinity of Jacquinot Bay. They were trapped when the Japanese landed at Gasmata on February 9, and now faced severe food shortages.
New plans were drawn up that night, and Figgis outlined the details in a coded message. The next morning, Ivan Smith and James C. H. “Connel” Gill, one of Mackenzie’s sub-lieutenants, set off for the north coast to deliver the message directly to Keith McCarthy. Harry informed them of the food cache at Milim village, which indeed contained supplies that helped them in their effort to cross the island.
The rest of Ball’s party also prepared to get underway. Most would hike back to Ril and join Frank Holland, but the new plan also called for several volunteers to stay behind and attempt to coordinate a southern evacuation. Well aware that they were passing up a good opportunity to get off the island, a total of six agreed to help the stranded troops. Peter Figgis, Bill Harry, Hugh Mackenzie, Ken Stone, and two of the naval ratings divvied up the few remaining tins of food and set off for Jacquinot Bay.
Ball led the rest of his party, which included Howard Carr, “Tusker” McLeod, Steve Lamont, and eight naval ratings, back to Wide Bay. They succeeded in finding Holland at Ril plantation, where Sincla
ir and the other constables joined them, as did the three civilian planters who had originally found Alf Robinson in the jungle. Holland then guided the collective group to his remote camp, where Bill Collins was still recovering from the wounds he had received at Tol.
The party now numbered twenty-five Australians. However, before they could get underway from Holland’s camp, two of the naval ratings fell gravely ill with dysentery. Yeoman George P. Knight and Writer Thomas I. Douglas were too sick to travel, so Chief Lamont nobly volunteered to take care of them until they were able to move. The three navy men remained in the jungle camp while the rest of the evacuees started across the island. Thanks to Holland’s expert guidance, the group joined Keith McCarthy at Pondo on March 8.
By then, both Thomas and Knight were dead, but not because of illness. Soon after the main party left the camp, they were captured along with Lamont and taken to Rabaul. Lamont was imprisoned at the Malaguna Camp stockade, but Douglas and Knight were executed on March 5.
KEITH MCCARTHY SEEMED TO BE EVERYWHERE AT ONCE. AFTER SENDING Holland across the island, he proceeded north to Cape Lambert and searched for scattered groups of Australian soldiers. At a plantation called Seragi, he found two noncoms, both sick with malaria, who led him around the cape to Langinoa, another plantation. There, thirty soldiers languished, slowly starving, but within yards of where they sat was a huge crop of untouched cassava. McCarthy could scarcely believe the soldiers’ ignorance. The cassava roots would yield plenty of life-giving tapioca, but the soldiers had no knowledge of their surrounding habitat.
Near midnight on February 21, Pip Appel learned that McCarthy was in the vicinity. The timing could not have been better. Appel had recently received additional messages from the Japanese stating that they would round up all Australian troops at Lassul Bay on February 22. He was on the verge of giving up, but the news of McCarthy’s arrival saved the day. Appel pulled his men back into the hills. He met face-to-face with McCarthy in the morning, and together they planned an evacuation.