by R. B. Shaw
Ted flinched as a terrible scream shattered the tranquillity, an abbreviated human cry full of pain and anguish. Disturbed bird-life took wing, an explosion of animated colour over the peaceful New Guinea forest. The sky darkened with the sudden invasion, the silence lost to the thunder of countless pulsing wings.
He saw the chubby Japanese soldier put his boot to the groin of a bayoneted Australian officer and withdraw the blood-smeared blade. Ted trembled as the soldier turned threateningly toward him.
‘Now, where did you bury it?’ the Japanese soldier shouted angrily in textbook English.
Ted’s terror-induced silence prompted the Japanese soldier into further intimidation. With cool intent, he slid the metal blade between Ted’s lips, forcing his teeth apart. The sharp tip painfully teased the inside of Ted’s left cheek, testing the elasticity of his flesh.
‘Maybe if I make your mouth bigger you will speak?’ the soldier sneered.
Ted tasted the blood of his dead comrade. He remained silent with dread and mock belligerence. The impatient soldier waited. His face gradually contorted with anger, his yellowed teeth exposed. He hesitated, then suddenly stabbed and swept outward The blade grated Ted’s teeth and he winced in agony as the steel pierced his cheek. The impetus of the thrust ripped away the flesh between the wound and his mouth as the blade sliced free.
‘Stop!’ Ted screamed with lips he could no longer control. He was frantic with acute pain, eyes bulging, choking on his own blood as he revealed all he knew. His speech was distorted and guttural. His lacerated cheek and lips flapped and twitched grotesquely, attempting to form words.
Ted woke suddenly, bathed in sweat. The screeches and pulsing wings of squabbling bats disturbed him. He reached out with a trembling hand and took a long gulp of scotch, trying to suppress terrible memories of long ago.
Nearby, Dave feigned sleep and listened carefully as Ted talked in his sleep. Ted’s rambling nightmare revealed very little. Coaxing more information from the old man might require curtailing his frequent drinking binges. A sudden commotion outside broke the silence. A torch beam flitted erratically around their camp.
‘What’s going on?’ Dave shouted, recognising Seiji in the gloom.
‘Someone was going through my things in the dark. Probably Harada looking for the diary.’ Seiji responded nervously, but relieved to find the precious diary still tucked inside his sleeping bag.
Dave immediately allocated four native sentries to watch over the camp during the night. The new threat concerned him.
Harada was nearby and willing to take risks.
10
In the early morning light the Zawan village was quiet and almost deserted. The black earth was smooth and rock-hard, compacted by a thousand feet. A mangy tick-ridden dog scavenged around the stilted thatched huts and smoke-blackened humpies. A fifty-kilogram cassowary, with a red horny crest and blue neck, strutted about in a cage. A crown pigeon the size of a turkey foraged nearby. Seiji sat quietly near the tent carefully deciphering the diary. Events of the previous evening had made him edgy. Jake questioned the locals about gold, Harada and wartime activity in the area.
Dave sat alone with Ted in the pre-dawn light, intrigued by his strange dreams. ‘You were restless last night, Ted, and talking in your sleep. Exactly what happened here with the Japs in 1942?’
Ted ignored the question as a native woman stoked the breakfast fire and cut up the twitching body of a death adder. Though most natives were terrified of snakes, they considered them a delicacy. Finally Ted turned his back to the flames. ‘As you know, we were escortin’ the gold dust shipment when the Japs landed at Lae and Salamaua. We knew we were trapped, so headed inland. We buried the gold here, between the river and the swamp. The Japs attacked suddenly. Some of our blokes were killed in the battle. The rest were captured.’
Dave had developed an admiration for the old soldier. ‘Why did you come back and live here with so many bad memories?’
‘I returned after the war. Guilt, I suppose, that I was the only survivor. The local villagers made me very welcome, like a returning hero.’
‘And Richard?’
‘I later married a local girl. Realising it was the perfect climate for coffee growin’, we set up a plantation. Richard was the result.’
‘What happened to your wife?’
‘She passed away over ten years ago. I decided to stay on here with Richard. He’s all I have in life.’
Though touched by Ted’s story, Dave wanted to steer the conversation back to their quest. ‘So the Japs found the gold by torturing your men?’
‘Yeah, they tortured us one at a time.’ The haunted look on Ted’s face intensified as he took another swig from his silver flask. ‘Listen, I really don’t wanna talk about this now. When are we leavin’?’
‘As soon as we’ve got porters and our salvage gear,’ Dave responded, not wanting to press the point. What Ted had said tallied with Seiji’s research.
Jake returned from the village. ‘The Zawan chief wants to talk to us,’ he said. ‘We’ve been invited to a special mumu.’
Dave knew this was a rare treat. A traditional feast buried beneath a smouldering fire and slowly baked underground with red-hot boulders. ‘Great. When?’
‘About noon.’
‘Let’s do it. It’ll be a good chance to ask him about porters.’
Elaborate carvings of gods, spirits and heroes surrounded the chief’s ceremonial building. As they approached, a warrior slowly pounded the garamut drum. Intricately carved, the huge hollowed out log stretched over five metres. A longitudinal split allowed tuning of the deep resonance.
The chief’s personal bodyguard greeted them, looking extremely tough. A cane waistband supported a penis gourd at his loins, his muscular physique otherwise naked. Shiny black pig fat and charcoal smeared his skin as protection from the cool nights. The warrior nodded his approval to Dave and they climbed the steep rough stairs.
The Zawan chief realised Dave needed porters. Elaborately attired in ceremonial ‘bilas’, including a magnificent plumage, the chief motioned his visitors to be seated. As they sat down on the woven pitpit floor, Dave glanced at the human heads that decorated the walls. Many were hideously deformed and despite primitive curing, most were decomposed.
The chief sat silently as his bodyguard capped his forehead with a garland of scarlet rhododendrons. A pair of matched boar tusks pierced the bodyguard’s nose. The ivory tips curved to the ends of his mouth. They stood out starkly against his dark upper lip and cheeks. He gestured that Dave could now speak to the chief.
Dave opened the conversation in his best Pidgin. ‘I would like your permission to select porters to carry a plane wreck to the coast. They will be treated well.’
The chief’s long thick eyebrows, which were daubed with white gum, knitted together above his nose. To Dave’s surprise, the chief was eager to generate work and cash flow for his people. Without any negotiation, he gladly arranged for a selection parade. He then changed the subject and advised Dave that villagers had seen the Japanese man stealing from their gardens.
Dave realised Harada would not give up so easily. ‘You must tell your people to catch this man,’ he explained in Pidgin. ‘He is very dangerous.’
He listened with concern as the chief advised him that Harada had recruited enemy Nokopo warriors. He warned that even with the confusion following the earthquake, a tribal war continued between the Zawan and the Nokopo. The trail to the coast would lead through hostile Nokopo tribes and disputed land.
A white feather dangled over the bridge of the chief’s nose. Tree gum anchored the quill firmly between his eyes. It leapt from cheek to cheek in sympathy with his agitated dialogue and animated head tossing. It distracted Dave as he concentrated on the difficult dialect translations, pondering the new threat to their quest. ‘I have a reward for Harada’s capture. Two hundred Kina in coins, two axe heads, and a bag of salt. If you have rifles I am willing to pay top price for them.’<
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The Chief lit his bamboo pipe and puffed the strong wild tobacco. ‘We have no rifles, but it is a very generous offer.’
They talked at length about poor local development, gold and the effect of the war. The aromatic tang of freshly cooked meat and vegetables invaded the mildewed pungency of the smoky hut. Jake eyed the pretty young meri who had entered and laid out fresh banana leaves. She carefully unwrapped a steaming hot gutted pig, spiced with mango leaves and other fragrant herbs.
The young meri glanced at Jake and smiled as she served wild bananas, breadfruit, sweet potato and maize. A broad silver crescent of pearl lip shell hung around her neck. Her dark eyes were lined with soot-like mascara, giving them an almost ancient Egyptian look.
Traditionally, the chief had first pick of the meal. Dave diplomatically waited for the chief’s approval before continuing. ‘Your warriors must be careful if they hunt for Harada. He has killed before.’ Dave probed further as the chief ignored the warning. ‘We are following the trail of Japanese soldiers who passed through here during the big war. They had Frazer as prisoner and much gold stolen from the government. Do you know anything about them or the gold?’
‘I was only a child in the years of the white man’s thunder fight,’ the chief replied. ‘Many soldiers passed this way. I know nothing of the gold.’ As he ate, his lips, gums and teeth were revealed, garishly stained red from chewing betel nut.
As they finished their meal, the chief symbolically took Ted’s hand. ‘Frazer is an important friend of the Zawan people. He must not be harmed. When you leave, my best warrior will go with you to protect him,’ he said, indicating his personal bodyguard.
Dave realised this was an order, not a request. He agreed readily and glanced at the fearsome-looking warrior who sat motionless with an intimidating stare. His black palm bow remained semi-drawn, the arrow pointing harmlessly at the split bamboo floor. A Tarangau eagle claw hung from the silent warrior’s stretched earlobe. Thick as a man’s finger, the sole index talon had been tapered and sharpened to a razor’s edge. It resembled a small curved sickle and Dave had no doubt the grotesque ornament doubled as a very efficient weapon.
The sound of an approaching helicopter disturbed their feast. Dave excused himself, leaving Ted, Jake and Seiji to make the final arrangements. The chopper came into view. A large load slung beneath contained the huge wheels and modified axles. Jan piloted the helicopter, Fang by her side. It landed noisily amid a cloud of dust and debris at the far end of the village.
Dave helped Jan out of the cockpit. She clambered down the landing skid and hugged him enthusiastically. ‘Missed you,’ she smiled.
‘Missed you too, beautiful. Did you manage to bring everything?’
‘Enough to get you started, all the smaller things are boxed up ready to go.’
Dave checked that each metal patrol box had hinged end rings for slip-through shoulder poles. ‘The cash box is important—$800 in ten toea coins. It’s the only money the locals will take.’
‘Why?’ Jan frowned.
‘They don’t trust paper money. A tribe was ripped off with monopoly money once and the word got around. Gotta pay each porter ten toea per hour, all in coins.’
They were disturbed as Fang jumped from the helicopter and started rolling out the special wheels. He wore a battered Silver Spur stetson, an old relic curled in classic cowboy style. ‘Dave. Got some background on this Harada through my contacts. He’s a nasty son-of-a -bitch.’
‘What’s the story?’
‘Spent time with the yank Marines on secondment. Seems he’s an expert on guerilla warfare. Speaks four languages and been implicated in everythin’ from terrorist attacks to murder.’
‘We’ve got sentries posted. You worried?’
‘Na,’ Fang boasted. ‘When I finish with him, he’ll look like sushi.’
‘How’s things going with Bianca?’ Dave asked, sensing Fang’s foul mood.
‘Had another argument.’ Fang dragged a large patrol box from the helicopter’s cabin and threw it carelessly onto the muddy ground. ‘She wants to come along on the trek and then to Madang. Can you imagine it? She bitches if she breaks a nail or has to walk up a flight of stairs. Wouldn’t dream of travellin’ in my Thunderbox. Anyway, I told her to stay in Port Moresby till I get back. She ain’t very happy.’
‘I hope it works out,’ said Dave and changed the subject. ‘How’s the charter business in Port Moresby goin’?’
‘Problems with that arsehole accountant at the Boroko bank again. The one with the permanent cat’s arse expression. There’s been some changes to the overseas funds transfer arrangement, so he got me to sign some forms.’
‘Any problem?’
‘No, I signed ‘em and the new system starts tomorrow.’
Jan interrupted, asking for assistance. ‘Dave, the chopper’s still loaded with salvage gear and camping equipment. We’d better finish getting them out.’
Ted and Seiji arrived and Dave introduced them. Fang avoided shaking hands with Seiji. He walked sullenly back to the helicopter.
Jan sensed Fang’s hostility. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
Dave ushered her aside. ‘Fang’s father was a prisoner of the Japs in Changi. Complications from the brutal treatment eventually killed him twenty years later. Fang’s childhood wasn’t a happy time. He’s inherited his father’s hatred. There might be friction on the trek.’
The rebuttal offended Seiji and he confronted Fang. ‘Mr Mitchell, if you dislike the Japanese, then we should resolve the issue now, before we start the search trek.’
Fang ignored Seiji initially as he munched on a pineapple like it was an oversized corncob. ‘Japs caused my family to split and my father’s death. The sooner we go our separate ways, the happier I’ll be, pal.’
Seiji persisted. ‘We have to work together on this quest. I remind you there is no reward without me or my finance. Sooner or later there must be forgiveness and cooperation.’
‘No way, Tojo!’ Fang sneered as he kept munching and walked away.
Seiji turned to Dave. ‘That man will be a problem. Why do you call him Fang?’
Dave paused and smiled. ‘It’s a western term for someone with a healthy appetite. Don’t worry, I’ll keep him under control.’
After unloading the helicopter, Jan explained developments with her research. ‘I tracked down details of the missing gold dust. It’s just like Ted said. Some Australian infantry were detailed to escort the shipment from the Bulolo goldfields to Salamaua on the coast. They were cut off by the Japanese invasion at Lae in 1942.’
‘What happened after that?’
‘They were instructed to make their way up the Markham river to an airstrip in the Ramu valley. Never made it. Natives reported Japanese captured them in the mountains to the north of the valley. Probably here at Zawan.’
‘… And Ted?’
‘I’ve confirmed he was definitely part of the Bulolo gold escort. I’m not certain, but what Seiji said is probably true. Ted appears to be the only living survivor. That’s all I’ve got so far.’
‘Good work, keep on it.’ Dave thought for a moment. ‘Seiji said there was an entry in the diary about Ted and others being forced aboard a Jap barge. They were taken to an offshore island and it’s possible most of the gold went with them. See what you can find out when you get back. It’s too risky talking over the radio. Keep me updated with the regular airdrops.’
Jan unpacked her small video camera and filmed the wreck site. ‘There’ll be a drop this afternoon—we couldn’t carry all the food stock. I’ll leave the chopper in Madang again tonight and fly Air Niugini back to Port Moresby tomorrow.’
The supplies and equipment safely stowed, Dave and Jan strolled around the village and crash site. Though their relationship had turned platonic, they held hands while walking back to the helicopter. They briefly kissed goodbye, then Jan climbed into the cramped cockpit. She started the noisy engine and lifted off in a swirling cloud of dust, c
limbed steeply, then headed north.
Dave rummaged in his kit, found his Colt Woodsman automatic and took the precaution of strapping the puny pistol on his hip. Normally he only used it for scaring crocodiles away. He had an ominous feeling he would need it.
11
Kendo Harada had simple goals—retrieve his father’s diary and kill Seiji Sugano. He desperately needed to question Ted Frazer and frustrate Stark’s search plans. Harada realised he needed help. Once on the trail, gold dust would be useless. Coins were the only acceptable currency to the primitive natives. From his previous expedition, his Pidgin English was good enough to recruit a native interpreter from a rival Nokopo tribe. The interpreter would be useful in a land with over eight hundred languages and countless dialects.
The Nokopo swapped Harada’s gold for coins through a cagey trade store owner in a distant village. Despite being ripped off Harada knew he had no option but to accept the poor exchange rate. He now had enough cash to recruit three Nokopo warriors for two days.
Without proper medical attention, Harada’s gashed arm from the crash landing quickly turned septic and he developed a fever. He wished he had the strength and mobility to carry out his own plan. As a loner, he hated relying on others, particularly when they lacked determination and efficiency. The interpreter returned, accompanied by the three fierce looking warriors.
‘What happened at Stark’s camp? Did you get the diary?’ he queried eagerly in Pidgin.
The interpreter panted heavily as he replied in broken English. ‘Not yet. Stark has posted sentries around his camp.’
‘You were supposed to find the Japanese man who has my valuable book and return it. You even said it would be easy to kill him.’ Harada felt his rage increasing. ‘What was this, just brave words?’