by R. B. Shaw
A bold dominant warrior questioned the orders, his Pidgin as fluent as the interpreter. ‘We Nokopo are only at war with the Zawan people. To kill a foreigner is big trouble. You have enough money for us to risk this?’
Harada’s temper flared and he punched the Nokopo squarely in the face. The warrior sprang to his feet in a rage and slipped his cassowary bone knife from his cane waistband. Harada anticipated the lunge, deftly sidestepped, then held his knife to the warrior’s throat. ‘I’m not here to haggle! I am good for the money and give the orders. Do as I say or drown in your own blood!’ It was a deliberate show of power. He knew he must dominate them from the start.
The other Nokopo men were astonished at the ferocity and reflexes of the muscular Japanese, despite his injuries.
The aggressive but terrified warrior nodded vigorously and wiped blood from his nose. ‘It will be done!’
‘Don’t forget, the diary is your primary mission. But if you have any spare time steal some food supplies. I’m sick of living off the land and eating this shit.’ Harada thought for a moment. ‘What about the Zawan porters? Did you warn them not to work for Stark?’
The interpreter glanced at the warrior’s battered face nervously before responding. ‘Yes. I think he will discard his plan to carry the plane to the coast.’
Harada smiled. He realised the trek was a sham. Without the pretence of the salvage, Stark’s journey to the coast might be expedited. This could possibly lead to earlier finding of clues to the gold. He grabbed the warrior’s cowry shell necklace and dragged him close. ‘Get that diary!’
The assaulted Nokopo warrior bristled. ‘It is difficult. Stark has his group well protected with Zawan sentries.’
‘I thought the Nokopo were bold warriors,’ Harada erupted. ‘You’re just scared of the Zawan.’
The troublesome Nokopo warrior again rebelled. ‘You cannot treat me like this. I will not work for you. Give me my pay now or I will go to the police.’
Harada fell silent, his shifty eyes glancing from the rebel warrior to the others he had bluffed. ‘Okay, but only if you get away from here quickly, back to your village. I don’t want Stark or the Zawans to catch you and reveal my position.’
‘So where is my money?’ the defiant warrior demanded.
‘I have it hidden down near the river. Follow me.’ Harada turned on the others. ‘Go and get the diary and Stark’s supply of coins. Don’t come back for your money unless you get them.’
Suspicion haunted the rebel Nokopo warrior as Harada led the way to the riverbank. ‘Where is my money?’
‘In a bag hidden in the grass at the base of that tree. Get it while I check the others have left.’
As the warrior crouched and scrounged eagerly in the grass, Harada reached into his pocket and unlooped a slender silver thread that terminated at two small wooden grips. He grasped the grips, crossed his arms and crept up behind the warrior. Harada dropped the simple but tough stainless steel wire loop over the warrior’s head and pulled.
The warrior struggled frantically and half-turned, eyes bulging and mouth wide. The more he struggled, the deeper the deadly wire bit into his neck. His hands groped pathetically for the wire but a grotesque red necklace formed as it cut further into his flesh. Harada calmly but brutally placed his knee on the stricken warrior’s back and pulled firmly. The twitching body weakened. Harada deftly unwound the garrotte, then let the strangled Nokopo warrior fall into the river.
The waters of the Nankina turned pink with blood as the body floated downstream.
12
Following successful negotiations with the Zawan chief, Dave impatiently selected porters for the trek. Hundreds of local men now eagerly awaited their chance to work.
Jake started selecting. ‘It’s a poor line-up. There are a few well-muscled warriors, but many are feeble old men and children.’
Dave stopped to reject a leper with a skull-like face devoid of nose, lips and ears. Though strongly built, he had no fingers or toes and would be useless for rope work or climbing. ‘We only need forty porters. Pick the fittest warriors.’
A jovial old man introduced himself in good Pidgin. ‘I am Kumo. I am not young and able to carry a load but I know the trail like no other.’
Dave smirked. ‘We have guides.’
‘I am also the best cook in the mountains,’ Kumo persisted and beamed a contagious smile.
‘Take him, Dave,’ Jake interrupted. ‘He’s highly recommended and popular with the Zawan.’
‘Okay, Kumo, you’re in. Make sure we get the best meals.’ Dave watched as Kumo ran off excitedly to prepare for the trek.
Jake chose a former village Luluai as leader. He still proudly wore an old red-banded police cap. ‘This Zawan Luluai was the local government agent,’ he explained to Dave. ‘The men will respect his authority.’
‘Good, get him to help us with the rest of the selection and get them started.’ It was mid-afternoon and Dave wanted to organise tasks for the porters.
Jake hesitated. ‘There’s a problem, Dave. Someone warned the villagers earlier that you and Fang are cruel bosses that never pay up.’
Harada’s work, Dave thought, but easily countered. ‘Tell them each man will be paid daily, in advance.’
A murmur of approval agitated the line-up, knowing they were free to drop out anytime things got too tough.
Fang fitted the modified axles and lowered the aircraft and its giant new wheels to the ground. A spontaneous yodelling cheer broke from the porters at this elementary step toward mobilisation. Fang punched a small hole in the end of a raw egg, sucked out the contents, then admired his work. The sleek Cessna looked ridiculous mounted on the monstrous balloon wheels, but the modification would achieve its purpose.
The airdrop plane arrived overhead late afternoon. The light aircraft dropped its load of bound foodstuffs as directed on a selected clearing near Zawan village. Dave ignored the supplies and quickly opened the blue document bag, eager to read Jan’s report.
‘Dave, when I arrived in Madang, the records I requested were waiting. One is a wartime Coastwatcher’s report from Saidor. It states that a captive Aussie column, later confirmed as the gold escort, was definitely transferred to a Jap barge with the gold. It was later identified as barge number 282. The Coastwatchers requested an air strike to cut off its escape or coax it into Allied hands. The aim was to rescue the Aussie prisoners and retrieve the gold. I’m now checking Navy and Air Force records of operations against Jap barges off Saidor on that date to find out what happened after that.’
Dave assessed the new information. Clearly, most of the gold left the coast on barge 282 to an unknown destination. According to Seiji, it was meant to rendezvous with a destroyer in the Bismarck Sea. Indications were that it ended up on an offshore island. Dave stuffed the letter in his pocket, deep in thought. The complexity of the puzzle deepened.
That night Ted lapsed into his agitated dreams. Fang paid little attention and gnawed relentlessly at a stalk of wild sugar cane. Dave listened to every mumbled word. The contents of the old diary absorbed Seiji and he scanned the faded pages by torchlight.
Despite being tired after preparations for the early morning trek, everyone found sleep difficult on the jungle fringe. Mother Nature’s orchestra of insects created a shrill melody of whistles, croaks and howls—a cacophony that unsettled strangers to the New Guinea jungle. Two fruit bats nearby squabbled over some wild bananas. The victor screeched loudly and flapped past overhead, disturbing the edgy group. They were all aware a desperate man watched them from the jungle.
Early next day they prepared to leave Zawan and start for the coast. An arduous trek lay ahead, along a jungle trail obstructed by tangled vines and shrubbery. Dave divided the manpower to ensure each section of the plane could be carried with relative ease.
Meanwhile Fang harassed the porters, eager to get moving. Then he turned his attention to Jake. ‘Pick six men as trail blazers,’ he ordered, ‘… and give ‘em each
a machete.’
Jake complied, then led the long line of laden porters onto the Saidor trail. With nothing to carry, Kumo the old cook acted as a zealous pathfinder. He took the task seriously and tied the lead rope of the Cessna fuselage about his waist. An axe and machete were tucked into his cane waistband and arse-grass. He strode confidently into the matted vegetation and signalled to the slashers to follow.
Fang chose his moment to join the line alongside Ted. ‘How long before we reach the Jap headquarters?’ he asked, probing for any clue to the lost gold.
Even with his limp, Ted kept pace with the line of porters. ‘About two days at this rate. I don’t know for sure if any gold is buried there. I was in a bad way at the time, so I didn’t notice much.’
Eight powerful warriors laboured with the engine, well behind the porters. They took small runs in rhythm to a pulsing chant, then rested until more jungle fell to the assault of the ringing machete blades. A mutilated swath of vegetation three metres wide opened along the narrow trail. In less than a week the jungle would reclaim its lost footing, the slashed trail would again disappear under the consuming growth.
With newfound enthusiasm, Fang helped Kumo guide the wreck past a thicket of thornbush. Twelve labourers hauled on three towropes and two others manhandled the wheels as they broke out of the jungle onto the rocky river bed.
Even as they trekked, Fang schemed. ‘Jake, I want you an’ Kumo to scout out ahead early every mornin’. Assess the condition of the trail and river well in advance of the porters. Watch for any signs of old wartime activity.’
Jake nodded cautiously. ‘Right. I’ll take Dave’s pistol, in case we see Harada or his men.’
The line of porters and dismembered aircraft snaked onward through jungle, then mountain forest toward the coast. The men were ever alert for Harada and his men, and clues to another desperate group who had ventured this way, fifty years before.
Dave called a mid-day break. He questioned Ted, wondering if he could recognise anything with the constant abuse of his whisky flask. ‘You were talking in your sleep again last night.’
‘Whisky usually beats it,’ Ted shrugged as he sat on a fallen tree trunk. ‘… But what that nip did to my boy has brought it all back.’
‘You were raving about Jap torture and murder, and then something about a bayonet slashing your face.’ Dave hesitated diplomatically. ‘Is that how you got the scar?’
Ted glared at Seiji. ‘Yeah. Vicious little bastards. They knew one of us would eventually give in to the torture.’ He stood up and shouldered his pack. ‘We better get movin’, it’s getting late.’
Dave did not want to push Ted too far and lose his cooperation. He let the matter pass and coaxed the porters back onto the trail, eager to reach their first overnight campsite.
Fang set up camp near the river and ordered the slashers to clear the area. In common with the Amazon, New Guinea boasted a variety of the world’s largest insects. Horny stick insects and millipedes a foot long scuttled about the camp. Moths and spiders as large as dinner plates made their escape from the disrupted vegetation.
As the exhausted group of men settled for the night, Dave set up sentries around the camp.
Sleep may have been possible if the jungle noise remained constant, but as though on a pre-arranged signal, each insect would respond to its neighbour. The annoying repetitive pulse resounded from the depths of a nearby swamp. The monotonous hum rhythmically built to a crescendo then abated. Unusually, the noise stopped for a few minutes. Shouting outside disrupted the uncanny silence.
Dave rushed out to investigate and saw Kumo the cook running back to the clearing. ‘What’s up?’
‘Someone fight Jake!’ Kumo panted.
Fang emerged from his tent, pulled out his pistol and moved cautiously into the dark night. Two vague figures were struggling beyond the camp perimeter. He heard Jake cry in pain. Someone fell to the ground. A rising figure turned for the jungle, Seiji’s pack slung over one shoulder. In the dim firelight, Fang aimed his pistol but hesitated, unable to tell if it was Harada, Jake or Seiji.
The dark figure lunged at him and kicked the pistol from his hand. Fang staggered, pulling his Whitehunter. The blade flashed red with reflected flames. Another blade glinted threateningly in the centre of the bulky silhouette. Fang swung at the figure and nearly fell as the silent intruder deftly sidestepped.
Harada’s injury hampered him and he had met his match in this large aggressive stranger. In desperation, his blade scythed through the dark night, slashing a shallow wound on Fang’s arm.
While Harada stumbled off balance from his thrust, Fang swung back and charged at him.
Dave pulled out his Colt and fired three warning shots in the air. The muzzle flash briefly revealed two ghostly and bulky figures.
Harada glimpsed Fang’s pistol and whipped it up off the ground. Dave’s gun flash destroyed all night vision. Everyone paused briefly, lost in the inky blackness. Harada took advantage of the situation, fired some blind shots, then slipped silently into the night.
As Dave ducked to the ground he fired back at the spot where he’d last seen Harada. He waited a moment for return fire. There was none. ‘Kumo! Get a torch and hurry!’
Fang called out. ‘Jake! You okay?’
‘Yeah, what about Seiji?’
‘I’m okay, but he stole my backpack.’
Fang cursed. ‘Was the diary in it?’
‘No, I kept it in my sleeping bag.’
Dave checked the area by torchlight. ‘What happened, Jake?’
‘I wasn’t asleep and heard someone going through Seiji’s pack. I tried to stop him but he was too strong.’ Jake sat up in pain and held his jaw. ‘Our box of coins is missing as well. I don’t know how Harada picked it out. He must have bribed one of the sentries.’
Fang grabbed another torch. ‘Shit no! Check around before he gets too far.’
Harada and his Nokopo warriors were as elusive as ghosts. They easily evaded the Zawan sentries who were poor lookouts, preferring a good night’s sleep. Dave took the precaution of doubling the sentries, then spent an hour searching the surrounding forest. They found no sign of Harada’s trail or the cash box.
Fang trudged angrily back into the camp and swore loudly. ‘That prick’s sabotaged the plane!’
The statement puzzled Dave. ‘What d’ya mean? How the hell do ya sabotage a wreck?’
‘Bastard’s slashed the balloon tyres. That shitbox ain’t goin’ nowhere Dave,’ Fang sneered as he held a bandage to his gashed arm.
‘We gotta work something out to get the wreck mobile again.’
‘Bullshit! Let’s drop the bloody pretence and leave the heap o’ shit here!’
Dave remained calm. He was immune to Fang’s outbursts. ‘Harada knows something we don’t. He’s pressuring us to drop the salvage and speed up our search.’
‘Let’s do it, for Christ’s sake!’
‘No, not yet, it’s still our only legal reason for trekking through the disaster area.’
‘Well, pal, you got some decisions to make. Go or no go? If we go back to Zawan we’ve lost the gold for sure. If we go on draggin’ this shitbox, then we need wheels and more importantly money to pay the porters.’
Dave pondered Fang’s comments. The problems seemed insurmountable, their valuable cash box stolen and the mobility of the wreck now lost. ‘It’s urgent we get the coins. We told the porters we’d pay them in advance each day. Unless we’ve got them by tomorrow, the porters’ll vanish like the morning mist.’
13
Dave woke before dawn, disturbed by the repetitious hollow knock of a frogmouth owl. It echoed through the forest, sounding like an axe wielded by a deranged axeman. He tried to sleep again but his thoughts were on gold and the previous night’s attack. He was eager to find the old Jap headquarters. He must radio Jan urgently before attempting to continue the trek. So much to do. Finally, he gave up his battle with insomnia and stepped outside the tent into the coo
l pre-dawn light, relishing the tepid river water on his bare feet.
Kumo stirred and began preparing a fire. Jake stumbled from the tent, washed his face and cleared his throat. Ted soon followed. He looked haggard, obviously having gained little sleep that night. Dave had heard him raving in the grip of the same nightmare that plagued him every night.
‘Mornin’ Ted. Reckon we’ll reach the site of the old Jap headquarters today?’ asked Dave.
‘Maybe. It’s about another day’s walk, I’d guess,’ Ted replied with a voice strained by alcohol abuse. ‘Depends how much time we lose waitin’ for your airdrop.’
‘It could be late. I’m organising some more cash. We can head off as soon as we pay the porters.’
Jake stood nearby, setting up the radio. He could not understand the significance of the overnight theft. ‘Dave, why did Harada take the coins and not the gold?’
Static disturbed the jungle clearing as Dave tuned the radio. ‘He’s a cagey bastard, Jake. We only have a small amount of gold and it’s hard to trade locally. He knows that without coins, we can’t pay the porters. Now he can use them to recruit more warriors. There are plenty of Nokopo out there just itching to attack their Zawan tribal enemies anyway. We’ll have to be very careful.’ He concentrated on his radio transmission and made easy contact. ‘Jan, we’ve had some problems out here. Have we got any more oversized tyres?’
Jan paused and pondered the request. ‘No, they’re a special tyre. I could get hold of some in a few days.’
To Dave, every hour was critical. ‘Get them anyway. I can’t say much, but it’s vital there’s another thousand bucks worth of ten toea coins in today’s airdrop.’
‘I’ll get on it first thing. Is everything okay?’
‘Harada’s giving us a hard time, but we can handle it. You’ll probably need ten heli-boxes for the airdrop of the heavy coins. Put a hundred bucks worth in each box.’
Jan hesitated. ‘Can’t say much on the radio but I’ll be sending some important news in the airdrop.’ Another hesitation. ‘Not all good.’