From the Stars Above

by Peter Watt

  About From the Stars Above

  A century-old curse comes full circle . . .

  For a hundred years they have never forgiven, never forgotten. Now, the war between the Duffy and Macintosh dynasties will be brought to its stunning conclusion.

  Private Patrick Duffy was forced to flee Malaya as a child, and left orphaned when his mother died in Changi prison. Now, returning to fight a fearless enemy, he must confront the ghosts of his past if he is to find any hope for the future.

  Michael Macintosh is forging his own path to escape his mother’s obsessive control. Sailor, soldier and mercenary, he will soon face war again, in the brutal jungles of Vietnam.

  Sarah Macintosh ruthlessly crushes anyone who gets in her way, and has vowed to destroy her sister-in-law, Jessica Duffy-Macintosh. Fixated on her own legacy, she has ignored her family’s inheritance – a century-old curse, to be paid in blood . . .

  Contents

  Cover

  About From the Stars Above

  Dedication

  Family Tree

  Prologue

  Part One: The Malayan Emergency 1958

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part Two: Konfrontasi and the Congo 1964

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Part Three: Vietnam 1968

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Epilogue

  Author Notes

  Acknowledgements

  About Peter Watt

  Excerpts from emails sent to Peter Watt

  Copyright page

  For my beloved wife, Naomi.

  Prologue

  Central Queensland, Australia

  My name is Wallarie and I am a Darambal man. It has been many generations since the whitefellas came to my lands and killed my people in the shadow of our sacred cave. I do not hate the whitefellas because one was my brother, and when we were young we roamed the colony of Queensland as free men.

  But we are all now gone to the sky an’ can only watch over those who have come after us. Some of the whitefellas have my blood. Jessica Duffy and her children carry my blood. Jessica is an old woman now, but she never forget ol’ Wallarie. She tell the stories of her ancestors – and me – to her children an’ grandchildren an’ great-grandchildren. But they do not listen and soon I will be forgotten. They will not hear my voice on the wind in the brigalow scrub or see me floating above them on the wings of the great wedge-tailed eagle who is my totem brother.

  Whitefella war has always bin in the blood of the Duffy and Macintosh families. Even now some of them are fighting in wars that the whitefella will one day forget.

  I am almost gone from your world, my bones lie in the red earth of my traditional lands – as do those of many who came after me, both whitefellas and blackfellas. Very few of them lived as long as I did on the earth.

  So, before you also forget me, I will continue telling you the story of two families.

  One family called the Duffys and the other the Macintoshes.

  But you get me some baccy first, before I sit with you under the ol’ bumbil tree an’ continue their story.

  Part One

  The Malayan Emergency

  1958

  ONE

  The two soldiers dressed in jungle-green field uniform lay side by side behind their self-loading rifles. Gone were the Lee Enfield bolt-action .303 rifles of past conflicts; the new Belgium-designed FN SLR with its 20 round magazine was now issued to Aussie soldiers.

  Neither man spoke or moved as together they covered a clearing in front of a Chinese settlement. They had been on watch since midnight the previous evening; it was now near midday and the tropical sun blazed down on the carefully camouflaged Australian troops. The two men were not alone: other members of the platoon were hidden not far away in the line of heavy rainforest opposite the settlement houses.

  For Private Patrick Duffy, the landscape was familiar as he had spent his very young days growing up in Malaya, until he and his mother had been forced to flee in the face of the advancing Japanese army. Patrick had been able to reach Australia, but his mother had died in Changi prison on the last day of the Pacific war.

  The soldier beside Patrick was Aboriginal. Terituba had grown up alongside Patrick on Glen View cattle station in central Queensland. They were as close as brothers could be and had enlisted in the Australian Army together two years earlier. Terituba was accepted by his fellow soldiers for his uncanny tracking abilities and quick sense of humour, while Patrick was a natural leader despite his lowly military rank.

  Sweat trickled down the faces of the two men and both were fighting the urge to drink water from their canteens because that would involve movement. The strict rules of ambush meant absolute self-discipline.

  ‘The boss has ordered us out,’ said a quiet voice from behind them.

  ‘Okay, sarge,’ Patrick answered.

  ‘Is there something dead near here?’ the sergeant asked, wrinkling his nose at the putrid smell.

  ‘Bloody whitefella smell,’ Terituba said in disgust. ‘Bloody Pat bin eating a curry last night and bin making that smell all the time we bin here.’ Patrick had acquired a taste for Malaya’s spicy and exotic curries.

  The platoon sergeant glanced at Patrick, who was attempting to smother his laughter. ‘Sorry, sarge,’ he said.

  ‘No sense apologising to me, Private Duffy. You should be apologising to Terituba. Poor bastard, having to put up with that for the last twelve hours.’

  Both soldiers eased themselves to their feet, their muscles stiff from lying prone for most of the ambush. Cautiously, they made their way through the thick scrub to rejoin the rest of the platoon crouching in a circle around the platoon commander, Lieutenant Stan Gauden.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said quietly, ‘the intelligence on our target seems to be incorrect. Comrade Sam did not enter our killing ground. Maybe next time.’

  The men understood. This counterinsurgency war was a matter of patience and luck. The Communist terrorists – CTs as they were known – had been decimated by military and police operations in the years since 1950. Now only a handful of very dangerous leaders remained at large – to be killed or captured. No one underestimated the very experienced guerrilla fighters who were mainly of Chinese nationality. It was a strange war – more like a police action. But it was a war where soldiers under British command died in short, sharp skirmishes in the mountains and jungles of the former British colony.

  The platoon boarded trucks waiting for them on a rutted dirt road an hour’s march away. They had been fortunate that the operation had only lasted overnight; now they could return to a hot meal and showers back in their barracks, which had once been home to a sultan’s har
em. The harem was long gone now, but after the long night all the Australian soldiers cared about was standing down and enjoying the luxuries of good food and sleep.

  *

  The two men sitting opposite each other in the coolness of the lounge of the Raffles Hotel in Singapore were very much opposites. One was slightly built and short, the other tall and broad-shouldered. Both men were in their early forties and wearing civilian tropical dress of white slacks and shirt. They were drinking gin and tonic, surrounded by the trappings of colonial Britain in the sumptuous hotel.

  ‘I am sorry to hear that your marriage did not work out,’ the smaller man said, sipping his drink.

  ‘I guess life in the army is not all that conducive to being in a marriage, Sir Rupert.’ Major Karl Mann shrugged.

  ‘Well, old chap, it is good to see you again after such a long time,’ Sir Rupert Featherstone said. ‘I think the last time was when you were here back in ’47, collecting intelligence on the Malayan Communist Party. You and I came to the right conclusion when we said they would emerge as a threat to the country, but that information seemed to be put on file until it was too late. I propose a toast to us working together again.’ He tipped his glass in a salute.

  ‘Last time we worked together you almost got me killed,’ Karl answered with a wry smile. ‘I heard a rumour that you are now a bigwig with MI6.’

  Featherstone shrugged. ‘I have been sent out here to the Emergency. The Foreign Office has decided to call it an emergency rather than a war to play down the situation. I was able to track you down and have you seconded to us for sensitive operations with your colonial comrades.’

  ‘And I am truly grateful that you saved me from a desk job in Canberra. I was starting to worry about getting paper cuts filing documents.’

  ‘What do you know about the situation up north?’ Featherstone asked, leaning forward.

  ‘What I know is that some of our former allies in the Malayan National Liberation Army are now our enemies. They want to throw you Poms out of Malaya and install a Communist-style government. The armed insurgency is mostly dominated by local Chinese, with a few Indians and Malays in their ranks. They rely on the goodwill of other ethnic Chinese to supply them with provisions and intelligence in rural villages. Since confronting the insurgency in the early 50s, we have been able to decimate their ranks, and now it is just a matter of mopping up.’

  Featherstone nodded. ‘Britain has granted Malaya its independence, but this still leaves the Communists’ aspirations to establish a Communist government. Chairman Mao has been a great inspiration to their cause, but our intelligence suggests that he has not given much logistical support to them. I will be appointing you as a liaison officer with the local police working alongside your colonial comrades around the Perak and Kedah districts. The 3rd battalion have that as its area of operations, and our intelligence indicates that one of the most dangerous leaders operating there is a young Eurasian man we know as Comrade Sam. It is rumoured that he fired the shots that killed Sir Henry Gurney back in ’51, and in order to deliver a decisive blow to the CTs we must capture or kill him. If anyone can do that, I think you can.’

  ‘I am at a disadvantage as I don’t speak Chinese,’ Karl said. ‘At least in the Middle East I was able to speak the language of our enemies.’

  Featherstone had had Karl reassigned to him from his duties as an infantry platoon commander during the Allied force’s Syrian Campaign against the Vichy French. Ironically, Karl had faced the same enemies his father had fought against as an officer in the Imperial German Army. Karl had been born in Germany but had grown up in New Guinea and had adopted Australia as the country he was loyal to. With the help of a former Australian Army officer, Jack Kelly, Karl had been able to convince the officers board that he was not an enemy alien.

  ‘We do have interpreters,’ Featherstone said, ‘but we need to recruit more to assist with interrogations of the surrendering enemy. It appears our strategy of isolating the Chinese population in the new settlements is working. We are cutting off the CTs from their main sources of supply.’

  ‘I’ll take the job,’ Karl said. ‘I presume that you have already completed the paperwork.’

  ‘All is in place, old chap,’ Sir Rupert replied. ‘You will be on a transport aircraft tomorrow to fly north. Now that’s out of the way, it will be my pleasure to buy you lunch.’

  Karl raised his gin and tonic in a toast. ‘Chin-chin, Sir Rupert,’ he said with an affected upper-class English accent.

  *

  He was a head taller and much heavier than Patrick as they faced off in the long barracks room. Patrick had sensed the confrontation was coming from the moment the two men had first met in training back at Holsworthy camp in Australia. For some reason the large private had taken a dislike to Patrick and Terituba.

  ‘What’s up your arse?’ Patrick growled, inches from his adversary’s face.

  ‘I think you and the blackfella are pooftas,’ said Private Ted Morrow. ‘We never see you apart. Next thing you’ll be holding hands.’

  The other members of the platoon fell silent; the only noise was the whirring of the overhead fans.

  ‘I hear you went to a fancy school and got your leaving certificate,’ Morrow said. ‘So what are you doing here with us? I suppose you couldn’t bear to be apart from your black bum-buddy.’

  Patrick’s sudden punch came hard and fast. Morrow’s eyes bulged and he buckled as the air was forced from his lungs. He went down on one knee and Patrick unleashed a rapid barrage of punches to his head, flooring him.

  ‘Attention!’ one of the men called. Patrick’s timing could not have been worse.

  ‘What is going on here?’ the angry voice of the platoon’s commander shouted down the barracks room. ‘Why aren’t you men standing by your beds for inspection?’ His eyes settled on Private Morrow, curled into a ball on the shiny floor, Patrick standing over him, nursing his bruised fists.

  Lieutenant Gauden marched towards the two men with the platoon sergeant trailing behind him. ‘What is going on here? Are you two men fighting?’

  Patrick was standing to attention; Morrow struggled to his feet and also attempted to stand to attention. Neither man replied.

  ‘I asked a question, Private Duffy,’ Lieutenant Gauden said in a cold voice. ‘If you do not reply I will have you charged with conduct to the prejudice of good order and discipline. The same with you, Private Morrow.’

  Still neither man answered, and the platoon commander turned to his sergeant. ‘Have both of these men charged, sergeant. I want them paraded before the CO today, as we will be going out on ops tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the sergeant replied, glowering at the two offenders. The members of the platoon remained silent and fell in beside their beds for the morning inspection. Patrick and Morrow followed suit. Morrow was dripping blood from his nose and was ordered to present himself at the battalion regimental aid post to have his injury seen to.

  When the inspection was over, the platoon commander called to Patrick to fall out and report to him outside the barracks.

  ‘Private Duffy,’ said Lieutenant Gauden, ‘I am disappointed in you. Until now you have had a spotless service record, and I was on the verge of recommending you for your first stripe in Corporal Hastings’s section. Instead I should be recommending the serious charge of assault. We are a tight-knit platoon and I cannot afford to have any ill feeling in the ranks. As you know, field punishment on active service can be very harsh.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Patrick knew that the sometimes brutal field punishment was far worse than imprisonment. He cursed himself for his hot-tempered reaction.

  ‘Report to BHQ at 1400 hours, Private Duffy. You are dismissed.’

  Patrick saluted his officer and returned to the barracks. He would have to put on his best uniform for the parade before the battalion’s commanding officer.


  ‘What did the boss want to see you for?’ Terituba asked.

  ‘Nothing much,’ Patrick replied. ‘Just that I have to be at BHQ this afternoon.’

  ‘Bloody wrong you get charged when Morrow start it,’ Terituba said in disgust. ‘You sure got him a good one but.’

  ‘Yeah, all those hours in Harry’s gym paid off,’ Patrick said, sitting carefully on the end of his bed so that the bedcover was not wrinkled. ‘I’m just sorry that Uncle David will hear about me copping a charge. He served with the battalion in Korea and got a gong for his part at Kapyong.’

  ‘Not your fault, Pat. That bastard Morrow caused this.’

  At 2 pm Patrick presented himself to the orderly room of the battalion headquarters where he was escorted by two soldiers and the regimental sergeant major into the CO’s office. He was commanded to salute and remove his headdress. Standing to attention, Patrick stared straight ahead over the sitting senior officer’s head.

  ‘Private Duffy,’ the CO said after the charge was read out, ‘I am disappointed in your behaviour. I have reports of your leadership amongst the diggers of your platoon, and with your education I have always been mystified as to why you did not apply for officer training at Duntroon.’

  ‘Sir, I always promised my cobber, Private Terituba Duffy, that we would enlist together and stick together in the army.’

  ‘He has the same family name as you, I see,’ the commanding officer said. ‘Are you related?’

  ‘Yes and no, sir,’ Patrick replied. ‘We grew up together on a cattle station in Queensland and he has always been my best mate. Terituba adopted my family name and my Aunt Jess and Uncle Donald formalised it for him so that he could enlist.’

  The CO reflected on Patrick’s explanation and nodded. ‘Then I can see how you would consider him a brother. I have been informed that the stoush was provoked by Private Morrow, and I think if I had been in your boots I would have reacted in the same way. I am going to drop this charge on the provision that you and Morrow settle your argument for the sake of good order and discipline within the unit. You are dismissed.’