by Peter Watt
‘The Adelaide Queen and the Sydney Star are the ships in question,’ Sarah Macintosh said, removing a cigarette from a gold case and lighting it. She offered one to Sally who politely declined. ‘The Sydney Star is currently docked here and from last reports the Adelaide Queen is somewhere off the coast of West Africa. Both are sister ships, so if you would like an inspection one is almost identical to the other.’
‘I have already hired a marine engineer to conduct a survey,’ Sally said. ‘His report gave the Sydney Star a clean bill of health. However, I will not go ahead with the purchase of the Adelaide Queen without a similar survey.’
‘I fully understand,’ Sarah Macintosh said, taking a long draw on her cigarette. ‘Nor would I if I were in your shoes. My son is a crew member aboard the Adelaide Queen. According to our schedule, the ship is due here in a couple of months.’
‘I am surprised that your son is not here with you as part of your management team,’ Sally said.
The older woman rose uncomfortably from the chair and stood before one of the windows. Sally could see that she had hit a raw nerve.
‘My son does not wish to be part of the family business,’ Sarah Macintosh said with her back to Sally. ‘He would rather run away to sea and follow his foolish dream of travelling the world.’
Sally was astute enough to read between the lines and realised that mother and son were most probably estranged. ‘I am sorry to hear that, Miss Macintosh,’ she said. ‘I will contact my father who will make a formal offer on the Sydney Star and, all going well, on the Adelaide Queen when she returns. I am sure it will be a mutually profitable relationship for both of our companies. I would like to thank you for your time and consideration.’
‘I am not being a good host,’ Sarah Macintosh said, turning back to Sally. ‘I believe that you are on your own in Sydney and single. We have many eligible young men who would love to meet you. Next Sunday afternoon we are having guests over for a tennis party. Would you like to join us?’
‘Thank you, I love tennis.’
‘Good,’ Sarah Macintosh said, extending her hand in a regal fashion.
Sally bid the woman a good afternoon, took the elevator down to the ground floor and stepped out into the hot January sun. She caught a taxi to her Potts Point apartment, which was large and expensive and had a balcony overlooking the harbour. To Sally the apartment was simply a place to sleep and eat. She had known many homes in her life – always expensive – and this was just another one.
Sally could feel the summer heat causing her to perspire, so she stripped off into a fashionable one-piece swimsuit. She poured herself a gin and tonic and turned on the radio to find one of her favourite songs playing – ‘Up on the Roof’ by the Drifters. She stepped out onto her balcony, stretching out on a deckchair to soak in the remainder of the day’s warmth. Sleepy in the late afternoon sun, she had a fleeting memory of the young soldier she had met in Malaya during the Emergency. Patrick Duffy. The recollection of his name flooded her with sweet memories of their lovemaking. No other man had been able to match him in her experience of men, and Sally had come to regret not keeping in touch with him. But she was a practical woman with ambitions, and loving a soldier was not part of her plans. She remembered that his battalion was stationed in Sydney when not on active service overseas.
Just for a moment Sally wondered where he was, before she finished her drink and the song came to an end.
*
Another jungle, another war and the same annoying insects. With a long twig, Sergeant Patrick Duffy cautiously pushed away a giant venomous centipede that had been crawling on his water canteen. He sighed with relief when it used its many legs to disappear into the rotting foliage around him. The insects might be just as perilous, but this war was different. It was virtually a secret war against the Indonesian army on the border of Malaysian Sarawak and Indonesian Kalimantan on the island of Borneo. He looked at the eight exhausted members of his section and knew that he was in the same condition.
Patrick hardly cared for the political rationale that had convinced him to sign on for another three years in the Australian Army. He had been on the verge of completing his original six-year enlistment when his company commander promised him another campaign if he signed on.
As Patrick sat contemplating the wildlife of Borneo, he wondered at his insanity. It was like Malaya all over again – except Malaya was now the independent nation of Malaysia, and its Indonesian neighbour objected to the formation of the new nation, claiming it was British rule hidden behind the cloak of independence, so it had begun armed incursions across the border into Malaysian Borneo.
So here he was in Sarawak on the border with Indonesia fighting a secret war that the media did not report on. After World War II, Indonesian President Sukarno had received political support in the United Nations from Australia against the Dutch reoccupation, and although Sukarno ranted about the British involvement in the present confrontation, he made little mention of Australian and New Zealand involvement in this jungle war of ambush and counter-ambush.
For now, Patrick could rest; it had been arduous crossing into the Indonesian territory of the renamed Kalimantan with an infantry section from his platoon. They had crossed a swamp with leeches and green tree snakes hanging from bushes, and battled with fire ants whose sting could bring tears to the eyes of the toughest soldier. They had come across the footprints of a leopard and startled each time a monkey or orangutan made itself known from the gloom of the heavy rainforest bordering the swamps. The heat was intense and the humidity oppressive in this place on the equator.
As a sergeant, Patrick should have remained at platoon HQ, but the corporal who was to lead the patrol had gone down with heat stroke, and Patrick was able to convince the company second-in-command, Captain Stan Gauden, that he should take his place. The mission was to cross the border and carry out a reconnaissance for signs of Indonesian army camps. Like everything else about the war, the mission was a secret.
Patrick could see his Iban tracker a short distance away chopping up edible plants he had acquired on the patrol. The Iban had once had a fearsome reputation as headhunters, so Patrick was glad they were on their side in this undeclared war. The brown-skinned warrior wore trousers but no shirt and carried a spear, knife and blowpipe, all good close-quarter weapons. The Iban did not recognise borders as they roamed the jungles. The tracker had picked up signs of Indonesian army boot prints, and Patrick’s patrol moved extremely cautiously, avoiding the well-beaten animal tracks; the Australians knew that the Indonesians often laid mines there for those hoping to use the trails as easier means of crossing terrain. It was late afternoon and Patrick was already considering a place to bivouac for the night. There would be no cooking fires and total silence when they made a small shelter against a surprise attack.
The radio they carried was a British model and not very effective, but it provided the only contact they had with the outside world. At designated times they had to report back to BHQ, which was something of a chore, having to set up the radio and attempt to tune in to a frequency.
Patrick hoisted himself to his feet and signalled for the rest of the section to follow him as the Iban tracker set out in front to follow the tracks.
For a moment Patrick thought about some of the more senior NCOs in the battalion who had been transferred to the newly established Australian Army Training Team Vietnam, operating as advisors to the South Vietnamese forces. Maybe they were having a better time of it, he mused. With a little more seniority he would join them. In the meantime, he moved silently with his patrol and was acutely aware that they could be ambushed. Another country, another war – but the same demanding conditions.
FIFTEEN
It had been another long day at the office for Sarah Macintosh. All that was on her mind when she stepped through the entrance to her home was pouring a gin and tonic and slumping into the big leather armchair in the library. She went to th
e dining room and saw the familiar sight of her husband sitting at the table. He was ashen-faced, with a letter in his hand. He glanced up at her and she thought he had tears in his eyes.
‘What is it?’ she asked, taking the gin bottle from the drinks cabinet.
‘Michael,’ Charles replied. ‘He is no longer on the ship. He resigned to enlist with a mercenary force in the Congo. This letter is dated a month ago, and God knows how he is this very moment.’
Sarah felt the blood in her face drain. She had expected him to return to Sydney on their ship and possibly even consider joining her in the Macintosh enterprises. That very day, Sarah had been forced to discuss the future leadership of the companies with her board of directors, who wanted a succession plan in place. She had read about the Congo mercenaries in the papers, which condemned their involvement. Oh, there were shades of David Macintosh in her son.
‘Michael has never written to me – always you – so why did you not use your influence to bring him home?’ Sarah accused.
‘If I had known he was going to do something as stupid as this I would have bloody well flown to Africa to talk him out of it,’ Charles snapped. ‘It’s a dirty little war and I have read that Mike Hoare’s mercenary force has already received casualties. When I served as a fighter pilot it was always with the thought that the next generation would not have to face war. Bloody mankind never learns from the past.’
‘What are you going to do about the situation?’ Sarah asked, still feeling the chill of fear at the possible loss of the heir to all she had achieved. The Macintosh companies were clawing their way back on the prosperity of the last decade. Sarah had been smart enough to take a page from Jessica Duffy’s book and followed her investing in mining in the west. The gamble had paid off, and Sarah was forced to grudgingly admit her sister-in-law was a lot smarter than she had initially estimated.
Charles carefully folded the letter, replacing it in the sweat-stained envelope. ‘I will do what any father in my position would do,’ he said quietly. ‘I will go to Canberra and speak with someone who has influence to help me get our son back.’
Sarah was satisfied with Charles’s reassurance. He may have proven to be a drunk, but deep within the man she had married was the iron core that had kept him alive in the skies over the Pacific.
It was paramount that Michael return to Sydney to join the extensive Macintosh Enterprises so that everything she had achieved could continue under the family name, as it had ever since the business had been established by her proud Scottish ancestors.
*
The trucks drove in a mad dash towards the heart of the town. Michael fired off two rapid shots at a roadblock. Beside him in the truck the other mercenaries poured out a withering fire, scattering the Simba defenders who ran in panic for the bush nearby. When behind cover they fired sporadically at the convoy.
At the entrance of the town, the convoy halted and the commanders ran to the leader for further instructions for the final assault. Orders were given to seize the ferry, capture the railway station and secure the wharf area. Men were tasked with securing the rear, and the Italians, out for revenge, protested being included in the security detail. The commander understood their need to track down the brutal perpetrators of the slaughter of their countrymen and gave them permission to join the assault force. As he spoke a Ford truck nearby exploded in a fireball, scorching the men in the orders group.
Michael and his comrades dismounted, advancing quickly and using the buildings as cover. When Michael peered around the corner of one building he could see dozens of semi-naked Simbas wearing monkey-skin headdresses, milling about in panic. The sudden attack on Kindu had taken them by surprise and it appeared many were questioning the magic that was supposed to make them immune to bullets.
Michael took careful aim and, with rapid fire, brought down seven of the enemy before his 20 round magazine was empty. He quickly reloaded and took aim into the frenzied mob of rebels. Again, he could see his bullets taking a toll, and he was joined by the others in his commando, reducing the threat.
Michael could see the ferry was a short distance away, drifting down the river with many of the escaping Simbas aboard.
They were easy targets and Michael continued to take aim and fire. He could see the heat from his rifle barrel shimmer under the hot, tropical sun.
The river was running red with their blood when a whistle blew: the signal to cease fire. His commander called on the enemy aboard the ferry to surrender, and they complied.
Behind the small mercenary force followed the Congolese government soldiers, clearing the town, house by house, of any further rebel resistance. It was all over for the moment, and Michael immediately checked his supply of rifle rounds. He could feel the adrenaline draining from his system and saw a fellow mercenary a few feet away, leaning on his rifle and smoking a cigarette. He knew the man relatively well as they had enlisted together and become friends. He was the same age as Michael and hailed from London, where a broken relationship had caused him to leave his job as a motor mechanic and travel to Africa to enlist in Mike Hoare’s Wild Geese. The young man had also been a territorial soldier and had been trained in the military before enlisting.
‘Hey, Frankie, you got a spare fag?’ Michael asked, and the red-headed, lean young man tossed a packet of Woodbines to him.
‘Thought you didn’t smoke,’ Frankie said. ‘It’s bad for your health.’
‘Yeah, well, so is this war,’ Michael replied, taking a cigarette and tossing back the packet. Michael had a lighter he kept for starting campfires. With a deep puff he inhaled the smoke, feeling its calming effect almost immediately. It was only then that he noticed how his hands trembled uncontrollably. He could feel his legs trembling and glanced around to ensure nobody had noticed his physical state, lest they interpret it as fear.
‘We’re still alive,’ Frankie said, staring across the river running with blood. ‘Not so those poor buggers out there in the water.’
Michael found some shade in the lea of a brick wall and slid down with his rifle upright between his legs. Frankie joined him.
‘I read that you Aussies have our Beatles touring Down Under,’ Frankie said to take their minds off their post-combat jitters. ‘I was in Germany when I first heard them performing. Always thought they had a bit of talent.’
‘They aren’t too bad,’ Michael said, taking a draw on his cigarette. ‘But I prefer your Pommy group, Gerry and the Pacemakers.’
‘Not me,’ Frankie said, flicking his butt into the dust of the town. ‘“You’ll Never Walk Alone” reminds me of my girlfriend; she dumped me for our local soccer star. You got a girl?’
Michael thought briefly of the one night he had spent with Jane White, a memory he could never forget, despite the torrid one-night stands when his ship was in port.
‘I sort of had a girlfriend when I was a lot younger,’ Michael said. ‘She was the daughter of a Pommy knight. One of your sirs.’
‘Hell, anyone I know?’ Frankie laughed.
‘Not likely,’ Michael grinned. ‘You have to have some class, you Pommy bastard.’
Frankie had come to learn that ‘bastard’ was a word Australians used for someone they very much liked – or hated. He knew with Michael it was an endearment.
‘C’mon, you two,’ a voice bawled. ‘You don’t get paid to lounge around.’
Both men eased themselves to their feet.
Michael and Frankie had both been present when the Europeans scheduled to be executed were released. Michael watched as the deliriously happy men and women kissed the cheeks of their saviours. They had only been hours – maybe minutes – from being hacked to death. This was what it was all about, Michael thought as a middle-aged man, babbling in Belgian, kissed him on both cheeks.
They’d hardly had time to enjoy the gratitude of the released prisoners before they were told they would be in the a
ssault group to capture the vital airfield. They advanced in a long skirmish line and the order was given to fix bayonets. Michael slid his carefully honed knife from the scabbard and clicked it into place at the end of his rifle. He had read about bayonet charges conducted in previous wars, and now his stomach was twisted in a mixture of fear and anticipation. This was war at its most basic, when the bodies of friend and foe were locked together and they could see the fear in the other man’s eyes and smell his sweat.
Orders were shouted by their commander not to bunch up. A volley from a machine gun, or bomb from a mortar, could easily take out more targets if they were close together. Michael glanced to his right to see Frankie’s grim expression.
The tropical night was on them and they could see the lights of the control tower in the distance. Their commander shouted, ‘Get in!’ and led the charge across the tarmac. Such was the ferocity of the attack that the enemy fled, leaving three of their slower comrades dead on a verandah. The airfield had been taken and the mercenaries had suffered no casualties. Nor had they had to use their bayonets.
Beside him, Frankie uttered his favourite phrase, ‘We’re still alive.’
But Michael’s hands were trembling again and he wondered if his luck was due to run out before the term of his contract.
*
It was rare for Donald Macintosh to travel away from Glen View Station, but he had made an exception to be at his eldest son’s acceptance to Sydney University to study engineering. Jessica had a family house in the leafy suburb of Strathfield and today Donald took a train into the city to see his old friend whom he considered a kind of uncle, the solicitor Sean Duffy. Donald was always aware that his battle-damaged face drew curious looks from the people on the streets but he no longer really cared. Time had softened some of the scarring, but not the nightmares he still experienced of fighting in the Pacific campaign.
Donald made his way up the wooden stairs until he reached the first floor and was met by a pleasant young lady. He gave his name and the receptionist called through on her telephone.