Papua

by Peter Watt

  Peter Watt has spent time as a soldier, articled clerk, prawn trawler deckhand, builder’s labourer, pipe layer, real estate salesman, private investigator, police sergeant and adviser to the Royal Papua New Guinea Constabulary. He has lived and worked with Aborigines, Islanders, Vietnamese and Papua New Guineans and he speaks, reads and writes Vietnamese and Pidgin.

  Good friends, fine food, fishing and the vast open spaces of outback Queensland are his main interests in life.

  Peter lives in Finch Hatton in Queensland and is currently writing the sequel to Papua, due for release in 2004.

  Peter Watt can be contacted at www.peterwatt.com

  Excerpts from e-mails sent to Peter Watt since his first novel was published:

  ‘Just finished reading Papua . . . Absolutely brilliant. Couldn’t put it down.’

  BOB

  ‘I have a copy of every Wilbur Smith book out and hang off every word in those books. He has taught me to love the “outback” of South Africa. How exciting then for me to discover an Australian author who writes in the same style about our own wonderful outback and fascinating history.’

  JULIE, AUSTRALIA

  ‘On reading your fourth novel Papua I felt compelled to write to you congratulating you on your work, though I know I shall not be the first nor be the last to do so . . . I have to confess I am an avid reader of Wilbur Smith’s work, as well as Jeffrey Archer’s, and Bryce Courtenay, and, if I may say without sounding too obligatory, your work sits highly amongst these gendemen.’

  KEN, AUSTRALIA

  ‘I own Cry of the Curlew, Shadow of the Osprey and Flight of the Eagle; I discovered them last year. I read the first book and could not put it down; I had to have the other two to see how the story ended. Imagine my delight when the person who introduced me to your writing in the first place, sent me Papua on Saturday!!!! Yee-har.’

  FRANCES, AUSTRALIA

  ‘I have previously read your three books of the Duffy and Macintosh families and thoroughly enjoyed them! I have only recently finished Papua and am wondering if there will be a continuation of the characters on novels down the track. (I dearly hope so.) Keep up the fantastic work.’

  JODIE, AUSTRALIA

  PAPUA

  PETER

  WATT

  Also by Peter Watt

  Cry of the Curlew

  Shadow of the Osprey

  Right of the Eagle

  Papua

  To Chase the Storm

  Eden

  First published 2002 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  This Pan edition published 2003 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Reprinted 2003, 2005, 2006

  Copyright © Peter Watt 2002

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

  form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording or

  by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing

  from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

  Watt, Peter, 1949- .

  Papua.

  ISBN 0 330 36422 7.

  1. Frontier and pioneer life - Papua New Guinea - Fiction. 2. World War, 1914-1918

  – Campaigns – France – Fiction. 3. Male friendship – Fiction. I. Title.

  A823.3

  Set in 11.5/13 pt Bembo by Post Pre-press Group

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  These electronic editions published in 2007 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced

  or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any

  person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any

  form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying,

  recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the

  publisher.

  Papua

  Peter Watt

  Adobe eReader format 978-1-74197-165-1

  Microsoft Reader format 978-1-74197-366-2

  Mobipocket format 978-1-74197-567-3

  Online format 978-1-74197-768-4

  Epub format 978-1-74262-603-1

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy

  both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and

  news of any author events.

  For Tony Williams

  Agent and true friend

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The writing of a novel has a lot in common with the production of a film. Many people have an influence on the final result. In my case I would like to thank a number of people.

  Ms Angelika Gassner from Austria who gave good advice on the Germanic aspects of the novel. Phil Murphy from Recognition Australasia in Cairns for his continuing technical advice. Joy and all the wonderful ladies at the Coolangatta Library for providing the resources for research. Robert Bozek and Nadine Vincenc from Sydney whose friendship and wonderful support have meant a lot. Ashley and Amanda Grosser, proprietors of the Sleepy Hill Motor Inn at Raymond Terrace, for their generosity over time to a weary writer on the road. My great brother-in-law Tyrone McKee for giving up his time and sharing the long drive for a regional book tour in 2001. And my sister Kerry who has been there when it counted. To Tony and Chris Pearce at Baulkham Hills for the time I spent in their company while writing this book. To Wilbur Smith, my special thanks for your generous words at a dinner held in Brisbane.

  At Pan Macmillan Australia my special thanks to my editor Cate Paterson whose inspiration is, as always, a great part of what the reader sees in the story and characters. To Simone Ford whose attention to editing detail is truly appreciated. My continuing thanks to my publicist Jane Novak whose contact usually means something nice to do other than write books. A big thanks also to Ross Gibb and James Fraser.

  My special thanks to some people at Anthony A. Williams Management: Geoffrey Radford, Ingrid Butters, Sonja Patterson and Tony Blair – part of my professional family in the world of writing

  As always, to my family for their support when times got bad.

  And Naomi.

  PAPUA

  CONTENTS

  MAP

  PROLOGUE

  Part One: BARBED WIRE AND JUNGLES 1918–1924

  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

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Part Two: STONE AND STEEL 1932–1934

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

&
nbsp; CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  A young woman – born in the first year of the twentieth century – stood and gazed as the powerful steam engine hissed and jolted away from her. She knew that it trailed its cargo of grey uniformed men in shabby, overcrowded carriages destined for the carnage of the Western Front. She hardly felt the biting cold flurries of windswept snow around her as the tears streamed down her rosy cheeks. All she could feel was an inconsolable grief as she watched the wan face of the most beloved man in her life fade with distance between them. She could not bear to think that she would never see him again.

  Erika Mann stood amongst the small crowd of men, women and children bidding their sons, husbands, fathers and lovers a dreadful farewell. They had tried to be brave and display the stiff upper lip – reputed to their enemies, the British – but the tears of grief had flowed. For in the fourth year of the terrible war none held the optimism of August 1914. This was a war of stalemate bogged down in the stinking mire of barbed wire, trenches, mud and raked by machine guns. This was a war that had at its dark heart the belief that the last man standing was the winner. A war where men used up their enemy’s bullets in their bodies and the terrible screaming whistle of an artillery shell randomly fragmented flesh. Erika knew all this and could not believe that her beloved Wolfgang should quit his medical studies to enlist as an infantry officer. Another year and he would have been a doctor. But he had been restless and patriotic despite what he and so many other Germans knew: the war was decimating the youth of a great nation.

  The night before he had held her in his arms in the big eiderdown covered bed as she had sobbed after their lovemaking. ‘I will be with your brother’s regiment,’ he had soothed as she desperately clung to him. ‘He has survived the war since ’14.’

  The young officer had attempted to console her and she had wanted to be reassured by his words. She tried to smile bravely for him but the thought of losing his precious body and soul racked her further with sobs. She attempted to sleep, enveloped by the warmth of his love and the thick eiderdown, but watched every tiny shadow in the small room until they were chased away by the pale light of a winter’s day outside.

  Now she stood and watched the troop train leave Munich in the winter snows of early 1918. When it was gone she turned and walked away. She did not believe in God but she did say a prayer on this occasion just in case she was wrong. Her whispered plea was the same as millions of others being intoned all over Europe and beyond: ‘Please bring him home to me.’

  The raiding party had set out to avenge the death of Serero’s brother. But all had not gone well and the avenging warriors had lost one of their own. Despite the loss of a valued member of the clan, five dark skinned, naked young men squatted around Serero, grinning at his pain.

  ‘It is nothing,’ one of the men said as he watched the young warrior tugging the slender wooden arrowhead from his thigh. ‘I once had two of the enemy’s arrows sticking out of my backside – now that really hurt – but I did not cry when they were pulled out.’

  Serero grimaced but did not display discomfort as he yanked the broken bamboo reed shaft protruding from his thigh. The arrowhead emerged, as did a stream of blood to splash the rocks of the mountain stream. He was sweating despite the coolness of the air in the jungle-covered mountains but noticed the newfound respect the older men had for him now reflected in their grim set expressions and head nods.

  ‘It did not hurt,’ Serero grunted.

  He rose to his feet uncertainly, not sure whether he would be able to walk. The mountain stream had yet to be crossed if they were to keep ahead of their enemies who even now rallied their kinsmen in the rugged mountain valleys looking for payback.

  ‘Stand in the water for a moment,’ one of the older warriors said. ‘It will help.’

  Serero went to protest but the pain of the wound shot through his thigh, almost toppling him. He stepped into the cold mountain stream up to his waist. The water tugged at him but he stood his ground as the rest of his war party waded cautiously across the creek.

  Clutching their long bows strung with a sliver of bamboo, the raiding party had crossed and Serero followed them into the great rainforest. Within two days they would reach the village where the women would wail for the loss of a warrior from the clan. But Serero would boast of the two men he had personally killed in the dawn raid on their enemy sleeping in their longhouses. It had been a daring venture and Serero knew that his brother’s avenging spirit would be at rest. The story of the raid and the part he played would be told around the cooking fires and his prestige enhanced in its telling.

  Serero limped behind his older comrades, beaming with pride for his prowess. A giant butterfly the size of a small bird fluttered in the canopy of the trees above. With any luck they might come across a pig or cassowary on their trek home. To bring such a prize to the village would make the homecoming victory even more sweet. The thought caused the young man to feel less of the pain in his thigh. To be alive in the land of his ancestors on this day was a wondrous thing. His people had a long history of great raids and enemy warriors defeated, going back much further than even the oldest member of the clan could remember.

  The young warrior did not count the passage of years as the ancestor spirits did. Had he counted years he would have less than ten before his world was turned upside down forever in the feverish sago swamps of the great Papuan river. That distant day would mark an irreparable rent in the fabric of Paradise and the forests of Eden.

  Part One

  BARBED WIRE

  AND JUNGLES

  1918–1924

  ONE

  Major Paul Mann of the Kaiser Alexander Regiment was vaguely aware that the earth no longer shook with the ferocity of a wild animal in its death throes. The terrible onslaught of the British eight-inch shells, that had pummelled his company of helpless and terrified men since five thirty in the morning, was gone from the air around him.

  Lying at the bottom of the freshly dug trench, Major Mann could taste blood in his mouth. The big artillery guns behind the British lines had sought targets of human flesh to rip and shred to meaty fragments. He was numb but his whole body shook with the elation of still being alive and untouched by the splinters of searing hot metal that the explosions scattered.

  ‘Major Mann! They are coming!’

  The voice sounded as if it had come from another world. A world where he would like to return. A place of happiness and the sweet scents of home. It was the voice of his second in command Captain Wolfgang Betz, the voice of his future brother-in-law, who called to him.

  ‘Sir, they are advancing,’ Wolfgang screamed at his shell-deafened commander.

  Paul reached out to take his extended hand and scramble to his feet. There was no time to check the state of defences after the heavy artillery barrage. The advancing enemy were already in sight, even though they appeared so small and puny for the moment. But as an experienced soldier of four years on the Western Front, Paul knew many of his younger and less experienced troops would still be stunned into inactivity in the bottom of the trenches, cowered by the awful carnage brought by the barrage. ‘Get the men to their posts,’ he yelled at his second in command who had already turned his back to move down the line. He too was a veteran of almost a year’s trench fighting.

  Major Paul Mann studied the advancing troops who moved in scattered groups across the green fields dotted with French farmhouses. The Allies’ rapid advances had finally broken the deadlock on the Western Front and forced the German army out of its trenches and back into the relatively unscarred fields around Mont St Quentin. Paul’s
position forward of the main defences of the Hindenburg Line had been hastily dug and lacked the old, deep fortifications he had known at the Somme. The trench line he commanded had no overhead cover and he knew that some of the shells would have penetrated the soft, early autumn earth to explode, causing caveins along the trench line to bury men alive.

  Paul also knew that the men advancing on his line of defence were not British or French troops but those of one of Britain’s distant former colonies. He would have preferred to face the British. They respected the rules of war. The men advancing on his front had a fearsome reputation as soldiers who asked no quarter and gave none once they engaged in an attack. They were a volunteer army who held the philosophy that if their enemy was prepared to mow them down when they were vulnerable in the open then they had no right to surrender when they had lost. It was not the way of their masters – the British Tommies.