Papua

by Peter Watt

  Although Paul would have preferred his sister to stay out of their political discussion she made it plain that she would not be deterred. In fact she seemed to be drawn to Hitler’s words. Paul, however, found his rhetoric on what was wrong in Germany rather puerile, the ideas of a man who had a terrible need to lay blame on others. What would an Austrian know of the German soul, he thought as he watched his sister engage in lively discussion with Gerhardt’s companion. Clearly his sister was attracted to Hitler and his ideas. The hate Erika had for the enemy had boiled to a head and she spoke of her fiancé’s death as a martyr.

  The night wore on and Paul was pleased to finally see the end of the two men, though Erika was less so. ‘Herr Hitler has invited me to attend one of his talks,’ she said to her brother. ‘I think he has a great future.’

  ‘Go to any street corner,’ Paul grumbled, ‘and you will hear a thousand disillusioned men like him talking.’

  ‘But Herr Hitler is not a disillusioned man,’ Erika responded with a fire in her eyes that Paul had not seen since his return from the war. ‘He is a man who knows the future and I also know that if my Wolfgang had survived he would agree with me that we were betrayed by the traitors who profited from our sacrifice.’

  ‘We lost because we were beaten on the battlefield,’ Paul responded. ‘When the Americans came into the war it was only a matter of when we would have to capitulate. We had fought a war on two fronts and that is too much to ask any country.’

  Erika glared at her brother and stomped away. What did he know about the traitors at home when he had been away fighting?

  Paul felt his spirits slump. He had never been close to his sister. Their father had spoilt her and she was too aware of her own beauty. Strong willed, she would not bide others’ opinions. With a sad sigh he made his way up the stairs to the bedroom.

  Karin was already in bed and so too was young Karl. Paul undressed and slid between the sheets. His wife stirred when he placed his hand on her hip.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ he whispered in her ear.

  ‘No,’ she replied, with just a touch of irritableness.

  ‘Erika seems to be taken by Herr Hitler,’ he said. But his wife did not reply. He had been home many weeks but they had not made love. And now her coyness seemed to be turning to resentment. The damned war had destroyed more than bodies and minds. It had destroyed the very thing that they had clung to in the hell of shrapnel and bullets. It had destroyed the memory of a time when all was right between a man and a woman. Was it to be like the ancient Greek warriors who were warned by their women to either come home victorious with their shields above their heads – or come home in defeat lying dead on those same shields?

  ‘Are you like my sister who blames me for losing the war?’ he snapped suddenly, without regard for his son sleeping beside his mother. Startled, Karin pulled herself up to the pillows and stared at him with wide eyes.

  ‘I do not blame you because we lost the war,’ she said. ‘I care only that I have you beside me.’

  Paul was taken by her passionate response and was at a loss for words. ‘I prayed every day that the war would end and you would come back to me,’ she continued. ‘I did not care who won so long as we had peace back in our lives.’

  ‘I thought that you detested me,’ he said with a lump in his throat. ‘I thought that is why we have not made love since I returned.’

  Karin placed her hand on his cheek and he looked up into her face. Her pale skin, deep blue eyes and flaxen hair spread across the pillows were memories he had carried in the worst of times between the killing. ‘I love you, my husband, with all my body and soul,’ she said gently. He felt the warmth of her hand on his skin. ‘It is just that . . .’ her words tapered away and he could see tears welling in her beautiful eyes.

  It was something that he knew he did not understand. Something that only women in all their complexity struggled with. But instinctively he knew that he should be patient. To know that she did not resent him as his own sister did was enough for now. He reached out for her and she moved into his arms. Her tears wet his chest as she sobbed. He rocked her as she clung to him and soothed her pain with gentle words. Karl had not stirred beside them. Paul continued to hold his wife to him until she finally drifted into sleep.

  Something remained between them that would have to be rediscovered. He wanted them to have what they had known in far off New Guinea – the laughter and lovemaking in God’s last paradise on earth. Germany was in ruins, as was his own life. No work, their money rapidly disappearing with the terrible inflation and men like Hitler viewed by his sister as representing the future of a new Germany. It was up to him to do something to change their lives.

  FOUR

  The high-pitched wailing of the women and incessant barking of the scurvy dogs irritated the bearded giant. He stood at the edge of the thatched huts built on log bases above the ground, an imposing figure amidst the smaller tribesmen whose village was just on the border of the Central District of Papua. Tim O’Leary stood well over six feet tall and had the powerful shoulders of his Irish warrior ancestors.

  ‘Seems they knew we were coming,’ he growled to his smaller companion. ‘Looks like we are going to have to use a bit of persuasion to sign up the young bucks.’

  The European who stood beside him with his rifle over his shoulder was of swarthy appearance. This was a legacy of his Corsican heritage on an island which had known the invasion of the dark skinned North Africans in centuries past. Pierre was a French citizen and like the Irish born recruiter of native labour, he was in his late thirties and had lived an equally disreputable life. Both men were at home in their jobs of securing native labourers for the ceaseless demands of plantation and mining operations in the now Australian administered territories of Papua and New Guinea.

  O’Leary had left his large family in Ireland just after the turn of the century to run away to sea. A cargo tramp ship had deposited him on the shores of German New Guinea after an altercation with another member of the crew. The young O’Leary had been caught stealing aboard the ship. The end result was that the other man had sustained permanent injuries, crippling him for life. Only the benevolence of the ship’s captain had saved O’Leary from the wrath of the other crew members. The captain took into consideration the young man’s age and dumped him at a German coastal village in New Guinea. Here he was befriended by a sympathetic government man who sent him to a Chinese recruiter of native labour by the name of KwongYu Sen. Sen gave the young Irishman a job recruiting labourers for the German planters, and Tim O’Leary had proved to be brutally efficient at the task. Those natives not compliant with his demands to accompany him back to the coast were more often or not shot, which cowered the living into submission.

  His reputation for violence had preceded him through the villages of German New Guinea before the war. But now he was working in post war Papua where the administration of Sir Hubert Murray, under pressure from the missionaries, did not tolerate such brutality. But O’Leary had a knack of finding isolated places beyond missionary influence to recruit his labourers, and had not changed his brutal methods despite the new laws governing native labour in Papua.

  Now, with a wary eye on the villagers, the two Europeans led their small force of armed natives into the village. One thing the Irishman had come to learn in his years of recruiting was that the Papuans were first and foremost a warrior people. If they had the advantage they would fight rather than be taken to work indentures far from their traditional territories. They were in a village where the men had little contact with Europeans, but the progress of O’Leary and his party of seven armed natives into the hills had been under observation for some time by clansmen of the tribe.

  ‘Keep a close eye on that bunch over there,’ O’Leary hissed to Pierre. ‘They look a bit edgy.’

  The Frenchman’s eyes darted to the large group of almost naked warriors who stood to one side fingering their hardwood bows and stone axes tucked behind thin belts. Pierre
licked his lips. He was nervous. The ever-present thought that an ambush and roasting in a native cooking fire could be his fate had little appeal.

  One of O’Leary’s men who spoke a dialect that could be understood by the clan stepped forward. ‘Who is the headman of the village?’ he asked.

  A broad chested man in his late twenties stepped forward from the group. ‘I am,’ he answered. ‘Why are you here?’

  The native interpreter turned to O’Leary.

  ‘Tell the boss man that we want to sign up twenty of his fittest men to come with us to work for the white man,’ O’Leary said.

  O’Leary did not have to know the dialect to understand that his request had been met with denial. He had expected that. ‘Tell the headman that we will give him many gifts for each man he nominates for work with us,’ the Irishman countered, indicating to one of his porters to spread the trade gifts of steel axes, sea shells, twists of tobacco and mirrors on the ground.

  The assembled villagers stepped back as the blanket containing a sample of the gifts was unrolled on the dusty earth. They were not sure what evil magic was contained here, but despite their fears they soon surged forward to examine the goods with great interest.

  ‘All this to the chief for twenty fit men,’ O’Leary said in a loud voice, pointing with his rifle to the goods on display.

  The interpreter explained the trade and the warriors muttered amongst themselves. Eventually the warrior leader replied and the interpreter shook his head. ‘No deal,’ he said.

  ‘Well,’ O’Leary sighed. ‘It can’t be said that I didn’t try to be nice. Tell the chief that we will give him time to consider the offer,’ he said to his interpreter. ‘We will wait outside the village.’

  With a wary eye on the assembled warriors Pierre scooped up the trade goods and followed the Irishman to where they would set up a camp a reasonable distance from the village. The Corsican knew what his boss had planned and respected his cunning. They were at a distinct disadvantage so close to the village and the assembled warriors possibly ready for a war with the recruiters.

  In a short time some of the more adventuresome villagers came to their campsite where they were met with smiles and small trinkets. Soon a rush was on as the word spread of the white man’s generosity and the recruiting party was besieged by men, women and children.

  ‘So far so good,’ O’Leary muttered to Pierre as he handed a shy, young girl a mirror. She snatched the present and rushed away followed by a crowd of young women eager to see what magic the hard but water-like object held.

  O’Leary had laid out ropes around a tent to indicate the perimeter over which none of the villagers were to cross. His rule was enforced by his porters who pushed back any villager who tried to cross this barrier.

  At nightfall the villagers drifted back to their homes and the Europeans placed guards for the night. Neither side trusted the other and with good reason.

  But in the morning the villagers returned to be met by the sight of the recruiters sitting down to breakfast. O’Leary hummed an old Irish ballad as he carefully appraised the villagers gathered around them, pressing to the edge of the rope. Already he had noted those he was interested in. Amongst them was the young girl he had presented the mirror to the day before. She was only just entering womanhood and her grass skirt barely concealed what O’Leary wanted as much as the money he would fetch for the reluctant indentured labourers down on the coast.

  ‘I think we will be ready to take our kanakas tomorrow morning,’ O’Leary said to Pierre who had joined him to observe the jostling mob. Their prey was being lulled into a sense of security. Already they were bringing yams and pig meat to exchange for the trade goods. The interpreter had again offered to trade even more if twenty of the tribe’s fittest men would accompany them back to work for the white man. Again the headman had declined the offer.

  He appeared worried now as he stood amongst his warriors, observing the recruiters while his people were gradually accepting their presence. The Irishman could see the concerned expression on the headman’s face and smiled at him. The men stared at each other for a moment before the chief finally looked away.

  The following day the recruiters followed their routine as the people came again to trade for the precious goods, now almost depleted. O’Leary had briefed his men, and this was not the first time they had used such methods. But the village headman noticed the subtle tension amongst the recruiters as he stood and watched the proceedings of his people with the white men.

  ‘Now!’ O’Leary roared and the guns in the hands of his porters spat death into the warriors that stood beside their chief. So sudden and devastating was the attack that those who were witness fell to the ground in terror. O’Leary cursed himself that he had missed killing the chief who had reacted swiftly and ducked behind a group of his men.

  With the precision of soldiers in action the porters fell on the unwounded young men with shackles to secure them. They met little resistance from the shocked villagers. One of the porters did not see the headman until it was too late. His rifle lay in the grass beside him as he shackled a young man. Pierre saw the chief’s stone axe cleave his head and fired a shot that threw the luckless chief back from his victim. He had chambered a second round and approached the fallen man with great caution. The chief lay on his back moaning from the pain of the bullet, which had entered below the collarbone and smashed a hole through his back. O’Leary strode up to Pierre and glanced at the dead porter. Without a word the Irishman lifted the shoulder butt of his rifle and smashed the fallen chief’s face. Again and again O’Leary hammered the man’s head with the brass plated butt until the man’s head had split open.

  He turned and surveyed the carnage. At least ten villagers lay dead or dying. Many had gained their senses and fled to the village. Even the warriors who had not been wounded fled after their people. Here they could regroup to hunt the killers on their trek south across the rolling hills of tall grasses. But this would take time as they had been denied their leadership with the killing of the best warrior amongst them.

  O’Leary did not give them time. With his prisoners secured and the young girl bound he ordered half his men to advance on the village. They shot at anything that moved and the people fled even further into the surrounding forests to watch helplessly as their village was put to the torch. O’Leary knew that by doing so, the idea of hunting him would take second place as the warriors recovered as much as they could from the ruins of the smouldering houses.

  When he was satisfied that he had eliminated the threat to his rear the Irishman moved out. By the time they reached the planters in the south he knew that his prisoners would have lost all resistance to marking the paper that legally indentured them to the European planters. And the young girl would prove to be a pleasant diversion at night in his bed. It was a pity she would not live to see the bright lights of Port Moresby, he mused, as he watched his men push and shove the shackled prisoners into a column for the march. As they approached the township he would simply cut her throat one night and leave her in the bush to be eaten by the scavenging wild pigs.

  Jack Kelly stood at the bow of the Burns Philp steamer gazing at the Port Moresby shoreline. Not much had changed since he was last in the frontier settlement in 1915. It was still a small town of prefabricated houses with corrugated tin roofs embraced by the bare, brown hills and the homes of around fourteen hundred Europeans. From the bay he could see the dusty streets and the long wharf jutting out from the land. The thin strip of sand of Ela Beach was lined with tall trees and the town dominated by the Burns Philp tower that marked the company’s trading place in the almost forgotten Australian territory and its capital. Hopefully his old friend would be waiting on the wharf after receiving the telegram he had sent from Sydney weeks earlier.

  It was mid morning and a haze of smoke hung over the land. The natives were burning off, as was their tradition in the dry season, and the town could have been in outback Australia.

  ‘It d
oes not appear to be as I imagined,’ George Spencer said as he joined Jack at the bow. ‘I was expecting green jungles and coconut trees.’

  Jack grinned as he lit the cigar he had been hoarding to celebrate his return to the mysterious island north of Australia. ‘Lot of people think that. But not far from here, around the coast, you will see just that.’

  George leaned on the railing and peered beyond the town. ‘They don’t seem very imposing,’ he said gesturing to the hills. ‘I was under the impression that they blocked the way inland.’

  Jack sucked on the cigar and watched the blue grey smoke whirl away on a gentle tropical breeze. ‘A bit deceptive. Go north and you will encounter mountains where ridges, barely wide enough to walk on, exist. Not to mention jungles and wild tribesmen who won’t hesitate to kill you for a square meal. Not a place like anywhere else you might know. Anyway, it seems we are about to tie up at the wharf and you will get your first taste of Papua.’

  ‘A shrunken head, old chap?’ George asked with a grin.

  ‘A cold beer and an opportunity to meet a real Papuan.’

  On the wharf George took the extended hand of the man identified as Jack’s old friend. He stood a head shorter then Jack and was of medium height, wearing a clean white suit, tie and matching hat in the tradition of the tropics. He was a real surprise for George.

  ‘KwongYu Sen, this is Mr George Spencer,’ Jack said, beaming at George’s startled expression.

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Sen,’ George mumbled as he shook the smaller man’s hand. It was a firm grasp and he calculated Sen to be in his mid thirties. ‘I am afraid Jack has told me little of you on our voyage north.’