by Peter Watt
Kurt felt a slight chill. The assistant to the consul was talking about the murder of a man he was distantly related to. Despite his own unquestionable loyalty to his Kaiser, Kurt was also aware that the man he had never met was still a blood relative, and a soldier like himself. ‘No,’ he replied, also wiping at his mouth with his napkin. ‘If you are able to prove he is a spy then I am sure Captain Macintosh has to accept the consequences of his actions.’
‘Good,’ Bosch said, resuming his meal. ‘It is a delicate thing, complicated as it is by your affiliations with this family, but I am sure our source will be pleased to know that you have concurred with our decision.’
The two men finished their meal and separated. Kurt retired to his room to change. Now he would officially attend his consul to be met by his countrymen living in this vibrant part of the Pacific. As he walked the few streets to the German Consulate building he could not prevent himself imagining how a naval bombardment of the central heart of this city would bring down the buildings around him and kill all the civilians passing him by.
8
The Osprey II docked at Rabaul under a sky of soft white clouds. Alex stood at the rail, looking down onto the wharf. Islanders with glistening black skin toiled, loading bales onto pallets to be hoisted by the derricks of the ship adjacent to them into holds. Sweat dripped down Alex’s chest under his shirt as he observed the busy German port going about its work for the day.
‘Customs have cleared us, Mr Macintosh,’ Jock McLeod, the chief engineer, said. ‘We can go ashore.’
‘Good show, Jock,’ Alex said. ‘I would like you to get a bit of your kit together for an extended time ashore.’
Jock turned to walk back to put together a few items while Alex pondered the mission ahead of him. His eyes scanned the dock below for any signs that the German authorities were suspicious of the Australian-registered trading ship but could see none. Satisfied all was well he returned to his cabin to retrieve a few items of his own.
Ashore, the two men walked towards the centre of the town with swags over their shoulders. They found a hotel, a simple building with wide verandahs and a corrugated iron roof, where Alex arranged two nights’ accommodation with the owner, a small, bearded, middle-aged man wearing an immaculate white tropical suit. Alex had noticed that all the Europeans he had observed on his walk to the hotel also wore similar, practical suits whereas the Islanders mostly wore lap-laps – except for the colonial Melanesian police, who wore a European-style uniform.
‘You are English,’ the hotel owner said, observing the Sydney address Alex provided on the register.
‘Australian,’ Alex corrected in German.
‘It is the same thing,’ the owner replied. ‘Australians are English.’
Alex was tempted to tell the officious man that he did not think that his Scottish-Irish ancestors would agree, but refrained. ‘I am looking for a missionary priest, Father Umberto,’ Alex said. ‘Would you be able to tell me where I might find him?’
‘Why would you want to contact the priest?’ the innkeeper asked.
Alex knew that he had to be careful in his reply. The owner was acting strangely, considering that they had not met before. ‘My company intends to provide financial support for his missionary work among the natives. I would like to meet Father Umberto and speak with him,’ he replied with a forced smile.
‘Father Umberto has a place up in the mountains,’ the owner answered, eyeing Alex from behind his thin-wired spectacles. ‘He works among the dangerous savages there – the Tolai.’
Alex knew that the Tolai people of this part of the German empire were fierce warriors, forever rebelling against the German occupation of their lands. An intelligent people, they did not take well to German law. Twenty years earlier the German military had clashed with the Tolai tribesmen in bloody skirmishes. Only the use of mercenary groups from other parts of the island had eventually subdued them, but the resentment was always simmering among the proud men of the Tolai.
‘Then it is a good thing that my company may be able to bring Father Umberto civilised products, to help show the Tolai that it is best to accept our way of life, rather than resist the good intentions of the Kaiser,’ Alex said facetiously.
The owner did not reply, accepting the pen back from Alex and passing him two sets of keys. ‘Rooms six and seven,’ he said. ‘The times for meals are inside your rooms. I do not tolerate visits to the rooms after 7pm.’
Alex nodded and handed Jock his key. As they walked inside the hotel Jock finally spoke. ‘I get the impression that he was a wee hostile towards us.’
‘It seems that he does not like the English much,’ Alex replied.
‘Nor do I,’ Jock answered. ‘You should have told the wee man that.’
Alex smiled. Jock had not understood the German that passed between him and the hotel proprietor. He wondered how he would keep the Scotsman in the dark about the mission and yet rely on his help. That was another problem he would consider as he went on his way. First, he had to find someone who would guide them into the mountains to meet the Italian priest. It did not appear that he would receive any assistance from the hotel keeper.
Alex opened the door to his room to discover it was clean and airy. It was not much different from the country hotels he knew from his days in Queensland, with its mosquito net hanging over the bed from the ceiling. The only difference was that all the signs were in German. Gecko excreta even stained the ceiling. He threw his swag on the single, sagging bed and walked over to a window with open shutters. The room had a view across the verandah to the corrugated iron roofs of the adjacent buildings. He had hardly turned from the view when there was a loud knock at his door. He guessed that it was not Jock as he could hear him moving about next door.
‘Who is it?’ Alex asked in German.
‘Hauptmann Hirsch,’ the voice replied. Alex recognised the military rank of his visitor. He opened the door to see a solidly built man of average height and red hair, wearing tropical civilian dress of a white suit.
‘May I come in?’ Hirsch asked politely but firmly.
‘Your country,’ Alex replied, stepping back to allow the German captain to enter. ‘From your rank I assume that you are army.’
‘I am the same as you, Captain Macintosh,’ Hirsch said, extending his hand. ‘I am with the militia here, as you are in your own country.’
The German had a strong grip. ‘You seem to know a lot about me considering that my ship has just docked.’
‘Ah, I had the pleasure of meeting a distant relative of yours last month – Major von Fellmann,’ Hirsch said with a warm smile. ‘A great soldier and good man. I have come to extend the hospitality of the Imperial German Army to a comrade from another country. We have our own club here, what you would call an officers’ mess. I would like you to join us at five o’clock this afternoon for drinks.’
‘I must thank you for your courtesy, but I am here to seek out a missionary priest my company wishes to support in his crusade to bring civilisation to some of your more troublesome citizens.’
‘Father Umberto,’ Hirsch replied. ‘If you join us this afternoon I may be able to assist you. Dress is tropical suit. You can be fitted out by our Chinese merchants a block from here. They can measure and produce your suit within a couple of hours. Now, I must return to my civil duties. I expect to see you in a few hours. You may bring your engineer also, but he will be required to be similarly dressed.’
‘I doubt that Jock has ever worn a suit in his life so I will exclude him from joining us,’ Alex said. ‘Besides, my friend does not speak German.’
‘Ah, a good decision,’ Hirsch said, once again extending his hand. ‘Those of the other ranks do not appreciate the talk between gentlemen. Five o’clock then.’
Alex pondered the visit from a member of the German military. He had hardly arrived and yet he was known to the authorities, he thought uneasily. The visit was more than a courtesy, he was sure of that. He was obviously under
observation and would be forced to accept the German militia captain’s invitation to join him. Rustling in his pockets, Alex located the wad of notes. No doubt the Chinese drapers would accept Australian currency, so long as he tipped a generous amount. It was time to invest in a white suit.
Alex briefed Jock that he would be required to attend a club that night. ‘You have permission to paint the town red,’ Alex grinned. ‘But be on parade no later than six in the morning.’
‘Aye, aye, Mr Macintosh,’ Jock replied with a mock salute. The Scotsman had served time in a Highlands regiment in his youth and risen to the rank of corporal. His background was one reason Alex had requested Jock to accompany him on this mission.
When Alex arrived at the club he was met by Hauptmann Hirsch who introduced him to the members, many wearing their military uniforms. The welcome was warm and Alex quickly learned that the German militia officers had much in common with their Australian colleague. He also discovered that he could not buy a drink as the conversation, alcohol and good feeling flowed into the evening. Alex kept to the excellent beer as he did not want to drink himself into a stupor as most of the members of the officers’ club seemed to be doing. Throughout the evening Dieter Hirsch remained with Alex.
‘It is time that we dined,’ Hirsch announced, leading Alex to an adjoining room where a table was loaded with German delicacies. Alex helped himself to a plate of sausage, sauerkraut and boiled potatoes. The two men retired to another table where they took a seat facing each other.
‘This is good,’ Alex said, cutting a slice of sausage. ‘It just so happens that I like pickled cabbage.’
Hirsch had piled a veal knuckle and sauerkraut on his plate. The meat was rich with gravy which he sopped up with a slice of fresh bread. ‘Since you are seeking to meet with Father Umberto in the hills,’ the German said, ‘I may be able to supply an armed party of native police.’
‘That is appreciated,’ Alex replied, reaching for his tankard of beer to wash down the meal. ‘I was hoping to hire a guide to take me and my engineer up there, but if you are able to supply an escort that will be even better.’
‘It is dangerous to travel inland without an armed party. Some of the natives of that region are still hostile to our rule,’ Hirsch said, pausing in his meal.
‘I am sure that if I am able to indicate that I am not German they will not trouble me,’ Alex answered.
‘They will not differentiate. They will kill you on sight, believing that you are a German like us.’
Alex was uneasy. He was already guessing what would come next and was soon proven right.
‘I will be sending a party of our police boys with you. I must insist, Captain Macintosh,’ Hirsch continued. ‘It would not give a good impression to your government if anything were to befall you of a bad kind. As a matter of fact, it is time that I made an inspection of Father Umberto’s missionary station. It is part of my duties with the civil service here to carry out inspections of all the missionaries to ensure that their welfare is taken care of. We will collect you at 9am tomorrow. I will insist that the innkeeper reimburses you for the night you will not be spending in his establishment.’
Alex was trapped. He had the uneasy feeling that his every move was being monitored and did not know why. There could only be one reason that the German authorities knew so much about him and that was if there had been some kind of security leak from Australia. But that did not make sense. From what he had been briefed before departing on his Pacific tour only his father and Colonel Hughes were aware of his real mission to the German-held islands. It was highly unlikely that either of them would let his real purpose for being in Rabaul leak. Alex accepted that his mission had just become very complicated but there was nothing he could do. He was trapped and, if he was not careful, could seriously jeopardise not only his life but that also of his engineer. ‘We will be ready,’ he answered but without conviction.
Hauptmann Dieter Hirsch stood before the four Tolai police selected for the escort duty. They stood to attention, their rifles at the shoulder. Hirsch wore his field uniform and was armed with a pistol in a shiny, close-down leather holster. He accepted the salute from the senior member of the police patrol, stood them down to seek the shade of nearby trees, turned on his heel and marched over to the verandah of the civil service office where he usually worked. He was met by a portly man in his late fifties wearing a civilian suit. Hirsch instinctively saluted. The senior civil servant was once a regular navy officer who outranked him.
‘Herr Marx, we are ready to move out,’ Hirsch said stiffly.
Marx removed his hat and wiped his brow with a clean handkerchief. ‘You are clear on your orders, Hauptmann Hirsch,’ the portly man said.
‘I am clear on my orders, Herr Marx,’ Hirsch replied with a note of reluctance that brought a dark look from the man towering over him from the verandah.
‘I appreciate you may feel that in carrying out the allocated task you may be viewed as a cold-blooded murderer. But you are a soldier and I need not remind you that our reliable information has revealed Captain Macintosh as a spy. We have no doubts whatsoever that he is contacting the Italian priest on a mission that may one day put our defence in great peril should we go to war with the English. I am trusting your usual clear judgement to ensure that if you are required to kill the two Englishmen it appears to be a regrettable accident. You have the means to arrange such an unfortunate event.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Hirsch replied. ‘I understand the danger the captain may pose to our defence. I will not hesitate to carry out my mission should Captain Macintosh show any signs of espionage.’
‘Very good, Hauptmann Hirsch,’ Marx said, satisfied his officer would remember his loyalty to the Kaiser. ‘Carry on.’
Hirsch saluted one more time, turned on his heel and bawled to his men to get on their feet and assemble for the short march to the hotel. The Tolai police scurried from the shade to form a single file, rifles on shoulders. Hirsch then gave the command to march and fell into step alongside his small detachment. As he made his way to the hotel the German officer frowned. Even in the short time he had spent with him he had grown to like the Australian officer and knew that if the time came to carry out his orders to kill the man and his companion it would be done with regret. They had much in common in their attitudes to life and the man had a natural charm that could woo the devil’s daughter. But if Alexander Macintosh openly flouted the laws of his country he knew he would have no other choice but to obey his orders to dispose of the Australian. Dieter prayed that this situation would not eventuate but was also aware that the security of his country in this forgotten part of the Kaiser’s Empire was at stake.
As his detachment marched towards the hotel few people on the avenue of mango trees took much notice. Armed police were a common sight in the settlement. Dieter Hirsch saw the two men standing in the dusty street and even from a distance could see that they were the worse for wear from the previous night’s carousing, Alex in his company at the officers’ club and the tough-looking man beside him at some European-frequented bar in town.
Hirsch called an order for his police to halt and walked towards Alex. ‘Good morning, Captain Macintosh,’ he greeted with a smile. ‘I notice that your friend has met some of our local lads.’
Alex grinned, knowing that Hirsch was referring to Jock’s two black eyes. ‘He informs me that his was a worthy cause. One of the men he clashed with called him an Englishman.’
‘I am afraid that many of my people here do not realise that the Scots are as different from the English as a Bavarian is from a Prussian,’ Hirsch said. ‘I see that you are ready to proceed.’
Alex hefted his kit over his shoulder. ‘Lead on, Hauptmann Hirsch,’ he said.
The trek took them from the tiny coastal strip of Rabaul town into rugged rainforest surrounding the horseshoe-shaped bay. Hirsch had informed Alex that the journey could possibly take a full day and night to reach the mission station.
T
he small party wound its way along an almost indiscernible track used for generations by the Tolai people travelling down to the coast. The humidity in the dank forest was oppressive as was the silence in the shadows. Stops were made to rest and drink water and it was on one of the stops that Alex became aware that a fever was coming on him. He alternated between feeling very hot to shivering from a chill that almost brought him to his knees. When a severe headache quickly followed, Alex began stumbling. Dieter Hirsch noticed the physical change in the Australian. When Alex sank to his knees, dropping his swag, Hirsch called a stop to the arduous journey upwards. Jock was beside Alex with a canteen of water, attempting to force some between his lips. ‘Here laddie,’ he said with soothing words. ‘Take a wee sip.’
‘Malaria,’ Hirsch said, kneeling beside Jock and placing his hand to Alex’s brow. The terrible disease had claimed so many German settlers over the years that the symptoms were as common to him as those of a cold. He spoke to Jock in German but the engineer simply shook his head and said, ‘I don’t speak German.’
Hirsch frowned. He had very little knowledge of English. ‘We carry,’ he was able to muster in his limited grasp of English.
With orders snapped to his police, construction of a makeshift litter was quickly underway. Using their machetes the men cut saplings for poles and a blanket was quickly strung between them. Alex was lifted into the litter and the four police took an end each to hoist the improvised stretcher onto their shoulders. Hirsch made a decision. They were closer to the mission station than to Rabaul behind them and he knew that Father Umberto’s clinic would most likely have a supply of quinine. The patrol slowly struggled through the thick jungle. Just after sunset they emerged on a plateau and saw lanterns burning in the huts at the mission.
The Italian priest was summoned by one of the Tolai residents and greeted by Hauptmann Hirsch. Father Umberto spoke German fluently and gave orders for Alex to be taken to a small, white-washed stone building.