While the Moon Burns

by Peter Watt

  ‘We’ll see,’ Tom said, tapping out the ash from his pipe, and rising to his feet. ‘About time you rode back,’ he said, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, and reaching for the hessian bag.

  With a wave of his hand Billy departed the shadow of the sacred hill, leaving Tom to climb up the track to the cave. As he made his way up the winding track Tom reflected on his situation. He knew they would come for him eventually as the white man’s law did not allow any disrespect for its decrees. Tom had been legally informed he must leave, but he had disobeyed. They had not proved him to be a criminal and there was something wrong when the rich and powerful could influence the law. But a loophole had been found, as weak as it was, and he was in contravention of a legal order to vacate until the matter was heard.

  When Tom reached the entrance of the cave he looked across the plains at the setting sun. How long before they came for him? And when they did, how much blood would be spilled?

  *

  Major David Macintosh sat in the torrential rain, trying to keep his map dry under a ground sheet he had placed over his head for shelter. ‘You say you saw around ten Japs in the native huts ahead,’ he queried one of his more experienced platoon commanders.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the young officer, crouching in the drenching rain.

  ‘Then we’ll flank the huts and fire simultaneously when you report that you’re in position,’ David said. ‘You’ll take the right flank, and Mr Jarvis the left. Mr Markham will move into position to cut off any escape to their rear.’

  David turned to his company sergeant major standing in the rain beside the platoon commander. ‘Sar’nt major, get the message to the other platoons for an O group here in ten minutes.’

  The company sergeant major acknowledged his order, and went out to pass on the message for a briefing for an attack on the native village, now occupied by the retreating Japanese soldiers. The country was a tangle of rainforest giants, and low-set ferns easily able to conceal an enemy until the last moment. David wondered if killing one of the retreating enemy actually shortened the war by even a split second. The campaign seemed fruitless as the enemy was now cut off from any support by MacArthur’s forces advancing through the Philippines, and Nimitz in the small islands. David slipped his map back into a canvas folder and turned to Captain Brian Williams.

  ‘Brian, you take over running CHQ. I’m going up the track with Mr Jarvis’s boys.’

  ‘Do you think that’s wise?’ Brian cautioned. ‘We can’t afford to lose you to a Jap sniper.’

  ‘That is why you’re 2IC,’ David said. ‘I doubt there is anything to worry about.’

  Brian shrugged his shoulders, and after the platoon commanders had received their briefing for the attack, David informed Mr Jarvis that he would be attached to his platoon. Jarvis looked a little apprehensive at having his company commander travel with his platoon but David reassured him he was not going to take command away from him. He was simply pushing his HQ to the front for any action they may encounter.

  The young officer relaxed at David’s words and they set out for the native village. David picked up his rifle – he did not carry the traditional pistol of an officer. He knew the Japanese snipers looked for such side-arms that marked an officer, and targeted them first. Even his rank was not displayed on his uniform. All members of the company recognised him by sight as the ultimate commander of their unit.

  It was nearly sunset before the platoons moved into position and across an overgrown native garden with run-down huts, long deserted by the indigenous people. David withdrew a set of binoculars and observed the huts. He could clearly see Japanese soldiers setting up a small fire to cook their rice. The order to fire would come from Jarvis. David heard the officer’s signaller communicating that they were in position. The reply came back from the other two platoons that they were in place.

  David stared through his binoculars and counted five enemy soldiers around a metal pot over a fire. The rain had stopped minutes earlier and others came out of the hut. Either they did not care or they were demoralised, but there did not appear to be any forward sentries.

  ‘Okay, Mr Jarvis, when you’re ready,’ David said softly.

  David lined up a Japanese soldier holding his rifle in one hand and a china bowl in the other.

  The eruption of the Australian small arms was sudden and violent, the rapid firing of the Owen submachine guns mixed with the sharp crackling of the Lee Enfields. David fired his rifle and saw the head of the Japanese soldier jerk back as he crumpled to the muddy earth. Bullets tore through the men outside the huts. David and Jarvis were surprised to see a small group of around fifteen enemy burst from a trench behind the huts.

  ‘They are heading Mr Markham’s way,’ Jarvis said. ‘Hope he’s ready for them.’

  ‘Mr Markham is in the perfect position to stop them,’ David said. ‘Meanwhile, we’ll sweep the huts for any surviving Nips or military papers.’

  They had hardly risen to their feet when they heard the crackle of small arms fire out in the jungle where David knew Markham was located. The radio came to life as a message was relayed to CHQ from Markham’s cut-off position. Although the message was veiled David knew exactly what had happened. His stomach was in knots.

  Just as the sun fell below the horizon Markham’s platoon joined the other two at the former native village. David could see the dark expression on the platoon sergeant’s face. He was a man who had seen a lot of combat, from North Africa to New Guinea, and from his barely contained anger David could guess what had occurred when the fleeing Japanese made contact with Markham’s platoon.

  ‘Sergeant Harris,’ David called to him, ‘could I have a word?’

  Sergeant Harris slung his rifle over his shoulder and walked over to David, his face still like dark thunder.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said when David was able to walk him away from anyone overhearing them.

  ‘What happened?’ David asked.

  ‘Sir, I don’t really want to say,’ the platoon sergeant replied.

  ‘Mr Markham lost it, didn’t he?’ David said. ‘I overheard your comms with CHQ.’

  The sergeant’s shoulders slumped and he looked down at the mud at his feet. ‘I had to take command. The boss saw the Japs heading our way, and just jumped up screaming we had to get out of there. I was beside him and when he started screaming for us to abandon our positions, I hit him in the head with my rifle butt to shut him up, so he wouldn’t panic the rest of the boys. I then gave the order to engage the Nips with all we had. I think we took out at least half of them before the others got past us.’

  ‘You did well, Sergeant Harris,’ David said. ‘You did the right thing.’

  ‘Sir, they should never have given us Mr Markham in the first place. I heard he was a logistics officer back at Aitape, and had never been in action before,’ the sergeant tried feebly to defend his platoon commander.

  ‘Where is Mr Markham now?’ David asked. He had not seen Markham come out of the jungle with his platoon.

  ‘I have a couple of the boys helping him back to us right now,’ the sergeant said. ‘I’m afraid I hit him pretty hard, and he’s still a bit groggy.’

  ‘You take command of your platoon until we find a replacement,’ David said.

  ‘Am I in trouble, sir?’ Harris asked.

  ‘No, Sergeant Harris,’ David answered with a smile. ‘Just don’t do it too often to any other officers. Promise me that.’

  The sergeant could see the humour in his company commander’s words, and smiled weakly.

  ‘Promise I won’t, boss,’ he replied before turning to head back to rejoin his corporals.

  David could see Markham, held up between two soldiers. A trickle of blood ran down his face, and his head was swathed in a bandage. David knew he would require medical attention before he saw the officer at CHQ. It was not a situation David wanted.
This was serious. No matter the outcome of his talk with the officer, David knew he would never be in a position to lead men in combat ever again.

  ‘Mr Markham, I need to have a word with you,’ David said when he walked over to the injured officer. The two soldiers assisting Markham made themselves scarce, and left him with the company commander.

  ‘Sir, I wish to have Sergeant Harris charged with attempted murder,’ he said before David could speak.

  ‘I doubt that will happen, Mr Markham,’ David responded. ‘I’m sure there are many witnesses to you losing it when the men most needed your leadership. In fact, I’m going to report to the battalion CO that you have a case of war neurosis, and have you shipped home.’

  The officer stared at David. ‘Sir, with due respect, do you know who I am?’

  ‘I’m aware your father is a well-known member of parliament and I’m sure he would rather have his son come back alive than die in this hellhole. Or would you prefer an inquiry into your behaviour today in the face of a numerically weaker enemy force? You will not be the first or last officer sent home suffering battle fatigue.’

  The platoon commander considered his options. ‘They were on top of us without warning,’ he said. ‘I felt the only choice I had was to withdraw my platoon.’

  ‘You were in an ambush position, and the Nips stood no chance against the firepower you had,’ David countered. ‘From what I heard, Sergeant Harris was forced to assume command because you lost it and were screaming in panic.’

  ‘They were on our positions . . .’ Markham attempted feebly, but was cut short by David.

  ‘There’s no excuse for an officer to panic, and panic you did. You’re responsible for the lives of every man in your command and that’s why the army pays you a lot more than it does your diggers. You really only have one choice. For the sake of the battalion’s reputation and the welfare of your platoon, I suggest you take the battle fatigue option when you head back to the Regimental Aid Post. I’ll write a report to substantiate your mental condition, and inform the CO that what happened here today was battle neurosis.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Markham said. ‘But I think you’ll live to regret your decision.’

  ‘If that’s a threat, Mr Markham, I’ve had better,’ David responded with disgust. ‘Just get out of my sight before I change my mind and report your behaviour today to the CO, who I know will want to convene a court martial for cowardice in the face of the enemy.’

  Markham knew he was trapped, but still looked defiant.

  ‘Corp,’ David called to a nearby NCO, ‘assist Mr Markham back to the RAP.’

  The corporal slung his rifle, and walked over to the officer he had witnessed attempt to run from the ambush. He glanced at David with a knowing look.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure Mr Markham makes it back.’

  David watched the officer being escorted out of the village ruins, and tried to forget the threat. He knew the man had powerful friends in Canberra and soldiering was as much about politics as it was fighting a war: not all enemies wore the Japanese uniform. David shook his head, as if to dismiss the junior officer’s brazen words, then turned to supervise the consolidation of the company. Tomorrow would be the same as today, he reflected. They would continue to pursue a beaten enemy. Men would die, and others would be mutilated on both sides in what seemed a senseless campaign in the backwaters of the Pacific.

  TEN

  Tom Duffy shook his head. ‘You should return to the homestead,’ he said.

  Billy placed the bag of supplies at his feet. Tom noticed his Aboriginal employee was now armed with an old single-shot rifle from the last century since he last saw him three days ago.

  ‘And where did you get the gun?’

  ‘I found it years ago and cleaned it up,’ Billy said with pride. ‘Not got much ammo for it though.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Tom smiled. ‘It looks like a Snider.’

  ‘Found it on Glen View in the whitefella quarters with a packet of bullets.’

  ‘You better be careful. It might blow up when you fire it.’

  Billy held up the rifle. ‘I kill a kangaroo or two with this gun, Mr Duffy.’

  ‘Well, you should still return to the homestead because I’m sure by now I’m being called an outlaw.’

  ‘The new boss, he a bad man,’ Billy said. ‘He ask all the boys where you are, but they say they don’t know. They tell me to take you supplies while the new boss man away, he’s going to have the police come out and take you away.’

  ‘Do you know when?’ Tom asked.

  ‘I think mebbe in two days,’ Billy answered. ‘I’ll stay with you and fight them.’

  ‘You have a family, Billy. You might get killed if you stay with me.’

  ‘Don’t matter, Mr Duffy.’ Billy shrugged. ‘Better we die like warriors than they take your land.’

  ‘Could have used you beside me in the last war,’ Tom said. ‘You have the spirit of any of the best I’ve fought with in the army.’

  Tom’s compliment made Billy pull back his shoulders with pride. Tom was a good man and boss. Some things were worth risking a life for, and Tom’s stand to defend his traditional lands was one of them.

  ‘Mebbe I shoot us a roo for the cooking pot,’ Billy said.

  ‘No need,’ Tom replied. ‘We have enough bully beef and damper to hold off an army from up here on the hill.’

  Tom led Billy to the cave entrance and the stockman hesitated. Tom knew of his fears and turned to him.

  ‘Wallarie would have shared his baccy with you if he was still around,’ Tom said. ‘You are now a part of our mob, just as Wallarie was accepted by the Kalkadoon, and other tribes up north.’

  Reassured, Billy followed Tom into the cool gloom of the cave with its centuries of musty smells, lit by a kerosene lantern.

  Wide-eyed, Billy glanced around the cave. On the walls he saw the faded drawings and recognised their sacred symbolism.

  ‘This special place for initiated men only,’ Billy said in a hushed voice.

  ‘It’s a place for warriors,’ Tom said, bending down to stoke a small campfire lined by blackened rocks.

  That night they sat by the fire, eating bully beef and hot damper. The addition of pickles broke the monotony of the meal. It was washed down with tea, and soon both men settled down on their swags to sleep. Tom knew there would be a showdown. All he hoped for was that no one was hurt or killed. But he also knew he could not walk off the lands of his ancestors without a fight. An unseasonal storm rumbled overhead, producing lightning and thunder, washing the hill with heavy rain. Both men slept through the storm, embraced by the spirits of the cave.

  *

  The storm rolled across the brigalow scrub, and when the sun rose, left puddles of clear water in the rock crevices of the hill. Miles away at the Glen View homestead a man wearing a suit more in line with a city office stood on the verandah overlooking the yard. Before him were five mounted men wearing the uniform of the Queensland Police Force. They had arrived the night before, just in time to take shelter from the storm. With them was an Aboriginal man wearing the uniform of a black tracker.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the man on the verandah said in a loud voice, ‘my name is Edgar Johnson and I’m the lawful manager of this property pursuant to the court order issued.’

  Johnson was in his mid-fifties and had a menacing appearance, with his shiny, bald head and square jaw. He spoke with authority, and an English accent.

  ‘You were summoned to remove or arrest the previous owner, a Mr Thomas Duffy, who I believe is probably occupying a hill to the south of our present position.’

  ‘I know the place, Mr Johnson,’ a police officer wearing the rank of sergeant said from his mount.

  ‘And who are you?’ Johnson asked bluntly.

  ‘I am Sergeant Smith, in charge of this troop, Mr John
son,’ the policeman said. ‘I know Tom, and I doubt he’ll come peacefully.’

  ‘You are the law, sergeant. If he resists being evicted you’ll have to take all measures to protect yourself.’

  ‘If you mean shoot Tom,’ Smith said, ‘with respect, Mr Johnson, you do not know him as I do. Tom is a crack shot. He was a sniper on the Western Front in the last war, and fought up in New Guinea in this one. He’s also one of the finest men I’ve had the honour of knowing.’

  Johnson stepped down from the verandah and walked over to the policeman. ‘You are a member of His Majesty’s police force, and do not have a say in deciding the orders of the court, Sergeant. Do I have to remind you of the oath you took to carry out your duties without fear or favour?’

  ‘I know what I have to do,’ Smith replied, a note of anger in his voice.

  ‘Good,’ Johnson said. ‘Because I’m coming with you to see that Duffy is apprehended and removed from Glen View. My orders from the court are clear. Plus, we can all imagine how upset Miss Macintosh was when she learned that a place so precious to her was purchased with unlawful means.’

  Johnson didn’t really know how upset his employer was, but he hoped it helped make his case with the police sergeant to remove Tom Duffy.

  The police sergeant waited while a saddled horse was brought to the new manager of Glen View, and they set out for the ancient hill. By late afternoon they reached the hill and made contact with Tom Duffy.

  *

  ‘Tom, I know you’re up there,’ Sergeant Smith called.

  ‘Is that you, Sergeant Smith?’ a voice drifted down to the party of uniformed police.

  ‘It’s me, Tom, and I’m with the interim station manager, Mr Johnson,’ Smith called back. ‘We have a court order for you to leave Glen View until the matter is settled in Brisbane. If you do not comply, I’ll be forced to arrest you, and I don’t really want to do that.’

  Dismounting, Johnson pushed himself forward, standing with his legs apart, his hands on hips. ‘Duffy, if you attempt to resist you will be shot!’ he called in a commanding voice. ‘So, come down now peacefully, and leave with the police.’