by Peter Watt
‘Private Bell did a good job of sketching the positions and terrain,’ Karl said, handing over the pages of drawings. ‘It is going to be a bit of a bastard.’
Major Jules took the papers. ‘See any of your relatives out there?’ he sneered.
Karl bridled at the provocation. ‘We are up against the French, sir. Maybe some of your relatives might be more appropriate,’ he replied calmly.
He saw the company commander’s eyes darken with anger. ‘Be careful, Mr Mann,’ Jules spat. ‘Your attitude verges on insolent.’
‘My apologies, sir,’ Karl answered. ‘It was meant to be a joke, nothing more.’
The major glared at Karl for a moment with a smug expression. ‘I have some news for you, Mr Mann,’ he said. ‘The CO has been asked to detach any officer who might have a good grasp of German back to Jerusalem and naturally I thought of you. You will need to get your kit together and report to battalion HQ for movement orders.’
‘But my platoon …’ Karl attempted to protest.
‘Sergeant Crane will take command of your platoon for the assault on the fort,’ Jules said. ‘In the meantime I thought you would be pleased to be out of the action.’
Karl felt the anger rise in his throat. He could have punched his superior for his underhand attack on his courage. As capable as his platoon sergeant was, it was he as the platoon commander who was ultimately responsible for the lives of his thirty men. The company commander’s insult stung as hard as any punch to his face. But he calmed himself to deny his superior the pleasure of upsetting him. ‘When do I report?’ he asked.
‘Now, Mr Mann,’ Jules replied, avoiding Karl’s glare by perusing the sketches and maps Private Bell had compiled on the reconnaissance mission.
Karl was pleased that he was not required to salute so close to the enemy’s positions. Such a gesture could indicate to the enemy that an officer was present and a priority target for enemy snipers. He rose stiffly with the assistance of his Lee Enfield rifle and walked back to his platoon position. What the hell did the brass want with him in Jerusalem? Whatever it was it would be keeping him from his men and the action he both craved and dreaded.
Jerusalem felt a million miles from the harsh Syrian front. Karl had been intrigued by the ancient biblical city when he had first passed through a month earlier on his way to Syria with his battalion. They had spent only a short time in the city, not long enough to explore all its mysteries and delights. But now he was back with orders to report immediately to the King David Hotel where the British maintained a headquarter staff.
Karl was saluted by the British guards at the entrance of the hotel and entered the sumptuous building. Glancing around the clean, cool foyer, he noticed a table manned by a British military police sergeant in an immaculately starched uniform and blinding white broad belt. The sergeant glanced up at Karl who stood towering over him.
‘I am Lieutenant Karl Mann and I am here to report to a Captain Featherstone.’
‘Lieutenant Mann, is it sir,’ the MP said, flipping through the pages on a clipboard. His tone left Karl aware that mere junior officers reporting to staff headquarters rated just one level above the Arab cleaning staff. ‘I see your name is on the list to report to Captain Featherstone. You should have been here ten minutes ago.’ Karl ignored the sergeant’s insolence. He was no doubt appraised as a German colonial from Australia and a citizen soldier to boot. These were not endearing qualities to the regular British Army.
The MP gave Karl directions as to where to go in the hotel and to whom he should first report. The mention of the department smelled of dangerous intrigue.
He found the room and, considering the highly classified and mysterious work of the British intelligence arm, was surprised to see that it did not have an anteroom with orderlies. There was just a number and no name on the solid timber door. He rapped and a voice called, ‘Enter.’
Karl stepped inside the small room and was surprised to see two officers smoking cigarettes and a civilian wearing a white tropical suit and matching Panama-style hat. Karl saluted as he recognised the rank of the two military men as being that of colonels. One of the colonels returned the salute.
‘Lieutenant Mann reporting to Captain Featherstone,’ Karl said, standing to attention. The captain, wearing civilian clothing, thrust out his hand. ‘I am Featherstone, old chap, pleased to meet you.’ Karl was taken back by Featherstone’s disarming smile and clear blue eyes. He was around five foot six, Karl guessed, and about his own age. His grip was firm and engaging. ‘Take a seat, old chap, while I conclude some business.’
Coming from the civilian dressed army captain the request sounded more like an order, and Featherstone turned to one of the colonels concluding their business. ‘I think that this Jewish chap, Moshe Dayan, will get on with our Aussie allies as their guide,’ he said as if addressing equals rather than briefing superiors. ‘Good chap and well respected in the Jewish community.’
Karl leapt to his feet when the senior officers were about to depart and snapped a salute. The two officers, having barely acknowledged his presence, left the room.
‘As a captain you certainly know how to handle top brass,’ Karl said when the door closed.
‘Oh, I am not an army captain,’ Featherstone smiled. ‘I am a naval captain.’
Karl was taken off guard at the revelation. Naval captains were much higher in rank than army captains. There was no real comparison between the names in the order of seniority between the two services so it was no wonder the two army officers treated Featherstone with the respect due his rank. ‘But don’t let that hold you in awe, old chap. Like you, I have been pulled away from my unit to do a job, I hope you may be able to help us. I can see by the confusion you seem to be experiencing that you are wondering just why you are here.’
‘I have been wondering but guess it has something to do with me being of German blood,’ Karl answered.
‘That is correct,’ Featherstone replied in good German but with an accent. ‘But before we get better acquainted I will need to verify a few things with you first,’ he continued in German. ‘So take a seat and make yourself comfortable. Smoke if you wish.’
Karl sat down on a leather settee whilst Captain Featherstone opened a satchel and removed a buffcoloured file. Karl could see his name and regimental details typed on the cover and shifted uncomfortably. It was like that whenever the military probed his life and links to Germany.
‘Born in Munich and emigrated to Papua in 1920 with your mother, father and aunt. Your father was a major in the old Imperial army of the Kaiser and received decorations for his efforts on the Western Front.’ Captain Featherstone read from the file in front of him without looking up at Karl. ‘Your father, mother and sister interned in Papua in ’39 but released on the recommendation of the senior Australian administrator acting on the advice of a close family friend, Jack Kelly. It seems that your father and this Captain Jack Kelly met at the battle for the Hindenburg Line back in 1918. An interesting story – so I have been told. You enlisted in officer training in Australia with the support of Jack Kelly who it seems had quite some pull in colonial politics.’ He paused and looked directly at Karl. ‘How do you feel about the Australians locking up your family for no other reason than they were German?’ Featherstone asked abruptly.
‘It was a procedure I think any country would apply under the circumstances,’ Karl replied. ‘After ascertaining that my parents were of no threat to our interests they were immediately released – with reasonable conditions applied.’
‘I noticed that you said “our interests”. What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean my country’s interests – Australia – I am an Australian in all ways. I worked for the Australian government as a patrol officer in Papua before the war and if I have to, will die for Australia. Does that answer your question?’
With a sigh Featherstone replaced the file in his satchel and sat down. ‘Cigarette, Mr Mann?’ he asked, offering a packet of Playe
rs brand to Karl who retrieved one from the packet. Featherstone leaned forward to light Karl’s cigarette. ‘You don’t normally smoke,’ he commented when Karl took a deep suck on the nicotine, smiling when Karl stiffened at his observation. ‘I have to know a lot about anyone who might work for me,’ he continued in an attempt to reassure the Australian. ‘Little things like that are important for me to know. I believe that you are also a first grade rugby player – rowing for Cambridge was my thing.’
Karl wondered at the man who sat before him. He had the accent of a highly educated man, was fairly young to be a naval captain and said he once rowed for Cambridge University. He also spoke passable German and had a charisma that was unmistakable.
‘I played in Papua but have had less opportunity in the army.’
‘The tactics of rugby have a bit in common with what we do in my department,’ Featherstone mused. ‘Attack and defence, seeking a weak point to exploit to score a try – then convert the try.’
‘It sounds like intelligence work to me. Not my background though,’ Karl said, and watched for a reaction.
‘That is exactly why you were singled out,’ the naval captain said. ‘I needed a face that is unknown in these parts. Yours fitted and I pride myself on choosing the right man for the right job.’
‘Am I able to ask why I am here?’
‘First, I have to have your assurance as an officer of the King that you are prepared to do what your country requires of you without ever divulging the nature of the mission. Do I have that?’
Karl knew he had little choice. He was a soldier sworn to follow orders to defend his country. It seemed obvious that he had somehow been singled out for whatever intrigues British intelligence had for him. Featherstone was merely attempting to let him think that he had a choice in the matter to cement his commitment to the mysterious task ahead. ‘You do,’ Karl answered. ‘Do I have to swear on a Bible or something?’ he continued with a note of wry sarcasm.
‘Nothing like that, old chap,’ the captain answered. ‘Just do your sworn duty to King and country as you have been doing with some distinction to date. I think that you will find the job has its little benefits – like a comfortable room at the hotel, hot and cold running nubile native girls and food that does not come from a tin. And you also get to return to wearing a comfortable civvy suit.’
Featherstone continued to brief Karl on what was available whilst he was detached to work for a department or unit that did not identify itself to him. Not even why he was the one to be selected for whatever was ahead had been revealed to him, other than that he was an ‘unknown face’. It also had to be something to do with his Germanic links – that much he guessed.
When the briefing was over Karl was escorted to a room which had been set aside for him by the chatty naval captain. He left Karl at his door and strode away. Karl stood for a moment looking down the hallway at the strange British officer’s back. What the hell was he in for, he wondered as he turned the key in his door. It was like some bloody dream or a Hollywood movie with Humphrey Bogart. What the hell, Karl shrugged as he stepped inside his small but comfortable room. He would find out soon enough and have to be prepared to play his role. It was not every day that a simple infantry officer got to wear civilian clothes in a theatre of war.
The rain lashed the beach and the normally placid tropical waters crashed on the shoreline. The night was darkened even further by the heavy rain clouds and any light was sure to stand out. Fuji felt the full fury of the storm in his face as he kept his vigil from amongst the rocks just off the small headland and he huddled in the rain, trying not to shiver as he continued to stare into the inky blackness that was the Papuan Gulf.
There! There it was! Fuji felt his heart thud hard at the welcome sight he had so patiently waited for on this isolated piece of land outside Port Moresby. The submarine had surfaced and although it tossed about like a heavy cork, the signaller was attempting to make contact with a flashing light. With shaking hands numbed by the cold Fuji replied to the code with a battered hand torch procured from Sen. His own coded reply was accepted and Fuji strained to see the series of dots and dashes of the lighttransmitted Morse code but with the heavy seas some of the signal was lost behind the waves as the sub wallowed in the deep troughs.
And then he felt his spirits plummet as the message came through. He was not going home but was to remain in Papua until further contact. He was to continue gathering information for intelligence, to be transmitted by Sen, and wait until his superiors decided when he would be eventually picked up. Fuji acknowledged the message and the distant light from the sea disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
So he was to remain in the country of his birth. For reasons of their own the high command of the Imperial Japanese Navy thought it was the right course to take. Fuji hugged himself and tried not to think of the discomfort he had endured in the storm as he had waited for his pick-up. He knew that he was trained to obey orders without question, but he wondered why his superiors considered his role of espionage in Papua so important that they would risk leaving him in a place that was to all intents and purposes enemy territory. He had been adjudged as a sailor of high initiative – granted through the legacy of not growing up in Japan itself, where such a quality was not deemed to be a high priority in a society dominated by the militarists. To blindly obey and not ask questions was the norm but Fuji had lived amongst a people who were forced to use initiative to survive in a frontier country.
Wet and hungry, Fuji trudged the native track back to Sen’s residence which he reached just on sunrise. He was not a welcome sight to the Chinese trader.
The Independence docked at Port Moresby late afternoon after weathering the low in the Papuan Gulf. With the rising of the sun the weather had broken and the day proved to be clear and calm. The little township nestled in, and on, the low hills around Port Moresby had a clean sparkle as a result of the overnight storm and already a few spots of green could be seen on the bare hills, as seemingly dead grass made a temporary thrust for the sunlight now retreating behind the same hills.
‘What will you do when I get to Townsville?’ Victoria asked Jack as she joined him at the helm with a mug of sweet, dark tea.
‘About time I put the old girl up on the slips for a bit of overdue scrape and anti-fouling,’ Jack said, steering on the schooner’s motor towards a place at the wharf. ‘Give the crew a bit of leave to see their meris and piccaninnies and maybe catch up with a few old mates at the pub.’
Victoria was relieved at his answer, although she was still feeling just a little guilty about leaving her husband to answer the summons of her uncle. But she knew Jack understood the importance of military matters, having been a highly decorated officer in the Great War. He had learned of her role as a part-time collector of intelligence around the Pacific islands for her country and acknowledged it was a necessity. In a sense it might be called spying but Jack accepted that the Americans might be their most important allies should Japan decide to open hostilities in the region. England was preoccupied with its own survival in faraway Europe and Australia’s defence was not a high priority to Churchill and his War Cabinet. Jack had long figured out that the Yanks really ruled the great Pacific Ocean, but had a competitor in Japan for total Pacific domination.
The Australian was aware of his wife’s very detailed diary on just about every aspect of what she saw when they ferried supplies and personnel between the islands or took out the occasional charter of wealthy tourists – mostly from the United States. As a former infantry captain the entries reminded him of his own battle diary: of terrain and tactical points of interest. There was something comforting in the fact that the Yanks were at least keeping an eye on his corner of the world and thus he gave tacit support to Victoria’s activities.
With the docking complete Jack and Victoria walked into town to seek out the relative comforts of civilisation at a hotel. Jack paid a visit to the post office and returned to sort the mail on one of the si
ngle beds the small but clean room contained along with a small wardrobe, mosquito net and overhead, fly-specked fan.
‘Looks like your uncle is already in Australia,’ Jack commented as he handed a post-marked letter from Australia. Victoria opened the letter and scanned the contents. ‘Uncle Bernie has written that he has telegrammed money to our bank,’ she said. ‘He has instructions for me to steam down and meet him the week after next in Townsville. He says he is enjoying a holiday down our way and would like to finally meet you.’
‘Admirals are a bit out of my league,’ Jack said with a grin. ‘But he is welcome to head up Papua way anytime.’
‘Thank you, darling,’ Victoria said, leaning over the bed to kiss Jack with a resounding smack of lips. ‘I am sure you two old warriors will get on like a house on fire.’
‘Sure we will,’ Jack answered with less conviction than his wife. ‘When do you plan to leave?’
‘Tomorrow, if that is possible,’ she answered. ‘I would like to go south and do some shopping for us. You need a whole new wardrobe.’
‘No use for suits on the boat,’ Jack grunted. ‘But you spend as much as you like on yourself, you deserve it.’
The next day Victoria was able to obtain a berth on a ship going south and Jack watched from the wharf as the steamer pulled away. He waved to Victoria and waited until the ship was in the channel beyond the island. Sighing, he turned and walked back to the centre of the town. There was something on his mind he had not confided to his wife. He missed the company and conversation with his old friend Paul Mann and his family. Maybe he would attempt to see Paul and patch things up between them since their last meeting almost two years earlier. Jack knew only that young Karl was somewhere in the Middle East, and when he was settled in the bar of the hotel with the newspaper and a beer in front of him, the war news was not good. In Crete, he read, the German paratroopers had finally overcome fierce resistance from the poorly equipped force of Aussies, Kiwis and Brits. The defenders had inflicted savage casualties on Germany’s most elite fighting men but a major airfield had fallen and the Germans were able to airlift in an overwhelming force. Jack prayed that Lukas had not been on Crete and, placing the paper on the bar, he took a swig from his glass. If only he had been young enough to join up again, he thought bitterly. He had considered attempting to enlist under a false name but was drawn back to his civilian status by the promise he had made to his wife – a promise he very much regretted making. She had told him that one war in a man’s lifetime was enough and that she needed him, as did his son, Lukas.