by Peter Watt
‘Where’s here?’ Lukas asked weakly.
‘A place in LA,’ Joe answered and took Lukas’ hand. ‘A really good place where Jack has ensured you will get the best of treatment.’
‘How bad am I?’ Lukas asked as he slowly but surely fought for control of his senses. It was still dark and already the young Australian realised that the bandages around his head had obstructed his vision. His head throbbed and so too did his whole body. He cried out involuntarily when a wave of intense pain wracked his head and was not even aware of the needle inserted by the nurse. The morphine took effect and Lukas did not care about the world anymore as the analgesic effect swept over him.
Joe continued to hold Lukas’ hand until merciful sleep came. Lukas could not see the tears that rolled down the film director’s face.
Joe Oblachinski came every day and sat with Lukas. They talked and the big man in his late fifties, with a paunch that displayed his success in Hollywood, puffed on his cigars when the window was open. The rich aroma was soothing to Lukas who had always associated it with the man who had taken him under his wing. It was because of Joe that Lukas had been able to travel to the United States originally to realise his dream to fly. Under the American’s roof with his wonderful wife, Marjory, Lukas had been accepted almost as an adopted son to the childless couple. Marjory Oblachinski reminded Lukas very much of Karin Mann who had virtually raised him as a young boy. Both women had a natural maternal instinct that required someone in their lives to fill a space. Joe had organised Lukas Kelly’s flying lessons with the best instructors and when he had won his wings ensured he had employment with the Warner Brothers company as a stunt pilot and flying charters.
Now, doctors would drop in from time to time to examine him, pushing and prodding his body in places where it still hurt. Nurses would routinely visit to carry out maintenance in a manner that reminded Lukas of how he looked after his own aircraft. He knew he was popular with the staff as he refused to complain, or even at times, admit to his pain. Lukas came to recognise each person by their scent and footsteps in his world of darkness. His questions to the doctors about when the bandages would come off his eyes were met with the usual, ‘Fairly soon.’
And fairly soon eventually came. Two specialist doctors stood around his bed whilst a nurse carefully removed the swathe of gauze and cotton. ‘Try to open your eyes slowly,’ a voice said. Lukas recognised it as that of an eye specialist. ‘You may experience a little bit of disorientation.’
Lukas opened his eyes and immediately closed them as the light flowing through the bedroom window seemed to be coming directly from the core of the sun. He winced and in a split second before closing his eyes saw the restrained smile of a bespectacled, balding man, only inches from his face.
‘It looks good,’ the balding doctor said to his colleague. ‘The reaction to the light has obviously stimulated his optic nerves. Try to open your right eye only this time Mr Kelly,’ the same voice commanded Lukas.
Again the intensity of the light flooded his head and Lukas instinctively closed his eye against the blur.
‘Now, the same for your left eye.’
Lukas slowly opened his left eye and suddenly experienced a wave of fear – nothing – just total darkness. ‘I can’t see anything, doc,’ he said in despair.
‘You are fortunate to have any sight at all in your right eye,’ the doctor said matter-of-factly. ‘We had to remove fragments from both eyes after the accident and I am extremely pleased with what Doctor Lowenstein has done to save your right eye. So you will be able to continue seeing fully with your right eye and live a productive life.’
‘I’m a flyer,’ Lukas said softly with his eyes closed. ‘I need both eyes.’
‘There are other jobs for a smart young man,’ the eye doctor attempted to reassure him. ‘At least it seems that if the healing continues as it has, you will be able to see. I will need to make further examinations and tests to ascertain that you do have a functioning right eye.’
Over the next week the tests continued and it was ascertained that Lukas had regained the use of his right eye. Sitting up in bed with a black eye patch and his hair growing thick and curly around his ears, Lukas looked to all intents and purposes like a pirate from one of his friend Errol’s movies. Marjory Oblachinski came every day with Joe and from time to time old flyer friends dropped in to wish him the best, talk over aviation news and what was happening in the industry. Other than those visitors he did not see anyone else. The visitor he most wanted to see was Veronica but she did not come. There was not even a phone call to inquire about his health.
Lukas did not ask Joe about her as he knew the Hollywood man disapproved of the beautiful wouldbe actress. But it was he who brought up the subject finally as Lukas limped along, aided by a walking stick, down a corridor of the white-walled private hospital. ‘Veronica has a supporting role in a film being shot at the moment,’ Joe said self-consciously. ‘Probably why she has been unable to visit or contact you.’
‘The doctors tell me that I had six broken ribs, a fractured left ankle, head injuries, and we know about the loss of my left eye. You can add to that the fact that they have missed the broken heart bit,’ Lukas reflected. ‘No, Joe, I guess I have to face the fact that it is all over. I kind of knew she was too ambitious to really fall in love with a mere pilot. It is better that she does not make any contact.’
Joe patted Lukas on the back. ‘Good attitude,’ he muttered. ‘A son his father can be proud of. Always saw you as a copy of your father,’ he continued.
And eventually the day came when Lukas was released from the hospital to return to Joe’s big house outside LA. Neither Joe nor Marjory could understand why the young man who had become such an important part of their lives should want to persist in leaving America to return to Australia to enlist.
‘You know a man with one eye missing will be rejected for the military in your country,’ Joe had tried to tell Lukas, as he packed a small suitcase with his few most valued belongings. ‘You may as well stay here where I can find you other work in the industry,’ he pleaded.
‘There is a bloke over in England flying fighters for the RAF called Douglas Bader and he has two tin legs. If he can do what he is doing for the RAF I am sure Australia can do no less for me with all the hours I have put into flying. Australia is going to need all the experienced pilots it can get if the Japanese decide to have a go at us.’
Joe stood by the door of Luke’s room. ‘You know that Marjory is very fond of you,’ he said gruffly. ‘Kind of fond of you myself.’
Lukas glanced up from his packing. ‘Joe, I owe you everything that I have achieved here but I have to do this thing, more than ever now. It is hard to explain why.’
‘I think I understand but I want you to know that this will always be your home no matter how things pan out back in Australia.’
Lukas nodded and resumed his packing. Pride, a need to win – both factors in why it was so important for him to return to Australia and enlist. Besides, he had not seen his father in years and he also missed the blue waters of the tropics and the green jungles of Papua. It was time to return home.
The farewell at the wharf was a sad time for the three people who stood at the bottom of the gangway. Marjory wept as she hugged Lukas and when it came time to say goodbye to Joe the two men hugged. As Lukas boarded and waved from the deck of the merchant ship destined for the port of Sydney, he was forced to turn away to fight back the tears that flowed from his right eye.
SEVEN
As scheduled by Japanese intelligence the radio transmitter/receiver had arrived in the cargo from Hong Kong. Fuji instructed Sen in its functioning and set the prearranged frequency to broadcast the first message in code to a Japanese fishing boat overtly trawling in the Papuan Gulf. The message was deciphered and relayed to an island off another island occupied by the Japanese since the Great War and where a naval intelligence officer quietly celebrated by pouring a sake for himself. The information-ga
thering network was in place and functioning, spreading its tentacles into the mainland of the United States of America and to all the isolated islands of the Pacific occupied by the Western powers.
‘This is what the Christians would call your bible,’ Fuji said, fingering the code book. ‘I know that you take your Ford truck into Port Moresby twice a week,’ he continued. ‘It is then that you will take careful note of what is happening. You will report any shipping movements, troop and aircraft deployments to the Port Moresby region, and as well as doing that you will also transmit meteorological information as to the weather in the Port Moresby district. I will explain later the basics of meteorological data collection and measurement.’
Sen did not answer. The two men were huddling over the small but efficient radio packed into a battered suitcase in the room used as Sen’s office, and the aerial wire leading to the roof was disguised as an aerial for a commercial short wave set to pick up Radio Australia.
Fuji had lived under Sen’s roof for two weeks and rarely went outside. But when he did he came and went without disclosing where he had been or what he had been doing. His mission to ensure that a communications base was set up strategically close to the important harbour was at an end and he could look forward to being taken off the island by either a fishing boat or submarine and eventually finding his way back to the great Imperial fleet. Sen had explained Fuji’s presence to his native staff. He said that Fuji was a relative from the Chinese mainland and obtained their sworn oath that they would not speak of him to any European. Although Sen’s native staff did not understand the need for secrecy they dutifully obeyed their employer who doubled their wages. Whatever the need for secrecy was it did not concern mere natives, they told each other.
‘You must be by the set at, or before, twenty-three hundred hours each night,’ Fuji said in closing. ‘That is when any messages for Krait will be transmitted to you.’
Sen nodded. The arrival of the radio had well and truly cemented his role as a spy for the Japanese and at times he had tossed and turned in his bed, agonising over whether he should betray the son of the boat builder. But he feared the power of the Japanese to reveal that Sen had been helped in the making of his fortune during the Great War by spying for the Germans. That information would not be appreciated by the Australian administration in Papua and could lead him to the gallows for treason, Sen had brooded as he stared at the ceiling of the room. Better to go along with the Japanese, he decided. At least in any coming war he – and his family in Singapore – would be safe if the Japanese invaded Papua and New Guinea.
Sen was pleased to see Fuji’s back when the briefing session was over, but the Chinese entrepreneur did wonder where he went – and what Fuji did when he left the bungalow.
Fuji followed the same trail for a couple of hours until he broke through the scrub that ran down to the edge of the beach. Very cautiously he scanned the surrounding area for signs of other people, and when he was satisfied that he was alone, concealed himself amongst the foliage of the low-growing bushes. Now he would wait and see if they would come as he had noted before on prior trips to the beach.
He did not have to wait long until the distant sound of laughter and voices drifted to him on a tropical breeze. He felt himself tense whilst the waiting continued. At last the four girls appeared at the end of the white sandy strip near the headland. Barebreasted and innocent in their place in this Garden of Eden, they were not aware that they were under observation by the Japanese sailor. Each were a study of beauty, befitting their appearance which was more Polynesian than the darker-skinned Melanesian characteristics of most natives along the Papuan coast. They laughed and played girlish games like young women of any culture. But it was one in particular who Fuji noticed most. She was the shortest of the four but the most beautiful in his opinion; petite with long dark hair washing over her shoulders and deep brown eyes that seemed to have a permanent smile. Fuji felt his heart beat in his chest as he strained to identify the girl and was pleased to see that she had come as she usually did in the afternoon. Satisfied he was still safe, he sat back and watched the young, brown-skinned Motu women strolling along in the shallows between surf and sand. He had guessed that they were all in their late teens and all wore the more traditional grass skirts of their culture.
Fuji was fluent in the Motu language as it was commonly used along the Gulf coast by the people who lived in villages built on stilts out to sea. They were a fishing people who traded in the islands and their seagoing skills were second to none amongst the peoples of Papua and New Guinea. Fuji had accidentally stumbled on the four a week earlier when he had walked to the beach for exercise. He had concealed himself then and overheard the girls speaking. He had also learned that the girl who had attracted his interest was named Keela and that she was being courted by a local boy from the village just up the coast. This beach was the girl’s secret place away from the gossip and prying eyes of relatives – a place to discuss intimate things with her closest female friends.
Whenever Fuji had returned to his hiding spot overlooking the beach the girls had also come, and the more Fuji had watched them the more he was sure that he was falling in love with Keela. But what could he do? He was a warrior of the Emperor and as such must dismiss all thoughts of such happiness if he were to be strong and able in his mission. Recently there had been many times when he fought with self-doubt. He had not thought of how his return to Papua would flood him with warm memories of his youth when he had been free in an earthly paradise. His exposure to Japan had been disillusioning. It was a place of snow and ice in the winters and crowded cities of paper and wood and had not been what he had dreamed of for years.
Now he was back and questioning his place in the world. The one overriding thought that helped ease the pain of being away from his Papua was that the place would again be his home once Japan swept the barbaric Europeans from the island.
Now the girls were close enough for Fuji to once again listen to their chatter. He could clearly see Keela now as she tossed back her hair and laughed, revealing her tiny white teeth as she waded knee deep into the sea. She was not a betel nut user, Fuji noted and smiled. That was unusual in her people, and only endeared her to him more.
Suddenly his smile froze. Keela and her companions stood blissfully unaware of what Fuji could see from his vantage point – a giant, saltwater crocodile was slowly manoeuvring in the sea to launch its deadly attack on one of the girls.
‘Get out of the water!’ Fuji screamed at the top of his voice in fluent Motu, rising from his hiding place to wave his hands frantically above his head. Four sets of startled eyes fixed on him. The surprise turned to confusion and fear at the appearance of the wildly gesticulating man above the shoreline. ‘A crocodile,’ Fuji continued in Motu. ‘Get out now!’
Keela did not hesitate. The Motu word for crocodile was primeval fear in itself. She almost leapt through the surf to rush up the beach as the other three girls turned on their heels and fled into the scrub leaving Keela to her fate. With one eye on the water, Fuji rushed forward to intercept the girl. He could no longer see the croc and guessed that it had swung away to seek another unwary victim. He grabbed her by the arms and looked into her terror stricken eyes.
‘I saw it,’ she gasped. ‘It would have snatched me.’
‘You are safe now,’ Fuji said calmly and let go of Keela’s arms as a show of his peaceful intentions. ‘You can follow your sisters back to the village.’
Keela stepped back to examine her rescuer. ‘You are not Motu although you speak our language well. You remind me of Isokihi Komine, the Boat Builder.’
‘He is my father,’ Fuji answered openly. He was surprised that this young native girl should know of his father but then realised that his father was well known to all along the Papuan coast and beyond for his boat-building skills.
‘I would not be speaking to the son of the boat builder if he had not saved me,’ Keela said, and began to tremble from the delayed shock of
the near-death experience. Fuji took her by the hand and sat her down on the warm sands. ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking up into his eyes with a searching expression. ‘How is it that you were here now?’
‘I have watched you for many days,’ Fuji replied honestly. It seemed the best course open to him with this innocent girl. ‘I thought that you were the most beautiful of all the sisters who came with you to this beach.’
Keela’s eyes flared. ‘You have been watching us,’ she accused. ‘You should not have done that.’
Fuji bowed his head. ‘I am sorry for upsetting you but your beauty was greater than my dishonourable behaviour in watching you.’
The angry expression in Keela’s eyes faded and the smile returned at the almost boyish shyness of the slim, handsome young man standing before her. ‘Will you be at the beach tomorrow?’ Keela asked with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
‘I will be here,’ Fuji answered.
‘Good,’ Keela said, turning on her heel and walking in the direction of her village beyond the headland. ‘Then it is possible we may meet again.’
Fuji watched her walking away from him with a deliberate sway of her hips. He stood transfixed until she was out of sight, still coming to grips with what had occurred in the last few but critical minutes. His mind in turmoil, Fuji walked slowly back to the scrub at the edge of the beach. The crocodile had intervened in ways that he was frightened of. It had brought the girl into his life.
For a week Keela came to the beach alone. She had convinced her companions that they should not come with her and each day Fuji met with the young Motu girl to sit in the shade of the tall trees off the beach and talk. He came to learn that she and a native boy were to wed but it was to be a traditional marriage arranged by the two families. Keela was coy about her betrothed and Fuji was unaware that she was playing the age-old game of women, by keeping him keen with jealousy. She would boast of the boy’s prowess as a seagoing fisherman and how he had sailed each year to the islands where the sun rose.