Eden

by Peter Watt

  ‘It was Fuji Komine,’ Paul called. ‘The bastard is somewhere in the water.’

  Lukas returned his attention to the spot he had seen Fuji disappear beneath the waters but nothing remained except a ripple. Scudding clouds and rain squalls were covering the bay but the sound overhead was ominously distinct. Lukas looked up but could not see the aircraft which, he had to conclude, could only be Japanese. Paul was at the edge of the wharf, scanning the waters for any reappearance of the Japanese man.

  ‘Got to get you out of here, Uncle Paul,’ Lukas called, manning the helm in readiness to cast off. ‘If we don’t and the Japs see us we will be sitting ducks.’

  Paul slipped his revolver into his waistband and ran to the Independence, which was already being pushed away from the wharf. He stopped at the edge of the pier and flung revolver and holster to Lukas as a low-flying Japanese floatplane skimmed in over the waves of the harbour. Fortunately for the departing schooner the pilot was making a run over the town and not the wharf area. No doubt a recon mission, Paul thought, staring after the rapidly disappearing seaplane now climbing back into the low clouds of the rain squall. Nature had been kind to them, he considered, as the squall provided an effective cover for Lukas and his boat.

  ‘Uncle Paul?’ Lukas yelled, picking up the pistol and holster from the deck. ‘Get aboard!’

  ‘No need,’ Paul said, cupping his hands to be heard over the sound of the schooner’s engine. ‘I have my mission – the Japanese are not here yet.’

  Lukas held up the revolver with a questioning frown on his face.

  ‘Better you have it,’ Paul shouted and Lukas shrugged.

  ‘I will see you back at the Moresby pub, then?’ Lukas shouted as his schooner disappeared into the squall. ‘That’s a promise.’

  The last he saw of the man was a lone figure standing fearlessly on the edge of the bombed wharf. It was not right to leave him, Lukas told himself bitterly. What could he do? He had left the second most important man in his life to an almost certain death. Lukas felt the pain rising in his chest. It was no wonder the tears flowed down his cheeks. His Uncle Paul was so much like his own father. They were men born of a different age when the word hero had real meaning. One war was not enough for tough old warriors like Paul Mann and Jack Kelly. Never before had Lukas felt so alone but he tried to console himself with the words his father had spoken about the Independence one night just after he had returned from America. ‘She is kind of special,’ his father had said, sitting under a starry sky. ‘She now has the soul of Victoria to guide her in rough seas and bad times, and she won’t let you down.’ Lukas hoped so, for somewhere in the squall was an entire Japanese invasion fleet and he definitely did not want to bump into it.

  Paul Mann did not fear Fuji Komine. He suspected that the Japanese man was not about to come looking for him if he thought he was armed. Paul turned and walked back into the town where he found Herb Boyd patiently waiting for him in his car. It was time to get out of Rabaul and up into the hills. Then after he’d completed his mission he hoped to satisfy Luke’s promise of eventually joining him for a beer at the Moresby pub.

  SIXTEEN

  Lieutenant Karl Mann stood at the rail of the once luxurious trans-Atlantic liner now converted to a crowded troopship and stared at the disappearing coastline. The sun was blood red over the sea named for that very colour. Early February in the northern hemisphere was the end of winter and by steaming south they were returning to a hemisphere where summer was now ending.

  Karl had returned to his unit to see combat in Syria and southern Lebanon and in one hard-fought, bloody action his company commander had somewhat reluctantly mentioned Karl in dispatches. The personal animosity between superior and subordinate had seemed to be heightened when Karl returned to duty with the battalion as a platoon commander and was unable to divulge where he had been or what he had done during the time he was seconded to the SOE. When the paperwork recognising Karl’s contribution to the sinking of a U boat arrived at the company HQ Major Jules fumed. Whatever his platoon commander had done had won him the highly prized decoration of a Military Cross. Jules felt an intense jealousy for the German-born officer’s receipt of such an award and the thought of the beautiful riband of white and purple stripes adorning Lieutenant Mann’s chest was more than he wanted to consider. Major Jules was pleased that he had not been given the job of informing Karl of the award as the task had been done by the battalion’s commanding officer who liked and respected his young lieutenant.

  At least Jules had been able to not recommend his platoon commander for promotion, citing his time away, albeit only short, from infantry operations as a contributing factor. Karl had shrugged off the lack of promotion when he had been informed that he would remain a platoon commander. Major Jules would have liked to recommend him for a logistics posting but the award of the MC decoration curtailed that plan. A medal bestowed for courage did not help the army fight the enemy if the recipient was stuck behind a quartermaster’s desk.

  Now, the campaign in the Holy Land was over and they were sailing home. The news of Japanese victories in the Pacific left none in doubt that the next enemy they would face on the battlefields would be the Japanese. Karl’s men had expressed their concerns for the fate of family and friends in Australia if the Japanese advance could not be checked – and it was a fear Karl shared. The Americans were fighting a desperate battle in the Philippines whilst the British, Indian and Australian troops were besieged at Singapore. Should the fortress of Singapore fall, then nothing could stop the Japanese advancing to the frontiers of New Guinea and then Papua, and onwards to Australia. Such was the situation reported to Karl’s troopship currently en route to Australia via India.

  Karl watched the great red globe sink into the waters. His thoughts drifted to Marie and he wondered where she might be at this moment. A letter from his mother dated 9 December said that Iris had returned to Papua and that she, Angelika and his father were to be evacuated to Australia. Karl was relieved to hear that his family would be relatively safe. With any luck his unit would be posted to northern Australia as a jumping-off point to the Pacific war, and if that was so he might once again see his family. It had been a couple of years since he last had seen his mother’s tears and his father’s grim countenance when he marched off to war. Oh, how he missed his sister Angelika and the happy days at the plantation.

  Paul thanked the Australian shopkeeper for the lift and waved to him as he drove away to seek safety with others fleeing into the mountains to avoid the Japanese.

  With the help of Herbert Boyd, Paul had now completed his first objective, making contact with the Catholic mission inland from Rabaul. The priest was a German who administered a station along with some Irish nuns. He was the same age as Paul and they shared much in common without knowing it. Both had served as infantry men in the trenches of the Western Front and both hailed from Munich.

  ‘My name is Paul Mann,’ Paul said, shaking the tall, distinguished priest’s hand. ‘I have a copra plantation near Moresby.’

  ‘I am Father Kurt Stempel and I must say that you have come a long way,’ the priest said, his white cassock flapping in a gentle breeze. ‘What brings you to my mission station in these troubled times?’

  ‘I will speak bluntly,’ Paul said. ‘I have come to ascertain where your loyalties lie now the Japanese have come into the war on Germany’s side.’

  Father Stempel glanced around his mission station. Native children dressed in European clothes and holding books were filing from a thatch-covered wooden building shepherded by an old nun wearing the full-length garb and head dress of her order. ‘My loyalty is to my congregation,’ the priest answered in German. ‘I am a priest and the Australian authorities have kindly respected my religious neutrality in this war. Before we continue with this discussion, which I can see is of great importance to you, can I offer you a cool drink in my office?’

  ‘That would be nice, Father,’ Paul answered gratefully. The sun was
hot even after the heavy rains. ‘I will accept your hospitality.’

  Paul followed the priest to a long dormitory-style building with a small room at one end. He admired the neat, clean grounds of the mission station as much as the healthy appearance of the people who worked with the priest and Irish order of nuns.

  The office itself was spartan but befitting a man of God. A portrait of the Pope and a crucifix adorned the wall behind the table which served as a desk, and two chairs and a sideboard made up the rest of the furniture in the office. From the sideboard Father Stempel produced a carafe of water with lime wedges floating in it.

  ‘I regret I cannot offer you something stronger,’ Father Stempel said. ‘My supply of Irish whisky has been curtailed by the war. Do sit down and enjoy the water.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Paul replied. ‘I do not want to take up your time as I have the Lutheran mission station to visit as yet.’

  ‘I presume that you will ask Pastor Bernard Benchler the same question that you have asked me?’ the priest questioned.

  ‘That’s right,’ Paul replied, sipping the water from a glass. ‘I have been given the task of ascertaining from all Germans still resident in New Britain their attitude to the Japanese occupiers.’

  ‘You mean, would we put ourselves in a position to actively assist the Australians should they seek our assistance in the future?’ Father Stempel asked, leaning forward across the table. ‘That is a very dangerous question to answer.’

  ‘Maybe I should have asked you in the confessional,’ Paul said with a wry smile. ‘I believe it is in your teachings that a priest cannot divulge what has been said to his confessor in the sanctity of the confessional box.’

  ‘On spiritual matters, no,’ Father Stempel replied. ‘But you are talking matters that belong to Caesar – not God.’

  ‘So if an Australian came to your mission seeking aid and sustenance in these times, you would turn your back on him?’

  ‘No,’ the priest replied stiffly. ‘Nor would I turn away a Japanese person who also came to me under the same circumstances. And, if you are wondering, I am not a Nazi but merely a priest whose concerns are with the spiritual concerns of my people.’

  ‘What of the nuns?’ Paul asked. ‘What will the Japanese do with them when they eventually come?’

  ‘The sisters are of an Irish order and Ireland is a neutral country in this war. They will respect international law on such matters.’

  Paul gazed out the window to where the nuns were playing soccer with some young boys on a dusty stretch of ground in front of the building. A couple of the nuns were very young, laughing as they picked up the hems of their flowing white habits and chased after the ball with a youthful exuberance still unbroken by the rigid mores of their conservative vocation. He hoped the priest was right about the Japanese respect for neutrality but Hitler had not respected neutrality when he invaded the Low Countries and Norway. ‘I suppose you have answered my question, Father Stempel,’ Paul said, swallowing the contents of the glass. ‘I should endeavour to make contact with the Lutheran mission station as soon as possible and was wondering if I could impose on your hospitality and ask if you have some form of motorised transport at the mission station.’

  ‘I have a car,’ the priest replied. ‘You are welcome to use it to visit my friend Pastor Benchler. But I will need it back as soon as possible.’

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ Paul said, rising from his seat and extending his hand. ‘I promise it will be returned within a couple of days.’

  The priest also rose. ‘Be very careful, my son,’ Father Stempel said. ‘I have heard from the natives that the Japanese are already fanning out in search of any Australians who have not been able to get off the island. Your questions may be construed as you actually working for Allied interests when in fact you should be loyal to your country and cause.’

  ‘I will remember that,’ Paul said, facing the priest. ‘I hope to be well away from this island before the Japanese catch on to what I am doing here.’

  ‘Then go in peace and God be with you,’ Father Stempel said gently, raising his hand in the traditional gesture of the blessing. ‘I will fetch Sister Ursula who will show you where we have hidden the car in the jungle,’ Father Stempel added with a grin. ‘I thought that might be a wise idea in case the Japanese decide to confiscate it from the mission.’

  ‘Then you are not about to render unto Caesar,’ Paul grinned, baiting the priest.

  ‘Not my car,’ Father Stempel replied. ‘I have a worldly attachment to it.’

  Paul was assisted by a cheerful, ruddy-faced nun of middle age to get the car out of its hiding place just near a copra plantation that the missionaries managed. She did not ask any questions, knowing that Father Stempel would brief her on the stranger when he was gone.

  The car spluttered into life and Paul waved to the horde of native children who chased the car out of the mission station until he picked up enough speed to leave them in a swirl of dust. As he drove Paul found himself praying that his mission would be over before the Japanese made their way up into the mountains. He knew time was short but it was imperative to contact the Lutheran pastor before Paul made his way to a prearranged rendezvous with the coast watcher assigned to liaise with him. Like Paul, the coast watcher was now working deep in enemy territory as the invading Japanese swept the island with their patrols, searching for any possible pockets of armed resistance. His role was to observe Japanese troop and naval movements in his territory. All Paul had was a location and time to meet with the unnamed observer. As with everything else he had been told in his briefing by the naval officer in Port Moresby, for security reasons the information was in his head, not on paper.

  Paul was acutely aware of the extremely lonely and dangerous task he had accepted. He only hoped that his family would not learn of what he was doing until he at least returned safely to them. For some strange reason, as he drove along the narrow, rutted dirt road hugging the side of the jungle-clad mountain, he thought about his son. Mostly he regretted that he had not demonstrated his over-whelming love for Karl when they last had seen each other.

  ‘Stupid,’ Paul said, banging the dashboard with his fist. ‘So stupid to be so stubborn.’

  He would have been amused to learn of the parallels his life was taking with that of his son. But for now he only experienced the pain of separation. He had survived one war but he felt he would not survive this one. He only hoped that what he was doing now would help to one day bring back the old world he and his family had known in Papua before the war.

  Fuji had been taken at bayonet point to a former government office by a marine detachment of the Japanese navy. He now stood to attention before an officer of the dreaded Kemptai detachment sent ashore with the first wave of troops capturing the tropical township of Rabaul. The screams of women and the sound of shattering glass were audible even downtown from the Chinese quarter and the noise chilled Fuji. They were the sounds of an army raping and murdering defenceless civilians, and although he had heard stories of such events from navy men who had served in China, he had not expected his countrymen to behave in such a manner. The military police sergeant, a squat, pockmarked former policeman from a rural area outside Tokyo, glared coldly at Fuji. ‘Your story of being an agent for naval intelligence has been verified,’ the sergeant said. ‘And because of your ability to speak English I have permission to have you transferred temporally to my detachment until you are reassigned back to the navy. We have work here for you, interrogating any Europeans we round up.’

  Fuji felt his hopes of a transfer back to the decks of a warship sink. He wanted to be able once again to proudly wear the white uniform of the navy rather than this continuing service living a life divorced from the glory of combat. The unexpected, almost fatal contact with Paul Mann and Lukas Kelly the day before had unnerved him. It had been a bad omen and now being separated from the navy rankled him. ‘I understand, Sergeant,’ he replied. ‘I will do my duty.’

&nbs
p; In the hills beyond Rabaul, Paul Mann made his contact with the Lutheran pastor. The man had been less than sympathetic to his question and Paul had left the mission station to return the Catholic priest’s car. As he approached the Catholic mission to return the car before seeking out the coast watcher somewhere south of Rabaul, the bad feeling he had experienced whilst driving away was turning into outright crippling fear.

  SEVENTEEN

  Paul finally relaxed when the buildings of the Catholic mission came into sight through the stand of tall palms. But as he slowed the car and drove into the wide clearing where the boys had kicked a football with the nuns earlier, he immediately felt a feeling of dread return. The whole station seemed deserted. He brought the car to a stop and from the corner of his eye saw that the mission station was not entirely deserted after all. Five Japanese soldiers stepped from behind the school rooms, bayonets fixed and their rifles pointed in his direction. He glanced over his shoulder and could see another six soldiers step out of the grove of palm trees behind him, cutting off any possible escape.

  Paul stepped carefully from the car with his hands in the air. ‘I am German,’ he called in that language, but received no response from the five Japanese soldiers now advancing on him. He stood by the car as one of the soldiers wearing the rank of an officer and carrying a pistol shouted orders to the men in the palm grove. They too advanced on Paul.

  ‘Hands up! Speedo!’ the officer screamed in English when he was mere paces away. To emphasise his point he swung the butt of his pistol, striking Paul across the face. Paul staggered but refused to fall and steadied himself to face the Japanese officer who was a good head shorter than him.

  ‘Australia no good,’ he shouted, spraying spittle in Paul’s face. A fanatical fire burned in his dark eyes. ‘Japan number one.’