by Peter Watt
‘I am a German citizen,’ Paul said, switching to English, but it was apparent that the Japanese officer’s vocabulary was limited to just a few words and phrases and he did not understand.
When Paul spoke it only infuriated the officer and he launched another vicious assault on him with his pistol butt. The blows opened a gash under Paul’s eye, and he felt blood welling from the wound. Paul felt both fury and helplessness in the same heartbeat and knew that if he retaliated he was a dead man. As far as he could ascertain, someone had betrayed him. Or the Japanese had mistaken him for an Australian. Paul struggled to remain on his feet.
Finally the Japanese officer ceased hitting him and stepped back. Blood had spattered over the front of his green uniform and he said something to his men as he walked away. For a terrible moment Paul thought that the officer had ordered his execution, as two of the soldiers had raised their bayonets in a manner that seemed to indicate they were about to stab him to death. Remembering the agonising deaths that bayonet wounds had caused soldiers in the Great War, Paul decided that he would rather be shot. However, the soldiers only prodded him with the sharp points, pushing him in the direction of a truck that rumbled into the yard. When Paul turned his head he recognised it as one of the European types used around New Britain before the war. But what was chilling was its cargo. Paul could see five obviously maltreated Europeans in the back, guarded by Japanese soldiers. One of the badly beaten men was Herbert Boyd.
With his hands in the air Paul was marched to the truck with the shouts of ‘Speedo’ and the jabs from the bayonets to hurry him along.
Paul scrambled over the tailgate of his own accord as none of the European civilians, cowering under the guns of their guards, dared to assist him. Paul caught Herb’s eye and saw a look of fear and defiance. Paul was kicked to the floor of the truck’s tray and found himself jammed up against the shopkeeper.
With a lurch, the truck moved away from the mission station and onto the dirt road.
‘Where do you think they are taking us?’ Paul whispered from the side of his mouth.
‘Rabaul, I think,’ Herb replied quietly.
‘No talk!’ one of the guards screamed and Herb was smashed in the side of his head with a rifle butt. He slipped sideways with a groan and lay in a pool of blood, which slowly seeped from the back of his head. Paul made a move to help him but felt the crack of a rifle butt on the back of his own head. A red haze of stars momentarily blocked his vision and the groan he heard was his own. Then mercifully came oblivion as he slid into a world of darkness.
When he finally came to he vaguely recognised the buildings slipping past as those of Rabaul. Herb was sitting up, his hair caked with blood. He glanced at Paul and despite the chance he would be struck again, asked softly, ‘You all right?’
Paul nodded carefully, his head throbbing from the beating. The truck came to a stop outside a building that Paul guessed was once a government office. Japanese soldiers in green uniforms and with bayonets fixed to their rifles swarmed everywhere.
The prisoners were bundled from the truck and stood in a huddle surrounded by their captors.
‘Could kill for a fag,’ Herb muttered to Paul. ‘But the little yellow bastards took everything I had when they caught me.’
‘No talk!’ a guard yelled and raised his rifle to slam Herb again. He suddenly desisted in the action, coming to attention as whatever had saved the Australian from a further assault came from the building. Paul turned his head to see an immaculately dressed Japanese officer wearing a sword appear on the steps, flanked by a squat, frog-faced NCO and a Japanese man dressed in a European white shirt and trousers.
‘God in heaven!’ Paul swore under his breath. It was Fuji Komine – a face he could not forget.
The Japanese officer said something that Paul took as an order and turned his back to return to the building with his subordinate whilst Fuji alone remained on the steps to address the prisoners.
‘You are unworthy prisoners of the Emperor of Japan,’ Fuji said in a commanding tone. ‘As such you have forfeited any rights for good treatment unless it is in the interests of the Imperial forces of the Emperor. You will be questioned before being taken to a holding camp where your fate will be decided. If you cooperate you will be well treated.’
With his short welcoming speech at an end Fuji turned and disappeared into the building. It appeared that although Paul had recognised Fuji, Fuji did not appear to have recognised him. How long could that last? Paul wondered with rising despair. Fuji would not forget the past and hence his fate was sealed. It was bad enough being taken prisoner but as a German citizen he might have been able to bluff his way out of the imprisonment and escape. However, if Fuji recognised him he would be aware of his close contact with the Australians, which would be construed as siding with them. Whatever cover story he could come up with as a German would be taken apart by Fuji in an interrogation.
For hours the six men were forced to stand under the blazing tropical sun in front of the government office, whilst thirst and weariness plagued them. Their guards did not allow them to sit down or have any water as they waited and Paul suspected that they were being softened up for questioning. The promise of water might work better than a beating when it came to getting whatever answers the Japanese wanted. Paul prayed that he would not be asked about the coast watcher. He was not sure how long he’d be able to endure torture. He had no doubt their captors were more than capable of extracting information by the crudest and most brutal methods.
The sun was setting when the frog-like Japanese NCO reappeared on the verandah of the government office and issued orders to the guards, who made it known with kicks and jabs from their bayonets, that the prisoners were to get back in the truck that had brought them to Rabaul. Exhausted and thirsty, the prisoners scrambled aboard the tray and were joined by their guards.
‘What the hell do you think the bastards are going to do with us?’ Herb whispered in Paul’s ear when he leaned against him.
‘Take us to a gaol of some kind,’ Paul whispered back.
Then Paul’s blood ran cold. Fuji had appeared on the verandah and was walking over to the truck. He scarcely spared the prisoners a glance as he stepped up into the cabin of the truck. The truck lurched into motion and took a road out of Rabaul. The prisoners remained silent but the expressions on their faces reflected growing concern. They had not been interrogated but simply driven away from the island’s capital and Paul had a bad feeling when he glanced at the guards in the back with them. There was something distant in their expressions that was very ominous, as if they knew something but did not want to share their secret.
After an hour’s drive the truck stopped at a deserted coconut plantation. The usual shouts, jabs and kicks harried the prisoners off the truck and one of the guards produced some thick fishing line and began binding each man’s hands behind his back.
The sun was on the horizon and the sky was taking on the soft glow of approaching night. Paul stood assessing his situation as the knot was tied behind his back, the line biting painfully into his wrists.
‘Paul Mann?’ a voice asked from his elbow, and Paul turned to look directly into Fuji’s surprised face. ‘It is you,’ Fuji continued. ‘I did not realise that we had captured you. If I had known, I would have insisted on your interrogation.’
‘Then you also know that I am a German and I believe that as a citizen of that country I should not be a prisoner,’ Paul answered quietly.
‘You forfeited your nationality when you shot at me,’ Fuji scowled. ‘I doubt that your loyalties are to Germany. I see you as a traitor and deserving of a traitor’s death.’
‘So you plan to kill us?’ Paul asked, wondering at the calm he was beginning to feel. Faced with the inevitable, his only regret was that he would never see his family again and this sadness dulled any fear. He did not want to die but his fate was out of his hands now.
Fuji looked away. Now that the moment had come to settle an old s
core he no longer had the same burning desire to see this man he had known from his childhood executed. Fuji now only saw a weary and helpless man. Time had taken the edge off his need to seek revenge for the slight to his father’s honour. ‘I will ensure your death is quick,’ he said quietly lest the other prisoners overhear him. ‘Would you prefer to be shot or bayoneted?’
‘Shot,’ Paul replied. ‘A clean shot.’
Fuji nodded and walked away as the guards stepped in to force their prisoners into the rows of coconut trees. Herb was behind Paul as they were marched single file into the gathering darkness. ‘The bastards are going to kill us,’ he said. ‘Aren’t they?’
‘I am afraid so, my friend,’ Paul answered sadly. ‘There is nothing we can do.’
‘I can do something,’ Herb muttered savagely. ‘I’ m not going to lay down and let them kill me.’ With that the Australian suddenly made a break from the file of prisoners and attempted to sprint into the rows of neatly cultivated trees some hundred yards away.
The guards shouted and raised their rifles. Paul reacted quickly. He wasn’t going to just let the Japanese lead him meekly to his death either. ‘Run!’ he shouted to his fellow prisoners and launched into an awkward sprint.
He could hear angry shouting and rifle shots behind him and although he knew he had little to no chance of escaping he would at least try. The bullet that hit him just above the shoulder and near his neck stung, flinging him around in a pirouette. Before he could regain his balance Paul felt a searing pain in his back and knew that he had been bayoneted from behind. He cried out in pain while the Japanese soldier forced him to the ground. Paul tried to roll over to face his executioner but felt the long knife being withdrawn before being plunged into his back again, this time grazing his ribs where it was deflected by the bone.
Paul was vaguely aware of more shots and the sound of men dying as he lay on his stomach feigning death. There were footsteps around him and a terrible silence broken only by men moaning in agony. Then the horrible sound of bayonets being stabbed into flesh finally cut short the moans. With all the willpower he could muster, Paul held his breath. He was face down and could just see the tip of a boot near his face. The only sounds now were Japanese voices chattering and laughing. Blood welled in a thick pool around his head and he could feel it warm and wet against his cheek. A searing pain wrenched at his body as once more a bayonet was thrust into his back. The coup de grace was to ensure no life still existed in his body. The overwhelming instinct was to scream and beg for mercy but Paul continued to feign death, lying still as the sound of footsteps and voices receded. Finally he heard the sound of a truck driving away but he continued to lay face down for another hour in case there was a detail left behind to ensure that no one had survived the massacre.
When the sun was below the horizon and the crickets ruled the night with their chirping calls, Paul forced himself to his knees, then to his feet. He stumbled to what he could see was a body already growing cold to the touch. He knelt to feel the man’s skin. ‘Is there anyone alive?’ he called softly but received no answer.
His wounds were serious and Paul knew that he would die unless he received help. Alone in the dark that did not seem possible and he despaired that he had only postponed the inevitable. Whatever he did, he must get away from this place.
A click broke the silence. Just the faintest noise and Paul recognised the sound of a safety catch being slipped on a rifle. The Japs must have sent back a patrol, he thought. Now he truly was dead.
Sen had been hospitable but distant in his dealings with Iris when she had arrived from Australia and all seemed to be going well until one night Iris stumbled on a secret that disturbed her. It had been a hot and still night when Iris found herself tossing and turning. Thirsty, she had left her room to go to the kitchen when she thought she heard voices coming from Sen’s office at the back of the house. Curiosity became stronger than her need for water and Iris crept to the closed door of the office. It was unlocked and very cautiously she swung it ajar to peek inside. Sen was crouched over something that looked like a small suitcase. He had earphones on and was talking softly in Chinese. She had seen similar equipment used by the German agent in Palestine and knew immediately what it was. Sen paused and finally appeared to end his conversation by reassembling his radio and sliding it into a panelled slot in the wall which was carefully concealed. Whatever her brother-in-law was doing had to be subversive. A spy! He must be transmitting to the Japanese – why else would he need to hide the radio?
Cautiously Iris closed the door and retreated. As thirsty as she was, it was better to go straight back to her room so as not to give the slightest hint to her brother-in-law that she had been up when he had been transmitting.
Iris found her way back to her room and lay down under the mosquito net. Her mind was racing. What was she to do? Would it be better to forget what she saw in the late hours of the night? Or should she bring up the subject with Jack Kelly when she next saw him?
EIGHTEEN
Jack felt every one of the fifty years he had been alive on earth. The trek from the goldfields township of Wau down to the coast in the Gulf of Papua entailed days of traversing a dank forest in extreme humidity, to say nothing of the mud and sheer climbs of 2000 metres, and the nights of uncomfortable sleep when the temperature dropped to just above freezing. Jack persevered in good company, as a couple of his fellow NGVR soldiers were also about his age and knew plenty of the same curses and oaths. Accompanying Jack’s section was a large party of native carriers for the supplies they were to eventually pick up from the coast.
His unit of volunteer residents of Papua and New Guinea were now under the command of the newly formed ANGAU. The Australian New Guinea Administration Unit had been put together in mid February to coordinate the efforts on Australia’s front line in the Pacific war. No matter what the government was doing in Canberra it made little difference to Jack and his comrades. Each day in the tropical jungles was just another day of exhaustion, isolation and sweat and the men were dogged by malaria, dysentery, pneumonia and a thousand other diseases hardly known to medical science. If Jack ever thought of his country as Eden, the parts he seemed to find himself in now had been a bit neglected by God. It was a garden of weeds, snakes, leeches, painful heat rash and death.
The last part of the journey from Bulldog, the base camp in the hills, was by canoe down the Lakekamu River. Some of the NGVR soldiers were held over at the base camp whilst Jack continued with his carrier section to reach the coastal camp of Terapo. Three days later, he and his party finally burst out of the jungle to view the welcome blue-green waters of the Gulf.
Sitting in the canoe, Jack removed his broad-brimmed hat and gazed out at the sandbar that blocked large ships from coming inshore to offload cargo. A procession of surf boats and canoes ferried the supplies to the shore. Focusing on a schooner at anchor in the mouth of the river, a broad smile creased Jack’s weary face. ‘Bloody hell,’ he swore. ‘The Independence.’
It had been over two months since he had said goodbye to his son and best friend at the Port Moresby wharf and so much had happened since then. Jack gave orders to his crew to continue paddling towards the big boat.
‘Dad! You old bastard,’ Lukas shouted down from the deck of the schooner, overjoyed at their unexpected meeting. ‘What the hell are you doing in this neck of the woods?’
‘What’s it bloody look like,’ his father grinned as the canoe bumped at the side of the schooner. ‘Help your old man aboard.’
Jack turned and gave orders for the native canoeists to paddle ashore and get some rest before they commenced their work of ferrying stores ashore. With Momis’ help, Lukas heaved his father aboard. ‘Good to see you, Dad,’ Lukas said, hugging Jack to him.
‘I’d kill for a cold beer if you have one,’ his father said, disengaging himself from the heartfelt embrace.
Jack followed his son below, where Lukas opened a crate of beer. They were not cold but Jack had not
tasted the malty dark ale since his last night in Lae and as hot as it was it still tasted good.
‘Well, what have you been up to?’ Lukas asked when they were both settled either side of the chart table.
‘Bloody running all over the country up around my old mining claim,’ Jack replied. ‘Me and the boys are supposed to stop the Japs if they land anywhere in the Morobe district – at least that is what the bloody government back in Australia has commanded. Pretty obvious that they don’t really have a clue how small and under-equipped we are, or that this is some of the roughest country anywhere on earth. We kind of get the feeling that the government boys think we are some sort of guerrilla force, which I guess we are. Anyway, changing the subject, how did things go taking your Uncle Paul to Rabaul and back? Is he with Karin?’
Lukas took a deep breath. ‘Obviously you didn’t hear the news,’ he said slowly. ‘Uncle Paul would not come back with me. We arrived the day the Japs went ashore and I had to run for Moresby.’
A silence fell between them for a short while as Jack gathered his thoughts. Word had come back that the Japanese were in control of the island and killing any European they could get their hands on. The 2/22 Battalion sent from Australia just prior to invasion and the NGVR detachment already in place had fought as courageously as they could against massively overwhelming odds but had been forced to retreat from the shores of Rabaul into the mountainous, jungle-covered inland. The 2/22 Battalion had virtually ceased to exist on the rolls of the Australian army and its last inane orders from Canberra had been to hold out to the last man – regardless of the fact that no reinforcements or any supplies were to be sent to assist them. It was an act of suicide. Reports said that there were survivors scattered in the jungles and mountains but the Australian government had made no effort to rescue them, such was their overriding panic at the current state of the Japanese southward advance. The unstoppable enemy was expected to land in Port Moresby and then the Australian mainland at any moment. Already Japanese bombers had hit Darwin and other coastal towns of northern Australia.