by Peter Watt
Jack knew all this and felt empty. It all seemed so bloody hopeless. The Japanese just continued to roll south and men like Paul were thrown away on missions that were probably just about as hopeless as everything else going on around him. It was a sheer waste.
‘I suppose you haven’t heard anything?’ Jack finally asked, breaking the silence. ‘No word on whether Paul got out.’
Lukas shook his head.
‘I’ve heard a rumour that Keith McCarthy is calling for volunteers from our ranks to put together a flotilla to go to New Britain and rescue survivors,’ Jack said. ‘I think I will be volunteering.’
‘That’s got to be madness,’ Lukas said. ‘The waters between us and the eastern islands are crawling with Jap ships and planes. It’s suicide.’
‘Maybe,’ Jack conceded. ‘But I think we have to do it. There are cobbers from the NGVR over there still and we can’t let them down. Besides, I am kind of hoping I might be able to get word on Paul.’
Lukas stared at a space in the corner of the cabin. ‘Looks like I will become part of your navy,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Figure the Independence will be needed. Kind of ironic when you consider that neither the navy, army nor air force will take me because I only have one eye,’ he continued with a wry smile. ‘But it’s okay to volunteer the Independence for what bloody well looks like a suicide mission.’
‘For anyone else except a Kelly,’ Jack said, leaning forward and gripping his son’s hands. ‘I can’t promise that either of us will get out of this war alive but I can promise you that so long as you keep your head down you might have a chance … I wish I could say something more reassuring, son, but this is war and all we can do is live from day to day with something called hope.’
Jack felt awkward, wishing that he could have lied and found the words of a philosopher to make the man he loved above all else feel secure. Unfortunately, he had seen first hand over twenty years earlier just how random war was, and who lived and who died was very much down to chance. His secret prayer was that if God existed he would take his life and spare his son.
‘I know, Dad,’ Lukas replied gently. ‘It would take a lot more than the Jap navy to stop me and the Independence getting through.’
‘Well, I have to go and get the supplies off the old girl,’ Jack said, gazing around the cabin with a warm feeling of being home, surrounded by so many wonderful memories of Victoria within the walls of the schooner’s hull. ‘I have a feeling we will meet up again when McCarthy puts his navy together. I expect the Independence to be the flagship of the Kelly navy.’
Lukas rose to see his father topside. They exchanged handshakes and Momis rowed Jack ashore in the schooner’s dinghy. The supplies would be offloaded and taken back up to Wau, and from past experience Jack knew that there would not be enough of whatever they were unloading to equip the small force that was expected to face the might of a Japanese invasion in the Morobe province.
The unloading went ahead without mishap and before the sun sank over the Gulf, Lukas had up anchored, waved his father goodbye and sailed on a course back to Port Moresby. The war in the Pacific was only three months old, Lukas thought as he stood at the helm guiding his ship through the night, and already it seemed that he had lost someone he loved. Lukas doubted that Paul could possibly be alive. War was something for young men like himself, Lukas thought. Not old men.
Leading Seaman Fuji Komine stood at attention in the office that once belonged to an Australian administrator in Rabaul. A smashed portrait of the English King lay on the floor and behind the desk sat Lieutenant Kenshu Chuma, captain of the I–47.
‘You have done well,’ he said, perusing Fuji’s report. ‘And I know how hard it has been to live amongst the barbarians in the course of your sacred duty to the Emperor. I have been impressed by your record of service prior to your detachment to our intelligence services. That, and the fact you speak English and know these waters, is why I have a position for you on my boat. I need a good man with your skills for the special patrols I have been assigned, but I will not force you to accept my offer.’
Fuji had come to like this young officer in the course of the I–47 transporting him around Papuan waters. He had graduated from the naval engineering academy at Maizuru and it was well known that only the best of the young officers in the Imperial navy were given command of Japan’s submarines. In the cramped and claustrophobic confines of a sub only men of the highest calibre could survive the deadly underwater war. Fuji had always considered returning to one of the great capital ships to continue his service but was now being offered the honour of joining Japan’s elite.
‘I have no submarine training,’ Fuji replied. ‘But if you can make it possible for me to join your crew I would be truly honoured, sir.’
‘I am aware that you have no training, Leading Seaman Komine, but with your proven record of initiative and courage I am sure you will soon learn the ropes. Your duties will still have much in common with what you have done for our intelligence. I have special tasks to carry out to help defeat the enemy and you are the man I want.’
For the first time since joining the navy Fuji felt appreciated and a feeling of elation swelled in his chest. ‘Thank you, sir, I would be honoured to be part of the I–47 in whatever sacred tasks you have been assigned.’
Kenshu, dressed in the only set of neatly ironed dress whites he had aboard his submarine, stood and stiffly shook Fuji’s hand. ‘Welcome aboard, Leading Seaman Fuji. You will report to the I–47 immediately with whatever you may have with you. You will be allocated your post aboard and looked after by my senior NCO. Do you have any questions?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Good. You are dismissed.’
Fuji stepped back and snapped a crisp salute before turning on his heel and marching out of the office onto the busy Rabaul street now crowded with Japanese uniforms. How strange life was, he thought as he hurried back to the Chinese quarter to pick up the few possessions he had carried with him on his travels. Fate had brought him to Rabaul to meet once again with a man from his past and kill him, and now he was to become a part of a submarine crew patrolling Papuan waters where his father’s boats had plied their trade for the Europeans of the island. The thought of his father – and his mother – suddenly saddened the Japanese sailor. No doubt the Australians would have interned them at best. At worst … he did not want to consider that his enemies might act in the same manner that of his own countrymen. At least he could hope that the inherent weakness of the Australians, with their concept of humanity, meant his parents were still alive. Oh, but the day would come when he returned to Port Moresby as a conqueror and could parade before his parents as a hero. What would his father say then? For a moment he wondered about Keela carrying his child. It was a dark and confusing thought, for no respectable Japanese man could ever claim the child as his own. The Motu girl was of an inferior race, below even the Europeans according to the customs of Japan. But Keela had given him moments of such peace and pleasure that Fuji found he could not agree with the dictates of his Japanese heritage.
He reached the lean-to in the Chinese merchant’s garden where he had resided while waiting for his comrades to come. He could smell the stench of death and avoided the bloated body of the man who had sneered at him although he took his money. Killing the Chinese merchant had been another promise he had fulfilled. Recovering the small linen bag that held little else than a set of chopsticks, a bowl and a spare set of clothing he headed back to town. At least now he was back in uniform and ready to fight the enemy from the sea. He could fight a war that would bring victory to the Emperor and spread the concept of the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere to the enslaved peoples of Asia and the Pacific. If nothing else, Fuji was an optimist as well as a survivor.
NINETEEN
Karl Mann had never been to the South Australian capital of Adelaide before and he was impressed by its broad streets and beautiful architecture. He and his battalion had crossed the Indian Ocean without
incident and caught the nostalgic scent of the eucalyptus trees off the coast of Western Australia – at least many of his troops claimed so.
Karl knew that Jack Kelly’s birthplace was in South Australia. Being born to an Irish father and German mother was not unusual; many German immigrants had settled in the state when it was still a colony and their beneficial impact on Australian society was most felt in this corner of the continent than anywhere else. Even town names spoke of their presence. Jack had once told him how many of the second generation German immigrants, being so desperate to support Australia, had changed their names from Schmidt to Smith, or Neumann to Newman so that they could enlist in the first AIF to sail overseas and fight on the Western Front. Many of the little war memorials that sprung up after the Great War in towns all over South Australia were inscribed with the anglicised names of men with German blood who had died for the cause of their new country.
The heat of the southern summer was different from that of Papua. Standing on a street in the state’s capital Karl could feel it sucking the moisture from him, whereas in Papua it settled on the skin and ran in rivulets. ‘Looking forward to getting back to Sydney,’ Lieutenant Colin Pitt said beside him. ‘Not much in Adelaide except churches and cemeteries.’
The two officers had become close friends on the voyage. Both were platoon commanders who had served in Syria, although Colin Pitt had joined them near the end of the campaign to replace a platoon commander wounded in action. Pitt had worked for a time in Port Moresby as an engineer with the Department of Public Works and this gave the two men a common bond. Pitt was a stocky, heavily muscled man of medium height with a barrel chest. Despite his comparative lack of active service he was well liked and respected by the thirty men he led. The MC riband Karl now wore on his uniform impressed Colin, as did the mystery as to how Karl had earned it. But he liked Karl even more because he was modest about his official recognition from the Crown for services to his country.
‘Me,’ Karl said, ‘I am looking forward to getting up north.’
Colin acknowledged the salute given by a couple of soldiers rambling along the street and gawking at the pretty girls who had left their shops and offices to go to the parks to enjoy a lunch break.
‘The Japs have taken Rabaul, Singapore and just about finished theYanks off in the Philippines,’ Colin said. ‘You think we will be in time to stop them in New Guinea?’
‘I don’t know,’ Karl replied. ‘I only wish we could get up there a bit faster.’
Colin Pitt understood his comrade’s wish. Unlike the men of his platoon who hailed from the Australian mainland, Karl was a Papuan at heart and the Japanese advance south was directly threatening his homeland. He knew his mother and sister were in Townsville but neither he nor his family had received word of his father. His mother had written that Paul had stayed back in Moresby after they had been evacuated. He was supposed to return to the plantation and carry on with production but from what she could gather, Karl’s father had last been seen sailing with Lukas Kelly from Port Moresby to a destination that was classified by the government. Karin had made frantic inquires of the authorities in Townsville, but had come up against a stony wall of silence.
The letter had been brought aboard Karl’s ship off Western Australia and since then he had been able to make a telephone call to his mother, whose joy on the phone turned naturally to tears of relief to have her only son home and alive. A chance to visit his mother and sister was another reason Karl was impatient to travel north with his unit. He had learned at a briefing by the company commander to his officers that they would travel east from Adelaide to Melbourne and then on to Sydney by rail. From Sydney, so ran the rumours, they would be sent to Queensland to carry out training before being shipped to New Guinea to counter the Japanese advance.
At the moment the only Australian units facing the best of the Japanese land forces were a few militia units of poorly equipped and under-trained young soldiers barely old enough to shave. The situation was grim and Australia was fighting for its very life. The Australian Labor Prime Minister, John Curtin, had defied the imperious British leader, Winston Churchill, and had ordered the bulk of his best fighting units home to face the new threat. Curtin had also broken with tradition by looking across the Pacific to America for assistance as the two nations shared the edges of the great expense of water.
Karl was worried about his father and felt helpless that he was at the far end of Australia, unable to make his own inquires as to his whereabouts. For now there was little he could do until the battalion was sent north and then hopefully on to the jungles of Papua and New Guinea where he would be at home.
Any message at the battalion orderly room for Karl to see the commanding officer immediately was bound to cause a feeling of apprehension. The CO was a distant man and for him to order a mere junior officer to report to him was unusual. Karl made a quick mental inventory of duties he may have neglected in the course of journeying from Syria to Adelaide. The orderly room clerk cast the young officer a sympathetic look. ‘Might not be too bad, sir,’ he said, typing up another request for boots for the quartermaster. ‘I can tell the adj that you are here.’
‘Thanks, Corp,’ Karl said in a hollow voice.
The corporal slipped away and knocked on the adjutant’s door. A quick, muffled conversation was followed by the adjutant, a captain, appearing in the orderly room.
‘Lieutenant Mann,’ the young captain said, ‘the CO is ready to see you now.’
Karl hoped his uniform was up to inspection standard when he followed the adjutant into the CO’s spacious office. He came to a halt and snapped a smart, regulation salute.
The CO was a full colonel and a man who had seen action in Palestine with the Light Horse in the last war. He was tall and patrician in appearance with a shiny bald spot on his head, and on his chest he wore the military ribands which demonstrated his distinguished military career.
‘Lieutenant Mann, sir,’ the adjutant said, and without asking the CO’s permission, took a chair at a corner of the room. Karl guessed that the working relationship between the two men was such that a liberty could be taken without disrespect to the senior officer of the battalion.
‘Stand easy, Mr Mann,’ the CO said kindly, placing his fountain pen on the shiny desk and looking up from the papers on his desk. ‘I have summoned you because of an unusual signal that came through to BHQ yesterday from Ceylon. It seems when you were detached from us in the Middle East you made some interesting friends,’ he added with just a touch of mirth. ‘And those same friends of yours – from God knows what cloak and dagger department – have requested that I ask you to volunteer for some secret unit in Victoria.’
Karl stood stunned at his CO’s words and glanced at the adjutant who sat in the chair with his legs crossed.
‘I suppose if it is secret then I cannot ask what I am volunteering for, sir?’
‘I suppose you are right, Mr Mann,’ the CO replied with a wry smile at the corner of his lips. ‘But I can tell you that by volunteering you will probably beat the battalion to New Guinea.’
The thought of getting to Papua as soon as he could appealed to Karl. It could mean seeing his family sooner rather than later. All life was a gamble and war the worst one of all. Karl was a soldier used to quick decisions.
‘Whatever it is, sir, I will volunteer.’
The CO glanced at his adjutant, who then nodded back at Karl. ‘You are sure of your decision?’ he asked. ‘I personally would not like to lose an officer I consider one of my best and brightest but would only do so in the interests of the service.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Karl replied, without the conviction he knew he should have displayed before a senior officer. ‘I am sure the army has something in mind for me. It certainly did in Syria.’
Without another word the CO signed a paper before him and held it out to the adjutant, who left his chair to step up to the desk smartly. The adjutant held out his hand to shake Karl’s. ‘I concur
with the boss,’ he said. ‘Our loss is the army’s good fortune – wherever you go.’
Karl took the hand in a hard grip.
The CO stood up and also extended his hand. ‘Tonight we shall have your farewell in the mess. It seems you are to take a train to Melbourne tomorrow night and report to military district HQ for further orders. Good luck, Mr Mann, and I pray that we meet again.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Karl said. ‘I am going to miss the battalion. It has become my home.’
The CO knew the words were sincere. The battalion meant mates.
‘Well, you will have a lot to do before you leave us, clearances and all that, so I won’t hold you up any longer except to say that you may not be in good shape when you do get on the train. Oh, did I mention that you will be reporting to your new posting as a captain? The orders came through this morning and your promotion is effective as from twenty-four hundred hours tonight. I would like to be the first to say it is a well-earned and overdue recognition of your services to your country. Congratulations, Captain Mann,’ the CO added with a broad grin. ‘So you will be shouting the mess the first round tonight.’
Karl was stunned by the news of his promotion and knew his farewell in the officers’ mess would be a night he would rather forget in the morning but remember with fond thoughts in the future. He saluted the CO and marched out of the office with the adjutant behind him.
‘I would like to add my congratulations on your promotion,’ the normally aloof adjutant said, uncharacteristically slapping Karl on the back and handing him two extra star pips to make three on each shoulder epaulette. ‘I don’t know what you have volunteered for, Karl, but whatever it is, be bloody careful.’