by Peter Watt
‘Wish I knew a bit more,’ Karl conceded. ‘But all will be revealed when I reach Melbourne, I suppose.’
Lieutenant Colonel Keith McCarthy and Lieutenant Commander Eric Feldt were two remarkable men in the right place at the right time. McCarthy was a soldier whilst Feldt a navy man assigned as the director of the coast watchers – a courageous band of men who worked behind enemy lines, reporting on Japanese movements and strength. Along with their loyal native comrades the coast watchers were always in constant danger from betrayal or discovery and many lost their lives to a brutal enemy.
So it was that McCarthy made the suggestion to Feldt that they organise a few coastal boats and slip over to New Britain to rescue any survivors from the NGVR and the 2/22 Battalion. The fact that New Britain and its surrounding waters were dominated by the Japanese navy and air units did not even come into the equation when volunteers from the NGVR were called up for the rescue operation. Without hesitation they came forward: tough former gold prospectors and others who had worked the frontier of New Guinea and Papua, men who had lived with danger all their lives and saw the proposed operation as little more than going into the dreaded Kukukuku country in the early days between wars. Jack Kelly was one of the men who stepped forward.
‘I have a schooner currently being skippered by my son,’ Jack said standing, leaning with his hand on a wooden table in a tin shed which had once been a mining office high in the mountains of Wau but was now an NGVR HQ room. Outside the air was crisp and clear. Mist lay in the valleys below and the birds of the forest provided a sweet song around the isolated fortress west of the Japanese.
‘I am offering the services of the Independence, Mick. I have a mate over there and I promised his missus a long time ago I would never let him down. So the boat is going even if you do not give approval.’
Major Mick Campbell sat back in his chair to avoid the chin thrust forward. ‘You know this is an NGVR op, Jack. We don’t take on civvies.’
‘Then I will enlist my son as an NGVR rifleman,’ Jack said smugly, leaning back from the table.
‘Didn’t your son lose an eye in some aeroplane accident?’ Major Campbell asked with a frown.
‘Cobber,’ Jack said with a pained expression, ‘if the NGVR were going by the standards of the bloody army in Australia none of us would have passed the medicals. Besides, he is young and fit and one eye has not stopped him doing his work running supplies up to us in the Gulf.’
Mick Campbell sighed in resignation. ‘Okay, Jack, but don’t put down that he only has one eye on his enlistment papers.’
‘Not a problem,’ Jack answered. ‘He has a glass eye – the best theYanks could turn out –and no one will know the difference.’
‘Okay,’ the major agreed. ‘The Independence is in. Just leave the details with the orderly room and I will give you a cooee when we are ready to use her.’
‘Thanks, Mick,’ Jack said, snapping a smart salute at the rim of his slouch hat. ‘Young Lukas will make a bloody good soldier and you won’t regret his enlistment.’
‘Like his old man,’ Major Mick Campbell replied with a wry grin. ‘So take some time off and go down to Moresby and tell young Lukas that he is now part of our navy. We have a flight out tomorrow and I need someone to deliver dispatches to HQ.’
‘Thanks, Mick.’
Jack left the tin shed and stopped to consider the situation. He had known that he’ d be able to get his way with the major who had once worked in his company managing his gold dredging operations in the Morobe district. The great gap in rank between sergeant and major was not even a consideration between men who had trusted and respected each other long before the army separated them with its hierarchical structure.
Iris found the hidden radio and the code books that confirmed that Sen was indeed working for the Japanese. She sat back on her heels and stared at the battered suitcase containing the apparatus. Since the time she had seen Sen using the radio she had wondered what she should do. For now she would think about its implications for her life, Iris thought as she carefully replaced the suitcase in its hiding place beneath a panel in the wall. What Iris did not know was that any tampering with the suitcase left a trace. A few hours after she replaced it Sen discovered that the tiny thread of very fine fishing line was broken. His secret was no longer his alone. Someone had removed the set and then replaced it.
A chill of fear possessed the Chinese spy. Had it been one of the native staff? Sen sat back in a chair, staring at the incriminating evidence. Whoever had removed the radio had to have seen him conceal it at some stage, he concluded. And if that had happened then they must have suspected that he was transmitting to the Japanese.
Iris! The thought seemed to come naturally to Sen. She was a resourceful woman to have survived so long, but if she knew of his covert activity then why had she not done something at this stage? A colder chill came to Sen: because she had not had recent opportunity to contact the Australian authorities in Port Moresby, he told himself.
He walked to a window in his office and gazed at the garden below where butterflies flitted amongst the flowering shrubs. Sen cursed the day so many years earlier when he had taken what the Christians called the thirty pieces of silver from the Kaiser’s intelligence services.
The wounds throbbed and Paul Mann feared infection. Weeks of keeping on the move with Rifleman Sandy Robinson down the Gazelle Peninsula to the southern end of the island of New Britain had taken a toll on both men.
Sandy Robinson was in his early twenties and had been a clerk with the government administration before enlisting in the NGVR. Cut off from his platoon in the retreat back into the island, the Australian soldier had stumbled on the site of the massacre and rescued Paul. It was the optimism of the soldier’s youth that kept Paul struggling through the sweating days and chilling nights. Sandy was always alert to the enemy now prowling the island in search of survivors, whereas Paul could have just sat down and given in to his wounds which had begun to heal although not as quickly as he wanted. Sandy had cared as well as he could for Paul by bathing the wounds and covering them with makeshift bandages torn from a spare shirt he had in his meagre kit. He had washed the bandages whenever possible and used them again but with the lack of food, sleep and medicine Paul knew he was at constant risk of infection in the humid jungle.
Now in the highlands Paul sat with his back against a rainforest giant and stared bleakly at the ocean in the far distance. Unshaven, dirty, gaunt and in rags, his hopes to continue evading the Japanese patrols diminished with each passing day even though the young soldier had been able to scrounge enough food for them from friendly villagers en route.
The cautious approaches to the villagers had been carried out by Sandy as betrayal to the enemy was a real fear. Their luck held though and along with the food generously given, the villagers were also sometimes able to give Sandy snippets of information as to the whereabouts of other possible groups of survivors. Sadly, each piece of information proved incorrect.
So the two men trudged south, using nothing more than their survival instinct to distance themselves from Rabaul and the surrounding districts, where a build-up of Japanese forces was creating a major Pacific base of operations.
The crack of a twig or sudden silence in the rainforest would cause a rush of fear. Sandy with his .303 rifle was ready to go down fighting rather than be captured and executed. Luck continued to be with them and Sandy calculated that they were halfway down the island on the western side.
‘How you feeling?’ Sandy asked, squatting beside Paul and leaning on his rifle.
‘I can keep going,’ Paul replied with a weak smile. ‘Maybe one more day,’ he said.
‘Got to come across one of those coast watch fellows sooner or later,’ Sandy said, scratching at his neck where his beard grew. ‘When that happens he can arrange to get us off this bloody island and home.’
Paul had been reassured every day by the young man that they would find a coast watcher, but how t
his would happen Sandy was unsure. The days had blurred into weeks and time had lost meaning as they just kept trudging on their course south, always attempting to catch glimpses of the shimmering sea to spot a ship flying a friendly flag. But the only ships spotted had been those flying the Japanese ensign. It was as if the Australian navy had ceased to exist, although the occasional American aircraft spotted high in the sky reassured them they weren’t completely alone.
Sandy was just about to rise when Paul seized his arm. ‘Don’t move,’ he hissed, staring over Sandy’s shoulder. ‘We have visitors.’
Sandy let his hand slip to the pistol grip of the rifle, his finger on the trigger. ‘Japs?’ he asked quietly.
‘Not Japs,’ Paul replied. ‘Natives. Four of them, but they are armed. They look like native police boys.’
They were well away from any known villages and the appearance of the faces in the bush was ominous. Weak and exhausted from the arduous trek, the men would be easy targets for tribesmen who had lived for years beyond the frontier. The threat that they may pose was equally as dangerous as that from the Japanese. Sandy turned slowly to face the four men standing only ten paces away. The first thing he noticed was that they all carried Australian-issue rifles and wore tattered remnants of the native constabulary uniform.
‘You that Paul Mann fellow?’ one of the natives asked in pidgin. ‘Coast watch fellow sent us to bring you to him,’ the speaker continued. ‘Local natives told us you were in this place.’
Paul was curious as to how the native constable knew his name. His unasked question would be answered soon enough when the former native police led the two exhausted men to meet the mysterious coast watcher.
Lukas Kelly was stunned to find himself sworn into the NGVR. His dream to carry arms in the defence of his country had come true. Now he stood proudly with his father in the Moresby hotel amidst many others wearing the army uniform of the NGVR.
‘But what about the medical?’ he asked his father as they stood at the bar.
‘Kind of got the papers fixed for that,’ Jack answered, swigging beer from a tumbler. ‘Seems when you did your medical you had no trouble seeing from your left eye. All you have to do is remember to wear the glass one.’
Lukas accepted that his father had the power to falsify papers. So now he was Rifleman Lukas Kelly. Up until now his military experience had been with the army cadets as a school boy. His father had explained that the main reason for Luke’s enlistment onto the regimental roll book was to give him legitimacy in the forthcoming operation to rescue survivors of the 2/22 Battalion and the NGVR from New Britain. At least his enlistment also made him a lawful combatant if he was unfortunate enough to fall into Japanese hands, although whether this would make any difference to his treatment as a prisoner of war was hard to say.
‘So when and where do I report for duty?’ Lukas asked, pouring another glass of beer from the bottle on the counter.
‘You will get that information in due time. For now all you have to do is stay with the Independence until I contact you. Just remember that your old man is a sergeant whilst you are a lowly rifleman,’ Jack added with a grin. ‘McCarthy has been ferrying Yank missionaries and downed pilots between Finschhafen and Lae for the last couple of weeks but Jap activities are closing down the escape routes. What you must keep under your hat is that the assembly point will be Luther Haven at Umboi Island in a few days time. From there we intend to cross to New Britain and pick up those we can.’
Lukas sucked in his breath. The crossing was almost suicidal. ‘Do you think we will find Uncle Paul?’ he asked.
Jack stared at the bottle on the counter and the raucous din of voices around him muffled his reply. ‘I bloody well hope so.’
Both men fell into a silence. On the morrow Jack was to return to the highlands to rejoin his unit. He had been able to wrangle extra leave in Port Moresby to liaise with his son to procure the services of the Independence. It was also an opportunity to spend some time with him and the schooner away from the edge of the battle area as it crept closer to Wau. For now they would drink together and strengthen that special bond of father and son. Tomorrow was an unknown in their lives and Jack was very aware that by enlisting his son he was putting his life on the line.
TWENTY
It took two days and nights travelling on foot with the native policemen for Paul Mann and Sandy Robinson to reach the coast watcher’s camp, where they were welcomed by a middle-aged man wearing civilian clothes and a battered old hat. A bolt action .303 rifle was slung over his shoulder.
‘Irvin Rockman,’ he said, thrusting out his hand to Paul. ‘I heard you blokes were in the area. Not much gets past my boys.’
Paul accepted the gesture from the coast watcher, a man with searching grey eyes, a broken nose and an unshaven tanned face. Although he was thin he appeared fit. ‘It is good to meet you,’ Paul replied as Irvin turned to Sandy.
‘You with the NGVR?’ he asked. ‘Heard some of your mob were wandering around the scrub.’
‘Rifleman Sandy Robinson,’ the NGVR rifleman said, shaking hands with Irvin. ‘I was cut off just after the Japs landed around Rabaul and haven’t seen any of my mates since.’
Paul glanced around the campsite that overlooked the ocean below. It was well concealed in the hillside of thick rainforest and he could see blackened cooking pots and a lean-to shelter made from saplings. It had a temporary look about it. Under the lean-to Paul could see a heavy AWA radio transmitter/receiver. The native police moved quietly and cautiously around the camp, alert to any subtle changes in the sounds emanating from the jungle surrounding them. Each native man was armed with a Lee Enfield .303 rifle which was – as Paul noted with a soldier’s eye – kept in immaculate condition. The former native policemen appeared confident and formidable which inspired a sense of security in Paul after the dangerous weeks of trekking south with Sandy.
‘Ought to get a brew on for you blokes,’ Irvin said with a broad smile. ‘Doubt that you would have had much opportunity to have a cuppa in the last few weeks.’
Paul and Sandy nodded.
‘See you have a few cuts and scratches,’ Irvin continued, eyeing Paul’s old wounds which were still oozing under the dirty bandages. ‘I’ll get one of the boys to rustle up some clean bandages and antiseptic but we won’t be able to hang around for much longer. My intelligence sources tell me that the Japs are onto me and sending a patrol this way soon. So we will have to go walkabout again.’
In no time Paul and Sandy had a steaming mug of sweetened black tea in their hands and Paul’s wounds had been cleaned and redressed. He sat with his back to a tree and luxuriated in the effect of the hot tea on his stomach. Irvin was going about a well-practised routine of breaking camp and dismantling the valuable radio for transport to another location. His men knew their roles and there was little fuss in the preparations to move. Sandy had volunteered his services while Paul rested recovering a little of his strength for the strenuous trek ahead. A combination of age and his debilitating wounds had slowed him down and he prayed that he would not cause the coast watcher any delay in reaching his next position.
When Paul was finished with the tea Irvin strode across the small clearing to him. ‘You up to a bit of a walk?’ he asked in a concerned voice.
‘I can keep up,’ Paul replied. ‘If I cannot I will stay behind.’
Irvin handed Paul an old revolver. ‘Keep this with you,’ he said. ‘I’ve only got twelve rounds for it but it’s better than nothing.’
Paul accepted the pistol. ‘Thank you, my friend,’ he said. ‘I promise that if I choose to remain behind at any stage I will use all twelve rounds to good effect.’
‘I heard that you were an officer in the last war with the Kaiser’s army,’ Irvin said. ‘So was I. Where did you serve?’
‘Western Front,’ Paul answered. ‘I met Jack Kelly there.’
‘I know Jack,’ Irvin said. ‘Good bloke.’
‘What is going to happen to Sandy
and me?’ Paul asked.
‘I don’t exactly know,’ Irvin answered, scratching under his beard at his neck. ‘There is a move to evacuate those who have evaded the Japs from some points to be secured, but none that I know of in my area. Either you have to turn around and go north to meet up with the others escaping or you remain with me until something can be worked out.’
‘So it is not looking good for us to get off the island,’ Paul replied gloomily.
‘Looks that way, old chap,’ Irvin corroborated. ‘Not much I can do except report that you are alive and then it’s a matter of waiting until the people in Moresby make a decision to get you off one way or the other.’
Irvin signalled for his party to move out. One of the native coast watchers led the way with his rifle in his hands. The report from the nearest village had spoken of a Japanese patrol of at least platoon strength, around thirty men armed with rifles, automatic weapons and a small mortar. Irvin Rockman knew that his smaller and less well-armed section was no match for a confrontation with the Japanese. Their only hope of survival was to melt into the jungle until the Japanese tired of the chase. And that he did, with Paul and Sandy in tow and the Japanese patrol a mere two hours behind them.
Sweat poured down Paul’s face and stung his eyes. He was on his hands and knees, inching his way up a steep slope, using tree roots as handgrips. Ahead of him was a native coast watcher working hand over hand to negotiate the slope. How much more could he take, Paul wondered over and over again. They had been travelling for almost seven hours with little let-up in country that seemed to be nothing but jungle and deep ravines and sharp ridges. Then finally he was at the top of the gully and lying on his stomach, sweat soaking his shirt and trousers, and Sandy standing above him. Irvin was already ahead with his men who had hauled the wooden crates used to transport the cumbersome radio set up the steep, scrubby slope to the bush-covered ridge above.