by Peter Watt
This was not Karl’s first operation against the Japanese. He had worked alongside the NGVR in small raids and ambushes for three months now with great success. Hitting hard and fast, in places the enemy had become complacent in, and thus forcing them to deploy greater numbers of troops simply to guard against interdiction of their supply lines into the Markham Valley, was causing a blow to the enemy’s morale. Karl understood the strategy of guerrilla warfare and its delaying tactics, which caused the enemy to tie up large numbers of their forces in a hit-and-run war, thereby frustrating the Japanese high command who would rather deploy soldiers to fight the Americans in the Solomon Islands.
‘I heard that you were a patrol officer up here before the war,’ the NGVR corporal who had acted as a guide to their present location said in a whisper, to break the monotony of waiting.
‘That’s right,’ Karl answered, watching the road and straining to hear the sound of a truck engine while laying on his stomach in the thick undergrowth. ‘I worked mostly out of Mount Hagen in the highlands.’
The corporal was a young man in his late twenties and spoke with an educated accent.
‘I was wondering why I hadn’t seen you around,’ he said. ‘I was with Burns Philp in Moresby.’
‘You might have known my parents, then,’ Karl said. ‘Paul and Karin Mann.’
‘I should have known from your name!’ the corporal replied, shifting on his stomach to make himself a little more comfortable. ‘I knew your father when he had dealings with us. Good bloke for a Germ–’ the corporal cut himself short, realising that he might be construed as casting aspersions on the German race, but Karl only grinned at his obvious embarrassment.
‘And here I am,’ he said with a slight chuckle. ‘A good German fighting the Japs.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ the corporal hurried. ‘It wasn’t meant that way.’
‘No offence taken, Corporal,’ Karl said. ‘As a matter of fact, you might know of a bloke by the name of Jack Kelly – I believe he is with your mob somewhere up here.’
‘Sergeant Jack Kelly?’
‘That sounds like one and the same,’ Karl answered. ‘Do you know where he is now?’
‘The last I heard, Sergeant Kelly died of a bad bout of malaria about two weeks ago. He was a bloody good soldier and liked by us all.’
Karl closed his eyes. Not Jack, he thought. The bloody war had taken just about everyone Karl had loved. First Victoria, then his own father, then Lukas had been reported MIA and now, apparently, Jack had been taken by the war. Karl could no longer feel the sorrow but simply a feeling of emptiness.
The thin rope trailing off into the jungle moved, yanked by one of Karl’s sentries located down the road to give early warning of anything entering the ambush killing ground. Karl opened his eyes, forgetting for the moment the loss of Jack Kelly. Raising his hand, he caught the attention of his Bren gunner and the gunner’s second in command a few feet away. They acknowledged with a grim nod of the head, the Bren gunner tucking the stock of his magazine-fed machine gun into his shoulder and swivelling the barrel to cover a bend in the road. Karl could almost feel the tension in his men scattered along the track as they strained to hear the sound of the truck. Beside him, the corporal was alert as a hunting dog sniffing for prey. The high, whining sound came to them of an engine straining to climb the steep gradient of the rutted road. Karl slipped the safety catch off his Thompson sub machine gun and curled his finger around the trigger.
Within minutes the truck appeared over a rise and into the designated killing ground fifty yards from the ambushers. Karl was pleased to see that their intelligence had been spot on and the open tray of the Japanese army truck was crammed with a dozen or so soldiers, rifles upright between their legs, sitting unsuspectingly in the back. The prearranged order to initiate the ambush would be a burst from the Bren. Karl raised his hand and the Bren exploded into action, raking the truck and its occupants with a deadly burst of .303 rounds.
Karl could see the windshield shatter under the sustained burst and the truck slewed off the road into a dirt embankment. Men spilled from the truck, desperately seeking cover. The Bren’s fire was joined by that of the rest of Karl’s fighting patrol. Rifles and Tommy guns poured death into the body of men who had only moments before been chatting about their families at home or of good places to go on leave in Lae. There was little cover for them as Karl had planned his ambush well. He levelled his sights on one Japanese soldier attempting to duck behind the shelter of the truck. Squeezing the trigger Karl could see dirt spurt up around the man on the embankment behind him. He cursed the weapon’s inaccuracy at such a long range. Suddenly the Japanese soldier dropped his rifle and fell to the ground. At least one of his men had shot him, Karl thought with grim satisfaction. The cry of ‘Grenade!’ came from Karl’s right and a Mills bomb arched through the air to fall near the truck. It exploded amongst a group of three soldiers attempting to fire back at Karl’s men. Shrapnel ripped through them and they fell from the effects of the blast. Two appeared to be dead but a third sat on his rump holding his hands to his face. Karl could see blood pouring through the Japanese soldier’s fingers.
The ambushed men had little hope in the cleverly laid-out killing ground and when Karl was satisfied that they had neutralised any resistance he raised a whistle to his lips to signal the cease fire. The shrill blast reached all of his section and the highly disciplined combat unit held their fire. The silence that followed the deafening crash of small arms was always disconcerting for Karl. It felt as if they were waiting to see what would happen next. All that reached Karl was the ringing in his ears and the moans of the wounded below. Scanning the bodies that littered the road by the truck, Karl could still see the Japanese soldier sitting beside his dead comrades, holding his face and crying in his despair. Karl nodded to his Bren gunner who took a sight on the wounded man. With a gentle squeeze of the trigger he let a burst of rounds go, hitting the soldier with the full impact of nine bullets. The wounded Japanese was flung on his back, his legs kicking in his death throes. Karl waited only minutes, knowing the local Japanese garrison would by now be aware of either the gunfire or the overdue truck bringing them reinforcements. He had achieved his aim and now it was time to get out before the enemy reacted with overwhelming forces against his small patrol. On signal, his men gathered at a pre-arranged ren-dezvous point well behind the ambush site, picked up their heavier supplies and moved in a fighting formation quickly and silently away from the scene of the killing.
Over the next couple of days, Karl led his weary but jubilant men back to a jungle base camp where he made his report. So far he had not lost one man to the enemy, Karl thought, standing in the sullen jungle by the tiny tent used to house their radio. Once the written report was submitted to the signaller for transmission in code back to Port Moresby, Karl thought bitterly about the vagaries of war. He may be capable of keeping his own men alive but those beyond his reach, such as his father, Jack and Lukas Kelly, he could not protect.
The signaller bent intently over his keyboard tapping the Morse code signal away and waited with Captain Karl Mann for a response. The dot-dash response came and the signaller scribbled down the code, then deciphered it into English.
‘They say, well done, sir,’ the signaller said, holding up the message to Karl.
‘Thanks, Sparkie,’ Karl said. He read the full message and was surprised to see that he had been recalled to an assembly point in the Moresby district. Ordered back to rejoin his old battalion, on its arrival in Papua Karl could only guess that they required his knowledge and skills before they went into action against an enemy far more ruthless than any they had encountered to date. Karl had mixed feelings about the recall. Out here he was virtually his own boss with his small army of tough, battle-hardened men with attitudes not unlike his own. That the army deemed he should return was up to them. Karl had once been known as an easy-going young man with a bright smile and infectious laughter, but the war had taken that from hi
m. He was now becoming the warrior Featherstone had always wanted, a pawn in the grand plan for the intelligence man’s envisaged post-war world.
‘Yer got some mail, sir,’ the signaller said, rummaging in an ammunition box and producing three jungle-stained envelopes. ‘They came in the last resupply from Moresby.’
Karl took the letters, recognising one from his mother and one from his sister. But the third puzzled him. Any mail was more valuable than bullets to the men so far from home. He turned the envelope over in his grimy hand and broke into a broad smile.
‘Got a lady back home, sir?’ the signaller asked.
‘I think so,’ Karl replied and walked away to sit down in privacy and carefully open the fragile letter from Marie. It was dated a month earlier.
‘Mon cheri,’ she addressed him and the very first two words made Karl feel for a moment that he was no longer in the jungle surrounded by men who would kill him. Karl continued to avidly read the neat, precise words.
I have many times wished that we had more time together. You are a man who I feel that I was fated to meet although I do not know why or truly understand my feelings in this matter. I hope that you will write to me and we may be able to share our thoughts. I am thinking of you and hope to see you returned to me safely.
Marie.
Karl read Marie’s words three times, hanging on to every word. Then he carefully folded the letter, placing it in the top pocket of his shirt above his heart. Although the letter was brief it had been unexpected and its existence meant more to Karl than anything else in the world. He felt that with all the sorrow that had occurred in this war he had at least found a tiny piece of happiness.
Karl scrounged some sheets of paper from the signaller and wrote his own letter.
In the months ahead Marie’s letters would find him in isolated outposts, and growing out of the words on the pages slowly emerged a yearning for each other.
FORTY-ONE
Captain Karl Mann slid down the last part of muddy track. He gripped the buttress roots of the forest trees to break his falls and cursed when the narrow, winding trail of crudely cut steps threatened to give way under the heavy tropical rains. It was the end of August of 1942 and Karl had been in the front lines of the jungle war for the last five months. His Thompson machine gun was slung over his shoulder, and around his waist hung a belt of the tools of war: spare Mills bombs, a razor-sharp commando knife and a keenly honed machete. He was alone and from his heavily bearded face shone the staring eyes of a man who had seen hell in the green jungles and ridges he had left behind him. He knew that soon he should break into the base area known as McDonald’s Corner.
Eventually he broke out into a clearing, passing tin-helmeted guards with .303 rifles, bayonets fixed. They greeted him with respect; the staring eyes told them that he was a soldier who had been in contact with the fierce and unforgiving enemy somewhere up the track.
Karl unslung his machine gun and trailed it in his left hand. The clearing was busy with the signs of a unit preparing to head up what was being called the Kokoda Track. Tents serving as quarters, mess halls and cover for military supplies covered the clearing. It was almost a peaceful place compared to where he had been. His independent company of com mandoes had struck at the Japanese, who could seemingly come out of nowhere to inflict heavy casualties before melting back into the jungle.
As Karl marched stiffly in search of the headquarters tent to report in, his eye was attracted to a lone figure sitting with his back to a tree and an American .30 calibre Garand rifle across his knees. The man was much older than most of the troops around him and under his battered slouch hat his face was clean shaven.
Karl stopped, peered at the man and broke into a broad smile. He picked up his step and walked across to the tree. ‘Uncle Jack?’ he said and the man looked up at him.
‘Karl!’ Jack said with an equal burst of pleasure across his face. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
Karl hurried the last steps to Jack, who rose to embrace the commando officer with a gesture of love. ‘God almighty, young Karl, it is good to see that you are still alive.’ The quick embrace done, Jack stepped back to examine the man who was more like a son to him than simply the son of his best friend now months missing in the jungles of New Britain. ‘The last I heard of you was in a letter from your mum. Must have been at least three months ago. She said you were being posted back to Papua but could not tell anymore than that.’
‘I was told you were with the NGVR and had been posted to the commandoes working up around your area but seemed to keep missing you. Someone from your old unit said they thought you might have copped it but unless I actually saw your body or grave I was not about to accept anyone could kill my Uncle Jack.’ Tears brimmed in Karl’s eyes and he forced them back with the wipe of a tattered sleeve of his jungle fatigues. ‘It’s bloody good to see you, Uncle Jack.’
Jack was also desperately fighting the almost overwhelming desire to break down but such behaviour was not befitting two seasoned warriors. They fell into an awkward silence for a brief moment as the terrible months came flooding back. Finally Jack spoke. ‘What are you doing down here?’
‘I have been reposted from my unit to return to my original battalion. The army felt that my experience would be of great help to share with my old cobbers who are going up the track fairly soon. They got me back with a promise of a company command. What about you?’
‘I think I am being posted to a Papuan infantry battalion to train a bunch of native troops, but you know the bloody army. I have been sitting around here for a week and they cannot confirm anything.’
‘I heard about Lukas and Megan,’ Karl said, slumping to the ground and using the butt of his Tommy gun as a support. Jack also sat down. ‘I am going to miss my old mate. I only wish I’d had the chance to see him when he came home from America.’
Jack nodded. ‘You two were as close as any brothers could be. I guess I always considered you my other son anyway. When I last saw Megan she confided that she was pregnant. She is planning to leave the baby with her parents in Australia. She does not believe Lukas is dead and wants to return to nursing in Papua. Guess I will be a grandfather. I only wish Victoria had lived to see the day.’
Karl looked away lest Jack see the pain in his face. With his own father dead, Jack Kelly was now his adopted father – in spirit at least. ‘I also heard about Ilsa,’ Karl said to distract the conversation from memories too hard to bear.
‘Kind of strange how life takes one thing and gives you another,’ Jack said, staring at the new troops disembarking from trucks being driven by American Negroes. ‘I was fortunate enough to get to know Ilsa in Moresby. She is a remarkable young lady and during the short time we had together I started to think of her as my daughter. It was a really strange feeling I can tell you.’
‘Is she still in Moresby?’ Karl asked.
Jack shook his head. ‘No, she was recalled back to America for reassignment. I just wish she would stay there out of harm’s way but she tells me that she was unlucky enough to inherit my nature and hopes to go to Europe to cover the war.’
Karl smiled for the second time. ‘What else could you expect from the daughter of the infamous Jack Kelly?’
Jack glanced up at the bearded face smiling at him. ‘Yeah, well, you have to promise me that you have no intentions of going out and doing something stupid. Not just for your old Uncle Jack but also for your mum and Angelika. I suspect that your mum still holds me responsible for your life in the absence of your dad.’
‘Promise, Uncle Jack,’ Karl said, holding out his broad hand to seal the bargain.
Jack took the extended hand and the handshake was strong. ‘So when is Ilsa returning?’ he asked.
‘She said she would like to be with me after all this is over,’ Jack replied in a wistful tone. ‘She reckons we have a lot of catching up to do.’
‘After all this is over,’ echoed in Karl’s mind. The Japanese had landed strong forces in
northern New Guinea to march across the Owen Stanley mountains in an attempt to take Port Moresby by land after failing in the Battle of the Coral Sea. Karl had heard others refer to this battle as the first naval action in history where the opposing naval forces had not seen each other. It had been a war of carrier-based aircraft striking from the sky whilst the two fleets remained out of sight of each other. And now it was up to the soldiers in some of the most rugged country on earth to fight each other. The enemy had been temporarily halted but far from beaten.
‘Thank God for the Yanks,’ Karl muttered, reflecting his thoughts.
‘Yeah,’ Jack agreed. ‘Thank God for the Yanks. I got this rifle off a Yank supply sergeant for a samurai sword,’ Jack said, holding up the semi-automatic, thirty calibre rifle. ‘Had a mate down in Moresby make the sword from an axle spring of a truck.’ Both men grinned at the duplicity. The convict blood was still strong in some Australian families. ‘At least the Yank will have something to hang on his wall and tell his grand-kids how he got it off a dead Nip officer.’
‘Well,’ Karl said, easing himself to his feet. ‘I had better report in to HQ and get myself refitted. You and I will have to catch up over a bottle of beer or two – if it is possible to find one around here – and tell a few yarns, true and false, of our time at the front.’
Jack also rose and again took Karl’s offered hand. ‘Remember your promise to me,’ he reiterated but in a more serious tone. ‘No bloody heroics. That’s how I lost a lot of mates in the last war.’
‘You shouldn’t be in this one, Uncle Jack,’ Karl said. ‘You should be home enjoying that fortune I heard you finally inherited.’