Beneath a Rising Sun

by Peter Watt

‘Unfortunately, this mission is so sensitive that we cannot even recognise your existence if anything goes wrong,’ he said. ‘This is one of the few missions that will never be recorded. However, our prime minister knows who you are and what you are doing. He wanted me to tell you that he personally wishes you luck and hopes to have a cup of tea with you when you return.’

  Jessica was stunned to learn that Prime Minister Curtin had been briefed on the mission. She knew that the country’s respected wartime leader was aware of her existence, and she had once been introduced to him in Sydney at a conference. It was uplifting to know that the highest office holder in the land knew the risks she was taking in the name of patriotic duty, and if anything happened to her she had a feeling her beloved father would be quietly told of what she had done. If she did not return she hoped that he would be proud of her sacrifice.

  That evening, dressed in combat fatigues and with her long hair cut off and her head shaved, Jessica was taken out to an Australian submarine at anchor in the estuary bordered by crocodile-infested mangrove swamps. With her was a kitbag containing her nun’s habit, a razor-sharp dagger and a small pistol. She had also been given a small pill in a tiny metal case. Unsworthy had handed it to her on the wharf before she departed.

  ‘I think you know what this is,’ he had said.

  ‘I know,’ Jessica had confirmed, accepting the tiny container and stepping into the boat that would ferry her out to the submarine.

  ‘But you know it is against my religion to commit suicide.’

  ‘You have already disclosed that you know of the existence of Ultra,’ Unsworthy said. ‘Any act to take your life would be to protect the safety of many others you do not even know.’

  Jessica pondered this as the boat approached the hull of the submarine, where a small party of sailors stood, awaiting her arrival. There was no turning back now.

  *

  Just ahead of the Australian submarine steamed a troopship setting sail from Cairns. Major David Macintosh leaned on the rails gazing at the rainforested hills behind the town. The sea was calm, and the regimental band played tunes on deck to entertain the men of the battalion, who only knew that they were going back into action once again; where was yet to be revealed.

  They steamed until the vessel was about seven miles from shore and then dropped anchor to await further crew the next day. This was the calm before the storm, and David guessed that most aboard would be reflecting on what lay ahead. For the veterans of the battalion they already knew, and the new reinforcements dared not ask them lest they reveal their fear.

  ‘Hey, David, are you coming down to eat?’ Captain Brian Williams asked. The informality between company commander and company second-in-command was reserved for moments like this, private and out of hearing of the troops. ‘I was told that we have been able to buy the ship’s stock of chilli con carne to supplement our rations. Have you ever had that Eytie food before?’

  David smiled. ‘It’s not Italian, it’s actually a dish originating in Mexico,’ he said. ‘Hope you like spicy food.’

  ‘I like hot English mustard on ham,’ Brian replied. ‘Is it hot like that?’

  ‘It can be,’ David said, pushing himself away from the rail. ‘Well, cobber, let’s go and find out.’

  They negotiated the narrow passageways of the ship to find their mess and try the exotic dish that most had never heard of before.

  Just ahead of David’s ship, the Australian submarine carrying Jessica to New Britain cruised on the surface of the moonlit sea as both crossed the tropical waters into dangerous and uncertain futures.

  Thirty

  The conditions aboard the submarine were cramped, smelly and without privacy. Jessica, however, had been afforded the privilege of her own bunk, and she was grateful for that. She dumped her kitbag and went to meet the sub’s captain in his tiny cabin. There she met her colleague, Warrant Officer Roland Porath who went under the assumed name of Pastor Peter Heinz.

  Roland Porath looked out of place as a Lutheran pastor. He stood over six feet tall and had such broad shoulders that he was forced to turn side-on to pass along the narrow corridors of the sub. He was in his early thirties and had a face that was appealing in a rugged kind of way.

  The captain produced marine charts and indicated the drop-off point.

  ‘We are to go inland and meet up with another Lutheran pastor at this village,’ Roland said, pointing to a dot on the map. ‘He will take us to your old missionary station, Sergeant Duffy – or perhaps I should say Sister Camillus?’

  ‘I suppose we should get in the habit of addressing each other by our assumed titles,’ Jessica answered. ‘Do I address you as Pastor?’

  ‘Yes,’ Roland replied. ‘When we reach your old missionary station run by Sister Michael we expect to find that the Nips have also brought in a few captured Australian nurses. Our intelligence indicates that the original Jap guards have all been posted away and a new lot is in place, so you should not be recognised . . . Sister Camillus.’

  ‘Is Sister Michael aware that I will be meeting with her?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Not that I know of,’ Roland replied. ‘She is our critical contact as she knows where the Yank officer is hiding out. We would have used our nearest coastwatcher to extract him, but he has gone silent. We suspect the Nips have either captured or killed him. So it is up to you and I to get the Yank out. No matter what happens, it is vital that the Nips don’t get their hands on him. If it looks like they might, and we are unable to extract him, one of us will have to take steps to prevent him being interrogated.’

  Jessica knew exactly what that meant. If there was a chance they could not escape the island, then they would have to execute the American officer. She did not want to dwell on that possibility.

  Further arrangements were discussed in minute detail. Jessica felt confident – but frightened. Not by the threat the Japanese posed, but by meeting Sister Michael again. Jessica knew it was irrational to think so, but the older nun had been such a wonderful influence in her life. She had practically been the mother Jessica had never known.

  Over a meal Jessica got to speak with Roland. They sat knee to knee in the small messing area, alone as the rest of the crew had been given strict orders not to mix with them.

  ‘Are you really a Lutheran pastor?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘I almost was,’ Roland replied, buttering a slice of stale bread with tinned butter. ‘My parents were from Bavaria and they emigrated to South Australia before the last war. They were very religious, and always felt out of place living in the predominantly Catholic province of Bavaria. The Bavarians are a funny mob,’ Roland said with a warm smile. ‘They don’t identify as being German. They see themselves as Bavarians – aloof from the Prussians and others.’

  ‘Do you have your own family?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Do you mean am I married? The answer is the only family I have are my aged parents. What else would you like to know, Sister Camillus?’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry if I appear nosy,’ Jessica said. ‘And I am not comfortable in the role of a nun anymore.’

  ‘I was briefed on your past,’ Roland said, biting into the buttered bread. ‘You have led an interesting life for one so young.’

  ‘Considering the nature of our mission I would rather you call me Sergeant or even Jessica, for that matter,’ Jessica said. ‘I do not feel right being addressed as a nun again.’

  ‘I suppose we can do that when it is safe to,’ Roland answered. ‘In that case, you can call me Roland but not Rollie. I hate that name.’

  ‘Thank you, Roland,’ Jessica said. ‘I am sure that everything will go smoothly.’

  Within a couple of days both Jessica and Roland found themselves on the deck of the submarine sitting off a darkened coastline. Sailors spoke in whispers as they prepared the inflatable dinghy to be rowed ashore to a small beach. It was important not to
make noise and alert any enemy who might be in the area to the submarine’s presence.

  Jessica was dressed in her combat fatigues for the transfer to shore, and wore an American baseball cap to hide her shaved head. Roland was also dressed in his jungle uniform, and at their feet in the dinghy were the items they would need for the mission. Inside her kitbag, Jessica had her nun’s habit and headpiece. She also had an Owen submachine gun with many loaded magazines of ammunition. There was also a flare gun with different coloured projectiles, and three hand grenades, and a compass and maps of the region. The most important piece of equipment would be ferried to the beach on a second run. It was the bulky radio transmitter/receiver required for them to establish communications when they were in a position to get the American officer out. All these supplies would have to be very carefully concealed when they left the beach to strike out for their RV with the Lutheran pastor. Neither Roland nor Jessica could afford to carry anything incriminating in the way of Z Special Unit items. They would travel unarmed and maintain their covers as Catholic nun and Lutheran pastor – should they be intercepted by any Japanese patrols.

  With the gentle hiss of sea water on sand the dinghy beached. Jessica and Roland slipped overboard, and the sailor who had rowed them in whispered his good luck wishes. Their supplies were thrown onto the sand, and the dinghy immediately set out to retrieve their vital radio from the cargo of the Australian submarine.

  Jessica and Roland pulled their kitbags up the beach. They could not use torches to examine their equipment, and when they gazed out to sea they had to adjust their eyes to see the faint shape of the submarine. The world was silent around them, until they heard the low throb of a marine engine in the distance and suddenly the submarine was gone from the surface, leaving only a small eddy of white water in its wake.

  ‘We’ve got to get off the beach,’ Roland hissed just as the probing finger of brilliantly white light flicked across the water. Jessica could see that a small vessel had appeared from behind the headland that bordered the beach, its searchlight seeking out targets for the machine guns mounted on its decks.

  The two pulled back into the jungle that ran down from the hills behind them to the beach itself and lay on their stomachs, watching the Japanese patrol boat slowly cruise past. Jessica could even hear the chatter of Japanese voices across the water as the boat passed by.

  The two lay side by side for an hour until they could no longer hear the engines of the patrol boat. Dawn would be on them very soon and both understood that they were not going to get their most important weapon – the radio. Things had already gone wrong, and Jessica had a sick feeling about what lay ahead.

  They concealed their fall-back supplies, changed into their civilian garb as Lutheran pastor and Catholic nun, and set out to make contact with the missionary at his station in the hills.

  *

  Sarah could almost taste the tension in the boardroom as the members assembled for the monthly meeting. She sat at the head of the board table in the seat her father used to occupy and stared down at the faces on either side of her. Some still could not hide their hostility, and Sarah reminded herself to review their roles very soon. Most of the members, however, had fallen quickly into line to keep their well-paid jobs.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Sarah said sweetly, ‘we have on the agenda this morning the offer for the sale of Glen View to Mr Tom Duffy. I am sure that this is a matter you are all familiar with, as it has reared its ugly head before. You know how I feel about respecting my late father’s wishes, and I submit that we should decline the request, and any requests in the future.’

  The door to the boardroom opened and Sarah looked up to see her brother enter. She was surprised as she’d thought he was already in training with the army.

  ‘Donald, what brings you to this meeting?’ she asked.

  ‘If I am not wrong, today the matter of Tom Duffy’s offer for Glen View is on the agenda,’ Donald said. ‘Although I may have resigned from the board I have had legal advice to say that the company’s constitution states I still retain de facto rights to vote as a member of the Macintosh family. So, here I am, dear sister, to cast my vote.’

  ‘You are too late,’ Sarah snapped angrily. ‘Besides, how do I know what you have said about your right to vote is true?’

  ‘It is,’ a voice piped up. It was one of the board members who was also a company solicitor, and the oldest member of the board. ‘It was inserted during the time of your grandfather, Patrick Duffy, before he was tragically killed in the last war. Young Donald can cast a vote.’

  ‘Sadly, he has arrived too late to do so, and we have voted that the offer be rejected,’ Sarah said dismissively.

  ‘Oh, I forgot to mention that I have David’s proxy vote,’ Donald continued with a smile. ‘We both choose to accept Mr Duffy’s generous offer to purchase Glen View.’

  Sarah could feel the rage rising up in her, and she glared at the board members, who knew that their jobs depended on agreeing with her. Some tried not to catch her eye, cowered by her obvious anger. ‘The matter has been finalised,’ she resisted stubbornly. ‘We are moving on.’

  ‘Did I mention that in the constitution there is another clause our grandfather had included?’ Donald said, moving away from the doorway and into the room. ‘It appears that Glen View was singled out by Grandfather Patrick Duffy as a special case that only blood members of the family could vote on. That means you, David and myself, and that makes the vote two to one in favour of selling to Tom Duffy.’

  Sarah could see that she was trapped. Someone had briefed her brother very well. She suspected that the damned solicitor, Major Sean Duffy, had given him counsel. Oh, if only her father were here . . . then she remembered she had murdered him.

  ‘The rules say that the matter has to be held over to the next management meeting,’ the old lawyer interjected. ‘Then we can settle the matter with a vote.’

  Sarah quickly considered this advice. Maybe, with any luck, her brother would get killed in the army, and David Macintosh too. ‘I agree,’ she stated. ‘Until the next meeting.’ Sarah was pleased to see the expression of disappointment on her brother’s face.

  ‘Please stay around and have a cup of tea with us at the end of the meeting, Donald,’ she offered courteously. That would enable her to determine who on the board was still friendly towards him. Donald could opt to resume his place on the board at any time, and Sarah did not want that to happen.

  *

  The tropical downpour washed the blood of both enemy and Australian diggers in little rivulets until it became just another element of the great rainforest of New Guinea.

  Major David Macintosh had moved his company HQ forward when his platoon commanders had eventually overcome the series of well-concealed log bunkers the Japanese had constructed. The clearance had been vicious and at close quarters as the enemy had fought to a man in their attempt to slow progress of the battalion towards its final objective of the main enemy HQ outpost.

  David gripped his rifle as he moved cautiously forward with his radio man, Corporal Andrew Paull, beside him. They passed the body of a dead Japanese sniper who had been located in a tree, positioned to fire down on the Australians.

  Ahead David knew he would find one of his platoons that had signalled they had destroyed the last bunker. That did not mean they had found all the enemy in the thick undergrowth growing under the rainforest giants. The early morning mist lay in the gullies and low spots of the battlefield, and this made David nervous.

  ‘I don’t like this, boss,’ Andrew said in a whisper.

  ‘Neither do I,’ David replied, scanning the mist for any sign of his forward platoon positions. The radio that Corporal Paull was carrying crackled, and David recognised the voice of the commander of his rear platoon. David took the mike from Andrew to accept the sitrep and was told that they had spotted movement to their rear. David immediately realised
this could mean a section of the enemy was attempting to encircle them. That also meant that he was most probably amongst them.

  A sudden jerk on his shoulder by his radio man brought David’s attention to movement only fifty yards away in the mist. Andrew pointed to their left flank, and David could see the figures of five Japanese soldiers. At the same time rifle shots rang out, and both men immediately went to ground as the bullets ripped through the air above them.

  Andrew straightaway commenced a contact with battalion HQ, informing them of their situation. David pulled the map from inside his shirt so Andrew could transmit a grid reference. Battalion mortars were their only hope of getting out of the situation, but David hesitated. He was not sure where his platoons were on the map, and he knew he could not risk their lives to save his and his signaller’s.

  Suddenly out of the mist a Japanese soldier appeared within a few feet of their position, a samurai sword held above his head. David fired his rifle from the hip, and the bullet took the enemy officer in the face. He pitched backwards and before David could chamber another round a second Japanese soldier emerged, aiming a long bayonet at David, who had not yet seen him.

  ‘Look out, boss!’ Andrew yelled, leaping to his feet. In an attempt to parry the bayonet, he took it in his chest instead.

  David swung around and saw his signaller had dropped his gun and was clutching the barrel of the Japanese soldier’s rifle, vainly trying to withdraw the long blade. David leapt to his feet and swung his rifle by the barrel like a club. The butt took the enemy soldier in the side of the head with such force it split his skull. The Japanese soldier fell to the muddy earth with a groan.

  David saw that Andrew was on his back still holding the attacker’s rifle with its bayonet sunk deep in his chest. Shots cracked past David’s head as he dropped to the ground beside his signaller.

  ‘Got a bad one, boss,’ Andrew groaned as blood rose from his mouth in frothy bubbles. His eyes glazed over, and he made one last gasp as he died, his lifeless fingers still gripping the rifle barrel. David was acutely aware that Corporal Andrew Paull had saved his life.