Fear Drive My Feet

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Fear Drive My Feet Page 5

by Peter Ryan


  At about nine-thirty we reached a place where the track climbed up a kunai-covered hill. From the summit the view was not obscured by the jungle, and one could survey almost the entire Markham Valley. While the carriers had a spell I sat down on my patrol-box and studied the country.

  The ‘valley’ was an immense plain, almost perfectly flat, and covered partly by large stretches of kunai and other grasses and partly by patches of scrub and jungle. Ten or fifteen miles away, across this level expanse, were the mountains in which Jock was living. They rose up sheer and blue from the valley floor, though the tops still could not be seen for the line of clouds that seemed to sit eternally upon them. In this line of mountains, like gates in a wall, were the dark gashes of the valleys of the three main tributary streams on the north side of the Markham – the Leron, the Irumu, and the Erap. Muddy and swollen from the rains in the enormous mountains they drained, these rivers hurled themselves out of the hills and rushed across the plain to join the Markham.

  Almost beneath me, near the southern edge of the valley, was the Markham itself – a vast yellow-brown river consisting of three or four main streams which constantly joined and redivided and were interconnected by dozens of smaller channels. Between the main streams were grass-covered islands of considerable size, whose shape and position changed with every flood. Fifty miles to westward this incredible stream could still be discerned snaking its tortuous way through the malarious crocodile-infested valley. It was difficult to cross even at the best of times, but in the wet season, when it was full of floating trees and smaller rubbish, it was an impassable barrier.

  The sun was now blazing from the metallic, cloudless sky. The oppressive blanket of stillness seemed more unearthly, intensified because we could see the vastness of the area it covered. The silence is bearable when you are walled in by the jungle, because you are conscious of only a small slice of it – the quietness of your immediate surroundings. But this vast landscape in which nothing moved or spoke was eerie and rather frightening. It was not the peaceful quiet of a friendly countryside, but brooding, malevolent, full of watchful eyes.

  Kari pointed to a tiny smudge of smoke from the trees that fringed the river. It came from the camp at Kirkland’s, he said.

  We followed the track down the grass-covered spur towards the Markham, and an easy twenty minutes brought us to the edge of the timber, where a big fair-haired young man was squatting in the shade. He stepped forward to meet me with a friendly grin, and we shook hands and introduced ourselves. As he pushed back his shabby and shapeless slouch hat I noticed that it was decorated with a magnificent flame-coloured plume from a bird of paradise, the unofficial emblem adopted by many members of the New Guinea Volunteer Rifles. His name was Tom Lega, he told me, and in peacetime he had worked on the Bulolo goldfields. At present he was the corporal in charge of the little detachment that manned Kirkland’s.

  ‘I was expecting you,’ said Tom. ‘They told us on the phone from Bob’s that you’d left, so we put the billy on, and the brew is just ready.’

  He led the way through the trees, and in a few moments we were in the centre of the camp – four wretched shelters of ragged sago-frond thatching.

  ‘Come into the cage,’ he said. ‘We spend most of the day in here.’

  He held aside for me the blanket which covered the entrance to a tiny room made entirely of fly-wire screening sent down from Wau. It was only the refuge of this room, I believe, which made it possible for anyone to live at Kirkland’s, so bad were the mosquitoes. Even in the daytime they made life torture. As at Bob’s, the men had developed a special technique for springing rapidly under the mosquito-net at night, otherwise a whole cloud of the pests would have swarmed under it too. Even so, it was impossible to get into bed unaccompanied by an odd mosquito or two. These were found in the light of a torch and dispatched by a momentary touch with a burning match. They disappeared with a fizz in a tiny puff of smoke.

  It would be hard to imagine a more unhealthy site for a camp. Standing outside the cage, one could have tossed a stone to right or left and it would have fallen with a plop into stinking swamp. The sort of water they got from the well is better left undescribed. Yet these men had been here for months, and some of them would be here for months more, guarding the crossing of the river.

  Four other men were leaning their elbows on the table that ran the length of the room. They wore only boots and shorts, and their greetings were terse, casually Australian.

  ‘Hi-ya!’

  ‘How y’ goin’?’

  ‘How y’ makin’ out?’

  But on their pallid faces were grins which made the welcome warm enough. They passed the tea, for which there was the luxury of a little sugar to each cup, but no milk. Tom explained that the sixth member of the patrol was doing his turn of sentry duty on the landing-place a few hundred yards downstream.

  While we drank the tea they explained to me the role of Kirkland’s in the scheme of things, both at the present moment and as it had been in the past. It was now our most forward post in the ‘Markham End’, and was maintained from Bob’s as a sort of watching-post. They were to warn Bob’s by telephone if the enemy tried to cross the river, and to deal with them with their Vickers machine-gun if it was a small party. Against a force of any size, of course, they would have no hope. The telephone line was the constant burden of their lives, for the phone was faint at the best of times, and every few days a tree would fall and smash the wire.

  Another of their jobs was to maintain the ‘ferry service’. Earlier in the year, before the Japanese had begun effective patrolling of the Markham Valley, our most forward elements had been kept on the north side of the stream, principally in the vicinity of Nadzab. On the maps of the period appear names such as Mac’s camp, Shep’s camp, Zoffman’s, and others. All these posts were cunningly hidden off the main tracks, and from them our scouts used to patrol to the very outskirts of Lae, and, on one or two occasions, right among the Japanese to the Lae aerodrome. The ferry service, consisting of a few canoes, with crews drawn from the native village of Chivasing, had been the link which maintained contact across the river and kept up supplies. An old New Guinea hand, Tommy Zoffman, had been in charge of this section of the operations, with the unofficial title of Admiral of the Markham Fleet.

  Nowadays, however, in the face of much more intensive Jap patrolling, only quick reconnaissance visits were made to Nadzab. A few stores were left hidden in Mac’s. As far as we knew, the Japs had never discovered the exact location of these camps, though they must have been aware of their existence. Our patrols seldom remained more than a night or two, and the ferry service was kept for these periodic visits, and was of course used by Jock McLeod.

  As we sat round the table drinking tea and nibbling hard army biscuits, we talked about the possibility of my living over the other side of the river. The others did not seem to fancy my chances, and one of them summed up the general opinion:

  ‘You’re nuts! The Nips are a moral to get on to you sooner or later. Jock McLeod went over weeks ago, and we haven’t heard from him since.’

  ‘That doesn’t say he isn’t perfectly safe in the bush somewhere,’ I argued.

  ‘Ah, well, you’re going to give it a try, so that’s that!’ Tom said as he swilled down the dregs of tea in his cup. ‘The canoes and boats’ crews
should be ready now, so I’ll walk down to the landing with you.’

  I said goodbye to the others, and we left the wire room, hastily replacing the blanket over the door. Calling to Kari, Achenmeri, and the six carriers from Mari to follow, Tom and I strode along in silence through the bush and the kunai-grass at the edge of the Markham.

  Five minutes brought us to the landing-place, a small shingly beach with overhanging trees that concealed the canoes perfectly, since only the very tips of their masts showed through. They were of a type well known in New Guinea, consisting of a single hollowed log for the main hull and an outrigger to give stability. A sail, made of old sugar-bags, was sometimes hoisted on the mast for sailing up the Markham before the strong breeze which blew upstream in the latter part of each afternoon.

  For the present crossing we would require only two canoes, and the crews, powerful black-skinned natives from Chivasing, were bailing them out at the water’s edge with half coconut-shells.

  The northern bank was just discernible, low, muddy, and grass-covered. The six Mari carriers scanned it uneasily, and muttered among themselves. Achenmeri, too, looked nervous. He said nothing, but rolled his eyes round and round. It was plain that they did not relish the prospect of this trip up the Erap; but Kari, moving among them, and talking in quiet, confident tones, seemed to reassure them.

  On a slightly rising piece of ground behind the landing was the sentry. He had been there since dawn, half hidden among the bushes, searching through his binoculars the opposite bank of the Markham and the mouth of the Erap.

  Tom called to him. ‘Anything doing over there?’

  ‘Not a thing moved all morning,’ he replied with a wave.

  This, of course, was good news, but its significance was not very great, for the real danger lay higher up, where the main track which ran the whole length of the Markham Valley crossed the Erap. If the Japanese had decided on more extensive patrolling they would almost certainly begin by using this track, which I should have to cross in a few hours’ time.

  My patrol-box, blankets, and food had been loaded onto the two canoes, and with three carriers on each, Achenmeri and I squatted down on the deck of one, with Kari in charge of the other. We exchanged a quick handshake and goodbye with Tom, and then our near-naked crews pushed off into the swift, muddy water.

  The current was so strong that it was impossible to cross directly from one bank to the other, so, sweeping rapidly downstream, we made diagonally for the first island. There was very little freeboard on the canoe, and from time to time water splashed into it. The crew did not seem very concerned at this, and it was one-third full before they began bailing with their coconut-shells. Meanwhile, with all three paddles on the right-hand side, with much panting and sweating, they were slowly urging our little craft nearer to the island. As soon as we reached the shallows they jumped overboard and began pushing, until we finally grounded at the lower end of the island. Then, by means of a rope made from vines, they hauled the canoe through slack water to the upstream end of the island, and we were off into the second main stream and over to the second island. Another repetition of the manoeuvre, and we had crossed the Markham and were on more or less dry land at the mouth of the Erap. The crossing had taken about half an hour.

  It was a long way from this bank to the south one. Through the field-glasses I could see Tom and his sentry on the other side. They were waving, having seen my safe landing, and I waved back. Their figures, so small and distant, and the vastness of the stream between us, gave me a sudden feeling of inexpressible loneliness, which was cut short by the boss-boy in charge of the boats’ crews.

  As he squeezed the water out of his tattered loincloth he said, ‘Suppose behind you like come back, all right, you shoot three-fella time long musket. All right, me-fella hearim musket ’e fire up, me-fella come quick.’

  In other words, when I wanted to return, three rifle-shots would bring them over.

  Without another word they scrambled onto their canoes and pushed off on the return journey.

  I looked about me. It was a dreary stretch of country, all ooze and mud, and covered by a dense growth of cane-grass, or pit-pit, through which it was difficult to push a way. Even here, at its mouth, the Erap River was very swift, and carried such a burden of silt that its consistency was that of thin porridge rather than water. The Mari boys regarded it with misgivings, pointing upstream and chattering to each other in their own local language. It was so swift here, they said finally in pidgin, that it had certainly been raining in the mountains, and the higher we went the more difficult it would be to cross. However, after a little persuasion they picked up the loads and, with our eyes firmly fixed on the opening of the Erap Gorge in the distant line of blue hills, we set off across the flat.

  We spent the first half-hour scrambling in and out of water and it seemed that at any moment the squelching mud would pluck the boots from my feet as we shoved our way through the pit-pit grass. We were heading almost due north straight through the tangled mass of distributary streams that formed the delta of the Erap.

  Soon, however, the stream entered a more defined course, and the growth of pit-pit gave way to kunai. Although it was so swift, the river had virtually no banks, and one had the impression of a stream flowing over the plain rather than through it. The nature of the ground changed, too. In place of the mud there was an endless stretch of stones – water-rounded pebbles of varying size, but mostly about as big as a cricket-ball. They were extraordinarily difficult to walk on, rolling from underfoot and making one stumble every few paces.

  In the course of a couple of hours we made about half a dozen crossings of the Erap, which snaked round and coiled itself across our path.

  As we scrambled out of the water onto the right-hand bank after one of these crossings, Kari, who was at the head of the line, called out, ‘Master, you come! Me lookim leg belong man.’

  Tracks! I could scarcely see a sign of a footprint, but Kari and the other boys assured me that they were there, and led in the direction of a patch of jungle about half a mile from the stream.

  ‘Who do you think it could be?’ I asked Kari.

  ‘It might be Japanese,’ he replied. ‘But I think it is more likely that they are kanakas from Bivoro, the village we are making for.’

  ‘That’s right,’ the others chimed in. ‘Whoever made those tracks was not wearing shoes.’

  ‘The Erap kanakas often come down to these flats to hunt and fish,’ added one.

  A faint wisp of smoke curled up from the patch of jungle. Whoever they might be, they were now in the bush. We put the cargo in a pile and moved quietly in the direction of the smoke. A hundred yards or so from the edge of the timber we found a faint path, and in the soft earth were several clear footprints. These convinced Kari and Achenmeri that the people we were seeking were natives.

  ‘Leg belong kanaka,’ everyone agreed confidently.

  We crept along the path and into the timber. Five minutes brought us to the edge of a small clearing, in which stood half a dozen tiny rough shelters of sago-fronds, the sort of huts which natives make for an expedition of a few days’ duration. Eight or ten men were moving about, clad in the usual garb of tattered loincloth. There were a couple of women, wearing the typical grass skirt, short in front and knee-leng
th at the back. There were also one or two small children. It was clear that they did not suspect the presence of any stranger.

  While the rest of us remained quiet, Kari stepped forward. At the sound of his approach the women snatched up the children and fled into the bush. They had vanished almost before one realised that they had moved. The men seized the long spears which lay handy, but they were reassured almost at once by the sight of Kari’s police uniform. He told them of our presence and then motioned to us to come out. An elderly native with greying hair stepped up to me and saluted. He explained that he was the headman, or luluai, of Bivoro, and apologized for not having his official cap on.

  ‘We have seen so few white men since the time of trouble with the Japanese came,’ he explained in pidgin, ‘that we expected nobody. Least of all did we expect anyone to come upon us here. In fact, when your police-boy stepped out of the trees we were afraid it was Japanese. They have sent native messengers up here to say that they are going to take over all this country and send some of their people up from Lae.’

  With a loud yodelling call he summoned the women back, apparently telling them there was nothing to fear.

  I asked him if there would be any Japanese in Bivoro, which was still some hours’ walk away.

  ‘No,’ he replied, ‘though it is nearly a week since I have been there myself. We have been down here hunting wild pig. But they would have sent for me at once from my village if anything of that sort had happened.’

  This was good news. Bivoro was important, for it was the last village on our line of communications from the mountains back to Bob’s. If the Japanese had not visited these people and spread the usual propaganda about all the Australians having run away, there was a good chance of our getting some help from the villagers.

  The reluctance of the Mari carriers to make the journey up the Erap had increased visibly with every mile we put between ourselves and the Markham. I was afraid they might slip off into the bush and return home, so I asked the luluai of Bivoro if his men would take over the job and carry my six boy-loads of cargo to his village. He agreed at once, and shouted orders to the women to pack all their belongings – grass mats, blackened clay cooking-pots, and so forth. These went into the inevitable string bags. The men he instructed to collect the cargo, which still lay in the kunai outside the patch of jungle.

 

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