by Peter Ryan
I followed their movements through the glasses, and as soon as they had disappeared round a small bluff Watute and I withdrew the rest of the natives about a hundred yards upstream, where we crouched in the cane-grass out of sight.
Watute and I kept looking at each other, he with his funny little half-grin flickering about his face. Unspoken, the same question was buzzing in both our heads: Would the Gwabandik natives return with Peter alone, or would they bring a Japanese patrol? We had our answer in less than five minutes, for the three natives, still running hard, reappeared round the bluff, followed by a single flying figure in white athletic singlet and white shorts.
While I kept the binoculars fastened on the bluff, straining my eyes to detect any sign of Japanese coming round the corner, Watute gave me a ball-to-ball description of the movements of Peter and the three natives: ‘Four-fella ’e go down long water. All ’e brokim water now. Altogether man ’e come up long this-fella half. All ’e look-look nabout, now all ’e no lookim you-me,’ ran his commentary.
Transferring my gaze from the farther bank to the flat below us, I saw that they were indeed searching for us, in a puzzled way, in the spot where we had been squatting when they crossed the river. I handed the binoculars to Watute with orders to shout a warning if there were any suspicious movements. Then I advanced to meet Peter.
We introduced ourselves, shaking hands warmly. He was of medium height, with gold-brown skin, and a face that looked as much European as Chinese. Through the wet singlet that stuck to his skin his ribs showed up like a washboard, and he was panting and heaving as I led him to a patch of long grass where we could hide while we talked.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked. ‘They won’t be looking for you?’
‘I’ve been down in Lae, in jail,’ he said bitterly. ‘They only let me go a few days ago. Look!’
He held out his wrists and indicated his ankles for my inspection. All were encircled with black bruises, and on the inner surfaces the skin had been worn away, leaving raw, open sores which were starting to fester.
‘Handcuffs?’
‘Yes. And leg-irons! They keep you chained hand and foot. You can’t move. You can’t eat. You just lie there. You shit yourself, you piss yourself, for days! And they beat you!’
His voice became shrill and loud – almost a scream, for a moment – as he recalled his ordeal. Then he calmed down.
‘Some natives told the Japs I was spying for the Australians,’ he said. ‘So they had me in there for questioning.’
‘Do they leave you alone in your camp? Isn’t it always guarded?’
‘They don’t bother to watch us all the time – they know we haven’t much chance of escaping. Every few days a patrol comes to look at us, but that’s all… But we’d better not waste time – today’s a likely day for them to come, and there’ll be trouble if I’m missing.’
A rapid-fire burst of question and answer began concerning the number of ships, the strength of the force landed from the convoy a few days ago, the amount and type of equipment brought ashore. To all my questions, and many others, Peter gave answers either from his own observation or from the reports of his fellow Chinese.
‘What effects are our bombing raids having on the enemy?’ I asked.
‘They aren’t killing many – the Japs have got tremendous deep shelters everywhere. But the raids do a lot of damage, and they’ve affected the troops’ rations. Only yesterday one of your planes burnt up a huge dump of bagged rice. And the enemy lose a lot of petrol the same way.’
‘Do you think the supply position is really acute yet?’
‘It must be fairly bad because they bring stores in by submarine now. The subs don’t surface till night-time, and the stores are unloaded offshore, in the dark.’
‘Do you think the Japs know there are any white men in the mountains?’ I asked. I was scribbling furiously with a stub of pencil on a grubby sheaf of papers.
‘Yes, they know several white men are there, and that one recently crossed over the Saruwaged mountains. Only last Wednesday a party came up to look for you. They got as far as the old broken vine bridge over the Busu – they tried to swim the river but after a couple of them were nearly drowned they gave up.’
This intelligence was important, for it meant that our movements were certainly being reported to the enemy by natives, and that the Japanese believed them. On the other hand, the fact that the enemy had abandoned their expedition at the first serious obstacle seemed to indicate that they still had no stomach for inland patrolling into the wild and, to them, unknown mountain country. On the whole, in view of our tremendous initial advantage, I felt we could still consider ourselves fairly safe in the high country.
‘How do they treat the rest of your people?’
Peter Ah Tun answered that the Japanese gave them only enough food for their subsistence, made them work in Lae, but generally treated them with reasonable humanity. They had not molested their women, and had provided food for their old people. ‘Our rations have got worse, though,’ he added. ‘Once we used to get oil and dripping and tinned fish, but now it’s only rice and a little salt. We get a bit of stuff from the natives, as you see today.’
‘Things are going to get worse still,’ I said. ‘Before we actually make an assault on Lae the bombing will be terrific. Would you like to come out with me? I think we can still get out O.K.’
His eyes lit up for a moment, but he shook his head slowly. ‘No, I couldn’t do that. I must stick to my people. The Japanese would ill-treat them all if I disappeared. I must stay. We’ll manage somehow. We’ll go bush with the natives when the time comes.’
‘You’re sure you won’t come?’
Peter shook his head again, without speaking. I gave him the cake of American ration chocolate I carried for an emergency, and having arranged that any further meetings should be at this spot we shook hands again. He and the Gwabandik boys went down to the water with the food, while Watute and I, with the tultul of Gawan and his friend, set off rapidly into the bush, to return to Dinkila at Gawan. We still had with us the supposed tultul of Tali, now under Watute’s watchful eye.
This man, and many other people like him, was one of my worst headaches. If I made him a prisoner he would be a constant millstone round my neck, for I had no proper jail at Bawan, nor did I have enough police to guard it if I built one. On the other hand, if we let him go he might make straight for the Japanese. We decided he was to come part of the way back with us, and that we’d let him go along the road. At least we’d have time to get clear before he could raise the alarm.
The tultul of Gawan was like a man who has just been reprieved. He grinned and laughed now that his distasteful job was over. He was looking forward to our departure from his country with unconcealed pleasure, and he made the pace of our journey back to Gawan a cracker, breaking into an enthusiastic jog-trot from time to time. I found it hard to keep up with him, for there was almost no skin left on my feet and I was suffering a good deal from recurrent malaria that somehow could not be shaken off. My legs were weak, and I was short of breath.
All the way I was swearing, in a manner which would scarcely have disgraced Jock himself, at the idiocy of the headquarters crowd in insisting still that we needed no radio set.
All the precious information from Peter Ah Tun instead of being in the hands of New Guinea Force Headquarters within a few hours, would have to be written out and sent to Bob’s by runner – a delay of at least three days. Not only was the delay infuriating, but the messenger would be risking his life and jeopardizing the safety of our whole set-up – if he were captured the Japs might easily torture him into telling where our camp was. As Jock had said the day I met him in the mountains, without a radio we would be better employed drinking ourselves quietly to death in a nice pub in Australia.
Dinkila met us at the entrance to Gawan village. The billy was boiling, he assured me, and a mug of tea would be prepared in an instant.
As I ate some biscuits and drank a couple of pints of the hot black tea I was busy with paper and pencil roughly drafting the report. I told Dinkila to pack the few bits of gear we had, and to be ready to leave in ten minutes. Watute, his mouth crammed with sweet potato, grinned at me and pointed to the overjoyed expression on the face of the tultul of Gawan as he heard me give Dinkila the order to prepare to move. He was probably the happiest man in New Guinea at that moment.
Evening was near when we left. There was no hope of reaching Lambaip to spend the night, so when it became dark we slept in the bush a few miles up the side of the mountain above Musom.
I must have been more tired than I realized, for it was dawn before I woke, drenched from the heavy rain that had fallen in the night, and burning with fever. Watute, too, had slept through the rain. Dinkila and his friend from Lambaip had taken it in turns to guard our prisoner.
We stretched our stiff and creaking limbs, and I struggled painfully into my boots again. When we reached Lambaip we released the captive and said goodbye to Dinkila’s friend. I had nothing to reward him with for his services, but I wrote a note explaining what he had done for us, telling him to give it to the first government officer to visit the village, unless of course I returned there myself. Then we struck into the hills towards Bawan, arriving about four o’clock.
As I stepped over the low fence which kept the village pigs away from the house, a strange police-boy in full uniform stepped forward and saluted smartly, handing me a folded paper, and murmuring that he had arrived at Bawan just a few moments earlier. I dismissed him and the others and went into the house to read the note. It was from Bob’s, and contained a radio message from the district officer who had just taken charge in Wau. The message said, ‘Return south of Markham at once. Bring all gear from Wain country.’
I sat down to consider what might lie behind this unexpected order. The instruction to bring all gear was clearly an indication that the Wain country was to be abandoned. It almost seemed that in Wau they expected the Japanese attack to be successful, and were withdrawing me while it was still possible to make contact. Again I cursed the lack of a wireless. If we should lose Wau, it was enormously important that someone should remain to watch Lae. If the new D.O. were taking this action for my safety (as he was in fact doing, I found later), a radio message would have told him that we could safely remain for a year or more in the mountains. As long as we kept contact with the kanakas they would protect us from the Japanese. Once lose touch, however, and one would hardly be able to blame them if they concluded that the Japanese had won the war.
Without a wireless I realized I could not argue. That slip of paper in my hand told me clearly what must be done. So I called all the boys into the house and translated the message into pidgin for them.
‘The district officer thinks our work is ended,’ I continued, ‘and we must do what he says. Now go and call the luluai, the tultul, the doctor-boy, and some of the old men. I want to talk to them.’
They filed silently outside, except Watute, who lingered a moment near the door.
‘Well?’ I asked. ‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Master, we are not afraid, you and I?’ he questioned, as though to clear up a doubt.
‘No, of course not,’ I assured him.
‘That is all that matters, then,’ he said. ‘Now, if the Number One says we must go, we must do as he says. But it is a pity. This is a good country, the Wain.’ And as he went down the steps he looked wistfully round at the blue hills and at the lengthening shadows in the valleys.
By the time the luluai and other natives of Bawan arrived it was dark, and Dinkila had lit the fire. My blankets, still damp from the drenching the night before, were steaming beside it. Dinkila, his glossy black skin gleaming in the firelight, moved quietly about the room, packing things for our journey next day, and occasionally turning his attention to the pots on the fire, in which he was preparing tea.
I told the Bawan men that I was leaving, but hoped to return one day. In the meantime they must bear in mind all the things I had told them. They must avoid the Japanese, and help any white man who came to them, just as they had helped me. Then, when the government returned, they would have a good name, they would be well rewarded. But if they did not heed my words it would be no use their appealing to me to intercede for them against the wrath of the government.
‘Oh, sorry, master,’ they replied. ‘Me-fella hearim finish talk belong you. Me-fella no can loosim talk belong you.’
Warning them that all the men must be ready to carry my cargo in the morning, I gave each one a calico loin-cloth and a couple of pounds of salt, and they lifted the canvas curtain across the doorway and vanished into the misty blackness of the night. I heard them ask Watute, at the door of the house-police, for a lighted brand from the fire to show them the path home, and I could hear their voices receding as they went down the track to the village.
‘Do you think they will remember what I have told them?’ I asked Dinkila.
That cynic shrugged his shoulders. ‘How do I know? Men forget everything sooner or later. I suppose they will remember for a while.’ And he busied himself again at the pots on the fire.
There was a case or two of meat left, which I did not feel disposed to carry back to Bob’s, so I opened one and distributed it and a good deal of other extra food to the police. I saw by the pile of native food they were cooking that their last night in the Wain was to be a memorable one, and upon returning to my house for tea I found that Dinkila seemed to have the same idea for me. The first course came on three plates, one piled high with potato-chips and rissoles, and the other two with cabbage, sweet corn, taro, sweet potatoes, spinach, and fried bananas. I could see him completing the preparation of an enormous dish of fruit salad to follow.
‘Good heavens!’ I exclaimed. ‘How many men do you think I am?’
‘You can eat it,’ he said. ‘You haven’t had a proper meal for days.’
He was right. I was terribly hungry, and finished the meal without any trouble.
Dinkila watched with approval.
‘Master ’e like sleep now,’ he said mischievously as he cleared away the last dish and replaced it with some black coffee. Then he ran quietly down the steps and up to the house-police, to get his own meal.
More than anything in the world I wanted to go to sleep but the report had to be written. Dinkila had left a whole kettleful of black coffee, and this helped me stay awake until eleven o’clock, by which time the report was complete in draft form, and it remained only to make a decent legible copy. I called out to the sentry
to see that everyone was out of bed by four o’clock next morning, and fell asleep without waiting to undress.
V
IT WAS morning. By lantern-light Dinkila prepared a cup of tea, while Watute supervised the lining out of the cargo by the other police, ready for the carriers. The air was cold, and a light breeze was drifting the mist up the valley. The fuzzy hair of the boys was silvered by countless tiny droplets of moisture. The police were reasonably warm in their sweaters, but the carriers, wearing for the most part only a loincloth, shivered as they adjusted ropes and carrying-poles. Those who were not working stood silently by, shoulders hunched and arms clasped across chests to conserve as much bodily warmth as possible. Jock, expecting to return to the Wain shortly, had left all his patrol gear in the camp, and that, together with my own equipment, made a total of twenty-five carrier-loads. The news of our departure would spread quickly, and I hoped the Japanese would not send a patrol to sit astride the Erap, or perhaps wait for us at the canoe landing. To forestall any such move, we would travel rapidly, sleeping the first night at Gain, and the following day pass straight through Bivoro to Kirkland’s. This would require a tremendous spurt, and we took ten extra carriers to relieve the men with the heavier loads from time to time.