by R. B. Shaw
I listened intently. “No—and there’s nothing on the road, unless he’s got the lights off.” I listened again—no car engine, but an irregular squeaking and sliding sound. “Fang!” I shouted. “I think he’s rolling down the hill with his engine and lights off!”
The silent vehicle crept into view in the half-light, the only noise the skidding tyres and squeaking suspension. Suddenly the driver released his clutch and the engine burst into life. He didn’t intend to stop for the Cruiser obstructing the track. The 4WD Patrol swerved toward the narrow gap between the Cruiser and the barbed wire. As the metal body forced the fence wide, a shower of sparks briefly illuminated the car’s silhouette.
The solid water-pipe bullbar on the green Patrol ploughed heavily into the side of Fang’s Cruiser with a hollow, resounding crash. The impact momentarily lifted the rear wheel of the Cruiser off the ground and shoved it sideways. The Patrol forced its way forward, mirrors, vents and door handles catching and tangling with the Cruiser’s rear bumper, before tearing through with a piercing screech. It then charged wildly down the hill, followed by an endless stream of obscenities from Fang. His performance was notable for its lack of repetition as he ran to his dented Thunderbox. The starter motor cranked and there was a savage snarl as the Cruiser’s 327 cubic inches of V8 thundered into life, flexing the body on its suspension. The squat and ungainly Cruiser assumed a new identity, like a wild beast ready to spring. Fang quickly turned the car downhill in the narrow confines of the track, then gunned the accelerator. We charged down the slope, swaying repeatedly through tight corners, and being pressed into our seats by the harsh acceleration.
Jan ran out in front of us. We stopped. “Can I come along?” she said.
“No!” I replied without hesitation, then thought twice about leaving her alone in the house. “Okay, hop in.”
We had caught up to the Patrol in a few minutes, the driver deliberately fishtailing to throw a dense cloud of dust about us. The deep western arm of the Asaro River was bridged by a temporary cable suspension bridge. First the Patrol and then the Cruiser charged across the loose planking, causing a terrible din and leaving the bridge whipping end to end.
The sun was rising by the time we reached the road into Goroka. We accelerated again, fishtailing and wheel-spinning in another attempt to overtake the swerving Patrol. The sheer brute power of the V8 Cruiser made itself felt as we raced along the straight section of the road at 120 kph. We were on the tarred roads of the town now, along with some early traffic, and gradually crept up on our quarry. Soon, only one sedan separated the two vehicles. Suddenly the Patrol locked its brakes, smoke pluming from the skidding tyres. With a grinding crash, the innocent sedan was suddenly sandwiched between the two heavy vehicles. The Patrol sped away but we had locked bumpers with the sedan and Fang anxiously reversed, dragging the rear bumper and boot-lid off the sedan. Once clear, he crunched into first gear and floored the throttle. The brutal torque twisted the body, the tortured tyres screamed and plumed pungent rubber smoke. The astonished motorist hadn’t as yet stepped from his sedan.
Moving at incredible speed, we caught sight of the Patrol again as it sped along the Mt Hagen Road toward the Daulo Pass. It was again deliberately fishtailing, causing clouds of dust to lift from the loose surface. Suddenly the Patrol braked savagely and swerved off the road through tall kunai grass. We followed, forward vision non-existent. A crushed wall of green vegetation fell before us and we suddenly tore through a barbed wire fence, already mangled by the fleeing Patrol. After bouncing over a broad trench, both vehicles trampled coffee trees and careered back onto the Highlands Highway.
The road steepened as we hit the lower slopes of the Daulo Pass, so we deliberately stayed close, waiting for a chance to pass. As we reached the first grade, the Patrol axle tramped around the corner with a shudder. Fang’s modified Cruiser romped up effortlessly, leaning over slightly on the bend. The Patrol kangarooed on the corrugations, the suspension stretching and compressing in rhythm with the uneven surface.
A shallow creek sprayed a large transparent blossom of water as one after the other, we accelerated through and up the muddy grade on the far side. The next corner caught the Patrol by surprise. It slewed sideways, on two wheels, then righted itself before taking the corner firmly. I realised what happened as Fang hit the brakes without results and my right foot automatically went for a non-existent brake pedal.
“Wet brakes,” Fang shouted as we skidded wide on the corner. He gunned the throttle and swung the wheel violently, then turned back to correct the opposite sway. Jan screamed as my door flew open. I had a fleeting glimpse of a 1000-foot drop into a gorge and swollen turbulent torrent. One hand gripping the panic handle, I slammed the door. We climbed an extremely steep muddy grade, following the Patrol’s two deep wheel ruts in the sticky quagmire.
We were doing less than 20 kph now; the V8 Cruiser was losing traction. Fang changed gears and we climbed ever higher into thin mist, using low range four-wheel drive. We were a car length from the Patrol when he began deliberately fishtailing again. Rooster tails of mud clods cascaded across the windscreen and bodywork with a muffled splattering sound. Our forward view was entirely obscured. Fang turned on the wipers and overstrained wiper arms reluctantly scraped at the semi-liquid muck, forming two translucent brown fans in front of us. Jets of washer water improved vision for a moment, until further mud-clods restricted our view again.
“Hang on!” said Fang, tightening his seat belt. “I’m going to rearrange his rear end.”
We braced ourselves as Fang accelerated into the rear of the Patrol with a sickening impact. The bullbar on Fang’s Cruiser was a heavy steel beam welded to an iron pipe frame and the damage inflicted was predictable. The Patrol’s rear bumper was boomeranged into the rear-mounted spare wheel and both were pushed through the back doors into the rear cabin. The unexpected collision caught the driver unawares and he fought to straighten the bucking vehicle. Again and again, Fang rammed the Patrol until the rear end was a battered wreck.
Suddenly Fang dropped back. Our washers were out of water, the windscreen quickly opaque with muddy slime.
Fang cursed loudly. “Have to hang back a bit.” It took ages before the light mist provided enough moisture for the wipers to clear the screen. We lost sight of the Patrol around a steep, climbing bend. Visibility was further restricted as we entered the actual cloud base. The only indication that our adversary was still ahead was the occasional rosy tint of the mist, tainted by the Patrol’s one remaining brake light. Despite poor visibility, we negotiated hazards one after another, fallen trees, potholes and bridges, before we again caught sight of the Patrol. Fang warned us of his intention, and, like a man deranged, rammed straight into the rear of the Patrol.
“That’s for smashing into my Cruiser, you bastard!” he yelled.
The engine was overheating, probably due to a mud-blocked radiator. The road widened and we jockeyed for position, the Patrol blocking each time we attempted to pass. Our best chance came on a corner. The massive chunky tyres of the Cruiser allowed us to undercut the curve and we were suddenly side by side. The driver slammed the ton and a half of Patrol into us. The fender buckled onto the spinning tyre, causing a continuous hideous wail. Fang fought to control the vehicle, two wheels on the road and two on the inside embankment. As we sped along, leaning dangerously near to rolling, Fang drove back into his rear flank. The bodywork of the Patrol buckled like tinfoil, the rear wheel damaged and wobbling eccentrically. The moment of truth approached—a small single lane log bridge over a deep culvert.
“Hang on!” I screamed.
Both vehicles moved as one, rubbing sides, attempting to drive through each other. Fang clashed back to second gear and almost pushed the accelerator through the floor. Slowly the brawny V8 pulled us ahead. I closed my eyes, convinced our outside wheels wouldn’t make it onto the bridge. Then there was the gratifying clatter of logs underneath. Looking out, I saw the Patrol toppling over the other edge
at high speed, the engine revving free. We braked as the Patrol slammed into the opposite bank, inverted.
Reversing back over the bridge, we stepped out into the deathly silence, the only sounds a shrill hiss of steam from the Patrol’s ruptured radiator and a monotonous ticking from a spinning front wheel. Fang was first to the wreck and immediately told Jan to stay back. It wasn’t a pretty sight. The engine had torn through the firewall, crushing the driver’s legs. His chest was impaled on the steering column and it needed only one glance to see that he’d breathed his last.
“Appears to be Malay. Oriental anyway,” said Fang as he retrieved my briefcase from the Patrol.
“What’ll we do about the driver?” Jan enquired.
“We’re not far from Chuave, Fang. Check the driver and car out first, then we’ll notify the police outpost that we witnessed a car crash. Leave the dirty work to them.”
I left the mangled Patrol and climbed back up to Fang’s Cruiser. The monstrous tyre cleats were tightly packed with clay. A heavy layer of mud coated his car; no paint was visible at all and the only bare patches were the wiper arcs on the windscreen.
As I scrubbed at the mud-clogged radiator with water and bunched grass, I looked around for Fang and saw him still inspecting the wreck. “C’mon Fang, we’d better get going.”
“Just a minute, I want to see what’s in his pockets.” Fang hesitated briefly before moving briskly up the slope, then handed me an ominous typed document. “No ID, but look at this. Can’t read a word. It’s that same Malay, except for down here.” Fang pointed at a list of names.
I was shocked—we were all on the list, including Jan.
“It’s signed by a General Tharis Naranjunga,” Fang added.
“I think we’ll have to let Jan in on everything now, for her own sake. Let’s discuss this on the way back.”
The Cruiser engine was reluctant to start in the rarefied air, then with a vicious snort the V8 roared into life, puffing a black cloud of over-rich mixture from the exhaust. As Fang drove us to Chuave, the solemn silence was gradually broken as we perused the document and explained the situation to a shaken and surprised Jan. To my amusement, she was enthralled and enthusiastic to help us seek our mysterious lost bullion ship. She studied the foreign document with interest and promised to have it translated as soon as she reached Sydney.
I filled in Jan and Fang on the filed gold dust and continued to air some of my assumptions. “We already know that one of these gold bars will fit in a tobacco tin and a youth can carry a bar in one hand. Being Dutch, it would be safe to assume that the weight is metric.”
“What are you leading up to?” asked Fang.
“Size and value per bar,” I said flatly and continued. “With those external dimensions and estimating the weight, the most likely ingot of that size cast before the War weighed five kilograms.”
“How much is that worth?” Fang queried.
“Over sixty thousand for one bar.”
Fang was flabbergasted. “You’re jokin’—sixty grand? A bar I could hold in one hand?”
“We’ll have to be careful. I’m sure we’re on the right track with the bullion ship theory. We’d better be ready for a confrontation with the rest of the Malayans. Sooner or later they’ll pay us a visit. They’re desperate for clues to the gold.”
We reported the ‘accident’ to the police at Chuave, then headed back for Goroka. Due to a landslide, the road was now impassable and we spent hours waiting for a grader to clear the fall. All this time, Jan subjected us to a relentless series of questions and suggestions.
Jan managed to get away to Moresby next day. I promised I’d visit her in Sydney at the first opportunity. Jan in turn said she’d use any spare time to help decipher any clues. First would be the documents we’d obtained from the foreign chopper and the body in the Patrol. I left the map and letter in her care, then kissed her goodbye.
CHAPTER Seven
As I arrived at the mess, Fang was trudging back from the kitchen, opening a can of beer. I handed him the letter I found in our post box on the way back from the airport.
“American stamps. Who the hell would this be from?” he said, studying the envelope.
“Why don’t you try opening it?”
Fang did so and read briefly. “Hey, it’s from the Jap pilot of the Zero we found at Prinzberg. I bet he wants to buy it.” He read on for a while and didn’t utter a sound, stony-faced and riveted to every word. “Shit, read that and see what you make of it.”
A colourful letterhead announced the origin of the letter as Kahunahai Hotel, Waikiki, Hawaiian Islands.
Dear Mr Mitchell,
Thank you for your letter regarding my former aircraft. I regret I couldn’t afford the price nominated and I have no place to store the Zero. However, I am willing to pay US$500 for the remains of my diary and log book, regardless of condition. I can only assume the oilskin pouch preserved its condition underwater in an airlock. I thought it was destroyed years ago. Your request for a brief history of the aircraft is as follows:
I used the aircraft initially on escort duty during the attack on Pearl Harbour. At that time, I was based on Admiral Nagumo’s flagship, the Akagi. I saw brief action in the Philippines and Malaya, before the onward advance of the Empire brought me to the Dutch East Indies. I took part in two raids on Darwin in Australia while the carrier strike force was based in the Arafura Sea.
While based on the Akagi, south of mainland New Guinea, I was sent as escort for a reconnaissance flight over Merauke and Mt Hagen. I was supposed to carry on to Alexishafen and then to the aircraft carrier Shokaku in the Bismarck Sea, off the northern coast. This was the last time I saw the assembled four aircraft carriers, Akagi, Kaga, Hiryu and Soryu. As you may be aware, they were all sunk by the Americans in the Battle of Midway a few months later.
In short, I will describe the loss of my aircraft.
En route Mt Hagen to Alexishafen, we passed through a low gap in the Central Ranges. I spotted and attacked two Dornier 24s, with disastrous results for both sides. We destroyed one Dornier and crippled the other. Last seen, it was losing height and looked as if it would crash land. My aircraft was damaged by cannon strikes and my wing man was killed and his aircraft destroyed. I ditched the Zero in the Ramu River where you recently salvaged it. If I remember correctly, the last entry in my log will be the take-off on the morning of 8-3-1942. I would appreciate discretion in this matter, because if my guests realised that their manager took part in the Pearl Harbour attack, it might have a detrimental effect on public relations. A reply regarding my offer for the log book would be appreciated at your earliest convenience.
Yours sincerely,
(Signed) Yoshiro NAGURA
Manager
KAHUNAHAI HOTEL, WAIKIKI BEACH
I handed the fascinating script back to Fang. “Quite a story. Too bad he can’t buy the Zero.”
“No worries. A museum in Australia has already offered us thirty grand for it.”
“You expected a lot more.”
Fang shrugged his shoulders and finished his beer. “Easy come, easy go. Little fish are sweet.”
“Don’t forget I’ve got a share in this. Let’s sit tight and see if a better offer turns up.”
“Agreed, but the strange part is his combat with two Dorniers. I thought the Japs and Germans were allies during the war. What the hell would two German aircraft be doing halfway round the world from their operational area in Europe?”
“Probably civil transports. Most of the pre-war airliners up here were German Junkers transports. Even after the war, till the late sixties, some were still in use.”
“Civil transports capable of destroying Zeroes? Not bloody likely!” Fang exclaimed.
“You’re right. We’ll have a talk to Pete as soon as he arrives. He’ll know the answer.”
Fang carefully folded the odd letter and tucked it away in his pocket.
*
That afternoon, as soon as Pete arrived,
Fang greeted him warmly and told him to sit down and rest.
“Why the hell are you blokes so helpful?” said Pete as Fang handed him a beer.
“What’s a Dornier 24?” said Fang flatly.
Pete hesitated, wrinkling his brow. “A Dornier DO 24. It was a long-range reconnaissance seaplane, sometimes used as a bomber. Why?”
Fang ignored Pete’s enquiry. “A German military aircraft then. Why were they in New Guinea?”
Pete smiled confidently. “There were none in New Guinea …” a hesitation, “… not that I know of, anyway. What’s all this about?”
“Fang got a letter from the Jap Pilot who flew the Zero we found at Prinzberg. He reckons he was in combat with two Dorniers. He received some damage and was forced to ditch in the Ramu.”
Pete gave a hearty laugh. “No way. Sure he doesn’t mean further over into West Irian or Indonesia?”
“Why, would that make a difference?” said Fang.
“Yes, the wartime Dutch East Indies used about thirty of them throughout the campaign against the Japs, including patrols into what is now known as West Irian.”
At the mention of the Dutch, Fang was suddenly alert. “A German aircraft used by the Dutch?”
“Yes, the first two were designed and built in Germany to specifications from the Dutch East Indies. The other Dutch Dorniers were built in Holland under licence before the war. I’m fairly certain none operated this side of the border. When was this combat supposed to have taken place?”
Fang opened the letter and thumbed his way through the type-written pages. “March 1942.”
“I’m not certain, but I think Batavia had fallen by then. All the Dorniers had been destroyed, except for a few which carried VIPs to Broome in West Australia. They were later sunk at their moorings in a Jap air raid.”
“Have you got any books on the subject, Pete? It might make interesting reading.”
“Yeah, should have a few war books covering the period. I’ll drop ‘em round later on my way to the club.”