by R. B. Shaw
That afternoon, after Pete left, Fang and I discussed the Jap letter and possible implications. Jake had paid a visit and we briefly explained to him in Pidgin the contents of the letter. Fang was slouched in a chair, a tanned beer gut protruding above his belt and fingers probing his sun-bleached beard. He studied the ceiling, deep in thought.
“Dutch aircraft, eh? This Jap must be serious. After all, we found his Zero in the Ramu.”
I nodded as I poured another beer. “I know what you mean. Dutch bullion ship, Dutch aircraft—there has to be a connection.”
Fang sat up and topped his beer. “If we found one of the Dorniers, it might give us a clue to the shipwreck.”
I nodded in agreement. “I’ll tell Lance to watch for the Dornier wrecks when over that region.”
Our discussion was interrupted as Pete edged in past the wire-screen door, struggling with a large carton of reference books. “Okay fellas, all you want to know is in that box. I’ll leave you with it. I’ve got some serious drinking and snooker to attend to.”
We thanked Pete and ushered him out of the mess quicker than he had meant to depart. He waved and drove off somewhat perplexed and puzzled. I phoned Lance immediately, explaining the situation and that we would need his assistance sifting through the volumes for clues.
It took about six hours of research before we had assembled a list of clues and references applicable to the DEI Shipping and Armed Forces during the war. Lance had arrived, grudgingly, and it was now well into night as he and Fang probed the pages unsuccessfully for records of merchant and military shipping between DEI and NG. I slammed shut the last book, shared out the remaining rum and again perused the pages of assembled notes.
We began carefully rearranging and linking the incidents and relevant data. Slowly, after much conjecture, a feasible sequence began to take shape. Each time Lance or Fang added another clue or scrap of information the theory was confirmed. We all fell silent, each deep in thought, the only sounds matches striking, pages turning and glasses filling. Jake said little, somewhat at a loss with his poor command of English, but arranged piles of books and kept us all supplied with drinks, smokes and snacks.
Lance was frustrated with the tedious research and angrily tossed a book back into the box. “Well, Dave, have we been wastin’ our time all night or have you managed to kick all this crap into some kind of shape?”
Deep in thought, I hesitated momentarily, caught unawares by Lance’s abrupt hostility. I casually stubbed out my cigar, returned his frosty gaze and picked up the pages before me. “I’ve got an idea. Seems feasible. Listen and see what you think.” I glanced around the room to see I had everyone’s attention before continuing. “This is the way I see it. Batavia, 5 March 1942, a hopeless last stand. The Dutch evacuated everything of value and destroyed all else. We’re all aware of ‘the scorched earth policy’. Large quantities of bullion had to be moved out. Shipping it to Australia was too risky—the Jap fleet was in command of the Timor/Arafura Seas. The Jap carrier-borne aircraft with the fleet had complete control of the sky. By this stage, the Dutch Air Force had been almost annihilated. The Dutch officials decided the only safe way to ship the gold was east to Australia via New Guinea.”
I opened a beer and flipped pages. “The Dutch were probably unaware that the Japs were already advancing from Rabaul down through the Bismarck Archipelago toward mainland New Guinea. The bullion ship probably reached the farthest corner of their colony at Hollandia. They then waited for the inevitable order, to transport the gold to the safety of a still-fighting ally—the Australians in Papua New Guinea.” I deliberately raised my voice, emphasising points. “The despatch order would have been issued prior to the capitulation of Batavia and the Dutch surrender on 8 March 1942, coincidentally the same day the Japs occupied Lae and most of the north coast of New Guinea.”
Fang interrupted. “Where do the Dorniers come in?”
“They were probably despatched from Hollandia for one of three reasons: one, to escort the bullion ship, maybe even when it hid up the Ramu; two, to find and warn the ship’s captain of the sudden Japanese occupation; and three, to search for the missing bullion ship. Coincidentally or otherwise, they were attacked and shot down north of the Bismarck Ranges on that same day, the 8th of March 1942. One crashed into the mountains, the other crippled and losing height. Both Zeros were also shot down. Yoshiro’s we found ditched in the Ramu. It may be possible to assume that Jap aircraft also discovered the bullion ship, camouflaged on the banks of the upper Ramu and sank it.”
Lance interjected this time. “It could be worth contacting this Jap pilot again. He may be aware of other action in the area at that time, including attacks on shipping.”
“Right, I’ll look into it,” I added before continuing. “A Dutch Naval officer and an Indonesian soldier survive the sinking and trek south over the mountains, away from the Jap menace, and eventually reach Tepsugl, also in March 1942. Father James said that the officer was incoherent and in a sweat over hostile Jap aircraft—probably a throwback to the sinking of his ship. The soldier didn’t speak English and when Father James asked him if they had been attacked by Japs and wrecked on the north coast, he nodded vaguely. He might not have even understood the question.
“Many years later the ship is re-discovered by Ramu natives who pilfer the wreck, hence the wide spread of Guilder coins and pure gold dust in that region of the upper Ramu and Bismarck foothills.” I was doodling a large letter ‘N’ on the pad as I continued. “The Nopondi Maselai legend of the Digendi tribes about Noah’s ark could be a mix of what they learned from Father James and what they found on the Ramu. According to legend, a lot of warriors died at the site. Understandable really—they were a long way from their home in the highlands and amongst hostile Ramu tribes. This Maselai was probably blamed because there would be no shame in defeat by a spirit.”
“Those bastards in the chopper knew about the gold,” said Lance with a fierce stare.
“Yes, another group is aware of the gold, possibly Malaysians, as they are Oriental and move about in a Bell 47 helicopter stolen from an oil company in Borneo. They are armed and hostile, as Lance found out when he accidentally stumbled onto them. They are also aware of us, judging by the letter on the body after that car chase.”
As I completed my run-down, everyone was quiet—they all seemed to accept my deductions. We spent another hour discussing the theory, adding more small clues, modifying and enlarging until it was unanimous that nothing else would fit the circumstances.
Finally, my temper flared. “We know that this theory must be right, but where the hell is the gold now?”
We were all tired; the alcohol had numbed our thinking. Having run out of further ideas, we stubbed our cigars and turned in for the night.
Jan’s unexpected phone call was brief. She was very serious and unwilling to talk at length over the phone, stating that “the document had been translated” and Lance, Fang, Jake and I were all in immediate danger. She said an urgent letter was following with further details.
We were all anxious to read Jan’s letter, so I met the Sydney connection flight next day and was rewarded with a letter marked ‘Urgent’, that had been carried ‘safe hand’ by the aircraft’s pilot, an old friend.
Jan explained she had tracked down the origin of the writing on the foreign documents, and that it was a very common Indonesian dialect from Java. Bahasa had now become the Indonesian National language. She had included a translation of the document. It read as follows:
Breto,
I will not delve further into the details of our previous conversation for obvious reasons. I will include a list of names of persons who appear to be unusually interested in our search areas and who have been asking questions regarding gold, Dutch coins and the ‘lost ship’. They are getting close to the truth and like others before them are interrupting the up-grading of our search, as well as continuing to hamper any aircraft operations over our search area. Your instructions are
as follows:
1. Find out how much of our operation is known to these people.
2. Secure any documents or evidence they have which may assist us and caused them to begin their investigation.
3. In the event of failure of these instructions and as a last resort, arrange disposal of the persons listed below:
David Stark, Aircraft Engineer Avmar Salvage.
Chris ‘Fang’ Mitchell, Marine salvage specialist, Avmar.
Lance Rudd, Pilot Tarangau Airlines.
Jacob Porowefu, Assistant Engineer Avmar Salvage.
Jan Harper, possibly unaware of proceedings—investigate.
A helicopter will be waiting for you at A-camp each week. Destroy this note when you have committed the names to memory.
(Sgd) Gen. Tharis NARANJUNGA
PEOPLE’S REVOLUTIONARY WING
My hand trembled as I read and then re-read the translated document. Not only did it confirm many of our suspicions, but it also indicated we were all in danger. Jan finished off with the inevitable ‘Be careful’, adding that she was trying to trace the history of the General named and what the ‘People’s Revolutionary Wing’ represented. She said she would forward any information as soon as it came to hand.
My throat was hoarse and dry; I called to Fang and he noticed the urgency in my call. I briefly explained the contents of the letter as he perused Jan’s translation of the document. Fang looked at me, wide-eyed and speechless.
“Explains a lot doesn’t it?” I said, then called Lance.
“I haven’t thought about it,” Fang replied. “I was rather stunned to see my name on what is virtually a hit list.”
“Yes, I must admit it caught me by surprise, but it seems like we got him before he got us. He would be the saboteur we’ve been looking for, or one of them.”
Lance walked in on the conversation and I handed him the letter without comment.
Fang nodded. “It all fits. They’re looking for gold and a ship as well as us—they say so in the letter. When Tarangau took over from the missions in these former restricted areas, they stepped-up the air service. The extra flights disturbed the Indonesian helicopter search, so they decided to do something drastic about it by arranging a few accidents.”
“Except for the Prinzberg 402 and Lance’s 206, they were genuine accidents,” I commented.
Lance was deep in thought. “One thing still doesn’t fit—why did these Indonesians attack me?”
“Well, we know they have an ‘A’ camp somewhere, it may be on the mountain. Maybe they were flying from their camp to the Ramu when they saw your signal fire. Once you saw them, they were committed to eliminate you, even returning next day for another attempt.”
Lance was visibly upset. His hands trembled as he lit a cigarette. “I’ll get those pricks yet,” he vowed.
Fang joined the conversation. “That may be so. Meantime, what about keeping your eyes open while over the foothills and Upper Ramu? Sooner or later, you’ve got to find the bullion ship, a wrecked Dornier or at least see a chopper to follow.”
Lance’s determined frown cracked. “Why always me? When are you lazy bastards gonna get off your arses and do somethin’?”
Unusually, Fang was at a loss for words. He looked ready for a rapid rearrangement of Lance’s teeth.
“We’re going to do just that,” I interjected. “So for Christ’s sake calm down and listen. Fang, Jake and I are flying into the Ramu for a ground patrol.” Fang was unaware of my plan and looked as surprised as Lance. “It’s time to get right to the centre of the most suspicious area of the Ramu, around Nukara village, where Jake got the information and coin.”
“How can we manage that?” Fang queried.
“Adrian’s impatient for results on the Tarangau sabotage. I’ve told him we have a lead and need to spend a few days in the Ramu on the pretence of doing an investigation.”
Fang’s brow furrowed for a moment, then without further hesitation he nodded. “Okay, what the hell are we waiting for?”
Adrian was wary of my renewed interest, but he was quick to agree with the Ramu investigation. Within days, Fang, Jake and I stood sweating at Nukara airstrip, assailed by lowland humidity and the stench of rotting jungle.
After four frustrating days of questioning, bribing and searching along river banks, we still had no new leads. The Nukara village chief didn’t allow us to approach their land. Entry to the village proper, located beneath the precarious slopes of the Nukara saddle, was also ‘tambu’.
On the fifth day, we returned to the airstrip base camp in readiness for the flight out next day, despondent over our lack of success. Fang and I sat back to back on our patrol box, shaded by the rough bush material and corrugated iron cargo shed. Fang and Jake were busy cleaning their pistols, so I took the opportunity to make up a rough summary. I would present the mock investigation report to Adrian later.
As I was writing, the pen momentarily trembled across the paper. The patrol box shook again as I turned to see what Fang was doing. It wasn’t Fang. I kept still and felt it underfoot—a mild earth tremor.
“Get out in the open! It’s a guria.” The tremor increased and the silence was broken by the creaking of the tormented sheet-iron on a nearby building. Water in the airstrip’s main tank sloshed back and forth, adding to the din.
Incredulously, we watched as impulses of energy rippled like waves across the surface of the grass strip. We crouched down, trying to retain our balance. A dull roar grew as the full impetus of the shake struck, jolting us violently and flattening our tent and a nearby bush material hut. The water tank gave up the battle, unable to contain the overwhelming imbalance of the water inside. The tank ruptured with a rending screech and 80 000 litres of water cascaded down the slope, demolishing another bush hut in its path.
We didn’t witness the effects of the final sideways jolt. We were all hurled savagely to the ground; so was every building within ten kilometres of the earthquake’s epicentre. The noise and motion ceased abruptly, leaving an enormous dense cloud of dust hanging in the sky. It gave the area the muted afterglow of a mock twilight.
I stood up first. “Everyone okay?”
Jake and Fang rose as an increasing tumult of sound came from the birds and animals in the surrounding jungle as they complained of the sudden disturbance. We surveyed the damage; not unexpectedly, every building and tank had collapsed, except a small brick government hut. Jake pointed to the north—an ugly red scar on the face of the Nukara Saddle was evidence that the earthquake had caused a major landslide. We weren’t aware that there’d been any loss of life, until a villager came panting into our campsite with the news. We were quickly alerted that the landslide had wiped out more than half of Nukara village. Three bodies had been recovered, but five more people were still missing, believed buried, including the village chief.
“Fang, we’ve got some fold-up trenching tools?”
“Yes, there’s a few in the toolbox.”
“Okay, throw in the first-aid kit, grab the box and let’s get over there.”
The journey to the village led through flattened and uprooted vegetation. The jungle had collapsed close to what must have been the epicentre and the native led us along his exit trail, hacking at remaining vegetation with a bush-knife. Myriads of insects flew aimlessly about like a living mist, all in search of their uprooted dwellings. A small creek had changed course and turned into a muddied torrent, choked with torn shrubbery and tangled vines. Luckily, we were able to cross using a fallen tree as a bridge.
As we entered the outskirts of the village, we could see where the once overhanging cliff had collapsed. Weakened by the downpour of the previous week, a huge mud-slide had coursed through the village like a living thing. Gravity kept the mud sliding downwards and further falls from the overhang continually added to the devastation.
The villagers were frantically digging with stone axes, shovels and wooden planks. The scene was chaotic, women sobbing, children screaming for lost p
arents and every able-bodied person digging in a frenzy. The villagers indicated the approximate position of the chief’s hut under the mound of mud and crushed greenery. We unfolded our trenching tools and began digging for possible survivors, or, more likely, bodies of victims.
After an hour, we recovered three bodies. Jake finally succeeded in reviving one youth by prolonged artificial respiration. I struck a large rock with the shovel and, as I stooped to lift it clear, there was a loud shout from Fang who had found the chief’s body nearby. A horde of natives lifted the body from the ground, but unfortunately, all of Jake’s determined efforts to save him failed.
The rock in my hands was extremely heavy, smooth and covered in mud. It gleamed where my fingers had wiped off the mud. Nervously, I rubbed the smooth shiny surface and ran my fingers over the uniform shape. I was holding a bar of gold. I laid it back in the mud, wiped the top surface and saw the deeply etched serial number. The stamped profile of Queen Wilhelmina graced the top corner, surrounded by the Dutch Royal Motto.
I was trembling but removed my shirt, pretending weariness, smeared mud on the bar, wrapped it in my shirt and carried it to the toolbox. Fang was alerted by my urgent gestures and I discreetly showed him the bar. Without a word, he moved to the suspect area and began to shovel mud like a man deranged. It wasn’t long before he too unearthed a bar, this one drastically reduced by filing. Also nearby were three Dutch Guilders. Frantically, we drove our shovels into the wall of mud. Jake joined us, after being told the reason for continuing the search.
The villagers informed us that all bodies had been retrieved, but Fang said we would continue just in case. We were no longer looking for casualties, our gold lust now over-ruling all else. Finally, utterly exhausted, we appeared to have recovered all the bullion the chief’s hut concealed. The villagers thanked us heartily and Jake was offered a village maiden for saving the life of a village elder’s son. Embarrassed, he declined. How would he explain a fourth wife to his three at Lufa?