Long Way Place (Cannibal Country Trilogy, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  Holmes had done very well in the Boer War and was experienced in the handling of raw recruits. There had been any number of part-trained units landed at Cape Town at the turn of the century and he had some idea of what they could be trusted to do.

  "In the circumstances, Admiral, I am inclined to rely more on your blue-jackets to form the initial landing-parties, especially where they must go in across a beach or small wharf. Thing is, sir, you may get boat-loads isolated for a few hours at a time and having to use their initiative. Better your petty officers than my part-time sergeants. Most of the NCOs are Territorials, reservists - keen enough, but parade ground soldiers, don't you know. A year from now and you won't recognise them, but for now I had rather keep them close under the eye of my professional, experienced officers."

  Admiral Patey could not disagree. He lacked any knowledge of Australian troops and was quite certain that the Navy was superior to the redcoats.

  "Then Berrima must go into Rabaul and land your men there, Colonel Holmes. Take the dockyard and town and spread out into the plantations as becomes possible. Landing parties from the destroyers to assault Herbertshohe and then find and capture or destroy this damned wireless installation before it can talk to the Germans and tell them what we are doing."

  Captain Meikle-Anstruther minuted the change to the plan. They had not noticed Herbertshohe on their tiny chart and had made no provision for its capture.

  "Beg pardon, Colonel, but the troops on Berrima include a number of men with experience of the, ah, 'Outback', I believe rural Australia to be called. The Navy has, I believe, no such knowledge. Finding the wireless station in the, ah, 'bush', will not be a simple task I suspect. I have some memory of trying to lead a patrol through the jungles of the Arakan, sir - one was fortunate indeed to have visibility of as much as fifty yards."

  What was to be done?

  It was to be a naval operation, the problem was theirs to solve.

  "We must have local experience, gentlemen. It will be pointless to try to recruit a German settler in Herbertshohe. Say what you like about the German, he is not commonly a traitor. And we could not trust natives, besides not knowing the 'bat'."

  The captain smiled triumphantly, having used his Indian knowledge to confound them. Sadly for him several of the naval officers present had served out of Indian ports and knew the word to mean 'local language'; they did not beg for an explanation.

  "So we need a local man but have none aboard, gentlemen."

  There was a chorus of agreement with the Admiral's wisdom.

  "Excuse me, sir, but is not this policeman chappie a local resident? I mean, sir, that he is with us because he knows the natives."

  "Good point, Glossop!"

  The captain of the Sydney smiled his satisfaction. He was in the promotion zone and wanted to be posted to a battle-cruiser in European waters, where the action would be and a Rear-Admiral's hat could be won. His admiral's assessment would be vital to him.

  "Where is this fellow?"

  "Aboard Berrima, sir."

  "Bring him across, let's see him."

  Ned appeared two hours later, a pulling boat bringing him across to Australia. He jumped out of the whaler and ran up the ladder easily, hat in hand, watched from the bridge.

  "He's done that before," the Admiral commented. "Used to a big ship, not just local schooners."

  Ned stepped onto the bridge and put on his hat so that he could salute.

  "Chief Inspector Hawkins, sir."

  There was almost no roll on the battle-cruiser in the sheltered waters off New Britain but the Admiral noticed that Ned stood easily, casually, fully at home.

  "Navy, Chief Inspector?"

  "Red Duster, sir. Third Engineer, ticketed."

  "Good. Going to join up now that there's a war, Mr Hawkins?"

  "If I am permitted to, sir. The Governor of Papua ‘as told me that I am under ‘is orders, that as a policeman I am not free to let him down. There are only a few of us in the Islands, sir, especially with experience of plantations and policing and machinery, sir. I was running a plantation and a wharf down the coast, sir as well as commanding the local force under the Resident Magistrate."

  "Seen any activity, Mr Hawkins?"

  "Missionary and ‘is family chopped a couple of years back, sir, down the coast a day or two from my place. Dealt with it, sir."

  "Bad business?"

  "Very, sir. But they won't do it again."

  Patey nodded his approval - this little chap would do.

  "We shall be making a landing at Herbertshohe, tomorrow, Mr Hawkins. There will be opposition, we believe, and we must discover the location of the wireless station."

  "Low cliffs round ’ere, sir. If it's the same at Herbertshohe then the wireless masts will be inland, up a bit further to give better range. Not too many miles, because they would need a cart track to get their equipment and rations in and out. Wet season streams run deep and fast, sir, and need big bridges, which cost money and ain't easy to build. So they'll be in the first lot of hills you come to, and not too far up. Look for a clearing on the first ridge-line, would be my advice, sir."

  "I want you to do the looking, if you are willing, Chief Inspector."

  Patey was not certain that he could give a policemen orders.

  "It's a war, sir. I do as I am told by my superiors."

  Murray had made a point of this, begging Ned to cooperate as far as he possibly could. They needed to make a good impression on the new power that had appeared in their bailiwick.

  "Thank you, Mr Hawkins. I shall send you over to Parramatta and you will join their landing party in the forenoon."

  Ned was led away, ambled back to the boat, looking interestedly about him.

  "What was that accent, does anyone know? It's familiar under the Australian."

  There was silence until a signalman begged permission to speak.

  "Hampshire, sir. My family's from Wickham, sir, and I grew up with it. I reckons 'e's from over towards Southampton, sir."

  "Thank you."

  They watched Ned casually salute again as he was escorted off of the ship.

  "Slack - no idea of proper military courtesy."

  "He is a civilian, Colonel Holmes. But, sir, he carries himself well. Put a rifle in his hands, sir, and you will see a fighting man. One I would prefer to have on my side, too!"

  Holmes was unconvinced - he looked just like the Boers had, no idea of how to have a proper war.

  Ned boarded the tiny destroyer and was taken to the wardroom and sat down in a corner, out of the way. A steward brought him a mug of tea, thick and sweet, and left him to wait.

  A young officer appeared, a lieutenant who announced that he was the captain. Ned saluted him, aware that on board his own ship the captain was senior to everyone, though on shore he was a full rank his junior. He did his best to be formal.

  "I have been sent to join your landing party, sir. I know the Papuan coast, though I've never been up here. More usefully, I can speak Pidgin, and that will be more or less the same here as it is over on the Papua Side."

  "I have Admiral Patey's order, Chief Inspector, but we will have a problem on shore. I have been given twenty-five naval reservists from the Berrima and they will be commanded by Lieutenant Bowen and Midshipman Buller. Doctor Pockley is also going with them - he's army but knows the trade - bush experience, I gather. There will be a small party from the other two destroyers under a Commissioned Gunner, Yeo, I believe. Thing is, sir, you outrank all four, by a long way - but you are not in command."

  "I'm a copper, sir. I don't give orders to soldiers because I'm a civilian. I know the bush, I can give advice. I will, I hope, carry a rifle as well as my own side-arm - and I will take orders on when to fire on this occasion."

  "Thank you. We will land you at Kabakaul, a bit down the coast from the big mission next to Herbertshohe, and then you must go inland to find the wireless station. The word is, and I am told the intelligence is good, that it is at a pl
ace called Bitapaka, at the end of a graded cart track."

  Information from onshore almost had to have come from Ralum, from Queen Emma's people. Her sister Phoebe was married to the Englishman, Parkinson, who had a plantation just inland. Emma herself was two years dead, in Monte Carlo, of all places, but her people were still powerful, and had no love for the German way of doing things.

  "Will any of your own crew be landing, sir?"

  "I muster sixty-eight men and five officers, Chief Inspector. I have a four inch gun and three twelve pounders and three machine guns, as well as torpedo tubes - I have barely enough men to work the ship!"

  Ned had heard of the River Class destroyers – the Navy was always a topic for shipboard conversations - a compromise designed for coastal waters and estuaries and neither a gunboat nor a true torpedo-boat destroyer. Their top speed was only twenty-five knots and they had just three torpedo tubes - he would not like to be in one of these in a fleet action where they would be expected to attack the enemy dreadnoughts. They were quite well gunned and would be able to deal with pirates off the shores of China or bandits up the rivers, but they were deeper draught than the purpose built gunboats. It seemed likely that the English had launched them, tried them out, found they were no good and had passed them on to the colonies as a generous free gift.

  "Seven hundred tons, I believe, sir?"

  "A fraction more, Chief Inspector."

  "I'm a ticketed engineer, sir - Third. Can I have a look round, for old times' sake?"

  Ned was sent below in the company of the steward to be introduced to the Commissioned Engineer, a man who, like Ned, had worked his way up from the bottom.

  They landed next morning unopposed and split up at the shoreline, one party to make their way to Herbertshohe, the other, with Ned, to hunt for the wireless station. There was a small Chinese store nearby and Ned wandered inside and greeted the young man running it.

  A brief conversation and Ned assured the storekeeper that they were here to stay, that the German days were finished, in the Islands and back in Tsingtao. It would seem that the Japanese were to take over the Treaty Port and had already sent a naval force for the purpose.

  Ned hinted that Chinese storekeepers who cooperated would be 'looked after', but any who did not like the new order would be free to go back to China.

  The thought of going to a Tsingtao that was under Japanese occupation was quite sufficient. Pen and paper appeared and an adequate sketch of the location they needed was quickly handed over.

  "Not as simple as we were told, Lieutenant Bowen. There's the track to Bitapaka, maybe two hours away, but beyond that there is Toma, up in the hills, at the edge of the Baining Mountains. It seems like the Governor has set up a new Administration post there, with a mobile wireless as well."

  "Trustworthy information, Chief Inspector?"

  "He intends to stay ‘ere, after we take over, and ‘e knows that I will be the senior policeman for a while..."

  "Then he would be a fool if he lied to you. Mr Yeo, send a boat back to Parramatta with this map and the note I am about to write."

  Yeo sent his party off and set up a small camp and sentry post at the beach while Bowen led his people inland.

  "I've asked for a much bigger landing than we first intended, Chief Inspector, with a gun. This would seem to be the most likely place for a fight - and we've got first share!"

  Ned had not realised that he was growing old - but he found no schoolboy enthusiasm left in him.

  "Yes, sir. I would recommend that we throw a small scouting party out on either side of the track, the bulk to follow a couple of hundred yards behind. The lads in the bush must keep within sight of the track, so probably won't get more than fifty yards in. The plantation land ‘as clear paths under the trees and the grass will be cut - so no ambush there. Bush will be different, depending on whether it's been logged over."

  "One moment, Chief Inspector - when you say 'bush', do you mean jungle?"

  "Pretty much, I suppose. The rubber people told me about the jungle in Malaya, and that's a bit different. We get a Dry Season, and you don't over in India, so it seems. It's Dry now, will be for two or three months yet, and that will make it clearer under the trees."

  "I see... Not exactly the same. What about tigers? And snakes?"

  "No big animals in the Islands. None. If it stands more than knee height it's a man. Few goannas - running lizards, not big but they stand up to run and make a noise in the bush. Snakes? Not many, and almost all of them where it's dampish - you won't find 'em where it's dry, they don't like it. Spiders? If they're big and hairy then give 'em the go-by, but you can forget about them mostly. Puk-puks will hang out in the swamps - and if you come across a river running into the sea with mangroves - which means a good bit of mud - then watch for the big buggers. I've seen a skin that was twenty-seven feet, nose to the tip of its tail, and damned near six feet across the shoulders, and I've been told of bigger Marines - though the bloke who told me was pissed out of his skull at the time."

  "'Puk-puk'?"

  "Crocodile."

  "Twenty-seven feet?"

  "Yep!"

  "Christ!"

  "If you come across one, don't run - they're quicker than you over the first few yards, especially in mud - which is where you're going to meet 'em! Shoot - a heavy revolver will do the job if you can aim. Couple of knobs, back of the skull - take a cross-line, a diagonal, from them to the eyes and shoot where the lines intersect. Skull's thinner there and you can hit the brain, even with a handgun, provided she's a forty-five."

  "Have you done it?" The midshipman was fascinated, looked wide-eyed at Ned.

  "Not me, not bloody likely, mate. I keep me eyes open and me fingers crossed. I've never seen anything bigger than eight foot and that forty yards away, an easy shot. I've talked to men who have, and who didn't enjoy themselves at all. Back in Cairns we drank to blokes who didn't shoot quite straight enough, twice that was. Don't go looking for them - keep out of the swamps unless you really ‘ave to go in."

  His audience was convinced. Had he bragged of the monsters he had shot they would have discounted his tales; telling them that he would not take the chance made him far more believable.

  "Will the Germans have gone deep into the bush, sir?"

  "I can't say for sure, but I wouldn't expect 'em to. The local people here will probably believe in bush demons, same as over on the Papuan side. So they'd not find it easy to get their troopers to go far off the tracks."

  "I thought the missionaries had turned them into Christians."

  "I talked to a couple of locals about that, a year or two back. They said that the missionaries were good blokes, in their way, but the bush demons was ‘ere first."

  "Any last advice before we move out, Chief Inspector?"

  "Water - drink plenty, keep yourself full of it. Refill your bottles any time you pass a stream running downhill - don't drink water from the flat, where it's had a chance to pick up crap. As a rule of thumb, watch what you piss out - if you're yellow, you ain't drinking enough, and you'll go down within two days. Take your quinine pills - they don't taste good, but they won't kill you and malaria will. Any scratch that draws blood, even a single drop, put carbolic on it, cover it. What do you say, Captain Pockley?"

  The doctor agreed.

  "I've seen bush infections. I've amputated arms because of a scratched finger that was left uncovered for a day. Any blood, any at all, and come straight to me. As for quinine and water - the Chief Inspector is right, dead right, and the important word there is 'dead'!"

  The sailors listened and nodded and agreed.

  "Just watch them, Mr Hawkins - as soon as they get busy they'll look at a scratch and see it's trivial and they'll ignore it, just as if they were back at home. You can't tell them!"

  "Seen it, doctor - green boys coming up from South. Amazing how many of them get called Nine-Fingered Jack!"

  They walked up the track, quietly - half of the older men, the Reser
vists in their thirties, had seen service in South Africa; a couple had been posted to West Africa and had fought minor skirmishes there. The youngsters took their mood from the experienced men.

  A mile past the plantations and the bush closed in, true primary rain-forest, tall trees, a canopy overhead, a little scrub cover, visibility reduced because the ground was rough, generally rising but with small humps and dips of ten or twenty feet.

  "Pass the word, Mr Bowen, if you would, that where the track ‘as been cut through and the trees ‘ave been cleared back there's more in the way of bushes and thorns. If the side of the track is clear, then it ‘as been cut back recently - it only takes days to grow again. So where there's no cover, there's a good chance of Germans."

  An hour, two miles perhaps, and a scout brought word of a trench at the side of the track.

  Cautious observation showed it was empty.

  "Sir!"

  A petty officer, whispering and pointing to the cover of the tall trees behind the trench.

  "Two men, sir, one of them's white. You can just see they've got rifles, sir, bringing them up to the aim, by the looks of it."

  "Open fire."

  Six shots, a shout of pain, surrender.

  "One dead black man in uniform, sir. One white officer who's got one in the hand. Bad one, too. Two black men with their hands up."

  Bowen spoke German, had been chosen for the job because of the fact. A brief conversation with the shocked wounded man and he pushed him out onto the track, sent him forward shouting an order.

  "I've told him there's a battalion of seven hundred behind us, we're just the advance party. He's ordering the rest of his company to surrender."

  "You can't bloody well do that, Lieutenant! He's bleeding like a stuck pig! He's mine!"

  Pockley ran into the open, took hold of the wounded man and pulled him into a clear space at the side of the track, shouting for his orderly.

  "Get into cover, Doctor Pockley!"

  "Bollocks!"

  Within ten minutes Pockley had amputated the remains of the German officer's hand and had dressed the wound - and saved his life.