General Curtis stared down his nose, ignoring George’s request, probably not even hearing it.
“Captain Hawkins, I am a general. You are a captain. When I say get rid of the excess machine guns, you say ‘yes, sir’. That’s all I want to hear!”
“Yes, sir. I am under the command of Major-General Higgins, sir. He has ordered me to carry the machine guns. He instructed me that I was to perform a service for you, sir, but that I remained on his establishment, sir.”
“Is that right, Colonel Billingham?”
Billingham murmured that it was.
“Well, if you belong to Higgins, then he can supply you with billets and stores. You get nothing from my people. What do you say to that?”
George laughed.
“Goodbye, sir. I will take my men back to the corvette.”
“You cannot do that. I order you to remain and perform your duty.”
George smiled and remembered his schooling, spoke as precisely as he could.
“Certainly, sir. I shall require billets for three days; the services of three motor trucks; rations for six weeks; ammunition for all of my weaponry. I shall also need a wireless and its operator and a tent. I shall need tents as well for my men to form a base camp along the Laloki River. Initially, I shall take the men out in platoons, seeking out the best route up the gorge and over the hills to Sogeri. It will then be my intent to shift the base camp up to the Sogeri area. It will probably be the case that I shall need another half-company to man that base, sir.”
“Oh, is that so? I am to provide all this? And how soon will you have the route for my road?”
“Never, sir. It may just be possible to build a road up to Sogeri and then a very few miles further. It is impossible to build a road across the Owen Stanleys.”
George listened to the outburst and advanced the same arguments as always. After half an hour General Curtis started to listen.
“The best thing, sir, will be for you and your staff to walk up to Sogeri as soon as I am established there. You will then be able to see for yourself what can and cannot be done.”
General Curtis did not think that they needed to go to quite such an extreme; he knew how high the hills were and did not intend to walk them.
“I trust my staff officers, Captain Hawkins, to perform the many tasks that I cannot for lack of time. Two of my people will join you.”
“Yes, sir. Properly equipped, sir, of course. Have you automatic carbines for them? They must be able to protect themselves and be useful in the bush.”
“My staff officers have been carefully selected, Captain Hawkins, from the best. They can look after themselves and will report to me on the performance of your Militia, and I can assure you that if their report is negative, then you will be a private soldier within the week, Hawkins. Inside one bloody week, do you hear me?”
“I think most of Konedobu can hear you, General. You are certainly shouting loud enough!”
“Do not be impertinent, Hawkins!”
“It’s my natural state, General. You may have noticed that the Diggers up here have little patience with bullshit, and no tolerance for ignorance and stupidity. If you want the job done, General, then allow me to do it. If you won’t let me do it, then do it yourself.”
George knew he was pushing hard, probably to the limit of the General’s temper. He was also sure that if the General had been able to find volunteers to do the job, then he would not have called for help from Down South. The only people available and qualified on the Papuan coast would be the kiaps, the local administrators, almost all ex-military men; the overwhelming bulk of them would have refused to leave their posts in the bush in a time of emergency.
“I have a long memory, Captain Hawkins. You may have the power now to insult me, but, one day, my time will come.”
“It won’t, General Curtis. If you are any good, you will lead your Diggers from the front, and that means you’ll probably die from fever. If you ain’t any good, then you’ll be relieved and sent South in disgrace. Either way, I’ve got more on my side up here than you have. Hawkins is a bigger name than Curtis up in the Islands, which is where I shall be.”
“Get out of my office, Captain Hawkins. Put all your requisitions through Colonel Billingham. I expect you to be out of Port Moresby in three days.”
“Provide what I need and I’ll be out in one, General. I’ve never spent much time here in Konny. I don’t like the place or the people it attracts to it.”
Colonel Billingham was in a state of shock. He was a career soldier and expected the war to give him two promotions at least; he intended to be a major-general, substantive, by war’s end. Having been present at an interview that Curtis would regard as a humiliation would do his prospects no good at all.
“What an absolute prick that one is, Colonel! Complete contrast to Wythenshawe, the man before him. If some generals can be useful, thinking men, why can’t they all? Trucks and drivers first, Colonel, then we load them at the QM and get out of here. If we can be up Two Mile Hill and out to Boroko by late afternoon, I shall be happy.”
Colonel Billingham broke into a trot as he led George to the transport pool. He would be happier as well if George was far distant.
Three trucks, two of them three-tonners, one a smaller thirty-hundredweight carrier. Their drivers, all with long experience on the Papuan Coast, were dressed in shorts and singlets, wore their own slouch hats from civilian days; they were all overweight, carrying beer bellies. They took great pains to ignore the colonel.
“Right, you horrible buggers! I’m George Hawkins and you are going to take me as far out as you can, along the Laloki River, up the valley towards Sogeri.”
The fattest of the drivers responded.
“Get you to the bottom of the track that leads up to the top, George. There’s a stretch there that could be turned into a roadway going most of the way up, zig-zagging; seen it done behind Cairns. If you can get a couple of bridges in – well, more like a dozen, cobber – then we could get all the way up. Walked it five years since, just having a looksee, in case it could be done. There’s gold up there, for bloody certain, George. I ain’t seen it, but it’s got to be there. I’ve heard of you, and your old man, of course. You’re the bloke who walked out to Salamaua, ain’t you?”
George nodded – that had been a good trick, it seemed. Every bugger in New Guinea had heard of it.
“Right. The two big wagons take the half-company. The small one comes with me to the QM.”
Colonel Billingham guided them around the randomly-placed prefabricated huts intersected by a maze of dirt tracks that made up the heart of Konedobu. The builders had selected every piece of higher ground to place their huts, ignoring concepts of streets and straight lines for the need to keep out of the mud in the Wet Season.
“Quartermaster, Captain Hawkins. Armoury is four huts away.”
“Thank you, Colonel. If you would just sign up the QM’s requisition sheets, sir, then you could go across to the Armoury and arrange for our needs there. It would make the process quicker.”
The warrant officer in charge of the QM stores listened in amaze and gathering glee, whipping out a stack of blank forms and pointing out where to sign. He watched, almost unable to breathe, as Billingham put his name down a dozen times. He ran to open the door for Billingham as he left.
George slapped his hand down on the signed forms, grinned at the storeman.
“I need full bush gear for forty-two blokes, mate; all of the extras on top of basic uniform. Rations for two months; waterproof groundsheets; extra canteens.”
“You got them, Captain.”
George ceremoniously handed him the signed blank sheets.
“All yours. You ain’t getting me to countersign them – don’t even think about it!”
“No need, Captain – these will do nicely, mate.”
“Don’t get Billingham court-martialled until I’m up the road, mate.”
“No worries. No questions comin
g his way until the next stocktake, mate. Then every missing item is on his head, and under his signature.”
“Good on yer. If you need to, give my name to the Bank of New South Wales, down in Cairns – it’s got branches in Queensland. Drop in and see the manager and tell him I will guarantee you – he’ll set you up an account, no questions asked, provided you’re in civvy clothes. Don’t go in uniform. Steamships in Moresby act as an agency for the bank.”
George was fairly sure that a senior quartermaster would need to go South several times a year, incidentally taking his ill-gotten gains with him.
“Right, cobber! Get your wagon pulled up to the side doors, Captain Hawkins.”
The warrant officer shook his head at seeing a small, thirty-hundredweight truck. He called to one of his men and had a second truck brought round.
“We need to leave a bit of space for extra rounds from the Armoury, mate.”
“I’ll send me other truck across, George. What do you need? Armourer’s a mate of mine. I’ll give him the whistle to look after you.”
George made his way across to the Armoury a few minutes later, allowing time for the message to go ahead of him.
“Three-o-three rounds for the rifles and Lewises; nine mil for Lanchesters, if you’ve got any. Forty-fives for my Thompson Gun. We could use more grenades as well. Have you got anything interesting? Something we could use in the bush. Hand held but with a heavy round. We had a Boys Rifle over at Lae and that came in handy for taking a poke at lorries and knocking down officers.”
The warrant officer in charge of the Armoury was a small arms specialist, very formally trained and expecting to be commissioned before too long. He was most precise in speech and manner.
“Nothing like that, sir. We have the ordinary grenade thrower, but that is very limited in forested areas, sir. The charge is as likely as not to hit a tree and bounce back to you. Two inch mortar, sir, but that is heavy to carry and needs two or three men – it’s better suited to sitting in a trench. The Americans have some new ideas, sir, but we have none of their stuff. Where are you posted, sir?”
George explained.
“Ah, I see. If I can, sir, I will see who has what in the Moresby area. There’s several Militia units who have their own gear with them. It’s normally possible to arrange a swap with them, they need modern weaponry. There’s a bunch up from Southern Australia equipped with ancient Lee-Metford rifles – Boer War stuff, would you believe, the later sort, converted for smokeless powder. If they have anything you could use, then I can arrange for them to get Lee-Enfields in exchange. I’ve got the rifles in stock already, been waiting for a convenient time to give them across.”
‘Convenient’ was another term for ‘profitable’, George suspected.
“Has Colonel Billingham signed the requisitions, mate?”
The warrant officer lost his carefully acquired accent in his enthusiasm.
“Blanks, by Christ! Never known the like in me life! What did you do to him?”
“Promised to get out of his hair, that was all. If I get everything I want, then I’ll stop taking the piss out of his general and let him get back to the quiet life by the book.”
“More important to kiss arse than to fight a war. Always has been in the Army, mate. It’s all right for you amateurs who come in just to do the fighting – you don’t understand what’s important in this world. Polish the brass; crawl to the general; get your next promotion and a soft posting a thousand miles south of the Japanese; that’s what life in the Regular Army’s about, mate. I’ll see what I can do.”
George walked back to the huts that had been made available to the half-company, the men laid out on their bunks, waiting for something to happen.
“Lieutenant Jerningham. Baker. Here, now.”
They stood in front of him, waiting apprehensively.
“Follow me.”
George led the pair to Colonel Billingham’s office.
“Sir, disciplinary matter, if you would be so good. Have you received the report from Captain Bonham of Bunbury corvette, sir? It will have been routed through his Senior Naval Officer, sir.”
Billingham enquired of his aides, was able to trace no documents.
“Good. We may be able to keep this one quiet, sir. The Army does not want a court-martial that will make trouble with the Navy.”
Colonel Billingham wanted no trouble of any sort, cringed at the mention of a court-martial.
“This fool of a sergeant, sir. He was warned repeatedly that the ship was in submarine waters and that the blackout must be absolute and yet chose to parade men on deck and inspect them by the light of an electric torch.”
“He did what?”
Billingham was genuinely shocked; he looked to Lieutenant Jerningham, received a nod of confirmation. The colonel had travelled north in a convoy that had lost a ship to a submarine, could not believe that any soldier could behave so foolishly.
“What have you to say for yourself, Sergeant?”
“Sergeant Baker, sir. On parading the duty squad of machine gunners I made a full and proper inspection, as is Regulation, sir. I was interrupted before I had completed that duty, sir, with a number of offensive and insulting comments that constitute abuse, sir.”
“On the open deck?”
“That was the place of duty, sir, and was where the inspection must take place, sir. Duty, sir. Regulations!”
“At night?”
“Yes, sir. That was why the electric lantern was necessary, sir, to ensure that the men were clean and correctly uniformed. Regulations, sir!”
“Sergeant Baker, if you go to court-martial then you will be charged with hazarding one of His Majesty’s ships. That must result in a firing squad.”
Baker was unmoved by the threat.
“Not for duty, sir. Regulations say men must be inspected sir. Can’t inspect in the dark, sir.”
Possibly for the first time in his successful career, Colonel Billingham had met a man more pig-headedly stupid than himself. He was amazed, knew that he must either break Baker or see him promoted over his head.
“I shall speak to the Navy, Captain Hawkins. They will not want the fuss and bother and publicity of a court-martial, or so I hope. It can be avoided if I am shown to have taken proper action.”
George agreed – a court-martial must be public, must become known in both services and could create bad-feeling between them.
“Good. Baker, you are demoted. To private. Rifleman in a Militia battalion. You will go to your unit with the worst possible report and will be watched every minute of the day. Step out of line and you will be for the glasshouse. You have lost all good-conduct awards. I can assure you that you will stand your share, and more, of sentry-go and fatigues, and when the battalion goes into the field, you will be well at the front.”
Colonel Billingham called for his orderly, gave his instructions.
“Get those stripes cut off before he leaves the building.”
George watched in satisfaction.
“Thank you, sir. Now, sir, Lieutenant Jerningham, here, is possibly unsuited for the rigours of the bush. I suspect he would do well in HQ.”
Colonel Bellingham immediately enquired of Jerningham’s family, soon discovered they had money and were among the leaders of society in Brisbane.
“I can certainly find a more appropriate place for you, Lieutenant. Captain Hawkins, you need a replacement second in command, I believe. Perhaps a man who is more of the rough and ready type? A sergeant as well?”
“If you would be so good, sir. If you could find men with experience in the Papuan bush, that would be ideal, sir.”
George was fairly sure that any local Diggers would have fallen foul of the colonel, probably for laughing loudly.
“You are to be in Boroko overnight?”
“Probably for two days, sir. Give the men a first feel for the country, sir.”
“I will send your replacements up.”
George made his thanks
again, sure he would be given two men thoroughly disliked by the colonel. He thought that made it likely that they would be useful.
Mid-afternoon saw a convoy of trucks crawling up Two Mile Hill from Moresby to the first plateau around the village, rapidly becoming a suburb, of Boroko. They took an hour to travel the five miles up the dirt road that curved up Two Mile Hill and made a circuitous way north. They parked up outside the police station where there was a stretch of flat land good enough for their tents. There was a supply of safe water in the station.
George called the men together, sat them down informally.
“There’s a small market a hundred yards away. If you buy fruit there, wash it thoroughly before you eat it. You ain’t used to the illnesses up here and can’t risk them. Do not, under any circumstances, buy meat or fish, cooked or uncooked. Your guts won’t survive it.”
Most of the men nodded; a few seemed irritated at being treated like children.
“Payment – cash, pennies and shillings. Don’t show off paper money, it’s bad manners when these people are so poor. Don’t argue prices, take it or leave it.”
Again, the bulk of the men simply noted the instruction.
“Booze is banned up here. Do not give any to the locals. The police will arrest you if you do. If you fight the police, the magistrates here will put you in prison – and there’s only one jail and you wouldn’t enjoy sharing the cells here. Don’t think you can come the acid with the police – they are mostly local men and don’t care who or what you are, and most of them might enjoy putting a whiteskin inside.”
The bulk of the men showed outraged at that.
“Women – if you’ve got any sense, you’ll keep clear. In the town here, the women who are available are in it for money – on the game. They’re cheap, and you get your money’s worth. You pay a shilling and that’s a fair price for all you get. Don’t go to Bob complaining that you’re pissing hot acid – he can’t cure most of the pox you get up here. You’ll be in the hospital, and lucky if you ever get a clean bill of health again. Then you’ll be charged for self-inflicted injury.”
A New Place Page 6