A New Place

by Andrew Wareham

  “Bloody useless, sir. I’ll go down the sergeants mess and scrounge a meal there.”

  “No you won’t. You’ll eat sat next to me, and any of them who object to having a fighting soldier in their company can tell me why.”

  George laughed.

  “I should have brought Blue down with me, sir. He’d enjoy the evening. They told me that the bulk of good soldiers were sent to the Middle East in ’39. The dickheads who were left had to come up here when the Japanese joined in.”

  “They didn’t send me to the desert, Captain Hawkins.”

  “No comment, sir.”

  “Very wise. We eat in an hour. Time to get into the bathroom.”

  George grinned and made a performance of sniffing his armpit.

  “You get a bit ripe in the bush, sir. Wait till I change me boots!”

  “Not in here, if you please. I’ll send my runner to guide you to your room.”

  George had brought a minimum of uniform downhill in his pack. He showered and changed into his best socks, with no visible holes up the legs; the thorns ripped the socks above the boots while the feet remained whole. He dug out shirt and shorts, underpants and a clean string vest before putting on his second pair of boots. He had no tunic or tie, couldn’t remember where he’d left them; Cairns he thought. He found the ribbon of his MC, set up on a pin so that he could put it on his shirt when he was feeling formal, and put his captain’s stars on his shoulders. That was as much as he was prepared to concede to the demands of dinner.

  He wandered downstairs from the bungalow on stilts where he had been accommodated and made his way into the plantation house, now attached by a covered walkway to the club which had become the dining room and anteroom of the mess. The Mess Sergeant made to intercept him then thought better of it; someone else could speak to the new man about the dress rules of the Mess, he looked just a little too hard and carefree for the Sergeant’s taste.

  Brigadier Lowry was already present in the anteroom, made a show of welcoming George.

  “What will you have, Hawkins?”

  George glanced around the big room, saw that all present were holding sherry glasses.

  “Make it sherry, Brigadier. Not my favourite, but when in Rome…”

  “My opinion too, Hawkins. Not the time for a beer. I should introduce you to the President of the Mess, but later will do for that. You’ve met Merrett, I know.”

  George nodded to the staff officer, perfectly turned out for the occasion. He wondered if it was mandatory for staff officers to look like stuffed dummies.

  “I shall be coming up with you, Captain. I wish to take the chance to see what the bush is like for myself. Merrett will accompany me.”

  George was surprised but Lowry looked fit enough and not yet forty. The exercise might well be good for him.

  “You will see the Armourer, I imagine, sir. No place for passengers in the bush.”

  “Elegantly expressed, Hawkins. No need, in fact. We have a pair of Sten guns – sent out from Britain for testing in tropical conditions. Most of the batch went to India but we got a few dozen up here. Nine mil, like the Lanchester. Not as good as the Lanchester – cheap and nasty sort of thing but it fires a thirty-two round magazine quickly, except when it jams.”

  A short but nearly spherical major turned from the bar.

  “Shop in the Mess, Brigadier? Not quite the thing, you know.”

  “Quite right, Major. Unfortunately, Hawkins here is fighting in this war and is only down here in the fleshpots for a short time. I need to make the most of his presence.”

  “Hawkins? From the Brisbane family?”

  “No, Major. Kokopo, in fact.”

  “Oh? Where’s that? Never heard of it.”

  “About twenty miles out from Rabaul, Major.”

  “Oh? One of the Territory chaps. Don’t see many of you in the Mess.”

  “No. We tend to be choosy in the company we keep.”

  A New Place

  Chapter Six

  George remained one full day at Laloki. He enjoyed himself in the mess, where he ate at a table on his own for breakfast and luncheon. The food was at least palatable and he was not plagued by the company of fools, for none of the base officers expressed any wish to join him. He sat in Lowry’s company in the evening. He amused himself morning and afternoon with Lieutenant Merrett, equipping him for the bush and warning him of the behaviour expected of an officer on detachment in the Territory, and asking a few necessary questions. He took some pains to confuse the poor man by using his best school accent.

  “Brigadier Lowry – he sounds as if he knows a bit about the bush.”

  “Yes, sir. He trained in India for a year and actually spent time at Darwin and in the north of Queensland. There were infantry training camps in both locations, sir, during the late Thirties. I gather that there was some expectation of trouble with the Japanese. It was thought that Australia might take part in an invasion to reconquer the Philippines, sir, at the side of the Americans. The Japs were not expected to invade the Territory, sir.”

  “They were, in Rabaul. Those of us who knew what they were doing in China were pretty much sure they’d come this way as well. They want the whole of Asia and the Pacific. Especially, they want Australia, for being empty, as they see it.”

  “Surely they know that the Americans won’t allow that, sir.”

  George shrugged – how the Japanese thought was unknown to him.

  “Maybe they think the Americans are like the Russians. They defeated Russia easily enough in 1905… Mind you, they might have a grievance since then. The Americans chaired the peace talks and fiddled the Japanese out of most of their gains in the war. They did the same in the ‘90s when the Japanese kicked the shit out of China. Might have left the Japanese willing to take a poke at America, perhaps.”

  Lieutenant Merrett had some knowledge of military history, but only of the major wars in Europe. The Japanese campaigns and their results were unknown to him and he preferred the Japanese to be simple villains. He turned to a topic more familiar to him.

  “This matter of uniforms, Captain Hawkins. As a staff officer, I must set an example, you know…”

  “So you must, Merrett. You can make a choice – do you want to exemplify the fighting officer or the useless dick?”

  “I presume, sir, that you consider yourself to be a ‘fighting officer’?”

  “To an extent, yes… By the way, I think I’ve met you before. Were you not in the first year when I left the old school? I seem to remember your face, vaguely.”

  “Good God! Are you that Hawkins? You were a sergeant in the Cadet Corps, were you not?”

  “I was. The only bit of my education that has shown in the slightest degree useful.”

  “Well! I mean to say, sir! That is different, is it not?”

  George did not understand the significance of that ejaculation.

  “Well, sir, the best school in Queensland and one of the top schools in the whole of Australia – I am sure that Brigadier Lowry would wish to know that. He is one of us as well, sir.”

  George was entertained. He had expected some reaction, had thought it might be of distaste for letting the Old School down.

  “Well, sir, it is obvious that you know what you are talking about. That’s different, is it not?”

  “So you say.”

  “I say, sir, did not you make a heroic walk out of the goldfields through the swamps, sir? It was in the newspapers and the Beak himself spoke to the school about it, telling us of the achievement of one of our Old Boys. An example for us all to follow, you know.”

  “Is it really? I’ll personally find you a good swamp of your own.”

  George had never met up with hero worship; he thought it was another argument against that particular school system.

  Brigadier Lowry was vastly amused.

  “You have turned from a vulgar beast into a gentleman of the old school, Hawkins. Amazing, ain’t it? Mind you, as an old boy myse
lf, I can only congratulate you. I heard of that walk of yours, by the way; didn’t realise it was you. Is that where you got the scars on your feet from?”

  “Yeah. Got the foot rot in all of its many forms, Brigadier. While I think of it, are you going to persevere with the Sten? I don’t see it as best suited to the bush. You can’t keep it clean and dust-free in the mud.”

  Lowry shrugged, unconvinced himself.

  “I want to give it a try, Hawkins. It’s a rough piece of kit, but it’s easily manufactured and it’s cheap. They call it ‘the gas-pipe gun’, for being made up out of rough materials and quickly assembled. They say it costs less than a quid to make and has fewer than fifty parts. We could knock out a hundred thousand of them inside a few months, and for peanuts. If we can get it to work, then we could equip every soldier with one. It’s light and could be carried almost as a sidearm in addition to the rifle.”

  “Sounds good, Brigadier, but if it jams then it could kill every soldier who relied on it. From what you say, it has to be kept spotless. Walk half a day through swamp, even on the edges, and you’re soaking wet and everything is covered in mud. The Lee-Enfield will still work and so will the Thompson Gun.”

  “A Thompson costs twenty times as much and requires a precision engineering factory to turn it out. The American Browning Automatic Rifle is a better bet for us, but it’s still expensive.”

  “Try the Sten, by all means, Brigadier, but at least carry a handgun as well, so you’re not left empty handed if it does jam.”

  The fat major joined their conversation, saying that he had always understood that an officer required his revolver and nothing else.

  “And that’s just so he can shoot cowards as an example to the rest of the men, what? An officer has better, more important things to do than go shooting the Japs, you know.”

  George could think of any number of better things he could be doing at that moment; he made no reply. Brigadier Lowry simply smiled and enquired which battalion the major graced.

  “Second Militia, Brigadier.”

  “Oh, good! You are due to go up to the top within a few days. I discussed the orders with your colonel just this afternoon. Captain Hawkins will tell you that it’s not a very long march.”

  George smiled his kindest.

  “Not a lot more than twelve miles, Major. Trouble is, a couple of miles of that is damned near vertical. The road will be built soon, of course – but not this month. It’s foot-slogging for the while. Do the men good, mark you, Major, work off the weeks of idleness in camp. Nothing like a day on your feet to wake you up, don’t you agree?”

  Lieutenant Merrett, who was not looking forward to the next day’s march, had a coughing fit rather than laugh at the expression on the major’s face. He intervened, displaying the tact of the good staff officer.

  “I have picked up all of my extra kit from the QM here, sir. Would you be so good as to check it with me? I suspect that the sergeant in charge thought I was a simpleton, or something like.”

  “Probably something like, Merrett. I will be pleased to give you my advice. You’re right, are you, Brigadier?”

  “I’ve walked the bush before, in Queensland, and the jungle in India, Hawkins. I don’t know just what special needs you have up here, but I doubt it’s too much different.”

  “Shouldn’t be. Just the normal problem of weight, of course. We’ll have boys to carry the bulk of the gear, so that should be no problem.”

  The major intervened to enquire whether they really meant that even senior officers must walk.

  “No other way of doing it, Major. The road is not built yet. Even when it is, I don’t know that the ordinary run of lorries will have the power to make it uphill. It will be very steep in places. You will need good boots, well walked-in, and thick socks, with no wrinkles. For the rest, drink a lot of water. You can sweat yourself to death up here. Seriously! Drink twice as much as you think you need and then make sure your bottle is full.”

  The major seemed unconvinced, toddled back to the bar for support.

  “He won’t make it to the top, Brigadier. Lay you ten to one he goes down with heart failure.”

  “No way I’d take those odds, Hawkins. He’s a certainty. I would order him to remain at base, if it wasn’t that I’d rather he dropped dead so we could appoint someone useful in his place.”

  The lights went out and a shout of ‘Air raid’ warned them to duck to the floor.

  They heard engines at height and then bombs dropping in the vicinity. The nearest was at least a quarter of a mile distant.

  “They can’t get low down here, Brigadier. Can’t get inside the walls of the valley. Up on top they’ll be dropping from a hundred feet. They won’t be missing there.”

  “The fifty calibre machine-guns went up today. The first half a dozen, that is. They’ll be there tomorrow and sited at the camp by the end of the day.”

  “Better than nothing. They had twenty mil cannon on the corvette I came up on. Twins. They did a better job than the machine guns managed.”

  “Oerlikon guns. Good general-purpose weapons but far too heavy to get up to the top except on a lorry. Same as the Bofors. Good for the purpose but awkward to shift up bloody mountains. We’ll have to wait for useful fighter cover. A dozen squadrons of Spitfires will do the job, and the Americans have some good planes too.”

  “Those bloody Buffaloes were American.”

  “They sold them to us because their own people wouldn’t take them. There was something called an Airocobra, or some such, they sold to England. They were bloody useless too – they’ve sent hundreds of them across to us. The French had some American planes, Curtises, I think, and they weren’t at all bad. The Americans have got some good stuff and some rubbish. All depends which they buy and send over here. They’re still amateurs, from all I hear. They’ll learn quick enough, Hawkins. Another beer?”

  “Had two, Brigadier. I don’t drink much the night before I go bush. Bad habit. Do you want to look over your gear, Merrett?”

  Merrett was in a quandary for space – he could not get down to fewer than three kitbags.

  “Throw out all of the fancy stuff, first thing. Working dress only. What’s the pistol?”

  “My father gave it me, sir. Nine mil Browning, uses the same as the Sten.”

  “Makes sense. Keep it close to hand, on your belt not in the pack. Clean it every day – automatics get too dirty in the bush and jam easily. Are those your own boots?”

  “Yes, sir. I thought I should go up in issue boots though.”

  “Not bloody likely, man. Calf boots in a good leather? Have you got a second pair? Good; your feet will be far happier in them. Throw those issue boots under the bed. Shorts are better than long strides. Sweat less. Throw the waterproof coat out – waste of time. Easier to get wet and dry off again. Pack the whole of the medical kit. Carry your bush knife and that’s it. Underclothes, a spare shirt, socks, another pair of shorts and you’ve got what you need. Stick a second hat in, folded up.”

  “What about the riflemen, sir? If I have a platoon, should I inspect their packs?”

  “No. Never. Keep off their backs. Let your corporal see to everything that’s needed in that way. Either you trust them or you give up. Just remember to show up at the front, that’s all you need do as an officer.”

  George was ready to move out half an hour before dawn, wandering across to the cookhouse as the officers mess had no breakfast ready so early in the day. He took a mug of tea and a thick roll with a bacon and fried egg filling.

  “Got the eggs up yesterday, sir. Convoy in, I reckon. Fly them up from Sydney to Cairns and then run them fast across. Same for the bacon. Only last a couple of days but the blokes like ‘em. We bake our own bread, sir. Got to be soft rolls. Can’t prove proper loaves because of the heat.”

  “Bloody good food, whatever, mate. Any time you want to set up a cookhouse on top, give me a shout. I’ll get you up there.”

  “Thanks for the offer, s
ir. I’ll stick where I am.”

  “I’d probably say the same if I’d got a choice. If you fancy a change after the war, come on up to Rabaul and give me a shout there. We could use a bakery or a good kitchen in the hotel.”

  “Captain Hawkins, ain’t it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I might take you up on that one, sir. Wouldn’t mind running me own place.”

  “See you then.”

  George finished his meal and wandered out to see what, if anything, was happening.

  He found a line of some two hundred local men, each with a pack at his feet, ready to carry to the top. He hefted one load, wondering what weight was demanded of them.

  The officer in charge of the carriers wandered across, grinning a welcome.

  “Forty pounds, George. They wanted the standard sixty-pound pack but I wouldn’t bloody have any of that.”

  Two hundred men made eight thousand pounds weight, less than four tons in total. The load of a lorry, a little more. They needed a road as far as they could go.

  “How’s things, Mick? They got you in the end, mate?”

  “They‘ve just made me into a bloody lieutenant, would you believe, George?”

  “So they should. You know more about shifting stuff up here than any other bugger in this army.”

  “What’s that got to do with it? Knowing how to do things ain’t how this army works. It’s kissing arse that counts up here – and don’t make any comment on that, either!”

  “Who, me?”

  They started to laugh, were interrupted by Brigadier Lowry.

  “Are we ready to go, Hawkins?”

  “Any time, sir. Is there an escort to go up with the boys?”

  “Two companies going up to the base camp.”

  “Good, best we set out first then, sir. Leave the track clear for them. See you, Mick.”

  “Lukim yu, George.”

  They strode out, making a good four miles an hour on the flat and before the sun had risen over the walls of the gorge.