A New Place

by Andrew Wareham

  “Get to the rise quickly, sir. Before the lowland bugs are out. Pace ourselves uphill.”

  George wondered if Merrett would make the climb, was surprised and not displeased that he remained at his shoulder for the whole stretch.

  “How do you get artillery up here, sir?”

  “Give it wings and tell it to fly, Mr Merrett. Failing that, do without.”

  “I could use another officer, Brigadier. Can you send Merrett with us? He’s a regular, should have some useful training in reports and mapping and that sort of thing.”

  “I can replace him, Captain Hawkins. Take him with you. He’ll be pleased to be selected. Flattered in fact. Try not to get him killed. He’s a cousin of my wife, I’d never hear the last of it if he was lost in the bush.”

  “Can’t guarantee anything, sir. He’ll be at risk because he’ll be at the front of a platoon. He’ll be a real officer, in fact. I need a trained man, however, just not too many of them.”

  “You do have a low opinion of regulars, Captain Hawkins.”

  “Not at all, sir. Only the officers.”

  “I asked for that, I suppose. The English took the best of them, to hold their hands in the Middle East. Just like the First War, which the English fought to the last Australian.”

  “Understandable, sir. They’re short of fighting men. All the best of the English got out of their sick country – a hell of a lot of them came out to Australia, the rest went to America. All that’s left in England is those who didn’t have the balls to emigrate.”

  It was a popular opinion in Australia, and one that Lowry agreed with.

  “No worries, Captain Hawkins. The bulk of available Australian battalions will be sent up the Track, mainly to leave room for American troops as they come in. I intend to make my base up here, which will save a day when it comes to getting reports from you. Send a man as often as is sensible. If you have something to tell me, report; if there’s nothing out of the ordinary, you can let up to four days go by.”

  “Yes, sir. Reports will not be carried by one man, sir. A platoon is the minimum number, sir. If there’s a hostile clan, then it will be a company.”

  “You’ve only got the one company with you.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s enough in most circumstances. My judgement if it ain’t, sir.”

  “You have me over a barrel, Captain Hawkins. I will push a battalion forward, as close to you as makes sense.”

  “Best to spread ‘em out thin in this country, sir. They must stay alert to air, sir. If you can get a base built at the head of the road, sir, where it will be carriers only after that point, it will be useful.”

  “Maybe. If Moresby will allow it, I shall. It depends on the General’s plan – and that in turn depends on what the Americans want, and we don’t know that for sure yet. I hope they will give up on this overland idea; from what you, and the rest of the Territory men, have told me, it don’t make sense. That won’t stop the High Command from doing it, of course, and the Americans aren’t good at listening to anybody else at all…”

  “Good luck, sir. It’s easier out in the bush – the bloody fools from HQ have just enough sense to keep well clear of us. My father said it was the same in the First War; he stayed well clear of Rabaul and the colonel in command there never got to Kokopo before the eruption forced him out. They were both happier that way.”

  “And neither knew what the other was thinking.”

  “My father said that didn’t matter because the colonel had nothing to think with.”

  “And nothing changes… March out in the morning, Mr Hawkins. I will accompany you to the head of the road, so that I know what’s happening, can tell them from personal experience.”

  “Taking which company with you, sir?”

  “You’ve made that point already. No need to repeat yourself! I should meet your original people, I think. If you run into a bullet, or go down with the plague or whatever, I need to know your replacement.”

  “Lieutenant Piggott and Sergeant Muldoon, sir. Perceval you know; his sergeant I don’t know yet, but I gather he has knocked about a bit in the Territory, so he’ll be right. Merrett will probably be good enough as well. I intend to give him a platoon and use him for running reports at first – gives him the chance to get to know the bush on his own. Either he’ll like it or he’ll be broken, and I need to know which early.”

  “That’s hard.”

  “I think he’s hard, underneath the bullshit and the pretty uniforms. If he ain’t, he’ll still have a chance of staying alive. You’ll see him frequently and be able to post him out if he’s breaking.”

  “You trust me sufficiently to make that judgement, Captain Hawkins? I am amazed.”

  “So am I, sir. I reckon you’ll do, but.”

  “And you don’t say that of many senior officers…”

  They smiled at each other, deciding that it was as well that there would be a distance between them. They liked each other, but not sufficiently to work together on a day to day basis.

  “Let’s see your blokes, Hawkins.”

  Blue was his normal elegant self, red hair recently trimmed but still unruly, shirt open and displaying a pelt running up almost to his collar.

  “Jesus, Hawkins, I didn’t know you had bears up here.”

  “Yeah, he’s a bit out of the ordinary run, sir. Good bloke though. Carries the Boys Rifle, uses it as a sniper’s piece.”

  “He’s big enough. Promotion?”

  “He’ll make captain, easily. Can’t see him as a field officer – he ain’t a man for paperwork and planning. Sharp end for Blue, and he’s good there. Very good. Queenslander who came up to Lae young. Never asked him why but the word is he got involved in a pub fight when he wasn’t much more than a schoolboy, couple of stiffs at the end of it, and his old man had money enough to get him clear away. He fits in up here.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Lowry exchanged a few words with Blue and then turned to Muldoon, introduced by George.

  “Pat, this is Brigadier Lowry, directly in command of us.”

  “Good to meet yer, Brigadier.”

  It was not the greeting Lowry had expected from a sergeant; he made no comment.

  “Regular, Sergeant Muldoon?”

  “Not me, sir. Did me time in the First War and took me demob in ’19 and came up north. Saw enough of the army in Flanders.”

  “You’re not wearing the ribbons.”

  “Nah, never bothered to pick ‘em up. Left ‘em in me parents’ place and ain’t been back since. Volunteered when I was fourteen, because I didn’t get on with me old man. Saw him when I got back from France and still didn’t like the old bastard and ain’t seen ‘im since.”

  “I would prefer that you wore everything you are entitled to, as an example to the men, and to impress visiting generals. The Americans especially seem to like pieces of ribbon. Give my sergeant a list and he will get them to you.”

  Pat Muldoon shrugged; if that was what the man wanted…

  “MM and bar, sir, and the Mutt and Jeff.”

  The Mutt and Jeff were the campaign ribbons issued to every man who had fought in France, named for a long-running cartoon strip; the pair of Military Medals had not been earned so easily.

  “I’ll see to them personally. Do you want a commission?”

  “What for? So I can stick out like a sore thumb in the jolly Mess, sir? I don’t give many orders, sir, but I don’t need pips on me shoulders to have them obeyed.”

  “You Territory people don’t look for an easy life, do you?”

  “Wouldn’t belong here if I did.”

  “You’ve got a good pair there, Captain Hawkins. Keep them well clear of Konedobu.”

  “Couldn’t get them down there if I tried, sir. They know where they don’t fit.”

  “Did you know of your sergeant’s decorations?”

  “No. Not the sort of thing you talk about up here.”

  “There’s nothing shame
ful about a medal, Captain Hawkins!”

  “Not saying there is, sir. But they don’t work in the bush.”

  “What does work in the bush?”

  “Work. Pull your weight and forget the bullshit. It ain’t a bad plan for anyplace else, thinking on it.”

  “It will never catch on in the army, Hawkins.”

  They marched out two companies strong, Brigadier Lowry at the head of his own escort which was to go with him as far as the head of the road. The going was flat and still dry and they kept to full march pace, made a steady three miles an hour. George dropped back to Lowry’s side, glancing at his escorting company of riflemen, two Brens between them.

  “What are you going to do about arming them, Brigadier?”

  “We haven’t got the automatic weapons to set them up like your company, Hawkins. Looking at this bush, I can see why you want them. It’s going to be a question of begging from the Americans if the Sten won’t work.”

  George glanced at the gun hanging at Lowry’s waist. It had a coating of dust already.

  “I know, Hawkins. Not a hope in hell of it firing in that condition, and this is in favourable weather. Pity. It will work in Europe, I imagine.”

  “Grenades for close range work, sir, as a stop-gap measure. Failing that, the riflemen had best practice their rapid fire. Repeating shotguns firing buckshot will do some good, sir. The pump-action Remington type are pretty good, and they come cheap.”

  “Better find something that will do the job properly, Hawkins. The Yanks have got money. They might be able to come up with something.”

  “Let us hope, sir. Quickly, too.”

  “No chance of that, Hawkins. There’s a regular battalion to follow close behind you as soon as you locate the Japanese advance. Riflemen.”

  “God help them, sir.”

  George pushed his company into a full ten miles a day after parting company with the Brigadier. There was faint trail leading north east, the sign of a trade line; if there were villages in the vicinity, they would have been contacted, would not run screaming at the sight of a white face. They slashed back the bush and finally reached an expanse of open kunai grassland at around four thousand feet. There were mountains to the west and high ground on the east but there was a chance of cutting out airstrips of three or four hundred yards on this terrain. Early in the growing season, the kunai had reached shoulder height, not quite tall enough to provide full concealment, high enough to be hard to push through.

  Unfortunately, the Japanese had penetrated this far, in small numbers initially.

  There was a village on the edge of the plateau, contacted by the Administration and inclined to be friendly to white faces coming up from the south – rare visitors who normally gave them bully beef. The villagers had heard the Japanese planes and had seen their forward units in the distance when they were out hunting and had wondered just who they might be. Wisely, they had decided that unknown and heavily armed strangers coming from the wrong direction might be dangerous to them and had kept well clear.

  George’s company was carrying food for a fortnight.

  “Divvy up, lads. Keep back a meal for today and two for tomorrow. The rest goes to the village. You’ll have thin packs to carry tomorrow.”

  They laughed, said they’d prefer to carry the weight of the tins of bully beef, but passed over their rations. Each meal was one can of beef between two men, meant that they handed over the better part of five hundred cans and as many packets of navy biscuits. The villagers offered to fight at their side if they wanted.

  George refused, told them to keep out of sight of the Japanese and watch for more Diggers coming up from the south. There might be a big fight and they would be paid even more for bringing any wounded Diggers back to their own people to the south.

  The three lieutenants came together and pored over the map, an aerial chart which outlined the valleys that a light plane could follow through the mountains.

  “The Japs will be using the passes here, as they find them. I’ve been told that they have been busy in the way of intelligence gathering, so they will have bought copies of this map.”

  “Then they’re coming down the mountains, must set up hereabouts, George.”

  “Agreed, Blue. They’ll want to cut airstrips if they can, if they have the time. I’ve no idea what planes they have to carry cargo and fuel in, if any, so I don’t know how long their strips would have to be. Somehow, we need to get a look at them, see what numbers they’re in, and then pull back with the information.”

  George knew that he must give some orders, even if he did not know what was truly best. He drew himself up tall and straight, trying to look like the senior officer.

  “Lieutenant Merrett, you will take your platoon back immediately and inform the Brigadier that we have seen Jap patrols in the distance, coming out of the high bush and down to the kunai country here. Note the position on your copy of the map. Inform Brigadier Lowry that I intend to close the Japs and try to get past their patrols to see what they’ve got coming up behind. I expect to fall back in front of the Japs, may well be tight behind you. Depends how fast they chase and we run.”

  Lieutenant Merrett did not approve of any joke that implied cowardice; he did not think that running was funny.

  “Nor me, mate. I won’t have the breath left to laugh. Blue, take your half out first. Percy, hold back but keep in sight of Blue’s mob. We want to avoid the Japs if we can. If we can’t, kill ‘em and fall back carefully.”

  Lieutenant Perceval’s half company had two Bren guns and a pair of Lewises; they were well off for hand grenades but George was worried that they would be at a disadvantage in bush fighting and wanted them kept at a distance as back up rather than leading into any firefight.

  The plan failed in its first minutes. The Japanese were advancing in multiple platoon sized patrols, each backing up the next and leaving no gaps to be penetrated. George, who was at the head of Perceval’s half company heard Lewis Gun fire within ten minutes of Blue pushing forward.

  The plateau was effectively flat, the kunai grass tall and blocking vision.

  “Percy! Fall back to the edge of the rain forest and hold the track there. I’ll bring Blue’s people back and they will make a block there with you. If possible, we hold. If it ain’t working then we go back, leapfrog style. Don’t leave wounded for the Japs, they kill ‘em. Watch for planes.”

  They were three miles from the edge of the rain forest and the slopes leading down the trail; probably two hours of marching single file through the kunai. The grass was still wet, could not be fired to give them a smokescreen.

  George trotted forward, spotted Blue’s rear platoon lying flat and waiting for the front men to come through them.

  “How far?”

  “There’s a bit of a rise, no more than six foot, boss. Hundred yards ahead. Reckon there’s a stream bed there, dry now. Blue’s tucked in there. Maybe four lots of Japs to the front. Reckon they were cutting a track, widening it up for the main battalion to follow on.”

  “Numbers?”

  “As many as us in sight. Got to be a fair few behind ‘em, but.”

  “Shit! Percy’s lot are falling back to the edge of the forest. Tell him orders are changed. Pass through them when you drop back. Hold at the first bend on the trail.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  George ducked low, the kunai rustling as he clipped it with his shoulders.

  Blue was stretched out, Boys Rifle on its bipod, head tucked into the aim. He fired as George came near, then shot a second and third time.

  “Bastards was setting up a little mortar, George. Do us no good at all, that would.”

  He squinted down the sights again, squeezed off a fourth round and ducked back. There was an explosion, then a series of detonations. Blue reloaded and grinned.

  “Thought that was the carrier, got a bloody great knapsack on his back. Loaded down like a bloody pack-donkey, he was. They don’t treat their blokes kindly, tha
t’s for bloody sure, mate.”

  “Hard bastards, Blue. How many of ‘em?”

  “Four patrols, maybe nine or ten men to each. Rifles and light machine guns, and that mortar. Reckon there’ll be more mortars back with the main body. If they send a mortar out with the advance patrols, stands to reason they’ll have more of them with the main mob.”

  “And they’ll know where we are now. Pull back, Blue. Now.”

  Ten minutes later they were nearly a quarter of a mile distant when they heard the coughing of at least four mortars and bombs began to fall around the position they had vacated.

  “No good in the rain forest, Blue, can’t use mortars in trees. But we can’t fight them out in the kunai. Leg it back to the edge of the forest, mate. No sense trying to hold out here and fall back slowly.”

  “Can do without this bloody stuff anyhow, George. It’s full of ticks. I reckon we’ve all of us got one at least digging in.”

  “Stop and burn ‘em out as soon as we get into cover, Blue. Bastards carry scrub typhus, so they reckon.”

  “All we need, that is, George. I’ll pass the word. We going to hold at the edge, George? Keep the little yellow bastards out here for a day and they’ll all get the typhus.”

  “Worth trying, Blue. They might not know their way about the bush, or not as much as we do. Tell the lads to crap at the side of any streams we pass; as we leave, not while we need the water. Might do them a favour or two.”

  “Worth a try, George. Like we did outside Lae. Wonder if that worked?”

  “Can’t have done any harm, mate. Can you hear anything?”

  “Planes?”

  “Won’t be ours, mate. Pass the word to keep low and not to move while they’re in sight.”

  A flight of medium bombers passed overhead, high and probably not directly working with army. They would radio in anything they saw but did not seem to be searching the plateau.

  “On their way to Moresby, Blue.”

  “Probably.”

  Blue called the men to their feet and pushed them down the trail.

  “Coming up behind us, Blue.”