Getting a lecture on post-war economics, about which, incidentally, I knew nothing, was the last thing I expected from the little bloke.
‘So? Partners help each other, make a contribution, how the hell do I fit in?’ I asked, mystified. The sheer absurdity of the idea overwhelmed me, then moments later, the possible genius of the concept hit — not that I was sufficiently knowledgeable in such matters to be able to judge which of the two it was. In the end all I knew was that it was a concept, nothing more. Supplying cheap metal to the foundry furnaces of the world was about as far removed as you could get from the experience of an Anglican missionary’s son who hunted butterflies.
Kevin, starting with Guadalcanal, commenced to elaborate on the grand plan. While in the islands I was to map out every dump, every ship’s prow sticking out of a bay, every wreck (ours or Japanese) found on the beaches, every artillery cache or abandoned airfield I came across. ‘If we get a start on da competition, den dat all we gonna need,’ Kevin assured me.
‘Hey, wait on; this isn’t the Klondike gold rush, you can’t just stake a claim. How do we move the stuff we find?’ I might have known nothing, but at least I knew to ask that particular question. Finding something weighing several hundred tons was one thing, getting it somewhere else quite another.
‘Dat Joe’s job,’ Kevin assured me.
‘No, that’s not what I mean. Chartering ships, that takes money.’
‘Hey, buddy, already ya startin’ ter think,’ the little bloke said, smiling. ‘Goddamn right it takes money!’
‘Well, yeah?’ I said, thinking we’d reached some sort of impasse. ‘Where’s it coming from?’ It seemed a reasonable question.
‘Dat da second part of dis meetin’ — er, lunch, Nick.’
At that moment the waiter arrived with the main course: steak, mashed potato and green beans. We’d both ordered the same meal but Kevin’s was covered in a pepper gravy, the speciality of the house, while mine was the tried and true, mum’s-Sunday-lunch-after-church variety. While the waiter fussed about, the little bloke took out his cigar case and selected a Cuban cigar, carefully cut the end and lit it with his black Zippo lighter. It seemed a strange time to be lighting up, but there you go. The waiter departed after asking if everything was to our satisfaction. ‘Yeah, yeah, thank you, Fernando,’ Kevin said impatiently, waving him away with his cigar.
When the waiter had gone, the little bloke reached down and picked up a small Globite suitcase of the kind a kid would take to school. It was made of some sort of reconstituted cardboard. He placed the case on the table, turned it to face me and, reaching over, used the ball of his thumbs to click it open, pulling the lid back under his chin. ‘Five t’ousand pounds,’ he said calmly.
‘Fuck!’ I exclaimed. I’d never seen anything remotely like that amount of money in one place, let alone in a kid’s school suitcase.
‘We gonna buy three o’ dem wooden vessels built here in Australia and used for harbour and coastal defence work. Dey da best. Eighty feet long, forward hold, two-ton derrick cargo, 8LW Gardner diesel, deckhouse and cabin at rear. You know dem, Nick?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘They’re a good, sturdy vessel, ideal for that kind of job.’ I had to admit, the little bloke’s grasp of detail was beginning to impress me. If this was a pie-in-the-sky scheme, the money in front of me on the table and the fact that he’d got the shipping requirements correct left me bewildered; these were real meaty chunks in the sky pie.
‘After da war dey gonna got too many dem boats. Maybe we pay a t’ousand pounds, maybe less; it up to you, Nick.’ He paused. I’d long since started tucking into my meal but Kevin hadn’t touched his; the pepper steak sauce was turning grey and growing a skin. The little bloke pulled on his cigar and exhaled, the sweet-smelling smoke clouding the alcove. ‘But now we got us a big problem, Nick,’ he said finally.
‘What’s that, mate?’ I asked.
He waved the cigar at the suitcase. ‘If I take dat back Stateside, dey gonna lock me up in San Quentin twenny years! You mention before you got a bank account wit your father, Nick?’
‘Sure, Bank of New South Wales. Right now it has forty-two pounds, ten shillings and sixpence in it.’ I laughed. ‘It’s probably never carried more than a hundred pounds.’
‘Look like it gonna grow big all a sudden,’ Kevin grinned.
‘Christ, what if the bank manager asks?’
‘Chief Lewinski says dey don’t never gonna ask,’ he chuckled, ‘but if he do, ya gonna tell him yoh robbed a bank.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘If da manager ask just say “mine your own business”. Dat Chief Lewinski’s good advice. Den if dere no bank heist in da noospaper next mornin’, you ain’t never gonna hear a peep from dat bank manager again. He gonna be smilin’, waitin’ for his next promotion.’ Kevin suddenly looked down at his plate. ‘Dis fuckin’ food is cold!’ he exclaimed.
Chief Lewinski’s advice had been correct. The bank manager had stared pop-eyed at the contents of the Globite suitcase but remained silent. Kevin was made co-signatory on our account. Before we left, the little bloke stabbed his cigar towards the manager. ‘Dis only da beginnin’; we’s gonna be puttin’ more in time ta time. Nex’ time I come we gonna maybe talk ’bout an interest increase earnin’ rate, Mister Bank Manager?’
Kevin insisted Joe Popkin drive me to Maryborough, the staging point for Fraser Island. ‘Yoh gonna take good care o’ yourself, Nick, we got business.’ He paused and grinned. ‘Put ya hand over ya heart.’ I hesitated, not sure what he meant. ‘Go on, do it, buddy.’ I placed my hand over my heart. ‘Now repeat after me, “I want yer to unnerstan’, I ain’t no fuckin’ hero!”’
We arrived at the landing pier in Maryborough just as the sun was setting. I guess the conducting officer would have been expecting me to arrive on the army truck that was coming from Brisbane, bringing the other men who were recovering from New Guinea or embarking on a Z Force course. A weedy-looking lieutenant approached as we arrived and seeing my rank stared at me with puckered mouth. You could see at a glance he was officious and full of his own importance. He didn’t look a bit impressed when I stepped out of the big olive Packard staff car.
Joe Popkin, jumping from the car, saluted him as he stood glaring at me. ‘Excuse me, iffen you don’ min’ mah sayin’, sah? Lootenant Duncan, as yoh can see, is in da navy. Dat mean he got superior rank to yoh. Dat mean yoh gotta salute him, sah.’
‘That’s all right, Joe, the lieutenant is in the army, he doesn’t know any better,’ I suggested. The suddenly indignant lieutenant, colouring furiously, might not have known that a navy lieutenant is equivalent in rank to an army captain. Joe was a very big guy and I wasn’t too small myself, and so I got a reluctant salute, which I promptly returned. ‘Nick Duncan. Nice to meet you, Lieutenant.’ Then I asked sotto voce, ‘Your name?’ I was playing games, forcing him to call me ‘sir’.
‘Neville Turkiton, sir. The barge is due in. Make your way down please, Lieutenant,’ he instructed, avoiding a second ‘sir’.
‘I’ll tell da admiral yoh arrived safely, sah?’ Joe suddenly said to me. ‘He gonna be real glad to heah dat.’
Lieutenant Turkiton turned abruptly and walked towards the landing pier.
‘Dat lootenant, he named good,’ Joe Popkin chuckled as we watched the officer’s retreating back. ‘Dat guy a real turkey.’
The canvas-covered army truck with the remainder of the contingent for Fraser bumped into view and shortly afterwards, just as it was growing dark, the barge pulled in to take us on the two-hour trip across the bay to the island.
Arriving on Fraser the barge pulled up to the beach and we walked down the ramp to be met by a waiting Sergeant Major Wainwright and the other instructors standing under a row of gas lamps They had hurricane lamps rigged on poles and a barbecue going, for the smell of roasted meat reached me, wafting in the clean evening air. When it came my
turn to shake hands with Wainwright he looked me up and down. ‘Bastard islands.’ He pronounced it ‘basstid’. ‘You’ve been through the mangle, haven’t you, boyo?’
I laughed. ‘Nothing you didn’t tell me to expect, Sergeant Major.’
‘Well, Nick, you’re no use to me or anyone else until you’re fit again. You wouldn’t last two days the way you are. We’re growing accustomed to your lot coming in from New Guinea and the other islands looking like walking cadavers. You’re here for several months, so there’s plenty of time to get you back into fighting condition. In the meantime we’ve set up a holiday camp for the desperate and the shagged.’ (If only he’d known about the generosity of Sally, I thought.) Then he said softly, out of earshot of the others, ‘I’m bloody proud of you, son.’ It hadn’t taken more than five seconds to say, but coming from him, it meant a great deal more to me than the twenty seconds the goanna pinning had taken from the general. What’s more, this time I was wearing trousers.
‘Thanks, Sergeant Major. Just lucky, I guess. Wrong place at the right time.’
He pointed to my kitbag. ‘Did you bring your popgun, boyo?’
‘How’d you know about that?’ I asked, amazed.
‘We like to keep an eye on our favourite sons,’ he replied, not explaining further.
‘Yeah. It’s a tad worse for wear: needs a new paint job; I don’t have any cartridges left and I dumped all but one of the magazines.’ I grinned. ‘But the Owen gun is clean and oiled, Sergeant Major.’
A group of us, all worn-out warriors, mostly from New Guinea and the other islands, were taken to a small beach where they’d set up the so-called holiday camp tents. We were expected to start getting fit at our own pace. Given an edict like that was not an excuse to take things easy, as Wainwright knew that we were keener even than he was to see us get back into shape. But malaria, jaundice and assorted intestinal bugs take a fair recovery time, the jaundice in particular, and compared to some of the other blokes, I wasn’t in such bad shape. In two weeks I was running again, no more than three miles and at a pathetic pace, but nevertheless it felt good and I knew I was on the mend. I received two nice chatty letters from Sally and then a third, this one only a two-liner with a P.S. added:
Darling Nick,
I’m seeing the surgeon.
Will never forget you,
Love
Sally XXX
P.S. Mum sends her love.
How could I possibly feel sorry for myself? But I did.
After I’d recovered my fitness sufficiently to get stuck into the hard yakka under the stern and sometimes paternal guidance of Sergeant Major Wainwright, the days became long and had to be taken in deadly earnest. It was much the same training as on the previous occasion but with more unarmed combat, instruction on the new up-to-date radio equipment, some fairly delicate high explosives work and the setting and avoidance of booby-traps. Then there were lessons on the use of folboats — folding rubberised canvas kayaks, great for infiltration purposes. I loved these dearly and couldn’t think of a better way to exercise early in the morning and again at dusk, paddling through the surf, with fish and dolphins jumping around the little craft. Most of our training was onerous, but this part was magic. I was also sent off to Richmond Air Base to undergo a parachute training course. I wasn’t much looking forward to it. I understood and loved the sea, but falling out of the sky wasn’t, I imagined, what a navy man should be expected to do. However, I was quite wrong and hugely enjoyed the entire experience. The months passed quickly. In this type of training there isn’t any time to be bored. October came, the month when I was due to rejoin the marines who were heading back to the islands. I was my old self again. I’d regained the weight I’d lost and as the saying goes, I wasn’t carrying an ounce of fat.
I didn’t travel with the marines but went separately by an American B-17 to Goodenough Island, over the strait to the north of New Guinea. A great deal had happened in the ten months since leaving Guadalcanal and the pace of activity was speeding up as, increasingly, the Japanese were being forced onto the back foot.
Elements of the 1st Division marines began arriving on the island by ship on the 24th of October. Unfortunately it had been decided that Colonel Greg Woon, Belgiovani and Da Nip widda Chip (Lee Roy Yamamoto), heading a vastly expanded radio intelligence unit, were to be stationed at Milne Bay.
It was good being back with the Americans, who were fit and re-equipped with M1 Garand semi-automatic rifles and an enormous range of amphibious craft. The news seemed to get around that ‘Popgun Pete’ was back and within days I was getting the usual banter on my morning runs. Sergeant Major Wainwright had personally repainted the camouflage on my Owen and handed it back to me on my day of departure. ‘Goodbye, boyo. I don’t want to see you coming back with anything but a good conduct award. Take my advice and stay out of the rough stuff this time — we’re beginning to get the Japs on the run, but that doesn’t mean you’ve got to be out in front chasing them.’
While the marines engaged in their final re-invasion training we undertook a series of reconnaissance missions at night. Landing from PT boats, we paddled ashore in rubber inflatables. The idea was to seek out the best landing beaches for the invasion and to establish the whereabouts of Japanese defensive positions. It was rather hairy stuff, particularly when the moon was full. If the Japs had spotted us landing there wasn’t a lot we could have done to defend ourselves.
The first of the major amphibious assaults took place at and around Cape Gloucester in the south-west on the 26th of December 1943 and, despite the difficult terrain, the Japanese were routed. The job of chasing them all the way back to Rabaul was taken over by American army units who were later relieved by Australian troops.
It was around this time that I found myself once again at the pointy end of the war. The 1st Division marines had departed but I had requested to remain behind in New Britain for obvious reasons. For the first time in combat conditions I was placed under Australian command: with Major Peter McVitty from the ANGAU, the Australian New Guinea Administration Unit. The Japanese were now restricted to Rabaul and the Gazelle Peninsula; they couldn’t break out and couldn’t supply themselves by air or sea. In strategic terms they had nowhere to go. Despite this, they had to be contained as the presence of such a large, well-equipped force behind our advance posed a serious local threat.
I was on New Britain soil at last and it was now that my personal and private war began in earnest. We — twenty-nine coastwatchers commanding four hundred armed native troops — were put at the front end of the invasion. Our task was to ambush any Japanese patrols who attempted to venture beyond the immediate area of Rabaul or the Peninsula.
I selected ten men. You can move fast and silently with ten good natives, whereas any more tends to slow you down. I chose Tolai warriors for two reasons: the first being that I had a working knowledge of their language, and the second being that they had a reason to hate the Japanese.
The Tolai are a clever and sophisticated people with an age-old tradition as coastal traders. I’d learned their language while moving around the island in the mission boat and, besides, knew that they had their wits about them. Furthermore, because of their trading tradition, they could speak a number of the other tribal languages. This was particularly useful when we came upon native villages where the inhabitants didn’t speak pidgin.
However, perhaps most importantly, the Tolai had a particular axe to grind against the Japanese. Many of their women had been systematically raped and their men and children murdered by enemy soldiers. In numerous cases, family members had starved to death when the Japs had plundered their village food gardens.
For them, as for me, it was payback time. I hadn’t told anyone of my plan to attempt to locate my father or, should I discover that he was dead, that I wanted to find out how his death had occurred. Intelligence organisations in particular hate that sort of personal
crusade, vendetta, assignation, whatever, as it invariably leads to an operator in the field taking unnecessary risks. Had the powers-that-be known of my intention (in fact, my sole reason for going to the New Britain area), they would have withdrawn me from that particular combat zone. Marg Hamilton was the only one who knew and I trusted her to keep it to herself.
The action soon became fairly rugged. ‘Merciless’ might be a better word, as we conducted a guerrilla war against Japanese patrols attempting to venture beyond Rabaul. It took almost a year but we gradually confined them to within thirty miles of their completely encircled base. The final squeeze was on. We were dealing with a starving and desperate enemy who were reduced to starting their own vegetable gardens to stay alive. Desperate men do desperate things, and when we encountered a Jap patrol it was on for one and all.
The Tolai had led us to the mass grave of one hundred and thirty Australian troops who had been massacred at a place known as Tol Plantation. Their hands had been tied behind their backs with wire and they had been shot or butchered using bayonets; some had had their heads removed. When you witness this kind of thing all thought of mercy disappears, and I did nothing to stop the obvious pleasure my Tolai warriors took in killing every man in the Japanese patrols we ambushed. Taking prisoners was out of the question, anyway — we were a fast-moving, small fighting unit and it became simply a matter of kill or be killed.
The Persimmon Tree Page 72