by Peter Corris
'Well, first thing is, the machine won't take you all. Payload's around 1500 pounds. Looks like you got a couple hundred pounds of equipment there. I'm a big guy myself and so're some of you. I'd say there's one man too many.'
Talbot's hooded eyes ran across us. I had little hope that I'd draw the long straw and I was right. 'Clark,' he said, 'fall out.'
Clark saluted smartly and did so.
'Phew,' Jacko whispered. 'I was worried there for a minute.'
'You'll be right, mate,' Les said. 'Runt like you wouldn't make any difference.'
'Quiet,' Rutherford snapped.
Talbot, Rutherford and James conferred and then the sergeant oversaw the loading of our equipment by Willy Johnson and the two privates. I stood around smoking and trying to look nonchalant, although my guts were churning. I didn't like the look of the helicopter one bit. It was something over twenty feet long, sitting up on raked struts. It had a large rotor mounted on top of the cabin and another at the tail. It was painted grey with no markings other than some kind of registration number. It seemed not to have a metal skin like modern choppers, but a fabric covering. The pilot looked out through perspex; the poor unfortunates in the body had no way to see out unless the door was open. It looked small and fragile and it made me feel the same way.
No-one else seemed to share these misgivings. The gear was loaded. Talbot crawled into the front with Jerry James and the rest of us huddled in the narrow, low space at the back. The engine roared into life and the rotors made a noise that immediately deafened me. The helicopter shuddered and then lifted off abruptly, tilting as it climbed. I was thrown against Jacko, who opened his mouth in what I imagined was a whoop of exultation—I couldn't hear a thing. When we'd assumed a level course, Rutherford cautiously slid the door open a few inches. I was pressing my back against a solid strut; I feared leaning against the fabric and falling through, but I took a peek through the door.
The bush was not far below and we were moving pretty fast. I guess the 'copter would have had a top speed of about seventy miles an hour, although the noise and the air currents made it seem faster. There was a wind buffeting us about; the noise of the tail rotor occasionally got lost, and there was a sickening feeling of power being cut off. Jacko and Les were enjoying the ride; Rutherford was expressionless as always; Willy Johnson's eyes were big in his dark face but he gave me a grin and a thumbs-up. I was conscious only of terror and cold. I was wearing a regulation army shirt and sweater. I'd discarded the officers' outfit in line with the thinking that had prevailed on the Somme in 1918—badges of rank attract bullets. I wrapped my arms around my chest and shivered. Rutherford glanced sharply at me.
'I'm cold,' I said.
He nodded and looked away. All right for him, in his fatigues and jacket. The others had a couple of warm layers, too, except Willy in his shorts, singlet and shirt. The cold didn't seem to worry him and I tried to follow his example. It wasn't too hard—I had plenty of other things to worry about.
Rutherford got a map from his pack, unfolded it and began to study its shadings and markings. He clicked his tongue approvingly as we made a sudden ascent, lurching and seeming to slide sideways through the turbulent air. I felt my stomach move and had an intense desire to be sick. I looked at the three inches of open door and decided I'd never achieve the necessary accuracy. The thought of the humiliation overcame the nausea, which subsided as we flew on.
After a couple of hours' flying, Talbot pushed aside the curtain that separated the pilot's cabin from the steerage and beckoned to me. I crawled over equipment and legs, glad to have something to do.
Talbot's mouth moved but I couldn't hear him. I cupped my ear and shook my head. He looked annoyed, but grabbed a notebook and scribbled on it. I read: 'Over area where smoke spotted. Quarter and report.' I nodded and accepted the field glasses Rutherford handed me. I crawled to the door and slid it a bit further open. The cold air took my breath away but made me feel better. I adjusted the glasses and looked down at the dense growth. Just the sight of it reminded me of the hardships Harry and I had endured and almost made me glad to be aloft in this crazy aircraft. I did as Talbot had instructed—divided the field of vision up into quadrants and attempted to examine each in detail. The muddy green-brown landscape all looked the same—featureless and forbidding.
After one long pass, the pilot banked and brought the 'copter down even lower. This time I saw it—the burnt-out wreckage of the B52. It lay like a grey smudge among the dun-coloured bush. The fire had spread over a very limited area. The rock face was bare of vegetation but dark and difficult to distinguish from the air. I made a sign to Rutherford. He crawled to the curtain and communicated with Talbot. I continued to stare down at the wreckage. Only I in the present company had known the men who lay there, burned beyond recognition, victims of the sort of madness that periodically overwhelmed the world.
Rutherford passed me a piece of paper. On it Talbot had written: 'Which direction to the J. camp?'
I shrugged.
Rutherford looked at me threateningly.
I tried to remember the scramble through the bush Harry and I had made during the night. How was I expected to know the direction? All I recalled was that we had moved downhill, more or less. I guessed north and wrote 'uphill and north' on the slip of paper. Rutherford passed the paper forward and I felt the helicopter's immediate response as it lifted and swung away.
Jacko was in a highly excited state. 'What's up, Dick?'
'We're getting close, I think.'
'Whacko.'
'Shut up, Waters,' Rutherford snapped and I wondered then if he was quite as cool as he liked to appear.
Willy Johnson was examining the mechanism of his Owen gun. He smiled at me. The engine noise was suddenly reduced and I could hear Willy's voice. 'Nice gun, boss. What've they got?'
'Rifles,' I said. 'I didn't see anything else. The officer's got a sword.'
'A sword,' Les said. 'Jesus. What for?'
I tapped the side of my neck with a flexed right hand.
Jacko slid a wide-bladed knife from a scabbard attached to his belt.
'Put it away, Waters,' Rutherford said. 'We're not here to play cowboys and Indians.'
'What exactly are we here to do, Sergeant?' I asked.
Rutherford scratched his chin. 'Make contact, persuade them to surrender, guide them out.'
'Where from, Sarge?' Les said, sceptically. 'Up here?'
'We'll see. Do you know this country, Willy?'
The Aborigine stared down at the bush. 'A bit. My mother's people use it.'
I was surprised. 'I didn't see any blacks when I was down there.'
Willy grinned. 'You wouldn't, boss. But I bet they seen you.'
We were very low now, seeming to just skim the tops of the trees. Nothing looked familiar, but how would it? I couldn't remember any particular ground level features except the crashed Japanese bomber, and that had been camouflaged. Come to think of it, the camp had been camouflaged, too, and the clearing wasn't large. With any luck, I thought, we won't find hide or hair of them.
The helicopter swooped, rose, made low passes, backwards and forwards over a wide area. I started to gain in confidence. The thing had to have a limited fuel supply. The other men looked down intently, Jacko Waters most of all. I was beginning to feel the need for a smoke and a piss when Willy Johnson's long brown arm shot out. His finger jabbed and pointed like a spear.
'There,' he said. 'Camp, down there, an' a crashed plane. See it?'
I couldn't see a thing, but Jacko's triumphant whoop and the helicopter's sudden change of direction told me that I could forget all about a quiet return to base.
11
If Willy Johnson hadn't been around, I doubt that anyone would have seen the camp. It was thoroughly and expertly camouflaged. The branch and leaf screens I'd seen during my brief visit were artful constructions. Drawn up over the campfires, canvas shelters and the body of the aeroplane, they almost converted the area back to
jungle. Almost. Willy's expert and keen eye had discerned things that weren't right—disturbances of the growth pattern, I guess, shapes and shadows, who knows? But once he'd pointed things out to the soldiers, they claimed to be able to see the camp clear as day.
I tried to share in the good news. 'See any movement?'
Willy said he didn't. Rutherford was in earnest consultation with Talbot and the pilot. We circled over the spot a few times, coming in dangerously low it seemed to me, but Willy continued to shake his head. I'll admit it was interesting to see the country from above. The jungle looked impenetrable, but I knew there were rough tracks through it. The escarpment we'd gone over jutted up away to the south-east. A break in the thick mass of trees a little to the west was probably a river. The pilot took the helicopter up in a stomach-turning lurch, then he swung away sharply and we quickly lost height.
Even Jacko was alarmed at the manoeuvre. 'What's up?'
'Goin' down, boss,' Willy said. 'Clearin' by the creek.' The helicopter hovered over a flat stretch that was almost an island. A loop of the river had been cut off, and only light bushes and scruffy grass grew there. The downthrust flattened the undergrowth. Presumable satisfied there were no rocks or other hazards, the pilot set us down as softly as a snowflake. He cut the engines but the sound roared in my ears for several seconds. While Talbot consulted with Jerry James, Rutherford assembled us beside the creek.
'Weapon and equipment check,' he snapped.
My most recent military service, in the Canadian army, was only a few years behind me,14 and I automatically obeyed the order.
'You may not be a brigadier general, Mr Kelly,' Rutherford observed sardonically, 'but you've certainly been a soldier.'
'Worse luck,' I said. I slammed the magazine into the Owen gun and wondered if I'd get a chance to use it on Lieutenant Okano, something I wouldn't have any great objection to doing.
Willy unlaced his boots and kicked them off. He took a bayonet from his pack and handed his Owen gun to Jacko.
'I'll scout for you, Sarge,' he said.
Rutherford nodded. Talbot joined us, shouldering his pack awkwardly on account of his stiff arm. A puff of smoke rose from the helicopter cabin as Jerry James lit up a Camel.
'Tricky situation,' Talbot said. 'The camp might be deserted or it might not. If they are there, they might want to surrender or fight—with luck, the former.'
My sentiments exactly, I thought. Jacko coughed to hide his disagreement.
'We'll go in and see what's what. I won't say don't fire unless you're fired on, but I don't want any itchy trigger fingers. Waters, that means you.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Keep to the rear, Mr Kelly. All right, let's go.'
Willy led the way. He seemed to have an instinct for where the vegetation would offer least resistance and, where it did resist, he used his bayonet in the same way Harry had. Unlike Harry, he didn't tire. We made good progress, but I found the pack heavy and the Owen gun an encumbrance. I found myself falling behind and contemplated losing touch with the party and going back to have a smoke with Jerry. Maybe he'd have some Early Times in a flask and we could sit down and chew the fat. When I looked behind me, the bush seemed to have closed up and I wasn't sure I could retrace our steps. Not positively. I hurried to catch up.
After we'd travelled for about an hour, Willy suddenly disappeared and we halted. It was an eerie feeling to be standing, bunched up with the other men, not sure in what direction to look, wondering if a Jap had me in his sights. Jacko nursed his Owen gun like a baby. Les was breathing heavily and I realised that he wasn't as fit as he looked. Rutherford stood as still as a tree; Talbot looked relaxed, although he flexed his bad arm a few times. My heart was pounding in my chest and sweat saturated my clothing.
'Where's that bloody Abo gone?' Jacko muttered.
Willy materialised from the bush on our left. 'All dead, Captain,' he said.
I suppressed the sigh of relief.
'How many, Johnson?' Talbot said.
'Seen about twenty. Could be more. But nothin's happened around there for a good while.'
Talbot turned to me. 'What was their strength, Kelly?'
'Twenty sounds about right. Did you see the officer, Willy? Spick and span type with a clean uniform and polished boots.'
Willy nodded and drew his clenched fist across his midriff. 'Not so flash now, boss. He's spilled his own guts from the look of it.'
'Harakiri,' Talbot said. 'Well, we'd better go and take a look. It appears you'll need your camera rather than your gun, Sergeant.'
'That's all right with me, sir. I've seen all the jungle fighting I ever want to see.' A long speech for Rutherford.
Jacko was disappointed. He returned the second Owen gun to Willy and his shoulders slumped as we pushed through the bushes. Five minutes later we stood at the edge of the camp. I'd only seen it at night and nothing was familiar at first. Then I saw the plane and the place where Harry and I had made our plans. The jungle had started to encroach on the canvas and brush shelters. Pretty soon, the camp would be swallowed up by creepers, grass and trees. Small bushes were already sprouting around the places where the fires had been.
The first body I saw was lying on its back behind a large rock. The head was mostly blown away and the ants were completing the job. I vomited at the sight and heard Les retching as he lifted the screen away from another body.
Jacko spat. Willy Johnson stood back, looking away into the far distance.
Rutherford crouched down close to the corpses, calmly photographing shattered skulls and empty eye sockets. One was enough for me; the body looked tiny and frail and the soldier had carefully folded his spectacles and placed them on the ground before blowing his brains out.
'Better collect the identity discs,' Talbot said.
Rutherford nodded. 'Waters, got a job for you with that knife.'
'Right, Sarge.'
Jacko was approaching the makeshift tent lieutenant Okano had rigged up for himself. I wandered over there, remembering the touch of the blade on the back of my neck and trying to calculate how many of the supposed nine lives I'd already lost. I caught up with Jacko and together we looked at the corpse of the lieutenant. He'd apparently been kneeling when he'd ripped his belly open. A long-bladed knife lay near his outstretched hand. The metal was brown, either with rust or blood, or both. The body was folded forward, the head touching the ground in a final bow.
'Jesus Christ,' Jacko said, 'why would a bloke do that?'
Talbot was behind us. 'Honour,' he said.
Jacko took a step forward and pointed. 'Look, Dick, that must be the bloody sword he was going to lop you with.'
The handle of the sword, ivory-inlaid, protruded from the cushion on which Okano had knelt to deliver his death stroke. Jacko reached for it.
'Don't touch it!' Talbot yelled.
He was too late. Jacko tugged and the explosion blew him from his feet. Instinctively, I hit the ground, covering my head with my arms, and Jacko landed on top of me. I felt the blood running from him, trickling down my neck. Then Talbot was pulling him off me. I blacked out for a few seconds and when I came round I saw Jacko lying on the ground beside me. I rolled away and started to yell.
'Easy, boss, easy.' Willy Johnson held me in his sleeper-carrying grip. I shook and clenched my teeth into my lower lip to stop myself from screaming.
'Booby-trap grenade,' Rutherford said. 'Poor bastard.'
Les gave me a cigarette and he lit one for himself. 'Fuckin' capitalist war,' he snarled. 'Fuckin' plutocratic—'
'Shut your Commie mouth,' Rutherford said.
'Make me, you prick.' Les jumped up and reached for his Owen gun.
Talbot's voice was like a whip-crack. 'Shut up, both of you! Are you all right, Kelly?'
I got slowly to my feet and checked myself over. The force of the explosion had been totally absorbed by Jacko. I was uninjured. I forced myself to look at Jacko. His chest had been blown open and the pink and grey tissue oo
zed from the shattered mass of meat and bone. Les Desmond took two steps and kicked the stiff, bowing figure of the Japanese lieutenant. The body toppled sideways and lay in the dirt like a broken toy.
Talbot's voice was calm. 'We'll bury the Japanese and take Waters back with us. When you finish photographing Sergeant, appoint a burial detail. I'm going to look around for documents and such.'
'Yes, sir,' Rutherford said. He photographed the dead Japanese and his victim. Then he looked at Willy and Les. 'Get ready to dig, but be careful with the bodies. There might be more booby-traps.'
'I don't think so,' I said. 'Lieutenant Okano thought he was something special. I'll do some digging, too, Sergeant.'
It wasn't that I liked hard, physical work in the sun—I don't. But I needed to do something to take my mind off what had happened. It could just as easily have been me who reached for the sword. Everyone likes a good souvenir. I stripped off and got to work with my shovel alongside Les and Willy. Rutherford collected the identity discs. Talbot emerged from Okano's tent with some books and papers which he proceeded to examine. I dug and shovelled until my back ached, then I dug some more. Luckily the earth wasn't very hard, although it was bound by stringy grass and there were sizeable rocks scattered through it. We knocked off for a couple of stiff belts of rum and water, courtesy of Talbot, and then we went back to it.
Rutherford and Talbot transported the bodies as we dug. It couldn't have been a pleasant job and they had to use canvas, branches and lengths of rope to move the remains. We simply rolled them in and covered them with earth, working fast and trying not to look at their faces. We threw their weapons and meagre belongings in with them. It's surprising how modest a hole you need to accommodate sixteen small men.
Rutherford took a photograph, then stepped back. Talbot stood over the grave and said a few words quietly. I assume he was speaking in Japanese.