The Passion and the Glory

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘She is lying,’ Osawa said again.

  ‘There is a simple way to make sure,’ Tarawa said. He had seen her Bible lying on the table, and now he picked it up. ‘This is their holy book.’ He handed it to Stefanie. ‘Forgive me, Mrs van Gelderen, but I must ask you to swear on your Bible.’

  Stefanie’s fingers curled around the book. God would have to forgive her — but then, He had sent her here in the first place. ‘I swear,’ she said, ‘that I know of no American or English spy in New Guinea.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Tarawa said. ‘I am satisfied, Captain Osawa. Let us get on to the next plantation. It is possible to reach there before dark.’

  ‘I do not believe her,’ Osawa said.

  ‘A Dutch lady would never lie with her hand on the Bible,’ Tarawa insisted.

  ‘Bah.’ Osawa got up, went to the door, gave orders in Japanese. Two of his men immediately came into the house. ‘You may leave us, Captain Tarawa.’

  ‘I most strongly protest,’ Tarawa said. ‘This lady has an impeccable record.’

  ‘Her husband struck a Japanese officer, did he not?’ Osawa asked. ‘Leave us, Captain. I will not be long. I just wish to be sure that she is telling the truth.’

  Tarawa gazed at Stefanie, and she gazed back. She had uncrossed her knees and now had them pressed together, oddly wished she had worn stockings. But she had never worn stockings in New Guinea — it was too hot.

  ‘I am sorry, Mrs van Gelderen,’ Tarawa said. ‘But Captain Osawa is my superior officer on this mission. I would ask you to tell him whatever it is he wishes to know.’ He turned and left the room.

  Stefanie remained seated, looking now at Osawa. ‘Finish your drink,’ he commanded. ‘And tell your butler to bring another. Tell him to bring the bottle.’

  Stefanie rang for Bhutto, and the bottle of gin was brought. It had just been opened and was almost full. She composed her mind to wait and discover what was going to be done to her; she did not suppose Osawa really wanted the pair of them to have a convivial morning together.

  ‘Tell him to leave the bottle,’ Osawa said, when Bhutto hesitated, looking from one full glass to the other.

  ‘You may leave the bottle, thank you, Bhutto,’ Stefanie said. She finished the liquid in her glass. Her brain seemed frozen, aware only that she must get through the following few’ minutes. He had said he would not be long. Just a few minutes.

  She became aware that the two soldiers had come further into the room, and were standing one on either side of her chair.

  ‘Drink,’ Osawa commanded.

  Stefanie’s hands were shaking as she picked up the bottle to pour.

  ‘Drink from the bottle,’ Osawa said.

  She hesitated, then put the neck to her lips. She swallowed,

  and her eyes watered. She lowered the bottle.

  ‘Drink,’ Osawa said. ‘Finish the bottle.’

  ‘Finish … I can’t,’ she protested. ‘I would die.’

  Osawa gave an order, and one of the soldiers seized her shoulders and pressed her into the chair. The other straddled her lap and actually sat on her thighs. With his right hand he gripped the base of her j aw and forced her mouth open, with his left hand he seized the gin bottle and upended it into her mouth. She choked and flailed at him with her fists while she tried to throw him off, and was struck an agonising blow on the right knee. For a moment she thought the entire cap had been crushed, but when she tried to scream, her mouth was filled with gin. She swallowed, spat, and screamed again, and had more liquid poured down her throat, while now the agonising pain started up in her left knee, and she realised that Osawa had come to stand above her, and must have hit her each time with his rubber truncheon.

  Gin flowed down her throat and up her nose and dribbled down her chin to soak the bodice of her dress as the pain left her too paralysed to move. Tears flooded from her eyes. Only vaguely was she aware that the man had stopped sitting on her and that the other had stopped holding her shoulders. She crumpled forward to hug her tortured knees, staring at Osawa’s legs as she did so.

  ‘Now tell me about the American spy,’ he said.

  She gasped, and sobbed. ‘I know of no American spy,’ she whispered. And was hit again, a horrifying blow on the left side of her back. She arched upwards, lost her balance, and fell to the floor. Her stomach revolted at the agony and the gin and she vomited while she writhed and gasped and wept.

  ‘Tell me about the American spy,’ the voice said.

  Stefanie panted. ‘I know … nothing of an American spy,’ she mumbled.

  The booted foot dug into her ribs, and she was rolled on to her back, arms and legs scattered as if they did not truly belong to her. She looked up at their faces through a pain haze; they were grinning at her.

  ‘You think I am going to rape you,’ Osawa said. ‘You would like that, eh?’

  Oh, God, she thought. Give me strength. Oh, God!

  ‘But I am not here to give you pleasure. My superior likes white women. He thinks they are beautiful.’ Osawa bent over her. ‘I hate them, I hate all white people. I think you are ugly, and a whore. I am not here to give you pleasure. I am here to hurt you, if you do not tell me the truth. Do you know what I will do to you, if you make me take you to Manokwari?’ The toe nudged her ribs. ‘Speak.’

  Stephanie gasped for breath. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I do not know.’

  ‘I would put electrodes inside you,’ he said. ‘Then you would know what pain is.’ He knelt beside her, threw up her dress, and drove his hand between her legs. She gasped again, and gave a strangled scream, and tried to tense her muscles and bring up her knees, but the pain of his grip was paralysing. ‘Do you want me to take you to Manokwari?’

  ‘No,’ Stephanie panted. ‘No,’ she screamed.

  Osawa squeezed harder. His hand seemed to be encompassing vagina and anus and buttocks all in a steadily tightening grip, his fingers penetrating the silk of her camiknickers. ‘Then tell me where this American spy is hiding.’

  Tears flooded from Stefanie’s eyes. ‘I know of no American spy,’ she moaned. ‘I know of no American spy.’

  Blessed relief; the fingers were relaxing. The hand was withdrawn, and she could bring up her knees and hug herself, regardless of the fact that her skirt was round her waist.

  ‘White bitch,’ Osawa said, standing up. ‘Perhaps you do not know of him. White bitch.’

  She heard feet shuffling, and opened her eyes. Were they actually going to leave her? But the two soldiers were now stooping beside her, rolling her on her face and pulling at her legs, while Osawa spoke to them in Japanese. She had not the strength to resist them, while her brain was spinning with a mixture of the gin and the pain. She couldn’t think. She could only feel. And suddenly she seemed torn apart by a more agonising pain than any she had previously endured.

  Chapter 6

  New Guinea, Pearl Harbour and Midway — 1942

  ‘You must come,’ Bhutto said. ‘The mistress is very sick.’

  ‘Sick?’ Clive scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Japanese soldiers came,’ Bhutto explained. ‘They asked her questions about you.’

  Clive stared at him in consternation.

  ‘She did not tell them anything,’ Bhutto said. ‘So they hurt her. They hurt her very bad. I do not know if she will recover. I can do nothing with her. You must come.’

  Clive’s mind seethed with alarm on every front. ‘The Japanese have gone?’ he asked.

  ‘They have gone,’ Bhutto said. ‘Yesterday, they were at the plantation, and then they left again.’

  Yesterday! They would not be very far away. But Stefanie needed him. Not recover? Stefanie?

  ‘What did they do to her?’ he asked.

  ‘She needs you,’ Bhutto said.

  They hurried along the rough path through the bush, came to the road. Here a man waited, and Bhutto spoke to him in Dutch Pidgin. ‘There is no sign of them,’ he told Clive.

  ‘Can all your people be trusted?
’

  ‘Yes,’ Bhutto said.

  They made better progress on the road, came to the village and then to the house. People stood in groups in the village and stared at Clive as he went past them and up the steps to the verandah.

  ‘The mistress is in the lounge,’ Bhutto said.

  Clive hesitated, then went inside, looked at the overturned furniture, the broken glass.

  ‘When they were finished with the mistress,’ Bhutto explained. ‘They searched the house. They searched the entire village. My people are very angry.’

  Clive gazed at the woman lying on the floor. ‘Why have you left her there?’ he asked.

  ‘Every time I try to touch her, she screams, and wishes to fight me,’ Bhutto explained. ‘She is the mistress. I cannot fight the mistress.’

  Clive went closer, swallowed. Stefanie lay on her side, covered with a blanket.

  ‘I put the blanket over her,’ Bhutto said.

  Her eyes were open, red-rimmed and staring into space. Clive could smell the vomit, and see it too. He could also smell gin, and there was an empty bottle lying beside her. His heart constricted as he saw that it was stained with blood. But the glass was unbroken.

  He stood above her. ‘Stefanie?’ he asked.

  For a moment there was no response. Then she muttered. ‘I know nothing of any American spy. I know nothing.’ Tears flowed from her eyes. ‘Please believe me. Oh, God, please believe me.’

  He knelt beside her. ‘Stefanie. It’s me. Clive.’

  There was no response.

  ‘She has not eaten, or drunk, or moved, for twenty four hours,’ Bhutto said.

  ‘Stefanie.’ Clive touched her shoulder. Her body stiffened, her eyes opened wide, and she screamed.

  ‘Don’t do it again,’ she begged. ‘Please don’t hurt me again.’

  Clive looked at Bhutto, then very carefully lifted the blanket. He gazed at blood, soaking the lower half of her dress. But it was dried blood, and her dress had been pulled down to beneath her knees; she looked quite respectable, save for the blood. And the strips of torn underclothing which had also been concealed by the blanket.

  ‘It was the bottle,’ Bhutto told him. ‘They put it inside her.’

  ‘Holy Jesus Christ!’ Clive said. ‘Bhutto, she must be washed, and put to bed.’

  ‘I know,’ Bhutto said. ‘But when I touch her, she screams.’

  Clive chewed his lip for a moment. But what needed doing

  had to be done. ‘Get some women from the village,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Bhutto said. ‘The mistress would not want them to touch her.’

  ‘For God’s sake … ‘

  ‘I know this, Mr McGann,’ Bhutto said. ‘She would hate them for it. You must do it.’

  ‘And will she not hate me?’

  ‘I do not believe so. Besides, it is your responsibility. What she has suffered, whatever injury she has sustained, was to save your life.’

  Clive swallowed. ‘You will help me.’

  ‘No,’ Bhutto said. ‘I cannot touch the mistress.’

  Clive gazed at the woman. She must know they were there. ‘Stefanie,’ he said. ‘I am going to carry you upstairs, and put you to bed.’

  ‘I know nothing of an American spy,’ she whispered. ‘Please believe me. Please believe me.’

  Clive didn’t really know what to do. Obviously she couldn’t continue to lie on the floor. Equally obviously he had to ascertain if she was seriously injured; he couldn’t bring himself to think what Bhutto really meant when he had said they had ‘put the bottle inside her’. He could understand that she was, for the moment, anyway, insane; what he didn’t know was whether doing what had to be done was going to make her permanently so or not.

  But it had to be done. ‘All right, Bhutto,’ he said. ‘I will look after her. What I want you to do is find some sedatives, there must be some.’

  ‘I know where there are pills for curing pain,’ Bhutto said. ‘But she will not take any.’

  ‘You get half a dozen, and mash them up in warm water. But first, go upstairs and draw the mistress a bath.’

  Bhutto nodded, and went off. Clive reflected that Stefanie, whatever torments she had suffered, had to be fortunate in possessing such a faithful servant.

  He stood up, looking down at her. The first woman he had ever thought he could love, whatever the difference in their ages. And she had become a tortured wreck, through trying to save his life. His war, so far, had been one long trail of

  destruction, of his friends. He had none left, save for young Walt. Who was in daily danger of losing his life, in his submarine.

  *

  The Catalina flying boat dipped out of the dawn sky, touched down with a splash. White water sluiced away from her pontoons as she settled and reduced speed, taxiing towards the slip and the waiting sailors.

  It was incredible that it was not three months since he had last been here, Walt thought. In fact, Pearl had changed very little. The wrecked battleships remained where they had been since December — but much of the damage to Ford and Hickam had been repaired, the oil installations seemed fully functional, and there were many new ships in port — but no new battleships. Yet the aircraft carriers were there — three of them. He stared at Yorktown in disbelief. Rumour in Australia had been rife that she had been sunk by the Japanese in the Coral Sea, or so badly damaged she would not fight again, but there she was, alongside, her decks a swarm of dockyard workers, the clang of their hammers and the buzz of the riveters echoing into the still May air.

  ‘Came in yesterday,’ said the lieutenant who was waiting for him. ‘Three months’ work needed. So what did the old man say? You can have forty eight hours. He’s waiting for you.’

  ‘Now? It’s only seven o’clock.’

  ‘So he never sleeps. He’s waiting for you, now.’

  Walt swallowed. The ‘old man’ was Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, appointed to command the Pacific Fleet following the debacle of 7 December — because there were other rumours current in the Navy, that Admiral Kimmel, Nimitz’s predecessor, was on his way to a court martial for having neglected warnings that a surprise Japanese attack on his command might be expected. Nimitz had a calm, thoughtful face, and wore a perpetual frown, as if he was endlessly wrestling with some abstract mental problem. Well, Walt supposed, no doubt he was: how to beat the Japanese.

  He saluted with some trepidation. For an ensign to be whisked half way across the Pacific and then taken straightaway to meet the Commander in Chief was heady stuff.

  ‘Walter McGann,’ Nimitz said. ‘At ease.’ He shook hands. ‘I know your father. I wish he were here, with Florida. But he soon will be; they’re on sea trials now.’

  ‘That would be great, sir,’ Walt ventured.

  ‘It sure would. Sit down, Lieutenant.’

  Walt opened his mouth to point out the mistake, glanced at the admiral’s flag captain, and closed it again. He sat down, as did the other officers in the room.

  ‘Seems you have all your dad had, and more,’ Nimitz said. ‘Tell me about it.’

  Walt swallowed. ‘Tempest was rammed by a Japanese destroyer, sir. Commander Larter and Lieutenant Crossby were killed; the impact came just forward of the conning tower. Lieutenant Hogan was badly injured. Surgeon Lieutenant Wrightson was fully occupied with coping with the injured, and so instructed me to take command.’

  ‘That’s not exactly what he says in his report, Lieutenant. He says you had already taken command, and were doing such a fine job he confirmed the arrangement.’

  ‘I was fortunate enough to be unhurt, sir.’

  ‘So you took Tempest back to Brisbane.’

  ‘With some help, sir. We were able to escape the Japanese destroyers, owing to the weather.’

  ‘And some pretty good work by your gun crew,’ Flag Captain Adams put in.

  ‘Yes, sir. I would like to commend the courage and determination shown by Petty Officer Kowicz and his squad.’ Nimitz nodded. ‘You couldn’t
submerge.’

  ‘No, sir, the damage was too severe. In fact, we shipped water whenever there was a chop and had to keep the pumps going round the clock. But thanks to the low cloud and rain, and I guess the general disorganisation of the Japanese fleet during the action, we were able to proceed south until we made contact with one of our destroyers, and she escorted us in.’

  ‘With a few tons of water in your hull, but another couple of scalps on your belt,’ Nimitz observed. ‘Tempest has quite a reputation. Is she repairable?’

  ‘It’ll take time, sir. My crew are still in Australia.’

  Nimitz gazed at him. ‘I know that, McGann. Those, like Hogan, who are in hospital, will have to stay there for the time being. The rest, Chief Petty Officer Kowicz and his crew, will be re-assigned as quickly as possible. I know you are unhappy at having been forced to leave them, and I respect your feelings. But we need you here.’

  Walt waited, conscious of a pleasant excitement; had he really been promoted?

  ‘There are several reasons for that. You are a fighting officer, and I have already re-assigned you. You are promoted lieutenant, and will serve on Tecumsah as executive officer. Tecumsah is a sister of Tempest, as I am sure you know. She is on her way from the States and arrives here tomorrow. However, you have a lot to do before that. I have arranged for you to hold a press conference.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I know it’s going to be an ordeal. But the fact is, Lieutenant, we need all the morale boosting we can find. The folks back home need it too. You may know, and I may know, that the Battle of the Coral Sea was a strategic victory for us, because we stopped the Japanese attack on Port Moresby. But the Japs are trumpeting it as another victory for them, which in purely tactical terms, it was. They lost a small carrier, Shohu; we lost our biggest, Lexington. They are also claiming to have sunk Yorktown. Again, we know better, but we’re not going to let them know that, right now. So far as anyone in the States knows we have taken another shellacking. Your feat, in sinking a Japanese transport, taking on half a dozen destroyers, and also helping Shohu on her way, and then bringing your sinking ship home, is the only thing about that battle we can brag about, right now.’