Corrigan's Run

by Colin Falconer

  Sergeant Lavella ran towards him through the drifting black smoke.

  ‘Get everyone away from here!’ Manning shouted at him. ‘Hurry!’

  Sergeant Lavella nodded and fired his revolver wildly in the air to attract attention.

  The Kawanisi banked slowly, preparing for a second pass.

  Suddenly he remembered the aerial, on top of his office. It would give away the position of the teleradio. There was a chance that the pilot hadn't seen it yet.

  He leaped to his feet and ran back up the path towards his bungalow. He staggered, gasping for breath. His lungs felt as if they were on fire.

  He was still fifty yards from the Residency when the bomber came back for its second run. The roar of its engines echoed around the hills. It raced towards him over the green canopy of the jungle with unbelievable speed.

  He wasn't going to make it. He was caught out in the open directly in the bomber's path. Puffs of red dirt kicked into the air behind him as the forward gunner opened fire. Manning froze, and got ready to die.

  Something hit him hard in the chest from the side, and sent him sprawling headlong into the bushes. He rolled through the undergrowth as the flying boat roared overhead, its machine guns clattering.

  He blacked out.

  *****

  When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on his back, staring up at the empty sky. Someone was shouting at him.

  ‘You all right?’

  Manning nodded, unable to trust his own voice. He raised himself on his elbows, and looked back towards the harbor. The Kawanisi made another slow turn and then headed back to the north. Glycol vapor was streaming from one of the starboard engines; the sailors manning the Vickers had exacted a small measure of retribution.

  Manning turned to Corrigan. ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘No need to thank me.’

  ‘I wasn't going to. I was going to ask you what you were doing out of jail.’

  *****

  A haze of black smoke hung over Vancoro. The Chinatown had been razed; there was nothing left but a smoldering mess of warped metal and timber.

  Miraculously the Melinda had suffered only minor damage. Diverted by the unexpected machine gun fire the Japanese had dropped their clutch of bombs too soon. Manning's own ketch, the Tulagi, had been strafed but was still navigable.

  But the saving of the Melinda had come at a cost. Thirteen islanders were dead, and two Chinamen who had taken shelter in Sam Doo's store.

  The men on the Vickers gun had also saved the teleradio; although his office was riddled with machine gun shells, the radio itself was untouched. The damage to Kawasini’s starboard engine had forced the Japanese pilot to abort the attack.

  But the two men on the gun had paid a heavy price for their courage. They now lay on the jetty beside the Melinda, their bodies covered with a bloodied tarpaulin.

  Another fifteen islanders had been wounded in the attack and Manning had them put on board the Melinda, so that they could be cared for in Tulagi. The bomber’s appearance had expedited the evacuation and cut short all arguments. She was already under sail, leaving piles of boxes and luggage abandoned on the wharf.

  Manning turned away from the window. The wind whistled softly through the gaping holes in the slatted bamboo walls where the bullets had ripped through.

  ‘Want a drink?’ Manning said.

  Corrigan grinned. ‘Got any gin?’

  ‘I can do better than that.’ Manning reached into his desk drawer and took out a bottle of eighteen year old Scotch malt whisky. He had bought it from a trader a year ago, had been saving it for a special occasion.

  He poured three fingers into two thick glass tumblers and handed one to Corrigan. He felt strangely elated. He had always feared that in a crisis his courage would fail him. Instead he had discovered a recklessness he never knew he possessed.

  ‘Your health, Patrick.’

  ‘And yours. For all the good it will do you now.’

  Corrigan swallowed the whisky like it was a flat beer. He grimaced and held out his glass for another.

  ‘I don't want to seem churlish, Patrick,’ Manning said. ‘But how did you get out of the jail?’

  Corrigan shrugged. ‘I've got a key.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You don't seem very surprised.’

  ‘Nothing you do shocks me any more.’

  ‘When a man spends as much time as I do in the can he has to allow himself some flexibility. Some nights I need to slip out for a drink, you know? So a few months ago I told Sergeant Lavella I'd thump him if he didn't give me a spare key. So he did. You know these fellows. They're not used to saying no to a white man.’

  ‘It's a good job you did, or I wouldn't be alive right now.’ He handed Corrigan another glass of whisky. ‘Well, it looks like the war has finally caught up with us.’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Nothing, why should I? It's not my bloody war. Anyway, I'm a pacifist.’

  ‘I didn't know that.’

  ‘Nothing's going to change. If the Japs don't bother me, I won't bother them.’ He downed the whisky.

  ‘You've had no second thoughts about staying on?’

  ‘Why would I?’ Corrigan said. ‘And what about you? I've heard a rumor you're going bush.’

  ‘Shouldn't believe everything you hear, Patrick, He handed Corrigan the bottle of whisky. ‘Here, you might as well have this.’

  ‘I always said you were a generous man, Manning.’ He extended a huge paw. ‘The best of luck to you.’ He shook Manning's hand, went out, and headed back down the hill towards Vancoro.

  *****

  It was just after dawn and Manning was ready to leave.

  Sergeant Lavella had wanted to bring all the office files, even the carbon copies. It was as unthinkable to him to allow a duplicate copy of a 1936 court case over a Rendova woman who had insulted a Marmari girl's parrot to fall into Japanese hands as it would be to hand them the Australian battle plans for the South Pacific.

  Manning had calculated that it would have required fifteen native carriers to transport these boxes of useless documents; almost as many as he needed to carry the precious teleradio. For the sake of morale Manning had decided to compromise, and so he arranged for them to instead be buried in the hillside above Vancoro.

  Manning then focused his concerns on the teleradio.

  It was a 3BZ type AWA transmitter. It could be carried in four separate boxes, but extra carriers were needed for the batteries, the charging motor and the benzene. He had recruited a further dozen carriers to transport it.

  Sergeant Lavella had his six bronzed constables to attention, closed up and their rifles at slope; even Chomu, the cookboy, his pots and pans slung over his shoulders, stood there like he was on parade for the Queen.

  Manning stood on the lawn and watched Sergeant Lavella lower the Union Jack for the final time. Solemnly he handed it, neatly folded, to Manning. He packed it carefully and then walked down the path a little way and took a final look over the bay. Boxes and abandoned luggage were still strewn across the wharf where they had been left the previous day after the Melinda's sudden departure.

  Two massive bomb craters beside the jetty. Several bodies lay outside the mission hospital, covered over with blankets. He felt stricken with grief; what would happen to these people when they were gone? They could not possibly conceive the white man's way of making war; they had no inkling of how terrible it might be.

  He turned his back and with a swift nod to Sergeant Lavella, he gave the order for his little procession to start the long march into the hills.

  After almost fifty years, the British were leaving Vancoro.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 14

  The destroyer was silhouetted against the velvet blackness, the small white moustache of the bow wave glowed phosphorescent in the moonlight. On the starboard rail Lieutenant Mashita Tashiro waited for the first violet stain of dawn.<
br />
  In a few hours they would reach the island of Santa Maria. At last he would see action.

  ‘Soon, Kurosawa-San, soon,’ Tashiro said.

  Noriko Kurosawa removed his spectacles and cleaned them studiously with a handkerchief. ‘You are very eager, Tashiro-san.’

  ‘Every young man should be bloodied in war. Do you not feel the world turning?’

  ‘Yes, I feel it. But we must not underestimate the Americans. Soon they will gather their forces and make a stand. They are a worthy enemy and the battles will be bloody.’

  ‘We will crush the Americans as we crushed the British at Singapore.’

  Kurosawa fell silent, guarding his thoughts. The sun edged over the horizon and he had to look away. The grey steel of the hull and the gun turrets were lit with gold. It rose over the island of Bougainville, creeping up the towering banks of cumulus.

  ‘Look,’ Tashiro whispered. ‘It’s an omen. The Rising Sun!’

  *****

  The war raging around the South Pacific had until now passed by the tiny settlement at Vancoro. Occasionally a Kawanisi or a Zero fighter, a distinctive red sun emblazoned on the fuselage, would fly overhead. Otherwise life had changed little.

  But that morning, as the dawn broke over the island, a Japanese destroyer lay anchor in the deep blue waters of the lagoon. The war had finally come to Santa Maria.

  A company of Japanese soldiers landed on the foreshore in two sampans. They marched up the path between the casuarina trees to the Residency. There they raised the flag of the Rising Sun over the unkempt lawns of the bungalow, where for fifty years the red, white and blue Union Jack had whipped in the breeze.

  Patrick Corrigan watched with casual interest. Then he ambled down to the wharf, as he had done every morning for the last fortnight, to tinker with the Gardner diesel engine on the Shamrock. Eventually the Japanese would seek him out, he supposed. At the Mission, Matthew and Rachel Goode also prepared themselves for visitors.

  They didn't have to wait long.

  *****

  Father Goode waited on the bungalow steps in full canonicals.

  He counted eight uniforms; six soldiers and two officers. They wore tropical field caps with havelocks, khaki tunics, shorts and puttees. The soldiers marched two abreast, as if they were on the parade ground, their rifles at slope.

  The officers strode ahead. One had a smooth, bronze face, passive beneath his dun-coloured cap. His head had been close- shaved and he wore thick horn-rimmed spectacles. He resembled one of the cartoon caricatures Father Goode had seen in the newspapers sent out from England. Yet there was a calm intelligence to his face, and at once he sensed a possible ally.

  The other officer was a head taller. He walked ramrod-stiff, one hand on the sword at his hip. He was clearly the senior of the two officers and walked half a pace ahead. He barked out a command and the column of soldiers halted a few yards from the veranda.

  Father Goode affected the bland smile he affected at the Sunday service and went down the steps to meet them.

  ‘I am Father Matthew Goode,’ he said, his hands clasped in front of his chest in an attitude of devotion. ‘We have been expecting you. My niece has made some morning tea. Would you care to join us?’

  If Lieutenant Mashita Tashiro had understood anything of this little speech he gave no sign of it. He brushed past the priest and marched ahead into the bungalow.

  Father Goode watched him with an expression of pity and disdain. It was as he had anticipated.

  Utter barbarians.

  Rachel came to stand beside him. ‘What is he looking for?’

  ‘My dear, I have no idea.’

  ‘Please excuse,’ Kurosawa said in English. His gently accented voice was soft, like a woman's. ‘Is necessary. So sorry.’

  Father Goode smiled with relief. ‘Ah, you speak English.’

  ‘I study one year at University in America. Mich’-gan.’

  ‘Then perhaps you could explain to the other gentleman, when he comes out …’ Father Goode nodded towards the bungalow. ‘… that I am a man of God. The war is of no account to us here.’

  Kurosawa did not reply. He seemed ill at ease, the noonday sun reflected in his spectacles.

  ‘Perhaps you would you like to have some tea with us,’ Rachel asked him. Father Goode had told Rachel that they should extend the same courtesies to the Japanese as they would to any visitors to the island. ‘Besides,’ he had added, ‘fear will only arouse their brutal instincts.’

  Lieutenant Kurosawa hesitated. Although he had overcome his initial amazement, he was not sure that Tashiro would wish to accept such an offer.

  ‘It's too hot to stand out here,’ Father Goode told him. ‘Come and join us on the veranda.’

  Kurosawa hesitated, then followed the priest up the steps and into the shade, where four cane chairs and a small wicker table were neatly set out. On the table was a silver salver with half a dozen egg-yellow scones, a glass dish filled with rich jam and a delicate china teapot.

  From inside the bungalow Rachel heard a drawer crash onto the floor. She exchanged glances with her uncle.

  ‘Please sit down,’ Father Goode said to Kurosawa. ‘My niece made some scones. Would you like one?’

  Lieutenant Kurosawa sat stiffly to attention in the cane chair between Rachel and Father Goode, his cap gripped tightly in one hand. He had no idea what a ‘scone’ was. He reluctantly acceded to the offer of tea.

  Before Rachel could finish pouring, Tashiro re-appeared and Kurosawa jumped to his feet. Tashiro looked at the refreshments Rachel had prepared with some disdain. He picked up a scone and took a bite out of it. Finding it not to his taste he spat it out again.

  Father Goode regarded him in shocked silence.

  ‘Who are they?’ Tashiro asked Kurosawa in Japanese. ‘English?’

  ‘He is a Catholic priest. This is his niece. They say they wish to remain neutral.’

  ‘What about the English kiap?’

  Kurosawa turned to Father Goode. ‘Lieutenant Tashiro wishes to know hiding place of your kiap. Native say he is still on island.’

  ‘I know nothing about this,’ Father Goode lied. ‘The District Officer left on the Melinda back in February. Mister Corrigan and the Austrian Heydrich are the only other white men left on the island.’ He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘It is likely that what the natives are telling you is what they wish were true. They were rather fond of him.’

  Kurosawa translated this information to Tashiro. The young officer considered this a moment. ‘Tell them they are on parole,’ he said, and marched off down the path.

  ‘What did he say?’ Father Goode asked Kurosawa.

  ‘Tashiro-san say you make no trouble and everything …’ He searched for a phrase he had learned in America. ‘Okey-dokey.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘You co-operate with Japan soldier. You are Emperor subject now.’

  ‘We have only one Lord,’ the priest told him grandly. ‘And He is not of this world.’

  ‘Emperor is God also,’ Kurosawa told him, bowed, and smartly replaced his cap. As he hurried after Tashiro, Father Goode ruminated on this blasphemy.

  ‘Pagans! They are no better than these poor natives they have conquered.’

  ‘It's not the natives they have conquered,’ Rachel reminded him. ‘It's us.’

  But Father Goode was not listening. He watched the soldiers march away. ‘I wonder where they're going?’ he said.

  ‘They’re headed to the foreshore,’ Rachel said. ‘It looks as if they are going to visit Mister Corrigan.’

  ‘Well, they won't get any tea and scones there.’ Father Goode sniffed, and he went back inside.

  *****

  Frigate birds wheeled over the bay, occasionally swooping down to fish. A kingfisher joined them, its feathers white and metallic green. It gave a convulsive twist and plunged into the water in a flash of silver spray.

  The Shamrock was moore
d at the wharf. Corrigan had removed some of the planking and was bent over the engine cowling with a spanner and an oily rag. When he saw the soldiers he swore softly under his breath and spat into the water.

  The soldiers marched double file onto the jetty, their boots clattering on the wooden planks. Corrigan wiped his hands on the rag and threw it in the scuppers.

  He had never liked any man in a uniform, and the look of this lot did nothing to make him feel better disposed. Especially the officer leading them. He was looking for a head to kick, it was written all over him.

  The little bastard barked out an order and the platoon came to attention next to the Shamrock.

  ‘Good morning, you little yellow turds,’ Corrigan said cheerfully.

  The shorter of the two officers stepped forward and said in English: ‘Good morning.’

  Corrigan grunted. ‘You speak English then?’

  ‘My name Lieutenant Kurosawa. This Lieutenant Tashiro of Imperial Japanese Army. We come on your boat now.’

  ‘I reckon I can't stop you.’ The one called Tashiro jumped on deck, landing easily on the balls of his feet, still with a hand on the sword at his hip. ‘Welcome aboard,’ Corrigan said.

  Kurosawa jumped down beside him. ‘We have take possession of island in name of Emperor. You now Japanese subject.’

  ‘I'm honoured.’ The one calling himself Kurosawa looked nervous. Not much to worry about there. It's the other one you have to be leery of.

  Tashiro ducked into the tiny cabin below the wheelhouse. Corrigan followed, so he could keep an eye on him. It was cramped, thick with diesel fumes and the taint of the bilges. There was a single bunk, unmade, and a small desk strewn with papers. An empty gin bottle rolled around the floor.