Corrigan's Run

by Colin Falconer

  A gift like this would help to cement the bargain.

  *****

  Corrigan and Rachel sat on two packing crates in the radio hut, staring gloomily at the teleradio. The back panel lay on the trestle table. Ten days ago one of the valves had blown out, and they had no spare.

  Rachel put her head in her hands. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘We don't have a lot of options.’

  ‘We can't just sit here like this every day.’

  Corrigan said nothing.

  ‘Perhaps they'll send someone to look for us.’

  ‘It doesn't do to trust the English, girl. Take it from an Irishman.’

  ‘They can't leave us stranded here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Perhaps they think we're dead.’

  ‘There's a war on, girl. People are dying everywhere. What's a couple more?’

  ‘Don't be so gloomy. If the Americans take Guadalcanal, they could be here within a few weeks.’

  ‘I wouldn't count on it.’

  ‘We can survive. We've managed so far,’ She touched the bandage around his chest. ‘How is it?’

  ‘It's fine.’

  ‘I'd better change the dressing.’

  He pushed her hand away. ‘It's not going to get better if you keep fiddling with it, now is it?’

  He went out and left here there, wondering what she had done wrong.

  *****

  Two of the crew undogged the after hatch and Manning followed them out on to the bow of the USS Grampus. The moon disappeared behind a cloud. It was black, the only thing he could make out was the foam breaking on the reef.

  Somewhere out there was Jervoise Bay, the same beach where they put him on the rubber boat almost six weeks before.

  He gulped deep lungfuls of salt air, relieved to be out of the submarine, the smell of sweat, and diesel fumes, the insufferable heat, the melting ice cream the sailors devoured by the gallon. There never seemed to be enough air below decks; at times, he felt as if he was suffocating.

  They were a week out of Townsville; they travelled underwater by day, only surfacing at night to recharge the batteries in the comparative safety of the dark.

  Just the night before a Japanese destroyer had spotted them and the Grampus’ commander had ordered them to dive. The Japs had sent down depth charges. Jesus, he hoped he never had to go through that again.

  The Grampus rolled as an oily swell passed under it, to break a minute later on the distant reef. The crew brought two rubber boats from below, inflating them on deck then launching them over the side.

  Four Australian navy men had been seconded as riflemen back in Townsville. They emerged from below decks and jumped into the Zodiacs. Manning jumped in after them, and they rowed for the shore.

  The submarine’s silhouette faded into the dark. Manning wondered if this was a fool's errand; despite what he had said to the SIO in Townsville, he was sure they must be dead. But he owed it to Rachel and Corrigan to be sure.

  As they got closer to the shore Manning made out the outlines of the palm trees on the beach. A coconut bobbed in the water and then drifted past with the current. He wondered if he was walking into a trap. Perhaps the natives had turned, as they had on some of the other islands, would betray them at the first contact.

  Over the deep boom of the surf, he heard the cicadas chirruping their fathomless code; he had no cipher for it.

  Chapter 62

  The sun had thrown a lemon stain over the eastern horizon by the time they reached the beach. It was that quiet time just before dawn when even the rush of surf across the coral reef seemed hushed. The dark shadows of the palms overhung the beach in brooding silence.

  They would have to be deep into the jungle by first light; they could not risk being seen on the beach by a Japanese spotter plane. As soon as they reached the shallows Manning leaped out of the rubber boat and helped his navy escort drag it up on to the strand.

  One of the sailors, a beefy petty officer with a clipped ginger beard, trudged up the sand beside him, his rifle slung over one shoulder. His name was Hogan, a laconic Queenslander with a tattoo on his right forearm; it said ‘Mother’.

  ‘We'll go inland half a mile and store the gear,’ Manning told him. ‘Then we'll set off for the camp.’

  Hogan nodded. Behind him one of his ratings tripped getting out of the other boat. There was a loud splash as he fell headlong into the water.

  ‘Is that you, Foster?’ Hogan hissed into the darkness.

  ‘Sorry, chief.’

  ‘Christ, you're a clumsy bastard.’

  Manning groaned. It wasn't an auspicious start.

  *****

  Alice Melama'a heard the girl's screams coming from the bungalow the previous evening. She had hidden in the forest as soon as the Japanese had arrived at Marakon. She knew what Heydrich would do.

  She waited until after the Japanese soldiers had set off into the hills for Teatupa. It was almost noon when she finally ventured up the steps of Marakon.

  Heydrich was still not out of bed, and there was no sign of the girl. She tiptoed along the balcony to the kitchen to make breakfast. When it was ready she waited a while, then went along the verandah and peered through the French windows into Heydrich's bedroom.

  He was still asleep. Puzzled, she crept into the room and pulled aside the mosquito net.

  He lay on his back, stark naked and staring sightlessly at the ceiling. An ivory-handled knife protruded from the middle of his chest, and there were dark jelly-like masses of blood congealed around the wound.

  Alice smiled. So the girl had had her revenge!

  She shrugged and went back to the kitchen to finish her breakfast.

  *****

  It had been a full day's march from the coast, but Lieutenant Tashiro felt a thrill of anticipation when he saw the skein of smoke drifting up through the trees right ahead of them. At last! He had them.

  During the long hike through the hills he had considered what he would do with the Englander and his helpers. He had ordered his men to take the Irish trader alive. His pride would not be satisfied with just killing him.

  The woman was of no consequence. He would let his men have her, while he attended to the Irishman. He would die slowly, inch by inch, a piece at a time; he would attend to it personally. Afterwards he would put both their heads on bamboo poles and leave them in the jungle as carrion for the birds and the ants, and as a warning to the natives of what happened to enemies of the Emperor.

  He turned to the native girl walking behind him with Kurosawa. ‘Which way?’

  ‘You go there,’ she said, pointing to the jungle-covered gully ahead. ‘Very narrow. Two soldier.’

  Tashiro pulled the plan she had drawn for them at Marakon from his pocket. He pointed to the ridgeback.

  ‘Ask her how we can get up here,’ he said to Kurosawa. ‘We have to cut off their escape.’

  ‘I show you,’ Sanei said when Kurosawa told her what they wanted.

  Tashiro turned to his lieutenant. ‘Take your platoon and the machine gun and follow the girl. I want you to cover the ridge. We will flush them out for you. But remember - I want the white man alive.’

  Kurosawa saluted and went back down the trail to where the soldiers were squatting among the trees, gulping from their water bottles, their rifles cradled across their knees. He barked out Tashiro's orders, while making a mental reservation about taking the Englishman alive. He hoped their enemies would all meet a quick end in the heat of the battle. He had had enough of Tashiro's brutal amusements.

  Chapter 63

  Tashiro watched Kurosawa lead his platoon after the girl into the tangle of liana and ferns at the base of the gorge. Soon they were swallowed up in the forest.

  Nakamura was still struggling up the steep trail behind them, his face shining with sweat. Tashiro grinned. The old bastard was out of condition. But it was good he would be on hand to witness the morning’s action this morning. He looked at his watch. H
e would give Kurosawa thirty minutes to get his men into position. Then they would attack.

  He settled down to wait.

  *****

  Rachel and Corrigan sat back to back on one of the packing crates outside the radio hut.

  Banks of cumulus were building across the sky. The birdsong was for once unbroken by the angry buzz of warplanes, and the The Slot was blue and empty.

  ‘There’s nothing out there,’ Rachel said. ‘It must be all over.’

  Corrigan pushed the hair out of his eyes. ‘Took a woman and an Irishman to save the damned Empire. Wouldn't you know it?’

  She cradled her head on her arms, her fingers tugging distractedly at the ragged threads on her shirt. There were dark rings under her eyes.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘You're not going to give up on me now, are you?’

  ‘You’re right. We're stranded here. They've forgotten about us.’

  ‘Don’t fetch on. I'll think of something.’

  ‘You're a good man, Patrick. No matter what you've done in your life, I'll always remember you as the bravest man I've ever known.’

  ‘You should tell that to the new District Commissioner when we get away from here. I expect the King of England will be giving me a medal for saving his bloody Empire for him, at the very least. Won't they just love that in Dun Laoghaire?’

  She looked up at him. ‘How's your shoulder?’

  ‘Just a scratch, I told you.’

  Rachel noticed the high color in his cheeks. Fever. She felt a sudden rush of alarm. ‘Corrigan?’ She tore away the filthy dressing around his shoulder, smelled the taint of infection. He tried to shrug her away but she was determined. She tore off the dressing. The wound was suppurating.

  ‘How long has it been like this?’ She tried to keep the panic out of her voice.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You knew, didn’t you?’

  ‘Look, I'm not surprised. I'd been using that knife to clean my boots.’

  Nothing ever mended here, she thought. Like her uncle's leg; everything rotted unless you had drugs. ‘We have to get you help.’

  ‘And how do you propose to do that?’

  The question was left unanswered.

  *****

  The force of the explosion shook the ground under their feet. ‘Get your head down!’ Corrigan shouted and threw himself at Rachel and dragged her to the ground, shielding her body with his own. The aftershock reverberated along the walls of the gorge.

  There was a volley of rifle fire and Rachel heard one of the native constables cry out. It sounded like Silas Tenpound.

  A bullet ricocheted off the rocks and smashed into the radio transmitter. The valves exploded into showers of glass. Corrigan dragged her behind the rocks.

  Sergeant Lavella ran towards them from the gully. ‘Japoni he come!’ he shouted.

  They had rehearsed this scenario so many times. They knew that if the Japanese found them they could defend the neck of the gully long enough for some of them to get away. Silas and Corporal Solomon had enough ammunition to hold off the Japanese for perhaps ten minutes. Rachel heard the crack of the Japanese Arisaka rifles, and the booming response of the Enfields.

  ‘Ger her out of here!’ Corrigan shouted at Lavella.

  Rachel struggled with him. ‘I won't leave you!’

  Lavella hesitated.

  ‘Get her out of here, damn you!’

  Lavella made up his mind; Patrick Corrigan was not a man to argue with. He threw his rifle over his shoulder and yanked Rachel to her feet. He started to run, dragging her after him.

  Corrigan grabbed the spare rifle from the radio hut and ran back down the gully, towards the sound of the gunfire.

  Chapter 64

  Manning's party had been delayed that morning because Able Seaman Foster had tripped on a log and gashed his calf on a cacao thorn. It had bled profusely and by the time Hogan had bandaged him up they had lost almost half an hour.

  It had seemed inconsequential at the time. Later Manning realized those lost minutes had saved all their lives.

  They crossed the rope bridge behind the gorge and headed up the steep defile to the ridgeback. Manning was on point and was the first to see the familiar straw colored uniforms among the green of the forest. He raised his hand and fell flat on to his stomach. The others dropped to the ground behind him.

  Hogan crawled up beside him. ‘What is it?’

  Manning pointed up the hill, where the Japanese were taking up their positions among the ferns at the foot of the ridge.

  Manning felt a thrill of relief mixed with his terror. Corrigan and Rachel must still be alive . . .

  ‘They know where they are,’ Manning whispered. ‘It's a trap. They're setting up a machine gun on the knoll over there.’

  A Japanese officer in a soft peaked cap had signaled his men into position on either side of the track that snaked along the ridgeback. Manning picked up his field glasses, spotted Constable Beni higher up the ridge. He was squatting down, his rifle across his knees, unaware of what was going on.

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘I'm not a military man, Chief Petty Officer.’

  ‘Neither am I, mate. I'm a bloody sailor. If they were in boats I'd fire a torpedo at them, but we didn't train for this at naval school.’

  Manning looked over his shoulder at the three pairs of eyes watching him. They were waiting for him to take command, God help them.

  ‘All right,’ Manning whispered, ‘we have the advantage of surprise, so let’s use it. Leave two men here in reserve. You bring one other man and come with me. If we take out the machine gun, we can turn it on the Japs before they have time to react.’

  Hogan nodded. He turned around. ‘Okay, Kennedy, McFaul, stay here, Foster, it's time you did something useful for a bloody change. You come with me. Stick close - and for Christ's sake try not to shoot yourself in the foot.’

  *****

  Corrigan ran down the gully, crouching low. The noise of the firefight drowned out every other sound. He found Silas Tenpound lying face down in the middle of the rock strewn path. He picked up the dead man's rifle and ducked for cover.

  Corporal Solomon lay on his stomach a few feet away, halfway up the rock spur that blocked the mouth of the gorge. A box of cartridges lay open beside him.

  ‘Too mus japoni!' he shouted when he saw Corrigan. ‘More better we go, quick time!’ Bullets whip-cracked through the air inches above their heads.

  ‘You go,’ Corrigan shouted. ‘I'll keep them busy. Leave me your ammunition.’

  Corporal Solomon hesitated for only a moment, then darted away, up the trail.

  The hail of bullets stopped suddenly. Corrigan raised his head a few inches. Two Japanese soldiers were headed up the scree slope. Corrigan fired, reloaded, and fired again.

  One fell, and lay screaming on the ground. The other ducked for cover.

  ‘This won't hold the bastards for long,’ Corrigan muttered, working the bolt on the Enfield. But every second bought Rachel and the others time to get over the ridge and into the jungle. A fella could only do his best.

  He grunted at another spasm of pain. His fingers went to the filthy dressing on his shoulder. This time tomorrow he’d be dead or close enough to it anyway. He might as well make his last hours count. ‘Who would have thought it? Bloody Patrick Corrigan dying a hero.’

  He heard the unmistakable staccato of machine gun fire. Behind him.

  ‘Christ!’ he gasped. ‘Rachel!’

  He scrambled to his feet and ran blindly back up the slope.

  *****

  When Rachel and Sergeant Lavella reached the brow of the ridge, Constable Beni was waiting for them, wide-eyed with alarm.

  ‘We go!’ Sergeant Lavella yelled at him. ‘Quick time!’

  ‘No!’ Rachel screamed, pulling him back. ‘Wait!’

  Lavella shook his head. ‘Come now, missy. No good too mus you stay here now!
All bugger up finish properly!’

  ‘No!’

  She looked back down the track, saw Corporal Solomon scrambling up the slope. Where was Corrigan? The sound of rifle fire echoed along the gully walls.

  ‘Patrick!’

  Sergeant Lavella tried to drag her away but Rachel fought him, clawing at his arm and kicking at his legs.

  ‘No Missy! We go, we go!’ Lavella was too strong for her. He pulled her down the ridge after Constable Beni.

  Suddenly the ground erupted as a hail of bullets slammed into the earth around them. The first salvo from the machine gun hit Constable Beni in the chest and sent him hurtling backwards like a rag doll. He died without uttering a sound.

  The second burst fell slightly short but Sergeant Lavella screamed as one of the heavy shells shattered his thigh. He fell screaming, clawing blindly at the air. Rachel grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him back up the slope. When they reached the lee of the ridge, Lavella threw himself back onto the ground, gasping with pain. He clenched both his hands around the torn pulp of his thigh. Blood spurted through his fingers.

  *****

  Manning was just twenty yards from the Nambu machine gun when it opened fire. Manning had never heard one fired at close quarters before and the noise of it paralyzed him for a moment.

  He saw two small figures scrambling up the slope, recognized Rachel and beside her the familiar figure of Sergeant Lavella. They weren't going to make it unless he took out the gun.

  There were three men behind the Nambu, their backs towards him. Manning lifted his revolver and fired. The man at the gun toppled forwards and the gun tilted back on its tripod, the spraying several rounds harmlessly into the air. His two comrades span round, and Manning saw their faces empty in shock.