The Pacific

by Peter Watt

  Lukas Kelly was in his late twenties, with broad shoulders and a hard, muscled body. He wore a short beard and his hair had not seen barber’s clippers for some time. His skin was bronzed by the tropical sun, and his black leather eye patch made him look like an old-time pirate.

  ‘Thought I saw movement off the starboard bow,’ Mel said, squinting against the glare of the rising sun.

  Lukas swivelled the machine gun to the right, hoping that it would be a welcome party from the Australian coastwatcher, but the little fountains of water stitching their way across the flat sea soon dispelled that hope.

  Lukas immediately opened fire and Mel swung the Riverside out to sea. Suddenly a large spout of water erupted less than fifty feet from the boat.

  ‘Bloody mortar,’ Lukas swore as water fell onto the deck. ‘The bastards must have been waiting for us. Don’t like the coastwatcher’s chances.’

  Mel opened up the throttle to its full power and began steering a zigzag course to make the Riverside a more difficult target. Three more bombs exploded dangerously close to the boat, sending small columns of water into the air.

  On the stern, one of the Papuan crew had set up a Bren gun and was firing back at the shore. The gun was hopelessly out of range, but it was better than doing nothing. After a few heart-stopping minutes the Riverside made its way far enough from shore to be safe from the land guns, but Lukas knew their problems were not over. No doubt the Japanese would have radioed either their air force or navy to inform them of the boat’s escape and to give its estimated position at sea.

  ‘Steer south for a couple of miles and take her back to shore,’ Lukas said to Mel, who looked at him with surprise. ‘If the Japs follow us they’ll be expecting us to continue south to Moresby or Milne Bay. I know a small inlet along this stretch of the coast where we might be able to hide. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only chance we have.’

  Mel reached for a large cigar, lighting it. The thick smoke whisked away on the breeze. He nodded and kept the throttle open while Lukas organised the second Bren gun to be mounted astern against a possible air attack. Lukas had calculated how long it would take for a fighter aircraft to be dispatched from the nearest Japanese-held airfield. If he was right they should be under cover before the pilot realised they had not continued south.

  The journey seemed to stretch into eternity as the crew anxiously scanned the horizon for any sign of an aircraft or warship.

  Around midmorning Lukas spotted the landmarks that indicated the approach to the small inlet where he planned to hide the boat. He was fully aware that it was in enemy-held territory and could be currently in use by the Imperial Japanese Navy. But he had kept this piece of information to himself, knowing that Mel would never have agreed to the plan if he’d known. He could only hope and pray that the enemy had withdrawn from this part of the coast.

  *

  Sergeant Jack Kelly lay on his back attempting to snatch a few minutes’ sleep. He was under a canopy of tall rainforest trees only a couple of hundred feet from a sandy beach adjoining a lagoon. Beside him lay his Owen submachine gun, primed and ready. He swatted irritably at a mosquito buzzing around his head.

  Jack was a noncommissioned officer in a unit the Japanese had nicknamed ‘the green shadows’. The Papua Infantry Battalion was composed of Papuans and New Guineans who had volunteered to fight the Japanese and operated under the command of Australian officers and NCOs. This was Jack’s second war. He was in his mid-fifties and under normal circumstances would be considered too old for active military service, but he’d been transferred from the New Guinea Volunteer Rifles to the Papua Infantry Battalion, which had given him the opportunity to continue soldiering.

  For almost two years he had fought the Japanese Army alongside the Papuan troops. The Papuans had proved to be first-class soldiers on their home ground, and to the Japanese they were dreaded savage fighters who emerged silently from the dark shadows of the jungle, inflicted disproportionate casualties on them and then melted away again.

  Jack had been given a patrol of seven PIB soldiers to conduct a reconnaissance along the coast for any elements of Japanese troops still remaining. His corporal, Joseph Gari, was forward with two men, covering the beach while the rest of the patrol rested and cleaned their weapons.

  Jack closed his eyes. The extreme heat was something he was acclimatised to – this was his adopted homeland, after all – but the strain on his body was not something he could ever get used to. Bouts of malaria and dysentery had stripped his muscular body to lean flesh, and while he still retained some of the toughness of his youth, he sometimes felt like a very old man.

  A hand shook him out of his doze.

  Jack opened his eyes with a start and found himself looking up into the glistening face of Corporal Gari. The soldier’s eyes revealed his excitement. Jack did not have to ask what had brought the corporal back from his post, as he could hear the steady putt-putt of a boat’s engine making its way to the beach.

  Jack sat up, snatching his weapon. ‘Japs?’ he asked and Corporal Gari nodded.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Eight Jap men in a canoe with two white men.’

  Jack indicated for Corporal Gari to follow him and then made his way to the hidden observation post off the beach. They were about evenly matched in number, and he and his men had the element of surprise on their side. He had been instructed to avoid any contact with the enemy unless absolutely necessary – they were patrolling for information, not for engagement – but mention of the two white men had changed matters.

  Jack could see the approaching dugout canoe, powered by a small outboard engine, heading straight for them. The Japanese appeared to be wary; they had their light machine gun, mounted in the bow, directed at the shoreline. Jack pulled out a small set of binoculars and focused on the crew. Sure enough, Corporal Gari’s keen eyesight had differentiated correctly between the white men and the Japanese soldiers. Jack could see that they were two dishevelled men dressed in ragged United States Air Force flying suits and, from the growth of their beards, they had obviously been shot down some time ago. They appeared to have their hands tied behind their backs and when Jack shifted his binoculars, he could see a young Japanese officer standing at the stern with his hand on the scabbard of an evil-looking samurai sword.

  A cold chill swept through Jack.

  ‘Bring in your two men and order the others to make their way here too, and quickly,’ he growled to Corporal Gari.

  Within minutes all his men were assembled around him, their eyes burning bright. They were true warriors who relished the prospect of engaging with an enemy that had burned their villagers, raped their women and killed their clansmen during their retreat north.

  ‘We let the Japs land on the beach,’ Jack instructed. ‘We take up positions around them and take all care not to reveal ourselves until I give the order to open fire. The white men are Americans. We must be careful not to shoot them, so I want you to fire your rifles high and immediately charge the Japs with your bayonets fixed. Corporal Gari, take three men through the bush to the opposite side of the lagoon. The rest of you come with me.’

  Without hesitation the patrol broke into two parties; Gari disappearing into the bush while Jack remained in the cleverly concealed OP. As the canoe slid up onto the beach, Jack was pleased to see that the Japanese officer had selected his approach a mere thirty yards from the OP.

  The Japanese soldiers leaped warily from the canoe, clutching their rifles. One remained behind in the boat to man the light machine gun. The two prisoners were hauled without any ceremony from the canoe and into the shallow water, then battered with rifle butts until they were on the beach. They fell to their knees on the sand.

  Jack had a very bad feeling about this. He prayed that Gari was in position because the Japanese were not wasting any time in what was shaping up to be a summary execution.

  The officer slid his sword from its scabbard and held the hilt in both hands with the tip of the
blade pointing downwards. Jack grabbed the .303 rifle from the man nearest to him and thrust his own SMG into the hands of the startled soldier. Jack took aim at the officer just as he was bringing up his sword to slice down on the neck of the terrified young American airman. The other prisoner had turned his head to avoid witnessing the death of his compatriot.

  Jack squeezed the trigger and the Japanese officer’s head flew back as the high-velocity bullet ripped through his skull. At the sound of the shot the soldiers on the beach froze in shock. This bought precious seconds for Jack and his men. Almost immediately the rattle of gunfire from Gari’s section took out the light machine-gun support in the canoe.

  Jack slipped the bayonet on the end of his rifle and then his men were on their feet, charging the Japanese. A couple of Jack’s men were waving machete-like jungle knives and were on the Japanese soldiers before they could organise a defence. A short, vicious hand-to-hand struggle ensued. Bayonets plunged into bellies and chests; machetes slashed and hacked; it was all over very quickly. Only two Japanese soldiers were left alive, and they turned and fled into the jungle rather than face the fury of the green shadows.

  When the fighting was over, Jack realised that in the heat of fear and adrenaline he had bayoneted one of the Japanese soldiers to death. Already his men were going through the clothes of the dead men to see what they could find, and Corporal Gari was hauling the machine gun from the Japanese canoe.

  The two Americans were on their knees in the sand, looking at Jack as though they could not believe they were still alive when only minutes earlier they had resigned themselves to death.

  Jack slipped the bayonet from his rifle and began cutting the bindings around the men’s wrists.

  ‘Sergeant Jack Kelly, Papua Infantry Battalion,’ he said, freeing the airman, who was barely out of his teens. The young flyer simply gaped up at him with a mix of confusion, fear and shock. The second prisoner was older, perhaps in his late twenties.

  ‘Sergeant Kelly, thank you,’ the man said, rising unsteadily to his feet. ‘I’m Lieutenant Nixon. My Lib went down three weeks ago and only myself and my gunner here were able to bail out. I can’t believe you guys saved us.’

  ‘I guess we just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time for these Japs,’ Jack said. He reached inside his webbing pouch for the tin that contained his cigarettes. Placing the rifle between his knees he lit a cigarette, passing it to the American officer, who in turn passed it to the young gunner, who was now shivering uncontrollably. Jack lit another cigarette and this one Nixon accepted, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs.

  ‘Goddamn, that feels good,’ Lieutenant Nixon sighed.

  ‘Well, my old China,’ Jack said, ‘we have to get out of here – I’m willing to bet these Japs will be missed before too long. I’ll radio our boys that you are alive. And I’ll organise with our HQ to get you two back to civilisation for a shave and cold beer.’

  *

  The troop train steamed into Sydney’s Central Station just after sunrise. It was summer in the Southern Hemisphere and when the newly promoted Major Karl Mann stepped onto the railway platform he felt the promise of a hot, humid day. He was still getting used to the change in climate. German-born, he had been raised on a plantation in Papua, and for the last two years had been serving in the tropics; by comparison Australia’s climate was very pleasant indeed. After a short stint with Sparrow Force in Japanese-occupied Timor, he had served as a commando in Papua and New Guinea.

  Karl Mann was a born soldier. His courage, leadership and initiative had been recognised by senior officers, as had his role with British Special Operations Executive in Palestine, which had earned him a decoration. He had been summoned from Cairns to attend a special briefing, although, in typical military style, he had not been informed as to the nature of the meeting.

  Karl hefted his kitbag over his shoulder and walked through the swirling cloud of steam from the train. Even at this early hour the grand railway terminus was filled with men and women in various uniforms, and their voices echoed in the cavernous interior of the great hall. Pigeons fluttered into the high ceilings. Karl stopped to glance at his watch. He was a bear of a man, in his late twenties, with a ruggedly handsome face, although his skin had the telltale yellow pallor of the anti-malarial drugs used by all the forces serving in the tropics.

  Knowing he had the rest of the day before he was to check in to his allocated quarters at the officers’ mess in the Victoria Barracks, Karl was in no hurry. He stopped at the Salvation Army kiosk and asked for a cup of tea. He needed something to steady his nerves. All he could think of was Marie. He had attempted to contact her from Brisbane, on his way down from Cairns, but had had no luck. The letters she’d once written to him so regularly had mysteriously dried up, but he had put this down to his being in such far-flung places, fighting the Japanese. He had decided to surprise her at her little cottage at Point Piper – it was Sunday and there was no reason for her to be at work.

  Karl finished his tea and made his way outside to hail a taxi cab. Sydney had the air of someone sleeping off a heavy night of partying and booze. The few military men Karl saw around the railway station looked dishevelled and the worse for wear. There was no longer the threat of occupation by the Japanese, and the city Karl remembered from 1942 seemed to have returned to its pre-war decadence.

  ‘You blokes have finally got the Japs on the run,’ the cab driver said to Karl as they drove off. ‘You’re doing a bloody good job, although most of the bloody ungrateful civvies would rather know who won the last race at Randwick than how you boys are doing out in the islands. It’s a bloody crying shame.’

  Karl nodded. He had noticed the same sort of indifference to the soldiers’ suffering in Brisbane. It was as if the war were over already; most people seemed oblivious to the terrible slog of the fighting that was still going on in the battlefields of Europe and the Pacific.

  ‘Been away long?’ the driver asked cheerfully, swerving to avoid a drunken American soldier with his arm around an equally drunken Aussie girl.

  ‘Too long,’ Karl answered.

  ‘Bloody Yanks have taken over,’ the taxi driver growled. ‘Think they own the place.’

  Karl did not comment and the drive continued in silence. Eventually the taxi pulled up in front of a neat white cottage in a row of equally neat houses.

  ‘Well, digger, this is the address,’ the driver said and Karl reached in his coat pocket for the fare. He looked up and saw the door of the cottage open. Marie stepped outside and bent down to retrieve a rolled-up newspaper on the doorstep. Karl’s heart felt as if it had stopped beating. This was the woman he had dreamed of returning to, the thought of whom had kept him going through some of the worst days in the jungles of New Guinea and hills of Timor.

  ‘Wrong address,’ Karl uttered quietly. ‘Please take me to the Victoria Barracks now.’

  ‘Right you are, cobber,’ the driver said quietly.

  Karl leaned back against the seat and stared ahead in a bitter daze. He should have known why Marie had stopped writing to him. He should have read the signs. Karl did not need to be a doctor to see that she was well into the final weeks of pregnancy. As he had not seen her in more than two years, the child she carried was obviously another man’s.

  TWO

  Lukas and his crew had spent the day steaming under the palm fronds and jungle undergrowth they’d cut to conceal the Riverside. It had been uncomfortable, but preferable to being found by the Japanese. As soon as it was dark, Lukas had given the order to start the engine and head out to sea.

  ‘You know the Japs aren’t going to let us off lightly,’ Mel had said. ‘Their destroyers have that radar equipment now.’

  ‘We’ll hug the shore,’ Lukas had explained. ‘Maybe they’re more worried about looking after their own skins than going looking for a boat as small as the Riverside.’

  The American had searched his pocket for a cigar. ‘The Japs were waitin’ for us as sure as h
ell and they must have known we were resupplying the coastwatchers. I reckon that in itself is enough to give them cause to hunt us down. We were goddamned lucky they got itchy trigger fingers and fired on us too early.’

  Lukas had not replied, although he had agreed with the big American. It was well known that some of the New Guineans were working with their Japanese occupiers; it was possible that one of them had betrayed them. That meant bad news for the coastwatcher too.

  Lukas wondered now just how long this war would last. Despite the fact that the Japanese were being rolled up along all fronts of the Pacific theatre, they still remained in small pockets, fighting to the last man. He knew that the Allies considered the war all but over in Europe, with Hitler’s forces being pushed back into Germany, but in the Pacific the Japanese were another matter. They were not afraid to die, whereas the Germans had some common sense and would surrender rather than throw away their lives for a lost cause.

  At least Port Moresby was now safe from the Japanese since they had been turned back along the vital Kokoda Track and defeated at Gona and Buna on the north coast. That meant nursing sister Megan Cain would be safe, and she was Lukas’s main reason to try to keep surviving out here.

  Lukas was fortunate that he knew these waters very well and could navigate them even in the dark. Very cautiously they crept along the coast, all guns manned. Beneath his feet he could feel the regular throb of the engine and he felt the cooling sea breeze turn chilly as fine mists of spray washed over the bow. They were making good time and Lukas handed over the helm to the American. Lukas lay down on the deck to sleep, slipping quickly into a state of restless dreams.

  It was the silence that woke Lukas.

  He struggled to his feet. It was still dark. The myriad of stars shone with a brilliance that Lukas thought was beautiful even in these dangerous circumstances.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, shaking off the vestiges of sleep.

  ‘I dunno,’ Mel grunted, crouched over the opening to the engine well and peering inside using a small torch. ‘The goddamned engine just stopped running.’